by Rita Herron
Dante strode into his Office, then the conference room to meet with the search party he’d organized. Six officers from the county and neighboring counties in all, each eager to help find the man who’d killed Jordie.
Dante knew they’d be at a disadvantage when they went out, that he couldn’t share his demon theory, but they needed a manhunt now, and he had no friends to assist him.
“Any luck with Jordie’s phone records?” Dobbs asked.
Dante shook his head. “Nothing stands out.”
“How about Daumer’s?”
“Just a couple of calls to BloodCore,”
Dante tacked the photos of the crime scene, of Jordie’s body, and of the shrine Daumer had built on the white-board in the -room. “This is what we’re dealing with, an obsessive-compulsive psychotic who will kill again if we don’t stop him.”
Rumblings of anger and outrage echoed through the room, and Dante held up his hand. “Listen, guys, we’re not here to form a lynch mob; just bring in the guy.”
In fact, he wanted him alive so he could question him, determine if he was working for someone else, a higher power.
If Father Gio was behind his crimes.
Dante turned to the county building planner, a pudgy man with a scruffy mustache named Hinkley, who’d brought maps of the area. “We can’t possibly know where all the abandoned cabins and buildings in these mountains are,” Dante said. “But this should give us a place to start.”
With a red marker, the building planner stood and divided the area into quadrants. “There are some old chicken houses to the northeast,” he said, then circled them. “Several old warehouses to the south. A group of cabins that were partially built by the river on the east, but the construction was brought to a halt when the builder discovered the land was a sacred Native American burial ground. He claims the land was haunted.”
Dante didn’t doubt it. He’d beard the spirits himself.
The door opened and, to his surprise, Sol BlackPaw entered, a gritty look in his eyes. BlackPaw was head of a werewolf clan and the last person he’d expected to show up. “I heard you need help,” he said in a deep growl.
Dante nodded, narrowing his eyes in suspicion. Was he here to spy on them and make sure Dante didn’t find the demon?
“Take a seat. We’re having a briefing now?’
The chair scraped the wooden floor as BlackPaw slid it back and sank his big bulk into it.
Hinkley tapped his knuckles on the map again to get their attention. “The fourth area to check would be these hills,” he said. “There are rumors of old caves and tunnels in the area. Maybe some old mineshafts, but they’re dangerous.” -
He and BlackPaw exchanged a knowing look. More dangerous than they realized. The underground tunnels provided safety for the demons.
“Legends say monsters roam those tunnels,” the planner said with a sardonic laugh. “Don’t know of many people who’d have the guts to go inside, but if Daumer is desperate, he might.”
“It’s a little far if he’s traveling on foot,” Dante pointed out, then gestured to the tunnels. “But I’ll search those.”
He gestured toward his deputy and the man beside him. “Let’s travel in teams. You two search the chicken houses.” He flicked his hand -to the next two deputies. “Check out the old cabins.” -
The next deputy seated at the table drummed his fingers on the wooden surface. “I guess that means we check those warehouses.”
“Right,” Dante said. “And keep me posted if you find anything.”
The deputies filed out, but BlackPaw remained seated, his big paws clasped on the table.
“What are you really doing here?” Dante asked.
BlackPaw grunted. “Mortimer said you’ve been asking about the underground.”
Dante gritted his teeth. “Yeah. I’d like a truce, to keep the demons from feeding on the locals.”
“My pack doesn’t,” BlackPaw said. “But there’s talk about a new pack moving into town. There will be trouble?’
“You think you can handle them?”
“We’re preparing.” He paused. “There’s more. There’s rumors about Zion creating an anarchy,” BlackPaw said in a low voice. “He’s ordered his minions to create chaos across the world and was responsible for sending the god of fear to Eerie to kill those women a few months ago. He was behind those attacks on the southern cities last month. Talk is the elements will surface as major players.”
Dante cursed. So the elements would return—his old enemies. “Have you heard from Father Gio?”
“He’s here, but lying low for now.”
