Skull Master

by William Massa

  “Why the sour face, Raven? You know as well as I do that you will never find peace while Morgal rules his kingdom. Together we will destroy him. Isn’t that what your parents would have wanted? What you want? Don’t you wish to make daddy proud?”

  I gnashed my teeth. Cyon was crossing the line.

  “Don’t even go there.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  I exploded. “What’s stopping us from going after Morgal? We have the Demon Slayer sword.”

  “It’s not that easy. Lords of Hell don’t just show up when you want them to.”

  “Then let’s summon the bastard.”

  “Ever since Horne tried to trick Morgal, my old master has grown more cautious. You know that as well as I do.”

  Cyon was referring to Real Estate tycoon Desmond Horne who had tried to use his daughter’s soul to lure the arch-demon into a trap. If it hadn’t been for me, the billionaire occultist would have succeeded in switching bodies with the master demon and taking over his physical form.

  “ I doubt Morgal would answer the call of any traditional occult ritual at this point,” Cyon said. “No, we need to draw him out.”

  “And how do you suppose we do that?” I asked.

  “Every paranormal event in this city happens in the service of the Dark Lords. Every time you defeat a ghost or necromancer or vampire, Hell’s control over this world slips further away. We defeat enough of these monsters, and Morgal will start to take notice. It will force his hand. We will become a thorn in his side until Morgal won’t have a choice but to pay attention to us.”

  “And then what?” I said as I made a sharp right, the tires of my bike carving black tread marks into the asphalt. “You’re telling me Morgal is going to just leave Hell and come after us himself?”

  This time Cyon refused to answer, and his silence weirdly was more disturbing than any snarky comment. The demon didn’t like to be questioned or mocked, especially by a mere mortal. But I sensed there was more to his subdued response. Despite his hatred for his master, Cyon also feared him. Challenging an archdemon generally ended badly even if you had a badass Demon Slayer sword at your disposal. I knew from personal experience that besting low-level monsters was hard enough. Case in point, tonight’s case with Lorena had nearly ended tragically for me. Going up against a super-demon—well, there were easier, far less painful forms of suicide out there.

  I was almost at the address Benson had sent me. I careened around another turn, and The New City Church loomed before me in the darkness. The towering gothic church put the neighboring office buildings to shame. This was one of the worst sections of the city, but the church had always represented a bulwark of hope and stability. It was a refuge and a source of strength for the lost and desperate and all those seeking to reconnect with their faith during trying times. On this night, police cruisers were parked out front, scarlet sirens bleeding into the night.

  I slowed my approach and throttled the Ducati’s engine. I swung from my ride and warily approached the church, already dreading what might be waiting for me inside.

  “How long has it been since your last confession, Raven?” Cyon piped up, his voice laced with a mocking tone. I could almost hear the demon’s laughter. Personally, I wasn’t amused.

  The heavy, tense atmosphere of a crime scene didn’t belong in a place of worship. Surroundings meant to be calming and spiritual now crackled with a dark, cloying energy.

  There was no escaping the forces of Hell, not even in a church. The somber insight filled with me with sadness.

  By now, most of the cops working the murder beat knew who I was, even if it was just through rumors and stories. Some thought I was a psychic, others believed me to be a parapsychologist of some kind. A few had come to appreciate my assistance, like Lt. Benson, but others regarded me as a fraud and charlatan who had no place at a crime scene. The scene had more than its fair share of men who belonged to the latter group, their disapproving gazes following me as I made my way down the nave toward the altar.

  “Those gentlemen don’t like you very much,” Cyon noted helpfully.

  “No one likes to be reminded that they need help from an outsider to do their job,” I whispered under my breath.

  “You needn’t speak,” he reminded me. “I can hear your thoughts loud and clear.”

  As if I needed reminding.

