I vaguely remembered Skulick once mentioning that Sister Dubois had suffered from a bad heart all her life and had received a transplant years ago. It seemed that her failing heart had been replaced with the crystal relic.
The realization galvanized me. I had to reach Sister Dubois before Malcasta did. Before she tore the heart from the nun’s chest.
I lurched and heaved my way toward the witch, each step fraught with excruciating effort as I fought my way through the swamp-like floor. Meanwhile, Malcasta drew inexorably closer, a spider homing in on its prey.
Blood roared in my ears, my muscles protesting as I desperately pressed onward.
“Doesn’t the heart whisper to you, Sister? Don’t you hear it calling out to you in your dreams?”
Sister Dubois lifted her chin. “I choose not to listen to its evil, witch. I serve only God. Go ahead. Tear this black heart out of me, but it will never be yours. Others will come, and they will destroy you the same way they destroyed your mother.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ice crept into Malcasta’s voice as she added, “You have served your maker well. I believe it’s time you made his acquaintance.”
Malcasta snapped her clawed fingers, and a beating, organic heart—the Ice Witch’s heart Skulick had scooped up from the pyre before it crystallized—erupted from Sister Dubois’ chest in an explosion of bone and gore. For one long beat, the Mother Superior just stood there, eyes wide with shock, and then she slumped forward in a string-cut sprawl.
The still pounding heart slick with blood hovered in the air for a second before it zoomed toward Malcasta’s waiting hand. It landed on her open palm and turned into a blue crystal. Blue-red spirals of energy enveloped the witch’s skinned face.
I was debating if I should make one desperate attempt and hurl Demon Slayer like a spear at the witch. If I missed, I would be unarmed. The thought was still going through my head when a crackle of energy erupted through the broken stained-glass windows, and multiple bolts of lightning forked into the church. Sizzling energy slammed with destructive force into Malcasta.
The five remaining monster nuns spun toward the source of the lightning as their mistress crumpled and let go of the witch’s heart. The crystal scattered across the floor.
I sensed more movement from the shadows as tendrils of energy wreathed around the chapel’s statues. A beat later, the winged angel sculptures erupted to life and launched themselves at the monstrous nuns, their stone wings slicing the air.
As the witch-nuns fell, my gaze spotted a figure that had materialized at the center of a sparkling blue nimbus of power. It was none other than Damona. She faced her sister, her eyes electrified with magical energy.
The witch war was about to begin in earnest.
10
SKULICK’S LOFT, ONE HOUR EARLIER
Archer’s eyes flicked from Skulick’s blank stare to the inverted Y etched into his forehead. A witch’s mark, as Father Cabrera had explained to her.
One of the exorcist knights raised the monster hunter’s eyelids and shone a penlight into his eyes. Joe Skulick’s pupils showed zero response. But this wasn’t a medical problem. Judging by the heat radiating off her Witch Whip, black magic accounted for Skulick’s coma-like condition.
Archer’s heart sank. She had clung to the hope that Raven (or at least the demon inside of him) had lied to her about the state of Skulick’s soul. The old man had come to mean a great deal to her over the last few weeks. He had provided guidance and a willing ear when she needed both the most.
The day she regained her humanity and grasped what she had done as a vampire, everything in her world had changed. She could never go back to her job as a police detective, never return to her old life. Every time she looked at herself in the mirror, she saw the ravenous beast from the police body cam video that had gone viral. It didn’t matter than she hadn’t been in control of her body at the time. She would have to live with the guilt of what she’d done for the rest of her life.
Skulick understood what she was going through, understood what it meant to lose your humanity and become something evil. He knew how hard it was to pick up the pieces afterward. And now he was gone. If Raven was right, witches had snatched Skulick’s soul and less than forty-eight hours remained to reunite spirit and flesh before the separation would become permanent.
Did this parade of horrors ever end? God, how she wished to have her old life back—working homicide seemed like a walk in the park compared to the war against the darkness.
