Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 7-9 (Shadow Detective Boxset Book 3)

by William Massa

  “Sold.”

  A moment later, she took her first sip of Ronny’s brew and jerked wide awake, but for all the wrong reasons. This stuff could’ve knocked out a vampire.

  “Good shit, huh?”

  Archer nodded with a plastic smile, praying Ronny’s cocktails tasted better than his coffee. Then again, judging by the clientele of this dive, they only cared about the alcohol content of the drinks.

  He waved at her to follow him to a nearby table where they could have some privacy. The two old-timers pretended to read their papers, but Archer sensed they had been hanging on every word.

  Once seated, Archer cut right to the chase. “So you got something for me?”

  “I’ve heard whispers about the old abandoned Assembly of the Saints Church. Some folks have spotted strangers scoping out the church.”

  Archer cocked an eyebrow. A church seemed like the least likely place on Earth to hold an occult auction. She sighed. This lead was turning into a dead end. The former CI continued, clearly aware of her doubts. Ronny might’ve never gone to college, but his emotional intelligence was off the charts.

  “You’re not buying it huh? A cult wouldn’t choose an old church for one of their social events, right? But hear me out. One of my regulars told me the other night that a group of dangerous looking men is now guarding the church, and they’re packing. I think something is about to go down.”

  Archer shook her head. “I will look into, but as you said yourself, a church seems like a weird choice for a group of devil worshippers.”

  “That’s because you don’t know the full story about this place.”

  Archer frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  Ronny’s voice became a low whisper. “The church has a history.”

  Archer considered the statement for a beat. “I know they turned the church into a nightclub at some point. What was the place called again? Club Link, right?’

  Ronny nodded. “That’s right.”

  “Didn’t the club shut its doors about five years ago, around the time we first met?”

  “The good old days.” Ronny grinned, then his expression turned deadly serious. “That’s not what I was talking about, though. There was a shooting at the church twenty years ago. The priest had started an affair with a married woman. Husband got wind of it and showed up with a rifle during mass. Killed his wife, the priest, and himself. After a tragedy like that, it’s hard to pick up the pieces. The murders tainted the place, and the bishop decided it was best if the church closed down.”

  Archer mulled this over. “That was way before my time as a cop, but I remember hearing about the murders.”

  Ronny wasn’t done yet. “The church shut down. A building like that, in a rundown section of the city, you would think it would become a haven for druggies and squatters. And it did at first. But rumors spread that the dead priest and his murderer haunted the church. Five years ago, someone finally took a chance on the property. Some nightclub promoter snapped up the place and turned it into Club Link. In the beginning, the place was a hit. But all too soon, one tragedy after another hit the place. Drug overdoses, a few rapes and stabbings, plus a performer fell off a stage and broke his neck. Soon the crowds stopped showing up, and the owners gave up. It’s been empty since then. Everyone in the neighborhood avoids the place.”

  “I can’t blame them,” Archer said.

  “Here comes the best part. I spoke with a local priest, Father Martinez—you know him? There have been rumors that when the church shut its doors after the murders, they forgot to deconsecrate the property.”

  “Oh shit,” she breathed. As a Catholic, Archer knew the consecration ritual turned a manmade building into a house of God. Deconsecration did the reverse, removing a blessing from a holy place and turning a church back into a secular structure.

  “I see you didn’t skip Sunday school. You know what I’m talking about. The place never stopped being a church when they opened the club. They transformed a holy place into a drug-infested den of debauchery. Probably pissed off the man upstairs.”

  Archer doubted it. Skulick had taught her about how hotspots for black magic energy were created. Between the tragedy and turning a holy place into a cesspool, the church must’ve attracted the forces of darkness. Suddenly, the church seemed like the perfect place for the Crimson Circle to throw their latest shindig. Archer had to check out the site as soon as possible.

  “I think you sold me on this idea, Ronny. Thanks, man.”

