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

by William Massa

  Imagine my shock when I spotted Skulick lurking at the far end of the antiseptic hallway, oblivious to the shouts of the other prisoners. He met my questioning gaze and waved me to follow him.

  My heart beat faster. I suddenly had a good idea how the cell door had popped open by itself. I instinctively touched my protective ring, the Seal of Solomon, the only weapon the cops hadn’t taken from me during my arrest. No way they could have pried that bad boy off my finger. I never took it off.

  And then it hit me. Cormac’s words rang in my mind: “The ghost may be using a personal item as an anchor. An object that meant a lot to you while alive and now allows him to bridge the great divide between this world and the next one.”

  It had to be the ring. The Seal of Solomon had belonged to my father. Skulick wore the talisman after his death and then gifted it to me when I had turned eighteen. It was a powerful weapon against the forces of darkness but also symbolized the bond Skulick had shared with both my father and me. The ring on my finger was the link that anchored my partner’s spirit to the world.

  And now Skulick was back, and he was helping me break out of jail.

  The other inmates couldn’t see my partner’s ghost, but they sure as hell noticed me striding down the corridor like I owned the goddamn place. The hoots and cheers accompanying my rapid exit were mixed with pleas to set them free. Sorry, fellas, I had no plan of turning my escape into the first act of Assault on Precinct 13.

  Hell, I was way too busy dealing with my version of Ghost.

  I picked up my pace, hoping to catch up with Skulick, but he vanished around another corner. By the time I caught up with him, he was gone. Instead I faced an open door which led to a staircase. A stunned guard stared back at me from the doorway and quickly went for his pistol. I guessed this is where Skulick’s help ended, and it was up to me to make a clean getaway. Nuts.

  I launched myself at the guard before he could draw his firearm. I hated beating a Boy in Blue, but I was getting out of here. My fist found the man’s chin as his fingers closed around the handle of his service revolver. Not a moment too soon. The punch landed perfectly and knocked him out with one devastating blow.

  I gasped as the hapless guard slammed into the floor. The whole cell block broke into applause. Christ, that had felt fantastic. All the tension, all the frustration eased out of me. I had needed a release like that even though I wished that it didn’t have to come at the expense of a poor bastard who was just doing his job. I promised myself I’d make it up to him if this story had a happy ending—which considering the incriminating evidence against me, seemed less than likely.

  I stepped over the downed guard and surged toward the stairs. I climbed the first flight, and I was going to continue in that direction when footsteps rang out above me and a cold gust of air whistled through the staircase. I spun around and saw the door I had just passed swing open. Apparently, Skulick’s spirit was still showing me the best and safest way out of here, and I figured I better follow his lead.

  Feeling my confidence grow, I barged through the door and briskly walked down another corridor. Man, this place was like a maze. At last, I emerged in the precinct’s underground parking structure, which was all too familiar to me from past visits. Sulick’s spirit fronted an unmarked police cruiser, a green Challenger. I doubted he had picked this ride at random. My suspicion stood confirmed by the time I reached the car. The door was open, and the key rested on the dash. The perfect getaway vehicle. And talking about getaways, Skulick had vanished once again.

  My eyes grew wide. The windshield needed a wash, and someone had drawn a short phrase into its dirty surface.

  Assembly of the Saints.

  A message from my partner.

  He was leading me to his body.

  Leading me to the enemy.

  And to the inevitable confrontation that awaited me.

  17

  Archer, tied spread-eagled to the inverted pentagram, faced the nave of the church. She groaned and clenched her jaw as she struggled against her restraints. The ropes around her wrists dug painfully into her skin and cut off the circulation. With a defeated cry of frustration, she stopped her struggle and slumped forward, spent both physically and emotionally.

  At least an hour must’ve passed since the cultists had broken into the changing room. The horror of that moment remained vivid in her mind. The image of the unexpected intruder was burned into her memory. Just thinking about it now sent renewed shivers down her spine. She still couldn’t believe it.

  Pushing aside those thoughts, she focused on the fresh horrors unfolding before her.

  The first high profile guests of the occult auction had begun trickling into the cursed church. These people projected wealth and prestige, the one percent of the one percent, the world’s elite. Fur coats, high-priced jewelry, designer suits, and Rolex watches defined this decadent gathering. Influencers, movers and shakers, and semi-famous trust funders. They heralded from all over the world, belonged to all races and creeds. What connected this eclectic group besides their stock portfolios and bank accounts was a shared fascination with the occult.

  What do people want who have everything? The answer was simple—the promise of a deeper meaning to their perfect lives. These folks had traveled the world and indulged in every earthly pleasure imaginable. The only thing that remained was that which lay hidden and shrouded in mystery. Here, the secrets of the ages could be bought for the right price. They were here so they could bid on unique relics and black magic items, and in the process possibly steal a peek behind the curtain of everyday reality. These people had grown bored of the world and wanted a taste of what lay beyond.

  Archer hoped they would choke on it.

  Some faces she recognized, while others appeared only vaguely familiar. There was the aging starlet who was hoping magic could turn back the clock, the computer billionaire seeking new ways to expand his empire, the thrill seekers determined to find their next challenge.

