“I did not kill Hendrix,” I said, my voice sounding weak to my ears.
“I know. You’re innocent.”
His words hung in the air. I regarded the detective wordlessly, surprised that he had needed so little convincing on my part.
“The Crimson Circle is behind this. I know it, you know it. But the other boys in blue might have a hard time accepting the truth.”
A chill crept up my spine.
Something about Benson’s voice sounded off; there was a cockiness to the way he addressed me that was different from his usual world-weary tone.
“How do you know the Crimson Circle is involved?” I asked, my voice struggling to maintain a measured tone.
A cunning smile split Benson’s face.
“Simple. I’m the one who set you up, Raven.”
Shock rippled through my gut, and I strained against the cuffs until the metal chewed into my flesh. The feeling of betrayal took my breath away. Had Benson turned to the dark side?
I tried to say something, but the words escaped me.
Benson’s fingers began to dig into his throat, and to my horror, he proceeded to pull his face off. A mane of silver hair spilled out from his black skin. A beat later, the lifelike flesh-and-blood mask hit the interrogation table like a discarded skin. I forced myself to look up from the unnerving sight to the woman now facing me. She sported a fiery red eye tattoo that marred her otherworldly good looks.
I glanced again at the Benson mask splayed out on the table. The disguise had transformed into a wooden mask sculpted to look like a horned devil. I was looking at the Japanese Noh Mask I had donned multiple times in the past to impersonate my enemies. According to Skulick, the mask had belonged to a fourteenth century Japanese mage and allowed the wearer to duplicate the appearance of anyone he or she set their eyes on. I had last used the Noh mask to infiltrate one of the Crimson Circle’s secret occult auctions. My cover was blown when someone magically removed the mask from my face, forcing me to make a quick exit.
My enemies were turning my weapons against me.
For a split second, my attention shifted to the interrogation’s room one-way mirror. Detective Orlando had to be bearing witness to this madness. Any moment now, he would storm into the interrogation room, gun blazing.
Almost as if the mystery woman could read my thoughts, she waved her finger at me. “They see what I want them to see.”
This just kept getting better. The woman was a spell-slinger. That would explain her crazed expression, as well as her affiliation with the deranged cult. Black magic was a fast track to a psychotic meltdown. The human mind was ill-equipped to process such enormous power and tap into the unfathomable mysteries of the dark side. Power came at the price of one’s sanity.
This woman had to be the mage who had plucked the Noh mask off my face back at the auction house. As I stared at the cultist, I reflexively lashed out at her head-first. The demon was egging me on, eager to fight, to draw blood.
To my amazement, an invisible wall stopped me before I could strike her. The force slammed me back into my chair. I gasped, stunned by the magical blow.
“Who are you?” I said in a strangled voice.
“My name is Lamia Crull.”
I bit my lips, holding back a groan of frustration. I had never seen this woman before, but I was intimately familiar with the last name. Kovan Crull had been the leader of the Crimson Circle. And that meant this crazed wench was related to the cult leader.
It also meant I was in very big trouble.
She leaned closer, her icy beauty making her look like a wraith. “I’ve dreamt of this moment ever since you murdered my father, Raven.”
11
When Lamia Crull smiled, I saw her father in her beautiful yet cruel features.
Kovan Crull. A Russian crime boss who had terrorized this city long before he dabbled in the occult.
Other crime bosses let their goons do the dirty work. Not Crull. He developed a taste for inflicting pain. And when his victims approached oblivion, he would pause and stare into their bloodshot eyes as the light went out.
“What do you see?” he would ask. “Tell me, who else is here?”
None of his victims had given him the answers he sought, and Crull had become increasingly obsessed with what comes after we die. And so he turned to the occult. Ancient rituals and demon worship took over his life. His criminal empire became a means to finance his goal of unlocking the mysteries of death itself.
Eventually, the gang mutated into a lethal cult of fanatics—the Crimson Circle.
