Chapter Text
Harvelle’s Roadhouse is most frequented by hunters, but it’s well known for its carefully selected archive of bourbon. As soon as my dad agreed I was old enough to drink, I decided then and there I’d try everything Ellen has to offer. I’m about halfway through, currently in the Buffalo Trace collection. I sip Single Oak Project on the rocks as my dad thoughtfully thinks of his next trivia question. He hums the chorus to the song on the jukebox, then sings the last line: “Take it to the limit one more time…”
“Oh!” he finally exclaims. “I have one. What was the Eagles’ most played song at their concerts?”
Overly confident, I smirk, scoff, and immediately reply: “Hotel California.”
“Oh, Harley, come on. I’ve taught you better than that,” Dad scolds me.
“Then what is it, O Wise One?”
“Take It Easy. I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.”
I roll my eyes. “Hey, Dad, who explained to who what an iPod was, and how it could hold all of the cassettes you lug around in a duffel bag in a rectangle the size of your palm?”
With a glower, Dad drains the last of his drink. “Another round, O Sarcastic One?”
“I learn from the best,” I say, grinning.
While Dad goes to the bar for a refill, I head over to the jukebox. The outside is old and scratched, there’s a chunk missing out of the left bottom corner. Damage from a barfight, no doubt. But the music selection is superb. As I scroll through the title cards, the only permanent resident of the Roadhouse, aside from the Harvelle’s, saunters up to the jukebox and casually leans against it.
“Your eyes are bluer than the Atlantic ocean,” he purrs. “And I don't mind being lost at sea.”
“My eyes are brown, Ash,” I respond dully.
Ash chuckles bashfully. “Right.”
“Also, that line was lame. I liked, ‘Hey, my name's Microsoft. Can I crash at your place?’ better.”
“If you liked it, why didn’t you have a drink with me?”
I make my selection on the jukebox and turn to Ash. The skinny, pale midwestern MIT educated mullet-head that lives in a bar and has an extensive hunting knowledge but still can’t come up with a decent pick-up line. “Because I didn’t want to. Have you ever tried just saying hello?”
With a frown, Ash says, “No.”
“Try it, buddy.” I pat his chest and turn away as Armageddon It plays.
“Def Leppard, huh? Well, I’ll miss you in a heartbeat!” Ash calls as I head to the table, where my dad returned with the drinks.
I look back over my shoulder and grin. “That one’s almost acceptable.” I sit down and take a grateful drink of bourbon. Hmm, the Single Oak one isn’t bad, but I think I like Van Winkle’s better.
“He giving you trouble again?” Dad asks with a beady glare at Ash.
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
He chuckles. “Don’t I know it.”
“So, what’s the game plan? Where do we go next?” I ask.
“Hold your horses there, kiddo. We’re having a drink. Taking down that crocotta wasn’t easy. We’re enjoying a well-deserved break.”
I slump back against my chair. “I know. Just curious if you had any other leads we can look into.” Dad narrows his eyes. “Look into later,” I add with a mumble.
Across the bar, a new patron calls out, “Mark Cooper!” My dad and I both look over as a balding man in faded jeans with a gun in his holster approaches us. He claps my dad on the back and then smiles sweetly at me; I return it. “And Harley. Growing up fast.”
“Hey, Morton,” Dad says pleasantly. He’s pretty popular among hunters. He gets greeted this way nearly every time we enter a hunter’s bar.
“Haven’t seen you in over a year. Where you been hiding?”
“Not hiding, Morton. Hunting. That begs the question, where have you been hiding?”
Morton chuckles heartily. “I’ve been around, here and there. Hey, now that I see ya, you know anything about Nix?”
“Water wraiths? Morton, what are you doing hunting water wraiths in Nebraska?”
“South Dakota, actually. I’ve been tracking some sort of water spirit up at Bitter Lake for a couple years now. Figured it was a Neck from the cycle of its’ killings.”
“Huh.” Dad takes a thoughtful sip. “Get a drink and have a seat.” Morton heads off to the bar and Dad looks over at me. “What do you remember about Nix?”
“A…bit.”
Dad smiles and takes another drink. “Good. Let Morton know what you remember.”
Of course. Dad never passes on a teaching moment. I wrack my brain for any mention of Germanic water wraiths I may have had since I started hunting. We don’t come across many water wraiths in general. The stuff I know is mainly from lore, not experience.
Morton returns with a pint and falls heavily into the chair at our table. He takes a long drink, leaving foam in his mustache, before turning to my dad. “So. Nix.”
Dad grins and looks at me.
“Um, well,” I begin. Clear my throat. “Are you dealing with Nix or Nixies?”
“Not sure yet. Haven’t seen it up close. All I have to go on are the drownings. A handful of them twice a year, around the heart of summer and dead of winter. The rest of the year, drownings are rare and most of the time witnessed.”
“Okay. Well, what are the victims? Male? Female? If it’s a Neck you’ve got half a chance. They only go after women and children. Nixies, the females, prey on men.”
Morton ponders this for a moment, then his eyes narrow with realization. “They’re all men.”
I nod. “You’ll need silver or iron. Not only to physically harm the Nixie, but to protect yourself as you search for it. There’s only two ways–”
“Harley,” Dad says gently. I stop spewing words at the speed of light. “You’re missing a few vital things.”
“Um,” I say again, rather ungracefully.
Dad smiles. “Mort, Nix are water wraiths, but they’re also avid shapeshifters. You’ll need to figure out what form the Nixie takes on before you attempt to hunt it down. If the Nix become human or merpeople, they lure their victims in with songs sung in spellbinding voices, hypnotizing their prey and drawing them into the water. If they take on the form of an animal, usually a white horse, the charm of their music is replaced with dazzling beauty.”
“So I need to get some earplugs, avoid looking at any pretty animals, and then wait for the Nixie to approach me so I can stab it with a silver dagger?” Morton says enthusiastically.
“Not quite,” I say. “That’s what I was getting to. There’s only two real ways to kill Nix: you need to find and speak their true name, or get them out of the lake long enough for them to die. They can’t be away from water for extended lengths of time.”
“That’s where the iron and silver come in,” Dad says. “Once you know which form they take, you can bind them on dry land with chains.”
“Or a harness,” I add quickly. “I remember reading something…farmers wanted the power of the Nix horses to plow their fields. They’d trick the Nix onto land, usually with some pretty girl, and force it into a harness of iron and silver. They’d work it until it died.”
“Where the hell am I gonna get an iron and silver harness?” Morton asks.
“You have plenty of time until the summer,” I say. “They only hunt at the summer and winter solstice. That’s the cycles you mentioned before.”
Dad nods receptively and goes on. “There’s a high chance the Nixie will be a human or mermaid, especially if you and another man hunt it down. If the Nixie is human, it will come onto land, seduce you, and drag you back to the lake. If it’s a mermaid, it will lure you into the water.”
“Morton, do you need any help?” I ask suddenly. “Having a girl there would really work in your favor, especially if the Neck is feminine. You could be the bait, and I’ll bind it in chains.”
Morton’s eyebrows furrow and he looks contemptuously at my dad. Then, he grins wildly at me and lets out a booming laugh. “Harley, you are just like your old man.” He reaches over to clap me on the shoulder the same way he did my dad, so I quickly brace myself against the table so I don’t slam face first into it. “Thanks, Mark. And Harley. I’ll give you a call come the solstice.”
“Awesome,” I say cheerily.
Dad and I are alone again. At this point, I’d really like to know what we’re going to do next. I think he senses my impending question because he quickly says, “Okay, I’ve got another one. Which band had a pattern of releasing a live album every four studio albums?”
I lean back in the chair and temple my fingers under my chin. This time, I’ll weigh my answers carefully. That Eagles debacle was a serious insult to my talents. While I don’t outright remember which band my dad’s talking about, I’ll stall or utilize my two-question allowance.
“Hmm.” Slowly, I reach forward for my glass. Take a sip. Then another. Dad rolls his eyes. Okay, utilize question one. I have to be careful, though. There are some questions he refuses to answer. “What’s their record company?”
With a sigh, Dad stares intently at me. I must have gotten close. He’s never reluctant in answering or denying my questions. It’s either a flat out no or an immediate answer. I grin, because I know I have him now.
“Moon Records,” he finally says.
“Ha! It’s Rush!”
Dad rolls his eyes again. “I knew that answer would give it away.”
“Then you shouldn’t have said it. The fact that you did means you thought I wouldn’t guess right. Therefore, I say again: Ha!”
“Mmhmm. You’re pushing your luck, kid. I might not be so lenient later.”
“We’ll see,” I say knowingly. “One more round before we hit the road?”
“Sure.”
I take our glasses and head to the bar. Ellen’s working solo tonight, so I thought I’d give her one less table to clean up.
“Hi, honey,” Ellen greets me warmly. “Single Oak again?”
“No, I think I’ll go back to the Van Winkle this last time.”
“The usual for Mark?”
“Please.”
Ellen puts our used glasses in a basin of soapy water and pulls out two fresh ones. She selects a tall, narrow bottle, nearly empty, for me, and a stout, rectangular bottle for my dad. That one’s practically full. Ellen wrinkles her nose as she pours it.
