Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1)

by Ash Krafton

  Cover art: Red Fist Fiction

  Interior design/formatting: Red Fist Fiction

  First edition published 2016

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information can be found at www.ashkrafton.com

  Charm City (The Demon Whisperer #1) by Ash Krafton

  The darkness is rising and one man stands against it: the exorcist mage Simon Alliant. But in Baltimore, he finally meets his match...a part-mortal divinity with the power to whisper away demons.

  Kindle Version

  Copyright © 2016 by Ash Krafton

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  DEDICATION

  ACKNOWLEGMENT

  PROLOGUE

  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

  EPILOGUE

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  DEDICATION

  For my husband, my children, my family:

  apologies for putting the ick in magic

  (and by "apologies" I really mean "sorry I'm not sorry")

  ACKNOWLEGMENT

  Special thanks to everyone at Wattpad.com—the writers who encouraged me to join up, the staff who selected CHARM CITY to be a Featured Story, and every single reader who found their way into this book.

  Extra special thanks to the readers who commented their way through the story, giving me a play-by-play. I can't tell you how much fun it is to watch someone read and react to a story I wrote. More than makes up for tons of hours spent tapping keys in an empty room. To ruin a line by the Bard himself: What books are books if readers be not by?

  I've never met a more enthusiastic and interesting group of readers and writers and I am so honored to be a part of this creative collective. Keep reading, keep writing, and keep sharing words with the world because words are our gift, our foundation, our way to connect with one another.

  Cheers and happy reading,

  Ash

  "Who is more foolish, the child afraid of the dark or the man afraid of the light?"

  ~Maurice Freehill (1899-1939)

  three years ago

  Saint Berenice's Rehabilitation Center

  near Boston, Massachusetts

  Boston (AP)--Police may have uncovered new evidence in a cold case that has baffled authorities for the past fifteen years.

  Ten-year-old Sarah Foster disappeared from her home in Belmont in 1998, the same night the body of a local teen had been discovered in a nearby playground. Although no connection between the two victims had ever been found, authorities believe they may have uncovered a link that may lead them to finally solve these cases.

  Evidence has recently been recovered from the belongings of a former patient of the Green Field Care Facility, in Malden.

  Workers at Green Field claim that Norma Alliant, who passed away last week, had become lucid in the hours leading up her passing. Day shift nurse manager Janna Thomas said she didn't pay attention at first, since Alliant was known for frequent vocalizations. But when Alliant mentioned the name of the girl who'd disappeared, Thomas said she took notice.

  "She talked about that little girl as if she knew her," Thomas said. "I know it was a long time ago, but we all grew up with the stories. We all feel like we know her somehow. And we all knew the horror stories about how Ritchie Evans was killed. But then she got agitated, screaming about Sarah and that boy that was killed at the park and she started scratching herself."

  Thomas said Alliant required sedation, passing peacefully later that evening.

  The detective was contacted shortly after the autopsy, when the coroner noticed the self-inflicted scratch marks bore a striking similarity to mysterious symbols that had been associated with the Evans case. The coroner recognized them because he had been the same doctor to examine the victim's remains.

  "These symbols were evidence that had never been made public," said Corcoran. "We have reason to believe that there may be others who have information regarding these unsolved cases."

  Alliant had no local family. The whereabouts of her next of kin are currently being investigated.

  Members of neither the Foster nor the Evans families could be reached for comment.

  Police urge citizens to contact officials if they recall anything about either of these cases or if they recognize these strange symbols.

  "In other news…" The news anchorwoman switched topics without blinking, as if the report were just another day in the life. To her, it was.

  It just wasn't her life. No worries.

  Simon Alliant stared at the screen, his brain a blank buzz. Sitting on the edge of the metal hospital bed, he cracked his neck and rolled his shoulders, grimacing. A heavy moment dragged by.

  The buzz snapped off. The rage took over.

  He snatched up the remote and switched off the TV, then threw the remote at it, then dragged the set down off the rack. The television crashed onto the floor, sparks and shards flying in all directions. Dark eyes lit by a mad gleam, he searched the starkly-furnished white room, looking for something else to destroy, something else to ruin.

  Something other than himself, for once. Just this god-dammed once.

  Panting, he sank to his knees, heels of his palms pressed into his eyes. Defeated. Teeth gritted, he groaned, a sound of deep pain. Always, defeated. No matter how hard he fought, no matter what price he paid, he always ended up here, on his knees, begging for help from the one source he should never, ever, not ever again seek.

  Sullenly, he rolled up his sleeve. Maybe, just once. One more time and that will be it. He'll come out on top. A tattoo of a circular-shaped rune, the size of a quarter, stained the inside bend of his elbow, directly over the vein. He rubbed it, eyes unfocused, his frown deepening. The only one he ever could lie to was himself. And this was the only time he believed those lies.

  Times like this, lies were the only comfort he had.

