Dove of War

By Bill Cain

For Joe LaHoud, yesterday is all that matters! Following the disappearance of his 16-year old daughter a decade ago, his life since has been a living Hell. Resigned to constant drudgery and broken dreams, he has nothing to live for. That was before he retrieved the call on his answering machine:

Daddy, are you there? Please pick up! Im so scared! Hes going to hurt me again, Daddy! Please help me! Please help me before Click. The line went dead.

Now in a race against time to uncover the truth and find his beloved Tammy, Joe is about to discover an evil older than time, an evil growing stronger and more deadly by the hour. And in the midst of it all is the mysterious man known only as Hato. Some call him a Prince, but his friends and enemies alike refer to him as:

THE DOVE OF WAR!
www.billcainonline.com

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477224175

Bill Cain

Bill Cain was born and raised in South Georgia. Graduating from North Georgia College (one of the premiere military schools in the country) in 1980, he spent more than 26 years in the US Army, retiring at the rank of Colonel. He is a combat veteran of Operations DESERT STORM and IRAQI FREEDOM. Bill has written several books designed to introduce young readers to military subjects and events as well as an autobiographical account of his experiences in Iraq. Dove of War is his second fictional novel. It follows a story begun in 2009 in his award winning tale, I Know Why the Dogwoods Blush! He is also the creator and writer of Void, an online webcomic linked to both books that occurs in the same “universe.” You can follow Void on his website or FACEBOOK: www.billcainonline.com Bill lives in the hills of North Georgia with his wife, Renee.

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© 2012 by Bill Cain. 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.

Published by AuthorHouse 06/22/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2415-1 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2416-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-2417-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012910976

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

A Point of Clarification

PROLOGUE

I

II

III

IV

V

VI

VII

VIII

IX

X

XI

XII

XIII

XIV

XV

XVI

XVII

XVIII

XIX

XX

XXI

XXII

XXIII

XXIV

XXV

XXVI

XXVII

XXVIII

XXIX

XXX

XXXI

XXXII

XXXIII

XXXIV

XXXV

XXXVI

XXXVII

XXXVIII

XXXIX

XL

XLI

XLII

XLIII

XLIV

XLV

XLVI

XLVII

XLVIII

XLIX

L

LI

LII

LIII

LIV

EPILOGUE

INSPIRATIONS

TEASER

To those poor souls who have suffered the loss of a child or other loved one to violence, this book is reverently dedicated. May you find eternal comfort in the Dove of Peace. I pray that the evil ones who brought such horror into your life may find that their destiny lies in the path of the Dove of War.

A Point of Clarification

I was born and raised in an extremely devout, Christian home to parents who lived their beliefs openly and steadfastly until the day they passed from this life. I share in their faith and would never intentionally do, say, or write anything that might be considered offensive to those who adhere to these time-honored Christian values.

Dove of War is a work of fiction intended to be read for entertainment purposes only. It was written centered on my belief that basic Christian doctrine teaches the existence of Satan, aka The Devil, as a living entity who has plotted the downfall of mankind dating to the Garden of Eden. Some Christians consider any and all tales dealing with witchcraft, the Occult, demons, Satanic worship or any of a variety of supernatural subjects to be blasphemous and are offended by discussions involving these topics. Even though all of the above mentioned subjects are found throughout the Bible, some individuals are offended by stories involving them. Others feel any depiction of violence to be offensive. If you are one of these persons, please read no further.

My opinion of and intent for Dove of War is that it espouses the very best Christian values while spotlighting the positive attributes of God’s greatest creation . . . the human race. It is not written to be a new scriptural interpretation or alternative doctrine. Characters and references within these pages drew life from a mix of supernatural horror (both real and fictional), Jewish legend, non-scriptural ancient texts, outright mythology, old monster movies, real-world evil and my own overactive imagination. It accentuates man’s uncanny ability to achieve God’s purpose through steadfast faith, undying loyalty, and indomitable courage.

Set amid human frailties spread across the centuries, this work of fiction sprang from my dreams with one purpose in mind . . . tell an entertaining, uplifting tale of ultimate sacrifice and selfless service that highlights what one man, with God’s help and a few friends, can achieve against fearsome and overwhelming odds.