“You know, your daddy and John Winchester are the only two men who like this stuff,” she says disapprovingly. “I haven’t had to re-stock it in years.”
I shrug and take the glasses. “It will be a while before I decide on which one I like best.”
“You take your time, honey.”
I smile and return to our table. I stare down into the amber liquid of Larceny before handing it over. That reminds me…“Have you heard from John since New York?”
“No, I haven’t.” Dad stares down at his drink the same way I had, only his face darkens.
New York was five months ago, when two passenger airplanes decimated the World Trade Center. Most of the country is convinced that terrorists hijacked the planes. Some believe it was an inside job. Hunters, well, you can imagine what we thought.
Everyone was calling everyone. The entire time my dad and I drove to Manhattan we were each on the phone with someone or other. Apparently there was an unspoken consensus that hunters would meet there. Dean Winchester called me at one point, and we talked for the first time in over two years. His dad and mine are very close friends, and Dean and I were best friends as kids. We practically grew up together. But I haven’t seen him since we were teenagers.
Dean said John was heading to New York. I asked him if he was going, but he wasn’t. He’s been branching off from his dad, leaving to hunt something on his own now and then. John still likes to keep tabs on Dean, though, and that annoys him. If Dean doesn’t check in every night, there’s hell to pay.
I informed Dean that I beat his record for field stripping a Kimber Compact 1911. He immediately denied any such claim, but I said my dad kept time and would vouch for me. Dean wasn’t happy. 1911’s are a piece of cake to field strip, but reassembly is a bitch. We’ve been racing since we were ten.
At first, we were both north of two minutes. Gradually we got faster. I was in the lead for a good two years, timing in at 83 seconds. At age fourteen, around the time we stopped seeing each other, Dean had me at 58 seconds and was only getting quicker. I was getting quicker, too, but not as fast. Two years ago, before we lost contact, Dean plateaued at 39 seconds. I was at 44 seconds. Well, as of June 18, 2001, the record became 21 seconds. Dean threatened to hang up the phone.
Then things got serious. I updated Dean on where we were in The Search. My dad met John in 1984, a couple months after John’s wife was killed by some supernatural entity, and has been helping John hunt the son of a bitch for 19 years. Even after all this time, John will never give up, and my dad would never turn his back on him.
Recently, the focus of The Search turned to fires instead of the type of creature that was in John’s youngest boy’s nursery. John’s wife was pinned to the ceiling of Sam’s nursery when John found her. She was dead, blood gushing from a wound across her belly. Then she caught fire, but not like any fire John had ever seen before. It started from behind her body and, as John described it, it ‘leaped out at him’. The more he thought about it over the years, the more it felt like the fire had a purpose, like it wanted to keep him away. Like something was controlling it.
So, between our day jobs of hunting monsters, we became pyrologists. Learning how fires start, how quickly they spread. About arson and strange fires, ones with no explanation. There are plenty of evil entities that control fire, we just had to do the research.
Dean and I agreed that we all needed to meet. I was sure that John and my dad would talk that day, either on the phone or at the wreckage site, but they didn’t. That was the last time we heard from the Winchesters.
“We should call them,” I say. “Check in.”
Dad takes a long drink. “You’re right. It’s been long enough.”
¨ ¨ ¨
The perpetual darkness is only ever pierced by the fires of Hell. Among the flames, Azazel waits comfortably on the throne, a throne he has become accustomed to in the absence of its true owner. After all, he is the interim Ruler of Hell, so isn’t he allowed a bit of entitlement?
Azazel’s plans, plans based on Lucifer’s orders, are coming along splendidly. His brothers, the remaining three of the four Princes of Hell produced by Lucifer’s own hand, lost interest in the King of Hell’s personal vendetta against God and turned their backs on him to live on Earth, among the very beings Lucifer despises. Azazel can’t even fathom the idea of betraying his creator.
Long ago, Lucifer’s rebellion against God and their disagreement on the perfection of the human race saw Lucifer banned from Heaven. Lucifer, enraged by God’s actions, took one of the early humans and stripped her of her humanity, tempting and twisting her soul until she became the very first demon. God, enraged by Lucifer’s actions, ordered Michael to lock Lucifer in a cage of God’s own design, closed tight with over 600 Seals of protection in the deepest, darkest pits of Hell.
Over a millennia Lucifer remained in the Cage, plotting his escape and return to Earth and Heaven, until ever faithful Azazel finally discovered the Cage itself, nearly 200 years ago. Lucifer’s plans could finally take light.
Tasked with releasing Lucifer from his Cage, starting the impending Apocalypse, and finding a suitable vessel for Lucifer once he walks free, Azazel set out on his mission with, ironically, the same devotion Lucifer once showed God.
The Apocalypse could only come with Lucifer’s release. Lucifer’s release required breaking 66 of the 600 or more Seals locking him within the Cage. The Seals are metaphorical locks, events which need to occur in order to release the prisoner, and with over 600 Seals to choose from…well, Azazel had his work cut out for him.
As loyal as he may be, Azazel soon discovered he personally did not have the ability to break any of the Seals. Lucifer ordered Azazel to find and release Lilith, the first demon. Lilith had gotten herself trapped neck-deep in Hell, rendering her unable to leave on her own power. If Lilith couldn’t free herself, Azazel definitely couldn’t. That just further complicated things.
Azazel searched for a few centuries for a suitable vessel for Lucifer. Lucifer’s disgust with God’s favorite creatures was apparently warranted – they are a truly flawed and murderous species that can’t seem to learn from their history. No human was apt, resilient…worthy. So Azazel thought, if he couldn’t find a vessel strong enough, he would make one.
He began crafting demonic pacts with young individuals, specifically young women. Azazel would give them something they deeply desired – the life of a deceased loved one returned seemed quite prevalent – and he asked for a humble favor, a modest wish, in return: that he would be allowed to enter their homes exactly ten years from when they made the bargain. Of course, he promised no harm would come to them. As long as they didn’t interfere with his business. But what they didn’t know was that with entry to their home, he would gain entry to their nursery.
As it turns out, nearly all of them interfered. As per the contract, they could not be allowed to live. No matter, however, as he served his purpose with each visit: spilling his blood into the mouths of the babes. The six month old infants tasted his blood for the first time, setting them on course for a very important future.
Azazel couldn’t return topside as often as he’d like to watch over his beloved creations. He was needed in Hell, to see to the day to day operations. To learn of the Seals. To find out how to free Lilith. So he enlisted his own children to go above and watch over the pièce de résistance of Lucifer’s orders. They each dedicated half a decade of their lives in Earth years, out of duty, out of loyalty, and because it’s gotten harder and harder to find a good place to pop in and out of Hell from, thanks to the increasing amount of Devil’s Gates those dastardly hunters made over the last two centuries.
His children are due to return soon. Rangda, Azazel’s favorite, is first to arrive. Her assigned children are Ava Wilson, Andrew Gallagher, and Sam Winchester. She’s delighted to report how well composed the children are, each with some budding hint of darkness that no ten year old child should know how to access yet. Rangda was smart enough to get just close enough to their lives to groom them down the path Azazel desires. Even though Azazel scolds her mildly and warns her to be careful, he definitely is very proud of his only daughter.
Barbatos and Naberus appear with tales of inadequate children that lack ascendancy. They expected more from children with demon blood in their veins. Azazel tells them to take a leaf out of their sister’s book, and curtly dismisses them.
“What of John Winchester?” Azazel asks when he and his daughter are alone. He had Rangda keep an eye out for the father of one of his most promising creations as well.
Following the death of his wife by Azazel’s hand, John Winchester became a hunter with plans to pursue and kill Azazel himself. John Winchester’s hunt has been active for nearly ten years, 100 years to Azazel, and he’s hardly any closer to the truth than when he started. The sorry fool doesn’t even believe demons truly exist, despite the exorcisms he’s seen and the hellhounds Azazel sent after him.
“He learns something new each day, but he couldn’t be farther from the truth,” Rangda responds crossly. “I don’t understand why you waste your efforts on him.”
“What was the quote from that delightful crime movie Barbatos once mentioned?” Azazel ponders. “Oh, right. ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer’.”
Impatiently, Rangda responds, “Those were Sun Tzu’s words, Father. You should know. You bartered Yang-Wang-Yeh for his soul.”
“Ah, yes. Sun Tzu. Fantastic military strategist. He would have been a true asset to our cause.” Azazel pauses. “Living topside hasn’t given you a sense of humor, I see.”
“We’re demons,” she responds flatly. Then, she falters. “There is one thing, Father…about the Winchesters.” Her comment is met by silence, so she goes on. “John Winchester has a friend, a teacher of sorts. A fellow hunter, Mark Cooper. A few years prior, they came across a nest of succubi.” She stops to seethe for a moment, muttering, “Filthy whores, giving demons a bad name–”
“Rangda,” Azazel chides.
“The succubi told them how Hell has plans for the Winchesters. That they’re pawns in a game so large he can’t fathom the size.”
“How did the hunters receive this information?”
“Mark Cooper seemed to take more interest than John Winchester. He easily believed the succubi, tried to question them further. Winchester was more focused on the succubus that transformed into his dead wife.”
