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

by William Massa

  I blocked out their stares and entered Gabriel Horne’s bedroom. It matched the luxury of the rest of the penthouse, with vast skylights offering up yet more spectacular views of the city. A forensics team was busy collecting evidence around the king-sized bed.

  The demon’s mark was smeared on the wall above the bed.

  “Do you mind?” I said as I approached.

  The forensic guy, some baby-faced kid who looked way too innocent to be spending his days studying dead bodies, quickly checked with Archer. The detective nodded her okay, and the kid stepped aside, allowing me closer access to Gabriel. The man was only wearing a pair of blue boxers and it appeared Celeste must’ve killed him in his sleep. I still couldn’t imagine the girl I met in the coffee shop the other day committing a violent crime like this.

  I leaned over the bed and studied the wound on the man’s chest. He’d been stabbed in the heart. Two smaller punctures flanked a larger gash and left no doubt as to the murder weapon. The three-pronged Soul Dagger had claimed Gabriel Horne’s life.

  And his soul.

  “Take a look at the eyes,” another member of the forensic team urged me. “Never seen anything like it.”

  I traded a look with Archer. We’d been hearing that phrase a lot lately.

  I inched closer to the bed and looked down. Blank white orbs stared back at me. The eyes are the windows to the soul, and the magical knife had drained the man of his essence, pupil and iris veiled by a scrim of milky sclera. For a moment, I wondered what it must be like for a soul imprisoned inside the dagger. Was Gabriel Horne conscious and aware of his predicament, trapped in some never-ending nightmare?

  I hoped for his sake that the answer was no.

  I turned back to Archer. “You mentioned a message.”

  The detective nodded at one of the forensic guys and two members of the team gently turned the dead man over, almost as if they thought he was asleep and were taking great care not to wake him. My face fell as I saw the note that had been placed under the body.

  It read: Don’t try to stop me, Raven.

  “Do you have an explanation for this?” Archer demanded.

  The energy in the room had changed. Suspicious gazes now bored into me. If part of me had still held out hope that Celeste wasn’t the one behind this murder, the message swiftly put an end to that foolish notion. She might be a victim, but she was also a killer. And she clearly didn’t know me or understand what made me tick. The warning had the exact opposite effect on me. Instead of encouraging me to back off this case, I’d do everything in my power to bring Celeste down.

  My gut told me that revealing the origin of the murder weapon wouldn’t go over too well, but Archer was a shrewd detective and could smell a lie from a thousand yards off.

  “You know who did this, don’t you? Talk to me, Raven!”

  I was still debating how to best answer Archer’s question when I noticed the fog gathering outside the gargantuan bedroom windows. No one else was paying any attention to the clouds circling around the penthouse. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have caught my interest either, but the last twenty-four hours had taught me to be wary of the mist—and the inhuman entities that traveled under its cover.

  I advanced toward the windows. With each successive step, the fog drew closer, almost as if responding to my presence. The mist hung over the building like a giant shroud. As my gaze searched the white-gray cloud, I vaguely made out slithering shapes.

  “Archer, tell your men to move away from the windows,” I said, my voice holding a note of urgency.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Let’s say I have a hunch that things are about get ugly.”

  No doubt about it—shadowy shapes were moving inside the swirling mist. That was never a good thing. Archer picked up on it too. We both had witnessed enough weird shit to know that something was up.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Raven, damn it, if you’re somehow doing this….”

  Before I could offer up an explanation, a tentacle thrashed out from the fog and slammed into the window next to my head, cracking the glass. The cops and forensic guys in the room jumped.

  “Raven?” Archer asked, her voice shaky.

  The tentacle withdrew. I sensed the movement it created beyond the glass pane.

  The hellhounds were preparing to attack again.

  The supernatural fog was serving as a bridge between worlds, just as it had outside the coffee shop.