This book in no way signifies any disregard or new slant toward the teachings of the Holy Bible, the Torah, Christian or Jewish faiths. It does intend to highlight the depravity of evil, expose the horrific dark nature of violence against children and women, and proclaim that, with God’s help, there is no enemy too powerful for any of us to overcome . . . so long as we maintain our faith and hold to our courage.

With that said, if you being forewarned still desire to read this book and in so doing are offended, I humbly apologize.

And now . . . let the tale begin!

For God hath not given us the spirit of fear; but of power, and of love, and of a sound mind.—II Timothy 1:7

He who fights monsters must take care lest he become a monster. When you gaze long into the abyss, the abyss gazes into you.—Friedrich Nietzsche

PROLOGUE

Being an author is having angels

whisper in your ear—and devils, too.

Graycie Harmon

I have known Basil Tobruk from the beginning, or at least, from the beginning following his death. I was there on my sacred mission and it was I who spoke to him, who made him the offer that he accepted and held true until this very night . . . this inevitable ending!

I am no writer. Until now, I have never even bothered to hold pen in hand, much less attempted to put such sacred words to paper. A tale such as his deserves much better than a shmendrick such as I. But if I do not tell this tale, how shall you know of the great deeds carried out this day by such a mensch as Basil Tobruk? How shall any ever know of the great debt they owe to him? And even so, how can anyone ever appreciate or properly acknowledge the depth of his sacrifice? I have heard many say, Your reward shall be in heaven. If this be so, then the reward for basil tobruk must indeed be great. From the moment he accepted his mission, aye and even before when he was merely a man seeking to honor his God and his people, who could imagine anyone more myrmidon than he? But do warriors such as he find their way into the gates of eternal paradise? I pray it to be so, for it was by his sword arm and his passionate soul that all of us averted Hell on earth . . . at least for the now.

It has been written that there is a level of peace only found on the other side of war. This was the lesson young Basil was forced to learn by the point of the sword. having learned it, he would never look back, though it cost him his very humanity. Would I have had the strength to do what he did, time and again, for the sake of a world that cared nothing for his tears? I think not. Would you? Perhaps. I would hope so, for I learned long ago that freedom from evil requires the services and sacrifices of men far more noble than I. And Basil Tobruk was the most noble man I ever met . . . with the obvious exception of the one from long ago. But His story has already been told. This story . . . the story of Basil Tobruk . . . has never been told . . . until now.

Long ago I prayed for another to bear this burden, for I am so unworthy to mouth and record the words. I have long feared that my words are merely pestiferous and would be casually discarded. But my prayers have gone unanswered, though I prayed them until my sweat turned to blood. You alone must travel this path, I was told. And so that is what I have done, and the things I have seen defy understanding yet are forever embedded in my mind so deeply that I scarce can imagine my life’s memories without him being an everyday aspect of it. Even when we were apart he was there, lingering in the shadowy recesses of my mind, whispering to me to come to him, to prepare the way for him, to fend off the forces of evil until such time as he was ready to assume the mantle of service to God. Oy-yoy-yoy!

The holy scriptures proclaim we must Resist the devil, and he will flee. This was true in many cases: Rwanda, Ukraine, Tibet, Serbia, Croatia, and Burma come to mind. But other times: Stalingrad, Madrid, Paris, London, Romania, to name just a few, the Devil did not run. Indeed he stood and fought with a ragmatical ferocity beyond the capacity of most men to engage, much less to survive. Basil bore the scars of those attacks yet came back again and again and again. And now he is gone forever. Will we ever see his like again? I think it will probably not be so.

For centuries, man has had great reason to fear the coming of the night, for it is in the darkness that evil breeds and lurks, seeking whom it may devour. In all corners of the earth, you can hear the Azif, chattering away without even the slightest effort to mask their voice or intent. This is because we as humans have been conditioned to think of the Azif as the normal buzz of nocturnal insects: the annoying mosquito, a chirping cricket, a buzzing bee. Alas if this were only true.

Basil understood the truth, yet knowing the horrors that slink and slither in the night, he entered into it anyway. He entered because there were those pathetic souls who cried out in their terror for salvation. He entered because he alone had the courage to do so. And Vasilie, the most fearsome and bestial of all the Nephilim, always taunted him from afar, projecting his laughter at the pain he inflicted on humanity and feeding on the suffering of the women and children he enslaved and brutalized. It had been this way for centuries. But now, praise be to God, it shall be that way no more. (At least for the now).