“And the nest?”
“Gone. Succubi may be demons, but they come from human origins. There isn’t much that won’t kill them.”
“Hmm. Yet John Winchester still doesn’t believe in us.”
“Do you want him to, Father? Wouldn’t that make his hunt more zealous?”
Azazel doesn’t respond.
“Father…are you afraid? Are you afraid that Mark Cooper will lead John Winchester straight to you?”
“Of course not, child. Every hunter in the world could know without a doubt that we exist, but they will never find me.”
“Yes, Father.”
“You’ve done good work, Rangda.”
“Thank you, Father.”
When Azazel is alone on the throne once more, the surrounding flames rapidly heighten and blaze with intense heat until they explode, smoldering back into the normal incandescence. Pathetic John Winchester. So consumed by revenge, so blind to the mysteries of the world, to the many options so close to his disposal. Now, Mark Cooper, that’s a smart man, a smart hunter….But he has no need for such a tool. No vendetta to lay to rest. John Winchester, however…once he knows he’s hunting a demon, he’ll look for a way to kill that demon. And that’s when Azazel can make his move.
Luring John Winchester into the succubi nest was simple. Mark Cooper was something Azazel hadn’t anticipated, though. If John Winchester had been alone, he’d have all the information he needed to go after demons. Maybe it’s time to increase the risk. Put something else John Winchester loves at stake. Rangda mentioned how John Winchester’s affection varies greatly from one son to another. Azazel would never intentionally put Sam Winchester, his special child, at risk, but he is the son most likely to spark another crusade. It just might take Azazel a few decades to work it out.
¨ ¨ ¨
Dad and I left the Roadhouse yesterday evening after Dad got a hold of John. He’s been in Athens, Georgia with the boys and agreed to meet us in Little Rock, Arkansas in two days. We made it across the border into Kansas before we called it quits and found a motel.
We’re back on the road in the early morning. Dad decides to quiz me on Kansas songs and trivia, since we’re in the state. After we jam out to Point of Know Return, from the same titled album, he informs me of a fun fact before starting the real test.
“Like a lot of bands, these guys started out playing bars,” Dad says. I nod. “The majority of their gigs wouldn’t let them play original songs, only covers. And they hated playing covers. Eventually the band got wise, played their original material, and said they were new songs from the Allman Brothers.”
“Are you serious? That’s hilarious.”
“It’s very hilarious. All right, here’s a tricky one for you. Before the release of their first album, Kansas added a new member and changed their name. Who was the member, and what was the band name?”
I lean my head back against the seat and groan. “Um…Okay, well, I know they were unofficially called White Clover for a bit.”
“Good. And the band member?”
“I invoke a question. What instrument did he play?”
“Violin.”
“Hmm. Wait, didn’t the dude who played violin do backup vocals for Walsh?”
“Are you invoking your second question?”
“No,” I say hastily. I can’t waste it on that. “Oh, it was Steinhardt!”
Dad chuckles. “Very good. It took you too long, though.”
“Yeah, yeah,” I grumble. “Hey, you hear that?” I reach forward and spin the volume dial to the left, allowing us to hear a phone ring.
“Sharp ears, Lee,” Dad says as he digs his phone out of his pocket. “Hello?...Oh, hi, Ellen.”
Ellen? We hardly hear from Ellen outside of the Roadhouse. Hmm. I pull out my dad’s journal and browse through the pages while he talks.
“It was David? Are you sure that’s what he said?” Dad says into the phone. I glance at him. He sounds worried. “No, it’s okay. I’ll let him know when I see him. Thanks, Ellen.”
“What’s up, Dad?” I ask.
He sighs heavily before answering. “Rowen David. Have I told you about him?”
“No.”
“He used to be a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. Started out teaching psychology, branched out into parapsychology, and then lost his tenure when he started teaching his students about demonology, occultism, and the historical social concept of the Devil. Since then he’s been hunting demons, and he’s one of the best.”
“Okay, so what happened?”
“Ellen says David called to tell her that he exorcised a demon that knew a little too much about the Winchesters. The demon was stalking them, and it had quite an interest in Sam.”
I frown. “Sam? Why?”
“Remember that deer hunting trip John and I took you and Dean on when you two were twelve?”
“Yeah, sort of. I remember it wasn’t deer season.”
“Do you remember Sam showing up out of nowhere?”
I stop and think for a moment. “Kind of…how the hell did he get there?”
“He hitched a ride with a man named Anderson. That man was a hunter, and he was hunting Sam.”
“Are you kidding me?” I say, my voice rising a few octaves. “He was just a kid!”
“I know, Harley, listen. After the hunting trip, Bobby told John that his friend Silas, a soothsayer, wanted to talk to Sam, said Sam was special. John took his boy to the soothsayer, and Silas asked to speak to Sam alone. John reluctantly let him.”
“John went back an hour later. Sam was sitting on the porch, playing with a ladybug he found in the grass. Silas wasn’t around, so John went inside…” Dad pauses, takes a breath. Nothing gets to him, so what was so wrong? “John said he hadn’t seen anything like it since his time in Vietnam. Blood everywhere, Silas left in bits and pieces, and the words KILL HIM written in blood on the kitchen cabinets.”
“Did John think Sam…?” I can’t even finish my sentence.
“There’s no way in hell an eight year old boy could do something like that. Anderson revealed himself to John after Silas was killed. He said he was following the Winchesters, keeping tabs on Sam, and insisted that Sam killed Silas. According to Anderson, Sam was dangerous and needed to be stopped.”
“That’s completely stupid. What did John do?”
Dad stares out of the windshield for a long time. “John hunted him. And Dean killed him.”
My eyes bug out so much I think they’ll leap from the sockets. Dean killed a human? At twelve years old? Why didn’t he tell me? Why didn’t my dad ever tell me? The lives of the Coopers were never as…burdensome…as the Winchesters’. I mean, we had our troubles in the past, when I was younger. Before we hit the road. But never to the degree of John’s.
“I think I remember some of that,” I say. “Not specifics. But I remember you and John and Bobby talking at Bobby’s house. All secretive. You and John took us to Michigan after that. Never stayed in one place for longer than a couple of weeks. Stopped letting Dean or I hunt for a long time. What does this have to do with the demon David exorcised, though?”
“First, a hunter trails Sam, says he’s dangerous and needs to be killed. Now a demon is doing the same thing? The demon knew everything about John Winchester. It knew I was working with him. It knew about Dean and Sam and you. It basically told David John’s life story since his wife was killed. The demon revealed no motive, no purpose, but it had been very interested in Sam for quite some years.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.” I can’t pretend to know much about demons. I didn’t think they were real until last year, when I saw my first exorcism. There was a chance they existed, I mean, how could there not be? Bobby always said they were real, but they’re rare. Only a handful of sightings a year. There’s plenty of stories, plenty of exorcisms, but demons aren’t the only things that can be rid of by exorcism. So just because there’s an exorcism doesn’t mean it’s a demon. “But why Sam?” I persist. “He’s a normal kid. Smart, not really fond of hunting. Why is a demon so interested in him?”
“That’s the million dollar question, Harley.”
“We need to get to John.”
“And fast.” Dad steps on the gas pedal, and the Camaro roars into acceleration.
At sundown, we reach Little Rock. After we find dinner, we head to a bar with outdoor tables and wait for John and the boys. I’m eager to see them, it’s been a while. And I just need to see Sam again as soon as possible to know that this whole demon ordeal is completely insane. One look at his boyish face and I’ll know, he’s no killer, he’s no threat.
I hear the Impala’s engine roar from the parking lot. There’s not many cars that can make that gorgeous rumble nowadays. My dad’s car, a yellow 1977 Camaro, sounds beautiful, but it’s a more hollow grumble, not quite as loud.
To my dismay, John shows up alone, having stashed his boys somewhere so secret he won’t even tell Dad. And he usually tells my dad everything. He’s worried about something for sure. I bet Dean’s not liking the lockdown too much. John looks a little weathered but seems genuinely relieved to see my dad. It doesn’t last long, though.
“We need to talk, John.”
John stares at my dad for a long moment. “Am I gonna need a drink for this conversation?”
“Make it a double.”
When John returns with a round for the table, Dad immediately jumps into the story of Rowen David and the demon. With each word, John’s intensity grows, his eyes narrow, he tilts his head slightly as if working through things as he listens.
“When you said you wanted to meet, Mark, I didn’t expect this. You didn’t mention it on the phone.”
“It’s not something that should be said on the phone. And I didn’t find out until after we spoke.”
John shakes his head. “Demons. It’s insane to think about.”
“Is it though?” Dad says. “Bobby always insisted they were real. Always called you an idjit for not believing, even after watching multiple exorcisms.”
“He also said that there hasn’t been a demon that’s actually laid eyes on the Devil. Even the demons don’t think he exists.”
Dad shrugs offhandedly. “But they say Hell exists.” John gives my dad a look that clearly says he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “David says demons are a lot like us where belief is concerned. Just like humans are with God, demons are like that with the Devil. You have to see it to believe it.” In John’s brooding silence, my dad goes on. “There’s plenty of proof out there, even if we haven’t experienced all of it. David wouldn’t lie, he knows his stuff.”
