One way or another.
The beast approached in staccato, jerky bursts of movement, crossing the full length of the nave in a split second almost as if he’d teleported himself across the length of the temple. Scarlet light played over the rows of horns sprouting from the monster’s head. Morgal’s lips widened into a grotesque smile, sharp teeth gleaming as he unleashed an obscene laugh that nearly split his deformed head in two.
I stared into the archdemon’s pitiless face, a gamut of emotions welling up in me. Hatred, fear, rage, and even hope. Hope that this would be the final time my path would cross with the Duke of Hell. Hope that I would finally get revenge. I hated this creature, who’d caused so much pain and misery in our world.
The last time I faced Morgal, he’d been inside Skulick’s form. That confrontation hadn’t been as terrible as this. I felt like I was drowning in the archdemon’s black aura. My feelings threatened to overwhelm me. It was as if I’d lost my parents thirty seconds ago, the trauma fresh and unfathomably painful. Morgal’s physical presence had ripped open an old wound which had never fully healed.
“So here we are. A lost boy and his pet demon ready battle the forces of Hell.” Morgal’s voice rolled out in a deep, sonorous blast of fetid air. “Do you truly think you’re up for the challenge?”
Cyon regarded his former master in icy silence, refusing to engage the fiend on a verbal level. Probably a wise move on his part.
Slitted eyes burned in Morgal’s pitiless, reptilian face. Tentacles writhed around the heavily muscled torso, painting a parade of shadows on the bone-covered floor.
I studied my friends. Archer stared in horror at the Duke of Hell, her face the color of marble. Only Cyon kept his cool. For an irrational moment, I felt like I was looking at Skulick and not the demon that had possessed him. There was something calming about having my old partner standing beside me during this showdown. Skulick would want to be here.
With an unwavering focus, Cyon held up the Daemonium and uttered a string of Atlantean words. A heartbeat later, the bone temple came alive as long dead souls stirred back to an unnatural life.
16
Cyon’s unearthly chanting rose in volume. Last time Cyon had only pitted his physical strength against Morgal—he had been unable to tap into his magic without the help of his grimoire. The rematch between archdemon and demon was unfolding quite differently. This time Cyon had the Daemonium’s infernal power at his disposal.
The temple shook violently, causing blinding bone dust to rain down. I tilted my head at the latticework of remains that made up the grisly ceiling. Scarlet light shimmered through the gaps, imbuing the skulls with a dark energy.
My eyes widened. It wasn’t just the light making the skulls seem alive.
One of the skeletons on the ceiling stirred and detached itself from the ivory canopy. Another followed. And another.
Cyon’s magic was breaking whatever spell had imprisoned the souls of the Atlanteans in this realm and turned them into the building blocks in Morgal’s hellish architecture. The dead were waking from their slumber.
And they were pissed.
Four skeletons reconstituted themselves and staggered erect. No joints held these creatures together, only black magic. The bone beasts radiated an orange light as they rippled toward Cyon, growing more coordinated with each step. Lacking muscle, they still projected strength and power, empty eye sockets alive with a burning fire, driven by a combustible mix of righteous fury and infernal magic.
Morgal didn’t seem all that impressed by the display. He whirled a blue fireball at the first group of attacking skeletons. The sizzling energy ball slammed into the bone men and pulverized them in a flash of brilliant light, reducing them to nothingness.
But more skeletons attacked, bony arms reaching out for the archdemon. They dropped from the ceiling like spiders, peeled from the walls like shadows come to life, a never-ending horde of the undead.
Morgal spun and pivoted, hurling one magical blast after another at Cyon’s army of the dead. As the volley found their skeletal targets, they detonated like bombs. The crackling bolts of hellish power swept the skeletons aside and tore them apart in explosions of bone and ash.
I inhaled the dust of their remains and gagged on a fine mist of bone fragments.
Morgal continued to cut a destructive swath through Cyon’s forces. The dead were no match for the archdemon, and the tiny spark of hope in my chest began to flicker out.Almost as if sensing my darkening mood, the Duke of Hell’s guttural laughter rang out. “I grow tired of these feeble attacks, slave! Bow before me and accept your fate.”
