The Demon Hunter: 21 Days: The Demon Hunter

By Scott Spangler

Good and evil have been locked in a bitter war since the dawn of time. There are times when the front lines are far from Earth and evil is but a dark imprint upon society, but sometimes the war is much closer than one would like to think. It is at these dangerous times when evil things spill over into Earth's reality. Rogue demons, called jumpers, seek to claim the world for their own and their vampire slaves, demon/human hybrids, stalk the night spilling the blood of the innocent. All that stands in their way is a hidden network of demon hunters, a select group of human warriors responsible for hunting down and destroying these vile beasts. Working with their partners, known as anchors, their arsenal is a mixture of the ancient and the futuristic.
Blake, despite his rebellious nature, is one of the best hunters in the network. His propensity to break the rules is surpassed only by his ability to drive his anchor, Father Ray, absolutely nuts. He despises his role, to which he was driven by events out of his control. He considers it his purgatory. He's a hunter with an attitude.
Father Ray is a Catholic priest, catering to the dwindling masses in a cancerous ward of the city, sometimes clinging to his faith by a thread. He is Blake's anchor, providing logistical and technical support during missions on Earth and beyond. It is Father Ray who first comes into contact with Sarah, a girl endowed with some very unique talents.
Sarah has been having prophetic visions since she was a young girl. She also possesses the supernatural ability to sense and generate jump portals - rifts in the fabric of reality used by the hunters to travel to other worlds and dimensions in search of their prey. It is a power over which she has little control. Considering her gifts to be a curse, they have recently begun to point toward a frightening event - the end of the world.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Scott Spangler
• Release date: May 5, 2011
• ISBN: 9781458156075

Scott Spangler

Scott is 45 years old and lives near Kansas City. He wrote the first book of his fantasy series, "Portal to the Gods" in 2005 and has recently published the third book in the Portal series, "Dark Reign." He is also the author of "The Demon Hunter: 21 Days". He is currently working to complete his zombie apocalypse book, "PerfectTown." Scott welcomes comments on his work at: [e-mail]

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The Demon Hunter

21 Days

Scott Spangler

Copyright © 2011 Scott Spangler

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

This book is a work of fiction.  People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination.  Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

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ISBN-10:  1463726546

ISBN-13:  978-1463726546

ISBN:  978-1-4581-5607-5 (ebook)

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21 Days

Fear not, Daniel, he continued; from the day you made up your mind to acquire understanding and humble yourself before God, your prayer was heard.  Because of it I started out, but the prince of the kingdom of Persia stood in my way for twenty-one days, until finally Michael, one of the chief princes, came to help me.  I left him there with the prince of the kings of Persia, and came to make you understand what shall happen to your people in the days to come; for there is yet a vision concerning those days.

                                                                  Daniel 10:12-14

Prologue

From the personal journal of Father Bernard Casey

September 5, 1958

My spirit is troubled.

​I chose God's path long ago, knowing that the way would not be easy.  But I readied myself, trusting to His power and infinite mercy to pull a shroud of wisdom and guidance over my very soul.  I rely on Him to light the way in times of darkness and to forever be the compass by which I might steer in my ignorant blindness.  And for the most part, the path has been clear to me.

​But now I falter.  Reality has reared her ugly head and I find that I struggle in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.  The world is not the place that I had once thought it - this stone and wood, sky and sea - where God's children frolic and revel in all which His glory has allowed to exist.  I have seen the darkness that dwells there in the flesh.  I, who came ready to wage war with the evil that corrupts men's hearts, was utterly unprepared for that which I was forced to face.  Being one who, through higher education coupled with life's experiences, thought he had a firm grasp upon that which was real in this world, as opposed to those things mankind has written off as supernatural, I was left in a most ungracious state of chaotic dismay.  For, unknown to the many, a hidden state of war exists with its prize being the most holy salvation and the cost of failure eternal damnation.

And now I have been handed this task from my forefathers - to strive against these most unholy and terrifying beasts.  I am to do battle, not with weapons of faith and scripture, but with this most feeble flesh pitted against immortal hoof and claw.  My fear knows no bounds.  I find myself clinging by the tips of my fingers to a faith that has been shaken to its very foundations.  For why would the Almighty conscript into the hands of mortal men the sole burden of protecting that which he has created through his own power and infinite goodness?

