This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Dark Gift, Shadow and Light, Book Four
Copyright © 2019 by Kim Richardson
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction
in whole or in any form.
Cover by Kim Richardson
Text in this book was set in Garamond.
Printed in the United States of America
Summary: A series of gruesome murders shake New York City. Caught between the worlds of Shadow and Light, it’s up to Rowyn to find the killers.
[1. Supernatural—Fiction. 2. Demonology—Fiction.
3. Magic—Fiction].
CONTENTS
BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
AUTHOR’S NOTE
DARK CURSE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOKS BY KIM RICHARDSON
SHADOW AND LIGHT
Dark Hunt
Dark Bound
Dark Rise
Dark Gift
Dark Curse
TEEN AND YOUNG ADULT
SOUL GUARDIANS
Marked
Elemental
Horizon
Netherworld
Seirs
Mortal
Reapers
Seals
THE HORIZON CHRONICLES
The Soul Thief
The Helm of Darkness
The City of Flame and Shadow
The Lord of Darkness
MYSTICS SERIES
The Seventh Sense
The Alpha Nation
The Nexus
DIVIDED REALMS
Steel Maiden
Witch Queen
Blood Magic
1
Early morning traffic was thick in East Harlem, Manhattan, as I attempted to stifle my annoyance and a bit of road rage. I stopped, parked my SUV on West 111th street, and got out. The cool April air rushed in, smelling faintly like garbage and exhaust. I smiled. I loved this city.
Work for the church had been steady for the past seven months with the average closet demon cases, attic poltergeists, basement gremlins, and some ghouls that had managed to wreak havoc in a New York hospital. I had charged double for that because, well, who else was going to do it? Still, the constant stream of small Hunting jobs had been enough to put a down payment on a car, a ten-year-old burgundy Subaru Forester. It wasn’t fancy, or new, but it was mine.
Not only was the car perfect for the harsh winter we’d had, but its large size and spacious trunk was perfect for the black garbage bags of demon guts I had to haul and dispose of. The trunk was also roomy enough for my collection of weapons: soul blades, short swords, hunting daggers, iron cuffs, chains, and a half-dozen extra-large bags of salt. I could never have enough salt.
A lot had happened in those seven months. For one thing, I never heard back from Jax or his mother, for that matter. I’d even reached out to Pam to see if she’d heard anything. Turns out she had. Jax was back at his apartment and seemed well as far as she knew, which was surprising considering his short trip to the Netherworld. The news had stung a little, pissed me off really. I had hoped to get at least a phone call after everything we’d been through. I’d been wrong thinking we’d been friends. I’d been wrong about a lot of things.
I had to keep reminding myself that the passionate kiss we’d shared in my apartment had never truly been with Jax. It had been with Jeeves, the trickster jinni. Yes, it had been Jax’s body, but the intention, the enamored motives behind it—were all Jeeves. The little shit.
I wasn’t about to call Jax either. Hell no. As far as I knew, he was still engaged to that punch-in-the-face-worthy Ellie. The only thing I wouldn’t damage on her was that fabulous motorcycle jacket I liked.
I couldn’t deny the real sexual attraction that had existed between us because it had been there. But that’s where it ended too. Jax wasn’t available. Whatever feelings I had were shifted. And I had moved on. C’est la vie.
Work had been a blessing, really. I was so busy Hunting demons and the occasional human-bloodthirsty half-breed, I hadn’t given much thought to Jax. And that was a good thing.
My boots clunked the sidewalk as I made my way towards Central Park. A breeze rose around me, sporadically sending my hair to tickle my neck. I gathered it into a thick, tangled ponytail and wrapped it with an elastic band. The red hair hadn’t lasted long. I’d died it back to my natural brown the day after Sylph Tower went down.
Several police cars were parked along Central Park North, right next to the entrance of the park. I looked through the gates and saw large, blossoming crabapple trees, their flowers a light pink as I inhaled their sweet scent. The petals of their flowers littered the pavement like snow.
Beyond, a rainbow of blossoms and leaves of every shape, size, and color greeted me: tulips, daffodils, lilacs, lily of the valley and azalea bushes that would have looked fantastic in front of my grandmother’s house.
Spring was my favorite time of year to visit Central Park, with all the trees in blossom. Any other time, I would have loved to park my butt near one of the ponds and enjoy the scenery. But I was on the job, and idling around sightseeing wasn’t going to pay for my gas.
My pulse accelerated as I followed the trail and climbed up to the North Woods. Barely two minutes in, I heard the commotion.
A cluster of uniformed New York City cops stood outside a circle of yellow police tape surrounding an ancient, gnarled oak tree. And when I got a clear view of the tree, I understood why.
A body hung from one of its larger branches like a rag doll, dangling from two iron picks that perforated through each side of the clavicles since the head was missing. The body was pulled spread-eagle like, with cords holding the limbs out. Blood had dripped from the corpse to puddle on the earth below near the base of the tree.