Archer and I watched the battle in hushed silence, two mortals bearing witness to a clash of titans. At this point, there was little we could do. Why had Cyon even brought me along for this mission? What role could I have to play in a confrontation between dark gods? Neither Archer’s Witch Whip nor my magical pistol would do much against a Duke of Hell.
The magic was taking its toll on my demonic partner. Perspiration dripped down Cyon’s strained features in thick rivulets, and his borrowed body trembled with the incredible power coursing through Skulick’s frame. He might be a demon, but he still occupied a mortal shell. We swapped glances. There was a knowing look in his eyes that I recognized. He had just realized this was a battle he couldn’t win. The resurrected skeletons were no match for the winged archdemon. But apparently this was only the first phase of Cyon’s master plan.
He rattled off another string of alien words. His chest heaved, and his vocal chords jerked as he dredged the words of dark power from his throat. Magic permeated the air, a sound like roaring flames throbbed and pounded in my head. The Daemonium glowed red. The leather-bound tome pulsed with barely contained power. The fiery red energy emanating from the book enveloped Cyon and incinerated his trench coat and shirt in a blinding flash, burning the clothes right off his frame without harming the flesh underneath.
Bare-chested now, Cyon loomed behind the altar, Demon Slayer in hand and red energy spiraling around him, making his skin glow. His eyes transformed into black slits as he brought the sword down on the skull resting on the altar. It splintered, and Cyon snatched a bone fragment from the shattered skull and drew its sharp edge across his torso. A line of blood oozed, and the swirling nimbus of light that had engulfed him changed color, scarlet turning a brilliant azure.
Cyon was drawing on the power of the dead Atlantean mage, I realized. Combining it with the magic of the Daemonium somehow…
Hope stirred inside of me again even though my doubts lingered. Could the crazy bastard pull this off?
A beat later, the pages of the magic tome burst from the grimoire again. But this time the pages didn’t turn into a hail of deadly projectiles. Instead, the liberated pages targeted the magic wielder himself. A tornado of swirling paper enveloped Cyon, wrapping around his bare torso, chest and arms, turning him into a mummy covered in magical script. Had the sorcery backfired? Judging from the panicked expression on Archer’s face, the same thought had crossed her mind.
And then the weird bluish light incinerated all the pages, reducing them to clouds of ash. The leather-bound cover exploded into motes of light and then vanished into thin air, erased by whatever spell Cyon had set in motion. The maelstrom around Cyon began to fade.
My breath hitched in my throat. As the aura evaporated around him, I realized the demon’s host body had changed. Tattoos now covered every square inch of the shirtless torso. Cyon looked like someone who had spent a year at a tattoo parlor. Shit, if Skulick ever got his body back, he wouldn’t be pleased.
As Cyon maneuvered closer toward the massive, seven-foot-tall archdemon, I made out the details of the intricate ink. Tiny script was etched across his skin like braille. In the harsh red light which bled into the temple, I could even read an occasional word in Aramaic or Latin. The inked spells lit up in red, green and blue light, their magic apparently now activated. Waves of light rippled over him and traveled up the sword in h
is right hand, charging the blade with incredible bursts of power.
Cyon had somehow merged with the Daemonium, turning his physical form into a living, magical weapon.
Cyon’s eyes flashed with determination. His whole body ignited with magical power as he spun toward Morgal. His sword cut through the air once, twice, hungry for his master’s blood, each time missing the Duke of Hell by mere inches. The massive monster moved like lightning, its size belying the creature’s incredible swiftness. Cyon matched his master’s speed and intensity, a force of nature himself.
His third strike with Demon Slayer penetrated Morgal’s side, sinking deep into the archdemon’s flesh.
The Duke of Hell unleashed a bellow, his giant wings flaring out. Sword lodged in his demonic hide, Morgal’s taloned paw lashed out at Cyon and raked inked skin. Blood sprayed as the blow knocked my demonic partner off his feet, and he let go of the sword.