​ ​Father Casey

St. Jerome's Parish

5 Sept, 1958

Chapter 1:  Cold World/Dead World

It was difficult to discern which was the more unnerving - the sheer magnitude of the destruction, or else the eerie silence that went along with it.  The few buildings still standing amid the endless piles of rubble were little more than burned-out shells, slowly crumbling away their lonely existence.  They were teetering evidence of a civilization gone horribly wrong.  Like abandoned skeletons they were randomly strewn, decomposing into a vast graveyard of busted concrete and shattered glass.  Once a magnificent city, it had been reduced to a deserted wasteland like so many others.

This was a Cold world.  The fighting had moved on long ago and the fires had finally died away, leaving a cold empty shell of what had once been a vibrant, life-filled place.  If not for the wreckage, there wouldn't be any sign whatsoever that life had ever existed there in the first place.  And yet, there it was.  At one time people had lived and worked in that city.  They had also died there, although any evidence of that had long ago withered away into dust.  Blake had stopped wondering about their fates years ago.  There was no point.

When it came to the world-hopping business, he preferred the Lukes or Lukewarm worlds.  They were areas where the fighting had mostly moved on, but there were still pockets of both sides present.  At least on a Luke a guy knew what to expect.  Those colds... well... just suffice it to say that they were pretty lonely.  He'd never been to a Hot zone and had no desire to go.  On one of those worlds a guy could get himself killed... or worse.  It was forbidden at any rate.  Besides, he was a hunter, not a soldier.  The job certainly had its ups and downs, but it beat the hell out of engaging in full-scale combat.

He tugged the hood of his cloak forward, casting his face farther into shadow.  The ground crunched beneath his boots as he stepped a few paces away from the jump portal.  The noise seemed deafening in the oppressive silence that so boldly enveloped him.  The quiet portal glimmering behind him took on the high-pitched whine that it always did as its time expired.  Usually all but inaudible, it was a veritable siren in that place.  Almost immediately, the bright reddish light faded to a dull pink as the portal's oval shape began to collapse inward upon itself, finally blinking out of existence to leave him alone in the gray desolation. 

He made his way around a debris pile and up the rubble-strewn street, farther into the center of what had once been a major metropolitan area.  The entry point had been in the shadow of a building that had likely been twenty or thirty stories tall in its day.  He glanced upward.  It now stood in ruins, having collapsed so that only the lower two or three levels remained upright.  Behind that, an enormous pile of scrap formed a dusty mountain.

It was daytime, but the thick cloud cover left the area shrouded in a gloomy darkness.  He was more than used to it - the gloom and the utter devastation - but deep down it still gave him the jitters.  Perhaps it was the constant reminder of what could happen.  That place... that cold world city... it was so very much like the city on Earth that he called home.  He had certainly seen plenty of scenes just like that in his time, but the similarities between the worlds still never ceased to amaze him.  There were differences, of course, but for the most part each one could have been cast from the same mold.  If he didn't know better, then he might have thought that he was on Earth in some distant future.  And perhaps he was.  This could very well be Earth in a different dimension.  The stuff he saw when he looked around was all the same - the cars, the buildings, the shattered remnants of a once civilized community.  It wasn't always that way.  On other cold worlds he had seen the remains of fantastic architecture unlike anything on his home planet with vehicles that he couldn't even begin to fathom how to operate.  But if the Earth had a twin sister, it was this place.

That thought made him shudder.  Before its destruction, had there been hunters from this place who fought the same war in which he found himself entangled?  Was this the ultimate cost of their failure?  Whether it was or not, that was the assumption under which he operated.  That was what drove him beyond the standard limits of human endurance.

The soft scratching noise - like that of a cat leaping from a windowsill - was his only warning.  But it was the only warning that he needed.  The heavy sword which, an instant ago, had been strapped to his back, was suddenly cleaving the air in the direction of the bat-like creature swooping down upon him.  Unable to check its assault, the beast met the blade in midair - its hacked body dividing around the hunter like the waters of a stream around an embedded stone.  Two pieces crashed to the ground, carving craters in the loose debris as they skidded across the concrete-shard surface like fallen meteorites.  Cloven diagonally, the bottom half twitched a couple times and then lay still.  The top half rolled awkwardly over so that it was face-up with its chest rising and falling rapidly.  Narrow black eyes peered coldly out from beneath a flat, spiked brow.  A semi-elongated snout - much like the muzzle of a hairless dog - curled into a hateful sneer from which row upon row of needle-like teeth protruded.  The demon glared hatefully up at him as Blake approached to stand over it.

