The Venator's Apprentice
The Debut Adventure of A Centuries-Old Slayer & The Girl Under His Wing...
Trunk stories are an odd beast. They have a sell-by date when it comes to hitting a magazine, but when the idea’s a winner, you know it’s worth bringing into the world. That is how I’ve felt about The Venator’s Apprentice since I first penned it three years ago.
It’s a tale of gothic action, of burnouts with renewed purpose, and of that most ancient fight between good and evil. Here, the war is waged by a righteous champion of Christ who dresses the part of a cowboy, but with an English air that dates him to the days of colonial America. It’s Solomon Kane for the 70s, backed by a killer car and a gal at the wheel.
And it is the first of many more stories yet to come…
She was at the bottom of her Black Label when the car swerved down the wild woodland road. Velveteen digits gripped the wheel with vice-force as the black ‘64 Polara pounded the ground beneath her, the thin sliver of moon lighting the winding path. Trees towered on either side, billowing in the whistling wind, the gusts gathering and swirling about Morgana Elster and her unwavering metallic steed.
“C’mon,” she slurred. “Let’s open up good and wide for your ol’ pally.”
Open up it did. With a kick of her thin-strapped sandals, the throttle hit the footwell, speedometer racing, battered tires throttling the half-paved road.
60. 70. 80.
She’d finished the bottle at 85, chucking it over her shoulder and into the backseat, scattering a pile of beer cans, and staining the eviction notice it landed on.
The radio was at full blast. Hailstorm riffs ripping through her speakers, Gatling-gun percussion echoing in her misting mind. The thunderous music mixed and mingled with the disarming warmth flowing through her. She was loving every plastered second of it.
Morgana rounded tumultuous curve after tumultuous curve, the slender, bug-eyed car gliding along best it could. They flew into a hairpin turn at 100, tires squealing as the music grew to a raucous roar. The tight bend smoothed out into a long stretch of road. It seemed to go on forever, a perfect straightaway lined with rich green summer foliage and not a single soul in sight.
Safe for one.
Further down the road, a darksome figure crossed the path. It was the shadow of a man; tall and cloaked, holding a rifle over his shoulder. He bolted from one side to the other, the morsel of moonlight revealing him to be a man out of his time. A cowboy hat sat upon his head as he readied his aim.
Behind him came another shadow. That of a lumbering, bestial thing. It thrust itself onto the road, felling all trees in its path with thunderous cracks and rumblings.
She couldn’t hear the strange creature’s calamitous carnage over the engine and the radio, nor the Gothic rifleman’s killing blow. She didn’t see them either, her eyes heavy with drunkenness, and her mind taken by the sonic psychedelia pounding away on the speakers.
110. 115. 120.
The needle flew well past the top speed as they careened down the long stretch. She had taken her eyes off the road for a second. Just one second.
A second long enough to plow through the beast.
The car tore through it like tissue paper, the body bursting into a million pieces, coating the busted-to-hell Polara in a viscous green substance. Morgana slammed the brakes, an alarmed disbelief overwhelming her.
She instinctively flicked a switch, wiper blades furiously wiping away the putrid blood from the cracked windshield. Slowly, she turned the car around to face what lay behind her. Looking back at her was the man, now in full view of the Polara’s headlights as she pulled up to the grisly scene.
His ensemble was the color of the night, from his flowing cloak to his harness boots. His belt, hatband, and harness straps were decorated with silver concho ornaments, and hung about his neck was a glistening silver crucifix which carried a light unto itself. The man’s flesh was pale, bordering on an outright pallor, and stood at a fit and lean six feet tall, though his face carried with it a gaunt quality at odds with his build. Most striking of all were his rich blue eyes that cut through the sickly green of the Polara’s light. They stared right into Morgana, the woman stupefied by the state of it all, though it wasn’t a glower of menace nor of anger.
They were the eyes of the compassionate.
The black-clad gentleman held up his hand to her, bent down and picked up a piece of the scattered creature, a peculiar blue orb that pulsated in his hand, beating as any heart would. He threw it up into the air and shot it out of the sky, shattering the object into a fine blue mist. The rifleman looked back at the shell-shocked woman and tipped his hat, a confident stride taking him to the car. He gently rapped at the passenger window, taking care to wipe the green gak off his knuckles with the cloak.