I cursed, desperate to run into the fray and help however I could. The radiant light of Cyon’s new tattoos dimmed as he crumpled. On a logical level, I knew it was a waste of ammo, but I brought up Hellseeker and pumped round after round into the laughing fiend who had murdered my parents.
Goddamn it, this was my fight as much as it was Cyon’s.
I was about to slam the second magazine into my firearm when Morgal tilted his monstrous gaze toward me. A second face emerged in the reptilian flesh of his heavily muscled chest. A face that was all too familiar.
Skulick.
I grew stock still, all thoughts of squeezing off another round vanishing from my shocked mind. My partner’s soul, which Morgal had whisked into Hell during our last battle, was trapped inside the archdemon! Skulick writhed in pain, almost as if he had received the brunt of my magically enhanced bullets. His mouth widened into a scream that cut through the bone temple and rattled me to the core. The man who’d saved me from Morgal, who’d raised me like a father, was being tortured. And I had no idea how to save him.
“Soon your screams will join his, monster hunter,” Morgal promised me. “But first, I need to make this pitiful excuse of a demon pay for his insolence.”
I glanced at Cyon’s downed form. The tattoos shimmered with weak traces of bluish energy.
Morgal’s hand closed around the hilt sticking from his wounded side. With a spray of black blood, he withdrew the blessed demon-killing sword. The Duke of Hell now brandished Demon Slayer, a black aura enveloping the steel. And he was shifting his attention toward Cyon.
Despair washed over me, knowing full well what was going to happen next.
Cyon defensively raised his arm, the tattoos igniting once more, but it was too late. With a bestial roar, Morgal ran Demon Slayer through Cyon’s heart, killing Skulick’s body and destroying the demon inside of him.
17
My mouth opened in a silent scream.
Steel sliced through Cyon’s inked flesh like butter, the gore-smeared tip erupting from his back in a geyser of red. His limp body dangled from the sword held in Morgal’s monstrous claw like a pinned insect. The tattoos stopped glowing.
How could Cyon’s plan have gone so horribly wrong? Despite the grim odds, I had clung to the hope that Cyon might have an ace up his sleeve. I had been wrong. Morgal had murdered both my partners in one devastating attack.
It was over. We had fought hard. And lost.
Unleashing a terrifying roar, Morgal liberated the sword from Cyon’s body. The demon collapsed on the ground in a string-cut sprawl. All across the temple the remaining advancing skeletons stopped in their tracks and collapsed. The flow of magic had stopped with Cyon’s death.
I regarded the Duke of Hell, and the bastard flashed me a smug, self-satisfied smile, his mouth an obscene slit filled with fangs. Morgal had scored a major victory against his greatest enemy, and he wouldn’t let me forget about it.
I ignored Morgal and ran toward Cyon’s corpse. The eternal optimist in me hoped Cyon might still show a spark of life. Perhaps I could still save him. The lack of a heartbeat or pulse told a different story. Cyon—and with him, Skulick—was dead.
“You bastard,” I mumbled under my breath as I cradled my fallen partner’s head. Dead eyes stared emptily back at me. Archer crouched by my side, her expression ashen, a mirror reflection of my devastated state. Morgal’s giant winged shadow engulfed us. He still wielded the Demon Slayer sword, the steel slick with red-black blood, a reminder the blade was equally effective against demons and mortals.
“I know you hoped to return Skulick’s spirit to his body. But that was never a real possibility,” the archdemon taunted me. “Deep down, even someone as naïve as yourself had to know that.”
Morgal closed in. I could hear the blood dripping off the blade, inhaled the gut-wrenching sulfur stench radiating off the fiend’s hide.
“You fought bravely, Raven. Now it’s time for you to die. But first, I will slaughter this female. And there is nothing you can do about it. Nothing at all.”
My features twisted with rage as I jumped to my feet and rushed toward Morgal, uncaring of my safety, driven by raw emotion.
I planned to drive the Seal of Solomon into the archdemon’s face with all my might. I might die today, but I would make sure Morgal would never forget me. My magical ring wasn’t strong enough to cause any real, long lasting damage, but I hoped to scar him the way he had scarred me all those years ago.
