Hellhound (A Deadtown Novel) by Nancy Holzner Read Free Book Online Page A

attention.
    Rolling over and clamping a pillow on top of my head wouldn’t do anything to make them go away. I know. I tried.
    That left one option: facing them. By the time I’d hit the shower, pulled on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, and downed two mugs of black coffee, I felt almost ready to do just that.
    I still had some time before I went to meet Daniel at the Tremont Street checkpoint, so I thought about which weapons to take on tonight’s expedition. I wasn’t going demon-hunting, so I didn’t need my usual assorting of daggers, a sword or two, and bullets, all in demon-busting bronze. Still, it would be dark soon, the time when demons are free to enter in the human plane, and you never know when one might materialize in your face, waving its claws and spewing its sulfur-and-brimstone halitosis. I’d bring along a bronze-bladed dagger or two, just in case. A pistol and a couple of magazines of bronze bullets couldn’t hurt either.
    But one weapon was a must-have for tonight: Hellforged, an obsidian dagger that, true to its name, had been fashioned by demons in the depths of Hell. Centuries ago, the Cerddorion had stolen it from a Hellion, and it was the only tool we had to control the Morfran.
    Hellforged rested in my hand, its polished black blade gleaming. The first time I ever touched this dagger, it leapt away from me like a skittish colt. Hellforged had a mind of its own, and my early attempts to use it were clumsy. But we’d learned how to work together. Now, a quiet vibration thrummed through the dagger as I held it, but it didn’t twitch or jump. I slid it into its ankle holster, hoping there would be no need to use it tonight.
    Hellforged could call and hold the Morfran, but only slate could imprison the spirit. For that, I had a specially made slate plaque, commissioned by Mab from a local witch in Wales. The plaque looked like something your grandmother would hang in her gingham-curtained kitchen. Surrounded by a painted border of curlicues were the words HOME SWEET HOME . The curlicues were magically charged symbols that strengthened the slate and increased its capacity to hold the Morfran. HOME SWEET HOME had no magical significance; it was my aunt’s idea of a joke.
    Okay, so Mab doesn’t have the world’s sharpest sense of humor. She’s still a formidable demon fighter.
    I tucked the slate into my jacket’s inner pocket. After checking again to make sure my weapons were secure, I went to meet Daniel.
    THE SCENE IN DEADTOWN HADN’T CHANGED MUCH SINCE this morning. All the zombies who’d usually be working the night shift were restricted to DA-1, thanks to the Code Red, and every single one of them seemed to be out on the streets. The mood was tense, the air buzzing with that electric feeling that happens right before lightning strikes.
    I kept my gaze on the pavement in front of me, though I could feel heads turn to track my path. I ignored occasional pushes, choosing to interpret them as harmless jostling on a crowded sidewalk, despite flares from my demon mark that urged me to turn and punch whoever had shoved me.
    Then someone stopped in front of me, deliberately blocking my path.
Uh-oh,
I thought, raising my eyes,
here it comes
. My demon mark goaded me to reach for a weapon. I balled my hand into a fist, but kept my arm at my side.
    “Hi, Vicky. Jeez, how loud do I have to shout your name? I called you, like, three times, and then I still had to stop right in front of you to get your attention.”
    “Tina.” My fist unclenched. Standing in front of me was the teenage zombie who’d briefly been my apprentice before a new shiny object had come along to distract her from demon slaying. Lately, though, she’d been trying to get back in my good graces, even studying demonology on her own time. I was glad I hadn’t gone for a weapon. Tina could be annoying, but she was basically a good kid.
    Tonight she wore purple skinny jeans and a tight T-shirt bearing the slogan CODE RED? KILL IT