What do we have here? Blake inquired in his low, emotionless voice.  Where'd you come from, turd-eater?

The demon hacked up a glob of black blood.  It was a pawn demon - the lowest level in the demon hierarchy, but perhaps the most difficult to kill.   There was a definite spark of intelligence behind those murderous obsidian eyes.  The creature lapsed into a coughing fit as it tried to clear its throat to speak.  Its voice was reminiscent of a kid inhaling helium.  I could ask you the same thing, hunter, the creature spat.  Go ahead and send me back to hell.  I'll be back and raping your women by morning.

Blake pulled back the hood of his cloak, revealing dark, gray-streaked, and tangled hair that fell sloppily about his shoulders.  The stubble on his face was just reaching the status of what might be termed a beard, also showing a few faint streaks of gray.  He squatted next to the demon with his sword still in hand, leaning over to inspect his handiwork.

That looks a little painful, he noted dryly.

Yeah, that's what your mother said when I...

The move was lightning fast - like the quick draw of a gunfighter in an old western movie.  The sword rammed into the demon's open mouth, bursting through the back of its head.  Amid a shower of splattering gore, the blood-soaked blade drove a foot into the rocky ground.  With its head pinned against the gravel, the creature gagged, throwing up its one remaining arm in a futile attempt to grasp and remove the impaling weapon.  Blake stomped the arm back to the ground, holding it in place with his foot.

Shut your stinking hole and listen to me for a minute, the hunter growled.  I have a couple questions you're going to answer.  I suggest you do it clearly and truthfully, or else you're going to hurt real bad.  He grasped the sword's hilt as he added, And I'm not in a hurry.

The demon wretched as Blake yanked the sword free, spitting more black goo upon its chin.  The heinous mixture of blood and phlegm slid over the edges of its snout like curdled milk, oozing to the ground.  The sinewy creature let loose a gargling squawk as Blake brought the sword down upon the remaining arm, severing it at the shoulder.  He kicked the arm away and then again crouched next to what had become little more than a head and half an upper torso.  The demon's black eyes cast murder at him.

Go take a flying leap, human.  I'm not telling you squat.

Is that so?  I guess that makes you even dumber than I had thought.

The demon's eyes narrowed into nervous black slits, carefully watching as Blake's hand disappeared beneath his cloak.  They scrutinized the lump in the material as the hidden hand dug deeply into a shrouded pouch.  The hunter let his hand linger there, intentionally heightening the demon's anxiety.  The creature flinched away when the hand suddenly reappeared, clutching a small cylindrical object.

It turned out to be a cheap cigar encased in a thin plastic tube.  The hunter twisted off the cap and withdrew the cigar, tossing away the plastic case.  Clamping the cigar in his teeth, his hand again went inside the cloak.  This time it produced a small blue cigarette lighter.  He flicked the lighter once... twice... shook it... flicked a third time, and then a tiny flame sprang up.  He touched the feeble flame to the tip of the cigar, held it there for a moment, and was soon puffing away.  The demon's eyes warily followed his every move.  He took a deep drag upon the cigar, leaning his head back to blow a smoke ring that slowly drifted up and away before dissipating.

I smoked a Cuban once, Blake said absently.  To tell the truth, I didn't think it was much better than these numbers.  He held the cigar out between his fingers.  They're eighty-five cents at Midtown Smokes.  I swear, you can't buy much for less than a dollar these days.

The pawn demon lay there silently painting the ground with its body fluids - its labored chest rising and falling rapidly.  Like a dog's gaze following an offered treat, the creature watched the cigar so intently that it could probably count the bite marks left by Blake's teeth below the cigar's identifying paper ring.  It was a complete surprise when its body was suddenly rocked with excruciatingly painful convulsions.  Dozens of points across its diminished body sizzled and steamed as if it had been sprayed with acid.  The needle teeth gritted together, muffling the beast's intense shrieks as it rocked back and forth, frying like bacon in a hot pan.  The episode lasted for several moments before finally subsiding.