  She slipped him a hundred dollar bill, but he pushed it back at her. “How many times have I told you that your money isn’t good in here? Now, a kiss? That’s a different story.”

  Archer smiled and shook her head. Ronny was a charmer, but she had no interest in him romantically. She planted a quick one on his cheek and got up. “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you. I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t kicked my butt and thrown a pair of cuffs on me five years ago. If you ever feel like doing that again...” Ronny grinned ear to ear.

  Archer shook her head. “Hey, watch it now.”

  “I’m just kidding. I know your heart beats for someone else. Just be careful. Those guys sound like bad hombres.”

  “They are. But I can handle myself.”

  “Don’t I know it, girl.”

  Archer walked out of the watering hole. The brilliant sunlight outside made her blink after the darkness of the bar. She straddled her motorcycle and cranked up the engine.

  It was time to go to church.

  14

  Cyon surged through the bustling precinct and never looked back. Controlling a new body felt odd. He disliked abandoning Raven, but his former master had left him little choice. He had to stop Morgal before it was too late, and fighting his way out of the station inside his old host would have been a suicide mission for both of them. He doubted the heavily armed cops would have let Raven saunter out of the building.

  A vision of the monster hunter’s bullet-riddled body flashed into his mind. Yes, this was the better option for everyone.

  So why did he feel guilty? He was a servant of darkness, a demon from Hell. He didn’t owe Raven anything. The young man had been one more instrument in his quest for vengeance, a chess piece he’d played to the best of his abilities until his opponent forced him to give it up. The monster hunter meant nothing to him. He had always been a means to an end…hadn’t he?

  Cyon clenched his new host’s jaw. This was ridiculous. He was headed into the most dangerous battle of his life, and he was wasting time dwelling on a mortal. The old Cyon would have discarded Raven without a second’s thought. But as much as he hated to admit it, the last few months had changed him. Possessing Raven for so long had allowed him to reconnect with the man he had once been. The witch Bavmara had claimed his mortal body, heart and soul, and ultimately served him up to Morgal, sealing his dark fate and turning a former hero into a monster. He’d spent so long in the dimension of darkness that he’d almost forgotten the light.

  His partnership with Raven had changed everything. It had given him another chance to be a hero. Now, even if Morgal destroyed him in the coming battle, the Duke of Hell could not claim his soul. He’d broken free of his Dark Lord. He’d never be a saint, but neither would he serve the darkness.

  Possessing Detective Benson was a walk in the park compared to the ongoing struggle to wrest control away from Raven. Benson never knew what hit him and had offered no resistance as Cyon usurped his mind. It helped that unlike Raven, Benson didn’t sport any protective talismans. Neither had he been marked by Morgal or mentored by the world’s leading monster hunter and demonologist. Benson was a good cop—Cyon could glean that much from the man’s memories—but he presented no match for a demon.

  The detective hadn’t vanished completely; his panicked thoughts were a distant echo bouncing around the recesses of his own mind.

  “Sorry, Benson, you’ll get your body back as soon as this is over,” Cyon told him.

  H
e doubted Benson drew much comfort from this promise. The man was desperately clinging to his sanity. Being taken over by a demon could have that effect on mortals. To be honest, Cyon was dubious they’d make it through the night in one piece, but he felt it was best not to share this insight with his new host. Poor Benson was having a hard enough time as it was.

  What a fool he’d been to think Morgal would sit by idly while his enemies plotted against him. And now Morgal’s followers had Demon Slayer and his copy of the Daemonium, weapons he needed to stand a fighting chance against the archdemon. Fortunately, Morgal’s weakness was his arrogance, and Cyon planned to exploit this to the best of his abilities. Sending his servant to the precinct so she could bask in his victory was a mistake Morgal would come to regret. There was still time to foil his plan during the upcoming auction. Cyon hoped his old master would be foolish enough to show himself during the event. He was both terrified and eager to confront the fiend. But first, he needed weapons.

  Luckily, he found himself in a police precinct.