My pace slowing, I swallowed hard and moved closer for a better view. Inside the yellow tape area were two men and a woman of the forensics team in their signature white papery-plastic suits, taking pictures and dropping evidence into separate plastic bags.
A bundle lay at the base of the tree with dark hair—the victim’s head. The body was completely naked, female, and Caucasian by the light coloring of the blood-soaked skin. The soft skin of her belly was torn open, and markings were carved into her chest. They looked like letters. Words maybe? Whatever they said was important. But I couldn’t make it out from where I was standing. I needed to get closer.
A young, uniformed cop was ushering two joggers—by the looks of their tight, Spandex-like outfits—away from the crime scene. Beads of sweat trickled down his brow, and the whites of his eyes showed. He looked like he’d rather be anywhere but near the body. He caught me standing near the yel
low tape and made a beeline for me.
“This is a crime scene. You need to leave,” he said, looking a little pale, and my nose wrinkled at the stench of strong, male perspiration he was giving off.
I pegged him for a rookie, probably never saw a dead, decapitated body before. Amateur.
“I was asked to come here,” I said, irritation flowing in my tone. I cocked an eyebrow. “A Detective Walsh? He’s expecting me.”
“Rowyn?” called a man’s voice. The young cop and I turned as the man lifted the yellow tape and trudged towards me. “Are you Rowyn Sinclair? Father Thomas’s friend? The occult specialist?”
Occult specialist. “Yes, that’s right,” I answered, giving the man a tight smile. It’s not like I could tell him I wasn’t human, and I killed demons for a living. Or that I was absolutely ruthless at tracking them down. Occult specialist sounded... smart, educated, and very much like a real profession. Well, at least to the human population. And I liked it.
Detective Walsh was of average height and balding with a round face and a short fat nose. His jacket was creased, and there were food stains on his white shirt. His NYPD detective badge hung around his belt, barely noticeable under his protruding belly.
His beady eyes rolled over me. “You’re the occult specialist?”
I scowled, not liking his tone. “What?” I asked, getting a little more annoyed. “You want to see my ID?” All I had was my driver’s license and an old gym membership card.
He shook his head. “No, it’s fine,” he answered but the scowl on his face said otherwise. “I just didn’t expect you to be so young.”
“I’m younger than you. That’s for sure,” I said. My eyes lingered on the weapon holstered on his hip, reminding me how much I wished I hadn’t lost my death blade in a fight with some leprechauns. “But I promise you, I have more experience in the occult than anyone else here in New York City. And the best rates. If you don’t want my help—”
“—I do,” rushed Detective Walsh. “I trust Father Thomas, and he said you’re the best.”
“I am the best,” I repeated, grinning. I loved that priest.
He seemed slightly displeased at my smiling face. “He said you could shed some light on this,” he raked his short, fat fingers through his barely there hair. “Help us with this case.”
“I’ll do my best.” It was the truth, but there was only so much of the truth I could tell this detective. “Have there been other bodies... more like this? Decapitated? Strung up on display like that?”
“We’ve had a few cases in the past with some decapitated cats,” answered the detective. “Strange symbols carved into trees. Small stuff.”
I didn’t agree with that.
The detective let out a long breath. “But not one like this. I’ll take all the help I can get to catch this killer.” Detective Walsh stuck out his hand. “Thank you for coming, Ms. Sinclair.”
My pulse quickened as we shook hands, and I was surprised to find his to be silky smooth like the hands of a banker. I could tell by his expression that he’d felt the calluses on my hands. Yes. I used my hands for a living.
“I take it this is the first time you’ve hired someone like me. Right?” Humans were so clueless.
Detective Walsh’s face went slack and he looked away, the barest hint of trouble crossing him. “I’ve worked a few cases with clairvoyants. Missing children’s cases.” His eyes met mine. “It never amounted to anything. A waste of good resources.”
I raised my brows. “A skeptic.”
“I work with what’s in front of me,” said the detective. “I don’t believe in the hocus pocus.”
“Hocus pocus?” I said, frowning. What a douche.
The detective looked uncomfortable. “You know what I mean.”
“Sure.” I waved my hands around. “Hocus pocus. I get it.” He obviously didn’t believe in the paranormal. So what the hell was I doing here? I didn’t track crazy-ass serial killers. I tracked demons. Why had Father Thomas sent me here?
An uncomfortable silence settled in, and my anger welled.
The detective was watching me again with his beady eyes. “I’ll take it from here,” he said suddenly to the young cop who had been standing there watching our exchange. The young man walked away, his eyes everywhere but on the tree or the dead body hanging from it.
“This way, Ms. Sinclair,” said the detective as he turned and walked back towards the body. Detective Walsh lifted the yellow tape for me and I followed him to the base of the tree.