“Probably formulating a plan.” Dante hesitated, studying BlackPaw. “Why are you telling me this?”
BlackPaw barked a laugh. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m not the welcome wagon.” He stood, his leather jacket crinkling as be moved. “But Mortimer and I and a few of the others have settled here, made cover lives in the town, and we’d like to keep it that way.”
Without another word, he turned and strode out the door. Dante watched him go with a mixture of distrust and shock. He’d been on his own for so long he hadn’t expected to have another demon on his side.
Then again, BlackPaw could have bad a secret agenda for meeting with him.
For all he knew he was working -with Father Gio, trying to throw him off by winning his trust.
But he didn’t trust anyone. Trusting meant letting down your guard.
And that could get him killed.
Chapter Twelve
Body tense, Dante checked his weapon, then strode out to his SUV. He spent the next three hours personally searching the mountains and caves.
The sun struggled to fight its way through the storm clouds, making sharp, ominous shadows splinter through the spiny leaves of the giant oaks. The scent of blood grew stronger, the acrid odor of death permeating the air in the wind from the west. He pivoted and hiked toward the source, the pungent odor of fresh blood so strong that his own dark hungers stirred. Just as he approached an overgrown cave, he spotted a hulking shadowy monster on the ridge, watching him, stalking him.
Dammit. It was a Gamosh-Ra, a lightning demon here in Mysteria. A string of expletives rolled off his tongue.
He was a demon hunter. He didn’t like to be hunted.
And this one oozed with the need to feed.
Dante braced himself for battle. He didn’t intend to be food for the demon.
He inhaled the pungent odor of blood from the cave and knew death lay inside.
Human or animal?
Squinting through the shadows, he spotted the enemy, a great, hulking mound of muscle and flesh that stood nearly three peds high. Charred black skin covered the mass, thick red blood seeping from gashes that he knew from experience were always bleeding.
Dante slowly approached from behind, his movements stealthy, the fire in his hands bursting to life. The foul, acidic odor of the demon’s saliva filled the air.
“What are you doing here?” Dante growled. “Did Father Gio send you?”
The demon swung around, his eyes a bright white! yellow as if they were literally shards of lightning, his fists like great war hammers. “I smelled fresh flesh nearby.”
The demon spewed a stream of acid toward Dante, but he dodged the stinging fluid, lifted his hand, and threw a fireball at him.
The Gamosh-Ra jumped aside, then charged, chunky fists ready for attack. Another stream of saliva shot from the demon’s mouth, aimed at him.
Dante jumped aside, but wasn’t quite fast enough. The scalding sting of the acid sizzled, scalding his arm, burning through his jacket all the way to his skin.
Rage shot through Dante, and heat seeped through his body in anticipation. He flexed his hands, smiling as his fingertips turned molten red and sizzled.
Dante jumped sideways again to avoid another scorching spray, then focused his power and hurled another fireball toward the ugly creature.
The demon howled, an inhuman sound, and stalk
ed into the woods, growling, kicking down trees and shredding bushes with his teeth.
Fueled by the need to finish him off, Dante’s super speed kicked in, and he homed in on the target. The monster wouldn’t escape.
His lips curled back over his teeth as he shot another fireball toward the demon. A tree burst into flames beside the monster and he pivoted, baring his own teeth to attack again. But Dante was faster this time.
Old instincts kicked in. The heat in his body, the absence of his soul at the moment, turned him into a predator, and he hurled more fire at the Gamosh-Ra, laughing as his scaly skin began to char and erupt into flames. The demon screamed and tried to spit out the fire, but the acid intensified the flames~ and the demon shook and dropped to the ground, glowing bright orange as flames consumed his hideous form, which disintegrated into ashes.
Even as adrenaline pumped through him from his victory, Dante knew the battle had just begun.
That demon hadn’t killed Jordie. His type’s MO didn’t match.
The fight suddenly weakened him, as the use of his power always did.
Fuck. He needed to go home and rest, replenish his energy.