With an annoyed grunt, John drains his drink. “I know that. I know they’re real.”
Huh, interesting, I think as I make a face into my glass. He’s been anti-demon since I was a kid.
“I exorcised a demon a couple months back,” John continues.
I spit and choke on my drink. John and my dad stare at me. Sheepishly, I wipe my mouth. “Sorry,” I mutter.
“The demon?” Dad pressures John.
“It was inhabiting an old woman, and it knew something about the succubi nest.”
Dad’s eyes widen. “John–”
“Look, Mark, I know. I’ve been worried. Almost paranoid about the whole situation. But it’s no coincidence about all this demon stuff.”
“You have every reason to be worried,” Dad says. “You just need to keep your guard up. I’m here to help you, but you’ve got to talk to me.”
“I know,” John says again, defeatedly. “It just doesn’t make any sense. For years there hasn’t been hide nor hair of anything seriously demonic. Just the usual scattered sightings Bobby insisted on. Maybe some succubi interference, but come on, let’s face it. They’re succubi.”
I chuckle. A succubus, and their male counterpart, incubus, are basically the half breed demon children of Lilith, the first human to become a demon. For being Lilith is extremely powerful and only outranked in Hell by Satan himself, according to lore, it’s funny that her children turned out to be no more than demonic nymphomaniacs.
“When did you come across a succubi other than the nest?” Dad asks John.
“Remember Sam’s sixth grade teacher? Ms. Lyle?”
After a moment, recognition sparks on my dad’s face. “Holy shit. I’d almost forgotten.”
“What happened?” I ask involuntarily. It’s hard to not ask questions. But I’m sitting at the adult table, so why can’t I know?
“It’s, uh, it’s not good,” John says. “I hadn’t been a hunter for long, I didn’t know what signs to look for. I should have, though, that’s always my excuse.”
“John,” Dad says gently.
“What, Mark? It is. I let that…thing…get to me. Seduce me. It got me to trust it, let my guard down, all to get to Sam. But then–”
John shuts up as a waitress arrives to ask for drink orders. We all get another round.
“But then what?” I ask when she leaves.
“Ms. Lyle, the succubi, kidnapped Sam after school. It put Sam in some sort of trance, like he was under a spell, and he became compliant. Dean let me know what happened as soon as he could, and did the smart thing by calling Mark as well, and we tracked down Ms. Lyle. It said…that it wanted Sam for something. That he was special, that he has something it wants.” John sighs sadly.
“Sounds like Silas and Anderson, huh?” I say. John nods his head curtly, then turns to stare inside the bar until the waitress returns. But me, I get this thought about Silas. He was a soothsayer. He would have access to the other side, technically. He would have information John should have trusted, taken to heart.
With fresh drinks, we continue our conversation.
“We should find Rowen David,” John says. “I haven’t met him. Maybe there’s a reason all these dots are connected. A reason we can’t see.”
Dad nods in acknowledgement. “We have had more run-ins with demons or demon-like creatures than I’d like to admit.”
A lightbulb goes off in my brain. I raise my eyebrows, purse my lips, but neither John nor my dad made the click. I speak quickly, as if I’m afraid I won’t get another chance to say this. “Sorry to interrupt, but, uh, the only types of creatures that have been so freaking interested in John and his family all this time have Hell as the common denominator. Maybe they’re getting their information from Hell? Could this be crazy enough to do with–”
“Mary.” John takes the word from my mouth, and it looks like it hurts him terribly just to say her name. “This all has to be connected to Mary. Sam is her son. She died in his nursery.”
“What if the thing that killed her is a demon?” Dad suggests darkly.
John clenches his jaw, his face turns red. Slowly, his hands ball into fists, then suddenly he strikes out to bash the tabletop. “Dammit, Mark! Why didn’t I see this before? Why did it take me so goddamn long?”
“John, you were trying to learn to be a hunter while hunting something you didn’t know was in the major leagues. There was no way you could have put it together. Hell, even I didn’t put it together. But now we did, and now we can figure out what to do about it.”
Seething, John takes up his glass and drains it. Once empty, he stares angrily into the bottom of it. When he looks up, there’s murder in his tired eyes. “We’ve got work to do.”
¨ ¨ ¨
After Azazel’s most recent plot went from fully operational to one Hell of a calamity, forgive the pun, he decided he definitely needed to question the competency of his elitist demons. The plan, in which he spent years devising but was ruined in a matter of hours, took a nosedive in the year 1994 on Earth. But Azazel had to wait centuries in Hell before he received word of the failure.
Pithius, such a fine demon. Not as capable as his own children, of course, but then Azazel couldn’t risk them. The plan was simple: possess Sam Winchester’s grade school teacher, seduce John Winchester over a matter of months to gain his favor, and then kidnap the child.
When the boy went missing, his father would surely kick it into high gear and quickly hunt Pithius down. John Winchester would find out demons truly exist and that demons are contentedly responsible for the misfortune in his life. When the man discovers that Azazel, if not just a regular demon, was responsible for killing his wife, he wouldn’t settle for a simple exorcism. No, his vengeance, his desire for revenge, is too great. He would want to find a way to wipe that demon from existence. And there is only one thing on Earth that can do that.
Hunters think it’s a legend. Azazel himself is tempted to believe the same, since his army fails time and again to discover the weapon. For over a century, however, hunters continue to look past what the weapon truly is and focus more on its’ most favorable feature: killing anything. But the weapon is a key to unlock the Devil’s Gate holding Lilith in Hell, and that’s what Azazel needs it for.
Azazel would have been one step closer to finding the weapon if it wasn’t for Pithius. Granted, he got everything right until the end. Inhabited the young schoolteacher, took an interest in Sam Winchester, praised the boy on his incredible talents, found reasons for continued conversation with John Winchester. Conversations that led to meetings beyond school, beyond his son. And soon she was in his bed.
When the time came to take the child, Pithius was flawless. But that reprehensible older Winchester boy not only called his father, but Mark Cooper as well. With both hunters on his tail, Pithius had to rethink his actions. He was sure to get himself sent back to Hell for a long time if things went wrong.
Things did go wrong. Mark Cooper suspected a demon all along, but John Winchester insisted it was just a succubi, there to steal his child like it is in their nature. Mark Cooper trapped Pithius in a pathetically infuriating Devil’s Trap. Both men argued over which way to end Pithius. Exorcism, or a plain old Columbian necktie. Such a fantastic phrase. Barbatos told Azazel all about the various innovative ways humans create to kill each other – and some of them find the act enjoyable. Always entertaining. Some of them even spark ideas for torture in Hell.
It came time for Mark Cooper to put his foot down and start the exorcism. Rather than going through with the plan, Pithius forever branded himself a coward by breaking through the dirt trap and leaving the schoolteacher’s body. Rangda, who had been back on patrol of the boy, listened to the hunters quarrel about the existence of demons, the unknown powers of succubi, how best to keep their children safe. Rangda was rather disgusted by the latter quarrel.
Once the Winchesters and Mark Cooper were on their way, Rangda tracked down Pithius. He would possess a new human each day and kept on the move. It took her some time, but a daughter of Azazel would never fail him. She dragged Pithius back to Hell and presented him to Azazel, and watched gleefully as Azazel smote him from existence.
It wasn’t Azazel’s intention to demolish a once-fine soldier. There are a plethora of cages and torture chambers within the depths of hell, and plenty of hellhounds to sic on an escaped prisoner. That was the original intent – infinite confinement. But he let his anger get the best of him and alas, Pithius was no more.
Azazel’s anger festers to this day. It shouldn’t be so fucking hard to convince a hunter that demons exist. But just like Azazel knows that Sam Winchester is a top contender, if not his favorite, he knows the boy’s father is the only one capable of finding what Azazel needs. John Winchester possesses the determination, the motivation, to keep after his wife’s killer decades after her death. That kind of drive is the only thing that can reveal the weapon.
At the local demon watering hole not far from the throne, Azazel’s subordinates discuss the latest news from above. For the first time in centuries, two hunters took a sudden desperate interest in demons. They research, they experiment, they speak to humans pathetic enough to call themselves demon experts. But the most interesting thing about the whole situation is why the hunters became so obsessed. They want to learn how to kill a demon! How pathetic, how absolutely unfathomably ridiculous!
It was a joke. It had to be. There’s no way to kill a demon. If they killed the meatsuit they choose to wear, fine. The demon can find another one. The ultimate goal is to not be exorcised. If they were, they’d experience excruciating pain until they were sent back to Hell. Most demons don’t want that. If they were smart or lucky enough to escape the fiery pits once, they tried to stay topside as long as possible. Higher tier demons go back and forth when they can, but that’s because they’re mainly committing the torture of lesser demons rather than receiving it. They have reason to return. Not to mention that escaping Hell to go topside nowadays is no easy feat, even for a demon as high-ranking as Azazel.
But Azazel is the target, one demon points out.
That means nothing, another says. Azazel is too smart and powerful to fall into whatever trap these pitiful humans attempt to lay for him.
Not to mention that the humans don’t know Azazel is the one they’re searching for. They aren’t looking for a particular demon. Not yet. Just a possible means to an end.