It is written that the man of peace is the most powerful man of all, for only he has the strength and temerity to show mercy. I have seen this displayed time and again, from Jerusalem to London to Washington to hungary and a hundred other places between. just as tHe one showed us centuries ago, men of peace many times must pay for their vision with the shedding of blood and suffering pain unto death. Perhaps this was the lesson Basil finally accepted as his fate. He was born into war but longed for peace. And it was through his desire for peace that he encountered the beast for the first time, this vile abomination that walked as neither man nor demon nor animal and carried the bitter seed of sorrow to a degree rarely seen above the nether kingdom of Hell.

This was the first lesson my master learned. it was a lesson he never forgot. And it was not long until the student became the teacher. Of all who ever walked the earth save the one, I learned more from Basil Tobruk than any other. I kvell his very soul! Part of this is because I have known him longer than any other save the one. And part is because . . . well . . . that is why I am writing this journal in the first place.

For you, dear reader, prepare yourself for such a tale as you never heard before. I implore you to look beyond my maundering for the powerful truth that lies at the center of my poorly chosen words. There is the old saying that a leopard cannot change his spots, yet nature instructs her watchful pupils that the caterpillar can, must, and will change into the butterfly given time and protection. Does this mean a change from one living thing to another, or is it the natural evolution as God intended, just as night gives way to day, winter to spring, child to adult or life to death? Alas, these are questions I know not of the answer, but I can tell you of the horrors and wonders that I personally witnessed for lo these many years. I can indeed tell you how my Master, Basil Tobruk, Prince of Romania and beloved practitioner of compassion, evolved from the dove of peace into the dove of war!

May the hosts of heaven curse me if any part of my tale rings untrue, and may the vile creatures of Hell know nothing but pain from this day forth as they hear the story of my master. Truly from the beginning, he was a dove alone in a world of hawks.

God save the hawks!

Perhaps I should start from the very beginning . . .

I

There are very few monsters who warrant

the fear we have of them.

Andre Gide

Furcas O’Malley was a monster in every sense of the word. The unwanted, physically deformed child of a drug addict mother and God-only knows who else, he’d shuffled from one foster home to another until he turned eighteen and was cast out from society. There are those who would shed a tear of sympathy for Furcas, but those tears would be misplaced. Furcas O’Malley was a monster in every sense of the word. Do not be deceived. And now, he was standing in the front yard of sweet Josie Warren, waiting for the lights to go out.

Numerous families tried to take him in over the years and show him love, respect and inclusion, but Furcas would have none of that. He began showing signs of violence when he was five. By the time he was twelve, he was impossible to handle.

Bouncing from one juvenile court to another, he learned early in life that the one thing that made him happy was hurting others. He did not care about emotional pain or anything so cerebral as feelings . . . he liked to cause physical pain. He began practicing on dogs, cats, any stray unlucky enough to venture into his world. Every animal cursed to wander into the Hell ruled by Furcas O’Malley died a horrific death. By trial and error, Furcas perfected his craft. He could stretch out an animal’s suffering indefinitely until his excitement could no longer be restrained and he would succumb to the tremendous rush of power he felt at the moment of the kill.

Once he discovered sex, there was no stopping him. For Furcas, sex and pain were synonymous.

He understood that physical appearance was his curse. Born with an abnormally large forehead, he also suffered from a strange bone deformity that jutted his cheekbones to sharp points that threatened to protrude through his skin. His eyes were also uneven . . . the left eye was a full inch lower than his right . . . and the left eye was blind, laminating a glassy haze. It was wide and normally streamed liquid. It was the devil’s eye! That’s what Ida Wincey used to call it when Furcas was eight. Poor Ida died in a terrible home fire in her sleep. But there was talk that the fire was no accident. That’s what the neighbors said, anyway.

Furcas also limped along for years with clubfoot. Also known as ‘talipes’, Furcas’ malady was specifically diagnosed as talipes equino varus . . . born with the foot pointing down and twisted inwards at the ankle.

