Shadow Detective Supernatural Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset)

by William Massa

  And lunch.

  Their need for vengeance satiated, the dead prisoners now turned their attention toward me. To my horror, I spotted one new addition to their ranks. Ballard. Of course. Anyone who perished within these walls would be trapped in the same manner as all the other inmates. Even though the first phase of my exorcism spell had removed the glyphs from the chair, the dark magic remained embedded in the structure itself. Until someone fully incinerated the electric chair, this evil would persist.

  Ballard flanked Engelman as the spectral entities homed in on me. I didn’t need to steal another glance at Ballard’s unrecognizable remains to know what these monsters had in store for me.

  19

  The smell of fire and ash woke Joe Cormac from his latest blackout. For a confusing moment, he thought he was in Iraq, but this moldy, damp air shared little in common with the bone-dry heat of the desert country that had tried to kill him. As he soaked in the rows of holding cells, he knew he was back where it had all started. Blackwell Penitentiary. Why would Engelman return to this forsaken place?

  To stop Raven!

  The fractured memories of the spirit’s plan swirled through his brain like psychic shrapnel. Engelman was here to prevent Raven from doing something…but what? When Engelman possessed him, their psychic link went both ways. The fiend could look into his soul but sometimes he caught glimpses too. He racked his brain but failed to recall any details. The splitting headache wasn’t helping matters. Each time Engelman took possession of him, the pain grew worse.

  He is draining you, sucking you dry like all his other victims.

  Joe massaged his throbbing skull. He doubted he’d live through Engelman’s next mental assault. One way or another, this ordeal ended tonight. Bones creaked and sore muscles protested as he staggered to his feet. While he struggled to maintain his balance, another question cycled through his mind. Had it been hours or days since the incident at Raven’s loft? There was no way to tell. Time had lost all meaning to him at this point, his life before Blackwell like a distant dream.

  Gingerly, he started to explore the prison. Shadows pooled around him, the darkness seemingly alive. Joe felt no fear. He was beyond emotion at this point. Engelman had turned his soul inside out, transformed him into a shell of the man he once was. His body aching all over, he stumbled through the rotting structure that, once upon a time, had housed so many monsters.

  He didn’t get far.

  A few feet down the next corridor, Joe froze in place, almost forgetting to exhale. Up ahead, at the center of the main prison floor, the spirits of the dead had surrounded Raven.

  There was nothing he could do to save the monster hunter now. He couldn’t save anyone, not even himself.

  The execution chamber!

  Unbidden, the thought ripped through his mind. Joe had first encountered Engelman in the death chamber. Perhaps it also held the key to defeating the undead fiend.

  As Joe retraced his steps from memory, stumbling toward a nearby staircase, the phalanx of ghosts paid him no mind, their attention riveted on Raven.

  Once Joe reached the prison’s third level, he didn’t bother to look down at the main floor. The monster hunter could handle himself. Or not. Joe was past caring.

  When he finally arrived in the execution room, his gaze landed on the bleeding woman sprawled on the floor. She stared back at him in surprise but said nothing, her jaw clenched with evident pain.

  Although Joe had never met the woman before, he recognized her immediately. Her name was Jane Archer. One of Engelman’s targets. And she was barely conscious and fading fast.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said, trying to sound reassuring. Joe had been a hero once, hadn’t he? He vaguely remembered a time in his life when he’d fought a war to keep his country safe. “I’m here to help.”

  Noble words, but would he be able to back them up with action? He scanned the chamber. Something had changed. The electric chair was smoking, the wood singed…

  He finally understood why Raven had returned to the prison. He’d come back here to destroy the chair. But something or someone had interrupted the process.

  His chest tight with determination, Joe advanced toward the electric chair. He would finish what Raven had begun.

  The time had come to send Engelman to Hell.

  “The lighter,” the woman croaked.

  She was pointing weakly at the metal lighter near the chair. Judging by the trail of blood behind her, she’s been dragging her wounded body toward it.

