Shadow Detective Supernatural Action Thriller Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset)

by William Massa

  I popped open the glove compartment, pulled out one of the best multivitamins on the market and washed down three of them with a piss-warm Red Bull. I offered some to Blaire as if they were breath mints. She gratefully accepted. Smart girl. We were both depleted.

  I put the car in drive and focused on the trip ahead. It took less than half an hour of winding forest roads to reach the nearest town. My destination was a rustic three-story brick building fronted by lush trees. This police station shared little in common with the squalid urban counterparts I normally frequented.

  Lt. John Kove and two fellow officers emerged from the structure as Blaire and I walked toward the main entrance. The good lieutenant wore a sober expression. The fact that I was returning with only one of the missing hikers told him everything he needed to know.

  Kove’s men draped a blanket over Blaire’s shivering shoulders. Would the traumatized young woman ever be the same again? Most people who survived supernatural horrors ended up being scarred for life. Trust me, I know from personal experience. Hopefully Blaire would somehow beat the odds and not become another grim statistic.

  “What happened out there, Raven?” Kove asked. Despite his burly six-foot-two frame, he appeared smaller since I’d last spoken to him, his shoulders hunched. This case had weighed heavily on him. Maybe he didn’t like what he saw on my face, because he added, “On second thought, better keep it to yourself. I can’t put any of this shit in my report, anyway.”

  Ignorance is bliss.

  A melancholic note had crept into Kove’s voice, his eyes growing distant as he stared off somewhere over my shoulder. “You know, I moved out here to get away from the craziness of the city. It’s happening all over again, isn’t it?”

  I shook my head, though I couldn’t be certain. In fact, I’d asked myself the same question recently, but I sensed that Kove needed to hear something reassuring at this weak moment. He remembered all too well the way supernatural activity had escalated in the city, two years earlier.

  Now might be a good time to bring up why I haven’t disclosed the name of my current place of residence and keep referring to it as “the city.” You may wonder why I’m being vague about geography and won’t provide identifying details. Well, there’s a good reason for that. The less you know, the better. Trust me on that. I’d rather not have a group of amateur monster hunters descend on my home turf.

  Want the gist of it? My city and the surrounding countryside–numerous suburbs and small towns–are cursed.

  A little less than two years ago, Skulick and I had come to the city to stop a doomsday cult from opening a gateway into Hell–just another day on the job. Sadly, we were only partially successful in stopping the Crimson Circle’s ritual. On the bright side, we prevented the end of the world. But their ritual hadn’t been a complete bust. It opened a rift between the city and the dark dimension. With the barrier between the two worlds no longer able to do its job, the city became a nexus for unholy creatures and paranormal horrors. It turned the whole area into a hotspot for supernatural activity.

  A Cursed City.

  Working the city’s murder beat at the time of the breach, Kove got a front-row seat for the craziness. To his mind, as soon as Skulick and I appeared on the scene his city went to Hell—literally. Each week brought another new occult murder case or rampaging paranormal creature. As special consultants to the police, my partner and I had our hands full.

  Of course, that was before the accident that put Skulick in a wheelchair. During our investigation of a haunted hotel, a vengeful spirit caught Skulick off guard and dropped him out a window. The three-story fall should’ve killed the demonologist, but Skulick wasn’t the sort to go gentle into that good night.

  Not long thereafter, Kove decided that a change of scenery was in order and traded the blood-filled alleys of the Cursed City for the pastoral beauty of this idyllic small town. Nothing terrible could happen out here, right? But monsters don’t respect county lines. This latest case served as a sharp reminder that there was no true safe haven left. The city might be Spook Central, but Hell’s terrifying influence was spreading beyond its limits at an alarming rate. Swift and merciless, evil could strike anywhere.

  Thinking about the Crimson Circle and the creatures their blind fanaticism had unleashed must’ve darkened my expression, because Kove decided to change the subject.

  “How’s Skulick holding up?”

  “You know how stubborn he can be. The man is a fighter. He’s hanging in there, but he hates being stuck in a wheelchair.”

  Kove nodded. He didn’t press me for the grisly details about the thing that almost killed my partner. There are two types of people in this world: those who face the darkness head-on, and those who would rather not know about a supernatural war being fought behind the scenes. Kove belonged to the latter group and intended to keep it that way. I didn’t blame him; I even envied him sometimes. I’d never had a chance to ignore the threat of the underworld. That, along with everything else, was taken from me the night my parents were killed.

  “You know how to get a hold of me if you ever need my services again,” I said, extending my hand to shake.

  Kove smiled, but his eyes told me he hoped he’d never see me again. That would mean things were going pretty well out here.

  I regarded Blaire one final time as the cops whisked her inside. Her eyes looked about a hundred years older than the rest of her, haunted by the sight of things that no mortal should ever have to face.

  I recognized that expression. I saw it every time I peered in the mirror.

  4

  The gothic skyline of my adopted metropolis rose before me, the lights of its majestic buildings twinkling in the nighttime shadows. Like many major urban centers, the city has a reputation for being a place that never sleeps. Some of the hippest, most famous restaurants and clubs in the country can be found within its urban canyons, and its late-night delights draw visitors from all around the world.