  During its first attempt to manifest, the tentacle had appeared ghostlike, more like a shadow, but with each passing moment it was gaining substance. The next time the monstrous appendage lashed out, the glass would shatter and all hell would break loose—and I meant that in the literal sense.

  The events at the coffee shop were still fresh in my memory. If the hellhounds seized control of the cops in the penthouse…let’s just say a mass possession would lead to a lot of innocent people getting hurt.

  Good people, like Benson and the baby-faced forensics kid.

  And Archer.

  I pivoted and walked briskly away from the damaged window.

  “Raven, where are you going?” Archer asked.

  “I have to leave. For all our sakes.”

  “What are you talking about? What’s going on here?”

  Good question. A part of me wanted to come clean and tell her everything. I caught myself in time. I couldn’t involve Archer and put her in harm’s way. The less she knew, the safer she’d be.

  “The fog is after me,” I said after a pause that went on a beat too long.

  Archer grabbed my hand. Her touch was electric. “What is going on here?”

  “It’s my problem.”

  “Wrong answer. This is all our problem.”

  Archer had a point. But I didn’t have time for this. I pulled back from her and turned away. I felt her eyes digging into me as I left the apartment. I almost had something special once with Archer, but I blew it. I’d be lucky if she ever spoke to me again. Hell, I’d be lucky if she didn’t shoot me the next time our paths crossed.

  My footsteps echoed as I left the penthouse at the swift pace of a man who knew the forces of Hell were hot on his tail.

  10

  They always say that in case of an emergency, you should use the stairs. I tore down the back stairs of Gabriel Horne’s building three at a time. This pack of hellhounds was smart enough to mess with the elevator if I tried to use it, and the thought of hurtling down twenty stories in a metal coffin was more than enough motivation to hoof it to the lobby.

  As soon as I reached the street, I looked up toward the penthouse. The thick clouds had fully enveloped the building and now drifted with malevolent intent down the sidewalk.

  Toward me.

  High time to get my ass in gear.

  I surged back to my car and made it inside without any further surprises. The cloud picked up speed, and started to roll toward the Equus Bass. I cranked up the engine and punched the gas, and soon the supernatural bank of condensation receded in my rear-view mirror.

  I considered my next move. Celeste clearly intended to trade Gabriel Horne’s soul for her own, but would the demon accept her counter-offer? I doubted it. Celeste’s soul was more valuable to the demon than her half-brother’s. If only a fraction of the tabloid stories were true, the scion of the Horne family was a bad boy on steroids. His soul was probably hellbound already.

  If this exchange was going to work, Celeste would have to sweeten the deal somehow. Hell would only let her go if they received something of greater value than her soul. In other words, she’d have to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. If she couldn’t deal in quality, she would have to settle for quantity. That suggested the soul blade would need to seek out more victims before the day was over.

  It was all beginning to make sense in my mind. Celeste had the worst daddy issues I’d ever encountered. Killing off his legitimate heirs was an unmistakable plea for attention from the father who had ab
andoned her—and it just might get her out of the devil’s bargain, too.

  With Gabriel dead, only two Horne kids remained. Eric was the older of the two, while Robert was closer to Celeste’s age. That was where my knowledge of the Horne clan ended. It was time to call Skulick.

  He answered on the first ring. “How did it go? Is Detective Archer giving you a hard time?”

  I’d never told Skulick about what had happened between Archer and me, but I didn’t have to. Skulick, sly and perceptive bastard that he was, had a sixth sense about that kind of stuff.

  “Can we please talk about the case and not my personal life? The hellhounds immediately picked up my scent. I barely avoided an incident at the crime scene.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “Just driving, trying to stay mobile while I figure out my next move. My guess is Celeste is going to go after another one of Horne’s children.”

  “My thoughts exactly. According to the news, Eric Horne cut his Toronto business trip short and is on a flight back to the States. As long as he is on a plane, he should be safe.”

  “What about Robert Horne?” I said. “Does he work for their father’s company, too?”