Kovan Crull’s brazen acts of cruelty made other gang lords turn on him. His brutality drew unwanted attention from the police, jeopardizing all their criminal enterprises. He had become a problem they couldn’t ignore any longer–he had to go. The rival gangs reached out to Skulick and me, aware of our expertise with these sorts of occult issues, after their own attempts at stopping Crull had all backfired.
I recalled the day I arrived in the Cursed City, how I had hated the sprawling metropolis almost on first sight. There was something rotten about the place, and at the time I couldn’t have imagined Skulick and I would ultimately set up shop here.
Within a few days, our investigation into the Crimson Circle’s activities led us to an abandoned warehouse near the docks. When Skulick and I entered the structure, weapons ready, the members of the Crimson Circle didn’t acknowledge our presence, so caught up were they in their horrible ritual. A widening pool of blood expanded around three human sacrifices at the center of the insanity. The sound of Crull’s incantation drowned out our advancing footsteps.
To this day, I understood little of the ritual that would have punched a hole between our reality and the dark realms beyond. All I know is that if we’d shown up a few minutes later, the world would have ended.
l Ieveled Hellseeker at Crull. The cult leader’s eyes were blank, fixed on a place invisible to normal senses, and his features were shrouded by the cowl of his brimstone-colored robe. The words continued to flow over cracked lips, and the walls of the building shook as the air grew heavy with paranormal energy. Each syllable was like a punch to the gut, triggering waves of physical pain. I bit back the bile creeping up my throat and gritted my teeth as I aimed my blessed pistol and hesitated. I was used to shooting monsters, not humans. But even though Crull wore the face of a man, he was as monstrous as a hellbeast. A demon in human disguise. Worse than most supernatural monsters, in fact, because he was eager to betray his own species for the mad pursuit of power.
I don’t quite remember if it was Skulick or me who pulled the trigger first. Both our bullets punched into Crull, clouds of red punctuating the impact. The world froze, and the final words of that strange tongue died on his lips. His white eyes cleared, and the Russian mob boss fixed us with a look of unbridled hatred.
“What have you done?” he croaked.
“We saved the world, asshole!” I said.
The cult leader collapsed, joining the sacrificial victims at his feet. The other members of the Crimson Circle spun toward us, their features twisted. Crull had been a living god to their deluded eyes. His death shocked them to the core of their rotten souls.
Sirens grew audible in the distance—the soundtrack of our victory over the Crimson Circle. It was over. The cops would be here soon. The killer cult that had terrorized this city over the last few months was broken.
Broken…but not defeated. They had one last trick up their sleeves.
“You stopped the ritual,” a cult member proclaimed, the veins in his neck standing out against the skin as he spoke with mad glee, “but you won’t undo Kovan’s work.”
The words sent a chill down my spine. It turned into outright terror as, one by one, the members of the Crimson Circle produced razor-sharp daggers from their robes and aimed them at their hearts.
Skulick and I could only watch in stunned silence as the cult members committed mass suicide, joining their fallen leader in the next wor
ld. By the time I reached the first body, it was too late, and the downed cultists were drawing their final, gasping breaths. I stood there, paralyzed by the collective insanity on display. What had Crull held over these poor souls for them to so eagerly follow him into Hell?
“At least it’s over,” Skulick said, gently covering the face of the woman nearest to him with the blood-red fabric of her hood.
“Yeah,” I muttered, unable to get the cultist’s words out of my head. “We won. Now let’s get the hell out of here.”
We only thought we had won. All too soon, we would learn that the interrupted ritual had created a breach between the two realities.
On that day, the Cursed City was born.
Back in the interrogation room, I sucked in my breath and did my best to push the horrific memories of that fateful confrontation aside. My questioning gaze bore into the cult leader’s daughter. Crull having a daughter came as news to me. If we’d known, maybe we could have prevented her from rebuilding her father’s cult. She regarded me with a mixture of hatred and triumph, basking in her victory.
