Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset)

by William Massa

A woman’s voice drifted through the air, barely more than a whisper.

  My eyes narrowed as I peered into the darkness. A young woman stared back at me with haunted eyes. It took me a long moment to recognize her. This was one of the missing campers. The horrors of the last few days had eroded her youthful good looks; the drawn, emaciated features before me were just a shadowy reflection of her once-stunning beauty. The poor girl hunched on a chair, hands secured behind her back with thick, ugly vines that had sprouted from the ground.

  Cynical bastard that I am, I hadn’t expected to find any survivors. I lowered my weapon and took a step toward her.

  I was almost upon the hapless victim when a sharp pain once again tore into my chest. My scar burned as if the demon’s biting nail were piercing my flesh right now, rather than ten years ago.

  I froze and my face grew cold. I knew what this meant. I knew what I had to do.

  I raised Hellseeker.

  Leveled it at the terrified, traumatized woman in the chair.

  And pulled the trigger.

  2

  Reality sped up the instant I unleashed the wrath of the blessed weapon. The helpless expression on the woman’s face gave way to a cold glare of unbridled hatred. Her restraints vanished into thin air as she hurled herself to the ground. The move saved the witch’s unholy life, but she wasn’t fast enough to completely avoid my bullet. A piercing shriek, more animal than human, echoed through the cabin—Hellseeker had found its target. Black blood exploded from the witch’s arm moments before the cabin’s shadows swallowed her.

  My pistol is a formidable weapon in my ongoing battle against all things that go bump into the night. But it’s not enough for Hellseeker to graze a supernatural foe. A shot to the head or heart is needed to put an end to a creature of darkness. I’d wounded the witch, but she was far from being defeated.

  In other words, all I had managed to do was tick off Mercy Blackmore. Great.

  An invisible force seized me and a wave of deadly cold slammed into my chest, taking my breath away. I knew all too well what that meant. The witch had cast a spell on me. The only reason I was desperately gasping for air instead of exhaling my internal organs was due to the protective pentagram-shaped ring on my finger, the Seal of Solomon. Another helpful tool in my battle with the forces of darkness.

  I’m no wizard. When I first embarked on my quest to hunt monsters, I’d naturally toyed with the idea of mastering magic. Why not, right? If you comb through tome after tome of arcane occult knowledge, you have to wonder if there might be a way to put it all to good use. After all, you have to fight fire with fire, right? Wrong! Only a fool would dabble with such forces, as Joe liked to remind me all the time.

  You play with fire, you’re liable to set the whole goddamn world ablaze.

  If you’re lucky.

  To quote my mentor once again, “Magic corrupts, and black magic is an express ticket to Hell.” Human nature and magic represent a recipe for disaster. Even if you start off with the best of intentions, odds are good that using magic will eventually corrupt you—or get you killed.

  I’d faced enough mad sorcerers in my day to know this to be true, all of them fallen idealists who’d succumbed to the dark siren call of unholy power. There were no good wizards outside fairy tales—or at least I hadn’t made their acquaintance yet. Our primate brains are poorly equipped to handle the high price that comes with such power.

  That said, only an idiot takes a knife to a gunfight. Mastering spells that bend reality may be a sure shot to becoming a big bad, but using magical artifacts to battle monsters is another story. Without Hellseeker, my protective ring and my other weapons, I wouldn’t be much good in a fight against a bloodthirsty vampire or ravenous shapeshifter.

  Pistol blazing, I scrambled away from the menacing silhouette.

  Even though I was still among the living, I felt like I’d gone a couple of rounds in a vicious MMA bout. A bulletproof vest can save your life, but the bruises sure as hell will keep you from catching a good night’s sleep for days afterward. Magical defenses are a lot like that. The Seal of Solomon, for example, could ward off one or two magical attacks, but the ring would soon become useless under a sustained assault.

  I had to defeat Mercy Blackmore before she cast another spell.

  My mind went blank as the witch lurched at me from the darkness. No trace of the human mask remained now. The creature was the stuff of nightmares. Bloodshot eyes leered back at me from a ghostly white face cratered and crumpled by the passage of time. Gray hair clung to the pale scalp in heavy, dirt-caked clumps. Thankfully, layers of tattered black rags covered the witch’s grotesquely distorted body.