  I pulled off the freeway, shot down the exit ramp and tore through a series of deserted alleys. The glamour of the glittering downtown gave way to blocks of abandoned industrial warehouses. Maybe one day in the near future gentrification would turn this area into a hotspot for hipsters and artists, but at the moment it was still a broken wasteland of failed industry and a mecca for the city’s homeless population.

  I zipped past sidewalks crowded with tents, where forgotten souls wrapped in tattered rags shuffled along the otherwise empty streets like an army of the undead. This was skid row on steroids.

  Home, sweet home.

  After another fifteen minutes of crumbling structures and rat-infested alleys for scenery, our four-story loft building jumped into view. This former warehouse served as both our living space and our command center in the war against the supernatural. Sensors registered my approach and a gate rumbled open, allowing me to pull into the underground parking structure.

  I couldn’t see them from inside my car, but a number of surveillance cameras recorded my approach. Skulick would be monitoring the CCTV feed. Technological as well as mystical security measures protected the fortress-like warehouse. Our top-of-the line electronic security system coexisted with magical wards and glyphs capable of deflecting most supernatural assaults. Should some demon locate our base of operations, the beast would have a hell of a fight if it tried to overcome our metaphysical defenses.

  Like myself, Skulick wasn’t a mage but had picked up a few tricks over the years. He might not be able to cast a spell, but he knew how to draw the right protective symbols and release their power with the help of occult ritual. He’d done most of the warding himself, before his injury.

  While our underground parking structure was large enough to accommodate eight vehicles, at the moment only my Ducati and Skulick’s battered Humvee were parked there. The Humvee had been gathering dust for eight months. A spinal injury had a way of turning the most energetic person into a homebody.

  I parked the Equus, killed the en
gine and got out. Stale air tinged with city grime made me immediately miss the countryside. My footsteps echoed as I approached the rusty freight elevator. I punched a button and the lift rumbled to life with a disconcerting groan of steel. Less than a minute later, the elevator door zoomed open with a metallic thunk and I entered the spacious loft Skulick and I called home.

  The world outside the warehouse might resemble a post-apocalyptic wasteland, but the loft itself was a different story. Hardwood floors, stainless steel counters and red brick walls dominated the space. Thick beams formed an intricate web across the high ceiling, and gargantuan windows offered a perfect view of the Cursed City’s glittering skyline. There was a sense of peace and tranquility within our loft, allowing us to at least momentarily forget the horrors we faced beyond these walls.

  A whirring sound drew my attention and I turned to see Skulick’s motorized wheelchair buzzing toward me. Behind him was a massive desk covered with computer monitors and books on the occult. Seeing Skulick, the man who became my guardian and mentor after my parents’ death, brought a bittersweet smile to my face.

  Growing up, I had been led to believe that my father was a traveling salesman who worked hard to support us. His business partner was John Skulick. Back then I tried to imagine what my dad’s long days on the road were like. Little did I know that those trips weren’t like anything my young mind imagined. It turns out that my dad and Skulick had been hunting creatures of the night, keeping the world safe from monsters.

  Skulick was in his early fifties now, about the same age my father would be had he lived. A vicious scar split his ruggedly handsome features, but his warrior spirit still burned bright behind the penetrating, cunning gaze. The man had battled werewolves and vampires, wraiths and demons for decades until his broken back finally forced him from the field. He was the world’s leading expert on the supernatural and, truth be told, he made me look like a rank amateur.

  It pained me to see him like this, an indomitable will trapped inside a shattered body. While his injuries kept him off the front lines, he was still a driving force in the war against the forces of darkness. A thick occult tome written in some ancient language rested in his lap, a reminder that he hadn’t spent these days idle while I battled a witch in the woods. He might not be able to physically engage the enemy any longer, but he could still draw on his intellect.

  Skulick’s lips twisted into a grin. “Welcome back, kid. Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”

  He spun his chair toward a nearby bar and poured us two whiskeys. I gratefully accepted the tumbler. I’d been fighting the temptation of a stiff drink ever since defeating the Blackmore Witch. As the alcohol burned down my throat, my sore muscles relaxed almost immediately.

  I took note of the heavy tome of occult literature propped up next to the computer terminal. The ominous title read The Roman Manual of Demonic Magic. Arching an eyebrow, I asked, “Catching up on some light reading?”

  “Someone has to be the brains of this operation. What I learn today may save your ass tomorrow.”

  I chuckled and raised my glass. Couldn’t argue with that logic.

  “So how did it go out there, kid?” Skulick asked. He looked me over for a beat and added, “You look like hell.”

  “Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”

  “You can always dye the gray in your hair, you know.”

  I scowled. “You’re a real comedian.”

  “I have plenty of time nowadays to practice my routine.”

  The joke failed to mask the pain behind the words. I knew Skulick hated being trapped in this place, but he tried to make the best of it. The man was a born fighter, one of the many reasons I admired him so much. If our places were reversed, I don’t think I would bear the tragic turn of events with nearly as much grace as he had.

  “Kove sends his regards,” I said.