“May I come in?” he asked with a faintly English accent.
In a strange way, Morgana felt compelled to open the door, like she owed him something. The man stepped in and took a seat. He turned to face her, her black cropped top and cutoffs now a stark contrast to his head-to-toe garb.
“Are you alright?”
Morgana slowly nodded. “I think so,” came her soft, smoky reply.
The man’s eyes glance towards the back seat. “Do you drink often?”
She nodded. “Not that much in a night. Tonight was a ‘special occasion.’”
The man took hold of her right hand, gently clasping it in his firm, pallid palms.
“I can take you to my home,” he smiled, “Get you cleaned up and we can have a good chat. I do believe I have much to explain.”
She moved to let him take the wheel, but he ushered her back to her seat.
“I think you’ll find the route to my quarters most purifying.”
As she settled herself back in, he held out his right hand. Upon the ring finger was a silver band, a smaller ring within the center. He twisted until a soft click was heard.
Before the car formed a swirling mass, the visage of a heaven-sent galaxy greeting the two with a warm, white light. Tension filled Morgana where the kinder sensations of her liquor once stood. She went to protest, to gun the car in reverse, to throw him out and leave all this madness behind her. And yet she couldn’t.
She looked behind her, the eviction notice staring her in the face from the floor. The man gently turned Morgana’s head towards him. She gazed deep into his welcoming blue eyes, and he into her stunned jades.
“Everything will be alright. You have my word, a word I have not broken for many a year to all whom I grant it.”
She took a long deep breath, and turned her attention back to the portal. Something about it held an allure, an allure that had vanished from her life. With her ride revved up, she shifted into gear.
“Here goes nothing,” she sighed.
The remains of the bloated beast vanished as the car soldiered forward. In an instant, a bright flash of white overwhelmed her.
The Polara emerged onto a desert road. Dark sand as far as the eyes could see, with misty mountains off in the furthest reaches of the horizon. Above her was a purple sky, peppered with stars, and a blood-red moon shining down upon all, though the light around her remained the cool blue of any evening she had ever known. Her ‘64 was cleansed of all the bizarre beast’s remnants and seemed to be twice the car it was before. An engine that hummed warmly, a drive devoid of jockeying and bumps. Then came what stirred within her.
No anger, no pain, not even a drop of the whiskey's wicked magic left in her. For the first time in a long time, Morgana was at peace. A peace that sent a tear streaking down her face. Not of sadness nor of glee, but of sheer amazement. She brought the Polara down a few knots, having finally accepted this strange new world before her. The man patted her knee gently as she drove on.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“The name’s Ezekiel Lancaster,” the man quietly bowed, “I’m what is called a Venator, a hunter. Not of game nor bounty, but of evil.”
“Evil?”
“Yes,” he reiterated, “Of which we are free here in my quiet little corner of Christendom. The journey back from the mortal plain always quells the nerves. I imagine it has done the same for you.”
Morgana nodded gently, much to Lancaster’s relief. “And your name, my good woman?”
“Morgana,” she replied through the laughter, “Morgana Elster.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Miss Elster. My home is just at the road’s end. If you care to show me what more your beauty can do.”
Morgana beamed as she opened the Polara up, the car hurrying on until they found the home of which Lancaster spoke.
It was a discreet house, single story but of sizable length, with the wood-paneled sides and flat-black roof giving it a cozy appearance. A stable stood behind it, a white stallion enjoying a peaceful slumber in her hay-laden stall.
The Polara pulled up to the front door, a small set of steps sat before it. Morgana and Lancaster hopped out. No sooner had she marveled at her dark stranger’s domain, she found herself marveling at the ride’s snap restoration. Not a spot of rust nor a chip of paint to be seen.
The pale hunter patted the hood. “Good lad,” he smiled.
Morgana was rather amused by the gesture.
“Hey! Only I get to talk to him,” she quipped, “I didn’t realize you were just as nutty.”
“My dear Miss Elster,” came the reply, “He’s a beast of steel, but a beast, nonetheless. Though he may not have words to speak nor ears to hear, I sense you’ve a most dependable steed. He wouldn’t have made it if he didn’t care for you as you do him.”
