Judging by the abrupt way the call had ended, the Crimson Circle must’ve spotted her. Did they suspect or care that someone might have overheard her last words?
Didn’t matter. Didn’t change anything for him. He knew what he had to do.
As he slipped behind the wheel of Benson’s car, his stomach churned with a strange anxiety. The thought of Archer in danger bothered him. Raven’s feelings for the woman had rubbed off on him. You couldn’t share a body and mind with someone for as long as he had done and not pick up some of their quirks and peculiarities. Had he still been possessing Raven, this interrupted call would have been grounds to rush to the church. Fortunately, Cyon was able to keep a cooler head. Even though echoes of their bond remained, he was in charge now. A rescue mission wasn’t his priority. He was after Morgal. And that meant he needed to let the Crimson Circle complete their ritual and conjure their demons. Only once Morgal was in a human host could he kill his former master.
And what happens after you destroy him? What’s the next step?
That was the kind of question Raven would ask. Initially, when Cyon had first crossed paths with the monster hunter, he had harbored plans to take over Morgal’s throne. Now he wasn’t so sure that returning to Hell was on his agenda.
What would he do next? His whole existence revolved around his revenge. To be honest, he hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond the final confrontation with Morgal. And considering that he probably wouldn’t survive the encounter, that was for the best.
Cyon eyed Benson’s watch. Fading sunlight danced over the Rolex. From Benson’s memories, he knew the man had saved up money for a long time to afford the expensive timepiece. Cyon wasn’t intimately familiar with the brands of the twenty-first century, but he could tell that his new host had style and taste. Benson’s suit was perfectly tailored and fit his well-maintained physique like a glove. The shirt was a fine silk and felt good against his skin. A pleasant change after Raven’s casual, grab-whatever-looked-clean approach to fashion.
A frown furrowed Cyon’s brow as he looked at the watch. It was barely six o’clock. Based on experience, the occult auction wouldn’t happen until the sun went down. He had a little time—enough to run one more errand. His guns could mow down the fanatics, but he needed Demon Slayer if he wanted to stand a chance against his former master.
He reached Raven’s base of operation thirty minutes later. He knew all the security codes and ways around the wards, so neither electronic nor magical safety measures posed a problem for him.
It was strange being in the loft without Raven or Skulick. He weirdly felt like an intruder. He shook off the feeling and headed for Skulick’s desk. Demon Slayer rested in a leather scabbard on its surface.
He studied the sword for a beat and then walked past it into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and downed the cold brew in quick gulps. The alcohol relaxed his host body’s muscles, easing some of the tension. Benson’s constant panic ebbed slightly, which made it easier for Cyon to think about the battle ahead.
Morgal was the most formidable enemy he could imagine going up against. Even arming himself with a magical sword felt like poking at a dragon with a toothpick. He tossed the empty beer bottle aside and resisted the temptation to keep on drinking. Alcohol couldn’t affect demons, but as long as he hitched a ride in a human host, he was a slave to their physiology. Going into battle drunk wouldn’t be doing him any favors.
He stepped back up to the demon killer blade. His fingers closed around the bone hilt. There was a final beat of hesitation before he liberated the sword from its sheath. The blade reflected the light in the loft, and the grip felt warm to the touch, the rune-engraved steel humming with power, almost as if it was aware of the battle it would soon be fighting.
Time to face the beast, he thought.
Cyon placed Demon Slayer back into its scabbard and headed for the underground garage where Benson’s Charger was waiting for him. He picked Benson’s mind and learned how to look up an address on the man’s phone. Destination set, he pulled out of the garage, on his way to the church of doom.
As he blew through city streets, his features remained locked in a determined mask. Cyon was once more a warrior heading into battle—likely the last fight he would ever face.
He paid no mind to traffic laws or speed limits. He was a demon with a badass sword and a detective’s badge. Traffic laws meant nothing to him. No mortal was going to fuck with him today.