  “How is our old friend?”

  “Country life was agreeing with him until recently.”

  Skulick pursed his lips. “So our hunch turned out to be right? The Blackmore Witch was responsible for these kidnappings?”

  I nodded grimly. “She was turning our missing hikers into her personal gardening project. Nasty piece of business.”

  The humor seeped from Skulick’s eyes. “Any survivors?”

  I closed my eyes briefly. “Just one,” I said, and raised my arm to knock back the rest of my drink. Skulick’s hand snapped out, closing around my wrist. His eyes burned with a sharp intensity as he spoke. “I know what’s going through your mind, kid, but there was nothing you could’ve done to help those poor souls. The witch did this. You aren’t responsible.”

  “Tell that to them,” I said. “Every time I close my eyes, I see the faces from those missing person posters.”

  “The dead are gone,” Skulick said. “You have to let them go.”

  We were getting close to dangerous territory. Skulick knew that I felt guilty for being alive when my parents perished two decades earlier.

  “Think of all the lives you saved,” he continued. “If you hadn’t put a stop to her, the witch would have kept killing.”

  On a rational level, I knew Skulick was right, but my emotions resisted his words. My partner understood me better than anybody. Skulick had arrived too late to save my parents. The guilt consumed him for years too, until he finally let it go. We both felt that we’d failed my father, and in our own ways, I think we were still trying to atone for it.

  “How did you defeat her? I know how challenging spell-slingers can be.”

  I removed a few shards of the broken cauldron from my satchel and handed them to Skulick. He inspected the pieces with grave interest and when he was done, let out a low whistle of appreciation. He looked up at me with shining eyes. The study of new relics always made him look like an overgrown kid on Christmas Eve.

  “The cauldron of the Warlock Methusan, unless I’m mistaken. The common belief among historians is that the Knights Templar destroyed the relic back in the Middle Ages.”

  “Looks like the historians got that one wrong,” I said. “I saw a vision when I touched it. A few kids who didn’t know better accidentally activated the evil thing after it lay dormant for all these decades. What are the chances of that?”

  Skulick pursed his lips and shot me a knowing look. “Hell favors fools. The forces of darkness take advantage of our ignorance.”

  I know what he meant. The twenty-first century worshipped science, not magic. Unfortunately, our progress came at a steep price. In our haste to master the laws of nature, mankind had sacrificed its hard-earned knowledge of the mystical world. Ancient wisdom was scoffed at, reduced in people’s minds to nothing but a bunch of superstitious nonsense. Modern man refused to acknowledge what science failed to explain, and the agents of darkness were more than willing to exploit our blind spot.

  “You better secure these pieces,” Skulick said. “There might be latent traces of power here.”

  I nodded. The mark of the demon on my chest had been mildly irritated during my drive back, giving credence to Skulick’s concerns. The broken relic still posed a potential threat.

  “I’ll take care of it right now.”

  With these words, I turned away from my mentor and headed for the spiral staircase that led to the warehouse’s top floor. Upstairs, a massive steel door inscribed with wards greeted me. The vault-like chamber behind the door contained a vast collection of the most dangerous magical relics known to mankind. We used the vault to secure black magic items that we’d come across over the years. Only once the remnants of the cauldron were safely locked away would I be able to fully relax.

  I tapped a secret code into a keypad and the magic-protected steel door rumbled open. I stepped inside the windowless chamber, which was reinforced by silver. The room felt like a museum with its occult relics neatly lined up on a variety of tables and shelves. The items hummed with a seductive, evil energy.

  It took a certain amount of mental discipline to be in th
is room for more than a few minutes. The cursed collection called out to me, a steady, incessant whisper urging me to remove them from the chamber. It had taken years of apprenticeship under Skulick’s careful guidance before he allowed me to set foot inside the vault. I had to earn the right to handle these dangerous relics.

  Tapping into my training, I blocked out the various voices pulling at my thoughts like a chorus of the damned and placed the shards of the cauldron on one of the empty shelves.

  My task complete, I cut a hasty retreat. As the blast-resistant door slammed shut behind me, I let out a sigh of relief. The concentrated evil trapped within the chamber’s walls made my skin crawl and stomach tighten up with existential terror. No wonder Skulick had nicknamed the vault “The Waiting Room to Hell.”

  I returned to the living area, where Skulick now faced his bank of computer monitors and big-screen TVs. The heart of our command center was his personal window to the world.

  I glanced at the screens. “Anything happening that I should be aware of?”

  “You could say that. We have a new client.”

  Skulick tapped a key, and a picture of a striking young woman appeared onscreen. She wore black lipstick and eyeliner, her hair dyed blue and styled in a mohawk. Both her upper lip and nose were pierced, heightening her sense of dangerous sexuality and punk rock disaffection. She looked like trouble.

  “Who is she?” I asked.

  “Meet Celeste Solos.”

  I took a step toward the computers and leaned forward, studying her face.

  “Your type?” Skulick asked with a grin.

  I shook my head a little too quickly and said, “You know me. I like nice girls. Nurses, accountants.”

  “Accountants don’t date men who hunt demons for a living.”