Twilight of Demons (The Remnants of War Series, Book 4)

By Patrick Astre

Twelve-year-old Patrice Duvall is the son of a young peasant girl and a WWII airman shot down over occupied France.

Trying to come-of-age in 1950's Brooklyn NY, Patrice is stalked by The Dark One an evil entity summoned by Magda, a holocaust survivor betrayed to the Nazis by Patrice's maternal aunt.

As Magda's control increases and The Dark One takes the form of Little-Sal, the youngest member of the Duvall family must find a way to burry the remnants of war before he becomes the war's last victim.


THE REMNANTS OF WAR, in series order
The Last Operation
The Doppelganger Protocol
The Devil's Eye
Twilight of Demons

• Language: English
• Publisher: ePublishing Works
• Release date: Dec 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781614175100

Book preview

Twilight of Demons

The Remnants of War Series

Book Four

by

Patrick Astre

Award-winning Author

Published by ePublishing Works!

www.epublishingworks.com

ISBN: 978-1-61417-510-0

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Prologue

Present Day,

Hampton Bays, Long Island, New York.

They found Ricardo's bones the other day. I read about it in the New York Post. They found them as they tore down the old Coca-Cola factory on Linden Boulevard, just past Malta Street, on the edge of the New Lots section of Brooklyn. I know they're Ricardo's bones because we put him there. Me, Stuart and Julie, we put him there in the ground, over fifty years ago when we were kids in 1955. It's the other thing they haven't found yet, and when they do, they'll keep it quiet because there's no one alive except me who could ever explain such a thing. It doesn't really matter, because nobody would believe it anyway.

What I worry about, is that if they found Ricardo's bones, then the circle is broken and that particular vicious darkness walks the earth again as it did in 1955 and before that... three thousand years ago.

Part I

1943

Dennis Stone Eagle and Marisa Duval

Chapter 1

March, 1943

Twelve thousand feet above Occupied France.

On his nineteenth birthday, Dennis Stone Eagle piloted an aircraft filled with dead men. Lenny, the tail gunner had been the first killed. A fighter screamed out of the sun, double streams of tracers walked across the rear of the fuselage. They shattered the heavy Plexiglas bubble carrying Lenny and his twin 50 Caliber guns, and blew his head into gory pieces that clung to the plastic as if refusing their fate.

The calendar in the barracks read March of 1943 and the Luftwaffe remained a potent force. Messerchmitts and Fokker-Wulfs roared out of German controlled French airfields like hornets in pack formation to attack the American B-17's and British Deville-Havilland heavy aircrafts. The bomber's intended targets, the munitions factories of Leipzig were many hours away. Most of this flight would not survive. On both sides of his cockpit, Dennis saw many of the giant bombers spin away to begin their spiral of death. Smoke, flames, and aircraft pieces streamed out of them like cast off body parts as they plunged. Sometimes parachutes would blossom, most often not.

The fighters came at his machine again and again, firing streaking incandescent rounds, ripping holes through steel and flesh as they entered and exited. The fuselage gunners died early with grunting shock noises and screams that screeched and wailed through his headset. The worst had been the navigator. Gut shot at his chart table he screamed endlessly in a horrifying backdrop to the merciless attacks of the fighters.

As copilot, Dennis was younger than he should have been for the job. Now there were only two left alive to fly the remains of the wrecked B-29. The rudder controls bucked under his feet and the wheel shook in his hand as if it was alive. The air stream howled through the holes in the fuselage, adding to the din in the cockpit. Acrid smoke and the rank smell of blood, and torn entrails filled his nostrils. He barely heard the pilot shouting at him.

We're losing it, man, we're losing it. The hydraulics got hit.

Dennis turned to reply but before he opened his mouth, tracers blew out half the windshield and side windows, along with the pilot's throat and intestines.

Now Dennis lost all control as the aircraft started a lumbering, spinning descent. He saw water below him, and a little farther, a beach, then the ocean. He was going down over a bay system, still over mainland France. He unbuckled the harness and made his way toward the center of the plane, slipping in the viscous, congealing gore. The wall became the floor as the aircraft spun. Choking smoke whirled in the howling gale from the shattered windshield, and for a split second he saw the navigator's open eyes, pain and horror reflected in the dead man's features, the body held in place by a single strap. It only took two or three seconds for Dennis to reach the belly hatch and pull the lever. It seemed like an eternity, as if the clock of his life slowed down to its last few seconds. Then the hatch opened and the twisting motion of the dying bomber propelled him into the shock of the screaming, icy air stream. Reflex took over, and he pulled the ripcord. A giant hand yanked him as the chute opened and he looked up at the round white canopy. He floated down gently like stepping directly from the bowels of hell to the mouth of heaven. Thousands of feet below him he saw his plane impact the bay in blossoms of flame, and geysers of foamy water. The chute drifted him close to what appeared to be a dyke system bordering the bay. He saw that he wouldn't make land. He would fall in the water and it was March. His survival odds were about as low as could be.