“This time, Raven, you and your partner cannot stop us.”
We’ll see about that, I thought.
“Everything I’ve done over the last two years was leading up to this. I dreamt of this moment, when I would stare into the eyes of my father’s murderer and taste his defeat.”
“Hate to break this to you, sweetheart, but your father had it coming. He was a monst—”
Her fist lashed out and detonated with my face. The punch whipped my head back and almost knocked me out of the chair. I sure had a way with women.
Lamia glared at me, her eyes blazing with fanatic devotion and joy.
“Soon everything you know will end, and a new order will rise from the ashes of the old world. We are about to witness the glorious beginning of my Dark Lord’s kingdom here on Earth.”
I shook my head. “You’ve been sipping your daddy’s Kool-Aid.”
I almost expected another punch, but this time Lamia held her rage in check. If looks could kill, however, I would have keeled over.
“The planet is doomed. The signs are everywhere. Open a newspaper, watch the news. Pollution, war, crime—it’s all out of control. We have turned on each other. The darkness is winning,” she said.
“You’re being played, Lamia. If you think Satan will reward you if you offer him access to this world, you have another think coming.”
Lamia shook her head and waved her finger at me. “My father served the devil. I don’t.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “What are you talking about?”
A smile curled her lips as she spoke. She was enjoying every second of this exchange. “There are rival factions in Hell, demons vying for supremacy who believe the fallen angel has grown soft. When my father died, my world ended. I lost everything that day. Rival mob gangs took over my father’s criminal empire, murdered my mother and siblings. But I survived. During those dark times, an archdemon approached me with a better plan.”
I had a sinking suspicion about where this was headed. Was it too much to ask that once—just once—I could take a break from saving the world?
She leaned closer, eyes shiny with madness.
“My new master plans to feed off all the hatred and despair of this world until he is powerful enough to turn on Satan and seize control over the dimension of darkness.”
Politics aren’t my strong suit, especially not those of the demon realm. Too much drama for my taste. But apparently a war was brewing in Hell, and Lamia had sided with a demon who was closing in on Satan’s turf. The question was, which Duke of Hell was brazen enough to spearhead such an act of treason?
I tried to make her see the truth. “It doesn’t matter who you serve. This demon is using you…”
“We are using each other.” With these words, Lamia rose to her feet. “I must thank you, Raven. We now have the grimoire, the key to our plan.”
I swallowed hard and asked, “What are you talking about?”
“Tonight, some of the most influential people in the world will attend our auction. As you know, we built quite a reputation for ourselves over the last few months. They’ve traveled far and wide to get their hands on your copy of the Daemonium. Some seek power; some hope to conjure devils and unlock ancient secrets. What they don’t realize is that the grimoire isn’t for sale.”
A chill crept up my spine, disturbed by the confidence in Lamia’s voice.
“What are you planning on doing?” I asked.
“The time has come for my master to expand his influence over this world. Turn man against man. If a kingdom is divided against itself, it cannot stand. Mark 3:24.”
Blood drained from my face as I finally grasped her plan. “A demonic invasion? Are you insane?”
She licked her lips, eyes glittering. It should have been alluring, but instead my skin crawled. “Tonight, the world’s elite will gather at my auction, and my master’s most loyal demonic soldiers will take over the minds and souls of some of the richest influencers on the planet. His minions will return to the countries of their new hosts and spread my master’s gospel of hatred and despair, armed with enough wealth and connections to sow conflict and violence among their people.
I swallowed hard. This was a nightmareh. Lamia was putting together a global cabal of demons hellbent on tearing this world apart. I didn’t want to imagine what horrors these agents of darkness would unleash once they were free. I’ve seen many evil entities take over human bodies; usually it was an act of opportunity by lower level demons eager to get a taste of our world. Lamia’s plan promised something different—an organized power grab of the world’s elite. The first phase in a grander plan to usurp control of Hell and defeat its current leader, the Prince of Lies. And that raised a question: Which demon did Lamia serve? Who would dare to plot against Satan himself?
