Jake McCluskie is back…
Last time, he was the Redeemer, and he redeemed three souls and found Hell’s Codes for the Angel of Death. This time, McCluskie is Morning Star’s Dog, let off his leash to stop the Horseman Pestilence from unleashing a plague that will exterminate Mankind.
“Something,” I said, “I don’t know what the hell it was—blocked the hole.”
The Devil’s eyebrows twitched as he regarded me. His fingers moved, and a chair pulled away from the table. He opened his coat and sat. “What did this thing look like?”
“Picture something covered in black hair about the size of a dump truck with arms and legs and a head. It picked me up, sniffed me, and then tossed me halfway across the warehouse. All I have to say is yes, “ouch’, it sure hurt when I hit the wall.”
The Devil sighed. “Stop complaining. Do you have any more of that rot-gut Cognac? Because I need a drink.”
You knew this creature had to be bad when even the Devil needed a drink.
“I need a drink too.” I climbed to my feet, my back and ribs aching. “You drank all the Cognac last night. I’ve got beers in the fridge.”
I hobbled to the kitchen, dug two cans of Bud from the fridge and plunked down his can in front of him. “There you go, 24 ounces of Bud.”
He sipped on his can of beer, and grimaced. “Why don’t you have a stocked liquor cabinet? Even do-gooder Catholics drink. And the Mrs. has blown so you won’t get nagged because you have a few bottles of hooch lying around.”
“I wasn’t expecting company, and may I ask—how bad is this creature?”
“Let’s just say this swill I’m drinking isn’t making it.”
“May I have clarification on how ‘bad’ it is?
“The word ‘bad’ doesn’t even come close to describing it. It’s probably the worse case scenario you could think of.”
I took a hit of beer. “Thanks for sugar coating it.”
“A team of bakery chefs couldn’t sugar coat this disaster.”
“Do you know what crawled out of Oblivion? I mean, aside from Luther.”
“It’s Mohana,” the Devil said flatly. “Mohana of the Chaos Hold.”
