Welcome to La-La Land, a place where dreams were made—and broken. A city where the world’s biggest celebrities coexisted with the largest homeless population in the country. Until recently, most of the tent cities were on Skid Row in downtown L.A. Now they’d spilled out into many other parts of the city.
As I zoomed under a 405 Freeway overpass, I studied the assortment of tents and shopping carts that dominated the dark space. No living soul was in sight, as everyone had sought refuge in their makeshift dwellings.
Almost everyone.
A quick glance at my side-view mirror revealed a familiar figure in the darkness. My heart skipped a beat. None other than Mary Kinsey was staring back at me. Despite the dirt-streaked coat that made her look a little like a mummy, the face was unmistakable. The porcelain skin, the red hair, the green eyes that bored deep into my soul. This was the woman my father had planned to sacrifice. The woman who’d leaped off the hotel roof to her death before morphing into Ashley Jones by the time she hit the pavement.
Reflexively, I stomped the brake and the BMW screeched to a stop. I pulled to the side of the road, uncaring that if a cop spotted me here I’d earn myself a fat ticket.
Without hesitation, I jumped out of my vehicle and headed for the homeless encampment under the freeway overpass. I spotted my quarry as she vanished into one of the dirty tents.
With no regard for my personal safety, I dipped into the shadows and stalked toward the tent. I was wearing a thousand-dollar suit and my luxury ride remained parked a few feet away. This was not the time or place for a rich boy to get lost. But then again, most rich kids weren’t armed with a Glock and a magical knife, nor did they hunt monsters for a living. I was Simon Kane—the Son of the Devil, as the press had lovingly nicknamed me. The people huddled in this tent city had more to fear from me than the other way around.
My hand closed around the butt of my Glock as I advanced toward the tent where Mary Kinsey had sought refuge. My heart pounding, I closed in on my target.
As my footsteps rang out against the asphalt, shadows stirred in the darkness. Some denizens of this urban colony had finally noticed my presence. An outsider had entered their midst. My guard was up, but so was theirs.
I reached the tent where I’d last seen Mary Kinsey—or her double—and then tore open the flap and stuck my head inside.
The figure in the claustrophobic tent turned toward me, its torso and limbs swathed in filthy strips of cloth. I nearly recoiled at the sight of its inhuman features set in skin the color of rotten cheese. A web of fiery red arteries and green, mold-like splotches disfigured the hideous face. A slit of a blood-red mouth roared open, revealing a maw of jagged teeth.
The thing unleashed a bloodcurdling bellow and pounced before I could shake off my initial shock.
I felt the mummy monster slam into me, saw the Glock sail through the air as I hit the ground hard, the shrieking beast pinning me to the asphalt.
From the corner of my eye, I sensed movement. Figures peeled from the darkness and zeroed in on both of us. This fight was drawing the interest of the lost souls who called this decrepit tent colony home.
Gritting my teeth, I shot an arm out at my inhuman attacker and landed a few well-placed blows to the creature’s head. Then I went for the knife. Without thought I drove my father’s athame into the snarling creature’s chest until only the hilt sprouted from the thick layers of fabric that contained the monster’s form. I heard a guttural gasp that sounded all too human as I pulled the athame out with a splash of red, and then the assailant fell off me.
I rolled away, scooped up my Glock, and sprang to my feet.
I leveled my pistol at the attacker, my breath heaving.
The panicked face looking at me bore zero resemblance to either Mary Kinsey or the pale-skinned thing that had attacked me.
Instead, a scraggly homeless man cowered before me in abject terror, his ratty coat drenched in blood as his bony hands clutched his hemorrhaging stab wound.
I stared at the wounded man, then at the blood on my hands.
What had I done?
I backed away, shock bubbling up in my chest. I had assaulted an innocent man. Maybe I could still save him. I started forward, already running through the steps I’d need to take to hold off the bleeding until help could arrive.
And then I heard a woman’s laughter ring out behind me.
I whirled and glimpsed a female figure standing outside the overpass, framed on both sides by a small army of homeless people.
I tried to make out her face, but it remained shrouded in darkness.
“Take your rightful place among us, or pay the price.”
The group drew closer, oozing menace.
My gun was three feet away on the ground. To get it, I would have to avert my attention from the shadowy figures approaching. Some primal part of my brain insisted that the moment I broke eye contact with them, they’d pounce.
I breathed heavily, forehead wet with perspiration.
Move, I told myself. Move, now!
Darting forward, I grabbed the Glock and came up in a firing stance.
The mystery ringleader had vanished. And so had her homeless army. I whirled back to the man I'd stabbed, only to find him gone too.
There were no tents, no bleeding homeless man, no monsters. I stood alone in the darkness and felt my sanity fraying.
I didn’t know if I should feel furious, or relieved. Another trick of smoke and mirrors.
I was growing tired of these cheap parlor games.
I’d never been much for playing games.
“What the hell do you want?”
The question reverberated, my voice bouncing against the walls of the overpass. Above me, a stream of cars continued to shoot through the cement arteries of the city.
I was all alone in the shadows.
For now.
It was only a matter of time before my enemies struck again.