But he didn’t have time to rest. He had to search that cave.
Mentally focusing to renew his strength, he slowly inched forward, senses honed. The inside smelled dank, musty, the metallic scent of blood so intense his mouth watered. He shone a flashlight at the crimson splatter on the walls, the dirt floor, the rocks.
Human blood. Another victim of Jordie’s killer? Had the demon he’d just slaughtered taken a life?
No, he’d said he needed to feed. If he’d already had a human, he wouldn’t have attacked him.
His head swirled with bloodlust just as his stomach convulsed, the hunger for blood mounting inside him, the need for vengeance for the innocent taken warring with his own dark desires.
If a human had been killed here tonight, where was the body?
Dizzy with the blood smell, he staggered outside, needing to ward off the succulent aroma. He’d have to send a crime scene unit out here. But first he had to look for a body.
He hiked away from the cave toward a sharp ridge in the distance, and another odor drifted to him, one he recognized.
One that fed his demonic side.
The scent of smoke.
Pausing to assess the situation, he scanned the trees and bushes. Smoke curled upward in a mesmerizing arc through the trees, teasing him with the alluring scent.
Gut clenching, he stilled. The smoke was in the woods near his house.
Adrenaline spurred him on, and he withdrew his Bowie knife and slashed tree branches aside, driven by the scent of burning wood and flesh as he jogged toward the source.
When he finally reached the clearing, he growled low in his throat. Dammit, another woman had been tied to a tree and set on fire, a Satanic S burning on the ground by her feet.
Marlena typed her notes on Prudence Puckett, disturbed by her behavior. She hoped the woman would return for therapy. She didn’t want to let another patient get away from her.
Before she returned to the lab, she decided to visit the man who’d been sheriff when her family had been murdered.
A little research, and she learned he’d suffered a stroke and lived in a nursing home on the edge of town. The sun had set by the time she arrived, but she was pleasantly surprised to find that the facility resembled a series of hotel rooms with a common dining room and activity room for the residents.
Sam Larson lived in Unit 2B. She smoothed her skirt down, tucking a loose strand of hair back in the knot at the nape of her neck. More storm clouds dotted the horizon, and the temperature was dropping. She tugged her coat tighter around her and rang the doorbell.
Seconds later, a stoop-shouldered, white-haired woman with gnarled fingers answered the door. “May I help you?”
“I came to speak to Mr. Larson. Are you his wife?”
“Yes, my name is Donnelle.” Age lines fanned beside her eyes. “Was he expecting you?”
“I’m the doctor who called earlier,” Marlena explained. “Please, it’s important.”
Worry pinched the elderly woman’s face. “I know who you are, Dr. Bender, and I don’t want you to upset Sam. He suffered a stroke a while back, and sometimes his speech and memory are sketchy.”
“I understand, and I’ll try not to upset him,” Marlena said. “But I’d still like to talk to him.”
She gave Marlena a discerning look, then pursed her lips and gestured toward a small den, leaving Marlena to fend for herself. The room was painted a lemon yellow and somewhat bare of furniture, but looked homey compared to most nursing homes she’d visited.
Sam Larson sat hunched in a wheelchair with a blanket spread over his thin legs. What hair he had was white and patchy, liver spots dotted his arms and face, and he leaned to one side, obviously partially paralyzed. Her heart went out to him.
When he looked up at her though, his eyes looked keen, bright, as if his mind was still intact. At least for the moment.
“Hello, Sheriff Larson.”
“My god. . .“ His voice slurred, and he wiped spittle from the corner of his mouth with the back of a gnarled hand. “Are you who I think you are?”
“Yes, Marlena Bender,” Marlena said, then slipped down into the wing chair nearest his wheelchair.
His chest rose on a wheezed breath. “Good God, child, I can’t believe you came back to Mysteria.”
Marlena folded her hands. “I had to, Sheriff.” She explained about her life’s research work, about her nightmares. “I studied the news clippings about the investigation into my mother’s and sister’s deaths. Did you have any suspects back then?”