Blake took another drag from his cigar, holding up a plastic tube identical to the one that he had tossed away.  This one was three-quarters filled with a crystal blue liquid.

Do you recognize this?

In Blake's own world it appeared as nothing more than ordinary tap water, but in this place, it seemed to reverberate with power.  It sparkled and shifted in the tube with a life all its own.  Just being in close proximity to the pawn made it glow all the more brightly, adding color to the drab surroundings.  The demon's gaze shrank away.

That's right, Stumpy, it's holy water.  Would you like to try a little more?  I have plenty.

Keep that crap away from me, the demon hissed.

Blake dipped a finger into the vial, flicking a tiny drop at the wounded beast.  Horrified, the creature watched it sail through the air as if in slow motion.  The drop struck the pawn in the chest, tearing into its flesh with an ominous hiss.  The demon parted with a few guttural curses, slipping into the low murmuring language of hell.  The mere sound of it was offensive.  Blake picked up a few words that he'd learned over the years, recognizing them as pleas to the unholy father.  Again, the demon's agony trailed away. Blake dangled the vial over its shredded body.

Are we ready to talk now?  Like I said, I don't particularly have anywhere to be.

Go screw your grandmother, the demon croaked defiantly.

Blake's eyes narrowed.  Now you've slandered my mother and grandmother.  If you don't watch it, you're going to piss me off.  He sighed heavily.  "Look here, Shit-stain, it's pretty obvious that I didn't come here for you.  If you just agree to tell me what I want to know then we can get this over quickly.  Otherwise..." He held up the vial, shaking it gently.  The demon's face contorted into bestial rage.  Suit yourself.

It took three more applications before the demon finally broke.  Blake had known that it was only a matter of time.  These low level pawns were really cowards at heart.  This filthy beast had been more resilient than most and that was somewhat a cause for concern.  Typically, after only one or two doses of the holy water, a pawn would be jabbering away like a housewife at a sewing circle.  Courage simply wasn't a trait of a pawn demon, which meant this guy was afraid of something a lot more horrible than sheer pain.

I'm looking for Partagas, Blake said flatly.  The holy water interaction had left a potent stench in the air.  It was utterly repulsive.

Don't know him.

Blake arched an eyebrow.  Really?  He held the vial over the demon, making as if to tip it.

The demon's eyes widened.  Alright, already, it gasped exhaustedly, yeah, he's here... and the bitch he always drags along with him... she's here also.

Blake had expected that much.  Partagas never went anywhere without his she-devil.  The hunter had narrowly missed the opportunity to dispatch them both on more than one occasion, but they always managed to slip away.  And that pissed him off to no end.  Well, he'd had enough of that shit.  They weren't going anywhere this time.

How many others?  It was always good to know the odds going in.  No doubt this piece of scum would under-inflate the numbers, but based upon whatever the creature said, he might be able to make a reasonable estimate.

The demon hacked up more blood.  Its body was pockmarked with festering burn holes left by the holy water.  Ten... counting Partagas and the bitch.

Ten?  Christ, that was more than he had counted on.  Is that including you?

The demon's black eyes stared up at him and he could almost see the wheels turning behind them.  It was considering another lie, but then the eyes softened in defeat. 

"You know that pawns don't count... fifteen."

Blake felt a twinge in the pit of his stomach.  He had expected to find the two thug demons, Partagas and his whore, and probably a bunch of pawns.  If this pawn was to be believed, there remained at least four more of its kind.  The other eight demons had to be cronies.  They were the next step up hell's evolutionary chain, nestled snugly between pawn demon and thug.  They were typically assigned the role of bodyguard to the thug demons, but with a loser like Partagas, Blake hadn't expected to find more than one or two.  They were hulking monstrosities, but in the hunter's mind, less dangerous than the wiry pawns.  It was funny the enemy didn't see it that way.

Well, he'd faced worse, but on better ground and with backup.  He wouldn't mind having an elimination team standing by for this one.  He could try to radio the Padre and ask if anyone was available, but no, the priest wasn't in place yet.  He was beginning to wonder if he'd made a mistake by coming here against his anchor's wishes.

