Sabbath thought that over. Broke into a grin. “And that’s what brought you back?”
“That, among other things.”
“Very well.” Sabbath’s smile belonged on a predator. A big cat. A shark. Something fast and efficient and utterly sure of itself. “You don’t expect to survive what’s coming?”
“Not really.”
“And your soul?”
“Is doomed either way,” I said. “Better the devil you know.”
Sabbath shook his head. He stood and walked over to the window, arms folded as he glared at the people below. “When you first returned, I intended to use you like a tool. Eliminate those who opposed me, from the irritating to the dangerous. You failed me in that, but I’ve dug around. We’ve confirmed what you’ve told me about Thirteen, about his connections and his… alliances.” The last word slipped out in a wary, sibilant hiss. “But I don’t just want your soul, Murphy, I’d prefer your service. I’ll help you stop Thirteen, because that’s good for business.”
“Great.”
“I wasn’t done.” Sabbath rounded on me, smirk in place. “The price is servitude. You’re one of my boys again, a willing soldier. I give you a name, and you kill them—no objections based on your morals. You’ll partner with any demon I want you to work with, and I’ll hear no complaints. If I want you to train a recruit, then you’ll damn well train them. And you’ll keep your soul intact through every dirty job, so I can enjoy the guilt it causes.”
I forced myself upright. “I preferred you when you were vindictive, Sabbath.”
“I preferred you when you were a punk,” Sabbath said. “You didn’t attempt to play me, Murphy, back when you were a kid.”
“I had nothing worth playing for,” I said. “Otherwise I would have tried.”
He held out his hand. I shook it, hating myself the whole time, and something dark settle over my soul. Sabbath’s tender, ready to claim it when I screwed up enough that I passed over.
THE THIRD HIT
I climbed into SUV packed to the gills with monsters and started the drive up Tamborine Mountain. Randall in the driver’s seat, Wesna riding shotgun. Me tucked into the back with three of Sabbath’s thugs I didn’t recognize. All sported the cruel, empty stares of demons who’d been residents of Earth long enough to dominate their human souls. The faces were different, but I recognized the crew: these were the guys Sabbath sent to deal with major threats, stripped of humanity and willing to cross lines those with a soul might balk at. A second SUV tailed us, more of Sabbath’s operators loaded up and ready for trouble.
We sat in silence while the car took the mountain curves, stayed silent as the road straightened at the peak. From the top of Tamborine you could look out over the whole damn Gold Coast. It was night, and the lights glittered and shone like your own private fairyland. Beautiful, almost, from a distance. We rolled through the empty streets, passed farms with orchards full of avocados and limes. Pulled up a half-click short of the property identified as Thirteen’s personal fortress.
From the road, it seemed like a peaceful area. Nothing suggesting a cult would flourish there, let alone fortify. A double-story house ringed by groves of apple trees on three sides, with the fourth side up against a cliff that looked out over the Coast. Well-maintained and in good nick. The kind of place that attracted a price-tag above the means of your average cowls-and-chants crew.
We stood around the cars and geared up. Randall unearthed my SIG and handed it back to me, along with a knife and three clips of ammo. The demons carried shotguns, loaded up on sidearms. Everyone waited for Randall to signal the advance, climbed over the fence at his nod. We crept through the orchard, all silent. All professional. Every hundred meters Randall would hold up a fist, bring us to a halt. One demon would peel off from the pack, disappear into the shadows, and when they reappeared, there was blood on their hands. Sentry positions. Wandering guards. Sabbath’s blunt instrument understood their job. They worked quiet, and bloody.
We made it through the trees. Split up as we approached the house. Thirteen wasn’t stupid. Floodlights faced out over the exterior grounds. Motions sensors attached to them, so they’d go up if someone tried to approach. More security than your average suburbanite goes for. Not even the kind of thing wealthy Tamborine commuter would write off as normal. It didn’t matter. This was the Gold Coast. Eccentricities were a regular deal, embraced as little streaks of local color.
Wesna and Randall crouched beside me, studied the set-up. Wesna put a finger to her lips, pointed to three spots around the house. I squinted, saw the moving shadows. More guards. More cultists, standing vigil. Randall signaled the rest of the crew, and the demons melted into the darkness.