Chapter Eight
I got back at the mansion around two o’clock. Vesper was likely still asleep, and I resisted the temptation to wake her. I should let her know that her boss was coming unglued—but hey, that could wait until the morning. Exhaustion won over my need to get my recent experience off my chest.
Besides, I knew I wasn’t going crazy.
No, someone was trying to turn my mind against me.
The cultists—or whoever was leading them—had sunk sharp claws into my brain and was weaponizing my own thoughts. This was straight out of the black magic playbook. Have the target doubt their own sanity, disorient them, make them question everything and everyone. Emotionally isolate your enemy before you zero in for the killing blow.
I knew what was happening. The question was how to put an end to this insanity and fight back.
To my surprise, I fell into a dreamless slumber as soon as my head hit the pillow. It was almost as if my nervous system had hit an overload point, my body craving rest on a cellular level.
I received my second surprise when I woke up the next morning and realized it was a little past ten in the morning. I’m not known to sleep in and typically rise when the first rays of sunlight trickle into my bedroom.
I took a quick shower, got dressed and headed downstairs. Sunlight filled the downstairs level of the mansion. When you hunt shadows, you appreciate floor-to-ceiling windows.
The computers were on in the living room, but there was no sign of Vesper. This was out of character for my assistant, who spent way too much time glued to those flashing monitors. Vesper shared my dedication in the fight against the forces of darkness—just one more reason our partnership worked so well.
But maybe I’d been working her too hard. Burnout can creep up on you when you least expect it, no matter how dedicated you might be to the mission. This is especially true when your home is also your office—there is no clear delineation between your life and work. We’re all human at the end of the day, not machines. To be honest, I was glad that Vesper was taking a break from being my eyes and ear
s. If she wasn’t up and about by lunchtime, I’d check in on her to make sure my assistant was feeling all right. In the meantime, I’d respect her privacy.
As I made myself a quick cup of instant coffee (caffeine is caffeine), I noted the muted music drifting into the kitchen from the flagstone patio outside.
Okay, maybe Vesper wasn’t lounging in bed this morning, after all.
Between Vesper’s goth-punk style and her retro taste in music, it sometimes felt like she’d arrived in 2019 in a time machine—I mean that in a good way. She was a millennial who danced to her own tune. In this case, the tunes in question were classic ‘70s and ‘80s rock.
I drained my cup of joe and headed for the patio. Vesper looked out of place in her black leather outfit as brilliant sunlight played against the surface of the artificial pond and waterfall that flanked the deck.
Long before she ended up as the prisoner of a demon-worshiping biker gang, Vesper had been a skilled graphic designer and tattoo artist. She specialized in fantasy and science fiction imagery and had worked with most of the big book publishers. Unfortunately for the readers of the world, Vesper didn’t do much art nowadays. So you can imagine my surprise when I found her facing a large canvas mounted on an easel. She was attacking the blank surface with a brush, her eyes distant, almost trancelike, in the thrall of her muse as she tackled the canvas.
My curiosity piqued, I eased closer.
Vesper’s old art had been bright and playful—think unicorns and mermaids, more Narnia than Lord of the Rings. This new piece was far darker. My heart sank when I realized Vesper was painting my Malibu mansion as medieval nightmare fortress. Fiery red light oozed from the windows and red-robed figures encircled the house, demented congregants returning to their unholy place of worship.
The spook-like figures reminded me of the spectral monks who had surrounded the pool the other day. Had Vesper seen them too?
I dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to me. The Children of the Void had donned those robes fifteen years earlier, and there were plenty of images online showing them in their creepy garb. Vesper could have drawn inspiration from those pictures. But why was she painting them at all?
Vesper’s artistic interpretation of our home felt eerily accurate to the way I sometimes saw it. The architectural surface beauty of the mansion blinded most people to the dark secrets buried beneath it. Fifteen years earlier the mansion had been a cathedral of darkness, a mecca for the Children of the Void, and Vesper had captured this sobering reality through her art.
We all have our ways of coping with the horrors. Making art was Vesper's way; I favored a more direct approach. Nothing is quite as therapeutic as driving a magical knife into a ravenous hell-beast and seeing it turn to ash.
As I moved closer, I found it difficult to pull my gaze away from the painting. Was this how the outside world viewed my home? No wonder my neighbors kept a wide berth. Back when I was a teen living with my aunt in New York, the bank had tried to put the mansion up for sale. The real estate agent had called this place an architectural triumph, an estate of uncommon comfort and rare beauty. Funnily enough, the listing mentioned nothing about an underground demonic temple. Despite their best efforts, they couldn’t erase the dark history of the property and, after a few fruitless months, they’d pulled the mansion off the market.
If it had been up to me, I would set up shop in a more modest abode. But this is the place I inherited. No point in leaving it empty. Besides, it was a daily reminder why I did what I did.
Vesper froze as she noticed my presence and shot me a guilty look.
“I see someone is feeling inspired,” I said.
“Sorry, boss, I know I should be at work instead of playing Picasso out here in the sun.”
“You’ve got talent.”
“I’m out of practice.”