Morgana looked down at the car. That’s impossible, she thought.
But the more Morgana thought of it, and her present locale, the more the impossibility of something stirring within the Polara slipped away. And the more impossibility slipped away, a pang of guilt grew in its stead. Her life wasn’t the only one she almost threw away that night, and the thought grew to overwhelm her. She thought of the steeled nerve it must have taken to throw himself into that wretched creature. And in a matter of moments, the pang became uncontrollable. She fell onto his hood, despondent and confused.
“Oh dammit,” she wept softly, “I’m sorry.”
“Trust me,” Lancaster soothed. “You would’ve made it through the night. He’d have seen to it. I know my stallion has for me, and we’ve been a team for as long as I can remember.”
Morgana recomposed herself and looked to Lancaster. The hunter’s eyes begged for belief in his words. She turned her attention back to her ride.
“Thank you,” she sweetly intoned. With a gentle kiss on the hood, she got back up and joined her newfound friend in his humble abode, though that depends on one’s definition of humble.
While plain on the outside, Lancaster’s home was as ornate as any stately mansion. Furnishings of velvet and gold, a cabinet full of firearms from across the ages, chairs whose comfort seemed to envelop the person who sat in them. A comfort Morgana enjoyed in the candle-lit living room.
Lancaster entered with a tray, ready to serve coffee. He poured themselves two cups and handed one over. “Made in the fashion of the Grand Old West,” he smiled.
It was the smoothest cup she’d ever had in her life.
“Gosh, I,” Morgana started, “Don’ even know what to say.”
“Well,” Lancaster replied, taking a seat, “I’ve already told you my name and purpose, so let’s go from there. In my youth, I swore an oath. To vanquish all evil from the land. However, I swore it not to the law nor Man, but to our Lord and Savior. And it was an oath not concerned with the villainy of Man in and of himself, evils the misguided and malevolent inflicted on the innocent. No. My ire is reserved for the root of the weed itself. The forces at play that bring Man to heel at the Devil’s side. Demons, my dear Miss Elster. Demons. Like the one I lured onto the old road where we found ourselves.”
The realization of what the creature was chilled Morgana. “How long have you been doing this?”
“What year is it?” Lancaster asked himself. “Ah yes, 1975, correct?”
Morgana nodded as she slipped in another sip.
“You’re looking at the face of 283.”
She jolted up, aghast.
“I was born in 1692,” he continued, “I swore my oath in 1720. The age I was then is the age I remain for all time. An eternal champion of Christ, able-bodied and fit for cleansing the land of its impurities. Going strong for three grand centuries.”
It was an existence Morgana couldn’t begin to comprehend. Lancaster had figured as much. “If you could have seen the nation rise as I did,” he nodded, “You’d be just as star-struck as you sit now. I know I am every day.”
“It must be somethin’,” she observed, her smoking Southern drawl slipping in, “Havin’ a gig that important.”
Lancaster chuckled. “It’s rewarding. Man’s blessed with a freewill that can set him on the path to great things. I’ve seen as such, and I know it has for me. And I know it can for you as well.”
Morgana grew dejected. “What great things? All you got here is a 20-somethin’ with a death wish.”
“Purpose my dear,” he calmly encouraged, “You’re young, you’ve a whole world to explore! And if you stick with your four-wheeled fellow out there, you’ll do good in it, I just know you will.”
“All I did good at,” she scoffed, voice wavering ever slightly, “Was getting evicted and shit-faced. Damn near drank myself outta everything now. Outta job, a roof over my head, outta every damn man I met. Only thing I couldn’t was Pop’s Dodge, but boy did I try tonight.”
Lancaster looked upon the young woman with concern. He crossed the living room and took a seat next to Morgana, kindly patting her back. “No need for despondence...maybe I could be of some help.”
He drew from the pocket of his jeans a note and handed it to her.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“The Oath,” he said with a wink, “Right there in black-and-white on the finest parchment to be spared.”
Morgana was speechless. She opened the note and read through the length of it. The dense cursive was hard to make out at first, but she got the hang of it soon enough. It was so fantastic it bordered on the absurd. A life fraught with danger, yet rich in solitude, though the prospect of existing for all time was an awfully daunting one.