  She pounced. I stifled a curse as stained, razor-sharp teeth tore at my outstretched arm. I fell, and Hellseeker went flying.

  Fantastic! A two-hundred-year-old granny from hell was trying to kill me, and I was unarmed.

  Not good. Not good at all.

  Mercy Blackmore pinned me to the floor, her fingers sprouting long nails that would have made Wolverine envious. I rolled aside, and not a second too soon, as those razor-sharp claws plunged into the moss-covered floor where my head had been a mere moment earlier. The witch-demon let out a guttural roar of frustration.

  She was really pissed now.

  I guess that made two of us.

  Blood roaring in my ears, I stumbled to my feet and combed the floor for my pistol. I had a feeling that if I remained without it, I wouldn’t walk away from the witch’s next attack. Luck favored me and I spotted Hellseeker just five feet away. I dove for the weapon and held back a cry of triumph as my fingers closed around the blessed ivory grip. Better not to tempt fate with a victory dance.

  Adrenaline pumping, I spun around, gun ready and…

  Found only the empty cabin waiting for me.

  A beat later, a nearby window shattered as the witch fled through it. I resisted the impulse to unload Hellseeker into the encroaching darkness. Each bullet was precious. Wasting my ammo so I could feel like a badass was unacceptable.

  Despite being hit, Mercy Blackmore was as dangerous as ever—if not more so. Nothing fights as viciously as a wounded beast.

  I sucked in a deep gulp of air and made my way toward the shattered window. Peeking through the jagged maw of glass I scanned the creepy stand of trees, which stretched out behind the cabin.

  A trail of black blood showed me the way Mercy must’ve gone. The witch was hurt, angry, and gathering her strength for the inevitable counterattack. My scar pulsed and throbbed dully, reminding me that this battle was far from over.

  Through the window I went.

  Once outside, I took a couple of hesitant steps, my eyes adjusting to the gloom. Where was the witch hiding?

  There was something odd about the skeletal trees just ahead. For a surreal moment, they looked like distorted human forms.

  I gasped.

  Something was staring back at me from a hollow in the nearest tree. A human eye flicked back and forth, shiny with mad terror. My heart sank as I studied the cove of trees more closely. Further inspection confirmed my worst suspicions. I had found the missing campers.

  Cursing the wretched monster responsible for this, I approached the first tree. No wonder the branches had reminded me of arms—at one point in time they’d actually been human limbs.

  Jesus.

  Blackmore’s infernal magic had stripped the unfortunate souls of their humanity, fusing flesh with wood. Being drained by a vampire or mauled by a were struck me as a preferable fate to this slow, torturous decay. Growing fury threatened to cloud my thinking.

  This is why Blackmore had led me into her horror garden. The witch must’ve anticipated my reaction, knowing how the grisly sight would throw me off. Anger can be fuel during a battle, but getting emotional always leads to mistakes. The witch hoped to rattle me so I’d slip up. I wasn’t going to oblige. After all, this wasn’t my first rodeo with evil.

  “Please, help me,” whispered a voice.

&
nbsp; Did the witch really think I would fall for this trick again? But something was different this time. My scar didn’t react. Whoever was calling me, it wasn’t the Blackmore Witch.

  I scanned the ground and saw a dirt-streaked face looking up at me. To my surprise, I recognized her. It was the same young woman the witch impersonated back in the cabin.

  Hope bloomed.

  Please, just let me save one.

  She’d been buried in a shallow grave. No, not buried—planted. I knelt before the woman and started digging like a madman. Roots had enveloped her body but hadn’t fused with her skin yet, the transformation evidently beginning its first phase. From the looks of it, I had arrived just in the nick of time.

  Pulling out the demon-slaying dagger I’d acquired in India six months earlier while hunting a murderous werepanther, I began sawing away at the roots. Sweat poured down my face and I choked at the salt of my own perspiration. Muscles stretched taut, I was able at last to pull the woman out of the ground.

  Initially her wobbly legs failed to support her weight, but with time her body would recover. Whether her mind would follow was another story. Her lost gaze suggested that she was in deep shock; a little girl trapped in a nightmare.

