Talon fought back revulsion as he saw the stark outlines of the cultists’ faces beneath the Lightwalker’s flesh, struggling to break free of their new prison. Somehow Casca had forced the spirits back on the psychic. Their efforts distended the blood-smeared white hoodie, their inhuman features stretching the Lightwalker’s skin and distending bone. Dominating the screaming faces of the dead was the Reaper. His mouth scowled with unbridled fury.
Talon recalled Adira’s earlier words: If the Reaper’s spirit took possession of a living person, and if that person were killed, both souls would phase over into the afterlife.
He knew what had to be done and strode up to the writhing psychic with quick steps. The Lightwalker’s features looked wizened, his spent life force having aged him prematurely.
Without hesitation, Talon grabbed the psychic’s neck and wrenched it with all his strength. Bone cracked, and the Lightwalker’s lifeless body slumped forward. The parade of ever-shifting faces stopped before he reached the ground.
Talon breathed deeply. It was over. His eyes found Adira and Casca, now the only signs of life in a place of death. In their futuristic necro-helmets they looked like triumphant robotic warriors towering over some post-apocalyptic battlefield.
Talon turned back to the broken psychic at his feet.
Did the dead truly walk into the light? No one alive knew the answer. All he could hope was that the Reaper and his disciples dwelled in darkness, wherever they might be.
CHAPTER TWENTY
ADIRA HAD MADE a promise and she intended to keep it. She was back at the crash site in the Santa Ana mountains.
This time around she wasn’t afraid.
The air stirred and rippled and the apparition flitted across her helmet’s visor.
“I know you’re scared,” she said. “Alone. Confused. But I can help you.”
The figure peeled from the shadows of the surrounding trees. A hint of alabaster features, haunted eyes.
She had gone over the crashed plane’s passenger list and looked at over a hundred faces. The heart-wrenching experience had driven home the full extent of the tragedy. Based on the photographs, she’d quickly established the identity of the spirit in the clearing. Maybe her psychic abilities had grown since the spectral attack back at the mall, or maybe they’d always been there, laying dormant, merely waiting to be awoken. But when she stared at the photograph of Harry Wells, a thirty-five year old investment banker, she’d felt a spark. This was the man she’d seen in the barren foothills. There was a seriousness of purpose to the face in the picture. He was the type of pragmatic man who believed only in that which he could see, hear and touch. The type of man who might not accept survival after death.
Even though the features of the apparition remained blurred, she recognized the man from the photograph.
“Harry, do you want to talk?”
“Where am I? Who are you?”
“My name is Adira. I’m hoping to help you. And to answer your question, you’re in the Santa Ana Mountains.” The words hung there.
“I’m on my way to Las Vegas”
“Not anymore.” She extended a hand toward the entity. “You never arrived at your destination.”
The entity closed in. Adira remained strong and held her ground. She was determined to see this through, to help Harry move on to the next world.
“I was on a plane,” he said slowly. “I was looking at the mountains. And then I heard shrieks, someone was yelling…”
There was a sob, elongated and eerie, a pitiful sound not produced by human vocal chords. ”The woman next to me…she held my hand…”
“They’re waiting for you, Harry. Waiting for you to join them,” Adira said kindly.
“Are you sure?”
“Death is only the beginning.”
The Lightwalker’s ominous message now held seeds of hope, a promise of a greater destiny that lay ahead beyond the boundaries of human existence.
Detail and color returned to the ghost’s features, and the figure straightened. For a second he looked alive again. And then the presence was gone. Harry had finally joined the others.
Tears streamed down Adira’s face, but this time they were tears of joy.
***
Two days had passed since the climatic battle with the Reaper. Talon had demanded a sit-down with Casca—they needed to talk. The billionaire’s use of the occult ritual had been eating away at him, and he needed to air his feelings if this partnership was to have a future.
Casca picked a seafood restaurant near his Silicon Valley corporate headquarters. To Talon’s surprise, Casca was the one to cut right to the chase before they even ordered. “I know what’s on your mind, Sergeant.”
“We fight the occult, Casca. How can I trust a man who is tapping into the very forces we’re trying to defeat?”
“I understand how you feel, but please hear me out. If we’re to win this war, we’ll need to both understand our enemy—and adapt some of his tactics.”
“And what happens when the line begins to blur? When there’s no difference between us and them?”
“The pentacle around your neck, the demon slayer blade—these are magical relics, Talon, that tap into the light. Magical weapons. The ritual I used was an extension of that.”
