The sun beat down on her face as she marched toward the garage. Her destination was the Ducati. During those early months at the mansion, she’d taken the bike out for a few spins but never gotten that far. Her agoraphobia became worse instead of better with each new attempt, and she eventually gave up. Better to stay put in the house, ride out the paralyzing waves of anxiety in the comfort of her room.
Determination welled up inside of her as she mounted the Ducati, took a final deep breath, and cranked the engine.
Dakota Vesper wasn't some wallflower. Back in the day, before the supernatural terror that had nearly claimed her life, she'd dated badass bikers and punk rockers, ridden motorcycles and practiced karate. She gritted her teeth, studied her reflection in the Ducati's mirror.
Fuck, she could this.
Ready or not, she would do this.
Watch out, LA, because here I come.
Chapter Seventeen
Everywhere I turned, the oppressive weight of the antiques bore down on me. An armless Greek statue seemed to glare at me mockingly. I tripped over a low chest and caught myself on a broken coatrack that nearly gouged my arm. It was almost like the warehouse was actively fighting me.
Still, I wasn’t ready to give up.
I spun toward the exit, but the doorway was…gone. A wall of old furniture had materialized behind me, the mass of junk heaving and flexing as if alive.
A peal of mocking laughter rang out through the warehouse.
Oh good. My efforts were amusing to my captor.
Let’s see if Asmadina would still be laughing when I destroyed that precious relic of hers.
I was about to ram the athame into my father’s skull, but there was a small problem. Apparently, Asmadina had expected this desperate move because I wasn’t holding the skull any longer. It had simply disappeared from my grip.
I clenched my jaw, anger turning to fear. It was possible that I’d met my match here.
I turned in the direction of Father Cabrera. A new wall of antiques had grown up between us, and I could only just make out his concerned face through a stack of junk.
“How is this possible?” I called to him. “The magic of my blade should have broken through the wards of this place. I even made it outside into the parking lot…”
“You fell into the same trap as I did. She wove the same spell over me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“It’s not the wards that are keeping you trapped here. It’s the spell Asmadina cast over you. A fiendishly subtle spell that I did not identify until it was far too late.”
A dark suspicion grew inside of me.
“Like me, you did not save a loved one, you hurt an innocent, and you betrayed a friend. Isn’t that so, Simon?”
My blood turned to ice as Cabrera’s words sank in. My mind spun back to the strange horrors of the last day. Dark understanding flooded my mind. Each incident hadn’t solely been some random horror conjured into being as to amuse Asmadina. No, the events had served a higher purpose. They were building blocks in a complicated spell. Failing to save Ashley Jones—the woman who was, if not a loved one, a recent lover. My inability to protect Mary Kinsey and her family had resulted in the death of three innocents and the ruination of her life.
And finally, there was the moment when I’d kissed Asmadina, believe her to be my assistant. I’d betrayed Vesper, even if I hadn’t realized what I was doing.
I shook with rage. All this time, I’d been playing into Asmadina’s dark magic, allowing her to weave this web around me until I found myself wholly entangled in it. Stepping over the warehouse’s threshold must have been the final part of the spell, and the trap had sprung shut.
The possibility I might spend the rest of my days within this collection of infernal antiques filled me with terror. I had to find a way out. There had to be some way to counter Asmadina's magic.
These thoughts were still whipping through my mind when Cabrera’s yelled out my name. I jerked my head up to find the exorcist gone, swallowed by the moving passageways of antiques.
Athame in hand, I fought my way through the ever-shifting jungle of occult relics toward the exorcist who was still calling out to me. The screams grew distant, then swelled and became louder, making it hard to determine his exact position. Just another one of Asmadina’s little games.
In the near distance, the clutter thinned out. I picked up my pace and arrived in a small clearing of sorts. A familiar sight awaited me. The glass sarcophagus with my father’s remains dominated space. A glance into the coffin confirmed that the skull was back in its rightful place.
Why had Asmadina led me to my father’s remains?
This question was still going through my head when the air behind me shifted.
I spun around, expecting the antiques to have moved again, only to realize the massive golem had snuck up on me.
There was just enough time to spit out a curse before the golem struck.
A mighty stone fist shot out and drove into my head with pneumatic force. My jaw snapped back, and my knees gave way. I crumpled to the cold stone floor, and the athame went flying. The taste of copper filled my mouth.
As I watched, a pair of stilettos approached. I followed the shapely legs up to behold a beautiful vision of pure evil. Asmadina’s black dress undulated around her curvaceous figure as if alive, magic animating the fabric.
“What do you think of my collection, Simon?”
“It looks like a pile of trash to me,” I said defiantly, blood trickling down my lips. I reached for the athame only to realize that Asmadina was now holding the sacrificial blade in her perfectly manicured hand.
Fuck. I’d lost my last chance to strike back.
“One man’s junk is another man’s treasure. Case in point, your assistant. Some might call her a headcase, damaged goods, but she means something to you. There’s no accounting for taste. I wonder how she’d react if she found out you were swapping spit with me the other night.”
