The killer removed his helmet with one hand, revealing average features. He looked pleasant, harmless, a face that left no impression. He certainly didn’t look like some ax-wielding psycho who was having a conversation with her severed head.
“We’re going to share a life together for the next three months. Isn’t that wonderful? You’re about to become my dear muse. You know, when I spotted you earlier today, I knew you were the one.”
Sudden recognition flooded Chloe’s mind. She’d seen this man before. He’d been one of the hikers she and Erik had passed on their way up to the lake, the one who had so generously stopped to take a picture of them on her phone.
“This lovely cabin is where I while away the dog days of summer. It’s my escape from all the hustle and bustle of city life. But it gets a little lonely. Even an introvert like myself craves some company from time to time.”
Her eyes flicked back and forth as if searching for an escape. “This is all wrong. I’m going crazy…”
“Life is crazy, don’t you think? One day you’re on a romantic trip with your handsome fellow; the next, your head is hanging in the hand of the Headhunter.”
The Headhunter laughed, an ugly, cruel sound that filled the balmy night.
“Oh my God… please…”
“God has nothing to do with what is happening to you, my dear. This is the devil’s handiwork.”
Another peal of ugly laughter.
Chloe hyperventilated as the man lowered her head to his side and strode toward the cabin. The mad carnival ride resumed with a vengeance, Chloe’s thoughts as erratic as the world blurring past her.
Footsteps pounded in her ears as the Headhunter walked up the steps and across the cabin’s front porch.
The door creaked open. Lights flickered to life around her, but she was jostling so much in the killer’s hand that she couldn’t process her surroundings.
The Headhunter stopped moving at last. He lifted her up and placed her head on a wooden fireplace mantel which overlooked the entire cabin. She felt the wood against her neck stump, and the sensation almost made her pass out from revulsion.
The Headhunter knelt and messed around with the fireplace. Soon, flames crackled and painted warm shadows against the hardwood floor.
“I’ll be right back, my dear,” the Headhunter promised. “Don’t you be going anywhere now! The best is yet to come.”
The killer walked off, cackling at his own joke.
Bastard!
Blood flooded her cheeks, terror giving way to hatred. She struggled to control her breathing, tried to calm down. Then she remembered that there was no logical, scientific way to explain how she was still breathing.
After a brief bout of hysteria, Chloe forced herself to think.
Now that she was no longer swinging back and forth like a deck chair on the Titanic, she could study the insides of the cabin in greater detail. The décor matched the inviting exterior. Beautiful wooden furniture complemented the rustic setting. An expensive Persian carpet and a beige leather couch added some polish to the place. There was a flat-screen TV, and an iMac sat atop a desk overflowing with old books and notepads.
Her eyes widened when she spotted the medieval ax leaning against the back of the couch. Dried blood streaked down the weapon’s steel surface like a black spiderweb, collecting in the strange glyphs and sigils etched into the metal. The thought of that weapon cutting right through her neck made her soul grow cold.
She dragged her gaze away from the ax and studied the other items decorating the cabin’s wooden interior. There were swords and steel armor and helmets from the Middle Ages, as well as art and books that seemed to be from the same time. The Headhunter was clearly obsessed with the period.
“Do you like my collection?”
The killer’s sudden presence jolted her, and he gave a smug laugh. She hadn’t heard him approach. The bastard snuck up on her, knowing it would startle her.
“When you write about the past, it helps to surround yourself with some living history,” he explained while waving a glass of red wine under her nose. Chloe recognized it as another taunt.
The wine made her think of the bottle she and Erik had shared earlier in the evening, and she fought back fresh tears. No, Chloe wouldn’t let this monster see her cry. She refused to give him the satisfaction. She bit her lips and swallowed her grief.
“I guess I should introduce myself. I’m the Headhunter. It’s kind of cheesy, I know, far better suited for cheap pulp fiction.” He shrugged. “It is what it is. Still beats my actual name.”
He paused as if to let her ask his name. Chloe kept her lips clamped shut, and after a moment the killer continued.
“Nine months out of the year, I’m a professor of history at the University of California. I do my best not to lose it while teaching a bunch of self-involved cretins with ADD. My summers, I spend up here writing in my lovely cabin writing detective novels set in the Middle Ages. They focus on a heroic monk detective who uses forensic techniques to solve creepy crimes. Kind of a medieval Sherlock Holmes. Cool, huh? One day I hope to stop teaching and only focus on my writing. That day is still far off, I’m afraid.”
He paused, contemplating his next words. “What else would you like to know? I like wine, classical music, cooking and the company of a beautiful woman like yourself.”
Chloe stared at him in shocked disbelief. The bastard leaned against the back of his leather couch and sipped his red wine while waiting for her to respond. He was acting as if they were on a first date.
Madness.
This was insane.
Somehow she found the resolve to ask the only important question: “How am I still alive?”
The Headhunter studied her for a beat before he turned his gaze toward the medieval ax.
“Magic,” he said with a sinister smile.
Chapter Six
Brother Ignatius led Weylock into the monastery’s shadow-soaked library. The most extensive collection of occult and esoteric literature on the planet weighed down the maze of shelves.