Should we inform the Prince?
Inform him of what? That two despicable mortals began a worthless quest to find a way to kill a demon they’ve no apprehensible idea exists?
One hunter appears to be more obsessed with the pursuit of knowledge than the other, though. He could become a problem if he learns too much.
The demons agree to keep an eye on this hunter, because as much as they believe killing a demon isn’t real, they aren’t stupid enough to ignore a possible threat.
At his throne, Azazel finds the demons’ conversation amusing. How little they know, how unimaginative they are. None of this would be happening if it weren’t for Azazel. It’s come time to start the next phase. He summons his children.
He assigns Barbatos the task of trailing Mark Cooper. Naberus has John Winchester. Azazel instructs them to follow the hunters, watch from afar but never let them out of their sight. It was up to their discretion when something was worth informing Azazel of immediately, but only then could they leave their post and return to Hell. Allowing a bit of fear for making the wrong decision made for proper judgement calls in what they deemed important.
Once Barbatos and Naberus are dismissed, he addresses Rangda. As he expected, she isn’t pleased.
“I’m more than qualified to keep tabs on either of the hunters,” she says irritably.
“Daughter, please. They are doing nothing more than glorified babysitting. I have a much more important mission for you.”
Intrigued, Rangda waits patiently.
“You are to track down and keep tabs on Mark Cooper and John Winchester’s family and friends. I want to know everyone they’ve ever spoken to, anyone they’ve asked to borrow a book from, anyone who has had contact with them in any way. Observe, learn, think – but don’t act. Information is the root of all power. You’ll never know what leverage these people may give us, what lengths Mark Cooper or John Winchester will go to have their lives spared.”
“I understand, Father,” Rangda says delightedly. “I won’t disappoint you.”
That, Azazel was sure of.
¨ ¨ ¨
It’s a huge relief to take a step in the right direction for once. Even though it wasn’t my crusade, nor my dad’s, it sure felt like it was since we were present for nearly the entire journey. I wasn’t involved as much until I was older. Dad, however, made it his life’s mission to help John. Teach him to be a hunter, find the thing that killed his wife. Now they’re closer than ever.
There was no way the Coopers and Winchesters could travel together now, though. We split up to cover more ground, and John and Dad check in at least once a day, if not more, as we hunt this son of a bitch.
A demon. Holy shit. An actual demon put a target on the Winchester family. And we aren’t looking for your garden variety mini-devil here, either. They had to have enough juice to produce fire from nothing and inflict physical wounds without touching someone. Not to mention the telekinesis and teleportation. It’s no wonder John and Dad had such a hard time the last couple decades. But they didn’t have a great advantage then that we do now: a glorious little tool called the internet.
So. Demons. We’ve consulted Rowen David, of course, but the only demons he knows of with telekinesis, biological manipulation, teleportation, and pyrokinesis are ones way up the demon food chain. Meaning, ones that reside in Hell almost permanently.
At least we’re halfway towards the who. What we don’t have is the how…how are we going to kill a goddamn demon? Because, you know, banishing it to Hell isn’t enough for John. He’s got to toast the sucker so it never returns. Which I understand…but that was before it was a god.damned.demon.
Afraid? Of course I’m not afraid. I’m…sensible. But whatever. It’s not my choice.
To Kill a Demon: The Do’s and Don’ts of Demon Slaying. The title of my next book. Because if anyone can do it, we can (look at that, sensible and optimistic).
Rowen David was the first person my dad and I turned to once we broke off from John. He knows of all the ways to weaken a demon, but not kill it. The purpose of demon encounters is to save the vessel they’re inhabiting. It’s about sparing the human inside. But killing the vessel isn’t enough to kill the demon, either. And no one has ever tried to kill a demon before.
In light of that, David told us a story.
In the nineteenth century, during the time Halley’s Comet was visible in the sky, a hunter named Samuel Colt crafted a revolver with 13 bullets. This gun could kill anything, from a regular deer to a deity, but you wouldn’t want to waste it on a slab of venison. The bullets were special, as they were the only bullets that could fit the revolver. Once the bullets were gone, the gun was useless. But until that point, it was a gun beyond a hunter’s wildest dreams.
David imbued hope in us the way Samuel Colt somehow imbued the gun with the power to kill supernatural creatures. Only David snatched the hope right back when he said no one knows if the gun exists or where it could be now. It’s a legend, a fairy tale.
But I keep thinking of the gun, cleverly named the Colt, as the days and weeks go on. By summer I couldn’t care less if Morton called me about those Nix in South Dakota. I’m determined to find that gun.
Dad stresses the importance of continuing to hunt like normal as we also help John. Even though John is my dad’s best friend, he believes the dark path John’s been on since 1984 is only going to get darker. And he’s taking his boys down with him. Dad admits to not providing me with the best life since our dark path started in 1986, but he always put me before the job, and he can’t say the same about John.
It’s June 23rd, almost sundown. I’ve been lounging all day by the pool at a hotel in Tucson, and I have no plans to move until closing time. The warm breeze becomes soothing as the sun goes down. But then I remember the humid breeze I felt yesterday in the desert that turned out to be a Huay Chivo breathing down my neck and I shudder.
A Huay Chivo is basically what would happen if a Chupacabra and a minotaur had a disgusting love child. Part human, part goat, usually has horns, always has red eyes. Huay Chivo, from the Mayan legend, translates loosely to “witch goat”. Basically, an evil witch shapeshifts into that red-eyed goat form at night to feed on livestock and human souls.
The legends are broken and hard to understand. There’s no definitive way to kill a Huay Chivo, but fire is mentioned a lot. We planned to burn it alive.
Dad and I tracked the Huay Chivo from the Mexican border to Green Canyon, Arizona, but at the North Rim trailhead, it basically came to us. Except I unknowingly turned out to be the bait. Despite that, the hunt was ultimately successful and I decided I needed a day by the pool to recover.
I stare at the darkening sky growing purple by the minute and think of the Colt again, and how much easier it would’ve been to kill that Huay Chivo if I had it. Why wouldn’t Samuel Colt make more guns? Or more bullets? I know 13 is supposed to be symbolic. In numerology, 13 is associated with producing tangible outcomes in the material world. In the Major Arcana of the Tarot, the 13th card is Death. It’s also considered an unlucky number to most people, except the Freemasons. The original American flag and the seal on the one dollar bill each have 13 stars, because the Freemasons thought it was lucky. But what does that mean for the Colt?
Above me, a shooting star flies across the sky. I grin, and start to make a wish, but then the wish escapes me. What do I wish for? What do I want? The Colt, yes, but what about the bigger picture? What do I desire?
Oh well, the star is gone as fast as it appeared. David said Halley’s Comet was overhead when Samuel Colt made the gun. Does that mean anything? Is that how the gun got its power? How long does a comet take to pass overhead, anyway?
Time to consult the trusty ol’ internet.
Halley’s Comet appeared in 1835 and moves in a 75 year orbit. The only known short-period comet that can be seen from the naked-eye and appear twice in a single human lifetime (like Mark Twain). Interesting. Doesn’t really help me, though.
In an article by a Professor Frederic Campbell, he wrote that the comet appeared in the eastern sky just after sunset, headed north, and was visible for over an entire month, the comet was that long. That means Samuel Colt made the gun in the span of a month. That’s more than enough time to make a single revolver and 13 magical bullets, especially when Colt was on the way to becoming an established gunmaker. He even had a patent going for his guns.
Now, where did he make the gun? Samuel Colt was born in Connecticut. Professor Campbell wrote that article from his home in Virginia, and the comet was traveling north. I’m no astronomer, but I’d say the comet went towards Canada rather than California. So Colt was on the East Coast somewhere. Noted.
Well, now, here’s something. Halley’s Comet was in the sky in October 1835. It was at perihelion (closest to the sun) on October 16th. I jot that down in my dad’s journal as well, in case it’s significant later. But if the comet is how the Colt got its power, the time of the year would be important as well.
New internet search.
Moon phases in October 1835. Nothing jumps out at me. Numerology. October was originally the eighth month of the year. Eight is a symbol of prosperity, wealth, peace, and fertility. The Chinese paired the number with the planet Uranus and spoke of its persisting strength and recognition to seize opportunities for success. Huh.
I’m getting nowhere. I wonder if Bobby would know anything. He usually knows everything. Couldn’t hurt to give him a call.
“Hey, Bobby,” I say brightly when he answers the phone.
Incoherent grumbling returns through the speaker. “D’you have any idea what time it is?”
I check my watch and make a face. “Nine forty-five at night.”
Silence. Then a defeated, “Oh.”
“Bobby, it’s a little early to be so wasted.”
“It’s five-o’clock somewhere.”
“That’s not…okay, whatever. What can you tell me about Samuel Colt and his gun?”
Bobby seems to sober up. “Hmm. So you’ve stumbled upon the tale, huh?”
“Rowen David told my dad and I about it and it’s been on my mind.”
“Samuel Colt is a legend among hunters. He did his due diligence to keep demons at bay by buildin’ a Devil’s Gate in the center of a 100-mile Devil’s Trap.”