“What the fuck do you want? Did you go through all this trouble just to trap me in your Antiques Roadshow from Hell?”
“Oh, don’t worry about that, Simon. Unlike Father Cabrera, I don’t plan on making you a permanent fixture of my collection. You have a far more important role to play.”
“Quick newsflash: I’m not my father. And I’ll never become part of his goddamn cult.”
“Nor do I expect you to, monster hunter.”
My curious gaze flicked up at the sorceress only to realize she was now behind me. Like the antiques which filled this warehouse, she kept moving through space, making it difficult if not impossible to get a precise lock on her. Was she merely being dramatic, or did she worry I might rush her?
I stole a wary glance at the golem. His looming presence hadn’t left my side, his monstrous presence casting a shadow over my downed form. One command from Asmadina, and the beast would crush me like a twig.
“Just level with me for once. Why steal my father’s remains?”
“The answer is simple, Kane. Your father’s bones are here for the same reason I stored all these other cursed treasures within these walls. The magic of these items fuels my power.”
My head was still hurting after the golem’s concussion-inducing blow. Maybe that’s why I was a little slow on the uptake.
I looked around for a beat, my gaze hazy as I soaked in the mass of antiques, the gears of my mind spinning and clicking away.
Each one of these objects contained magic. In some, it was merely a spark; in others, a burning fire. Somehow, Asmadina could tap and feed on this power.
The truth sank in. This whole warehouse served as a giant battery for Asmadina’s magic. I had wondered how she’d wielded so much power at such a young age. Well, she wasn’t generating her black magic from within. She was drawing it from this place.
But why pull me into the warehouse? My father's knife was the only magic under my command, and although it was powerful, it didn’t have enough juice t
o replace the energy she’d spent in getting me here.
Almost as if Asmadina could read my thoughts, she said, “You’re probably wondering why you’re here. What purpose I could have for the son of Mason Kane? A man who did everything in his power to avoid following in his great father’s footsteps.”
“My father was a monster.”
“Perhaps. But the world respects its monsters while it crushes its saints. My parents taught me this when I was a little girl. You can either wield power or be destroyed by it. I choose the former.”
“How can you say that? You lost your parents to my father’s madness.”
For a moment, something akin to human vulnerability flickered over Asmadina’s perfect features. Steely determination replaced the emotion almost immediately.
“Their deaths taught me a valuable lesson. They were merely followers. I would become a leader. I needed to become stronger, to learn more than they could have imagined.”
I considered this. Our lives shared many parallels but diverged in some crucial ways. While I had traveled the globe on a quest to learn everything I could about the supernatural, Asmadina had followed her own tortured path. A dark journey of black magic and inhuman rituals. A road to madness.
“I still don’t understand what you want from me. I’m not some magical relic to be drained.”
“You’re right. The pathetic little spark of power in you isn’t worth my trouble.”
As if to further elaborate her point, my Ouroboros tattoo ignited with a sharp stab of agony.
Asmadina smiled. Then she nodded at the golem, whose powerful arms snatched me up and lifted me like a puppet to my wobbly feet. The construct unceremoniously dragged me to the clear glass sarcophagus containing my father’s remains.
“Your magic is weak, but your blood and soul will serve my purpose.”
She held up the Hexblade as she closed in on me.
Suddenly, I knew what the witch was up to. Her smile deepened in the face of my growing despair.
“I see you finally understand. The power stored in your father’s bones is strong but pales in comparison to the black magic he wielded while alive.”
These words confirmed what I’d suspected. Asmadina planned to revive my father. Not to restart his cult or follow his old creed. She couldn’t care less about the otherworldly ideology of the Children of the Void. She was after magical energy, pure and simple.
She would sacrifice with me with my father’s knife, then use my blood, my soul, my life-force to restore Mason Kane.
“You truly believe you can hold Mason Kane prisoner in this place. Once you resurrect my father, he’ll turn against you and tear down this place!”
“Looks like someone is proud of daddy.”
I scoffed at the mere notion of her words.
“I’m not proud. But I know what the man is capable of.”
“Brave words, spoken by all the spirits that dwell within these walls. The coffin will allow your father to return to the world of the living. But will also hold him until the end of time.”
I considered Asmadina’s words as my gaze roamed the warehouse. I was taking in the storage facility with a fresh set of eyes.
Other entities dwelled within this antique collection from Hell. This place was a prison of the damned. And Mason Kane was about to become its newest inmate.
Chapter Eighteen
Vesper wasn’t letting Los Angeles’ snail-paced traffic slow her down. On her Ducati, she could zip between the congested lanes, leaving envious drivers in her dust.
Something had changed inside her since Asmadina had invaded her haven. The moment she’d dreaded the most had come to pass—the darkness had shattered her reality for a second time—yet Vesper was still here. Violated, but also weirdly stronger for having lived through the harrowing ordeal.
Without a hiding place anymore, her best option was to face the world on her terms. Find the nightmares before they found her. Strike first and strike hard.