  Tapping into Benson’s brain, he located the evidence room and the armory. Benson put up little resistance as he plucked the information out of his mind. The detective was way in over his head—literally. To his surprise, he felt sorry for putting Benson through this. But he had no choice. He couldn’t exist on the physical plane for an extended period without a human host. He needed a flesh-and-blood body to operate in this world, but for Raven’s sake he would try not to damage the detective.

  Some demons could manifest on Earth, but it required a great expenditure of energy to do so. That’s why the cult had selected the most powerful people on the planet to become unwilling hosts for Morgal’s demon horde. As much as he hated Morgal, he had to admit the archdemon had cooked up a masterful plan to expand his influence in this world. The actions of his followers would feed power back to the dimension of darkness, allowing Morgal to take what he had always believed to be rightfully his: the throne of Hell. War was coming to Earth and Hell unless he could stop the fiend.

  Cyon shook his head. When this all started, he’d dreamt of taking Morgal’s place in Hell. Now he only cared about saving the world that had once been his own. He would stop the archdemon’s plan and make Morgal pay for what he’d done to him and Raven. And after that? It was a waste of time to speculate what waited for him after Morgal’s defeat, in this world or the underworld. The odds of him walking away from the upcoming confrontation were slim to none.

  Pushing all these thoughts aside, he focused on the more immediate challenges. He needed to arm himself and find his enemy. The first part would be straightforward—after all, he was in a police precinct. The second part might prove more challenging. How was he going to find Lamia?

  Kovan Crull had kept the existence of his daughter from the world. A wise move, all things considered. The crime boss’s followers had all perished when Skulick and Raven thwarted their plan two years earlier, so none of them would be able to spill her secrets. If Raven hadn’t known of her existence, neither had the cops. Still, there might be old associates of Kovan’s who never joined his cult but knew of the mobster’s daughter. Skimming Benson’s mind, he learned that the police database might produce a few names. These leads would be long shots, and it would take time to check them out—time which he didn’t have, damn it. But the database was still his best option.

  Mind made up, Cyon headed for Benson’s desk. As he took a seat, he marveled at how meticulously the detective kept his workspace, in contrast to Raven’s less organized approach.

  I could get used to this, Cyon transmitted to his host. Sensing Benson’s sharp protest, he added, Just kidding. But I like your style, Benson.

  The detective grew silent, and Cyon scanned Benson’s brain again for the computer’s password. A beat later, he tapped in the code and accessed the crime database. A lovely collection of sociopaths and miscreants filled the screen. Cyon quickly located a few Russian gangsters who used to be in Crull’s crew. He memorized their names and addresses.

  A sudden sound behind him made him swivel around in his office chair. Detective Orlando had snuck up on him and met his startled gaze.

  “What are working on, detective?”

  After a beat, Cyon said, “Just checking out a lead on a new case.”

  Now that sounded like something Raven would say. The kid had really rubbed off on him. Hearing his words filtered through Benson’s voice felt surreal after speaking through Raven for all these months. He studied the detective and concluded the man was here to gloat.

  “So, what do you have to say for your boy Raven? I always told you he was a freak who couldn’t be trusted,” Orlando said smugly.

  “Whatever happened to the idea you’re innocent until proven guilty?”

  “For crying out loud, didn’t you see the security footage from the warehouse?”

  “Security files can be manipulated, you know that. It’s the twenty-first century.”

  “He attacked you in the interrogation room less than ten minutes ago!”

  Cyon was starting to get annoyed with this human. “A misunderstanding,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Jeez, I still can’t believe you’re unwilling to face the truth when it’s staring you right in the face. Raven played you for a fool all this time.”

  You’re the only fool I see around here, Cyon thought. He wasn’t used to bottling up his feelings. He might have turned his back on the darker aspects of his demon persona, but he still didn’t like to play nice. In Cyon’s mind, he saw his palm snap out in a vicious karate chop and drive Orlando’s nose all the way into his brain.