  Joe nodded.

  He scooped up the Zippo.

  And then, for the second time that day, the electric chair burned.

  20

  An army of the dead encircled me.

  For a moment, the spectral horde stood in tableau, almost as if they were tuned into some extrasensory frequency.

  They’re waiting for Engelman to give them permission to attack, I thought.

  The pack expecting the alpha to issue the kill order.

  They didn’t have to wait for too long.

  Lips widening in howls of murderous rage, the ghosts closed in on me in jerky bursts of motion. There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. I’d foolishly hoped Ballard’s death might satiate Engelman’s murderous impulses. Unfortunately, the desire to clear his name had set the former professor on a monstrous path from which there was no turning back.

  Piece of advice: Allying yourself with a demon like Morgal never ended well.

  The evil of Blackwell Penitentiary had infected the innocent man, his soul darkened and corrupted by the rot of this place. Hoping to expose a monster, he’d become one himself. Unless I stopped Engelman here and now, the killings would continue.

  Still, I tried to reach him and his ghostly followers. “You don’t have to remain trapped here anymore,” I cried out. “You can finally be a peace. All of you! Let me help you.”

  For a beat, Engelman paused. Hope flared in my soul, but it was short-lived.

  Engelman’s black eyes blazed with a supernatural fire, bereft of all humanity. And then the spirit spoke, the words coming haltingly.

  “SOON IT WILL ALL BE OVER! No more death. No more life. No more pain.”

  “That’s nice,” I muttered. Amazingly enough, Engelman’s sales pitch wasn’t winning me over. There was only one option left to me. Could I shoot my way through this spectral horde and make it back to the execution chamber in time to complete the ritual? I thought of Archer bleeding out in the death chamber and knew I had to try.

  Gnashing my teeth, I brought up Hellseeker. It was time for the magical pistol to live up to its name. A barrage of blessed lead descended on the first wave of entities. Each bullet found its target, shattering spectral forms into tendrils of white hot energy and ectoplasm.

  It was a temporary reprieve at best. Experience had taught me that Hellseeker couldn’t solve this problem, but hopefully it would allow me to carve a path through the wailing wall of wraiths.

  I moved and fired at the same time, a man possessed by love and fear and all those other squishy emotions that make us human, adrenaline roaring through my veins. The shrieks of the damned pounded against my eardrums, and I had to avert my eyes from their horrifically distorted faces.

  Next to me, the steel door of a prison cell was brutally torn off by a ghostly force. I ducked as the door-turned-deadly-projectile hurled toward me. It sailed over my head and smashed into a nearby wall, plaster showering down on me.

  No time to dwell on the attempted decapitation as more ghosts lunged at me. I drilled bullets into the first three, their forms writhing and disintegrating.

  I kept battling my way to the staircase that would lead me back to the third floor, back to the execution chamber.

  I almost made it.

  Almost.

  Engelman materialized right in front of me just as I reached the bottom step. Before I could react, the ghost’s arm shot out at me, eerily elongating in mid-attack. A spectral fist dipped into my chest, and I felt col
d fingers close around my beating heart.

  No!

  My pistol came up, the green glowing barrel of Hellseeker finding Engelman’s shimmering forehead. I squeezed and…

  Nothing happened.

  Out of ammo.

  I’m sorry, Archer, I failed you.

  I blinked away the morose thoughts and glared back at Engelman, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing me mentally defeated.

  And that’s when Engelman was jerked back by a phantom force, his hand yanking out of my chest in a cold rush of energy. The spirit recoiled, his whole body trembling and shaking, lashed by some invisible force. Almost as if thousands of volts of electricity were passing through him…

  With a roar of agony, Engelman’s body began to evaporate. His features were the last to disappear. During that final moment, his gaze cleared, his madness lifted, restored to the man he’d been while alive. Reading his lips, I made out his final words: Thank You.

