Tim Waggoner - Dark War

As the shrieking demon head drew near, light exploded forth from my coat, and when it vanished, the head was gone.

I turned to look at Varney. "You OK?"

The vampire was encased in a black hazmat suit made from pure curseweave, a fabric so evil that it was supposed to be proof against the power of any holy object. I couldn't see Varney's face behind the black glass of the suit's faceplate, but his muffled voice came through clearly enough.

"That stung more than a little, but I'm all right."

I turned to Shamika and saw she was smiling.

"That tickled!" she said.

The light hadn't exactly tickled the demons, however. Despite the fact they were still a dozen yards away from us, most of them had suffered flash burns, and several appeared to have been blinded. Half cried out in fear and despair, dropped their weapons, and fled. The rest – including Face-Chest – remained behind, looking grimly determined, if more than a little afraid.

I'd used holy objects against Darkfolk before, but I'd never given much thought as to where the source of their power came from. I know that primitive forms of the Darkfolk evolved before humans, and that the more sophisticated forms they eventually took were influenced by humanity's fears and imagination. I'd always assumed that religious objects were effective against certain types of Darkfolk because humanity imagined them that way. But there was no denying that the Coat of Every Color had power all its own, but as to what exactly the ultimate source of that power was, I couldn't tell you. But I was damn thankful to be wearing it.

"I don't know what the hell that was," PythonTail said, "but do you really think one magic coat is going to be enough to get you past us?"

"It might be," I said. "But luckily for us, we've got more. Shamika, Varney, why don't you show them?"

Varney fired first. He carried a wooden tube and he aimed it at the demons and pressed a hidden switch. A trio of soft pops sounded as tiny rolls of paper shot out of the tube and sailed toward the squad of demons. The paper rolls expanded in size as they drew closer to the demons and unfurled, revealing characters written in Japanese kanji. The paper grew large enough to wrap around demons like blankets, and when they did so, the demons caught in their embrace screamed in agony. The papers were osame-fuda, Buddhist prayer slips, and when they touched demon flesh, they burst into flame, rapidly burning themselves – and the demons caught in their grip – to ash.

Shamika carried a pair of sterling silver hand bells, and she rang them with vigorous enthusiasm. The pure tones of the Herald Bells rang through the air with crystal clarity, each note containing more beauty than a dozen symphonies, and as they rang Shamika chanted a phrase she'd heard Arthur say.

"'Every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings!'"

Demons screamed and clapped their hands to their ears to shut out the sound, but the music was as much of the spirit as physical sound, and their efforts were futile. Blood streamed from their ears and eyes, and some fled, hands still held fast to their ears. Of those who didn't flee, more than a few had their heads explode in bursts of blood, bone, and brain matter.

Of the original squad, only five demons remained, Face-Chest and Python-Tail among them. All of them were bleeding from their eyes and ears, but they were tough enough to withstand the power of the Herald Bells, though the effort had obviously taken a lot out of them. They began firing their weapons, and automatic gunfire strafed us along with high-tech energy beams and mystic power blasts. But the Coat of Every Color blazed with Light in response to the demons' attack, neutralizing everything they threw at us. After several moments, they realized their efforts were useless and they stopped firing, and the coat stopped shining.

"I gave you the chance to run," I told them, and I swung the weapon Arthur had given to me. It looked like a Native American dreamcatcher attached to a handle, and I swung it back and forth through the air as if it were a small handheld net. But this wasn't for catching dreams. It was a Dream thrower, a device that disgorged the nightmares that a dreamcatcher collected.

Every time I swung the Dreamthrower, a tiny shadow-creature leaped forth from the device and began growing as it landed on the ground and ran swiftly toward the remaining demons. The Nightmares swelled in size as they went, becoming large as elephants, all ebon teeth and claws, and though the last few demons finally had the good sense to turn and attempt to flee, it was too late. The Nightmares fell upon them and within seconds tore them apart. When there were no more demons to kill, the Nightmares simply faded as if they'd never existed.

Shamika, Varney, and I stood alone in the street, completely unharmed by our encounter with the demons.

"I'd call that a successful field test," I said. "Now that we've had a chance to practice with our new toys, I think it's time to pay General Klamm-slashGregor a visit."

We continued toward Demon's Roost, mowing down every demon that didn't have enough sense to get the hell out of our way.

Reaching Varvara's penthouse turned out to be easier than I thought. Because demons are so selfcentered, once they realize they can't win a fight, they immediately focus on doing whatever is necessary to save their asses, and to blazes with whatever cause they were fighting for. Word must've spread quickly among the Demonkin's ranks, because by the time we were actually inside Demon's Roost, few of Varvara's people remained to give us any trouble. I'd been keeping an eye out for Scorch the whole time – I wanted to make sure we didn't accidentally hurt her on our way to Varvara's stronghold – but I saw no sign of the demoness. Either she was stationed elsewhere in the Sprawl or she'd taken off when she heard we were coming. I was glad. Scorch is tough, but I knew she couldn't stand against the holy weapons the Hidden Light had loaned us.

The elevator to Varvara's penthouse was unguarded, and while I wasn't thrilled at the idea of taking it, I was even less thrilled at the prospect of walking up a dozen flights of stairs.

"Are you sure it's safe?" Varney said through his hazmat hood.

Before I could answer, Shamika said, "It is. Gregor has eyes everywhere. He's known we were coming since we engaged that first squad of demons. If he didn't want us to use the elevator, he'd have disabled it."

"Maybe he booby-trapped it," Varney pointed out. "Wouldn't Gregor love it if we fought all this way to reach Demon's Roost only to get crushed in a falling elevator?"

Shamika shook her head. "I know how my brother thinks. He'll want to see me, if for no other reason than to tell me that he's right and I'm wrong." She looked at me. "And he'll want to have words with you too, Matt."

I said, "That's good, because I have a few things to say to him myself."

I pressed the elevator's up button.

No Muzak played as we ascended, which was just as well. I hate Muzak.

Varvara's penthouse-cum-war-room was empty, with the exception of the Demon Queen herself and General Klamm. The computer stations around the room were vacant and their monitors were black. The holo table in the middle of the room was still active, though, and it currently displayed an image of Demon's Roost. Klamm stood at the table, Varvara beside him.

Klamm smiled when he saw us.

"Welcome! You made it just in time for the closing act in our little drama. Matthew, Varney…" He gave both of us nods of greeting before turning his attention to Shamika. " Sister," he said, his false bonhomie giving way to derision. "Ready to see the error of your ways?"

I examined Varvara more closely. Her expression was blank, and she stared off into space as if she wasn't aware of our presence.