The Devil's Highway (Journeyman Book 4) Read online

  The Devil’s

  HIGHWAY

  JOURNEYMAN SERIES FOUR

  Golden Czermak

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are

  products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously. All Rights Reserved.

  In accordance with the United States Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, or sharing of any part of this

  work without the permission of the copyright holder is unlawful theft of the author’s intellectual property.

  Cover Models: Nick Bennett and Tank Joey

  Cover Photography and Design: FuriousFotog

  Editor: Kellie Montgomery

  Formatting: Cassy Roop of Pink Ink Designs

  This book is for mature readers only. Not for children. It contains adult themes, violence,

  coarse language, sexual situations, nudity, and paranormal themes.

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Other Books by Golden Czermak

  Main Cast of Characters

  Eric, first and foremost I have to thank you for putting up with me in my writing binges which seem to have taken over my life alongside all of the photography. However, know that everything you do is appreciated, because if you weren't doing what you do… I would not be able to do what I do. Though it may not be said every day, it's always with me.

  Nick, I never would have imagined this stemming from that first time we shot with Justin out at Red Rock, but as you know when the character of Joey Mosely jumped into my head, you were always top of that list. Was it the dashing good looks? The lat spread that made me jealous? Nope! It was that ridiculously stylish head of hair. LOL. Thank you so much for being Joey and continuing our friendship.

  Tank, it was a pleasure to meet you and get to work with you earlier in 2016. From there I think we developed a good friendship that I hope continues to grow. After meeting you I knew that you had to be a demon, and what better one than Hell Knight Botis! Can't wait to see you again and get some great material, especially after I get my new ink as well!

  Jake, my OG brother. You continue your badassery all around, being first and foremost an amazing friend. I can't wait to have the opportunity to see you, work with you, and hang out with you like old times! Here's to the TankCorps and us continuing to rise!

  Caylan, you'll always be the mighty Gage Crosse in my mind, not only in looks but personality. From our first meeting back in 2014 through today a great friendship has arisen that I hope continues long after the books are on the shelves and the cameras put away. Thanks so much for being amazing!

  Kellie, I put you through a lot with all these ahead of schedule releases. To think by the time I am writing this acknowledgement, Book One was supposed to be coming out. Instead Book Three is coming out very soon and you've diligently helped bring this tale to life. I'll forever be grateful; thank you!

  Cassy, oh what a joy it is to look at the pages of the paperback as well as the e-book, the look of the series is wholly you.

  The Minions, your diligent and vigilant support is always welcomed and appreciated, far more than mere words can express.

  The Crew, thank you all for your continued support and to TS Joyce for collaborating with me in bringing some of the Fullers to you.

  THE VAST DESERTS around the Devil’s Highway stretched out far and wide like a great, arid sea. Waves of dust ebbed and flowed over the flatlands while in the distance, a sole mountain peak rose like an island beneath the turquoise sky, its surface no less dark than the secrets contained inside its hard shell.

  “Who are you?” demanded a voice from deep within, carried on the wind as it leached out from the rock and stone.

  Shortly after came a reply, so powerful it shook the very mountainside. “Your end… demon of the Night.”

  Unknown to many, within Bennett Peak resided a doorway that was hewn right into the side of a cavernous central chamber. It was one of twelve such places around the world, positioned where they were able to channel energy to open gateways to other worlds. Through these portals all manner of things – good or evil – could traverse. Because of the potential danger, most of the passages were hidden in the deep places of the world, while the others found common use in ancient times – those civilizations often vanishing without a trace.

  Regardless, all of them were warded and sealed by magic; all but this one, known by those who knew of its existence as the Door in the Mountain. Its massive frame had been splintered and the doors themselves, stronger than any stone found on the Earth, were splayed open in utter ruin. Only the hiss of wind and driving snow from the other side made any sounds beyond the unnerving quiet.

  There amidst the snowstorm, a bald man stood within a single pillar of light that descended from the highest point of the grotto. Above him, a pair of yellow eyes leered from beyond the portal, growing larger as whatever owned them moved its hefty self forward, clamorous booms and the clattering of unseen chains intensifying with each of its steps.

  The figure stood firm, unyielding against the coming terror. Fear had not taken him, for he was not a mere man, staring ahead with his own black eyes, rimmed with crimson. “I'll ask you once again, foul beast,” the Great Demon shouted over the winds. “Tell me who you are; the mightiest of Hell demands it!”

  Hellfire raged from inside his body, erupting in an impressive display before slithering around the place like serpents, scorching the walls.

  There was a rumbling snarl in response, almost like a laugh.

  “You demand this, from me, Dajjal?” the creature asked, its voice abysmal and fortified with malice. “From what I have heard through the gate, your pitiful might and the sputtering sparks of the place you call Hell are meager candles before the storm of my wrath!” Two massive arms tore at what was left of the jambs, grabbing hold and pulling a large snout, drooling and vile, through the breach. “Prepare to suffer me!”