Had Furcas been treated and fitted for casts as an infant, this problem would likely have been resolved early in his childhood. But neglect and abuse only made his situation worse, thus adding to his perceived appearance.

By the time he was thirteen, he dreamed of kidnapping, rape and murder. He selected several potential victims. The only thing that held him back was deciding if he wanted to go after his history teacher, the divorcee who lived in the apartment complex across the street from his foster home, or one of his classmates. He was certain the victim would absolutely be female.

Besides his slow nature in determining his victim, he was also worried about getting caught. His errors that had led authorities to the bodies of his animal victims only got him sympathy and attention from authorities, damn them all! But if he killed a human? He knew what would happen next. And in prison he’d have no chance to continue his search for women to abuse and terrorize. So he prayed . . . prayed to Satan to show him the way and provide him with all his worldly needs and desires. He sacrificed animals and profaned the name of God in every way his flagitious, thirteen-year old soul could imagine. And that’s when he met Alexandru Vasilie. In an instant, Furcas knew his prayers had been answered.

Over the next five years, Alexandru introduced Furcas to all his worldly desires. Women were not the only pleasure bestowed on his animalistic countenance. Vasilie also gave Furcas the power! At least that’s what they called it in the secret meetings. While Furcas had only met Vasilie a precious few times over the years, he met regularly in the Brimstone and Powder Pub, an out of the way dive on the seedier side of Tacoma, Washington. The Pub does not open until midnight and always keeps the doors closed. Not many patrons frequent the place, but it remains the perfect meeting spot to gather and bond with others who were outcast by society and found favor with him . . . with Vasilie . . . with the devil himself. One day, it would be Satan who ruled the universe with unchecked power and authority. And with Vasilie as his chief on earth, those who swore allegiance to him would be princes!

When Vasilie first offered ‘the power,’ Furcas was hesitant. More than a few people, fellow miscreants he had known and confided to, had taken the treatments and did not survive. Dying from a fatal reaction to the power was not a pretty sight. Who knew the body was even capable of such contortion and spasmodic contraction? Furcas had seen it happen more than once.

The Korean (none knew his real name) was the sole administrator of the power. The Korean explained that some people simply did not have a heart black enough to withstand the infusion inherent with receiving the power. About three in ten recipients died horrific deaths upon their first injection. Because of the high mortality rate and the extreme expense carried by Vasilie to forge the power, potential benefactors were required to prove worthy prior to the first treatment (men only . . . women are slaves in the world of Vasilie, so only men are considered as candidates for the power.) Maria was the only exception. She was very special to Vasilie.

Furcas had, according to the Korean, achieved the highest score possible in his test for power distribution. He had staked out an elderly lady who was beloved throughout her community to the south, in Portland. Sweet Karen Shafer, a widow of many years, was living on a fixed income but had opened her home to the poor and needy for decades, whether those in need were human, canine or feline. She operated entirely from donations by other ‘do-gooders’ and was regularly featured in local papers and church drives for the poor. She had even been recognized by the local town mayor as the person most reflecting the spirit of God in modern times from the community. But she lived alone and would open her door to anyone who knocked. Anyone at all . . . even Furcas.

Mrs. Shafer disappeared on a rainy night in Portland in the early spring from her home. It took a week or more before anyone finally came to check on her and discovered that she was missing. Her physician, Dr. Morris Belt, revealed that Mrs. Shafer had recently been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s Syndrome, so it was possible that she had wandered outside her home and lost her way back. The local police accepted this prognosis as there was no sign of a struggle and nothing appeared to be missing from her home. After a few weeks, the police stopped looking. Poor Mrs. Shafer’s body was never found.

Furcas shivered in excitement recalling those vivid memories of three years ago. Mrs. Shafer had not just wandered out and lost her way. And she did not have Alzheimer’s Syndrome . . . Dr. Belt was just one of the many employees on the Vasilie payroll. Shafer, the trusting fool that she was, had simply opened the door for Furcas when he knocked and actually felt sorry for him when she saw his physical shortcomings and heard his sad story. She’d invited him inside to rest and eat, even spend the night if he so desired. A simple sleeping injection had rendered her unconscious and in the dead of night, he’d transported her to a desolate, remote place (courtesy of the Korean) where he knew he’d not be disturbed. No, Mrs. Shafer was very alert and quite aware of all the things Furcas did to her over the course of the next month. He never dreamed she could survive that long, but he was so happy that she did. It was the best month of his life. Even the Korean was impressed! He was immediately green-lighted for his initial treatment and application of ‘the power.’ And now, he was standing in the front yard of sweet Josie Warren, waiting for the lights to go out.

