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 violent 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.
19
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 demon. 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 word 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 e
xhaled 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 experienced 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 trapped inside 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, and he had failed to access its power.
So instead of unleashing the magical firestorm he had hoped for, Cyon had merely managed to mine enough power from the book to cast one of the simplest spells he could conceive. A spell designed to loosen the restraints around Archer’s spread-eagled arms.
And it had worked. The vampire huntress was indeed free. He spotted her a few feet away from the pentagram as she crept toward the Witch Whip sitting on the altar. Did she really think she could stand against Morgal armed with a little whip? He had freed her to give Archer a chance to escape. It was to be his final gift to Raven. But now the foolish girl seemed determined to stay and fight.
Run, he thought even though he knew Archer could not hear him. Flee before it’s too late.
The archdemon stepped up to the edge of the binding circle to gloat in his moment of triumph. “Welcome to eternity, traitor!”
Archer watched the fight between Benson and Skulick in stunned silence. It took her longer than she would have liked to admit to figure out that Skulick was possessed by Morgal. She knew that name. Though Raven had been reluctant to speak about what happened to his parents, Skulick had filled her in on the details. And Morgal addressed her boss as “Cyon,” which meant Raven’s resident demon had ditched him in favor of Benson.
The two men she admired most in the world were being controlled by demons, forced to fight each other in what seemed to be a battle to the death, while the man she loved was missing. It was too much, but Archer wouldn’t let herself look away. When Morgal began raining punches into the African-American detective, landing one devastating blow after another, she cried out and began struggling against her bonds. Seeing her new mentor reducing her former boss’s face to a bloodied pulp was sickening. Detective Benson was turning into one more casualty in the war against the darkness.
She had to do something. Stop this massacre somehow. Gritting her teeth, she strained against the ropes binding her to the pentagram with all her might, but it was no use.
So when the restraints miraculously loosened around her wrists a few moments later, she at first couldn’t believe what was happening. Benson—no, Cyon—caught her eye and gave her the tiniest wink. Cyon was helping her. But how?
There was only one answer. Magic.
Raven had mentioned the demon’s burgeoning powers. And apparently, even though Cyon had switched hosts, he could still cast spells. Regardless of how he had done it, Cyon had given her a fighting chance, and she intented to take advantage of it. She was going to act.
Her eyes combed the church and landed on the Witch Whip resting on the altar next to the pulsing book of magic. Determined, she slipped her arms from her restraints and darted away from the pentagram, making a go for the whip.
Archer was about to snatch her weapon when Morgal spun toward her, his inhuman gaze full of power and hatred. Without hesitation, she cracked the whip at him, but the leather strap refused to strike its target. Instead, the whip shot past Morgal and whipped toward the wooden beams criss-crossing the ceiling. One end snapped around a beam like a grappling hook. Her whip had never failed to find its target before. Somehow, it was being directed by Morgal’s magic. Before Archer knew what was happening, the other end of the whip wrapped around her throat like a noose.
The whip dragged Archer up toward the rafters. Her fingers tried to slip under the whip as it dug deeper into her neck, her legs kicking thin air below. Stars clouded her field of vision, and she gasped like a fish on land.
Watching her suffering from below, Morgal flashed her a monstrous grin.
Dammit. The bastard was enjoying this.
Rage detonated in Archer’s chest, and she redoubled her struggle. Her fingers slipped under the leather strap biting into her neck and took some pressure off her throat. But she was merely delaying the inevitable.
Morgal’s terrible laughter filled the church as Archer’s vision started to go dark.
20
One look at the derelict church told me everything I needed to know. This was the right place. I could feel the malevolent energy radiating from the structure. And judging by the expensive cars parked outside, the auction was in full swing.
Hey, that’s me—always fashionably late to the party.
Hopefully not too late.
I had no idea what I would face inside the church. Would there be anything left to do but merely pick up the pieces? Or worse, was I walking to my execution? I had no weapons to speak of except for my magical protective ring, the Seal of Solomon. Skulick seemed to believe it was enough. My partner wouldn’t lead me to my certain death, would he? I couldn’t imagine he’d want to be afterlife buddies for all of eternity.
Somehow, I had a role to play here. Skulick believed in me.
In a weird way, it felt like we were a team again. At least more of a team then we had been in ages. I trusted him. He knew what he was doing. Always had. I wished I could say the same about myself.
Walking into the church unarmed was close enough to suicide to make me question my sanity. Damnit, I felt naked without my blessed pistol. Or my sword. Demon Slayer would be really nice to have strapped to my back
right about now. I could feel my resolve weakening. And that’s when my magical ring lit up for a split second. It happened so fast it almost felt like I had imagined the whole thing.
It had to be a sign from my partner. Skulick’s spirit was giving me strength, urging me to keep going. Skulick’s ghost refused to let me drop the towel this close to the finish line. Even dead, he was still a pain in the ass, pushing me past my limits. Despite everything, I smiled.
I got out of the stolen—I mean, borrowed—vehicle. As I stealthily closed in on the church’s main entrance, I spotted the downed guards. From the many, many times my former demon partner had tried to get me to shoot people, this looked like Cyon’s handiwork. The demon had opted for the direct approach and waltzed through the front door, gun blazing.
I couldn’t afford to do that. Skulick seemed to agree with me as his ghost materialized near the back of the church, waving at me to follow him. There had to be a rear entrance. But what was I supposed to do then? The element of surprise would buy me a few seconds at best.
Stop doubting the plan, I admonished myself. Just go with it.
I had debated giving Father Cabrera a call, or even Joe Cormac. But the exorcist commando and his men had long left the Cursed City. And roping Cormac into this nightmare would have only put one more life at risk. The psychic was a great ally when it came to fighting ghosts. Battling a super demon was a little out of his comfort zone. I was on my own. Well, except for Skulick, who was now impatiently tapping his ghostly watch.
I rushed to the back of the church, my heart hammering against my ribcage. I slipped onto the overgrown property and fought my way through thick underbrush. An eerie quiet permeated the place, deepening my dread.
Or maybe it was the church itself that was making me feel sick to my stomach. The building radiated darkness and decay, promising horror instead of salvation.
I manned up, pushed all my doubts aside, and reached the rear entrance. Five steps led up to a wooden door. I steeled myself for the worst and stepped into the darkness beyond.
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