He pressed the demon for more information.  Partagas had cropped up on Earth too many times lately for it to simply be routine jumper activity.  Something big was brewing.  Not surprisingly, the pawn claimed complete ignorance.  Blake figured he at least knew something, but pawns were the lowest of the low.  It wasn't unusual for them to be left out of the loop.  There was a chance, however slim, that the pawn was telling the truth.  Either way, he was wasting valuable time here.

So, they're in the stadium, eh? he said finally, settling for the little bit of information that the demon had given him.

The demon's scarred chest was rising and falling more rapidly than ever.  Yeah, cross the bridge and head that way.  The creature's eyes shifted to the right, indicating the direction.  You can't miss it.

Blake eyed the demon suspiciously for a moment.  He then capped the holy water vial, tucking it back into its pouch.  He wiped his blade clean with the tip of his cloak, returning it to the wide leather scabbard that was strapped to his back. Relief showed immediately in the demon's eyes and the razor-lined jaws curled into what might have been a smirk.

"Dispatch me now, hunter.  I've given what you want... do it.  The pain is becoming unbearable."

Two pouches hung from Blake's belt and his hand drifted toward the one on the side opposite where the holy water had been stashed.  The pouches contained the hunter's arsenal of holy oils.  He kept them in plastic cigar tubes - a trick he'd learned from his predecessor.  The tubes could be bent and mashed all to hell without spilling their contents.  Plus, they didn't rattle together like the glass or steel vials carried by other hunters.  That fact was vitally important in a job where stealth could be the difference between living and dying.

One of those holy oils was the Chrism of Condemnation.  The chrism was the most vital piece of the simple ritual that consigned a demonic spirit back to its hellish netherworld.  It was unnecessary for some demons, who died by the blessed steel of his sword.  That was the case with the thugs and cronies, but it practically took an act of congress to kill a pawn demon.

Lately Blake had begun to struggle with the mercy shown to these foul creatures.  They certainly showed no such tendencies.  His anchor, Father Ray, lectured him incessantly on the necessity of the ritual.  He tried to drill into Blake's head the fact that it wasn't an option - it was a requirement.  Blake didn't have to like it, but he had to perform it.  It was what separated the good guys from the bad.  Blake wasn't too sure that he bought into all of that bullshit.  He was sure that he seemed to be spending a lot of time lately performing the ritual on the same demons over and over again.  It seemed that he would no sooner send them to hell than they were back again, knocking on humanity's door. 

His hand wavered over the pouch. 

"Lay there and rot, demon.  I won't send you back so that your cursed masters can regenerate you and throw you back into the ranks.  I've seen your kind come back too many times.  You made your bed... now lay in it."

He could still hear the demon's foul-mouthed curses when he was well beyond the ruined skyscraper and several blocks away.  He'd catch hell for not performing the ritual if anyone found out, but for the moment he didn't really give a shit.  He hoped it took fifty years for the demon to finally croak.  Focusing his attention on what lay before him, he crossed a narrow bridge that had once been the entrance ramp to the crumbled interstate that had looped through the center of the city.  The bridge was badly cracked and battered - missing large chunks from its edges.  It looked to be held together solely by the rusting steel bars encased within the crumbling concrete.  He passed dozens of burned-out shells of automobiles and hollow, gutted buildings as he moved farther into the endless fields of rubble.  An assortment of pipes and dead electrical wires crisscrossed the entire area, making it a treacherous maze of abandoned destruction through which he carefully picked his way.

This world was colder even than most.  Everywhere he looked he saw gray - the streets, the shattered buildings, even the sky.  He felt as if he were in an old black and white movie.  And the smell... that was the funny thing and perhaps what disturbed him the most.  This world was practically devoid of any defining aromas.  Most other colds smelled of decay, dust, or staleness, but this place simply had no smell at all.  It was like being in the vacuum of space, he supposed.  Or better yet, he felt like he was in one of those snow globes - the ones full of water that, when shaken, gave the appearance of falling snow over some picturesque scene.  But in this case, there was no snow - or water for that matter.  There was only gray.