Talon shook his head. “I’ve studied enough of your books to know it was a blood sacrifice.”
“That’s true,” Casca conceded.
“I’m worried. I’ve seen the books and occult items at your house. If you were to become corrupted by the one of these rituals or the items in your possession…”
“I’m treading lightly, I promise. But if something were to happen, I know of one man out there who would be able to stop me.”
Talon tightened his lips. “I hope it never comes to that.”
Casca pulled out a small metal case and handed it to Talon.
“What’s that?”
“Let’s call it an early Christmas present.
Talon opened the case and immediately recognized the item inside. It was the demon slayer blade that he’d lost during the fight with Zagan at Omicron.
“As promised, I made some calls. Detective Serrone was nice enough to get this out of evidence for me, no questions asked.”
“How is she?”
“Moving on with her life. Like we all should.”
Talon mulled this over but said nothing. After a moment, Casca held out his hand. “Peace for now?”
Talon looked deep into the billionaire’s eye and saw that the man’s intentions were pure. He took the hand in his own and shook on it. “Peace.”
Even though their talk had reassured him somewhat of Casca’s intentions, a famous quote from Nietzsche popped into his head: “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself don’t become a monster…” It would serve them well not to forget the philosopher’s insight into human nature. They were both at risk in their own way. War could erode one’s humanity.
Casca broke him out of his thoughts. “Have you ever been to Italy?”
“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to?”
“It would be that chance to trace the Talone family tree.”
“If you put it like that…”
“But first, let’s eat. I hear both the lobster and Brodetto are amazing here.”
Talon focused on the menu and pushed his concerns aside. As soon as the waiter took their order, he became thoughtful once more. His experiences in Ohio had taught him a vital life lesson: Death wasn’t the end. Somewhere out there, a part of Michelle went on. She might be waiting for the day when they’d be reunited again.
For now, he’d continue to battle the darkness—but when his time finally did come, he wouldn’t be afraid of the light.
THE END
Mark Talon returns this winter in SOUL JACKER.
A brutal crime lord plans on unleashing an ancient horror upon Paris and only one man stands in his way.
Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Now Available for
Preorder) - Amazon US Amazon UK
AVAILABLE NOW
Occult Assassin #3.5: COFFIN COLLECTOR: A SHORT STORY
Talon heads to Italy to face a chilling coffin maker who has acquired the casket of a famed practitioner of the dark arts.
GET YOUR COPY HERE!
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
William Massa is a screenwriter (Return to House on Haunted Hill) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.
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EDITING
Erin Elizabeth Long
COVER ART/CREDITS
Cover design by Jun Ares & William Massa
FEAR THE LIGHT: WHO MURDERED DRACULA?
Over the centuries, many had tried to kill the Count. All had failed. Until now...
Eight vampires gather at Dracula's castle to solve his murder. But as the sun rises outside the chateau, a voice cries out and another creature of the night is slain. Trapped, the sun burning bright outside, the vampires realize they have met their match — a killer who plans on picking them off one by one!
As the daylight reigns and their numbers dwindle, a dark suspicion grows — could Dracula's murderer be hiding in plain sight?
A THRILLER WHERE THE MONSTERS ARE THE VICTIMS!
"All in all this was an easy read that flew by. The pacing was tight and kept the story interesting up until the last page. A satisfying ending made this a worthy read." - Nikki Howard, Ravenous Reads
"...it is fun to see vampires switch from being predator to prey. The story is essentially ten little Indians" - Taliesin meets the Vampires
"...If you loved and read Agatha Christie's - And Then There Were None/Ten Little Indians then you will love this novel..." - Gadget Girl Reviews
"It is nothing like the other vampire books I have read..." - Jenny, Fabulous and Fun Blog
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PLEASE ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF FEAR THE LIGHT
VINCENT DROVE HIS Mercedes Bentz rental car down a two-lane country road that carved its way through endless rolling hills. Towering trees and vast vineyards stood silhouetted in the milky moonlight. There was an air of remoteness and isolation about the place even though the nearest town was only half an hour away. This was Bordeaux wine country, where monks had first embraced viticulture during the reign of Charlemagne.