She pursed her lips and turned away from Skulick. Her eyes found Father Cabrera instead. Despite the salt-and-pepper hair and deep lines around his eyes, Cabrera’s expression projected strength and resolve. He might be in his mid-fifties, but he was in peak physical shape, a necessity of his chosen calling.
Archer wasn’t sure about the warrior-priest. He wanted to stop Raven at all cost, and to an extent, Archer agreed with him. A possessed paranormal investigator was a liability in the war with the forces of darkness. The difference between the holy soldiers of the White Crescent, the Vatican’s elite squad of demon fighters, and Skulick and herself was one of degree. They fought the same enemy for similar reasons, but where Cabrera only cared about ending the demon inside of Raven, no matter what the cost, Skulick was hoping to save his protégé’s soul.
Deep down, Archer was hoping for the same thing. She and Raven never seemed to catch a break, but part of her still believed that one day they’d get the chance to explore the spark between them. But Raven kept drifting further away. Who in their right mind joins forces with a witch to stop a greater evil?
Raven might have convinced himself that he was straddling the line between light and dark, but Archer had her doubts. She recalled how she had deluded herself while she was a vampire. Granted, Raven’s possession was different, but she had witnessed his inhuman fury back at the cemetery when they fought the ghoul.
Even though Raven still fought monsters, he had become one himself. The way she saw it, Raven was on a slippery slope. His willingness to team up with a witch—a servant of darkness—wasn’t an encouraging sign.
“What do we do now?” Archer asked a pensive looking Cabrera.
“I’m leaving a few of my men here to guard Skulick. I don’t think it’s a good idea to move him in his currents state, at least not until we know more.”
Archer nodded. They were on the same page there. Until they understood Skulick’s condition, it was best to keep him in a safe and a familiar place.
“It’s a miracle the witches didn’t steal the artifacts stored in the vault upstairs,” Cabrera noted.
“They only wanted Skulick’s soul,” Archer replied.
Cabrera nodded, stepped up to Skulick, and held up the Cross of Light, the magical talisman that served as his primary weapon in the war against Hell’s infernal legions. The silver cross ignited with a spectral light, revealing the glyphs and runes etched into its rough-hewn surface.
“It is surely black magic,” he said. “Whether these witches truly took Skulick’s soul or put him in some magical coma remains to be seen. We need to find Raven, and we need to find the coven.”
Archer agreed even though she was on the brink of exhaustion. Only a few hours had passed since their insane battle with the ghoul, and she would have killed for a hot shower and a warm bed. But rest, as usual, would have to wait.
Yawning, Archer took a seat in an armchair and watched Cabrera and his men do their thing. Judging by the exorcists’ tired expressions, they shared her weariness. Only Cabrera seemed to be unaffected, his energy boundless as he combed the loft for clues. After about a half an hour of this, Archer’s impatience got the best of her.
“Have you found anything?”
Cabrera pointed at the large television showing a local news program. “Perhaps.”
According to the closed captioning, someone had murdered three women in three different major American cities by burning them at the stake.
“I believe
this attack is connected to one of Skulick’s old cases,” Cabrera explained. “He might have known these witches were coming after him.”
“So you think this is about revenge?” Archer said.
Cabrera grew silent. He was holding something back from her. The head exorcist liked to play his cards close to the chest. In that way, he was a lot like someone else she knew. What was it about the monster-hunting game that turned all men into emotionally closed-off control freaks?
“What are we going to do next?”
Cabrera cocked an eyebrow. “We?”
Archer had expected some resistance on the exorcist’s part and had already steeled herself for this conversation. “I want to work with you guys on this one.”
“Not a good idea.”
“And why is that?”
“I’m aware of your past relationship with Raven—”
“And that’s why you need me,” Archer said, tapping her temple with a finger. “I know how he thinks.”