“You could’ve fooled me. No wonder this place didn’t find any buyers.”
Vesper grinned. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate living here…”
“I get it. The mansion can feel haunted by its past.”
Forget the mansion. I might as well have been talking about myself.
I suddenly craved a drink, but I tamped down that impulse. I couldn’t dwell on the weirdness and let it control me. Instead, I needed to focus on my next move.
“My father’s legacy casts a long shadow,” I added. “Your piece captures that idea perfectly.”
“I’m just trying to make sense of what’s happening here.”
“That makes two of us.”
“You’re not the only one who has been reading up on the Children of the Void,” Vesper said. “The theft of your father’s remains is just the beginning, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It sure looks that way.”
“What happened last night, Kane? Where did you go?”
I gave Vesper a brief update on last night’s terrifying episode under the freeway overpass—though I still left out the incident in the pool for the same reason I had avoided the subject the other day. I wanted Vesper to keep feeling safe within these walls.
My assistant listened, her forehead creasing into pensive lines. Her blue eyes fixed on me once I finished my story.
“So Mary Kinsey is the common thread between all these psychic attacks?”
“It appears that way.”
“Sounds like someone is sending you a message.”
“My thoughts exactly. I think we should investigate what happened to Ms. Kinsey after she escaped my father’s knife.”
“Yay, more research.”
Vesper put her brush down. It was time to hit the computers.
As my assistant headed for the glass sliding doors, my attention turned back to the canvas. And, for a moment, I could have sworn that I saw Mary Kinsey lurking behind one of the red curtains of the painted mansion’s windows.
I blinked, and the vision dissipated.
Chapter Nine
Vesper’s fingers flashed over the keyboard as she worked her unique brand of computer magic. I was doing my part on the laptop. We were both tackling the same problem: What had Mary Kinsey been up to for the last fifteen years? Was she alive or dead? Where did she work and live? Was she married or single?
And, most importantly, how was she tied to this latest spook show?
While combing various databases for any digital breadcrumbs she might have left behind, I reviewed what I knew about the woman who’d escaped my father’s clutches.
Mary Kinsey had been a struggling actress and model when she caught my father’s eye. Unlike many of his other victims who’d sought him out for his plastic surgery skills only to end up on a very different type of operating table, Mason Kane had handpicked Mary to be victim number eleven.
Mary was squeaking out a meager living as a waitress at a local diner when she had the misfortune of serving my father. Something about her must have caught Dad’s interest and he became a regular at the joint. After several visits—and generous tips—he offered to do some work on her for free, playing on the young woman’s insecurities about her looks. She’d been a beauty pageant winner back in Kansas City, but this was L.A. and she was competing with the hottest people on planet Earth for those few coveted roles. Her girl-next-door charm didn’t cut it in Tinseltown.
My father had been diabolical, and the thought of how he groomed Mary to be his victim sent a chill down my spine.
After the raid, the media directed their attention to the woman who survived her encounter with the cult. She was the sole survivor of the terror cult, in fact, and media outlets competed for an interview. But none of their efforts bore fruit. Neither did the offer for Mary Kinsey to pen a book about her harrowing experience.
This survivor wasn’t one to cash in on her five minutes of fame. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that she couldn’t cash in.
Throughout most of the media circus Mary remained institutionalized at a local psychiatric facility. She was alive, but the trauma of nearly dying on Dad’s a
ltar had shattered her mind.
Going by the state records Vesper had been nice enough to access, Mary Kinsey was released from psychiatric care three years later. By then much of the interest in the case had waned. Her whereabouts remained unknown until, another year later, Rolling Stone tracked her down for an interview. She agreed at first but backed out at the last moment, stating privacy concerns. After that, Mary Kinsey vanished from the public consciousness. She changed her name and assumed a new identity.
Fortunately, Vesper had a few tricks up her sleeve. Even when you become someone else, the IRS continues to keep tabs on you. After a few more hours of digging through government databases, my assistant had pieced together the details. Following her release from the mental hospital, Mary Kinsey had started a new life in the Valley, gotten married to a schoolteacher, and had two children who were teenagers by now.
I drew some comfort from Vesper’s report. I wanted Mary’s story to have a happy ending. Bad enough that my father’s evil was still having a ripple effect from beyond the grave. At least his horrific deeds hadn’t destroyed the poor woman. Mary Kinsey deserved to live out the rest of her life free of the psychological torment triggered by Mason Kane’s dark actions.
Vesper’s lips curled into a big smile when she finished her report. Mary Kinsey, now Mary Ardvak, lived in Woodland Hills with her husband, Sean. She was a homemaker and worked part-time as a bookkeeper for a small accounting firm.
“You’re a goddamn miracle worker,” I said with a true appreciation for what Vesper brought to the table.
“I know,” Vesper said.
There were no current pictures of Mary Kinsey available. She had wisely avoided getting any social media accounts. It appeared that she’d overcome her past and conquered her demons better than I ever had.
“So what’s the next move?” she asked.
I stared at the Woodland Hills address on her computer screen.
“I think it’s time I paid Mary Kinsey a visit.”
Chapter Ten
Soul Taker Page 6