In the last thirty months, Furcas had done more than his share of horrible things. Now that he was under the protection of Vasilie and the Korean, he had no worries about seeking out potential victims and doing whatever he wanted with them. He would arrive at the Brimstone and Powder Pub each night around midnight and from time to time, one of the denizens buried deep within the Byzantine coils of Vasilie’s secret empire would give him instructions of who, when, and where his next victim would be located. And on a regular basis, he’d see the Korean for his injection of ‘the power.’

Furcas had surged with delight almost immediately with the first treatment. The injection was painful, true, but he felt immense energy rushing through his veins unlike anything he had ever imagined. After a month of treatment, his foot became straight, his eye gained sight, and his head and face began correcting themselves. He no longer looked like a monster on the outside, but he was clearly a monster on the inside.

Over the years, the treatments had given him new strength . . . he clearly bristled with the might of at least ten men. His bones were unbreakable, his speed catlike, his lust for blood insatiable. With a moment’s concentration, he could will his teeth to sharpen and claws to emerge from his fingers. He did not fully understand everything about ‘the power,’ but other residents of the Pub explained that it was a fluid cocktail blended with various ingredients from Hell that formed some type of demonic DNA. When the day would eventually come for Satan to ascend to the throne, mere humans would be considered little more than bovine pets. Those who were sworn to honor Vasilie and his arcane host would be changed, and Furcas was undergoing that change, thanks to the power treatments and the fey handling of the Korean. The Bible thumpers boasted of being changed in the twinkling of an eye when Christ returned to claim His own. Furcas did not have to wait. He was already changed. And he was getting anxious to kill somebody tonight. And now, he was standing in the front yard of sweet Josie Warren, waiting for the lights to go out.

It was shortly before midnight when Furcas saw the light from Josie’s bedroom finally go dark. He smiled his dastardly smile and licked his lips with a scaly tongue. He’d become quite aroused and, automatically, his teeth transformed to sharp spikes and his fingernails to razor sharp talons. His eyes emitted a soft red glow, allowing him to see as clearly in the darkness as he might in the middle of the day. Somewhere in the distance, a soft glow of lightning scattered and danced across the sky, followed by the low rumble of the thunder and the gentle breeze carrying the unmistakable aroma of the coming rain.

That’s perfect, he thought aloud. The rain would help wash away any evidence of his presence there. Not that evidence would matter, of course. Vasilie had so many police, judges and lawyers on his payroll in this town that Furcas had no worries at all. Still, he was disappointed that he could not take his time with this woman. His orders were clear . . . make a quick kill but make it as brutal and shocking as possible. Vasilie wanted this to be a clear message to someone, but who that someone might be was not shared with Furcas. Vasilie ran his organization like a highly-disciplined military operation, and rightfully so. When Furcas had finally been briefed on who Vasilie actually was and what his plan entailed, well, how else could the outfit be organized? Still, it would have been nice to have a few days to play with Josie.

He clucked with glee recalling a night one year ago to the day in this very neighborhood. He began humming an old song from the ancient days, a song designed to bring blessings and protection from the dark gods of eons past. They were the ancient ones, the lords of chaos who walked the earth before the coming of man. In his self-imposed stupor, Furcas reverted to speaking in the tongue of the Azif. It sounded like the chirping of a cricket or aphid, perhaps one of the dozens of other insects who sang their song of woe in the night. Furcas began giggling like a happy child on Christmas morning as he thought of the mindless sheep who heard those sounds in their back yards and drifted to sleep thinking it to be a sound of comfort. If those people only knew what really dwelt in the dark and damp recesses of the ebony night!

As he clucked and chirped, he again recalled the young teenaged couple who missed their connecting bus from some Podunk town in the Midwest to Portland last year. One of Vasilie’s lieutenants, the alluring Maria, approached them and offered to give them a lift. Furcas laughed lustily. Everyone trusted Maria. She looked and acted so sweet and innocent! Yep, normally, women would not be a part of the Vasilie world, at least not in a position of power and authority. But Maria was special. He supposed even the Devil himself sought female companionship from time to time, or at least that’s what he’d been told. Maria was definitely a woman worthy of the Devil’s affection.