  A team of CSI techs scanned the altar where the killer had placed the body. The cops had draped a shroud over the corpse. Weirdly enough not being able to see the body made the scene even more disturbing. As usual, Benson had been tight-lipped about the details of the case, but my presence told its own story. The detective wouldn’t have contacted me if he felt this was a normal murder.

  I looked around as I approached. A careful study of the church suggested the killer hadn’t vandalized this place of worship. There were no signs of demon worship or evidence of any other occult paraphernalia as far as I could tell. I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  My thoughts broke off as I caught sight of Cyon circling the altar, poking his gaunt face beneath the sheet for a look at the corpse. The demon clearly wasn’t fazed about being in a house of God. I fought back the temptation to shout at him to leave the crime scene alone. These officers thought I was nutty enough without seeing me hold a conversation with my imaginary friend.

  I tried to ignore Cyon and advanced toward the murder victim splayed out on the altar. Morgal’s mark flared with each advancing step. The pain confirmed what I already knew—dark forces were at work here.

  I had almost reached the body when Detective Benson sidled up to me. The deep circles under the tall African-American’s eyes suggested he was running on fumes and stale coffee. The Cursed City wore out good men like Benson all too quickly.

  “What have we got?” I asked.

  “I was hoping you’d be able to answer that question. Take a look, tell me what you think.”

  Here we go again, I thought as I leaned over the body. One of the CSI guys pulled back the shroud, and suddenly I was thankful that I had a strong stomach. Judging by the black clothes and white collar, the dead man was a priest. Not a huge surprise there, considering the location of the murder. The forearms of the man’s black shirt had been pulled up, revealing a series of ugly wounds. Upon closer inspection, they appeared to be bite marks.

  Human bite marks.

  That wasn’t the worst part. All those injuries faded in the background as soon as my eyes fell on the man’s head. Or at least what was left of it. The dead priest’s features resembled a shriveled-up rubber Halloween mask, the eyes and lips and nostrils misshapen lumps on a flat, doughy layer of skin. Hair covered part of the fleshy mass like some strange growth.

  I inched closer, a dark fascination welling up inside of me. I’d seen my fair share of weird shit over the years, but this was a first. The whole head seemed to have collapsed in on itself. Understanding hit me—someone had removed the priest’s skull. Without the bones that give the human head shape and form, the whole thing had crumpled, deflated like a balloon made of skin. No matter how hard I searched, I found no signs of any incisions or other surface damage.

  That could mean only one thing.

  Black Magic was at work here.

  “So? What do you make of it?” Benson asked.

  I shook my head. This was beyond my experience, too. Two questions immediately dominated my thinking. How had the head been removed? And why?

  I shot one of the CSI guys a look and raised my cellphone. “Do you mind?”

  Benson nodded at the tech that it was okay. I quickly snapped a pic with my cell and sent it to my partner. Maybe Skulick could make sense of this latest mystery.

  Cyon let out a low whistle. He was still loitering by the crime scene, invisible to the cops and techies swarming the church. The demon seemed weirdly impressed by the grisly spectacle.

  “This one definitely gets points for creativity,” he said.

  I wanted to punch him.
It took all my self-control not to do it. Even Benson would have hard time vouching for me if I started shadow-boxing thin air. I turned away from the demon. The pain in my chest intensified as I rounded the altar.

  My questioning gaze met that of CSI tech wiping down the other side of the altar.

  “As you can see, the skull has been removed, leaving only the soft tissue, muscles and skin,” the tech explained. “We haven’t found any sign of how the killer could have accomplished such a feat. It’s impossible.”

  “What about the wounds on his arms?”

  “Nice one, Raven,” Cyon whispered into my ear, his voice full of mockery. “Who cares about a couple of scratches when the skull is missing? You make one hell of a detective.”

  Maybe I like to be thorough, I thought at him.

  The CSI tech hesitated for a beat, almost as if he could sense the strange internal battle I was waging with myself. I balled my fists until my nails cut into the palms of my hands. Cyon was pushing me to the edge.