Almost as if she could read my mind, Lamia said, “I believe you have crossed paths with my master before.”
Lamia leaned closer and whispered in my ear, her breath hot against my skin.
“I serve none other than Morgal, Duke of Hell and future Lord of Darkness.”
12
Cyon unleashed a bestial roar inside my head, and I wanted to join in the demon’s rage. While we had been busy plotting and strategizing and hunting other monsters, the archdemon hadn’t remained idle. He must have contacted Crull’s daughter and helped her rebuild the Crimson Circle, with the goal of turning the cult’s followers into Morgal’s soldiers here on Earth. I could almost hear the archdemon’s mocking laughter echoing through my soul.
What fools we’d been!
And now we were going pay the price for our shortsightedness. All too soon, Morgal’s most loyal demons would enter this world and begin to remake Earth in the archdemon’s image. With his power growing, the monster who had slaughtered my parents would turn his attention to the throne of Hell. Would Morgal be able to defeat Satan? I didn’t know, but many innocent lives would perish for his ambition. What nightmares would his agents unleash across the globe? Plagues, monsters, wars—horrors I couldn’t even fathom.
Worst of all, Morgal’s minions had the grimoire, the source of Cyon’s black magic powers. Without it, the demon couldn’t cast spells and didn’t stand a chance against his former master. What should have been our greatest weapon against Morgal had become an instrumental element in his plans of conquest instead. And what a plan it was. Diabolical and ingenious. If I wasn’t so terrified, I might have been impressed.
I had believed the Crimson Circle was bolstering its bank accounts with these occult auctions. I could have not been more wrong about their motives. Now I realized their sale of ancient relics served a far darker purpose—they were bait. As the underground auctions grew more popular among the super-rich, more powerful people became tempted to attend them.
And tonight, the trap would snap shut.
I had to get out here. Easier said than done. No brilliant plan presented it
self, so I decided to stall for time.
“You only have one copy of the grimoire,” I said to Lamia as she got to her feet. “Good luck conjuring Morgal’s buddies without the other two copies of the Daemonium.”
As far as I knew, there existed three copies of the Daemonium. The White Crescent kept two at their headquarters in Italy, and Lamia now owned the third volume. If someone should be foolish enough to reunite the three volumes, they would morph into a single infernal tome. Only then would the book’s true power be unlocked.
Lamia grinned at me. “I’m well aware of the limitations of your little book of magic. That’s why I went on a field trip to Italy.”
As she spoke, Lamia donned the Noh mask again, and her features changed into the familiar face of Father Cabrera. My blood turned to ice. Lamia must’ve used the Noh mask to impersonate the man. Had she harmed the real Cabrera?
Lamia continued in Cabrera’s voice. “We have all three copies of the Daemonium, my dear Raven, and tonight we will unleash their power upon this world.”
The exorcist commander smiled and morphed back into Lamia. Her eyes blazed with hate and madness. She was even more insane than her father.
“Did you believe you could go up against a Duke of Hell and win?” she asked.
My answer was to launch into Lamia again. The rational part of my brain knew it was a mistake, but my emotions were in the driver’s seat now, helped along by Cyon’s explosive fury.
I savagely hurled myself at Lamia and slammed into a magical force shield. It felt like running headfirst into a brick wall. I bounced off the invisible barrier and hit the floor. Hard. I tasted copper, and my bones popped as I looked up at the cult leader.
“Poor, poor Raven. I wish you could be there when Morgal’s plan comes to fruition. But as you rot away in jail, you will have a front row seat to the world Morgal’s agents will herald into existence. And once humanity falls, and Morgal takes his rightful place in Hell, he’ll visit you and your pathetic demon partner one night, and you can all reminisce about the good old days.”
Crimson Circle Page 6