Anyway, once Maria had these teenage kids in her van, the rest was easy. They were twins, Benji and Buffy Tarkington, or some such foolery. Iowa or Nebraska or somewhere like that.

Maria wanted the girl for Vasilie, but nobody cared about Benji. Vasilie especially liked twins, but he was partial to twin girls. There were plenty of brutes in Vasilie’s employ who preferred boys, but Benji was almost eighteen so he was too old for most of the guys. Rather than just crush Benji and toss his body in a trash dump, Vasilie suggested that Furcas take him and use him to practice some new techniques. And oh my, did Furcas practice. And practice. And practice.

Benji lasted almost a month before he found sweet release. Even Furcas was amazed at how many body parts a human can lose and still survive. But he would not have the luxury of such time with little Josie. Still, there was something to be said for a quick, slashing good time as well.

Now, at long last, it was time to make the move. Yes, Furcas O’Malley was a powerful, unstoppable, merciless killing machine. And now, he was standing in the front yard of sweet Josie Warren, moving in for the kill now that the lights had finally gone out.

He paused for a moment on the side of the house and sliced through the telephone lines using his reptilian claws. Old people like Warren made it so easy. They did not have cell phones and still communicated using land line telephone access. It’s almost as if she wanted him to have his way with her! As the light rain began to fall, he moved silently to the front door and inhaled mightily. He knew that in a matter of moments, the heavy rain would fall, muffling out any sounds of crying or whimpering from inside. Not that it would matter. He intended to cut away her ability to scream before he did anything else. That would at least give him the chance to have some fun before making good his getaway by the morning sunrise.

To his surprise, the front door was not even locked. The old knob turned with ease in his massive hand, creaking and squawking as it opened on dry and well-worn hinges. The old crone was making it easy for him! He knew he only had at best four hours to finish her off, but after years of practice, he knew lots of things he could do in four hours. And he planned to do them all. He closed the door behind him and locked it. Being able to see perfectly in the dark, he stood at the foot of the stairs and looked upward to the bedroom where he knew she was resting.

Josie, he called out. Oh, JOOOSSSIIIEEE! His vulgar growl boomed across the room, amplified by the peaceful quiet interrupted only by the gentle ‘tick-tick-tick’ of the Bavarian clock that stood mute watch in the corner. JOSIE, I NEED YOU TO COME OUT AND PLAY WITH ME! He chuckled and began banging on the wall, growling and hooting like a wild animal on the hunt. He paused, expecting to hear frightened shuffling upstairs, the ‘click’ of a bedroom light switch being flipped, perhaps a shallow cry asking for identification. To his surprise, Furcas heard nothing. So he called out again, louder, and kicked over the lamp that crashed and shattered across the ceramic tile living room floor.

I’M HERE FOR YOU, JOOOSSSSIIIEEE, he bellowed again. I’VE COME TO PLAY WITH YOU. DON’T YOU WANT TO PLAY WITH ME? He paused and waited, his head cocked to the side like some hellish lapdog awaiting verification from its pallid master. He began to get angry. No sound emerged from the upstairs bedroom. Bewildered and belligerent, Furcas bounded up the steps in two leaps. If she would not respond to coyness, perhaps she’d respond to brute force! But she WOULD respond, damn it! Nobody ignored Furcas O’Malley. NO ONE!

Standing outside Josie’s bedroom, Furcas began calling to her. I’m about to come inside, Josie. No need to try to call for help. No telephone, no neighbors, no police . . . no one will be able to help you but me. So prepare to get on your knees, old hag! Prepare to get on your knees and beg! As he taunted her, he removed his smelly, feces encrusted boots to reveal reptilian feet and a rather nasty dew claw attached to his heel. He scratched around on the floor like a rooster digging for worms. His Azif became thunderous. I’m going to kill you, Josie! I’m going to kill you and kill you and kill you! Praise to my master and all his dark desires for all time! I’m going to kill you and kill you and kill you!