One by one the sentries disappeared. Sabbath’s team avoided the lights, excelled at bypassing wards and cut throats. All lookouts eliminated inside of ten minutes, no alarm raised. Randall and Wesna shared a tight nod, and Wesna touched my arm. We all understood what came next, but I wasn’t looking forward to it.
Randall reached into the darkness, gathered it together until it thickened. A portal to the Gloom, tethered to the real world.
Then Wesna stepped through, pulling me in behind her.
The transition between our plane of existence and the frigid currents of the Gloom is like the early stages of drowning. First the cold hit, then all sensation spiraling out of control, like getting sucked beneath the surface by a strong rip. The pair of us whipped around by the wild eddies and tides of the place. The realization that you no longer possessed any mass. Mortals don’t belong in the in the Gloom. All we saw, based on what Roark taught me, were vague impressions of our surroundings. Shadow, indistinct reflections of the places we’d encountered in the real world.
Wesna dragged me behind her, the grip around my arm cinched tight. I closed my eyes, tried not to scream. Let the cold darkness wash over me.
Then it was over, Wesna dragging me through a second portal, wrestling me free of the Gloom that didn’t want to release me back into the world. Warm hands held mine, movement returning to my fingers. My ragged, panicked breathing grew steady.
I pushed myself upright. We’d emerged by the mansion, under the motion sensors. Tight as we could get via Gloom, given Thirteen’s defenses. A laundry entrance three meters down. I inched past Wesna, broke out the lock picks. Worked slow, cautious, to keep the noise down. The lock clicked, too loud for my taste. I eased the door open, registered the push of Thirteen’s wards. Those gave way after I dug the soul cage out of my pocket, pressed the reliquary with Wotan’s spirit up against the intangible barrier.
The bullet bucked in my fingers, Wotan’s essence awakened by contact with his follower’s magic. I gripped it tight, forced it to submit. Held it there until the turmoil eased, the soul going dormant again inside its prison.
Randall slipped past me, into the house. Wesna followed, crouched low, wincing a little as though she expected the wards to catch her. We were in the laundry, heading into the kitchen. There were two cultists there, loitering. Both were dead by the time I entered, their necks twisted into modern art by the demon’s furious strength.
Wesna looked at me, eyebrow raised. I gestured. Up. The Raven Cult always chose up. They liked their rituals close to the sky.
* * *
We heard the chanting before we saw them. They were on the upper deck, this long expanse of woodwork that jutted over the cliff. I figure Thirteen bought the house just for that wide veranda, the open space exposed to the night air. A place where he could do the things that needed doing.
They’d carted a granite slab up there, surrounded it with twelve men in dark robes and deep hoods. Thirteen stood in the center of it all, the false bullet on a plinth of stone. Nora lingered at the edge of the circle, gnawing on a fingernail. Still wearing the oversized shirt from the safe house, the borrowed pair of Langford’s jeans. They’d armed her, left her to serve as a guard dog. A short, dressed-down punk with a big Winchester pump action.
Thirteen raised his hands, palms open to the sky. I didn’t recognize his chant, but that didn’t mean much. Thirteen’s mentor, Michael Wotan, prayed to entities older than anything I’d studied, things that slumbered in the deep parts of the Gloom waiting for a return to earth. Their worship involved languages most folks considered dead, and knowing them was always Roark’s part of the job.
They’d tethered themselves, all thirteen men. Tapped into the umbral currents of the Gloom and drawn on its power, preparing to invest it in the nine millimeter round at the heart of their ritual. The energy hanging in the air like a static charge. The hair on my arms stood to attention and the tether marks itched like crazy. They were going for big magic, the kind of shit most sorcerers tried to stay away from.
Easiest way to kill a cultist is disrupting his rituals, letting the Gloom feed on him instead of his preferred victim. On this scale, the challenge became figuring out what to disturb. With so much energy floating about, it could suck in anyone trapped in the backlash. I glanced at Wesna, caught her short nod. The kind of rift they were looking to open tended to be bad news, regardless of whether you were mortal or Other.