Of course, that was easier said than done. Change didn’t happen overnight, and it would take a while for Vesper to rediscover her inner badass. This became clear when three motorcycles blasted past her, and she almost lost her cool. For an irrational moment, she was convinced the devil-worshipping biker gang had returned to finish the job.
And this time around, Simon Kane wouldn’t show up at the eleventh hour to save her from a fate worse than death.
Another glance revealed the bikers to be a group of bearded hipsters, a few degrees shy of a scooter gang, nothing like the extras straight out of a Sons of Anarchy casting call that she feared.
The scare almost made her wipe out. The Ducati spun and wobbled, but she somehow straightened out the motorcycle seconds before turning into road pizza. Back in control of her wheels, Vesper fought the powerful impulse to get off the freeway at the next exit and head home. Her concern for Simon was what got her through the anxiety attack. Her boss—her friend—needed her. She couldn’t let him down.
Thinking about Simon calmed her down, and she maintained her steady grip on the bike’s handlebars for the rest of the ride.
Besides, she had come too far to turn back now.
Her destination was the address for Asmadina’s antique warehouse, which Simon had scribbled down onto a Post-It note the other night.
Even though Detective Sanchez had offered her concrete proof that the warehouse didn’t exist at the given address, she needed to see the place with her own eyes. Maybe there was something he’d missed, some pertinent detail that had slipped past him.
It was a desperate act, perhaps a stupid one. But it beat doing nothing. Vesper wouldn’t be able to live with herself if she didn’t even try to save Simon.
You got this! she told herself over and over, a silent mantra. She focused on those encouraging words, ignored the nagging doubt that she was way in over her head.
Unfortunately, the doubts grew stronger, the closer she got to her destination. How did she expect to succeed where Simon had failed? What could she do against someone like Asmadina? How could a girl who felt more comfortable staring at a computer than sighting down a pistol hope to defeat a bona fide witch?
These questions bred other disconcerting thoughts. What would Vesper do if she came face to face with Asmadina again? Would harsh language and a few blessed bullets do the trick?
Thinking back to the house invasion, she doubted it. She was going up against a formidable, unbeatable foe. The odds were high that Vesper would fail.
“Never tell me the odds,” she muttered.
The line was from one of her favorite films, The Empire Strikes Back, and she drew strength from the words.
By the time her destination jumped into view, the voices of doubt had become deafening. As she took in the large, empty lot splayed out before her, she shared Detective Sanchez’s earlier disappointment. There was no sign of any structure, much less a massive warehouse.
The most frustrating part was that she recognized the parking lot from the photographs of Asmadina’s storage facility. For God’s sake, she’d see the damn building with her own eyes.
She killed the Ducati and scanned the long stretch of concrete. To her left, she could make out a series of corrugated metal buildings. A fleet of parked FedEx trucks flanked her on the right. The whole area was a real eyesore, not a trace of green in sight, a blemish on the landscape. Best if she fired up the Ducati and headed home.
No way. She wasn’t going back empty-handed.
Vesper decided that she would first search the lot before she gave up.
Perhaps she’d find an explanation as to how a fifty thousand square feet of storage facility could evaporate into thin air.
Vesper began to circle the lot from one end to the other, tires burning rubber and leaving streaks of black on the asphalt.
After ten minutes of this, she seriously wondered if she was losing her mind. This was crazy, and she was feeling a little dizzy.
And then, as she was about to driv
e straight through the middle of the parking lot, something happened. For just an instant, the warehouse came into view.
For one moment, she was staring at an empty lot. The next, a giant cement block was looming over her. The appearance of the structure was so sudden that she almost lost control over her bike.
She slowed down, spun around to take another look—and the building was gone again.
Most people at this point would have seriously considered seeking psychiatric help. At the very least, they would think it was perhaps time to call it a day. Vesper wasn’t most people.
She knew what she’d seen the other night, and it was the same building that had flashed into existence a few moments ago.
She thought of something that had occurred to her earlier when Sanchez first informed her the lot was abandoned: Last night, Asmadina wanted to be found, and now she didn’t.
That had to be the answer. This antique store wasn’t open to the public. It was here but magically cloaked in some manner, visible only to those chosen by Asmadina.
People like Simon Kane. Or occult buyers that she was trading relics with.
Or maybe you just had to know it was there to gain access. Emboldened by this idea, Vesper tore right into the middle of the lot. Within twenty seconds, her surroundings warped and stuttered, and the ghostlike structure came into view again. Vesper breathed out a curse as the translucent walls shimmered in front of her.
Her gaze fixed on what appeared to be the main entrance. She knew with absolute certainty that Simon had to be in the warehouse.
And she would bail him out of that place if it killed her.
Vesper dismounted from her bike, drew her Glock, and marched straight toward the ghost building’s entrance. She was moving fast, afraid she might talk herself out of the whole thing if she showed any signs of hesitation.
As she approached, the building seemed to become more real, more solid. It was almost like the power cloaking the warehouse was growing weaker with each passing moment. Was Asmadina being forced to divert some of her energy? Or was the spell reacting to Vesper’s confident, kick-butt attitude?
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