  I retraced my steps from the woods, half carrying the dazed girl. My desire to pursue the Blackmore Witch was not as pressing as getting this young woman to safety. As we neared the edge of the unholy grove, one of the trees spoke. It was the one I’d first noticed, and that single, panicked eye was now fixed on us.

  “Blaire?” a strangled voice asked, just audibly.

  The young woman at my side shuddered. “Eric,” she whispered, burying her face in my shoulder.

  My stomach clenched as she gave a name to the hapless soul caught in mid-transformation between man and tree. I suddenly recalled more about the most recent missing campers. They were a couple: Blaire and Eric.

  I bit my lip as the full horror sank in. The witch had wanted Blaire to witness her boyfriend’s slow transformation, knowing that once Eric’s suffering was over, she’d be next.

  Unbridled hatred welled up inside me. The witch fed off the terror and despair of her victims. I was itching for a rematch now, eager to make her pay for what she’d done.

  I would get my chance soon enough.

  “Please…kill me,” the voice inside the tree begged. I knew help had come too late for poor Eric. I raised Hellseeker, aimed it at the tree hollow, and pulled the trigger.

  One shot was all it took to end the camper’s hellish suffering.

  The tree blackened and its branches crumbled to dust. Seconds later, only a pile of ash remained.

  Blaire’s body heaved with tears and she feebly struck at me, distraught. I tried in vain to calm her. I’d put her boyfriend out of his misery, and she instinctively hated me for it.

  I never said monster-hunting was an easy gig.

  A cackle echoed through the forest. The Blackmore Witch, her laughter mocking my efforts.

  A ripple passed through the rows of trees, and the other transformed campers jerked into motion. One by one, the tree monsters pivoted toward us, an eerie phalanx of wooden golems coming to life.

  I cursed under my breath as Blackmore’s haughty laughter intensified around us. There were seventeen of the monsters. Hellseeker held only fifteen bullets—and I’d already used half of them. Even if every one of them was a kill shot, we’d still be outnumbered five to one. The wooden killers under the witch’s control would easily overrun us. We had to get out of here. Now. I fired at the two closest tree-beasts and they collapsed into piles of dust the way Eric had.

  Legs pumping, I ran back to the shelter of the cabin, Blaire at my side. She kept pace with me, moving with an urgency that surprised me. The woman was a survivor. Despite all she had endured, she wanted to live. Thank God for small miracles.

  Back inside, I slammed the door shut and pulled a heavy wooden chair in front of it. It wouldn’t stop the tree golems, but it might slow them down long enough to buy us a few precious seconds.

  I surged toward the nearest window and fired into the night. Two more of the incoming monsters dropped. Two fewer golems to worry about, but I was also down two more bullets. How long could I hold them back? I feared it was just a matter of time before they tore us to pieces. Unless…

  My eyes widened. Pale beams of moonlight lanced the cabin’s broken window, revealing the stone fireplace that dominated one wall. A metal cauldron hung suspended within it.

  I took my first step toward the fireplace just as the tree-golems slammed against the front door. Blaire jerked and whimpered. Dread also held me in its tight grip, but I refused to give in to my emotions.

  I reached the fireplace and examined the cauldron more carefully. As expected, the cauldron was hot to the touch despite the fact that no fire burned beneath it. A quick survey revealed strange glyphs and markings across the pot’s surface. Inside, a red liquid bubbled, heated by some supernatural source of energy.

  The moment I touched the cauldron, images popped into my mind. Another side effect of the mark on my chest. Ever since the demon-inflicted injury, I can pick up psychic impressions from certain objects and even see the spirits of the deceased. In my vision, I saw a group of kids in the cabin, their laughter echoing in my head. It was a psychic glimpse into the past. Soon, I knew, their joy would transform into abject terror, but right now they still believed they’d live forever.

  It must have been cold in the cabin. The girl shivered and hugged her shoulders. While the young men goofed around, she knelt by the hearth and tried to start a fire. She heaved the cauldron aside, grimacing. As she flicked a lighter over a meager pile of sticks and moss, she let out a sharp curse. Blood was dripping from a scratch on her palm, where the jagged lip of the cauldron had grazed her skin. The blood sizzled as it struck the flames…

  I pulled back from the iron kettle as if stung, shaken by the power of my vision. Damn!

