Story #107 - Deacon First V

Deacon First - V

It was the screeching sound of dying birds that awakened Deacon First Barry Howe, though he could not have pinpointed the noise had he been asked. The sound was strange enough to wake him, tear him out of a cold sleep in the murky half-light of dawn, and send him rolling out of bed for his gun. Standard practice was for all Deacons, regardless of rank, to carry their sidearm with them at all times. Though it was the exception rather than the norm, the undead could take a liking to a particular individual, and they could be very…persistent.

So far as Barry knew, he hadn’t run afoul of any that wanted his blood, but he kept the pistol low and ready as he moved out of his bedroom. The noise had stopped, but silence was often far more deadly than cacophony in the life of one of the city’s fighting men.

Barry kicked the bathroom door hard open as he moved through the hallway; unexpected noise often disrupted the ears of wolves or the echo location of vamps and gave the forces of good a brief moment of respite.

“Deacon.” A voice grated from the shadows as he moved into the living room. It didn’t belong in a human throat, and Barry brought his silver-bullet pistol up to firing level. He wouldn’t go down without a fight.

“Put down your pea-shooter, Deacon,” the voice came again, “if I wanted you dead, you would be.”

Barry lowered the gun; from the sound of the voice it was a wolf and not a vamp, and that meant he was at a serious disadvantage. Years of training ritual had coated his body in a thin garlic sheen, making any vamp less likely to attack, but their furry companions had no such issue. When it came to wolves, a gun and a steady hand were the only things that gave a Deacon a fighting chance.

“I’m surprised to hear you speak,” Barry kept his voice quiet. “I wasn’t aware your kind could.”

“How little you know us, Deacon, and how well.” A shape stepped forward into the shafts of moonlight slanting through the window, and Barry caught his breath.

“You!” Barry cried. The brown fur of the wolf was unmistakable; that and the fact it stood head and shoulders above its brethren. “Why soul-link me, beast? What could I have that you want?” Only a handful of Deacons who had been linked survived, and half of those were permanently damaged by the experience. It took close contact with one of the undead for them to get their hooks into a Deacon, but once they did they were almost impossible to shake off.

There was a snuffling sound that Barry took a moment to recognize as laughter, and he felt his cheeks starting to flush.

“Soul-link? With you? Deacon, you flatter yourself. I have no need of a companion, or easy prey. I have questions you must answer.”

“Must?” The creature hadn’t moved, and Barry took a step to the right, hoping to flick on the living room lamp before it had a chance to get away. “I wasn’t aware you were in a position to demand anything.”

“Leave it, Deacon, or I will rip your throat out.” A toothy smile spread across the thing’s face. “I like the dark.” Dropping to its haunches, the wolf took up a sitting position in the middle of his room, tongue hanging out to one side and ears pointed, and Barry could see several feathers clinging to the side of the thing’s brown fur. “As for demands, you’re hardly in a position to deny me. I’ve already done you a favor by ridding you of the pests on your balcony; the least you can do is answer my questions.”

Barry gave the request a quick once-over. Not only was even talking to the thing a breach of protocol, but answering questions would almost certainly place him in breach of his oath. Of course, an ill-fated stand off with the thing wouldn’t do him any good either.

“Fine,” he said, moving toward the window. “Ask your questions and leave.” There might be a chance he could escape out onto the balcony; a slim one, but it was better than nothing.

“Deacon, do not test me. I will do as I please. Now, let us begin.” There was a pause as the thing considered, and Barry took a moment to study it. Intelligence permeated it, an almost-human sense of understanding of the world around it. The wolves had been men and women, originally, but he’d never seen one that could act rationally, let alone ask questions. This one seemed almost noble, with a broad face and expressive eyes, but the effect was somewhat marred by the blood matted on its fur. Despite its ability to speak in complete sentences, Barry had to remember that the thing was a killer through and through.

“First, Deacon, you must understand that you cannot tell me too much. I am under the control of the creator, and while he has left me alone for a time, he will be back. He cannot make me act, but he can hear what I hear. My mind is still my own – somehow - and I must use it to best effect.”

Barry frowned. Creator? It made sense the things had a common origin, but this was the first he’d ever heard of it. He opened his mouth to speak, but the thing growled at him before he got a word out.

“Silence, Deacon. You do nothing but reply, here. Now, tell me. Why didn’t I kill you the first time we met?”

He started to answer, but stopped before the first word came out. The thing would be the one to know that, not him, since he was just lucky to get away. “I…” he said, stalling for time, but nothing that made sense came to mind.

The wolf was on him hard before he had a chance to react, knocking his gun out of his hand and sending it skittering across the floor. Brown fury rose up in front of him, fangs gleaming, and Barry could see his career in the Order coming to a short and bloody end.

Knife-edged teeth drove down, and Barry twisted, hoping to live a few precious moments more, but a foot from his throat a white incandescence blazed, surrounding his body and hurling the wolf up and back across the room. As it hit the ground the shield faded, and Barry struggled to his feet.

“I knew it!” The wolf was wheezing hard, “Deacon, what are you?”

Barry Howe had no idea.

- D