The ritual hit a fever pitch, dark flames appearing around the bullet. Thirteen’s chanting rose towards a crescendo, eyes rolling back in his head. They were waiting for that energy to crack the wards on the reliquary, free their leader from his tiny purgatory. Instead, it blew the fake soul cage to dust, reducing the lead and steel and powder down to component atoms.
Thirteen glared at the results of his magic. Realized the switch and howled, turning on Nora. She reacted like you’d expect, switched over to self-preservation mode. Leveled the shotgun at his chest.
I nodded to Wesna, stepped out of cover and onto the balcony. The SIG kicked in my hands, targeting the closest member of Thirteen’s ritual circle. He pitched forward, blood spilling from a hole in his shoulder. The magic they were channeling bucked, forcing the others to focus on getting it under control. Thirteen registered the kick, glanced in my direction.
Nora Otto seized upon the distraction and fired the big Remington into Thirteen’s chest.
The sorcerer staggered. Blood oozed out the front of a robe torn to tatters by Nora’s buckshot. Magic kept him upright. All the energy he channeled, unsure where to go after the bullet disintegrated, found its home in his flesh. Thirteen advanced on Nora and smashed a fist into her cheek.
Wesna and Randall burst into motion, working their way around the circle. They snapped necks and cut throats. Buried knives deep in the stomachs of those who resisted dying. Any semblance of restraint evaporated and wild magic set things alight. The wooden landing. One cultist’s hair. Parts of Thirteen’s body. I leveled the SIG. Fired twice. Thirteen charged me, knocked me to the floor. The pistol skittered out of my grasp and Thirteen’s foot caught me in the ribs.
He lost control. Fire ripped along his arms, burnt away his black t-shirt, and his eyes became dark chasms, deeper than any demon’s gaze. Thirteen burned through energy fast, and soon it’d burn out on him, but until then it gave him options. Bolstered speed and strength, healing wounds at an accelerated pace. He swung at me, more magic than muscle. I ducked under and the impact took out a chunk of the balustrade. Wood shattered beneath his fist, showering me with splinters.
He rocked back, guard raised, but I didn’t bother with a counter. Nothing I hit him with would do much more than annoy him.
Thirteen moved with inhuman speed, and the flames on his arms burned hotter and higher. I figured he ran on anger, his thwarted rage giving the Gloom focus and allowing him to channel through the searing pain. The sorcerer jumped at me, clawing for my throat. The heat singed my cheek as I scrambled out of his reach. If he locked in the choke, I knew I was dead.
His fury would burn out and kill him, but it wasn’t happening fast enough.
I kicked at him, tried to push free. Got lucky when his head jerked back, Wesna coming up from the rear and hooking fingers into his nose.
She punched him in the face, put all her strength behind it. As a demon, she hit harder than I ever could. Thirteen’s jaw snapped sideways with the blow, splattering blood as his mouth busted open.
Wesna stood over him, breathing heavy. Thirteen rose and rounded on her, roaring with laughter.
I dove for the SIG, rolled with the momentum. Came to a halt against the balcony railings, jarring my shoulder hard. Didn’t matter. I brought the pistol up and fired. Caught him up high, middle of the back. Enough damage to start overwhelming his magic, force him to call on more.
Thirteen advance on Wesna faltered, and I emptied the weapon. Five rounds. Dead center. Thirteen teetered, still burning, unwilling to fall. Wesna lunged, and he lashed out at her, backhanded her to the floor. I slammed the fresh clip home as he turned, bearing down on me.
That’s the mistake that killed him. I fired two shots, kept Thirteens focus on me, and Wesna launched herself at his back. The impact knocked Thirteen off-balance, and Wesna’s hammered his neck with both fists. It snapped and Thirteen dropped to one knee, anger diverting his attention to the immediate threat.
My final shot caught Thirteen in the side of the head. There wasn’t sufficient rage in the world to keep him upright after the mess that made, and no healing would repair the damage before the magic burnt out.
Weans hauled me off the floor, held me up as we surveyed the carnage. The remnants of Thirteen’s cult fled, desperate to escape the battlefield. All of them learned, the hard way, about Wesna’s back-up team lurking outside the house.