  Dajjal did not take kindly to threats of any kind, having smited demons for much less and humans simply for the annoying tone of their voice. But this threat was different; personal. Summoned flames lashed out like hungry vipers across the void, causing sweat to pour down Dajjal’s brow.

  “You will be the one suffering,” Dajjal spat, planning to show this thing what it meant to be on the receiving end of true fury. “Arrogant fool; the north and the south are mine, just as the east and the west. I don’t know your name, nor want to, yet I will make sure that you will be crying mine out loud, begging to stop the pain!”

  The beast growled again. “We shall –”

  Dajjal smiled with glee as the fiend's words were cut off and those cries he threatened came a plenty. The smell of burning hair surged into the room and the creature leapt across the threshold, howling madly with singed fury.

  What la
nded from the other side was a monstrous wolf, skidding across the slick floor before slamming hard against the wall. Loose debris rained down from above as the beast righted himself, silken threads now visible across his entire body. They were bindings, forged by the skill of the dwarves out of six impossible things long ago. They had contained the fell creature for numerous ages yet now, they snapped as if nothing more than simple threads, carried away by the wind.

  Nearly fifty feet tall, the wolf's head climbed through the still swirling dust, those insipid eyes shining out from beneath an ornate helmet encasing his entire face. Steaming breath wafted out of his nostrils while a forest of red spines quivered around him like a mane. Two lengthy horns protruded from the sides of his head and matted fur, darker than a starless night, ran all the way from there to the tip of a bushy tail.

  This was no werewolf or shifter; the calamitous wolf of Norse legend, Fenrir, had come.

  The beast shuddered, his wet hair slinging untold years of filth on the walls.

  “Ah, to be free of Gleipnir at last,” Fenrir spoke with much relief, shaking once more for good measure before arching his shivering back. He then took a giant step forward, gazing at Dajjal. “Who would have thought the ingenuity and craftsmanship of the dwarves would be undermined by the likes of hellfire, ice, and time? Unbreakable, they claimed, forged from the impossible. How wrong they were in the end and what good fortune for me, too, you actually opened the shimmering path. Long have I waited to pass through to bring about the end of Midgard and you, insufferable demon, have made that possible.” The wolf paused his advance, looking skyward. “Ever vigilant Heimdall, you have failed miserably in your duties to keep watch over me. I shall come for….”

  Dajjal’s face lapsed into a menacing glower, not hearing anything the creature said other than his desire to end the world. “What is it with wolves trying to steal away my glory?” Dajjal interrupted. “Get in line, mongrel!”

  The demon wasted no time, thrusting his arms forward and the tendrils of fire followed his command. Speeding toward Fenrir, the flames crashed into him like a wave, wrapping around him with a devastating inferno of golden light and searing heat.

  This time, Fenrir was better prepared. A gigantic paw swept across the chamber, destroying anything it came into contact with.

  Dajjal saw it coming, summoning demonic wings to lift him out of the way in the nick of time. He flew high into the chamber out of the wolf's reach, watching as the beast continued to burn beneath him. Holding out his arms, flames accumulated in his palms and he hurled them down, adding to the roiling furnace as they exploded like bombs. The fires raged in Dajjal’s eyes and he was nearly brought to tears by the storm of chaos and hellfire.

  That was until Fenrir stopped writhing, a lingering wail conjuring a brisk aura that contained the flames before suffocating them in an instant.

  “Burn me once, scrawny demon,” he said, “and you shall have glory. Try to burn me twice and the glory of your death shall be MINE!”

  With the flames gone, Fenrir rose up on his hind legs and lunged toward Dajjal, those angry jaws thundering closed with each successive bite.

  The demon skillfully evaded each one, swooping out of death’s maw deftly at first, but before long his confidence had grown, transitioning to cockiness and pride which, as is told, came before the fall.

  Dajjal misjudged his distance as he banked and Fenrir’s razor sharp teeth sheared through those wings as if they were paper. Then he fell, sent into a downward spiral all the way from the ceiling to the floor. The impact was not slow nor was it pleasant in the slightest, the sound of breaking bones prominent like the gore that had splashed out from behind Dajjal’s back. The wrecked demon looked up from his resting place of carnage, too bloodied and battered to move.

  Fenrir’s towering teeth, man-sized in their own right, came into view overhead, slavering as a prelude to Dajjal's doom. Down they came yet, thankfully for the Deceiver, his end was not to be this day.

  As those white lances careened toward Dajjal’s helpless body, Fenrir’s head lurched to the side, sending a shower of spit through the air, along with a blood-curdling yelp. Something had impaled him through his helmet into his right eye – the glinting shaft of a silver halberd sticking out from the meaty socket.