Cyon did not ease his foot off the gas until he pulled up in front of the church. One quick look told him he had come to the right pace. Luxury cars abounded, looking glaringly out of place in this sad excuse of a neighborhood. Nervous looking chauffeurs sat in the expensive rides, waiting for their clientele to return while they wondered what all these rich folks might be doing inside an abandoned, boarded-up church.
Cyon got out of the car, head held up, jaw set, sword in hand. Demons registered stress differently from humans, but once they were in a human body that all changed. His stomach churned as if he was walking toward his own execution—which, all things considered, might not be that far off the mark.
He unholstered his Glock as he stepped toward the church’s entrance. He spotted three guards at the door. They were still scrambling to bring up their weapons when he squeezed the trigger. Three bullets exploded from his pistol, and the men went down without firing a single shot.
He had wondered why the cult would choose an abandoned church for their meeting. Darkness oozed from the structure and hung over the church like a force field. There was history here. A story of pain and suffering and lives ended too soon. Cyon found he was eager to add more to their number. The church clouded his own thinking, amplified his feelings of hatred and rage, making him feel drunk with evil. It swept away any notion of using stealth or tactics. There was only vengeance. The demon was fully in charge now.
The man he might have been once upon a time, had long become a faded memory.
Tonight, he was death incarnate, the grim reaper himself. There was no more fear, only a fierce joy. Seeing the first men drop had whetted his appetite for more. He couldn’t wait to crash their little party inside.
Couldn’t wait to stare down at his old master along the blade of Demon Slayer.
Sword up, Glock out, he kicked open the door.
He burst into the church and froze at the phantasmagorical sight awaiting him. A landscape of contorting bodies and writhing serpents had transformed the nave into a nightmarish hellscape. The hissing reptiles slipped around the terrified attendees of the auction and burrowed themselves into their chosen hosts. And there, bound to a pentagram behind the altar, was Jane Archer.
Raven would have experienced fear and disgust at the sight. He would have run to Archer, heedless of the danger. But the demon took it all in stride. Death and suffering were normal to someone who had spent centuries in Hell.
Advancing, he almost slipped in the red pile of gore under his feet. A quick glance revealed similar red splotches of organic goo around the struggling congregants. These flesh puddles had to be what was left of the cult members. They had used their bodies to bring the demons into this world. What devoted fools!
One by one, the possessed humans shifted toward him, eyes shimmering red. Their forms were surrounded by writhing and hissing serpents, physical manifestations of Morgal’s closest lieutenants. Cyon hated these bastards. Before he could unsheathe his blade and dispatch them back to Hell, a voice spoke from the shadows.
“Look who honors us with his presence. Welcome, my traitorous servant.”
It was Morgal. Filtered through human vocal chords but unmistakably his master. The archdemon was already here.
A strange calm fell over Cyon. He was ready to face his former master.
Or so he thought.
But when Morgal’s human incarnation peeled from the encroaching shadows near the altar, even Cyon gasped in surprise.
The sight shattered the haunted church’s viole
nt spell over his mind. Morgal had chosen his human avatar. Standing at the altar was none other than Skulick…but the eyes in the man’s face belonged to the archdemon.
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How brilliant. How unfortunate.
The two thoughts cycled through Cyon’s mind like a cursed mantra.
Talk about a masterful chess move. Morgal had chosen the body of the one man Raven would refuse to strike down to serve as his vessel here on Earth.
Had they still been fused at this point, this is where they would have turned on each other. Raven would have wanted to save Skulick at all costs, willing to sacrifice their victory to protect his friend and mentor. But Morgal wasn’t the only demon full of surprises. Cyon had selected a new host for this final battle. The monster hunter wasn’t here to hold him back. Although Cyon felt no pleasure at having to kill Skulick, he would do what must be done.
His drew his sword.
Nothing has changed, he told himself. Nothing.
But deep down he knew that wasn’t completely true. He now understood why the soul orb had shattered a few weeks earlier before the forty-eight hours had run their course. At the time, Raven had believed the cult had stopped Skulick’s heart, but the real reason stood before him. Morgal must’ve seized control of Skulick’s body at that very moment, shattering the tentative link between the man’s body and his soul.