“Whoa, seriously? Hang on.” I hurriedly scribble notes on my Colt page. “Where was this Devil’s Gate?”
“Wyoming. It’s said he built five churches connected by iron railroad tracks with the Devil’s Gate in the center, so no demon could pass to open the Gate. It's like a giant Satanic roach motel.”
“Holy crap, that’s brilliant. Did he ever have kids? Because he’s got some genius on him that should have been passed down.”
“Not that I know of,” Bobby says tiredly. “What do you wanna know, Harley?”
“Where did Samuel Colt live? Where did he make the gun? Why did he make it during the passing of Halley’s Comet? Is that important? Is that where it got its power? Is that–”
“Hold on to your hat, kid,” Bobby scolds me. “No one knows that much about Colt and his gun.”
“If he’s such a legend then why wasn’t this information talked about through the years?”
“Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Come on, Bobby. You don’t have some book hidden away with the answers to all my problems?”
Bobby sighs. “Colt was a blacksmith. He supposedly made a magical gun. It wouldn’t be the first time a blacksmith or metalworker tinkered with the occult. Western Africa, Corybantes, Dactyls, Norse myths all see them as priests or magicians. There’s a German tradition that the blacksmith ends his work on a Saturday by striking his anvil, chaining the Devil for another week.”
“Striking anvil…chain devil another week,” I mutter as I write. “But where would Colt get his power? I think the comet is the key. It was overhead in October. I tried looking at significant dates during the months, moon phases, numerology–”
“Halloween,” Bobby says darkly.
“Well, yeah, that too.”
“Hang on.”
I wait impatiently while Bobby leaves me on hold. When he finally returns, he says, “Samuel Colt made the gun in Paterson, New Jersey on Halloween night. That’s all I know.”
“Good enough. Thank you, Bobby.”
I hang up the phone and jot down some notes in the journal. Then I get ready for bed and have the best sleep I’ve had in weeks.
Dad and I get a few good hunts in over the next two months. We’ve hit a wall in terms of demon hunting and John seems to be taking the stalemate pretty hard. Lots of late nights with Jim Beam. My dad’s had to talk John down from a few interesting ledges.
One drunken night, he asked Dad if he knew any good psychics, because he wanted to hold a séance to try to contact Mary and Missouri flat out denied him. The next night, he asked Dad to help him put together a summoning box so he could call on a crossroads demon. What was curious about that was, he was only going to make a deal so he could talk to Mary. Not to have her back, not for the demon that killed her. Just to speak to her.
After a week of silence, in which I realized after that John was doing his homework, Sam calls my dad to tell him John’s been researching voodoo and was looking for a houngan. A magician-priest who can divine and do séances and dark magic. Once again, Dad talked John down.
Currently we’re on another quest to find the fabled Colt, at my insistence. I’ve scoured every book, read every internet article, talked to everyone in my dad’s journal, and collected information on Samuel Colt and the gun, whether they be made up or not.
My first lead was from a friend, Sarah Carter. She said her mom once told her that Samuel Colt made the gun for a hunter who was trying to kill God. I wrote down the information just in case, and it was good to do so instead of writing it off as crazy because I then found an internet site about famous guns. Samuel Colt’s revolver was there.
Underneath a picture of a Paterson (with the caption “Not an exact replica”) was a short passage: “Handcrafted under the stars, with the Comet watching overhead, the Colt became a supernatural legend made by the famous gun maker, Samuel Colt. Partnered with 13 special bullets, Samuel Colt crafted an almost magical weapon for a fellow hunter in 1835. After the revolver was spent six times, it disappeared from the Earth.”
Dad’s friend Caleb Buckner mentioned descriptions of the Colt, and it always sounds like a Paterson. But that can’t be. Paterson’s fired cap-and-ball at the time, and if Colt made 13 bullets – which I found out were each supposedly engraved with a number – they had to have been cartridges. But Colt didn’t introduce cartridges into the Colt lineup until 1843. So was the Colt a special prototype? It’d be one hell of a prototype if it was.
Jack Winston, my ex…lover, I guess you’d call him, said that he’d been in Sunrise, Wyoming on a case and found an old saloon with a memorial for Samuel Colt. He had asked around, curious, and found out that the locals think Samuel Colt made the gun for himself instead of another hunter because it was spotted in 1845 in his possession at that very bar. They said he bestowed it upon an unknown friend before he died.
After that last tidbit, my dad went quiet for a few moments. Then he asked if I’d like to see the Rocky Mountains. I said yes, very hesitantly, because I knew there had to be a bigger picture and he was only giving me a couple of pixels.
The Camaro grumbles gloriously down the highway as we make our way northwest to Colorado. It doesn’t take long before the conversation switches to music. First, some clever, random, or funny fact about our favorite bands. And then the tests.
“Let’s see what you remember about the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame,” Dad says with a mischievous grin.
“Bring it on, old man,” I retort with a smile.
“Who was the only female artist inducted into the Hall of Fame as both a solo artist and part of a band?” *
“Stevie Nicks, Dad, come on,” I say instantly. “You underestimate my talent. And my love for Fleetwood Mac.”
Dad glares at me before rolling his eyes lightheartedly. “All right, Einstein. If you’re so smart, riddle me this: Who was the only artist to be inducted three times, and name the years and band names accordingly.”
My mocking sneer morphs slowly into a smile, but only because I’m hiding the fact that I do not know the answer to this question. Or at least, the entire answer. It’s obviously Eric Clapton, but I don’t know that first band name.
“Clock’s a-tickin’, Lee,” Dad jokes.
“Okay, okay. Sheesh. Eric Clapton.”
“Good. Go on.”
“Uh, okay…inducted in 2000 as a solo artist, in 1993 as part of Cream, and the year prior as part of…” My voice trails off. I was hoping the answer would sort of just come to me as I spoke. I guess not. I stare out of the window looking for inspiration. Nothing. I listen to the song on the radio. Lynyrd Skynyrd, Free Bird. I love that song, the melancholy tune, the sad hopefulness. Until it gets to the end, where the tune speeds up. It doesn’t fit the song.
Holy crap on a cracker. Bird. Free bird. I know the band!
“It’s the frickin’ Yardbirds!” I exclaim gleefully. “Damn, I hate that band. No wonder I pushed the name from my mind.”
“Good job, Harley. Soon you’ll know more than me,” Dad says proudly.
“Yeah, I doubt that.” But still, the thought is nice.
The Rockies are coming in hot. We should be there in the next hour or so. Only when a turn comes up that should take us in their direction, Dad goes the opposite way. Ah, the big picture reveals itself.
“You think Daniel Elkins has the Colt, don’t you?” I ask.
“No. I think he knows about it. I think he knows for sure if it’s real or not.”
“How? Did you speak to him?”
“He doesn’t believe in phones. Thinks it’s a way to be traced and tracked. That’s why we’re going to see him in person.”
“So if you didn’t talk to him, how do you know?”
Dad shrugs. “Call it a really good hunch. Elkins’ family is from Sunrise, Wyoming.”
“Like the bar Jack told me about.” I wiggle my eyebrows. “Was Elkins’ ancestor friends with Samuel Colt? Do you think Colt gave the gun to an Elkins from the 19th century?”
“One step at a time, Harley. We need to know if the gun is absolutely real or not. If it is, then all the details come later.”
I grip the edges of my seat and sit up straight. “I know, but this could be it. I’ve been searching the better part of half the year for this damn gun, and I still don’t know if it exists for sure. Now we’ll know if it’s just a fairy tale or not.”
Dad smirks sideways at me, then returns his eyes to the road.
Daniel Elkins’ cabin is buried deep in the woods of Manning, Colorado. Being early September, the drive up in an American muscle car wasn’t that hard due to the absence of snow. But while I pictured a small, one room cabin filled with stuffed deer’s heads, maybe an outhouse, we come across a decent sized lodge with lights in the windowpanes and a pair of rocking chairs on the porch. It’s definitely seen better days, though.
The man on the porch is a bit mousier than I remember, and somewhat jumpy, which surprises me because he’s well known for being the best vampire hunter out there.
Elkins greets us from one of the rocking chairs. “That you, Cooper?”
“It is,” Dad says.
“Damn, you got old.”
“So did you.”
Elkins stares with a dead expression. Dad stares right back. Then they suddenly chuckle loudly and embrace. After, Dad guides me forward.
“You remember my daughter, Harley?”
“Aye. What a fine young lady.”
I try not to blush.
“What brings you to this neck of the woods, Mark?” Elkins asks. “Vampires, I hope?”
Dad glances around, his eyes darting swiftly from tree to tree. “It’s probably a conversation suitable for indoors.”
Elkins grunts but he gets the hint. Dad and I ascend the steps and follow Elkins into a well-worn yet cozy front room. There’s definitely signs that a hunter lives here. An impressive display of knives, guns, other hunting equipment. Sacks of salt, books, candles.
Dad doesn’t waste a moment. “I’m here on John’s behalf. We know the thing that murdered his wife is a demon, and we’ve been looking for a way to kill it.”
“You can’t kill a demon,” Elkins says with an exasperated huff. “Just ask David.”
“We have,” Dad says.
I grow edgy real fast. “There’s something out there that can kill a demon, sir, and we’d like to hear about it.”