  “No, he’s the black sheep of the family. An up-and-coming artist who has gone on record denouncing his father’s media empire but doesn’t seem to have any problems accepting cash from daddy when he needs it.”

  “Any idea how I can find him?” I wanted to know.

  “Looks like he rents a space downtown where he lives and works.”

  “Sounds familiar.” I guess Skulick and I weren’t the only one whose work was their life.

  “A local art magazine apparently considers his art to be both challenging and transformative, whatever that means. Bet it looks like a kid painted it.”

  The words put a smile on my face. There was no pretense or fake affectation when it came to my partner.

  “Okay, I’m going to pay him a visit—hopefully before Celeste does,” I said.

  “Sounds good. I’m sending you his address now.”

  My cell chimed, and juggling the phone in one hand, I plugged the address into my navigation app.

  “On a related note,” I said, “Do you have any intel on how Desmond Horne is taking the news of his oldest son’s murder?”

  “No comments from his camp yet. He’s has been ill for weeks now and hasn’t been seen around his midtown office building. Scuttlebutt is that he’s sequestered in his estate about fifty miles outside the city, which also happens to be surrounded by an army of trigger-happy bodyguards.”

  In other words, good luck getting within a hundred yards of the Horne patriarch. “Okay, I’m on my way to Robert’s now. Keep me posted if anything else should come up.”

  “You got it, kid.”

  I smiled. “Thanks, boss.”

  Skulick hung up, leaving me to my own thoughts. I touched the mark of the demon on my chest and wondered why the scar hadn’t detected the hellhounds for the second time in a row. My scar was sensitive to all supernatural activity, as far as I knew, and it had never failed me before. So what was different about the demonic force inside the mist?

  No matter how hard I racked my brain, the answer to the maddening question kept eluding me. I cranked up my stereo, and a loud rock anthem filled the Bass 770. The music helped blank out my mind. Screeching electric guitar solos and pounding drumbeats swept all dark thoughts of demons aside.

  I arrived at the art gallery less than a half an hour later. Feeling refreshed by my music therapy session, I climbed out of the car and walked up to the rundown two-story gallery. Nearby, a freeway cast a shadow over the neighborhood, the incessant traffic forming a steady soundtrack in the background. Further off, there was a McDonald’s and an exotic nightclub, its neon sign dead in the dull gray daylight. I figured Robert’s art had to be pretty special if well-heeled buyers were willing to trek out to this forsaken part of the city.

  There was no trace of the supernatural fog here, and I wondered how long it would take for the hellhounds to find me. I had to act fast. Hopefully I’d be able to convince Robert that I was here to help—and that I wasn’t insane. Trying to convince a stranger that his long-lost half-sister was coming to kill him with a magic knife would be a hard sell.

  Mind and body alert, I pushed open the glass double doors and entered Robert Horne’s art gallery. A pervasive silence hung over the space. I stood in front of the empty reception area for a few moments, unsure where to go next. It seemed rather careless to leave the space unattended in a shady neighborhood like this one. My sense of unease deepened as my hand wandered toward my shoulder holster. The scar on my chest wasn’t giving off any warning signs, but that clearly meant little.

  When no one showed up after five minutes, I decided to explore the gallery on my own. The reception room led into a long corridor, and I followed it deeper into the building. I passed through the door at the end of the hallway and stepped into a sprawling, high-ceilinged exhibition space.

  The lights were on, so surely somebody had to be here. My gaze combed the space, and I received my first taste of Robert’s gritty street art. Unsettling graffiti murals and sculptures defined the exhibition room – apparently Robert worked in multiple mediums. Long-limbed, spindly creatures, part reptilian and part insectile, featured in the compositions, grotesque shadow beasts artistically brought to spooky life. A giant maw of fiery red teeth covered one wall, while another sported a collection of glaring eyeballs. The lifelike quality of the pieces suggested the artist hadn’t pulled them completely from his imagination. Some of the graffiti murals dotting the exhibition space looked like distorted reflection of demons I’d faced in the past. The man was using his art to work through something. Like his father, the dark side apparently exerted a strong pull on Robert Horne.