  I now understood what had happened here. The campers’ efforts to warm the icy cabin had brought forth an ancient evil. This cauldron was Mercy Blackmore’s link to our world, and the girl’s blood had acted as a ritual sacrifice to call her forth. If I could break this connection, maybe the witch’s spirit would return to whatever hell she’d dwelled in for the last few centuries.

  Blaire’s scream thrust me back to reality. My eyes widened as the door exploded off its hinges. A swarm of tree golems invaded the cabin. Moving swiftly, they circled our position in an ever-tightening band of approaching death.

  I turned Hellseeker away from the incoming attackers and leveled my pistol at the cauldron. Vibrations rattled the floor and the Blackmore Witch’s shriek of dismay reverberated through the cabin. Judging by her reaction, she knew what I was going to do.

  About time this bitch realized just who she was messing with.

  My lips twisted into a dark grin as I aimed my magical gun at the cauldron and fired.

  Hellseeker’s bullet slammed into the iron cauldron, and for a beat, all the glyphs lit up with a fiery red light. The air hummed with supernatural power as a series of cracks webbed the pot’s surface. Then the cauldron shattered—and so did the circle of tree golems around us.

  Outside, the Blackmore Witch’s wail of dismay died down, her deadly reign over the forest broken. The temperature was still below freezing in the cabin, but the world already felt like a warmer place.

  3

  The forest had lost most of its menacing quality when we made our way back to my car. The unnatural gloom had lifted, sunlight once again shining through the foliage. The sound of chirping birds filled the air. Even the trees looked healthier and less stunted by the choking vines that had thrived in the unholy aura of the witch’s cabin. With the dark spell shattered, the world was reverting back to normal.

  The same couldn’t be said for Blaire. We didn’t speak as we walked, both of us too exhausted for small talk. The poor girl kept stealing furtive glances back and forth, as if each new sound from th
e forest were fraught with danger. I didn’t judge her. She’d experienced horrors beyond the imagination of most people.

  I had parked my black Equus Bass 770 about half a mile away, in one of the dirt spaces near the trailhead. The jet-black, two-door modern-day muscle car sported a supercharged 640 HP V8, could reach top speeds of 200 mph and boasted a 0-to-60 miles-per-hour time of 3.4 seconds. The vehicle channeled the beauty and ferocious power of the legendary muscle cars of the ‘60s and ‘70s, drawing inspiration from the old Ford Mustang fastback and the Dodge Challenger. This baby would make even Batman or James Bond jealous.

  Blaire shot me a panicked look when I opened the passenger door.

  “It’s alright,” I said. “I’m just giving you a lift to the nearest police station.” The words seemed to ease her concerns somewhat, and she reluctantly took a seat in my car. I had saved her life, but I was still a stranger to her. A stranger who battled nightmares. Not exactly the type of guy you’d want to go on a joyride with.

  I slipped behind the wheel. A number of wards and protective sigils had been etched across the vehicle’s tinted windows. Any supernatural entity trying to breach my wheels would be in store for a nasty surprise. My gut told me we were in the clear, but you never know. The forces of darkness have a way of catching even the most seasoned monster hunter off guard.

  I started the engine and eyed Blaire. “I know you’ve been through hell and back, but you’re safe now. I promise.”

  My words failed to ease the tension from her body. I couldn’t blame her for not trusting me. I wasn’t exactly a knight in shining armor. Battling demons took its toll in more ways than one, and in me the cracks were showing. Let’s just say I didn’t look like someone you’d want to run into in a dark alley—or a brightly lit street, for that matter.

  My beard gave me an intimidating quality, which was further enhanced by my well-worn, tattered trench coat. Heavy bags usually lined my eyes, and my smile lines appeared deeply etched in the milky gray daylight. I was twenty-nine going on forty. My brown hair showed signs of white, especially in the sideburns, and I guessed that my little dance with the Blackmore Witch added a few more silver strands to my growing collection. Quick monster hunter fact: melatonin levels are affected when supernatural entities try to skin you alive. Who knew?