“Why? Why me?” came the obvious question.
There was a blank look on Lancaster’s face before the question finally registered.
“Why? Why oh why indeed.” he smiled gently. “Well, for starters, practical matters. There are many great evils at work in this century, and more are enlisting in this most sacred role every year. Then there’s my insatiable altruism. You’re no wilting violet, Miss Elster, but at the core of my work, I help people. I help from the shadows and the black of night, but I help them. And I wish to help you.”
He patted her shoulder gently. “And lastly,” he sighed, “if we’re to put it in honest terms, it’s the request of a lonely old man. I am content in my role, but I do miss people. I miss them something awful some days. Such is the sacrifice Venators make, though there is nothing preventing partnership. It’s just been a few hundred years waiting on a partner. I hope that partner could be you.”
It was like a dream. A crazy, coked-up dream. And yet, every line of it rung true, and through his unpleading earnestness, Morgana was once more overwhelmed. He got down and held her tight, before guiding her misted young eyes to his. “If you’ve nothing left to lose, don’t throw a chance like this away. I know it all seems so fantastic now, but it will make sense, all in due time.”
It was all still so much to process, like a thousand arrows rammed into her head. The idea of her ride having...something within him, a world of demons unseen, and a slayer who had given up all the joys and sorrows of mortal life, now an eternal, solemn, but palpably lonely existence. The only thing that hit harder was the thought of going back. Nowhere to sleep, nowhere to go. Nothing left. Whether it was serendipity, chance or perhaps those oft-heralded “mysterious ways” in which He works, it seemed as though all roads pointed to this new, strange life.
Morgana dried her eyes and took a deep breath. “Got a pen?”
Lancaster beamed from ear to ear. “I’ve a most lovely set of quill and ink for the job.” He escorted Morgana to his study, a quiet oak-furnished room littered with books and papers. The Good Book chief among them, and a wealth of occult texts strewn about. He cleared a space on the desk and set out a small vat of blue ink with a ruffled quill. She dipped the feather in and signed on the bottom line. Her signature shone like brass. No sooner had it glistened than the parchment vanished into the ether.
“Where did it go?”
Lancaster simply cocked his head to the ceiling and winked. Morgana caught the drift.
“So,” she began awkwardly, “Where do we go from here?”
“Excellent question!” Lancaster replied, “One of two ways. I could train you here, or we can head back up the road to the next assignment.”
“Next assignment?”
“Yes,” he clarified, “Here, time never passes. Not a second goes by on the mortal plane for us. If I wanted to, I could leave after completing one assignment, and set right back out on the next. Did that quite often in my early days.”
Morgana nodded, mulling the options over. Having returned from her thoughts, she stood up to Lancaster. “Let’s learn on the job.”
Lancaster put both hands on her shoulders and grinned. “That’s the spirit!” he beamed, “Let’s get our gear and we’ll head out.”
Lancaster and Morgana hurried out of the study and towards the gun cabinet in the living room. The seasoned veteran grabbed his black rifle and a box of ammo. He thumbed through the rest of the collection. “Ah, perfect!”
The weapon of choice was a revolver, a Colt’s Dragoon. He handed over the ivory-gripped powerhouse.
“Man, would Pop have dug one of these,” she chuckled to herself. Though it was a touch big for her, Morgana took to wielding it well, and was handed a box of ammo for the road. “Quick question.” she pressed. “You want me dressed like this?”
Lancaster looked genuinely surprised, as if attire had slipped his mind all together.
“You are a bit exposed, aren’t you?” he observed. “Tell you what, my bedroom’s at the other end of the house. Rummage through the closet. Find a shirt, slacks, and boots that suit you, and they’ll fit.”
“But they’ll be too big—”
“Trust me,” he cut off with a gleam in his eye.
She did just that, emerging in suede cowboy boots, black jeans held up by a plain brown belt, and a black button-up. A simple arrangement, but true to his word, they slimmed up to her size the moment she slipped them on. He nodded with approval when he saw his compatriot in her hunting garb.
When they piled into her ride, he had two things left to address.
“First,” he said, “A warrior in our field needs some personal protection.”
