Frank swallowed hard and stepped past the still warm corpse. He tried hard not to hear the squelch of blood under his sandals. The passage was cramped, and the scent the wafted from the darkness ahead sickly sweet.

Master Bringle point. He rose his cane in the air and the silver head glowed with soft light. Was the cane enchanted, or was the old witch-hunter a magician of some sort? Either way, it was nice they had something more going for them than one sword, some heavy clubs, and their balls.

Frank’s wondered how the people of this world had even left the stone age. They must be made of tougher, stronger stuff than his own ancestors. No, that wasn’t fair. The men and women Frank descended from had suffered through brutal conditions – plague and famine, two World Wars. He had no idea how dangerous the cult was, but even if they killed every man and woman in Culvert, Stalin would still have more blood on his hands.

Still, the ragged group trudged on to what might be some blasted hell-pit and no one slowed or turned back. That Mumford took the rear, sword unsheathed might also have had something to do with it. Something told Frank that running was not an option for the prisoners. They had ‘volunteered’ to fight, and fight they must.

If Frank suddenly turned coward, would he be allowed to leave? Something told him that he would rather not know the answer to that. Mumford, despite looking like a rich, addicted fop, had cut down one man already without blinking.

Instead of dwelling on possibility, Frank gripped the cudgel they’d given him and stared hard into the darkness. The passageway angled down at a gentle slope. The walls were smooth, as though some creature had burrowed down into the earth. From up ahead, something like the growling and slavering of dogs could be heard.

The passage ended abruptly into a large cave. Five men armed with blades greeted them, but more disturbing were the creatures two of them held on chain leashes. They were something like a cross between wolves and men, hairless with mouth full of wicked teeth. As the group entered the cave, they let out a ghastly, unnatural howl that froze Frank to the marrow. They snarled, tugging fiercely on the chains around their necks, and the men holding them back released them with a grin.

Though they looked somewhat human, the grey skinned creatures ran at them on all fours. Their mouths dripped with thick foam as their long tongues lulled out of their panting mouth.

They were on the group in seconds. Master Bringle showed no hesitation as he slammed his cane’s down hard on the beast’s head. There was a hiss and the scent of burning flesh where the cane’s silver struck the demon. It yelped in anger and lunged. Though Bringle looked old and scrawny, he moved like a viper, chanting as he circled around the hungry beast. Mumford leapt forward, slashing at its side as it turned to follow Bringle.

Frank had no time to watch the battle as the second demon jumped into the air and tackled one of the other prisoners. The man gave a scream of terror as he fell, the demon’s jaw clenched around his shoulder, having only just missed the neck.

As one the prisoners turned and rained down cudgel blows on the demon’s back, as it shook its head, ripping the man’s flesh. Franked joined in with a shout. Blood pumped wildly in his ears as he slammed the wood down as hard as he could. The impact of the blows on the demon’s strong back was hard enough to make his hands and shoulders ache, yet it seemed fixated on its kill.

There was a sick crack of collar bone followed by a howl of agony from the prisoner as the demon jerked his head up, a bloody chunk of flesh in its mouth. It dropped the meat and lunged down again. Without thinking, Frank knew the demon would snap on the man’s neck and that would be it for him. He lunged forward, sprawling across the demon’s back and getting smacked by several of the prisoners. Frank mindlessly wrapped an arm around the demon’s head and was rewarded with the most intense sensation of pain he’d never known.

The demon’s teeth buried themselves a little below the Frank’s wrist. The foam in its mouth burned and that sensation spread up his arm with alarming speed.

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Frank shifted, sliding closer along the demon’s rough back. His free left hand slithered forward and he plunged two fingers into the demon’s eye. It popped, yielding to his strength, and he gripped down as hard as he could into the wetness.

They struggled like that, each unwilling to break their hold on the other. Frank leaned to the right side, digging in his fingers while using his weight to twist the beast’s head. It held, powerful muscles shivering with inhuman strength, for what felt like an eternity, before it bent to the side. Frank rolled on his back, the heavy demon on top of him, crushing his chest.