“I need to tell you the story of the Devil’s Apprentice.”
That’s what Ignatius had said before dragging him here. But despite asking a dozen questions about the case, the monk had kept his mouth shut. Whatever this story was, his mentor seemed determined not to spill it.
Weylock lost count of how many bookshelves they passed before Ignatius paused in front of the right one. How the monk could find his way around these identical looking stacks was beyond Weylock, but somehow he did.
Like a laser-guided missile locking onto its target, his fingers found the correct volume and liberated it from the bookcase. Dust filled the air, and Ignatius stifled a cough as he triumphantly held up a tome.
“Who said we needed a computer system to archive our collection?”
Weylock recalled he might have been the one to make that joking comment but stayed mum on the matter.
“The only filing system I need is the one between my ears,” the monk said, tapping his head.
Book in hand, Ignatius headed for the nearest reading table. He switched on a small lamp and explored the pages of the book. It didn’t take him long to locate the right page. A page of dense text boasted a drawing of the same medieval ax the Necrodex had shown earlier.
The heading read “Quod Diabolus coingatori,” The demon within Weylock gave him the ability to read and understand most ancient languages even though he’d never studied them.
“The Devil’s Apprentice,” Weylock translated.
The monk nodded in reply, staring down at the book.
Weylock eyed Ignatius. “Feel free to elaborate, old friend. Who was the Devil’s Apprentice? And how does it relate to this current case?”
Ignatius turned another page of the book. It showed a stylized drawing of a robed monk. Stark angular features hewed from granite, empty cold eyes that could make Hell freeze over. “You’re looking at Caedmon Bury, a 15th Century monk who turned to the d
ark side and became a witchcraft practitioner. The warlock purportedly made a pact with the devil, hence his nickname. When the Church uncovered his infernal dalliances, they sentenced him to death.”
Ignatius’ finger slid down the page and hovered over a second drawing. It showed Caedmon with his head on a wooden chopping block while a masked executioner towered over him, the ax in his gloved hands a perfect match for the one on the previous page.
“The prospect of spending all eternity in Hell’s burning pits held little appeal to Caedmon. So he reneged on his deal with the Prince of Darkness. As a prisoner of the Inquisition, Caedmon knew he couldn’t break the chains restraining him inside his dungeon, nor would he be spared the chopping block. His head was coming off the next day as certainly as the sun would rise.” Ignatius tapped the drawing of the ax. “But that didn’t mean he had to die. If he could change the very rules governing life and death, the warlock might still escape his hellish fate.”
Weylock frowned. “Caedmon performed some kind of magic on the executioner’s ax?”
“No one knows how he did it while still a prisoner. Some believed he bribed one of the guards to bring the weapon to him the day before his scheduled execution.”
“I’ve never heard of magic like that.”
Ignatius spread his gnarled hands. “I can only tell you the story as I know it. The ax would take the warlock’s head without claiming his life. He remained on this plane, unable to pass into the next world. A severed head kept supernaturally alive.”
Weylock let the full horror of this limbo state sink in. He’d faced many a horror since accepting the mantle of the Hexecutioner a year earlier, but there was something particularly bad about this one. Remaining alive without a body seemed like a far worse a fate than even death.
Weylock couldn’t help but imagine his wife trapped in such a state, screaming in agony forever, unable to die. At least she’d found peace in the end—even if Weylock himself was cursed to relive her death in his memories.
The Hexecutioner’s hands flexed as if itching for a weapon, reminding him that this was not the time for memories. There was a monster to hunt.
“You were right, Ignatius. The vision makes sense now,” Weylock said. “Somebody is using Caedmon’s cursed ax to collect the heads of these women. The ax isn’t killing his victims but trapping their souls in our world.”
“The curse of the Devil’s Apprentice lives on,” Ignatius said, nodding.
Another question occurred to Weylock. “Whatever happened with the warlock’s severed head?”
“No one knows. Perhaps the cursed monk remains enshrined in some dark crypt somewhere. Cursed to live forever without a body.”
The image of the monk’s head splayed atop a stone altar in some shadowy tomb flashed into Weylock’s mind, and a chill crept up his neck. For an irrational moment, he imagined feeling the icy steel of the cursed ax running down his throat. His demon’s bone-chilling laughter bounced around in his head. The creature was amused that some mortals would choose such a living death over an extended stay in Hell.
“It appears this cursed ax has fallen into the wrong hands,” Ignatius said. “I thought it had been destroyed centuries ago by one of your predecessors. Apparently, that Hexecutioner did not finish the job.”
Weylock nodded in grim agreement. The Hexecutioner wondered how many heads the fiend had claimed by now. Were there only two victims? Or was his macabre collection much larger?
The question was still cycling through Weylock’s mind when a terrified scream filled the library. Weylock followed the sound and spotted a third disembodied head sitting atop a bookshelf. This woman was a redhead, the color of her fiery mane matching the line of red around her neck.
Weylock balled his fists. A vein in his forehead pulsed, and he felt sickened in the wake of all this death. These bastards always targeted women, striking them down in their prime. Beautiful, vulnerable, trusting…
Just like Avery, he thought. She trusted you, loved you. And look where it got her.