  “We will need to run more tests, but it appears that the wounds on the body and neck are bite marks.”

  I’d guessed as much myself. The cops expected me to have the answers, but I was just as much in the dark as they were.

  “Almost makes you miss a simple vampire attack or werewolf mauling, huh? Hell is full of surprises. Think you might be in over your head?”

  Cyon’s pun was groan-inducing. Besides, I was the guy who normally made the bad jokes.

  I blocked out the demon best I could and fixed my attention on the corpse. The pain in my scar intensified the longer I stayed here. Following a sudden hunch, I addressed the lead CSI tech again. “Would you guys mind lifting the body for a moment?”

  He studied me with a strange expression, not used to getting orders from self-proclaimed occult experts who didn’t sport a badge.

  That’s when Benson jumped in. “Do it!” he ordered.

  Slowly, the pair of crime scene investigators lifted up the body and pulled it to the edge of the altar. Revealed under the corpse was one word, written in what appeared to be blood: Caritas.

  “What does it mean?” Benson inquired, his eyes fixed on the grisly message.

  “You familiar with the seven deadly sins, Detective?” I said, my voice drained of all emotion.

  “Kinda. I saw that movie with Brad Pitt.”

  I sighed. Plenty of people loved that film, but I wasn’t one of them. When one faced such horrors on a near daily basis, they started to lose their entertainment value. I’ll take a Pixar movie over a thriller or horror flick any day.

  “Right, most people are familiar with the deadly sins, even if it’s just because of the movie,” I continued. “Very few folks nowadays are aware of the seven heavenly virtues.”

  “Hell always had the more effective PR department.” I paused. Was that my own thought or another quip from Cyon? As time went on, it was getting harder to distinguish the two voices inside of me. I bit my lips and focused on Benson.

  “The heavenly virtues are the opposite of the seven deadly sins,” I explained. “Chastity. Temperance. Diligence. Patience. Kindness. Humility. And Caritas, Latin for charity.”

  “What are you saying? There’s going to be six more murders like this?”

  The grim expression in my face was all the answer Detective Benson needed.

  Benson’s cell chimed. He looked like he was about to kill the ring tone, all too aware that anyone calling after midnight most likely didn’t have good news. Nevertheless, his sense of duty won out, and he accepted the call. He pressed the cell against his ear, and judging by the way his features darkened, he probably should have trusted his first instinct.

  I didn’t envy Benson. The poor lieutenant seemed to bear the full weight of the paranormal onslaught on this city. It didn’t help that Jane Archer had left the force after her brief time as a vampire. After a minute, he nodded and killed the call. His haunted gaze locked on me.

  “There’s been two more murders. A nun and a social worker. Same MO. Both victims had their skulls removed without sustaining any major damage to the bodies or skin.

  “Did they find more messages?”

  Benson nodded grimly. “Castitas and Humanitas.”

  Chastity and kindness. The opposite of lust and envy. The virtues of a nun and a social worker.

  “Fascinating,” Cyon said, his voice bristling with intellectual curiosity. “There appears to be a new monster in town. And he seems to have an appetite for the skulls of the city’s most saintly citizens.”

  5

  Once upon a time, the city’s sports stadium used to seat eighty thousand screaming fans. Back then, the Cursed City was still riding high from an extended economic boom. It must’ve seemed like the good times would never end. For sixteen glorious years, a pro football team called it their home. But times change, teams move. Nowadays, the stadium stood as an abandoned, eerie ruin. Plans to reuse the space had succumbed to city bureaucracy and a dearth of interested investors. Instead, junkies, runaways and the homeless had moved in.

  I swept the area with a pair of night-vision goggles. The place looked empty, but I knew better. After all, I had followed Archer here tonight. One doesn’t seek out an abandoned sports stadium in the middle of the night for sheer entertainment value. Archer being here could mean only one thing.

  Vampires had set up camp in the old stadium.