Wesna studied at the chaos, mouth tight with satisfaction. She pointed to a huddled, bloodied figure slumped by the ritual granite block. “What about her, then?”
I nodded. Raised the SIG. Nora looked up at me, through her curls. Her lips bloody, smiling, defiant. Still just a little bit punk. “You going to kill me, Murphy?”
I thought about that. Finger on the trigger. Screams came out of the darkness. Plenty of Thirteen’s cultists around, running into demons in the dark. So many assholes in need of killing, but I’d lost the stomach for it.
EXILED
We packed into the SUVs for the trip down the mountain. Randall drove, unhappy as hell. Wesna rode shotgun, mouth pulled into a grim line. It was six in the morning. Sunlight coming over the horizon. The rest of the demons were up at the house, eliminating any signs of our involvement. Not all of them, I figured. They’d keep some traces of my presence there. Insurance, in case I did something stupid. Oh officer, about that cold case. Have you looked into this asshole who left DNA all around the scene…
Nora sat in the seat beside me. Bound and gagged. Zip ties on the wrists and ankles. Old rags stuffed into her mouth. Randall offered to kill her for me, couldn’t understand why I told him to back off. Wesna did. She didn’t like it, but she understood. No matter how much demon they squeezed into her, there were parts that remained stubbornly human.
We rolled through the national park, through the backstreets of Nerang where the estates and the prize-homes sat side-by-side with industrial parks. Sunday morning. Quiet and sleepy, in this part of town. It’s the surfers who rose early. I needed to remember that. Get the hell away from the beach.
We pulled into the parking lot at Nerang Station, empty as hell in the wee hours. I let myself out, went around to open Nora’s door. Wesna was already there. She looked me in the eye, wanting to be sure I knew what I was doing.
I nodded. Produced a knife. Cut the zip-ties binding Nora’s arms and legs. She climbed out, eyes full of fire, but Wesna’s presence kept her from taking a swing at me. Nora, on her own, might have had sufficient fury to beat the crap out of me, but she’d spent that anger and it hadn’t panned out. My side won and her side lost.
That’s the problem with attempting to change your corner of the world—it takes a lot out of you once you realize that you’re helpless.
“You can’t remain here,” I said. “You’re sure as hell not going to win, if you pick a fight with Sabbath.”
I offered her a roll of bills. Salvage from the cult’s lair. Nora looked at the money. “You seriously think I’m willing to run, Murphy?”
“I’m hoping you’ll try.”
She chewed on that for a few seconds. Took the cash off my hands. About six hundred. Enough to put some distance between us.
“Spend some quality time in Melbourne,” I said. “You’ll like it there. Good coffee. Lots of bars. It shouldn’t take long to set yourself up.”
Nora’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t need your advice.”
I held her stare with my own. “This isn’t letting you go. This is giving you a head start. If Sabbath still wants you dead, he’ll send people. Make sure you’ve got someplace you can defend, or you’ve hooked up with someone that’ll force him think twice about going after you.”
“I can’t believe you’re doing this.”
“You’d prefer death?”
“Maybe.” She looked me in the eye, and I could see she wasn’t joking. A part of her hated leaving. Loathed giving in. “I’m not like you, Murphy. Running’s never been my style. I’d rather stay and fight.”
I nodded, slowly. “You can try that.”
Nora glanced towards the car. Randall glaring at her. Wesna standing there, arms folded, expression stern.
“No, I really can’t.” She leant in, kissed me on the cheek. “Welcome home. Not sure I ever said that.”
I stood there, saying nothing. Wesna cleared her throat, the noise close to a snarl.
“Right then.” Nora affected a triumphant grin that was ninety percent bravado. “Fuck you all, then.”
Nora held her chin high all the way to the station. Bought a ticket that’d take her north. Brisbane, first. God knows where after that. Somewhere far, far from the Coast if she was smart, and I hoped to hell she was. I climbed back into the car. We all hunkered down, waiting. Unwilling to depart until we’d seen Nora climb aboard and leave the city.
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