He rounded the remains of an enormous fallen steel tower.  It was a radio tower of some sort, apparently having buckled midway up, judging from the way the four legs bowed outward, and then toppled sideways smashing a four-story building beneath it.  The crumbled building still sported a semi-legible sign reading Tatiano's Pizza.  Beyond the tower Blake could see his destination rising up in the hazy distance.

It had been a major league ballpark at one time.  He could make out the spiraling walkways climbing the high walls - most of which were still relatively intact.  The western side had partially collapsed, giving the place a Roman Coliseum look.  A broad, flat, asphalt plain lay between him and the stadium.  Ironically the rubble field, rising up like a mountain range all around, stopped well short of the stadium.  That left the asphalt parking lot practically wide open.  If the place was guarded, then it would certainly make an undetected approach vastly more difficult.  That was probably why they had chosen this location in the first place.

Blake dug into the pouch on his left hip, removing a small circular eyepiece.  It looked very much like a miniature magnifying glass, minus the handle.  The narrow steel rim was black, and the glass tinted.  A thin, hinged connector protruded from one edge, which he clipped to the silver band encircling his head.  He swung the glass so that it covered his left eye.  With only the faintest humming noise, the device activated.  The image that cropped up in his vision very closely resembled looking through a rifle scope.  Ranges were indicated in meters and he had only to focus upon an object to have the image zoom in.  He focused on the nearest gate - designated A2 - which faced in his direction.  The readout, in red characters, indicated that it lay 126 degrees SE at 760.5 meters.  That was a lot of open ground to cover. 

Infra, he said softly.  The device responded to mental commands so voicing them was unnecessary, but it was a habit that he had adopted long ago.  Perhaps it was his unwillingness to let go of that last vestige of a reality that he had not known for quite some time.  It was a reality where demons existed only in mythology and the Bible had been, to him anyway, only a book.

The image changed immediately.  The distance readout disappeared and several tiny red dots appeared.  Distance readouts in a much smaller font showed up next to each dot.  Many were clustered together in the center, although four or five random dots were spread throughout the stadium.  Those would be sentries.  As near as he could tell, the pawn's description of their numbers was accurate.

He focused upon the dot nearest to the gate that he had just reckoned and the image magnified.  It was no longer just a red dot, but a reddish-orange silhouette of something that was clearly demonic in origin.  He could easily make out the jagged, bat-like wings folded into a resting position at its back.  The shoulders were hunched and it was barrel-chested, with no neck, and with curved horns rising from its head.  It was stationed not far within the arched entrance that lay beyond the wrecked wrought-iron gate.  It possessed an enormous double-bladed battleaxe that it idly swung in a loop by the strap attached to its wrist.  It seemed to be the only guard on this end of the stadium, with the next nearest being just around the corner to the west.  That one was out of line-of-sight and so it was of no concern at the moment.

Blake surveyed the parking lot.  There wasn't much in the way of cover.  There was half a dozen wrecked cars, but they were scattered far and wide.  Two crumbled piles of stone marked where security towers had once stood, and a line of plastic, green, portable toilets formed a wall opposite the wrought-iron gate.  They looked remarkably intact.  He had no choice but to make a mad dash across the lot, hoping that he wasn't spotted.  He would make it a series of short sprints from one cover obstacle to the next.  After a few moments of careful consideration, he had his approach mapped out.  He tensed in preparation for his dash to the first cover obstacle - a rusted pickup lying upon its side.  He was totally unprepared for the feeble voice that called out from behind him.

Are you an angel?

He spun toward the source of the inquiry with his sword appearing in his hands as if by magic.  His eyes widened as he found himself staring down a little girl of not more than six or seven years.  Straight blonde hair tumbled about her tiny shoulders, shining even in the gray dullness.  Her blue eyes were sparkling gems with a sleepy quality about them.  A thin white nightgown edged with lace draped like a shroud down to her petite bare feet.

When his initial shock passed, Blake focused the eyepiece upon her, still holding his blade at the ready.  A little girl was far and away the last thing that he had expected to find in this place.  He was careful to remind himself that things were not always as they appeared in this line of work.  The glass showed a skeletal structure consistent with that of a human child, surrounded by a light blue aura.  Wherever she had come from, she was human alright.  Retaining his wary posture, he quietly addressed the little girl.

