The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1) Read Online Free Page B
Author: Lex Duncan
was enormous. Possessed humans were stronger, faster, smarter, meaner. Capable of anything.
I had to be careful. One false move and I'd end up in the sanatorium with Rosie.
The rest of my preparations weren’t as exciting. Shower, shave, find some hunting-appropriate clothes. The majority of my wardrobe was comprised of school uniforms, tattered jeans, old Converse, and one color: Black. Black shirts, black pants, black shoes, black fishnets I'd worn to last year's screening of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Black was easy. Safe. Unassuming. And it matched with everything.
I settled on a tanktop, a zip-up hoodie with a faded imprint of the Batman logo on the front, a pair of jeans that had seen better days, and my trusty combat boots. Good enough, I guessed. I completed my look with a braid, crudely done and slightly crooked, then went to go check myself out in my cracked bathroom mirror. What I saw startled me. Just as the wicked girl at the sanatorium wasn't Rosie, the girl in my mirror wasn't me. Her red hair was dull and shabby and in desperate need of a trim, her blue eyes ringed with the shadows of unrest and weighed down with more baggage than an airport terminal. Her skin was too pale—a side effect of pretty severe anemia she never had time to worry about. She had too many freckles. Looked far too much like her dead mother.
“You look like shit,” I told her. “Invest in some makeup the next time you're at the store.”
Turning away from my corpse-like reflection, I went to grab my backpack, dumping the school stuff out and packing the hunting stuff in. A queasy brew of adrenaline and anxiety burned hot through my veins. Tonight was either going to be a miserable failure resulting in my grisly death or a spectacular success that would earn me loads of cash and my own TV series.
Beatrice the Demon Hunter. Had a nice ring to it.
***
The fun began when the clock struck twelve. I left my apartment and crept down dimly lit streets and crooked alleyways, not entirely sure where to go or how to start. I knew demons preferred dark, dirty places. Places where sin could thrive unabated, and in Stone Chapel, that could've been anywhere.
But the Old Quarter was particularly vulnerable.
A short stroll from my apartment building, the Old Quarter was the diseased heart of the city, infected by crumbling infrastructure and haunted by poverty. The decrepit mansions hidden here between the gnarled pines offered brief glimpses of centuries past, of magnificence stolen by time and indifference. I often wondered what it was like before the demon infestation got so out of control. Who lived in these giant houses? Did they worry about possession? Did they, in the back of their minds, fear walking out their door every day?
It was hard for me to imagine not having to deal with demons. They were an integral part of billions of lives the world over. We’d all become accustomed to them. Accustomed to fear. I never felt truly safe. Not even with my gun on my hip.
I wandered aimlessly around the decayed neighborhood for what felt like an eternity, the quiet making my skin prickle. Trees swayed listlessly in the chilly wind and I thought I heard an owl hoot somewhere among them, but other than that, silence prevailed. Creepy, dead silence.
I had to remind myself that this wasn't a horror movie as mansions faded to boarded-up storefronts. Those storefronts then evolved to one tall and jagged and unforgettable silhouette, shooting into the night sky like a syringe.
The church was the Old Quarter's single saving grace. Here in about nine hours, these same streets I crept along would be filled with cars and the empty pews inside would be brimming with worshippers. The bells would toll and the sermon would begin and the wretchedness we all were drowning in would be forgotten until it was time to leave.
But, for now, it was a midnight landmark. A sprawling feat of neo-Gothic architecture complete with a graveyard in the back and
I had to be careful. One false move and I'd end up in the sanatorium with Rosie.
The rest of my preparations weren’t as exciting. Shower, shave, find some hunting-appropriate clothes. The majority of my wardrobe was comprised of school uniforms, tattered jeans, old Converse, and one color: Black. Black shirts, black pants, black shoes, black fishnets I'd worn to last year's screening of Rocky Horror Picture Show. Black was easy. Safe. Unassuming. And it matched with everything.
I settled on a tanktop, a zip-up hoodie with a faded imprint of the Batman logo on the front, a pair of jeans that had seen better days, and my trusty combat boots. Good enough, I guessed. I completed my look with a braid, crudely done and slightly crooked, then went to go check myself out in my cracked bathroom mirror. What I saw startled me. Just as the wicked girl at the sanatorium wasn't Rosie, the girl in my mirror wasn't me. Her red hair was dull and shabby and in desperate need of a trim, her blue eyes ringed with the shadows of unrest and weighed down with more baggage than an airport terminal. Her skin was too pale—a side effect of pretty severe anemia she never had time to worry about. She had too many freckles. Looked far too much like her dead mother.
“You look like shit,” I told her. “Invest in some makeup the next time you're at the store.”
Turning away from my corpse-like reflection, I went to grab my backpack, dumping the school stuff out and packing the hunting stuff in. A queasy brew of adrenaline and anxiety burned hot through my veins. Tonight was either going to be a miserable failure resulting in my grisly death or a spectacular success that would earn me loads of cash and my own TV series.
Beatrice the Demon Hunter. Had a nice ring to it.
***
The fun began when the clock struck twelve. I left my apartment and crept down dimly lit streets and crooked alleyways, not entirely sure where to go or how to start. I knew demons preferred dark, dirty places. Places where sin could thrive unabated, and in Stone Chapel, that could've been anywhere.
But the Old Quarter was particularly vulnerable.
A short stroll from my apartment building, the Old Quarter was the diseased heart of the city, infected by crumbling infrastructure and haunted by poverty. The decrepit mansions hidden here between the gnarled pines offered brief glimpses of centuries past, of magnificence stolen by time and indifference. I often wondered what it was like before the demon infestation got so out of control. Who lived in these giant houses? Did they worry about possession? Did they, in the back of their minds, fear walking out their door every day?
It was hard for me to imagine not having to deal with demons. They were an integral part of billions of lives the world over. We’d all become accustomed to them. Accustomed to fear. I never felt truly safe. Not even with my gun on my hip.
I wandered aimlessly around the decayed neighborhood for what felt like an eternity, the quiet making my skin prickle. Trees swayed listlessly in the chilly wind and I thought I heard an owl hoot somewhere among them, but other than that, silence prevailed. Creepy, dead silence.
I had to remind myself that this wasn't a horror movie as mansions faded to boarded-up storefronts. Those storefronts then evolved to one tall and jagged and unforgettable silhouette, shooting into the night sky like a syringe.
The church was the Old Quarter's single saving grace. Here in about nine hours, these same streets I crept along would be filled with cars and the empty pews inside would be brimming with worshippers. The bells would toll and the sermon would begin and the wretchedness we all were drowning in would be forgotten until it was time to leave.
But, for now, it was a midnight landmark. A sprawling feat of neo-Gothic architecture complete with a graveyard in the back and
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