Lancaster held out his silver crucifix, and as gentle as a lamb, pulled at the cross. In short sleight of hand, a second cross, complete with chain, was revealed. Lancaster draped it over Morgana’s chest.
“Second, I propose a name for our friend here, if he hasn't one already.”
Morgana shook her head. “Always meant to.”
“Well,” Lancaster began, “I propose the name Enoch. A name of dedication, of unwavering faithfulness.”
Morgana smiled. "I like it. I think Pop woulda too.”
She turned the engine over, and Enoch came alive, revved up to a full-bodied roar. She turned him around and faced the road. “This...portal’s just down that way?”
The pale cowboy nodded.
“Well,” she sighed, “no time like the present then, right?”
All Lancaster could do was tip his hat. She threw the throttle to the floor, and Enoch flew onto the road, hurtling towards the doorway as fast as his wheels could carry him. In no time, the portal was in sight. She shifted up and held him to course.
In another great flash of light, they crossed back over into...the woods!
Out of nowhere, a tree came careening towards them. Morgana slammed on the brakes and swerved Enoch away. The driver’s-side door was barely an inch from the tree trunk when they came to a stop. Catching their breath, they looked all around but could see no sign of any strange beasts or offbeat creatures.
“Hmph, same woods anyway.” Lancaster observed, “We met on the road, and now we’re thrown into the heart of the forest. Must be closer to the source. Beasts of the size we dealt with tonight aren’t natural, not even by Luciferian standards.”
Suddenly, there came a baying in the north. A howl that would give any wolf a run for its money. Lancaster pointed in its direction. “You two do what you have to, but follow that howl!”
“Right,” Morgana saluted.
Enoch bucketed away into the woods. The trees made the drive a minefield, but she clung tight to the wheel as her ride bobbed and weaved around them. The harrowing escapade brought them to an old, twisting dirt road. Though much clearer, Morgana’s work was cut out for her on the sharp bends.
As they journeyed, strange little creatures began appearing at the roadside. Tiny red beasts with the countenance of a gargoyle. Lancaster immediately rolled down his window and fired on all of them, each evaporating into the blue powder Morgana had seen before. “What are they?” she asked.
“Nativitas daemonium,” Lancaster replied, “The seeds sown from which our weeds grow. You might call them imps. Must be quite the source we’re after if they’re cropping up en masse.”
Soon, more popped up, many of them in the road. Morgana pushed the throttle down, Enoch gaining speed. But the second they struck one, the car jolted like it was the mother of all potholes, the hunters’ heads slamming into the roof with a thud.
“Unless his tires are made of silver,” Lancaster cautioned, “use the revolver!”
He loaded the six-shooter for her while Morgana rolled down the window. Though both her hands quaked; one on the wheel, one on the trigger, she steeled herself. Her first shot eviscerated the imp. She cleared the road with her newfound firepower, doing her best to steady her aim as she leaned further out the window.
Up came a sharp curve. Morgana swung back in and kicked the brakes, drifting on the bend. She opened him up wide, rolling up the window as she caught her breath. Lancaster patted her shoulder.
“You’re doing fine,” he smiled, “I’ll play pest control, keep following the path.”
Soldiering on down the dusty trail, the veteran slayer disposed of the nuisances as she held Enoch to course. He had just finished the latest rash when Morgana brought the Dodge to a grinding halt. Lancaster was about to speak when she gestured for silence.
The howl was coming from the woods shotgun side.
“We’re heading West,” she observed, looking at the thick brush on the side of the road. She swung Enoch around, front pointed to the woods. “You trust me?”
Lancaster nodded. “Roll on, lass.”
Enoch leapt into action, wheels furiously spitting leaves and dust as he roared into the untamed wilderness. The terrain throttled the Polara’s body as he bolted on, dodging trees and rocks at every twist and turn.
As they drove on, something caused a great stir in the forest. Leaves danced in its wake as branches dropped to the ground. It was a winged creature, with five dark blue orbs for eyes and prickly fur all along its body. It dove and soared, navigating the labyrinthine layout of the forest with ease, and it was gaining fast on their tail. Lancaster was the first to notice.
“Volans Mali at 6 O’Clock. Hold him steady, Elster.”