Cabrera considered this, clearly still unconvinced. His stubbornness infuriated Archer, and she exploded.
“Damn it, Cabrera! Skulick means a lot to me. And so does Raven. We can work together, or I go after them on my own. What will it be?”
After a beat, Cabrera let out a resigned sigh and locked eyes with her. “Under one condition: You do what I tell you to. I know you think you’re a badass monster hunter, but you’ve been doing this for only a few weeks. I’ve been at this for a lifetime. I will treat you no different from any of the exorcists under my command. I’m not putting my team in jeopardy so you can save an ex-lover. Is that understood?”
Archer nodded. She thought that she was beginning to understand Cabrera. His men were faceless soldiers to her, but they had names and histories. A good number of the men under Cabrera’s command had perished back at the cemetery, and he was taking every casualty to heart. As the team leader, he was responsible for their lives. To Cabrera’s mind, he had failed his people—and he didn’t want Archer’s death on his hands.
Good thing she didn’t plan on dying today.
The priest rounded up his exorcists and moved toward the elevator. Archer followed him, and asked, “Where are we going?”
“The Convent of St. Paul.”
Cabrera quickly told her about the connection between the murdered women and Skulick. They had defeated the Ice Witch many decades earlier, and her evil heart had been placed in the care of the convent. Cabrera believed the spell-slingers might be after the Ice Witch’s heart and wanted to make sure the cloister had all the additional protection they needed. Archer had more questions about this black magic relic, but Cabrera turned away from her to issue orders to his men.
Archer sighed and trailed after Cabrera’s team, aware of her outsider status. She was the only woman here. It was like being a rookie cop all over again. She also didn’t sport the silver crescent necklace of the order. The symbol held a deep symbolic meaning to the team of exorcists—as a crescent-shaped moon struggles to illuminate the night, so did the order labor to bring light into the darkness of the world. It sounded like a bunch of crap to her, but if the exorcists felt better for having it, then she wouldn’t complain.
The men regarded her suspiciously as she got in the Hummer, obviously surprised that Cabrera was letting a former vampire tag along for the ride. The exorcists didn’t even try to hide their disapproval. No doubt they were aware of the crimes she’d committed while under the dark spell of the master vampire’s blood.
As the vehicle lurched into motion, she tried to block out the team’s probing gazes as best she could. Their interest waned after the first few minutes, which was fine with Archer. She wasn’t trying to win a popularity contest. She was only here because she wanted to help Raven and Skulick.
She pressed her face against the Hummer’s window. Snow whirled outside and was piling up in high drifts, turning the gray cement white, while lightning webbed the sky. There was something beautiful about the icy downfall’s purifying power, but she could not take any joy from it. How could snowfall and lightning coexist? This freaky storm didn’t have a natural meteorological explanation. Black magic changed all the rules. It had ruined her life, but she wasn’t going to let it claim the city she had sworn to protect.
Archer was about to scan her smartwatch for news stories about the surreal storm when she realized her timepiece had vanished. Impossible! She had checked the time a few minutes ago.
Confused, Archer leaned down to search the floor between the seats in case it had fallen off somehow. Nothing. The smartwatch was simply gone.
Following a hunch, her hand slipped into her pocket and came up empty. Her cell had disappeared too!
A frown furrowed her brows. No way she could have misplaced her cell. In fact, she had listened to her messages as they had pulled out of the loft’s parking lot.
She turned to Cabrera in the Hummer’s passenger seat. The silver cross had ignited with a yellow light. Judging by the exorcist’s expression, this was bad news.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“The weather, the storm—it’s black magic. The witches have already cast a spell, and it’s changing this city.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look outside!”
She peered out of the window and gasped. They were hurtling through the commercial district of the metropolis, but something was wrong.
And then it hit her. All the jumbotron screens in the city center, which advertised the latest movies and fashion, had gone dark.