Now worked into a blood lust and enraged that Josie had yet to respond, he kicked in the door with such force that it blew off its hinges and carried across the room, crashing into the far wall. Furcas entered in full berserker mode, his body continuing to transform into the monstrous demon-hybrid his ‘power treatments’ provided.

He knew he was not a true Nephilim. The Korean himself had reminded him of that many times. While that fact bothered Furcas from time to time, it did not matter tonight. The bloodlust was upon him, and no Nephilim on the earth above or demon from the hell below could exceed the rage and lust for blood he felt in that very moment.

Now standing in Josie’s bedroom, Furcas glared intently at her bed. It was neatly made, the covers tucked in place just as she’d learned from her own mother more than six decades earlier. The bed had not been slept in this night. Impossible, he snarled. I saw the light go out and . . . He paused and sneered. The bathroom door was closed. He nodded his understanding. The crazy coot was hiding in her bathroom, probably trying in vain to dial out from the phone she’d had installed there a few months earlier after she’d suffered her stroke. There were phones in every room of the house to ease her efforts to call in case of a medical emergency. But no one would be able to help her with her medical emergency tonight.

He slithered to the bathroom door and listened intently. He smiled as he heard a slight wafting on the other side of the door. She was clearly walking softly, trying to be silent, probably in a panic over the dead telephone line. His arousal was off the charts! He was ready!

Time’s over, you old bat, he taunted. Have you ever had a nightmare about a monster under your bed in the dark? Well tonight, I’m going to make that nightmare come true! Tonight I will show you where ALL nightmares gain their fame!

Perhaps Furcas would have seen it coming had he not been so focused on the prey he envisioned trembling on the other side of the door. As he pushed open the bathroom door (oddly, also unlocked) he stood for a split second in disbelief at the emptiness of the room. The sound he’d heard was the gentle flicking of the curtains that danced softly to the night breeze and the ever increasing velocity of the rain. He’d been about to shriek in frustration when it hit him with indescribable force from his right side. He was flung sideways as though he were weightless, an impressive feat considering that in his demonic transformed visage, he weighed nearly 400 pounds.

Furcas slammed into the door facing chin first, flattening his nose, shattering his cheek bones and deftly removing his front set of teeth in the same instant. Stunned and in shock, not yet able to ascertain what was happening to him, he was spun around to face his attacker against his will. He instinctively held up his hands to protect his face, leaving his torso open to attack. Something hit him fully in the chest, caving in his breast bone and snapping several ribs with ease. He’d been assured that his bones could not be broken. Now he was learning that anything can break when dealt a blow of sufficient force and velocity! Gasping for air, unable to inhale or exhale, Furcas danced around like a wild marionette with only selected strings functioning. In full scale panic, he began slashing wildly in the dark at his unseen attacker, hoping to strike home with his talons. But even that maneuver felt odd and out of place.

Perplexed, Furcas held up his mutated claws and inspected them, then gasped in horror. He had no hands, only stumps that disappeared into nothingness about an inch below his elbow. Something extremely sharp and thick had severed his hands . . . both of them . . . in such a fluid motion that he’d never even felt the slice or the slightest hint of resistance as it happened.

About to shed dragon tears, Furcas reeled from a blow that nearly knocked his head from his shoulders. The force of the blow drove him back out of the bedroom door, the momentum causing him to tumble head over heels down the stairs, leaving him weeping and in a crumpled heap on the welcome mat that lay directly inside the main entrance doorway. The mat had a pink heart with the words, May all who enter here find love.

Now it was Furcas who felt the mounting dread of fear as whoever . . . or whatever . . . had attacked him was slowly descending the stairs. This skilled assassin was no longer making any effort to be silent and with every step his presence and power became more apparent.

Whoever he was, he’d not even bothered to turn on the lights . . . until now. Furcas heard the light switch flip and he batted his eyes in an effort to adjust to the light, but the best he could muster was at best was bleak achromatopsia. He began to caterwaul, emitting the wail of an animal trapped in a hunter’s snare with no hope of escape. His manky attempt to obtain mercy was hopeless. Despite the tremendous blow that had certainly damaged his retinal core, Furcas instantly recognized his attacker from the pictures, drawings, and briefings he’d received since being inducted into Vasilie’s Army of the Night.

How is it that you are here? he screeched in the language of the Azif. "How is