Lancaster readied his aim, swinging himself out of the car to face the pursuing beast. But each time he was ready, Enoch swerved past a contorted tree or a jagged stone. The jolts loosened Lancaster’s grip on the gun, the inveterate Venator fighting to maintain it.
A sudden swing left the hunter holding his prized rifle by its stock. Sweat coated his brow and palms, the pallid slayer growing red with strain. With a wide oak fast approaching, he tightened his fists and pulled the gun hard, bringing himself back into Enoch along with it. He looked at Morgana; her eyes focused on the drive ahead.
“If he isn’t steady, I sure as Hell ain’t. Too much uncertain—”
CRASH!
Iron claws smashed the rear window, jolting Enoch forward. The Volan reeled from the sudden movement, shattered glass careening out of the window’s frame as it vanished into the shadows.
Morgana grew furious, a rage she had never known before. It was a protective rage, that of a mother over her child. She stroked the wheel, the only consoling she could think of in the heat of the moment. It was in her wrath that a thought struck her.
“You know how he came out all fixed up in your world,” she started. “Renewed? You think the chrome could’ve been replaced with silver? It kills these things, right?”
Lancaster pondered the thought for a second.
“Pater Noster, Qui es in caelis,” he prayed under his breath, thumbing the cross about his neck. Morgana recognized the words; the Lord’s prayer, one her father old man had prayer with her many a time. She waited for Lancaster’s command as the fowl beast flew nearer and near.
“STOP HIM!” the slayer roared.
She slammed the brakes, Enoch skidding and sliding to a grinding halt. The Volan came crashing into him, the car sent rocketing forward. Morgana fought for control, but as she did, both hunter and apprentice heard the earth-shattering cry of the creature behind them. It had worked!
“Swing him around and get me close to it,” he ordered.
“Yessir!” she beamed.
The car spun around and leapt towards the singed demon. A righteous fire in her eye, Morgana kicked the gas down hard. Lancaster swung out the window, gun loaded, and put one between the Volan’s five eyes. The winged hell spawn fell to the forest floor. The Venator dropped back into Enoch just in time, the car powering through the corpse. Only there was no blood, no matter left to speak of. Only a cloud of thin blue mist. Morgana hollered with glee, “My baby’s a silver bullet!”
Lancaster smiled on the youth’s exuberance, if only for a moment. “Two of our evening’s battles are won, my dear, but we’ve a greater threat to unmask.”
Morgana recomposed herself and brought Enoch back around, racing in the howl’s direction once more. Bombing through the woods, the ride was somewhat straightforward compared to the creatures the trio had squared off against. Deeper they bolted, the Polara’s wheels tearing up the dirt and leaves beneath him.
A fire grew in the distance as the small troop rolled on. Lancaster sized up the innumerable number of outcomes that lay ahead. The words meant little to Morgana. All she could think of was seeing. Seeing what had created all the horror stirring about her. The horror that had led her to bring that leviathan beast to its gruesome end. The horror that was now her sworn duty to destroy.
The flames grew in height as they approached. Lancaster patted Morgana’s shoulder gently.
“Ready?” he asked warmly.
“As ready as I’ll ever be,” came her plucky reply.
They made their final ride towards the pyre, Enoch valiant in his procession as they drew nearer and nearer to the flames. With a final leap, they bounded into a clearing. When they landed, the sight chilled both veteran and novice to their bones.
A circle of cloaked-and-hooded figures stood around the fire, guttural incantations flowing from their mouths as the flames howled and bayed. One member of the circle stood on a makeshift podium of dust and stone. Held within his clenched fist was a staff, an old oak stick. Contained within the top of the staff, another blue orb.
Enoch’s arrival did not disturb the circle, with nary a flinch nor motion made by anyone arrayed around the demonic pyre. Morgana held the throttle down, bounding towards the strange cult. Only to have Enoch bounce back like a rubber ball off a wall. She braked to get her bearings.
“They look just like regular folk,” she said. “How the hell is the circle so strong?”
“Potestas Diaboli,” murmured the old man beside her.
For the first time since she had met him, Lancaster’s demeanor grew grave and solemn. He parted Enoch’s door and stepped out. He looked back to her before shutting the door. “Crush the Leader when I deliver him unto you.”