  Archer marveled at their foolishness. Black magic couldn’t be controlled, nor could it be bought unless you payed for it with your mind and soul. She doubted these people had even the vaguest understanding of these truths. They were spoiled children eager to play with fire—and they would get burnt, no doubt about it. She didn’t pity them. But she worried about the many innocents who would have to suffer the consequences of their insane actions.

  These people were used to wielding power and controlling their world. Born into privilege, they had always been in charge. But you couldn’t control the forces of darkness. The power of the dark side would turn on you, sooner rather than later. How many innocent lives would get caught in the crossfire?

  Archer met the curious gazes of the arrivals. The moment they spotted the striking brunette strapped to the giant wooden pentagram, their eyes lit up with sick excitement. They had traveled far and wide and expected a show. Archer didn’t know what the cult planned to do with her, but she was certain she wouldn’t like the answer. She was their prisoner, and the Crimson Circle wasn’t exactly known for their humanistic tendencies. What sort of occult auction would it be if there wasn’t a sacrifice?

  Her eyes ticked toward the striking woman who fronted the altar. What had the other cult members called her again? Lamia. Silver hair spilled down alabaster skin, giving the cult leader a haunted, preternatural beauty. She wore a red robe that matched the robes of the other cult members who had gathered around the crowd standing in the nave of the church. The cultists surrounded the guests, forming a circle.

  A Crimson Circle, Archer realized. Like eerie sentinels they observed the well-heeled arrivals. Moonlight lanced the nave, bathing the faces of the attendees and lending them an inhuman quality. Candles had been lit all over the church, further adding to the otherworldly ambience.

  They waited for the event to begin, fidgeting and whispering quietly to each other. Archer shared their impatience. She wanted to know what these freaks were selling as much as everyone else here. Wh
at horrors was the cult planning on unleashing upon the world?

  And would she live long enough to stop them?

  Once the nave was full, Lamia spoke up, her voice slicing through the mumbling of the crowd like a scalpel.

  “Welcome, my friends. Welcome to the Crimson Circle.”

  Dread welled up in Archer. She recognized the woman’s voice as the one from her dead cell phone.

  Lamia’s eyes radiated madness as she continued to speak. “You’re all here tonight because you share something in common. You’re the best of the best. Some of you were born into money while others made your fortunes. Despite all your accomplishments, you all felt the emptiness, the sense that there must be more to all of this than material wealth and earthly power. You were right. Are you ready to become more than you have ever dreamt of? Are you willing to take your first step into a far more mysterious world?”

  The ominous words hung in the air, resonating with this crowd.

  Archer bit her lips, dismay threatening to overwhelm her. She prayed Benson had received her message before the phone turned itself off. She had to believe that at any moment SWAT would break into the church and put a swift end to this madness.

  For now, all she could do was bear silent witness to the unfolding craziness.

  “You’ve all heard of our auctions and the wonderful items we have presented to you over the last few months. As our reputation has grown, so have your expectations. I assure you with all my heart they will be met tonight. Prepare to be amazed.”

  The crowd hung on every word from her lips. Reluctantly, Archer had to admit that whoever this woman was, she had a chilling charisma perfectly suited to this macabre event.

  “Are you all ready to receive the blessing of the Lords of Darkness, to embrace the left-handed path?”

  If the question caught anyone off-guard, they weren’t showing it. Everyone mumbled in agreement, swept up in the moment. Archer wanted to shout at them that they were fools, but it wouldn’t have done any good.

  “Then let us begin,” Lamia said.

  The woman produced three leather-bound books from her robe. She placed them on the altar, her finger sliding over the tomes in an almost sensual manner, stroking and caressing the pages.

  Archer swallowed hard. She recognized one of those books. It was Raven’s grimoire, the one he had taken from the ghoul Varthek. It had allowed the demon inside of him to perform magic. And if Raven’s book was here…

  With horror, she understood why he hadn’t answered the phone when she called him earlier. The Crimson Circle had gotten to him. She knew neither Raven nor Cyon would give up this book without a fight. Her heart sank, the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach becoming overwhelming. What had these bastards done to her man?

  The question in her mind was drowned out by the female cult leader’s next words.

  “Maybe you’re not all that impressed. Ancient books may not exert the same hold over the imagination as some other items we have offered in the past. I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. You are looking at the three copies of the Daemonium, united for the first time in centuries.”

  Lamia continued to caress the three tomes.

  “Each book on its own is filled with power and darkness, containing the names of the most fearsome demons from the dimensions of fear. Together, they will allow the user to conjure some of the most powerful beings into our reality.”

  The rapt crowd hung on the woman’s words, hypnotized by her promise of a universe filled with dark gods and demons.

  Idiots, Archer thought.

  “You may wonder why we chose a church to hold this gathering. Why invite the devil into a house of God?”

  The question hung in the air as the woman’s magnetic gaze swept the crowd.

  “Darkness can hide in daylight; demons can wear the faces of saints. Who would expect you fine people, the cream of the crop, the elite that the world looks up to, to attend an event like this? Who would ever suspect you to be the soldiers in an army of darkness? Your influence and power, your status and connections, will allow the minions of Hell to infiltrate this world and remake it in our master’s image.”