The other prisoners backed off in surprise and confusion. Frank wrapped his legs around the demon’s center as its malformed body coiling in frustrated effort. A few dodged the flailing paws to hit the beast on its head and chest. Frank felt every blow and was sure the next one would snap his ribs, but he hung on in a death grip.

The other cultists now ran forward. Frank could do nothing, pinned as he was under the angry demon, as the two sides clashed. Mumford waded in, sword slashing and thrusting with enviable skill. One of the prisoners fell, a dagger lodged in her throat, followed by another slipping on her blood. As he tripped and crashed to his knees, another cultist snaked forward to hack at his head and shoulders. In response, Lucky threw himself at the cultist, tackling him to the ground, clasping his hands together, and swinging down in an overhead fist.

The light around him dimmed and Frank’s head felt like it was about to split open. The demon on his chest continued to wriggle, killing him not with its bite, but its crushing weight. None of the other prisoners noticed his predicament, so engrossed where they in the melee.

Frank wondered if this was how he was to die. Everything was becoming dark.

A figure loomed to his side and he heard the demon howl for a last time as something was thrust into it. Mercifully, someone rolled the weight from his chest, though his arm was caught in the demon’s mouth. Frank sucked in the putrid air, his oxygen deprived head swimming. He shook it and immediately regretted the action, as the room spun.

“What’s this now?” asked Master Bringle, for it was he who’d saved Frank. “Trying to hump a demon? Goodwife Martino wouldn’t be please, I think. Fetching woman, too. Wouldn’t risk her affection for an abomination, but men have peculiar tastes these days.”

“…what?” Frank could not follow the man’s babbling.

“Nope, not like it was in my youth.” Mister Bringle crouched down and slid his cane into the demon’s still fastened jaws. As he used it to pry it open, he continued to converse. “In my day, a boy met a nice girl, they settled down and had lots of children. And that was it. Men nowadays try to slip it into anything that moves and run off as soon as a girl get with child – my grandpappy would be ashamed.”

Frank wondered if the old man had simply lost his mind. They seemed to have won the fight. The cracked skulls of several cultists leaked on the ground. A few of the prisoners had fallen and didn’t look to be getting up. The other demon had lost its head – likely Mumford’s work.

He tried to imagine how long the fight had taken. Three minutes, five at the most. These people were animals.

Finally, Bringle got the jaws lose and Frank pulled his hand out. The flesh below his wrist was a bloody, ugly mess. The demon’s teeth had pierced deep – he suspected a tendon had been severed for his hand hung, limp and unfeeling. Frank could feel poison burning through his veins.

Bringle frowned as he examined the wound. Despite his callus nature, he handled Frank’s arm gently. He pulled out a glass vial and poured its contents over the bite, rinsing away some of the blood and saliva. It looked to be plain water but it smelled strongly of mint.

“How bad is it?” Frank gasped between breaths.

Bringle squeezed one of his Frank’s fingers. “Feel that?”

“A little.”

“Not as bad as it could be then.” With that, he drew out a length of cloth and wrapped the wrist with the swift efficiency of a man who’s done it hundreds of times. “Grab this,” he said, gliding Frank’s other hand to his wrist. “Hold tight to stop the bleeding.”

He did so and Bringle rose to check on the other injured. Two of the cultists were alive, and Mumford bound them, hands behind their backs, and laid them on their stomachs. Several of the prisoners spit on or kicked the bound men.

Once he’d regained his breath and his head felt right again, Frank stumbled to his feet. Ironically (was it ironic? Frank could never remember what fucking qualified as ‘ironic’ or not) the man he’d scrambled to save was dead. He’d bled out at some point and now laid peacefully in a pool of his own cooling blood.

Mumford dug through the cultist’s belongings.

“I hope this was worth it,” Frank said.

“Two demons dead, six cultists dead, two captured, and this…” Mumford picked up a large, leather-bound book much like the one Clara had found.

“I thought you couldn’t read those.”

“I can’t, you can’t, but we have someone in the witch-hunters who can, and a right bit faster than any of the academy grey beards.” Mumford flashed a grin. The edges of his gums were stained dark blue. “The Order has their methods, and we have ours.”