  A voice boomed over the tormented roars. “You speak too much; I think it’s time to show you what the real might of Hell is like!” Mere moments later, a man dressed only in a pair of torn jeans descended upon Fenrir, his half tattooed body dashing swiftly up the creature’s heavily armored snout. This was no ordinary man; he was the Hell Knight Botis, last surviving of the original Seven, and he was pissed.

  He reached out and grasped the halberd with his gauntlet, yanking it free with a satisfying squelch. While in his hands, the weapon snapped in half right down the middle, separating into two individual blades. Between them, a flickering chain dropped, clattering and sparking against the metal of Fenrir’s helmet.

  Botis reared an arm back, ready to strike. He shoved one of the blades into the already mutilated eye, sending Fenrir reeling once more. His howls continued to shake the mountain and rubble cascaded from far above, the falling stones drawing Botis’ attention. He took note of a large stalactite, precariously begging to fall.

  Enough of this, he thought, seizing the opportunity.

  Using the momentum generated from the wolf's convulsions, Botis steered him toward the wall. Then, using the chains, he flung his own body down and slashed across the beast’s neck, arcing around his snout once before dipping underneath again to land on the other side. There, the remaining blade found a home in Fenrir's good eye and the chains, now drawn tight around the beast's muzzle, finished the task of pummeling his face into the rock. As they crashed, Botis let loose a scream and there was a rumble from above, the rocky spire still teetering on the brink of falling.

  Grabbing hold of the blazing chains and flicking them like reins, the blades came free, returning to Botis where he quickly slammed them back together. Aiming high, he threw the halberd as if it were a spear and it ripped through the air to its target, striking the stalactite. At first nothing happened, short of the weapon coming back down, but then came a deep groan and the spike was finally loose.

  “I have a gift for you,” Botis told the blinded wolf as he snatched his weapon from mid-air, the rock plunging not far behind, “and I present it to you with regards from the denizens of Hell.”

  He leapt away seconds before the stone smashed against the back of Fenrir's neck and it sank deep into his flesh. Fenrir couldn't get out a roar, nor a gasp; his airway completely severed and the stone grotesquely dangling out the other side.

  Gurgling in unrefined dignity, the beast toppled and Botis landed atop the wolf’s head, a hearty crunch filling the room. Fenrir had been defeated and Botis walked casually across the carcass, his armored boots clanking while blood flowed out of the wolf's mouth and mangled eyes like the River Ván of old.

  “Let it be written,” Botis said loftily, “that the Great President and Earl of Hell, Botis, was the one that slayed this gigantic fell beast, saving the self proclaimed leader of all demon kind’s ass in the process. I must say to the both of you: how pathetic! There may be a time in the future, Dajjal, when you learn that those who seek out power rarely receive it, rather it is bestowed on those that are deserving. Lucifer will return, and you – Deceiver – shall be nothing more than a footnote.” Botis turned away from his disappointment to face the doorway, its alluring darkness calling him inside. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I believe there’s something in there that I must retrieve.”

  Without another word, he leapt into the nothing and vanished from the Earth.

  Dajjal remained sprawled out on the floor, anger surging through his host. So great was his loathing of Botis that he could have destroyed him with a mere thought, had he been at full strength. Yet, he was too weak and the words his adversary had spoken rung out in his mind more loudly than anything his own could
muster.

  Pathetic…

  Flashes of his predecessor’s failures engulfed him like a wave, threatening to drown him in depression.

  Not only are you pathetic, Dajjal, but you're also a failure…

  His hold over his own vessel swayed, then slipped away.

  No! Dajjal challenged, regaining hold just in time to push his host Wilson's thoughts back into the lock box. You will not overtake me again! Once his subconscious was closed, he was able to breathe easy again.

  Then, a loud buzzing sound made sure Dajjal's respite was much shorter than it needed to be. When he creaked his neck over toward the doorway, his heart dropped at what he could make out through his straining, pink eyes. The massive doors were trembling on their rattling hinges, slamming shut with a thunderous bang. Botis’ sigil shimmered briefly in the dank air then disappeared, sealing the gateway behind the Hell Knight’s power.

  Fuck! he thought as he stared at the closed passage, tattooed chest swelling with hate. He would need to find a way to break through Botis’ spell in order to retrieve the Crown of Immortality and of course, that plan assumed the treasure was on the other side in the first place.

  Despite those desires, none of it would be happening right then; Dajjal's body desperately needed to recover. For that he would need time and time, sadly, was something he did not have in abundance.

  THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY airship soared through the clouds, racing away from New Mexico where she had been assailed. Close to a legion of demons ambushed the vessel, astride flying monstrosities in numbers so great that they blotted out the sun. The crew had followed a trail to the area, guided by a mysterious compass assumed to be from King Solomon himself. They were seeking the location of the fifth of six magical artifacts which, in the wrong hands, could usher in the apocalypse.

  Suffice it to say as the Odyssey tore through the skies, they were unsuccessful in obtaining the demonic treasure and in the process, had lost one of their greatest in exchange.