Not dark, Archer corrected herself. They had vanished into thin air, as if they’d never been an iconic part of the city. Even the stock ticker that tracked the markets day and night had disappeared.
Archer swallowed hard. This was bigger—and weirder—than anything she had ever dealt with before. They needed Raven.
11
The air ignited with mystical energy as the two witches faced each other in the chapel. Damona coolly regarded her sister, crackling blue tendrils of mystical energy enveloping her robed form like a living shield.
Malcasta clicked her nails and the animated angel statues exploded, raining the chapel in debris.
Nearby, the monster nuns who hadn’t been struck down by Damona’s wrath avidly observed the stand-off between the estranged sisters. I watched too, mesmerized by the intensity of this twisted family reunion.
Damona and Malcasta circled each other like wild jungle cats, their bodies coiled, the air thick with witchcraft. Once upon a time, these two adversaries had been bonded by blood and their devotion to the Dukes of Hell. Their relationship changed when Malcasta turned against her coven and swore allegiance to the Flayed Prince, blazing a twisted new path. A path that had brought her to this chapel, to this moment in time, to this confrontation.
Malcasta’s lips curled into a grin. “Have you finally seen the light and decided to join us, my dear sister?”
Damona regarded the monster nuns with unflinching contempt. “Your followers are as misguided as yourself, sister, and you will lead them to their doom. You’ve betrayed us all!”
“We were betrayed first.”
“You’re delusional.”
“Am I, now? Where were the Dark Lords during the centuries of persecution? How many witches perished during those terrible days? And for what? So we could end up hiding in faraway forests and caves, mad from starvation, praying some stray hiker might accidentally come our way to feed our aching bellies? How can we serve the darkness by dwelling in shadows? We can no longer hide from the modern world.”
Damona’s full lips twisted into a scowl. “You assume to know the will of our masters. We exist to serve the Dark Lords as they see fit.”
“I serve no one except myself.” Malcasta’s voice shook with emotion.
The air sizzled with an insect hum that rapidly built at the edge of my awareness. A pounding headache grew behind my ears. The magic was affecting me on a physical level.
“The Lords
of Darkness have a plan for us,” Damona insisted.
“I’m changing the plan.” Malcasta’s gaze flashed with fierce determination. The chapel started to shake.
Damona held her ground, but I noticed a glint of fear in her eyes. She knew all too well how powerful her sister was.
“You can still join me,” Malcasta said. “I spared you once. I won’t extend you that same mercy again. You cannot succeed where the coven failed. Step aside or face the consequences.”
Malcasta’s words hung in the air, the tension palpable. Violence would soon follow. I had to do something. I focused my attention on the Ice Witch’s heart, which Malcasta had dropped when Damona first attacked. The blue crystal glimmered in the gloomy chapel, the waves of light beckoning me. If I could get to the heart before Malcasta did…maybe I could still salvage this fiasco. It was a long shot, but it sure as hell beat doing nothing. I was tired of being a spectator in this unfolding drama. Time to act.
I took my first step since Damona’s arrival. Muscles stretched painfully, and I bit back a cry of frustration. At this rate, it would take me half an hour to cross the length of the chapel and reach the heart. I would never beat the witch at her own game.
I eyed Sister Dubois’ lifeless form. I had avoided looking at her up until now, unwilling to face my failure at protecting her. Cyon egged me on, guiding my gaze toward the fallen nun. He wanted me to see Malcasta’s terrible handiwork up close.
Wanted me to experience the same rage he did every time he looked at a witch.
Wanted me to tap into my dark potential.
His plan worked. Anger washed over me. The Mother Superior’s empty gaze pointed at the chapel’s painted ceiling, riveted in death on the angels, almost as if stunned that God had allowed her to suffer such a fate. How many good people suffered every day while that same God let monsters walk this Earth? Sister Dubois had chosen to give her life to protect others from its terrible influence. And what had her sacrifice gotten her?
Witch Wars (Shadow Detective Book 7) Page 8