I never reached the fiend. The Duke of Hell knocked the wind out of me with the broad side of the gore-streaked sword. The blow stopped me cold in my tracks. I shuddered, heaving desperately for breath. As I gasped, a shadow fell over my face. Morgal whipped one of his giant dragon wings toward me. The wing swept me off my feet and knocked me on my ass. I hit the ground next to a pile of bones. Hard.
I blinked groggily at the bones, recognizing it as one of Cyon’s reanimated skeleton’s that had succumbed to Morgal’s fireball magic. It couldn’t believe the pitiful remains had ever tried to attack the archdemon. I guess the same could be said about me at this point.
I was battered. Broken. Both physically and psychologically. My parents, Skulick, and Cyon. And, in a moment, Archer. Morgal was determined to take everyone from me.
I turned my head and was confronted with the wide-open, sightless eyes of the man who’d raised me. I shook with anguish, my guts heaving, my soul recoiling from the reality of what had happened. Despair burrowed into my heart, and in that moment, for the first time in my life, I gave up.
We had been such fools to engage Morgal on his home turf. We should have taken Archer back to the warehouse and returned to Earth to fight Morgal another day. What madness had possessed Cyon to pursue this suicidal plan? And why had I blindly followed along? Worst of all, I had led the woman I love into the hands of my greatest enemy.
I knew this was merely the beginning of my suffering. Death would not be the end for me. Not in this place. Not if Morgal had anything to say about the matter.
I registered a whistling sound, followed by a loud snap and a roar of irritation.
I immediately recognized the sound of Archer’s Witch Whip. After all, she was no damsel in distress who needed saving—she was a badass monster slayer in her own right. While I was laying on the floor feeling sorry for myself, Archer had decided to join the fight.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Morgal’s rage-filled expression which made his inhuman features even more terrifying. The flesh on his chest was smoking. Archer had got him good.
Way to go, Jane!
The whip lashed out again. This time the element of surprise was gone. Morgal’s claw shot out and caught the whip in midair. His flesh sizzled. Ignoring the pain, the Duke of Hell yanked the weapon out of Archer’s hand. She cried out, and the whip went flying. It landed about twenty feet away.
Archer staggered backward, her arm clearly hurting from having the whip torn from her with such violence.
Morgal zeroed in on her, a hulking behemoth. The archdemon planned to make good on his promise. He would te
ar Archer apart, and I had a feeling he would take his time, drawing out each scream, each plea for mercy. I couldn’t let that happen.
Archer valiantly whipped out her silver stake. Bloodslayer might injure the Duke of Hell, but I doubted it could destroy him. Besides, Archer would have to get close enough to drive it into his flesh—not the simplest feat when you are facing slavering teeth and flashing claws.
“Don’t despair,” a familiar voice said inside my head. “It’s not over yet, Raven.”
My blood froze, and my heart must have skipped a few beats. The voice inside of my head belonged to none other than…Cyon. But how?
I was still trying to determine if I had imagined the whole thing when Morgal roared with agony. I returned my gaze to the archdemon and saw him jerkily drop the Demon Slayer sword. The blade had ignited with a white-hot light and now gleamed like a frickin’ lightsaber.
Archer swapped a surprised and slightly hopeful look with me. Something was happening here. The question was what.
Instead of dropping to the ground, the sword remained suspended in the air. A kaleidoscope of colors raced through the shimmering blade. And then the sword changed before my eyes, twisting into a circle of pulsating, blinding light. I brought up my hand to shield my vision from the intense glare, but it didn’t help. I closed my eyes as tight as I could before the powerful radiance could sear my pupils.
I waited in darkness. Time stretched. And gradually the light grew dimmer and more bearable, allowing me to open my eyes again.
The sword was gone. The pulsating energy had reshaped the blade into a new, exotic weapon. It looked like a disk and reminded me of a Chakram. Unlike the Indian throwing disk, three curved blades studded the metallic circumference and pulsated with a fiery red energy.
Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 7-9 (Shadow Detective Boxset Book 3) Page 34