Chapter 2

The young man drifted down under the billowing parachute. A low breeze pushed him toward the land bounded by wide earthen dykes. He had jumped at such a low altitude that he would miss the land. He touched down less than thirty yards from the shore. The icy water shocked his every nerve ending like an artic blowtorch. He fumbled and finally released the harness just when he thought the sinking parachute would drag him under.

He choked and spluttered salty water as he felt the numbness ice up his skin and limbs. He barely sensed anything other than the killing cold as he kicked and struggled toward the shore. At nineteen, he was in perfect physical condition and almost as fast in the water as the otters he was used to swimming with in the waters of the reservation. But not even superb conditioning could repel the effects of the icy winter bay-waters. His legs cramped, and became so numb from the cold that when he touched the bottom, it was like probing the freezing mud with sticks attached to his body. He reached the shore and tried to pull himself up the slope of the dyke by grabbing the tall marsh grass. The strands slid out of his hands, his limbs didn't do what he wanted and he felt strangely warm and tired. A dim part of his brain recognized the approaching symptoms of hypothermia, but it didn't seem to matter. He thought the war was over for him, that he was reaching heaven as he saw the face of an angel, her arms encircling one of his own and speaking urgent yet soothing words he didn't understand.

Lieutenant Dennis Stone-Eagle smiled, closed his eyes and let the angel take him.

Chapter 3

March, 1943

Village of Audenge, Occupied France.

He listened to what had so gently awakened him. Soft elegant notes whispered from the next room like silk floating on air—a woman's voice, singing strange, gentle words. The sweet sounds glided on beautiful notes that he suddenly realized, came from a piano. He had never thought a piano could blend so well with a woman's voice and create such sounds. The only pianos he had ever heard were the harsh, brassy honky-tonks of the bars near the reservation and the saloons in various GI towns where he had trained. Heavy things, made to be pounded, accompanying drunks and rowdy soldiers.

From the darkness of the room, he believed it was late. The only light came from under the crack of the great door, and the spaces between the window's shutters.

He sat up, threw back the covers and placed his feet on the ground. He took two steps and felt the coarseness of the cold, wood floor beneath his bare feet. A switch was dimly visible on the wall and he turned it on.

Light flooded the room from a single bare bulb hanging at the end of a wire in the ceiling. He looked down at himself. He wore a long nightshirt made of some rough but warm flannel. The garment reached to his heels and felt strange on his body. He went to the door, put his hand on the knob, and turned. It opened easily and he stepped out.

He stood in a wide hall, flanked by doors like the one he had come out of. The floor was smooth and polished, topped by plaster-white walls with no adornment. The length of the hallway indicated a very large house. Vague smells of wood smoke and spices lingered in the air. He heard low voices—conversation coming from the end of the hallway and moved toward the sound. He only took a few steps before a door opened and she stepped out.

She saw him and gave a little surprised gasp.

Vous ete reveille, she said.

Dennis stared at her. She looked familiar, but that was impossible. He shook his head gently, smiled and replied, I don't understand, I only speak English and Apache.

I speak English. I studied in England for three years, before the war.

Dennis opened his mouth, and closed it as he realized he was staring at her. She wore a long green dress that enveloped her to the neck and hung from her shoulders, a work dress that failed to hide the curves of her body. Blonde hair framed her face, and she wore no makeup. Dennis thought he finally discovered the meaning of the word exotic. He didn't know what to say to this beautiful woman. He stammered and felt like an ass.

Uh... how... I mean, where am I? How did I get here? I only remember the aerial combat, the plane falling, the cold water...

She smiled and he found himself holding his breath as she answered.

You are in the town of Audenge, in the southwest of France. You parachuted into the bay. I pulled you out and brought you here in a cart.

Now he remembered her and blurted out, you're the angel... I mean... Nice reply idiot, he thought, then grinned as her cheeks colored with a slight blush and the briefest of smiles ran across her features.

He held out his nightshirt, Where are my clothes?

Burned them, they are... how you say it... a signal, dangerous, many German soldiers here, they look for you.

Nice going Ace, he thought, see a dame and forget you're shot down behind enemy lines, in Adolf Land, occupied France, with every Nazi in the area looking for your ass.

She took his hand and led him back into the room where she opened the armoire and pulled out a blue work shirt, pants, underwear and boots. They belong to my brother. He is about... how you say, like you?

My size.

Yes, your size. Put them on and come into the kitchen, we are having breakfast.

Breakfast? What time is it?

Six in the morning, you have slept for a day and a night. It is the effect of the cold water.