Cyon frowned, momentarily puzzled. How had the Crimson Circle conjured Morgal without his grimoire? There was only one explanation: the other two copies of the Daemonium. Two books of great magic would be sufficient to bring Morgal to this world, especially since he was a willing participant and engineer of the ritual. Now that the Crimson Circle had the third book, the archdemon’s inner circle was following their leader to this plane of existence.
“You look pensive,” Morgal said through Skulick. “Is this not the reunion you expected?”
Cyon refused to answer. Better to not verbally engage the enemy. You opened your mouth, and before you knew it, you let the beast into your mind.
“Have you come to beg for forgiveness, traitor?”
This time Cyon’s resolve faltered. “Do I look like I’m begging?”
A demonic smile stretched over Skulick’s features.
“Not yet,” Morgal said coolly and launched into the air. He landed in the middle of the nave, less than ten feet from Cyon’s position. Morgal’s demonic lieutenants started to form a circle around them. They all wore human faces, but Cyon recognized the monsters lurking beneath the masks. Their black auras filled the air. He counted at least twelve demonic disciples. No doubt Morgal planned to send them out into the world to plant their terrible seeds of evil, and Cyon realized that far more than his vengeance was at stake.
Cyon and Morgal circled each other, eyes locked. Servant versus master, demon versus archdemon. To Cyon’s surprise, his master carried no weapons. Was he planning on facing Demon Slayer unarmed?
“Things are not quite what they seem,” Morgal said, plucking the words straight out of his mind. “You think I didn’t know about your little plan?”
Cyon gritted his teeth. Everything around him, from the preternatural calm of these demonic minions and the fact that Morgal was inside Skulick, suggested his master had played him for a fool from the start.
“Do you think it’s an accident that Raven saved you from Marek? I abandoned you to the vampire-demon. I was testing your loyalty. From the start, I knew every step you made, every thought you shared with the monster hunter. You were my man on the inside.”
And with these words, Cyon’s forearm erupted in agony. His eyes widened as he spotted an undulating shape under the skin. Benson’s skin popped open in a spray of red, and a small, eel-like creature burst forth and flew toward Morgal’s outstretched hand.
The archdemon grinned and caressed the tiny serpent like a pet. It let out a squeal of delight and burrowed into Morgal’s arm, a child returning to its home.
Horror gripped Cyon. All this time, a part of his master had been inside of him, recording his thoughts, watching his every move. And that meant Morgal had known about his plan from the beginning. But something still didn’t make sense. Why allow Cyon to retrieve Demon Slayer and bring it to the church? The archdemon was susceptible to the blade. If he ran it through Skulick host body, the demon inside would perish. So why was Morgal putting himself in danger and taking unnecessary risks?
The answer was simple: Arrogance.
“Not arrogance. Confidence,” Morgal explained. “And a desire to set an example. In case one of my dear loyal lieutenants should ever dare challenge my authority in the future, I want all of you to see how I reward betrayal.”
He leaned toward Cyon, eyes dripping with venom. “I took you in, a damned soul adrift in an ocean of suffering and pain. I made you a demon, gave you status, power, a role in my world. But that wasn’t enough. Perhaps it was a mistake to remake you in my image. Perhaps I succeeded too well. Serving as a knight in my army of darkness, ceased to be enough as the centuries rolled on. You wanted more.”
Cyon rolled his eyes. “Are you done? I grow weary of your endless words.”
“Alright, traitor, give it your best—”
Cyon’s sword lashed out at Morgal, cutting him off in mid-sentence. The archdemon easily sidestepped the attack, the blade slicing thin air.
Cyon whirled and slashed again at his former master in a series of quick attacks that would have felled most enemies. Not Morgal. He nonchalantly weaved around the flurry of strikes as calm as some enlightened Buddhist monk on a morning stroll. The sword ripped over his head, dipped between his limbs, missed vital organs by a fraction of an inch without ever grazing the target. The archdemon was a wraith, a fast-moving mirage, close enough to taunt Cyon but always out of reach of his demon-slaying blade.