  Archer combed the crowd and recognized a new emotion among some of the attendees. A few, not quite as stupid or power-mad as the others, showed the first signs of doubt. These people were fascinated with the occult but hadn’t signed up for cult indoctrination. Almost as if realizing she had said too much, Lamia toned down the rhetoric.

  “You see three books, but there is only one Daemonium. The books were split apart to mock the Holy Trinity, and now they shall become one again.”

  Her words switched to a mixture of Aramaic and Latin, and the tomes ignited with a reddish light.

  “Makne, oktra septnoylka, ungantorah.”

  One by one, the robed red monks produced daggers and raised their right hands in an eerie power salute. With a dark devotion in their eyes, they each carved a red circle into their palms.

  It’s part of some ritual, Archer realized. They don’t plan on selling these books. They’re casting a spell.

  As blood dripped down their outstretched hands, the atmosphere in the church grew thick with power and anticipation.

  One by one the books ignited and morphed into a single grimoire.

  Lamia shouted more words in the strange tongue. “Amon, Totar, Lotherius…”

  Archer swallowed hard. Those weren’t words in a foreign language but names. The names of demons. She didn’t recognize them all, but a few jumped out at her. Skulick had insisted she brush up on demonology when he first entered her life. Trust me, in our line of work, it will come in handy.

  The air hummed and pulsed with infernal energy. The doubters multiplied in the crowd, and a new emotion gripped them—fear. Finally, these rich fools realized they were in over their heads. In their misguided minds, this wasn’t what they had signed up for when they attended the auction.

  Archer couldn’t draw any satisfaction from their burgeoning terror; she was too afraid herself. The light streaming through the church windows changed, becoming a dark crimson color, and enveloped the robed members of the cult. As soon as the fiery red energy touched them, they screamed, doubled over as if racked with agonizing cramps. Their red robes danced around their writhing forms and turned to liquid, garbing each of them in blood. The guests stared at them in shock. Archer could tell some of them were wondering if this still was part of the show. If it was, it had ceased to entertain them. Archer saw some attendees trying to retreat, but the church doors were locked. They were trapped, surrounded by red-robed fanatics foaming at the mouth as if they had all swallowed cyanide capsules a few seconds earlier.

  What horror had Lamia’s words unleashed?

  The female cult leader crumpled to her knees, blood trickling out of her widened eyes. But despite her evident suffering, there was an insane happiness in her face shared by the other cultists. Lamia twisted her trembling form toward Archer, lips curled in a mixture of agony and ecstatic pleasure.

  “Take me, master. Use my mortal flesh to enter this world and…”

  Her words broke off as more convulsions racked her body. Her mouth opened into a scream, her lips widening and widening until her whole head had become a giant orifice. Her body went into convulsions, started vibrating with agony

  Archer recoiled in horror as a giant serpent uncoiled from Lamia’s mouth. The reptile’ body sprouted barbs and dragged itself headfirst from her impossibly wide open mouth. Blood and mucus coated the leech-like creature, its fat head swayed like a cobra.

  The body of the cult leader collapsed, reduced to a boneless sack of skin and hair. A hiss cut through the church as the impossibly long scarlet snake slithered toward Archer with malevolent intent, leaving a trail of gore behind.

  Hoarse cries momentarily drew Archer’s attention to the other cultists. Serpents were emerging from all of them. The same horrific scene played out repeatedly.

  And then it hit her. Lam
ia had screamed out the names of twelve demons, and now there were twelve mutant serpents slithering through the church. The cult members had sacrificed their physical shells to manifest these monstrosities. But that was only the first phase of the horrific plan Lamia had laid out.

  The snakes slithered and hissed as the attendees of the auction tried to flee from the fast-moving reptiles. Their efforts were in vain as the serpents lashed out at them, coiling their slimy bodies around the struggling forms and slithering into their screaming mouths.

  Archer saw one serpent vanish inside the parted lips of a pop star whose popularity had waned as his hairline receded. As soon as the tail of the snake disappeared down his gullet, his cry of terror and agony transformed into laughter and his eyes turned a fiery red.

  It was happening everywhere. Snakes were invading the bodies of the auction-goers, taking them over and becoming the puppet masters of the fragile human flesh. The cultists had birthed these demons, and the well-heeled guests would be hosts.

  A loud banging sound drowned out the hissing of the serpents. Archer’s head whipped toward the church’s entrance. A newcomer had set foot in the devil’s church. Deep down, she had prayed it would be Raven who came to rescue her. No such luck.

  Standing in the open doorframe, facing a phalanx of newborn demons, was her old boss, Detective Benson.

  Shit, they were in trouble.

  18

  The Assembly of the Saints Church.

  Those had been Archer’s last words before her desperate plea to her former boss was cut off. Of course, she couldn’t have known that the man on the other end of the call wasn’t Benson any longer.

  Cyon stared at Benson’s cell for a beat. When no new call came in, he slipped it back into his suit pocket. He considered this latest development. Archer had tracked down the enemy. She was a crafty one indeed. Her police detective background continued to serve her well in her new monster hunting career.