More screams joined the first, the shrieks and cries for mercy swelling into a chorus of the damned. Weylock knew that more heads must have materialized in the dark library, but they mercifully remained shrouded in shadow.
The Headhunter had been a busy boy.
Weylock knew from his profiling days that serial killers liked to keep trophies of their victims. Many held on to body parts—eyes, feet, hands, and yes, even heads. It allowed them to relive their murders and feed their active fantasy lives. Imagine being able to hold onto a trophy that contained the soul of your victim. To the deranged mind of a serial killer, a living head without a body had to be the ultimate prize.
“I’m on my way to set things right. Your suffering will end soon,” Weylock promised.
His words reverberated in the shadowy library, and the screams died down as swiftly as they had arisen.
“Their calls for vengeance are getting louder,” he told his mentor. “Their suffering is too much to bear.”
“You must answer their call, Weylock, and stop this monster.”
Weylock nodded. The Hexecutioner would stop the nightmare by any means necessary. And in doing so, Weylock would lose another little piece of his soul.
Chapter Seven
The elderly lady sat in the church’s pew, hands clasped together as she mouthed a silent prayer. She attended the church a few times a week, mostly on off-hours, and prayed for those special people in her life who needed the Lord’s help the most. She was currently putting in a few kind words for her daughter, who was experiencing marital problems, when the candles in the deserted house of God flickered and guttered and hissed.
A chilly breeze blew down the nave and made the hairs on the old woman’s neck stand on end. Sudden footsteps rang out, and she turned her attention away from the altar. Her eyes widened as she took in the handsome man in the stylish black suit who’d peeled from the shadows. For an irrational moment, the pious lady could have sworn that the stranger had materialized out of thin air.
She wasn’t all that far off.
A minute earlier, Weylock had set foot inside the Italian monastery’s magical chapel. It acted as a doorway to any church or house of worship on Earth, and now he stood in this house of God facing the startled old lady.
He made eye contact with her and gave her his most winning smile. She visibly calmed down, and Weylock let out a sigh of relief. He hated scaring the innocent—and drawing any undue attention to himself. For that same reason, he fought the temptation to ask the woman where he was.
The chapel might be the vehicle for these jumps across space, but the Necrodex set the itinerary.
Instead, he directed his mental inquiry at the book, which remained stashed away in his leather attaché case.
Leavenworth, California, the Necrodex whispered in response, informing Weylock that he’d just traveled half the globe within a blink of an eye.
Time to explore this town and uncover its connection to the screaming heads.
Weylock donned his aviator shades as he emerged from the church and stepped into the bright day. The weight of his old FBI badge in his pocket felt reassuring. He mostly navigated the outside world as Special Agent Jaxon Weylock. FBI agents got around a lot easier than grizzled, unshaven badasses in beaten-up leather trench coats.
Weylock hadn’t always looked like something from an Old West ghost town. Once, he’d been the handsome, clean-cut man the world still saw when they looked at him. But it was just a façade nowadays.
Hexecutioners were victims of possession who’d wrested control away from the demon. By dominating and possessing it instead, they could tap into the demon’s black magic. But controlling such an entity came at a price. Wielding the beast’s power changed them on a physical level. Over time, they became shadow versions of their normal selves.
No wonder the men and women who followed the call of the Hexecutioner walked a lonely path. When they weren’t hunting down the nightmares that ha
unted this world, they spent their energy maintaining control over the dark force that squatted in their souls.
It was a challenging road, sometimes, but also a rewarding one. Every day was filled with meaning, and Weylock lived secure in the knowledge that his actions made the world a better place. It was the least he could do, after what had happened to his wife. What the demon had made him do to her.
Not thinking about that now. Focus on the job.
He walked around the small, rustic town of Leavenworth for a few minutes before his eyes landed on a newspaper stand. Heat emanated from the handle of the attaché case containing the Necrodex, a clear indicator it was time to pay attention.
Weylock studied the paper’s headline: “Headhunter Strikes Again.” The front page showed the photographs of a photogenic couple. The smiling woman was all too familiar to Weylock. Her screaming severed head had been the first to call out to him in the monastery’s mess hall.
Weylock inserted a buck and got himself a copy of the paper. He found a nearby park and took a seat on an empty bench to study the newspaper. A group of teens was playing with a Frisbee nearby, their shouts and friendly trash talk filling the summer afternoon. On a nearby bench, a couple in their twenties was holding hands and making out.
Weylock welcomed these signs of normalcy and drew comfort from them.
Unimaginable horrors dominated his life, but it was good to know that there was still an ordinary world beyond the shadows. A world where people fell in love and friends shared laughter, a world where people loved and played and worked and went about their lives with smiles on their faces. A world worth fighting—and dying—for.
Even though Weylock could not be part of that world any longer, it was reassuring to know others were still enjoying it.
He focused on the paper and learned that the Headhunter had haunted the hiking trails around Leavenworth for six long years. He only struck between June and August and solely targeted one unfortunate couple each summer. The method of killing was always the same: The killer stabbed the men through the heart and decapitated the women.
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