Elkins, however, can’t seem to figure out if he wants his mouth open or closed. Flabbergasted, he looks from my dad to me and back again before he manages an uneasy chuckle. “It’s just a myth.”
“Sunrise, Wyoming?” I urge.
With a defeated sigh, Elkins falls heavily into a worn out armchair.
“Does it exist?” Dad asks with a tone of impatience.
“Aye, it does. A gun that can kill absolutely anything.”
My face immediately forms into a huge grin. I really feel like shouting out, I knew it! I knew it was real! Dad must sense this because he gives a subtle shake of his head and turns to Elkins.
“Can you tell us about it, Dan? Do you know where it is?”
Elkins glances to the left and back so quickly I almost didn’t notice it. But I did. Does Elkins actually have the gun? Does he have it here?
But then Elkins gives another defeated sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “You said John wants to kill a demon?”
Dad nods. “That’s right.”
“Why does he want to kill it? Why can’t he just send it back to Hell?”
“He said he wants to make it suffer, make it hurt, for what it did to him and his family. He’s always wanted to do that to whatever it was that killed his wife, but now that we know…well, our options are limited now that it’s a demon.”
“I haven’t seen John in ages. I remember how he was, though.” Elkins clears his throat. Adjusts his weight in the chair. Almost like he’s killing time, avoiding our question. “Why didn’t John come here himself?”
“John’s in Missouri, following a lead Harley found.” My dad grins proudly at me. “It’s been mostly her research that got us to this point.”
“Is that so,” Elkins says dully. “Do you know which demon you’re after? Do you know if it’s still here, or back in Hell?”
“No, we don’t. But it’s not for lack of trying. We’ve been after this son of a bitch for a long time, Dan, and we could use your help here.”
Elkins isn’t a complete monster. I can see the sympathy on his face, in his posture. He knows how hard the hunt is. But there’s hesitation as well. Why? Because if hunters knew something like the Colt was real, there would be chaos trying to obtain it? Because if a gun like that truly existed, the knowledge of a hunter might become useless if they could just point and shoot? I can understand that. But this situation is entirely different. And I think Elkins comes to that conclusion himself.
“Wait here.”
Elkins heads to the left, not surprising, and goes through a doorway. Before he closes the door I get a glimpse of a large desk, a stuffed elk’s head on the wall, a large bookshelf. Probably an office. Probably with a safe or hidden passage into the ground or something.
I knew the gun would be an antique, but I wasn’t expecting something so absolutely gorgeous. Elkins returns with a box, an almost auburn color and a little longer than a foot. He carries it protectively, one hand on each end, holding it close to his chest. I almost feel bad that we’ve exposed him and the gun like this.
When Elkins gets closer, the lid shows a heptagram-based sigil etched into the wood. It almost looks like a devil’s trap, but it’s no trap I’ve ever seen. Not that I’ve seen many. But this one stands out because of the tiny scorpion carved in the very center.
I don’t have long to think about the lid because Elkins’ right hand moves gingerly from the side of the box to the front, where he undoes a small latch. Then, in a motion that would seem dramatic if I didn’t know was reluctance, he lifts the lid.
The revolver lies on a bed of felt to match the color of the box. The handle is of a brown wood and has a simple pentagram towards the butt, but it’s not carved with the same precision as the sigil on the lid. The cylinder is darker than the rest of the mechanism, which has small, almost meaningless designs pressed into the metal. I notice a phrase etched on the barrel but it’s too far away to see. I haven’t been able to take a step closer. I feel like I’m in the presence of…well, of something that shouldn’t exist. And not in a “I’m going to hunt you down” way either. Almost…esoteric.
Then there are the cartridges. Each bullet has its own slot, and just like my dad’s friends said, they’re numbered. Only, one through six are missing. The remaining bullets look so lonely.
“I’ve kept this gun safe for nearly forty years,” Elkins says in a gruff, aching voice. “Been in my family for four generations. My great-granddaddy was given the gun by Samuel Colt himself just before he died.”
“I see why you’re so reluctant to part with it,” Dad says gently. “But we wouldn’t be asking if we had any other choice.”
“I know that.” Elkins strokes the wood gently. “The case is made of aromatic cedar. A wood known for protection, cleansing, blocking unwanted forces, and vitality.” He then runs one finger along the engraving on the barrel I couldn’t make out earlier. “Non timebo mala. It means, I will fear no evil.”
“Psalm 23:4,” I mutter quietly.
Elkins nods. “I walk through the valley of the shadow of death; I will fear no evil. If you’re looking to kill a demon, I believe that’s where you’ll be traveling soon.” Tenderly, he closes the lid and flips the latch. He holds it for a few moments longer before handing it to my dad. “As of now, Mark, you and your daughter are the only two people in the world that know the Colt is real, aside from me. I know that John needs to know. Maybe even his boys. But…let’s keep the circle closed from then on, all right?”
Dad nods earnestly. “I can’t thank you enough, Dan. We’ll keep it safe, I swear on my life. We’ll even return it to you once we’re done.”
“Then you’d better not waste all the bullets,” Elkins says flatly.
I smile, but I have the better sense not to laugh. But I want to laugh, and it’s not from Elkins’ joke.
I led us here. We have the Colt. We fucking did it!
The ride down the mountain is slower than going up. That’s just fine with me. I sit in the passenger’s seat cradling the gun case in my lap. I want to take out the Colt and hold that, too, but I’m almost too afraid.
“You did good, Harley,” Dad says. “I’m very, very proud of you. We wouldn’t have gotten this far if it weren’t for you.”
Aw, that’s so sweet. I hope my eyes don’t brim with tears. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Since we have no radio reception or cell service…” Dad pauses and wiggles his eyebrows impishly “…how about some trivia?”
I grin. “Sure, Dad.”
“Get my duffel and dig out the Time3 Journey tape.” **
I do so and pop it in the cassette player. Dad fast forwards it for a while and stops at the tail end of a song. When the next one starts, a smile spreads across my face. “Hey, it’s Good Times.”
“Very good. Is it bringing up memories you can’t recall?”
I analyze the nostalgic feeling in my stomach and realize that’s the perfect way to describe it. “Yeah.”
“When you were born, you would cry nonstop.” Dad grins and I hang my head shamefully. “I’m serious, kid, you would not stop. We would hold you, rock you, walk around with you, take you on a car ride. Nothing. Until one day I played this song. I was walking around the front room trying to put you to sleep. I played this album, but when it got to this song…well, let’s just say I never thought I’d live to see the day you’d stop crying. You stopped, you looked at me, but it seemed as if you were listening. I turned the volume up. You kept quiet, relaxed a bit, and eventually fell asleep. I had to play that song on repeat every day until you were nearly a year old.”
I laugh and put my face in my hands. “Oh my god. That’s embarrassing and awesome. How can you still listen to it after all this time?”
Dad turns to me. “Because it reminds me of you, darlin’.” He turns back to the road, makes a left at the upcoming fork, and then says, “Trivia time. This song is actually a cover. Do you know who wrote the original?”
“Not a clue.”
“Oh, come on, you’re not even going to try? What are the roots of the sound?”
“I don’t know, it seems sort of…blues? Jazz?”
Dad nods, urging me to guess.
“Etta James?”
He bursts out laughing.
“Ok, fine. Albert King?”
“No, but that’s a good guess.”
“Come on, I give up. It’s not often I do that.”
“All right, all right. Sam Cooke wrote and performed the original.”
“I have no idea who that is–” I stop and squint ahead. “What’s that guy doing?”
“Waving us down. Must be having car trouble.” Dad pulls the Camaro up behind an old Nissan truck parked on the side of the dirt road, where a slender, dark haired man stops waving. “You gonna stay here?”
“Yeah,” I say, and rest my head back against the seat. “Maybe take a nap.”
Dad chuckles and gets out of the car. I hear him say, “Hey there! Car trouble?”
“Yep, she just crapped out on me. Might be the battery. I think I need a jump.”
“No problem, I have cables in–”
A dull thud, followed by a louder thump, cuts off Dad’s words. I open my eyes and see the man standing over my dad lying unconscious on the ground, pipe in hand. He looks me dead in the eyes, and I know I’m done for. I scramble around for a weapon, a gun, a knife, anything, digging for it in the back seat. The Colt case falls off my lap on to the floor and I turn back around. Oh. Shit.
There’s no time to think. I open the case, load the cartridges, and close it back up just as my car door opens. The man grabs me by the collar and tries to heave me out.
“You – sonuvabitch,” I growl through gritted teeth as I fight him, punch him, whack him in the kneecap with the Colt as I hang halfway out of the car. The man stops and effortlessly yanks the gun from my hand like he was picking a flower. He’s got some serious strength. Then he returns the blow I gave by pistol-whipping me in the temple, and I black out.
My dad’s screams rouse me, and I wake to find myself tied to a tree.
The man sure didn’t waste time. My dad is beaten and bloody, tied to a tree about ten yards away. His head hangs forward, a mixture of saliva and blood seep from his mouth. And the man laughs.
“I thought hunters were supposed to hold up better than this,” he chuckles.
“Let’s see how well you hold up once I get out of these ropes!” I yell.