  I wasn’t the one who deserved his gratitude. Someone else had put Engelman out of his misery.

  The other ghosts began to ignite around me. Spectral flames enveloped the entities, hungrily devouring long-dead flesh.

  Understanding dawned. The inmates were reliving their final moments, but this time they would stay dead. It seemed like the ghosts were exiting this plane in the order they had perished, first Engelman, then the inmates and guards who’d died in the fire.

  Ballard watched in shocked surprise as the specters continued to go up in flames around him. He would be the last one to exit this world if my theory held true. I drew some satisfaction that even in death, Ballard would be denied that which the twisted freak desired most—a chance at a private audience with his demonic masters. The forces of darkness have little tolerance or patience for failure.

  The number of burning spirits was shrinking rapidly. One by one, the specters went supernova and fused into a powerful stream of supernatural energy. Blinding white light washed over me.

  I averted my eyes. I knew better than to stare too long into the light. Where those spirits were going, I had no desire to follow.

  Suddenly my blood turned cold. I’d spotted the arrival of a new figure on the third floor.

  I held up a hand, waving to get her attention. “Hey, Archer, you’re late to the party,” I called out.

  She didn’t answer.

  She didn’t even look at me.

  My heart hitched in my throat as I realized what was wrong. Her eyes were glassy, unfocused, and she looked pale and washed-out. No, not just pale--translucent. I could actually see the brick wall through her wavering form.

  That wasn’t Archer.

  It was her ghost.

  21

  With agonizing slowness, Archer’s gaze turned to me. For an eternal moment, our eyes met across the prison’s sea of burning bodies. Plenty of things had kept us apart—not least my own boneheaded stupidity—but now the vast gulf between life and death separated us.

  For most of my adult life, I’d kept people at arm’s length. I’d told myself that if I cared for someone, I would be putting them in danger. And so I’d slammed the door on every chance of happiness. With Archer, I’d found someone who knew who I was and what I did and wasn’t afraid to stand by my side. But instead of holding on tight and promising to never let go, I’d turned my back on her.

  For a man who fought demons, I was certainly a coward.

  Maybe in some recess of my mind, some shadowy corner of my heart, I had believed we would find a way to make it work in some distant future when evil was defeated and the last demon had been banished. But there would never be an end to this war—and I knew it. Mortals had battled monsters long before I was ever born, and they would continue to do so once I’d long passed from the world. This had never been about the risk Archer might face if we became a couple; it was always about me. My fear of losing someone I loved the way I lost my parents.

  And now my worst nightmare had become a reality. Archer was dead. I’d left her to bleed to death, alone, on a filthy prison floor.

  Ballard’s ghost started screaming as he relived his death. In moments, his spirit would cross over, and then it would be Archer’s turn. She’d be gone forever. I couldn’t let that happen.

  As her form started to judder, my body exploded into motion. I tore up the staircase, taking two steps at a time. My heart and soul were a mass of exposed nerve endings as I barreled down the corridor into the execution chamber.

  The stench of burned wood and leather greeted me. The electric chair had been reduced to a pile of ash and blackened fastenings. Joe Cormac, still alive but looking as though he’d aged several decades in the last week, was crouched beside Archer’s body. His eyes met mine, and he shook his head, just once.

  Fighting back tears of rage and pain, I dropped to my knees at her side. Joe Cormac tried to reach out to me but I roughly shoved his hand aside.

  “I’m sorry. I tried to help her….” His voice helplessly trailed off.

  I gingerly felt for a pulse. Nothing. It didn’t make sense. The wound in her shoulder must have hurt, but it shouldn’t have killed her. I leaned in closer and that’s when I discovered a second bullet wound, previously hidden under Archer’s leather jacket. Black blood seeped from it. The bullet must’ve hit her liver, a death sentence even if, by some miracle, I should manage to revive her.