He fixed his hat, brim shading his eyes from the rest of the world. Each step of his boots carried with them the weight of an anvil. He drew the crucifix around his neck. He thumbed it gently as he cried out, loud for all to hear.
“ADVENIAT REGNUM TUUM, FIAT VOLUNTUS TUA!” He hurled the crucifix into the fire. Morgana gasped, but nothing could compare to the display that came next, for the fire erupted into cool blue flames, a blinding white light at the center of it all leaping out in all directions, knocking every cultist back from the circle.
“He’s broken it,” they cried as panic consumed them.
“HALT!”
The cult members froze as the Leader, his robe a blazing red, held his staff aloft. He spoke an incomprehensible incantation and pointed the staff at Lancaster. A bolt of scorching red shot at the Venator, paralyzing him. His body froze, tense and static, the cultists descending upon him. Morgana watched in horror as they began to claw, their nails sharper than any mortal man’s, slashing at his cloak and shirt, drawing on his eternal blood from a flurry of gashes.
Only his eyes moved. His knowing gaze locked onto Morgana’s as the members carnivorously assaulted him. His strained eyes inched away from her horrified expression and towards the podium. The moment Morgana realized what he was after, it all happened at once.
Enoch rocketed towards the structure and slammed into it with every ounce of weight he had. The Leader was shaken off, falling onto the hood with a great crack!
The Leader looked up, utterly unfazed. From the shadows of the hood came the reddest eyes Morgana had ever seen. They called to her, beckoned her, drawing her deep into their malevolent maelstrom. She felt enraptured by their ever-watching gaze and darkest reaches of depravity held within them. But then, the cross! Her very own. Her hand touched the bottom of the crucifix.
“Pater,” she stammered, the Latin spilling out of her, “Noster. Qui es in...caelis, sanctificetur...nomen tuum.”
She thumbed the token gently before stepping out of Enoch. She filled her hand with the Colt, her cross glowing in the blackened fire’s light. The Leader chanted his incantations with a vigor that could bring mountains to the sea.
Morgana cocked the hammer back.
The Leader drew his staff.
The second he went to paralyze her, she squeezed off a sweet, single silver round. Right into the orb.
The staff shattered into dust.
“YOU FOOL,” the Leader wrathfully cried, leaping onto Morgana and wrestling her to the ground. He placed his fiendish, contorted hands over her neck and squeezed as tight as he could. The young woman tried to get away, but was held in his hellish grip. All around him, the flames collapsed, imploding into an earthbound fireball that bored beneath them all. The cultists arrayed around Lancaster, hands clawing at the hunter, decomposed rapidly. Flesh melting, bone crumbling upon revelation, hoods growing empty as the seconds passed.
The Leader began to melt over her as he tried to maintain his grip. The molten flesh repulsed her as the plasmatic fluid drained into the soil. His bones finally reduced to ash and his hood empty, Morgana leapt up, coughing and spluttering, bolting for Lancaster. When she reached him, he had collapsed to the ground, gasping for air. Morgana helped him back up, handing the hunter his rifle.
“Cut that one a touch close,” he observed, dusting himself and her off. Morgana fell into his arms, the veteran embracing her.
“I’ve never felt so frightened, terrified, thrilled, electric or—”
“Rewarded?” he quizzed.
Morgana wasn’t so sure about that one, though she never answered one way or the other. Lancaster held her tight. “I think you’ll make a fine Venatrix,” he assured, “Let’s return to the realm. There’s much to talk of.”
Morgana helped him back to Enoch, the remnants of all that had transpired dissolving into the ether. Both took their seats, Lancaster fixing his hat and Morgana dusting herself off one last time. The Venator gently removed Morgana’s crucifix, and just as before, parted the one icon into two, wrapping the duplicate about his neck, and replacing Morgana’s about hers. With a twist of his ring, the portal opened before them. He looked to her, and she to him, and with a gentle nod, the black ride backed away from the empty podium and turned to face the portal. Morgana patted the wheel and rammed the throttle down. Enoch thundered off and into their plane once more, his mistress and her mentor now ready to face evil wherever it next appeared.
Dude. I like this. It's very catchy and action packed. I enjoyed every single syllable, word, phrase, and action. Nicely Done.