The man turns to me. “You think I’m a hunter? I – I’m offended. I would never pretend to pose as the monsters that destroy my kind.”
“Harley, don’t,” my dad warns me.
I frown. Time to kick into overdrive. Creatures that look like humans, can possess humans, have control of their animalistic, douche-baggery nature. Shapeshifter, most likely. Vampire? Maybe. I should call Elkins. But vamps don’t usually torture their prey. A type of ghost possession? It would have to be a very pissed off ghost. Ghost possession is rare. He’s too composed to be a revenant. He’s too…human.
The man turns back to my Dad, knife in hand. I see the Colt stowed in the back of his jeans. He must not know what it is or he’d have taken off. That begs the question, what does this guy want with us? He kneels down, his face inches from my dad’s, and drags the knife slowly down his cheek. My dad grits his teeth.
“Stop it, you asshole!” I shout.
“Tell me where it is,” the man hisses.
“I told you, I don’t know. It’s not real.”
He’s after the Colt? But it’s in his pants!
“Bull. Your daughter spent quite some time trying to track it down. Who would put that much effort into something that isn’t real?”
My dad stays quiet and looks at me. I shake my head. This conversation’s obviously gone on for some time, and Dad’s smart enough not to talk. But the man’s getting fed up with the silence. I need to get out of my binds. I’m just a sitting duck here. Rocks. I need sharp rocks. I slowly work on shimmying down the tree so I can touch the dirt.
“I know what you’ve been hunting. I know how desperate you’ve been. Don’t you know your efforts have been futile? It’s been entertaining, to say the least. Tell me what you know.”
Dad spits out a mouthful of blood and saliva. “We hunt…lots of things,” he pants. “Hardly anything like you, though.”
“Why? Are we too advanced for you?”
“No. We just never had the right weapon.”
My eyes fly open. Holy crap he’s a demon.
The demon sighs in a sassy way, almost like he rolled his eyes at the same time. “You’ve been working with John Winchester. Tell me what you know.”
Silence.
“Are you willing to die for that man?”
A bird whistles in the distance.
“No? How about your daughter?”
I freeze. I’ve never really been scared for my life before, or my dad’s. Not like this. Not while I was helpless, tied to a tree. I was always able to come to my dad’s rescue, or he to mine. Is this finally going to be the end? There are no rocks where I can reach. Just lots of pine needles. The only thing I can do is try to pull out of the ropes by hand.
The demon stalks towards me. I stop wiggling. My mind goes blank. Is he going to kill me? Just like that? I eye the knife in his hand as my dad yells out.
“Stop! I’ll talk. Just don’t harm her.”
The demon stomps back. “The Colt, Mark Cooper, I want the Colt.”
“You’d have it if I had it,” Dad says lightly.
“You’re telling me that your sudden thousand mile journey to the middle of Colorado to visit that hermit who only comes out to hunt vampires was for nothing?”
Dad offers an awkward shrug. “Not all leads turn out. That hermit just confirmed that it isn’t real.”
“I know there’s a weapon, Mark Cooper. A weapon to kill anything.”
So he’s after the Colt, after a weapon, but he doesn’t know what kind. Doesn’t know that it’s in his possession. If hunters think the Colt is a legend, how did a supernatural creature figure it out? He’s been stalking us, that’s for sure. Just like a demon stalked John. Maybe the same demon?
“Even if there is a weapon, what are you going to do with it? Kill yourself?” Dad snarls. Now I realize he’s taunting the demon to kill time. He’s seen me trying to get out of the ropes. He must know I’ve almost got it. “You don’t have any reason to need it.”
“I need it to protect someone.”
“Protect someone? Since when does something like you need to protect anything? No, I think you want it so you can destroy it. Because you’re afraid of it. Of a weapon that can end you for good. It would be a shame if it were nearby, if you could see what was right in front of your–”
The demon kneels down and drives his knife deep into my dad’s abdomen, moving slowly so he can watch the effect on my dad’s face. Dad’s eyes widen, he grunts in pain, in shock.
“No!” I scream so loud my throat hurts. Forget pain. A broken wrist means nothing if I’ll be dead in a few minutes. I give one last hard yank out of the ropes and groan. I definitely did something to my left wrist. Maybe a sprain. But at least I’m free.
The demon still hisses in my dad’s ear. He doesn’t hear me come up behind him, not over the sound of the gurgling as my dad chokes on the blood seeping up from his stomach. I grab the Colt from the demon’s pants and leap back, gun at the ready. The demon swiftly pulls the knife out of my dad and turns and laughs.
“A gun? Your daddy hasn’t taught you much, has he?” He blinks, and his eyes turn black. “Guns can’t kill demons, sweetheart. You’re just going to destroy the meatsuit.”
“Guns can’t,” I concede. “The Colt can.”
Realization dawns on the demon’s face as I pull the trigger, lodging a bullet cleanly into his forehead.
I’ve never seen anything like it. As the body falls back, bolts of red electricity stemming from the bullet wound course over it. I’ve seen an exorcism. I know when a demon leaves its…meatsuit, as this demon put it, it leaves in a trail of black smoke. But the Colt lives up to its reputation as it obliterates the demon and, unfortunately, the human inside.
“Dad,” I whisper as I run to his side. He’s bleeding bad, right near the center of his abdomen. The demon did some damage, maybe even nicked the aorta. “Dad, I’m sorry.”
“No, Harley,” he gasps. “I’m…sorry.”
“We’ve got to get you out of here. Let’s get you to the car–”
“Harley…”
“But Dad…”
I know what he wants to say. I know. But I don’t want to believe it. Tears well in my eyes and run down my cheeks, into my mouth.
“I’m sorry, Harley,” he says again, weakly. “I’m sorry for how I raised you.”
“Dad–”
“Let…let me speak. I always knew you were…ow…going to be a hunter. It goes back generations in our family. But it was never…supposed to be a full-time deal.”
I sniff in a bunch of boogers and wipe my face with my hand. Somehow my face comes out more wet, and I realize I smeared my dad’s blood on my cheek.
“I had a job, a wife and kids. Hunting was just a part of that life. I still did it because…it was a part of the world that was scary, and a…part of the world very little people knew about. My mother always said someone has to make the world a safer place…But then Logan died. And Abigail died–”
My loud sob cuts him off. “It’s my–”
Dad reaches out and touches my cheek. “No, Harley, you can’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault. You didn’t cause this. I left the gun on the table. And your mother made that decision herself.”
I sob again, sniff in boogers again.
“After I sold the house and we hit the road…I don’t know. Hunting was the only way to keep my mind off the things I lost. You weren’t supposed to be raised that way. You were supposed to learn how to be a hunter while going to school, playing soccer…having friends. And when you were old enough, you could hunt on your own. But your life was never supposed to be consumed by it.”
“That’s why I shared the music with you, Harley. It was the only happy thing I could give you.”
“My life wasn’t bad,” I manage to say through a sob. “Except for Logan and Mom, I wouldn’t change a thing.”
My dad smiles. “I love you, Harley,” he whispers.
“Love you too, Dad.”
He places a heavy hand on the Colt. “You need…to give this to John.”
“I will, Dad.”
“He’s…been looking for this…for 19 years. It’s…”
The last breath of life leaves his body and his head falls limp on his chest.
¨ ¨ ¨
Azazel radiates a tinge of irritation. Centuries of planning, ruined.
It started with Barbatos. His least favorite son, to be sure, but he was still wanted alive. Killed by the bullet destined for Azazel himself. And at the hands of a mere child!
Mark Cooper’s daughter was not to be underestimated, just like her father. Azazel had led John Winchester to the answers like one leads a horse to water, and still he refused to drink. For two centuries of Azazel’s time. And then the girl found the weapon in a matter of months, according to Rangda.
Rangda and Naberus had both returned, but no one had seen or heard from Barbatos. It was possible he was discovered by Mark Cooper and sent back to Hell, but Azazel spread word far and wide and heard nothing in response. So Rangda worked her way topside once more – no easy feat, after returning so recently – and searched for her brother. She had said, how could Barbatos have disappeared off the face of the Earth, and from Hell?
She thought about searching for Mark Cooper, but he was nowhere to be found, either. Still, she tracked him to the mountains, but instead of Barbatos, she found the meatsuit he was inhabiting that decomposed quickly due to the elements. And the bullet wound in his forehead, the marks on his decaying skin…it could only be from one thing.
Rangda relayed her discoveries to Azazel from Earth after spilling the blood of an innocent. The Colt! The weapon made long ago, the weapon that could kill anything. The hunters had it, and they were after Azazel!
Her concern for him was heartening. He used it to his advantage. Azazel ordered her to find the Colt. Now that the weapon was out in the open, it shouldn’t take long for her to find. And then it wouldn’t be long before Azazel went topside and opened the Devil’s Gate.
If only it were that simple. Centuries later, Rangda was exorcised back to Hell, trapped down even further than Lilith. Naberus was killed in the same fashion as his brother.
Azazel’s irritation boils into rage as the fires surrounding him grow larger. All of his children were gone. His plans derelict. Fine, then. No more relying on minions to complete his requests.
It was time he did it himself.