He dressed in the strange work clothes. The boots were loose on his feet but the rest fit reasonably well. He left the room, followed the hallway to the end and turned into a huge kitchen.

Flames danced inside a fireplace large as his old room. Against the opposite wall an iron woodstove the size of a small automobile occupied the space beneath a long window flanked by large stones cemented in the masonry. There were no curtains and through the coarse glass, he saw a field fronting the house. It ended at a road that disappeared into a forest of pine and oak. Dawn had passed and bright morning sun lit the inside of the kitchen. Large ancient wood furniture populated the room, every one of them antiques, he supposed. A great wood table at least twelve feet long centered the room, surrounded by equally ancient, high-backed chairs. There was a feeling of great age, as if the place touched centuries past.

The people in the kitchen were having an animated conversation that immediately stopped when Dennis stepped into the kitchen and faced the table.

The young woman—his angel stood and smiled at him. Another woman sat opposite her. She looked older with heavy eyelids that gave her face a melancholy expression. She also wore a long, dark dress adorned with several neatly sewn patches. Although there was a strong resemblance with the young woman, Dennis thought she wasn't nearly as pretty. Next to her a man leaned back in one of the chairs, looking steadily at Dennis. He wore a blue work shirt similar to the one Dennis had on, but the sleeves were rolled back revealing muscular forearms adorned with tattoos of crossed daggers. The man was somewhere in his forties, Dennis guessed, with broad features like one would find in history photos of Russian peasants.

I am sorry, the young woman said as she walked over to him. I have not told you my name. I am Marisa Duval. What is your name?

Dennis.

Den-ees, she said it like two words, and her accent enchanted him. He smiled.

Yes, Den-ees is fine.

Den-ees, this is my sister Solange, and Andre, she said, waving toward the man.

Andre nodded at him, and they shook hands across the table.

Tu a faim? Andre asked him. Marisa answered for him, then spoke to Dennis and pointed to a chair.

Please sit, she told him. Andre asked if you were hungry. I told him I was sure you would be.

She walked over to a cupboard, pulled out a ceramic bowl, went to the wood stove and ladled some stew bubbling in a cast iron pot. She sliced a large chunk of bread from another cupboard and put it down in front of him next to a pewter spoon.

You will excuse us, no? Marisa said. There is very little meat and food is rationed. There is no coffee or sugar. The Boches have taken it for their army. We are more fortunate than most because of our farm and fish reservoirs. This stew is the best we have for the moment, mostly carrots and turnips with some rabbit meat.

It didn't take him long to find his appetite as he ate every bit of the spicy stew. Although he couldn't find any meat, it tasted very good, and even managed to make the crumbly bread tasty when he dipped it in the juice. Marisa put a mug of steaming herbal tea in front of him and he sipped it carefully. When he looked up, he met Andre's stare. The Frenchman turned to Marisa, let loose a long tirade, and looked at Dennis as she translated.

Andre says you must not step outside the house. Even in Jeannot's work clothes. You have that, how you say... foreign, American look. This is a small town. You would be instantly seen as not belonging. There are many spies, collaborators. You would be reported to the Germans.

Andre and Marisa exchanged another rapid-fire conversation in French while the reality of the situation hit the young aviator. Down behind enemy lines with half the German army looking for him, free for the moment, but for how long?

Den-ees, Marisa said as she turned to him. Andre tells you that there is a Panzer regiment stationed on the coast at Cap Ferret. But the one most feared is an SS detachment in Andernos, just twelve kilometers away. They are not soldiers. They are salauds, murderers in charge of rounding up certain people. They kill many innocents and send the rest to camps in the east. God knows what goes on there.

Andre looked steadily at him, and spoke again. Marisa translated.

If they capture you, they will torture you, maybe kill you. They will certainly kill anyone who harbors you.

Dennis felt like he teetered on the edge of a dark abyss while something slithered in the darkness below. His stomach turned to acid and he felt sweat on his hands. I will go, he said.

Marisa put her hand on his arm. He felt the warmth of her grip through the rough cloth. A dim corner of his mind noticed the glances between Solange and Andre.

No, Marisa said. You cannot leave. You do not know the country. They will catch you right away. I did not pull you out of the water to be captured by the Boches. You must hide here until we get word to my brother Jeannot. He is with the Maquis, the Resistance. They will come for you and smuggle you to England. They have done it many times.

Before Dennis could answer, two whistling notes came from outside. Andre stood abruptly, knocking down the wood chair, rattling off what sounded like orders. Marisa spoke to Dennis, her voice thin and shaky.

The Germans, they are here.

Chapter 4

March, 1943

Village of Audenge, Occupied France.

Marisa held her breath as the whistling tone erupted into the house from outside. The Germans are here, Andre said.