Where did you come from?

Are you an angel? she repeated - an innocent, but perplexed look painting her face.

Blake knelt to her level, keeping his distance.  His hand tightly gripped the sword.

No, little lady, he replied slowly.  My name is Blake.  What are you doing here?

The little girl glanced up at the fallen tower.  She studied it for a moment and then gazed across the parking lot toward the stadium.  Her curiosity seemed genuine.  It was as if she had gone to bed one night, only to wake up in Wonderland.

What is this place?

Blake's brow furrowed.  He wasn't quite sure how to respond.  Where had she come from?  She couldn't have been left behind.  This place had been destroyed centuries ago... hadn't it?  Before he could answer her question, a deep rumble rippled across the parking lot.  The ground shook, sending heavy clouds of long undisturbed dust floating into the air.  It seemed to have come from the stadium and Blake's attention turned in that direction for the briefest moment.  There was no visible change to the structure.  The demon guard was still in place.  When the hunter turned back, the girl was gone.

He took several steps in the direction she had been standing with his eyes darting left and right. 

Infra, he snapped quickly.

He swept his gaze across the entire area, peering with the apparatus through thick walls and past enormous rubble piles.  The girl was nowhere to be seen.  She had simply vanished.  He found himself wondering if she had ever been there at all.  Maybe all this portal jumping had finally addled his brain.  For a moment he reconsidered whether he should press his luck by moving forward with his plans.  Success hinged upon surprise, but he had been discovered.  Now the question was whether or not the girl was in collusion with the enemy.  There was a chance that her image had only been an astral projection - her spirit, for lack of a better term, out wandering as she slept.  Although a rare occurrence, it was known to happen.

After a final sweep of the immediate vicinity, he shoved the thoughts aside.  He had business to attend to.  He wasn't going to let Partagas slip away this time.  If that meant endangering his life even further than it already was, then so be it.  He would worry about the girl later. 

He made his way back to where he had initially been poised to cover the distance to the stadium.  The red dots were still in very much the same position, although the nearest demon had moved several feet farther into the corridor.  That was a slight bit of luck.  The demon still lazily twirled the axe - a sign that it had not been alerted to the hunter's presence.

He launched forward like an Olympic sprinter, pumping his arms and legs in full stride across the parking lot.  With the demon further up the corridor, he didn't bother sheltering behind the pickup.  Instead, he made directly for the line of portable toilets that made a wall opposite the A-2 gate.  He arrived without mishap, throwing his back against one of the johns.  He doubled over to catch his breath, glancing back at the tower.  He was in pretty good shape, but that was a considerable distance to cover at full gallop.

Cautiously, he peeked around the edge of the end toilet.  The demon had moved a few more paces up the corridor.  Whatever was taking place within the building seemed to be of some interest to the crony.  Blake could still make out the clustered forms of several others in the center of the structure.  From this distance their signatures blended together, making it difficult to get a positive identification on any particular one.  To complicate things, an intense heat source was scrambling the image.

His gaze swept the horizon back the way he had come.  The enormous mounds of rubble looked very much like the edge of a low and rocky mountain range, stretching for as far as the eye could see in every direction.  He snuck another look at the stadium and, seeing that the demon had not moved, slipped around the toilet and made his way toward the gate.  He crossed a warped and shattered sidewalk, and then the asphalt road that circled the stadium.

Much of the fence blocking the stadium entry was still intact, although large sections were either lying crooked or else missing altogether.  The gate consisted of two large, barred doors with the right door bent diagonally over as if it had been peeled away.  He slipped through the gate, hurrying to the wall flaking the arched corridor entrance.  He took a moment to remove the eyepiece, returning it to its pouch.  It was handy for long distance reconnaissance, but he preferred to rely upon his own senses when in close.  Trusting to the stupidity of the crony demon, he picked up a small stone, tossing it into the corridor.  The rock banked off the far wall, rattling six or seven feet up the way.  Sure enough, within moments he heard the approach of shuffling steps.  The sharp edge of a battleaxe appeared, followed by the bulky figure of the demon.  Its head was turned in the opposite direction - the direction from which the noise had resounded.

Blake waited with his shoulder pressed against the wall and sword held by both hands above