  But he resisted the impulse. The man was a first-class jerk—and a distraction. He had way bigger fish to fry and needed to save his strength. Still, he was surprised at how much it upset him to hear this imbecile speak ill of Raven. That was his job. Had Cyon actually come to like Raven?

  His eyes narrowed as he addressed Orlando, his voice tight.

  “Time will tell what really happened. Now if we’re done here, I’m going to get back to work.”

  Orlando shook his head in disgust and backed off. Good riddance, Cyon thought. His focus returned to the names and faces in the crime database. He memorized several additional mobsters he hoped to pay a visit. Next, it was time to get some guns. He didn’t plan to walk into the lion’s den unless he was packing some firepower. Cultists, unlike monsters, were vulnerable to conventional weapons. He would slaughter them all if he had to. The mere thought filled him with a mad joy, and Cyon realized that his demonic nature was still alive and well. Raven had changed him but not altered his essential nature. Yes, blood would flow tonight, but he would make sure every soul who perished under his hands deserved it. The members of Morgal’s fan club had earned their express tickets to Hell.

  Tapping into Benson’s knowledge of the precinct, he made his way into the evidence storage area. As he navigated the police headquarters, he exchanged greetings with other officers, never looking lost or out of place.

  Once inside the evidence locker, nobody eyed him with suspicion. Why would they suspect he was about to help himself to the arsenal? Upstanding Detective Benson surely had a good reason to be examining the guns, weapons, and confiscated drugs that lined the steel shelves. Cyon snatched a machine pistol and a smaller handgun. He didn’t know much about the specifics of these firearms, so he let Benson’s knowledge guide him, selecting weapons which could pack a punch. He helped himself to enough ammo to start a little war and headed for the precinct’s underground parking lot.

  Once there, Cyon located Benson’s unmarked Dodge Charger, and moments later, he was fighting his way through traffic. Cyon reviewed his mental list of Crull’s former associates. He would find them and grill them, and hopefully one of these assholes would steer him toward Lamia. The sun was already setting. Time was running out.

  The first name on the list was Vladimir Pashenka. A former enforcer of Crull’s who had gone on record that he had never been
part of Crimson Circle. However, one look at the man’s illustrious criminal file suggested he wasn’t exactly a friend of the truth. Perhaps he hadn’t joined Crull on his mad crusade, but maybe he had known of the cult leader’s daughter. She called herself Lamia Crull now, but she hadn’t been raised with the Crull surname.

  According to Benson’s near encyclopedic knowledge of these scumbags, Pashenka ran a Russian bathhouse downtown. The place offered more than massages and hot baths to its clients, employing a bevy of Russian beauties as escorts.

  Part of him hoped that Pashenka would put up a fight. The thought of impending violence thrilled Cyon. After centuries of serving Morgal in the dimension of fear, reconnecting with his human self wouldn’t be easy. Especially since his demon nature could never truly be erased He was a monster. But today he was the monster willing to fight bigger and badder beasts.

  Cyon pulled up to a brick and stone building, parked Benson’s Charger, and got out. He entered the building, eyes alert. The three men who fronted the reception area were busy telling jokes in Russian. They looked up at Benson and grew still as their expressions filled with recognition. Benson was no stranger to these punks. They knew he was a detective, and their guard went up even though no one reached for the firearms hidden under the reception desk. They saw a cop, not a demon.

  Their first—and last—mistake of the day.

  Cyon wordlessly brought up the handgun and fired. Raven would have never allowed him to kill so indiscriminately, but the monster hunter wasn’t here to reign in the beast. Each bullet found its target and the three men went down in a rain of red.

  Like a machine, Cyon passed the dead bodies and marched into the bathhouse. Female laughter drifted toward him. He paused for a beat, then rounded the corner and glimpsed a tall, regal woman shaking her ass for the delight of the businessmen watching her. Lust stirred in him. He killed the impulse, focusing on the task ahead. His shoes clicked against the wet tile floor, the sound muffled by the rush of gurgling water from the nearby showers and his form obscured by steam.