The last couple of days had seemed unreal to Marisa. She felt as if she lived in a world of dreams, a story unfolding, heading toward the sort of ending she had only read about in her romance books.

The American had consumed her every waking moment and a considerable part of her dreams since she had spotted him falling from the sky like an angel, the wide billowing parachute his great wings of flight. She had saved his life, pulled him from the icy grip of the bay and taken him to the chateau on her hand-pulled cart. Every time she looked at him, he took her breath away. He was taller than most men, certainly taller than any of the boys she had ever flirted with. His face held exotic features, strong and dark with a straight nose and full lips accentuated by high cheekbones and slightly curved eyes. The features spoke of a smattering of distant Asian ancestries, yet he had that unmistakable American look. His body was lean and muscular, well fed, strong, and he recovered quickly. Marisa had waited outside the door constantly checking on him until he awakened. She thrilled at the timbre of his voice and the accented English so far removed from the sterile school-English she had learned.

Now Marisa felt the flash of fear everyone in occupied France felt when hearing the dreaded words: the Germans are here. She grabbed his arm, felt the strength of his muscles and urgently whispered.

The Germans are coming. You must hide, and she pulled him toward the far corner of the kitchen.

She kneeled and reached toward the stonewall that composed the lower part of the house's foundation. The rocks were set in ancient mortar and reached about three feet in height before the wall changed to wood and plaster. She pushed one stone while at the same time pulling inward on another. The wall moved just a few inches and she reached into one spot and pulled while pushing on yet another weathered stone. A section of the wall about one square meter in size slid open. She pointed within. Go in there. You will find a low staircase that leads to an underground room. They will never find you there. Here, use this to light the candles that are down there. You will also find food and water in case the Germans stay a few days.

She pressed something in his hand, a GI Zippo lighter, the only item of his that she had not burned. Dennis looked inside the opening. The darkness was absolute. He turned back to face her, his eyes searching hers.

You must go, you must trust me, Den-ees. Hurry, the Germans will come here any moment.

Dennis crawled into the narrow opening and Marisa closed the ancient combination of attached stones that made up the door. It slid into place seamlessly, vanishing as if it had never been.

Darkness thick as squid-ink enveloped him like a shroud. He raised the Zippo and flicked it on. He was in a tunnel not much more than a crawl space that changed into narrow steps as they descended toward some darkness below. There wasn't room to stand so he crawled down the steps. The tiny flame from the lighter sent dim shapes dancing on the centuries-old stones of the walls. He crawled about ten feet before the steps ended in a small room carved out of the earth beneath the great house. A crude wood table squatted in a corner, holding three candles upright in a ceramic holder. He lit one of them and the weak light failed to chase the gloom of the place. There was a pile of straw in one corner along with some folded blankets. On the other side of the table, two chairs, some canned jars filled with various foodstuff. A military-style Lister bag of water hung from the wall. The floor was bare earth. The place held the smell of damp soil and ancient dust. On the opposite corner a dark shadow floated against the gloom.

Dennis approached with the candle in his hand and the small flame danced in the breeze from the shaded area. It was a narrow tunnel in the wall, barely enough for a man to crawl into. Either an escape tunnel or ventilation, probably both, Dennis thought. For the moment there was no need to use it. He would follow Marisa's instruction and stay put. Yes, he would trust her. Besides, what choice did he have? He wondered what was happening back in the kitchen and realized he was worried about the beautiful French girl, Marisa, his angel. He had to know what went on and wondered if somehow he could help her if things went wrong up there, so he crawled back to the top of the stairs to listen.

Chapter 5

March, 1943

Village of Audenge, Occupied France.

Solange Duval watched her younger sister Marisa lead the American flyer to the hidden door ingeniously built into the wall two centuries ago during the French Revolution. The secret room with its escape tunnel had concealed her ancestor, the original Marquis De Certe. In those days, agents of La Terreur were anxious to introduce him to Doctor Guillotine's invention.

She noted the way Marisa's hand lingered on the young American flyer's arm. She saw the look in her eyes as she whispered and the flash of the young man's eyes as he accepted whatever words she had spoken. Yes, she thought, they will soon be lovers—if they survived the next few hours.

Solange had a sudden flash of longing for what it would be like if her own Bernard was here, at her side, this moment.

Quick Marisa, she said as her sister slid the secret door shut and sealed it.

Solange sat at the wide table and picked up her needles and thread and started knitting as if she had been at it for hours. Marisa picked up a handful of potatoes, dumped them on the table, and began peeling them. Andre had vanished to the storage room adjoining the house, where the nets and other equipment were kept and maintained for harvesting the fish reservoirs. Old Etienne who had whistled the alarm was already back at work, slowly and methodically hoeing the vegetable plot behind the house.

Now Solange heard the