  Grimacing, he took a slender object out of the pocket of his thin cotton robe. He pulled the cap off with his teeth and spit it out. Muttering under his breath, he positioned the object over the tattoo and squeezed his eyes shut.

  The words made little sense, even to him, but they were perfect, precise, articulate, growing louder and harder with each repetition of the verse. When his voice reached a frenzied pitch he jabbed the object downward into his arm, into the tattoo.

  The tattoo glowed.

  A streak of orange zipped around the outermost ring of ink with a metallic sizzle. Eyes flew open wide, pinpoint pupils making tiny splots against irises of pale gray. He sucked air in through his teeth and he let out a ragged cry before going limp, sagging to the floor, eyes half-closed. The object rolled out of his slackened fingers.

  It wasn't a needle. It was a thin wooden dowel, stained and carved and worn smooth by too much handling. It was a wand.

  Not all
addictions were chemical.

  He blinked once, then again, his vision blurring, his hearing muffled by the pounding of blood in his ears. He barely registered the clank of the lock sliding open, or the door flung open against the wall, or the frantic voice of the orderly who rushed in.

  The attendant slapped roughly at his cheeks, trying to revive him. The weary smile on Simon's face never faded, not even as he passed out and the world faded away, stranding him in boneless, blissful oblivion.

  "You seem much improved, Mr. Murphy." The social worker folded her hands on top of his file, a fat many-paged collection of his previous ins and outs. Saint Berenice had become more than a temporary lay-over. It was starting to feel like home.

  Which meant he'd stayed too long. "Feeling better, sweetheart. Time I move on."

  "But you were extremely vulnerable when you arrived. I must insist." She shook her head, peering into his eyes.

  He avoided that burrowing gaze and stared at the folder. A photograph was paper-clipped to the cover, the name KEVIN MURPHY printed in block letters across the top. Dark hair, dark eyes. What his mom would have called "properly Black Irish", clipped and shaved like a dandy. He snorted a soft derisive sound, knowing that he looked nothing like that when he was at his worst. That's the picture they should have—rumpled shirt, straggly almost-beard, dark rings beneath gray ghost eyes, the magic still burning through his veins. On the wagon was such a school boy look.

  "Kevin." Her voice made him look up again. "For your own sake."

  "I'm not doing this for my sake. I'm doing it for yours."

  She bit her lips, a look of resignation on her face. "I think that this is premature. You feel rested, don't you? You look healthier. But it wasn't just anxiety that brought you back here, or the worry of a relapse. You are avoiding the true reason you haven't attained peace."

  "I avoid a lot of stuff. It's how I stay alive."

  "But your addiction—"

  "You don't know the first thing about my addiction." Simon regretted the sharpness of his tone but was unable to soften it. "Don't presume the answer lies here among your group therapy and your Jungian theories and your psychological voodoo. If I say I'm better, it's because it's as better as I'm going to get."

  A long silence passed between them. She'd never been anything but polite to him, even helpful at times; the game was different now. Truths were going to out themselves, truths that tended to drag everyone nearby down with them. He'd hurt her, just now. He couldn't prevent collateral damage but he had a duty to minimize it. Even if it meant he had to be an asshole to do it.

  "You have to sign here to discharge yourself against doctor's orders," she said, her voice heavy. She flipped open the back cover to a printed medical form.

  "I checked myself in." He took her pen and signed the bottom of the paper with a flourish. Kevin Murphy. As good a name as any, but he could never get the letter v right. Maybe it was time for a new alias. "I can do the same in reverse."

  The therapist sighed and closed the file. She pulled a yellow envelope out of a basket. Opening it, she tipped the contents out onto the signed paperwork.

  Wallet, cell phone, wristwatch, religious medallions, the wand. It rolled toward him and he snatched it up, shoving it into his breast pocket before collecting the other items. "Ah. My worry-stick. I was looking for that."

  "Kevin, I don't think a simple worry-stick is enough to conquer the demons inside you."

  "We'll not talk about my demons, sweetheart. Not when they can hear you." His smile faded, his eyes going glassy and hard. "Until next time, eh?"

  He snapped an about-face and strode out of her office, down the taupe-colored hallway toward the door, pausing until he heard the electronic buzz of the lock release. He left the facility, doors slamming shut behind him.

  The air was balmy, remnants of sea air tainted by traffic fumes as it filtered through miles of city sprawl. Ah. He inhaled deeply through his nose. The smell of freedom. Good to be out and about again.

  Then again, he'd had a similar thought when he checked himself in month ago. Shrugging, he straightened his jacket and set off toward the news stand on the corner. Freedom came in many forms.

  He hadn't made it to the sidewalk before a warm wind and the scent of clean linen surrounded him.

  "Simon."

  He caught the whispered sound of his real name and tilted his head toward it.