The first thing that hit me was how strong the smell of blood was. It hung in the air like a heavy mist. It was too strong for one female who’d been strung up for what I guessed was a few hours. The second thing was how clean the cut across the neck was. One straight cut. Cutting through bone and flesh was hard. It took skill and precision to do it in one shot like this. You needed to be really, really strong and have a very, very sharp weapon to cut through flesh and bone. The killer was male. There was no doubt in my mind about that.
I still didn’t make the connection why Father Thomas had deemed it a paranormal case until I felt the faint traces of demon energies. Then there was the scent of sulfur—faded, but unmistakable. Ah-ha. Now we were getting somewhere.
I felt Detective Walsh hesitate, evaluating me for signs of recognition as I took in the dead woman.
“What do you make of this,” asked Detective Walsh. “Witchcraft? Satanic rituals? It’s Satanic, isn’t it?”
I opened my mouth to answer but I was distracted by one of the cops as he touched his forehead, his chest and then both shoulders, mumbling what I’d suspected was a prayer. When my gaze traveled over the rest of the policemen, they were all looking at me. Waiting. Fear echoed in their faces. Fear of the supernatural. It rattled them. They didn’t understand it and it shook them to their cores. Their strong, macho demeanors and stances were no match for things that went bump in the night.
They were scared. And they were looking at me like I was the one with the answers.
From what I’d read over the years, one of the oldest theories of crime was demonology. Not the years of studying the thousands of different demon races and their languages. No, I’m talking about the human ideals. The devil made you do it.
It made it easier for humans to deal with cases like these. It is not his or her fault. The devil made them do it. No sane person could or would do this. This explanation has tremendous appeal because it presents the clear-cut, black-and-white struggle between good and evil as the explanation for child abuse, murders, and horrific crimes like this one.
But we all know it’s never that simple. It’s never just black and white. Evil comes in all sorts of shades and colors, and it comes in glowing whites too.
My attention went back to the grubby detective. “This can’t be your fist decapitation. So why all the nervous energy? Your men look a little freaked out, Detective.” Cops were supposed to be tough. Why were they acting like scared little girls?
The detective looked at me, his face pale and grimaced. “No. But what’s written on her chest... I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
My pulse pounded as I moved away from the detective and made my way around the tree so the body was facing me.
It wasn’t the fact that she was naked or beheaded that had my heart hammering in my chest or me stopping dead in my tracks.
It was the demonic letters carved into her chest.
Demon linguistics weren’t my forte, but I could clearly read what had been carved—HALF-BREED.
Shit. The body was a half-breed.
I just stared for a few moments, taking in the details as my heart did jumping jacks inside my rib cage. I’d seen a lot of twisted crap in my line of work, but this was a first.
A demon had done this. It was the only logical explanation at this point. It was no surprise the purer demons despised all half-breeds—the result of humans being subjected to one of the demon viruses. They were hybrids, impure and hated b
y all lesser and Greater demons. The half-breeds were the essence of what the pure demons could never be, what they most desired—to walk the earth freely and forever and in daylight.
But this was all wrong. The body had been strung up as a warning. It was a grotesque public display, an announcement to all half-breeds of the dangers of being born or made that way.
I wished Tyrius was here. I’m sure the baal demon could have discerned more useful information with his razor-sharp senses, but I doubted the detective would have allowed a cat on the crime scene.
I felt the air shift next to me and smelled the stench of old coffee. “I’m right. Aren’t I?” said the detective, his eyes darting from the body to me. “It’s satanic. This is a sacrifice of some sort. A sacrifice to the devil.”
Again the surrounding cops did the sign of the cross against their chests.
My insides clenched. Crap. What was I supposed to tell him? I couldn’t tell him a demon had done this. He blatantly told me he didn’t believe in the hocus pocus. He needed something tangible, non-paranormal, with just the right amount of make-believe. And yet, if I didn’t give him enough of the truth, I’d never get this kind of paying gig again. The NYPD was a real paying customer, and gas prices were on the rise. Again.
Also, if a demon was running around killing half-breeds, I wanted to know about it.
“It’s not a sacrifice,” I told him, which was partly true. “It’s a display, really. The killer wanted you to find the body. Made a show of her, the way she’s been cut and tied up. Especially the cut off head part. It’s a spectacle. Grossly overdone, but still a spectacle. The killer wanted to shock and frighten you.” All true. Whatever demon did this, it wanted the half-breed community to see and be afraid.
Detective Walsh nodded, pale yet resolved, and rested his hand on his hostler. “But is it satanic?” asked the man. There was a subtle weight to the question.
I could feel the collective turn of the cops’ attention to me, burning a spot in the back of my head. “All the signs point to the occult, to ritualistic crimes,” I told him, and I heard one of the cops hiss under his breath. “But it’s not satanic.”
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