Vincent eased his foot off the gas as the road began to turn. The flight had been uneventful and for the most part painless. He left Los Angeles around two in the morning and arrived in Paris after 8 o’clock in the evening, a nine-hour time difference allowing him to avoid daylight all together. He traveled first class and made sure to book a whole row. He opted for the aisle seat and kept a safe distance from his window, the shade drawn of course. Most of the legends surrounding his kind were Hollywood bullshit. Vampires couldn’t turn into bats, wolves or mist and they were immune to crosses but sunlight could destroy them. A different vampire might’ve decided to sit out the flight in the cargo hold, secure inside a steel sarcophagus with two human servants along for the ride to assure that the coffin arrived at the right address, the promise of immortality assuring their loyal assistance. But that was way too dramatic for Vincent and not his style.
That was Dracula’s style.
The bucolic forest landscape continued to unfold before Vincent. Strange to think that Dracula had chosen this area as his home for the better half of the last century. Then again, Vincent never did understand how Dracula’s mind worked. He was a legend and an enigma. Vincent wondered often what had driven the Count to choose a Texas Ranger to be one of his children of the night.
Vincent had promised himself not to dredge up the old days, but he had also known it was a promise he’d break. Much of the past seemed like a blur, but that fateful moment when everything changed was etched into his memory and still held its dark sway over him.
The year was 1876 and he’d been tracking a vicious murderer across the state of Texas. The fiend had left ten bodies in his deadly wake, all of them female, their blood completely drained, albino corpses lined with twin puncture marks. The killer seemed to be always just one step ahead. Toying with him. Pushing him to the edge. The pursuit had become a game of cat and mouse, and it was consuming Vincent’s every waking moment.
He finally tracked his quarry to a small town near the Mexican border. Two more bodies had been found and the locals relayed in hushed tones that a European gentleman had arrived earlier in the week, a man of means and manners whose very presence could cloud the minds of every unfortunate soul he came in contact with. He seemed to cast a nearly supernatural spell over the fairer sex. The gentleman in question was staying at the Old Moses saloon and according to all accounts, had only been spotted outside his room past sundown. Rumors about the stranger were spreading.
Pale moonlight illuminated the rundown Wild West saloon as Vincent stepped through the swinging doors of the establishment. The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face masked his initial shock upon seeing what was waiting for him. He had walked into a nightmare. The saloon now transformed into a place of death. Mauled patrons were sprawled everywhere, a wasteland of broken bodies, the floor slippery with their blood. Vincent’s trembling hand closed around his silver Ranger badge, knowing all too well that it held no authority over the beast that rose from the center of the carnage. The moment their eyes hooked into each other, Vincent was stricken with mortal awareness – staring back at him was death itself. The gentleman who smiled at him through a bloody mist was a thing outside of nature. Vincent remembered his gun leaving his holster, and he remembered cocking the hammer of his pistol and squeezing the trigger.
Again and again.
Bullets tore into the enigmatic figure in a mad volley, puncturing flesh and destroying the man’s elegant coat. When the firing chamber was empty and the hammer clicked impotently, click, click, a metronome of spent violence, Dracula rose. Vincent was gripped with terror as he saw the bullet holes sealing shut before his very eyes, inhuman tissue regenerating in the blink of an eye. Vincent was a tough man; he’d confronted all kinds of human evil in his twenty-nine years on this earth but the crucial difference was that those degenerates were men, flesh-and-blood creatures who could succumb to the power of steel. This monst
er was unlike anything Vincent had ever faced before. Vincent didn’t just lose his humanity the day he went up against Dracula. He lost his soul. For he had not merely met his match but caught a glimpse of the Devil himself.
Now Vincent cast these thoughts of the past aside as the hill grew steeper and he was forced to switch gears. According to the rental’s GPS system - they could’ve used one of these back in his Texas Rangers tracking days - the chateau should be coming into view any minute now. The forest was already thinning a bit and the vineyards now began to take over.
A moment later, Vincent spotted the chateau. His first thought was that the term ‘chateau’ didn’t quite do justice to the structure. The sprawling estate that loomed at the top of the vineyards was a stark silhouette projecting a sense of mystery and dark wonder. Like Dracula himself, the keep wove a nearly hypnotic spell over anyone who laid eyes upon it. Not quite a spooky castle but the next best thing, it was the type of place where one would expect a vampire to set up shop. While most of the vampires Dracula spawned did their best to blend in and be modern (some with greater success than others), Dracula had never chosen to adapt to a changing world. He didn’t need to. Dracula was the master, even if Vincent refused to call him that. The Count might hide in the shadows but he would never pretend to be something he was not.
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