His hand trembled as if he had palsy or Parkinson’s as he lifted it to rub his forehead. Either that or she’d upset him. “I tried, but the trail went cold.”
“There were other mysterious deaths in the following five years. Do you think those people were killed by the same killers who murdered my family?”
His eyes went vacant for a moment as if he was searching for a long-lost memory. “Animals, wild animals. . . they live in those mountains.”
“What kind of wild animals? Did you see them? Were there witnesses to any of the other murders?”
“No. . .just heard the rumors,” he stammered. “Talk about inhuman creatures.”
“Just like I said,” Marlena whispered. “Only everyone thought it was just my childhood imagination.”
“Hate to say it, but so did I, at first,” Larson mumbled. Again, his eyes glazed over as if he was lapsing into another time or place. Maybe into memories or nightmares of his own.
“What else can you tell me?” Marlena gently touched his hand, hoping to keep him talking. Was it possible that she hadn’t imagined them, that the monsters had been real? And if they had been, had Dante seen them? He’d never admitted that he had. “Did you see any of these.. . creatures you heard about?”
A sudden coughing spell seized him, and his frail body shook and wavered. Marlena grabbed the oxygen tank that stood near at hand, pushed it over, and handed the mask to him.
Larson took it in an unsteady hand, pressed it to his mouth, and wheezed into it several times, then pushed it away for a second.
“And that boy. . . the one. . . you said. . . saved you?”
“Yes, Dante Zertlav.”
He clutched her fingers tighter. “There’s something strange about him,” Larson mumbled. “Be careful.”
Marlena’s pulse pounded. “What do you mean?”
His grip tightened as he squeezed her fingers. “That one. . . he’s not what he seems. He’s dangerous.”
He broke into another wheezing attack and pointed to the doorway where his wife stood glaring at Marlena. His expression was haunted. “Donnelle…he whispered. “Donnelle…
Marlena forced him to accept the oxygen again. “I’m sorry I upset you. I’ll go now.”
She turned and walked to the doorway, but the woman
’s condemning look sent a chill through her.
“Don’t come back here, Dr. Bender,” Donnelle said in an angry tone. “My husband doesn’t need the kind of trouble you brought to this town.”
Marlena frowned, confused and shocked by the woman’s vehemence. She sounded as if she blamed Marlena for the deaths in Mysteria.
The shapeshifter demon morphed from Donnelle Larson’s form back into the Black Shadow image as the Bender woman rushed to her car and drove away. He—well, Donnelle—had scared her shitless.
Good. He had enjoyed seeing the fear on her face. Zion would be proud.
From the other room, the old man coughed and wheezed for air, obviously distraught over seeing the image of his dead wife in his doorway.
Laughter bubbled from deep inside him. He had been sent years ago to torment the old man and drive him insane. He’d used Donnelle’s form as well as other demonic images to terrorize the man into another stroke, but Larson had proven stronger than he’d first expected.
And he’d been lucid enough to communicate with the Bender woman.
The old man had to be dealt with now. He had to die so he wouldn’t spill any more of what he’d seen over the years. His silence had saved the demons more than once.
His death would save them now.
Chapter Thirteen
Dante had called the crime scene unit to the cave and they had arrived and were combing the area for forensics. Another team was searching the woods near the cave for the killer.
Dante cursed. Hell, the killer was probably long gone.
Unless he was hiding out somewhere watching them.
Dante pivoted, his gaze scanning the ridge above where he thought he had detected a shadow. Then the shadow morphed into a bat, its screech rending the air as it flapped its wings and flew overhead.
Not the killer. Drake Mortimer, probably going to report back to the vamps.
Dante scowled, the acrid odor of the body and smoke engulfing him as he studied the scene again. The Satanic S reminded him of his youth and the rituals he’d been taught. Satan had been their leader, their orders to follow his commands etched permanently in his brain. The creed, Father Gio had told him, a creed that was born in his soul, a life he had been born to lead.