After a few minutes of this, Cyon paused, his face coated in perspiration, the sword growing heavy in his hand. His muscles throbbed with effort, while his enemy hadn’t even broken a sweat.
“I’ve served the darkness for millennia, my dear Cyon. Did you think you and that relic could pose an actual threat to me? I’m beyond the power of your blessed steel.”
Cyon refused to accept defeat. He tapped into a reservoir of energy and spun the sword toward his enemy.
More vicious blows followed. More misses.
It felt like Morgal was barely moving, yet he still dodged every lunge and strike with balletic grace.
“I made you. And now I will break you.”
Just try, Cyon thought and defiantly swung his sword at his master for the umpteenth time.
This time Morgal caught the blade in both hands and pulled it right out of Cyon’s grip. With a smile pasted on the human face he now hid behind, Morgal flung the sword aside. Then he rammed his fists into Cyon’s stomach. One pneumatic blow after another, a devastating barrage of punches that drove him back. The crowd of demons watched, eyes shiny with excitement.
Cyon stumbled, but Morgal’s punches kept coming. Bones cracked, and blood sprayed. Less than a minute of this punishment was enough to bring Cyon to his knees, and still Morgal did not stop. A few more blows, and his gore-soaked face kissed the ground.
He exhaled scarlet, his eyes already swelling shut. His host body was done for. Would he have fared better with Raven? At this point, what did it matter? He lost. Morgal won.
Had he truly ever believed there could be another outcome to this battle?
Use the sword, you bastard, Cyon thought. Finish me!
There was nothing left for him now but extinction.
Morgal leaned over his broken and bloodied form.
“You crave the darkness, my little demon. Oblivion. But I won’t let you slip away, traitor. I will make you relive this moment for all time. Every demon in Hell will whisper about your fate in hushed tones.”
And with these words, Morgal dug his finger into Cyon’s back, his hand disappearing inside flesh as if he was a ghost.
Pain like none he had ever exp
erienced before seized him. He cried out in unbridled agony, his scream echoing against the vaulted ceilings of the church. And then he felt Cyon’s fingers in his body, probing, searching, pushing against muscle and tendons and bone, reaching all the way up his spine and into his brain and finding the essence at the core.
He had found Cyon’s soul.
With a violent jerking motion, Morgal pulled him out of Benson’s body. He felt his spirit being yanked out of the fragile human shell. Benson twitched beneath him, reduced to a useless bag of bruised flesh and broken bones.
Morgal held his astral body up by the throat, his limbs dangling limply like those of a scarecrow. There was no real weight to his current physical form, and it didn’t obey the laws of physics in the same way a human body would.
“Welcome to your new world of pain and suffering, old friend!” Morgal hissed as he flung Cyon’s astral form through the air.
He landed on the ground, a circle of demons watching the events in a rapt, fascinated silence. Before he knew what was happening, three sigils erupted on the floor.
A binding circle.
Cyon stumbled against the perimeter of the circle and was thrown to the ground again. Trapped. He was back where it had all started with Marek. A demon imprisoned in a binding circle, reduced to live as a pale shadow of his former self.
No!
“Yes, Cyon. You are trapped—again. How does it feel?”
Cyon clenched his jaw and stealthily stole a glance at the wooden pentagram. Archer was no longer tied to it. His face lit up with a flicker of triumph.
While he had duked it out with Morgal, another part of his mind had been scheming. While Morgal dodged strike after strike, they’d drawn closer to the altar where the three reunited copies of the Daemonium sat, shimmering with an eerie light. The volumes had become a new book, but it contained his grimoire in its DNA. He had hoped that by getting closer to the tome, he could tap into the book’s magical powers, but he had soon realized it wouldn’t happen. His grimoire was part of something grander and far more complex now, and he had failed to access its power.
Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 7-9 (Shadow Detective Boxset Book 3) Page 23