  Ignoring logic, I began to perform CPR. As I blew precious oxygen into Archer’s mouth and pounded her chest, hoping to jolt her heart back into motion, her forlorn spirit appeared before me, eyes filled with fear and shock. To see the brave detective like that broke whatever was left of my heart. Don’t worry, babe, I won’t let you go this time. I swear.

  With each breath I shared with Archer, her spirit drew closer. Was the CPR working? Encouraged, I increased my efforts.

  With an eerie psychic wail that made both me and Joe Cormac clap our hands over our ears, Archer’s spirit was dragged back into her broken body.

  Archer’s eyelids flickered, her fists clenched, and a violent, choking cough escaped from her throat as she drew her first breath since her heart had given out. She was back among the living, spirit and body reunited. Fearful eyes looked up at me as she coughed again, her lips bloody. I had managed to bring her back…but for how long? Had I merely sentenced Archer to more suffering until her organs finally gave out again? Could even the best hospital in the world save her at this point?

  Modern medicine might not be able to heal her wounds—but I could. What was the point in safeguarding a treasure trove of magical objects if I couldn’t use them for a noble cause? And what could be more noble than saving the woman I loved from an untimely death?

  My mind working a mile a minute, I jumped to my feet and scooped up the detective. God, she felt so cold. I lurched out of the death chamber with her in my arms. It must’ve looked like the cover of some demented romance novel-a beautiful woman fainting in my arms as I carried her out of Hell. Joe Cormac, old before his time and hobbling silently behind us, sort of ruined the picture. As did the fact we were all covered in blood and soot.

  In hindsight, I admit that I wasn’t thinking completely rationally at the time. My soul felt like a hemorrhaging wound, and I was willing to throw caution to the wind and break every rule if it meant Archer would be spared from the Grim Reaper.

  Somehow, I managed to find my way out of the prison. Lightning flashed and thunder rattled as I stepped into the rain-swept night.

  I opened the passenger door to the Equus Bass and lowered Archer into the seat as gently as I could, heedless of the gore now staining the upholstery. The car could be replaced. Archer was one of a kind.

  I slammed the door shut and staggered toward the driver’s side, nearly slipping on the soaked ground. As I yanked open the door, my gaze landed on the prison one last time. Cormac fronted the rusting main entrance, wet clothes sticking to him like a second skin. He was staring, not at me but at the roof of the building, one bony hand pointing upward. A w
inged, shadowy shape stood revealed in a flash of lightning.

  Morgal.

  The demon lurked on the high penitentiary walls like some demented gargoyle, bat-like wings extended, a terrifying image in the sickly light. His booming laughter, hollow and eerie, resounded through the night, managing to even drown out the sounds of the storm. The demon was mocking me, reminding me that while I might have beaten him, victory had come at an excruciatingly high price.

  By the time the next flash of lightning lit up the night, the demon was long gone, briefly making me wonder if perhaps I’d imagined the whole thing. The dark expression in Cormac’s eyes convinced me otherwise.

  I dragged my gaze away from the prison of horror and got in the car. One hand reached out for Archer and gently touched her arm, almost as though I needed to reassure myself she was still here, as I started the engine. I prayed Archer would be able to hold on long enough for me to reach the loft. Although I’m ashamed to admit it, I didn’t worry about Cormac too much. The car that had been parked next to mine would get him safely back to the city.

  Tires skidded on wet pavement, visibility reduced to shit. Outside, heavy wind gusted the whipping rain. The monotonous thump of wipers the only sound in the car, the world behind the windshield nothing more than a shadowy dream.

  I lost track of time as I drove, my body on autopilot as my mind churned. When I finally reached my loft, I pulled Archer from the car as carefully as I could. I barely remember making my way into the elevator and keying in my entry code. There was no sign of Skulick. He was probably still being questioned downtown, and I felt secretly glad. If Skulick wasn’t here, he couldn’t tell me not go through with my plan.

  I was headed for the vault. The ward-protected chamber contained the most dangerous mystical items Skulick and I had secured over the years.