  His real name was nearly an unknown thing these days, especially after having played the role of Kevin Murphy, career mental case and junkie from Boston's darker side. He'd created the alias so long ago that he'd nearly forgotten the details of Kevin's manufactured life.

  If only his time as Kevin allowed him to forget his life as Simon.

  Looking around, he spotted a tall, pale man wearing a tunic and loose pants, leaning against a tree. Sandy brown hair fell in soft curls to his shoulders, framing a sculpted face that seemed unbeguiling.

  So out of place in modern Boston. If the dude wasn't careful, he'd get mugged. Good thing he was more or less invisible to ordinary people.

  The tall man straightened himself and walked toward him. A vague mist hung about his shoulders, trailing behind him like a shadowy fog.

  It would have seemed unnatural if Simon didn't spend so much time hanging about on the wrong side of nature. Odd mists weren't enough to put him off. They weren't even enough for him to mention.

  "Mack." Simon looked him up and down. Sandals. Another reason to mug him. He really needed to get with the times. "Long time, no see. What, you couldn't visit even once? Not even on Tuesdays? We had Taco Tuesdays, buddy. You really missed out."

  "You were trying to regain your sanity, Simon." The man's voice was smooth and melodious, a mild accent that couldn't be pinned down to any one region. Or millennium, for that matter. "I doubt visions of an angel would have helped."

  "Shoot, sanity. It was good old R and R."

  "Was it, now?" Mack pursed his lips, eyes brows raised. He had a very human-like quality to his features, if one ignored the ghost of his wings. "I thought it was…antidepressants and group therapy."

  "Well, the first week or two. But then nothing but spa days from there on out."

  "Mmm." The angel smiled, a gentle radiance that elevated his already-beautiful features. "A solid month of being magic-free? How did it feel?"

  Simon ruffled his hair. He couldn't lie, not to the one entity that had never lied to him. Magic and free never belonged in the same sentence. "Feels like I can use a smoke. Shall I buy my ciggies now or after we land?"

  "After. We need to get your boots on the ground right away."

  "I just got out of the looney bin, pal. Give me a moment to acclimate."

  Mack slowly shook his head. "There was a gathering at the Ladder today. Simon…the darkness is rising."

  "Why not?" Simon hung his head, defeated. "Can we just skip the Metatron light show and just have the down and dirty? They held my afternoon Valium and my head is splitting."

  "But you lose the surety—"

  "I've never gotten anything but the straight shit from you, Mack. So let's have it."

  "There is a…traitor."

  He rolled his eyes. Half of Mack's heavenly announcements began with those same words. "There's always a traitor. Why does this one get divine attention?"

  "Because it's an internal concern. A child of the Light has one foot in the darkness. It needs to be handled…delicately."

  "And you need good old Simon Alliant to be the heavy. Figures. Nobody else willing to get their wings dirty." He cracked his neck and spared a forlorn glance at the newsstand down the street. "Where, this time?"

  "Baltimore."

  Simon groaned. The original Charm City. He'd taken a great deal of ribbing from an old master about previous sojourns there. A man who used amulets for a living had no business in a city with so trite a nickname. "I hate being that close to D.C."

  "You can complain afterwards." The angel stepped behind Simon and wrapped his a
rms around his chest, emitting a soft glow that began to encompass them both.

  "I usually do." Simon closed his eyes, waiting for the pull and the drop.

  The power hit swiftly like freefall, pulling his breath out in a gush.

  For a moment, his essence was caught between two places, his molecules stretched apart, his spirit suspended in a void. Memory couldn't reach him here. His past couldn't catch up to him here. It was a perfect singularity, this being in the now.

  True freedom, the shortest lived of its kind. Yet the perfection of the moment was tainted. Tainted with a dread he couldn't outrun.

  He dreaded the inevitable instant this tiny reprieve would end.

  current day

  The Devil's Drink

  Baltimore, Maryland

  Simon Alliant hated nightclubs.

  Tourist trap clubs, anyway, with their aseptic furniture and the plastic and chrome and high ceilings and LED lights. They were poor competition to the places he'd frequented in his youth—dingy basement bars with small stages that barely fit a five-man band, people packed up against the edge like kettle fish. When the music started and the lights glared, the crowd bounced like a single, mindless mass.

  The humanity, the press of flesh, the scents of smoke and skin and sweat. The often-predictable drunken fist fight and resulting overnight stay in the city can.

  He smiled a little, reminiscing. Ah. The good old days.

  But not here. Who came up with the name for this place, anyway? The Devil's Drink? Hardly. He spared a glance at the neon-lit walls and white plastic stools. Places like this always felt more like after hours in a hospital when the med cabinet was left unlocked. Potential for a good time, but not quite making it.

  This one was definitely too clean for his taste. Everything was blue and silver, a desperate attempt to capture an ethereal feel. It might have succeeded, if one were drunk enough and crossed his eyes. But not tonight.