Hounacier (Valducan Book 2) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Seth Skorkowsky
nod. He lowered his gaze to the machete, seeing a beauty to it he hadn't seen before. There was an intelligence to it. "I do."
Chapter Two
Present Day.
"This looks good." Malcolm killed the headlights and backed the SUV onto a primitive drive. Tall grass and weeds scratched against the underside, sprouting from the narrow strip between the two earthen tire trails. He stopped beside a twisted oak, its branches shading them from the moonlight above. Brake lights reflected red off a bullet-ridden "No Trespassing" sign on the gate behind them. Malcolm only hoped the resident hunters weren't there on a Tuesday night. He turned off the engine.
Pale light glowed beside him as Orlovski activated his phone. The knight tapped the screen and peered closer, his eyes invisible behind the glare on his glasses. "Message sent."
Halfway across the world, Master Alex Turgen, unofficial leader of the Valducans, would receive the simple text, "Mission go."
Malcolm kissed the crescent-shaped bone on his seashell necklace and pulled it on.
"Here." Samantha, Orlovski's student, leaned in from the back seat, offering a pair of small, plastic boxes strung on metal bead chains. A square of black electric tape masked the trackers' LEDs.
Malcolm accepted one and put it on. "Thanks." He opened the door and stepped out into a wall of Missouri humidity and around to the rear of vehicle. There, hidden in one of the suitcases, he removed a dark, navy ballistic vest and strapped it on. The shrill hum of a mosquito buzzed past his ear. He cinched on a heavy belt, making sure Ulises' old sawed-off was positioned straight across his back. His fingers found Hounacier's carved handle at his hip, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. Ready, baby?
Malcolm unrolled a slender wire and hooked the rubber earpiece over his ear. He snapped the throat mic on. Turning his back to the SUV, he clicked the knob atop the Puxing. "Testing. Sam, you hear me?"
"I'm right here," she said dryly from inside the vehicle.
Malcolm grinned. The joke was dumb. It was dumb the first time she did it three jobs ago. Now, it was a ritual, a light moment before the storm. "Radio," he said, feigning annoyance.
She chuckled behind him. "Testing. I read you," came through the earpiece. The girl's weird accent was a collected timeline of globe-hopping with her Australian oilman father. Twenty-three, quadrilingual, and versed in a dozen local customs. Master Sonu already had his sights set on making her a Librarian.
Dry grass crunched as Orlovski stepped around beside him. The all-black getup made him look like a disembodied head floating in the night. His short, straw-blond hair only added to the Russian's paleness. He rested a latex-gloved hand on the kukri, Amballwa, at his waist. He nodded to Malcolm's bare and tattooed arms. "You need bug spray?"
"I'm good," Malcolm said, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. The open palms made them fit awkwardly but left his tattoos accessible. "Ready?"
Orlovski pushed his ear bud in and nodded. "Hope they don't have any damned dogs."
"Hopefully." Most animals hated demons. Except, of course, demonkind linked to animals. Ghouls and jackals, lamia and snakes, werebeasts and their species’ breed. In those instances, animals loved their demonic masters. Malcolm didn't expect dogs with this one, whatever kind it was. "Got your papers?"
The Russian patted his back pocket.
"What's your name?" Like Sam's stupid joke, the drill was ritual.
"Eduard Lukov," Orlovski said, his voice coming in through Malcolm's radio. "I sell picture frames and am on a working vacation. You are Adam Jones, my distributor."
"Good." Shutting the tailgate, Malcolm looked in the side door. Sam hunched in the seat, peering at an open laptop, shotgun resting on the floor. "Sam, you ready?"
She gave a thumbs up.
"Keep the scanner open," Orlovski said. "Call if you see or hear anything."
Her brow arched. "Understood."
Orlovski shut the door. The dark
Chapter Two
Present Day.
"This looks good." Malcolm killed the headlights and backed the SUV onto a primitive drive. Tall grass and weeds scratched against the underside, sprouting from the narrow strip between the two earthen tire trails. He stopped beside a twisted oak, its branches shading them from the moonlight above. Brake lights reflected red off a bullet-ridden "No Trespassing" sign on the gate behind them. Malcolm only hoped the resident hunters weren't there on a Tuesday night. He turned off the engine.
Pale light glowed beside him as Orlovski activated his phone. The knight tapped the screen and peered closer, his eyes invisible behind the glare on his glasses. "Message sent."
Halfway across the world, Master Alex Turgen, unofficial leader of the Valducans, would receive the simple text, "Mission go."
Malcolm kissed the crescent-shaped bone on his seashell necklace and pulled it on.
"Here." Samantha, Orlovski's student, leaned in from the back seat, offering a pair of small, plastic boxes strung on metal bead chains. A square of black electric tape masked the trackers' LEDs.
Malcolm accepted one and put it on. "Thanks." He opened the door and stepped out into a wall of Missouri humidity and around to the rear of vehicle. There, hidden in one of the suitcases, he removed a dark, navy ballistic vest and strapped it on. The shrill hum of a mosquito buzzed past his ear. He cinched on a heavy belt, making sure Ulises' old sawed-off was positioned straight across his back. His fingers found Hounacier's carved handle at his hip, and he gave her a reassuring squeeze. Ready, baby?
Malcolm unrolled a slender wire and hooked the rubber earpiece over his ear. He snapped the throat mic on. Turning his back to the SUV, he clicked the knob atop the Puxing. "Testing. Sam, you hear me?"
"I'm right here," she said dryly from inside the vehicle.
Malcolm grinned. The joke was dumb. It was dumb the first time she did it three jobs ago. Now, it was a ritual, a light moment before the storm. "Radio," he said, feigning annoyance.
She chuckled behind him. "Testing. I read you," came through the earpiece. The girl's weird accent was a collected timeline of globe-hopping with her Australian oilman father. Twenty-three, quadrilingual, and versed in a dozen local customs. Master Sonu already had his sights set on making her a Librarian.
Dry grass crunched as Orlovski stepped around beside him. The all-black getup made him look like a disembodied head floating in the night. His short, straw-blond hair only added to the Russian's paleness. He rested a latex-gloved hand on the kukri, Amballwa, at his waist. He nodded to Malcolm's bare and tattooed arms. "You need bug spray?"
"I'm good," Malcolm said, pulling on a pair of thin leather gloves. The open palms made them fit awkwardly but left his tattoos accessible. "Ready?"
Orlovski pushed his ear bud in and nodded. "Hope they don't have any damned dogs."
"Hopefully." Most animals hated demons. Except, of course, demonkind linked to animals. Ghouls and jackals, lamia and snakes, werebeasts and their species’ breed. In those instances, animals loved their demonic masters. Malcolm didn't expect dogs with this one, whatever kind it was. "Got your papers?"
The Russian patted his back pocket.
"What's your name?" Like Sam's stupid joke, the drill was ritual.
"Eduard Lukov," Orlovski said, his voice coming in through Malcolm's radio. "I sell picture frames and am on a working vacation. You are Adam Jones, my distributor."
"Good." Shutting the tailgate, Malcolm looked in the side door. Sam hunched in the seat, peering at an open laptop, shotgun resting on the floor. "Sam, you ready?"
She gave a thumbs up.
"Keep the scanner open," Orlovski said. "Call if you see or hear anything."
Her brow arched. "Understood."
Orlovski shut the door. The dark
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