  I was beginning to understand why potential clients would make the pilgrimage to this rundown location. These pieces exuded raw, uncompromising power and would be catnip to the right one-percenter with a dark sensibility and cash to burn.

  I edged deeper into the space. The shadows of the statues lengthened, the light hiding more than it revealed. My footsteps echoed, and the sound made me nervous. You’re walking into a trap, my inner voice told me, and I drew Hellseeker.

  Gun ready, I weaved around another sculpture and froze.

  I’d found Robert Horne.

  11

  The lifeless body, eyes blank and white as his brother’s had been, lay sprawled beneath one of the unsettling canvases. He’d become the centerpiece of his own grisly art exhibit.

  I inspected the gore-caked chest and found the three puncture wounds of the Soul Dagger. I touched the body, and the skin felt warm. Robert hadn’t been dead for long.

  I slowly turned away from the corpse as I realized I wasn’t alone in the art space. Celeste was still here, standing about fifteen feet away from me, crimson-sheathed blade in hand. I guess I’m a sucker for a pretty face and a lady in need of rescuing, because until I saw her with the murder weapon, part of me still hoped that she’d somehow turn out to be innocent.

  “Don’t make that face,” she said. “I bet this isn’t the first dead body you’ve seen in your line of work.”

  Wasn’t that the truth.

  “He didn’t suffer. One moment he was here—an obnoxious, self-important, and self-hating carbon footprint—and the next…”

  She held up the knife, and wiped the blood off with a rag.

  “His soul now belongs to me to do with as I please.” She sounded like a giddy sixteen-year old who had just gotten her first car. “One final sacrifice awaits. Three souls should make for a fair trade, wouldn’t you agree?”

  Shaking my head, I said, “You really think the creatures you want to bargain with will play fair?”

  “Maybe I’ll throw dad in for good measure,” she said. Her pouty lips were painted dark plum today, but her punk-rock goddess chic no longer worked on me, not now that I knew what she was.

 
; I took a step toward her, Hellseeker leveled at her heart.

  “I thought you only killed supernaturals,” she pointed out. “I’m human, Raven. You wouldn’t hurt me, would you?”

  “You’re a practitioner of the dark arts,” I said.

  “Is that how you justify murdering me in cold blood?”

  “Just drop the knife.”

  “What if I don’t?” Her features lost their playfulness, growing defiant. “We don’t have to be enemies. Walk away, Raven. Go back to hunting your werewolves and mummies and whatever. This isn’t your problem.”

  “That knife belongs to me. And you’re using it to kill people. Therefore, it is my problem. Plus I’m still a little upset about the time you knocked me out and then marked me with your blood.”

  “You can handle yourself, Raven. The hellhounds will figure it out soon enough and back off.”

  “You lied to me.”

  Her lips stretched into a tight line. “I had no choice. Time’s running out for me. I need to be ready for when the bargaining begins in earnest.”

  “Good luck with that,” I said, revolted by how cold and calm she could be about all of this.

  “The Horne boys were born with a silver spoon in their mouths. Always taking without giving back anything. I won’t spend an eternity burning in Hell so a bunch of spoilt brats can live out their privileged lives while their stock portfolios grow.” She took a step closer, a fiery intensity in her voice, “I never asked for this, Raven. Any of it.”

  “I don’t care what you asked for. You’re a murderer, and I’m not letting you walk away from it. Robert and Gabriel had nothing to do with the deal your father made.”

  “Are you sure? Don’t you think they knew what was going on, that their perfect lives were built on the pain and misery of countless innocent people? Look around! Robert’s art speaks for itself, doesn’t it? I think he will feel right at home in Hell.”