  It didn’t take much imagination to picture bloodsuckers hiding among the ghostly bleachers. The deserted stadium made for a perfect nest. So far, I hadn’t spotted any creatures of the night, but my scar was throbbing. Something nasty was here, even if I couldn’t see it yet.

  Truth be told, the gutted stadium made me a bit sentimental. I remembered vividly coming here a few times while my parents were still alive, and then later with Skulick.

  Nothing lasts forever, I thought grimly. Everything succumbs to the tides of time. Friendships. Love. And ultimately life itself.

  “You know, you’re starting to depress me, Raven.”

  “Would you be so kind and just stay out of my head?”

  “So you can focus on stalking that poor woman?”

  God, I missed my old life. Privacy had become a thing of the past. Cyon was the roommate from Hell–literally.

  “I’m not stalking Archer.”

  “You sure could have fooled me. Every night you follow her around the city like some lovesick puppy, lurking in the shadows, hoping she might need to be rescued from a big, bad vampire. And every time, she does just fine without you.”

  “One day she’ll walk into something that is too big for her to handle on her own. And that’s when I’ll be there for her.”

  “I suppose there’s a fine line between a creeper and a guardian angel.”

  Could Cyon be right? Was my concern for Archer just a poor excuse to stay close to her? Then again, Archer wasn’t roaming around an abandoned sport stadium at this ungodly hour because she was hoping to squeeze some urban exploring into her busy schedule. My former lover was on a quest of atonement.

  A few weeks back, I had saved her life by giving her vampire blood. She had transformed into a creature of the night and had gone on a bloody rampage. I had ultimately managed to cure her condition, but not before she took the life of another police officer. Making matters worse, the whole terrible spectacle had been caught on the cop’s body cam and was broadcast online.

  Her humanity restored, Jane Archer had realized she could never return to her old life as a homicide detective. To millions of online viewers, she would always be the crazed vampire woman who had torn out the throat of a good cop. Now she had devoted herself to a new cause. Hunting vampires had become her mission in life.

  I worried about Archer. And by “worried,” I mean that I kept waking up in the middle of the night with visions of her being torn apart by vampires. Archer had succumbed to the dark curse once, thanks to yours truly. I didn’t intend to let history repeat itself.

  “If you ask m
e, your ex can handle herself”.

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  As annoying as he was, Cyon was also right. Archer was a badass. She had proven this on more than one occasion. Still, hunting vamps was a little different than chasing down serial killers or criminal masterminds. I had trained with Skulick for years before I finally faced down my first bloodsucker.

  “You can’t argue with results,” Cyon chimed in. “Skulick said vampire attacks are on the decline.”

  Damn it, the demon had a point. Despite my misgivings, I had to admit that she was a natural at this game. The blood rain had reversed the vampiric curse in most of Marek’s undead followers, but some were too far gone to ever reclaim their humanity. Those lost creatures, delirious with an unholy hunger for human blood, roamed the rundown outskirts of the city, preying on the weak and lost. Archer had taken it upon herself to hunt them down, one at a time.

  I understood why she was doing it. I knew all too well how therapeutic monster hunting could be. Killing demons and other paranormal horrors could keep the nightmares at bay. At least for a short while. You only had to be careful not to get yourself killed in the process.

  Truth was, I cared for Archer. And I worried about her new calling.

  That’s why I had trailed her car all the way to the abandoned sport stadium and why I was now scoping out the place with my night-vision binoculars.

  It had nothing to do with how much I missed the sound of her laugh or the smell of her perfume.

  I had followed Archer at a good distance, worried she might realize I was trailing her. Unfortunately, I had lost sight of her in the process. She had to be here somewhere, but I was having trouble spotting her in the cavernous space. The binoculars swept the gutted bleachers.

  Nothing. No Archer—and no vampires, either. Perhaps Archer’s lead had been wrong. Maybe vamps had hidden out here in the past only to move on.