“Someone has to.”
Cyon’s features grew thoughtful in the mirror. “You really believe one man can stop the plans the Lords of Darkness have for this world.
“I can try.”
“You’ll fail.”
“Thanks for the pep talk, bud. Now, please zip it unless you want us both to end up as road kill.”
I fought back my rising anger and cranked the Ducati’s engine. Its roar mercifully drowned out all thoughts—mine and Cyon’s. Seconds later, I was blasting through midday traffic. I knew exactly where I was headed.
There was one man in this city who had the pulse on the occult underground. If these auctions were more than an urban myth, Peter Saxon would know.
Dark Matter, Peter Saxon’s New Age shop, was a popular destination for both experienced practitioners and novice dabblers. A nauseating wave of incense greeted me as I stepped into the cluttered shop overflowing with all sorts of occult paraphernalia and knickknacks. I wasn’t a fan of the smell. One whiff of the stuff, and I’m back to being tied down on a stone altar ringed by a group of eager fanatics ready to offer my body and soul to their dark God. Fortunately, Skulick bailed me out of that one. Ah, the good old days.
I appeared to be the only one in the store. I guess the majority of the folks who frequented this sort of establishment showed up after the sun went down. Books dominated the space, many of them mass market editions of various occult-themed bestsellers. New Age classics vied for shelf space with popular esoteric tomes on ancient wisdom. The store was creepy but lacked the feeling of existential menace a true collection of darkness would exert on the human soul. This was the Disneyfied version of the real thing.
The good stuff was all kept in the backrooms or other secure areas. I took in the wide variety of crystals and Ouija boards, figurines and candles. Experimentation and mystical exploration was all fine and good, but some of these seemingly harmless items were the gateway to a far darker spiritual destination. Once you’ve faced real demons, it makes it a bit hard to be open-minded about this stuff.
Approaching footsteps made me look up, and I turned toward the owner of this fine establishment. Peter Saxon had long black hair, a finely sculpted physique, and looked a bit like a cover model for some paranormal romance novel. He wore a purple shirt with the top buttons undone, revealing the swell of his well-muscled, clean shaven chest, and an assortment of beads and necklaces. Judging by his deadly serious expression, he wasn’t thrilled to see me. The feeling was mutual.
“How can I help you today, Raven?” he said without much warmth.
“I’m pretty well stocked on crystals. And first editions have lost all appeal since I got a Kindle. But I’m looking to buy…a skull.”
As soon as I said skull, Saxon’s face went white as a sheet.
“I don’t carry anything like that.”
“And you call yourself the best occult shop in the city.”
“You might have more luck at a Halloween store.”
“You know, that was almost funny, Saxon.”
I moved closer. Saxon tried to hold his ground, but I noticed the beads of nervous sweat pearling down his forehead.
“I know you don’t keep the really good stuff out here where the rubes can see it. But I’ve hearing rumors about occult auctions where you can find almost anything.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” The words came too fast to be convincing.
I took another step toward the man. “I get it. You’re running a business. And the fine folks organizing these auctions are throwing a lot of money around. I bet you’re getting a nice kickback every time you send a customer their way.”
I scooped up a copy of some New Age bestseller about near death experiences and leafed through the pages. Saxon’s nervous stare remained fixed on me.
“I have nothing against some Goth kid wanting to buy a copy of some fake Grimoire or stock up on incense so his lady friend doesn’t choke on the smell of overripe body odor. I do have a problem with dangerous occult relics ending up in the wrong hands.”
“I’m truly sorry, Raven, but I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now if you don’t mind—”
“I do mind. You know everyone in the occult underground. I also know you don’t deal in the real dark stuff, which is the only reason I’ve left you alone until now. But I need to find the people who run these auctions and put an end to it.”
Saxon shrugged and shook his head. “I’m sorry.”
Sorry won’t cut it, I thought as my gaze combed the occult shop. My eyes spotted a long, highly adorned golden knife attractively displayed on a purple pillow. I recognized it as an Egyptian ritual dagger. I moved toward the blade, my fingers closing around the hilt.
Saxon watched me with a tense expression carved on his face. What was I doing? I suddenly felt like I had stepped out of my body and was merely observing myself. I could feel something growing cold within me as I scooped up the label beside the knife. It offered up a few intriguing facts about the dagger.
I read the text on the card, bu the voice that came out of my mouth wasn’t quite my own. It had the distinctive tinge of Cyon’s clipped tones. “With regular use, your athame will become attuned to your energy. It represents the active energy of fire and acts as a conduit for the will of the user.”
I played with the knife in my hands, flipping it up and up and down between my fingers. “I can really sense its energy, my friend,” I said. “Now, let’s try this again. Will you be so kind and tell me how I can visit one of these auctions?”
Saxon’s eyes never left the blade in my hands. “Be reasonable, Raven, they would never let you attend one of their events.”
“They?” I said. “You mean, the Crimson Circle might not offer their archenemy a special invitation to one of their occult cash grabs?”
Sweat was now pouring down Saxon’s face. “This conversation is over. Please leave my store before I call the police.”
“And what are you going to tell the cops?”
“Y-you’re harassing me and chasing away my customers,” Saxon stammered.
I pretended to look around, the sacrificial knife still in my hand. “What customers?”
“Get out now.”
“I’m not leaving until you tell me what I need to know.”
Saxon made a go for his cell. As the voice of the 911 operator answered, I whirled and drove the knife full force into Saxon’s outstretched hand, pinning him to a stack of books on tarot. He dropped the phone, and I caught it with lightning fast reflexes. I killed the call before the operator could hear Saxon’s shocked, pain-filled strangled scream.
A whimpering Saxon gawked at me as if I had lost my mind. And a part me was wondering the exact same thing. What had I done? This wasn’t me.
The thought evaporated, swept away by a white-hot rage. I exerted more pressure on the knife in Saxon’s hand, twisting the blade to cause him more pain. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the store’s many gothic mirrors. The face belonged to a stranger. The features bereft of emotion, the eyes glowing with a red, hungry fire.
Cyon was in the driver’s seat now, just as I’d feared. I was nothing but a passenger in my own body. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t push the demon out.
My own rage and frustration, my sense of urgency, had allowed Cyon to seize control. A part of me had wanted to get the information from Saxon no matter the cost, and it had given the demon an opening to jump in and take charge.
“They’ll kill me…” Saxon said through gnashed teeth, his words distorted by pain.
Pain that I had inflicted.
“Don’t worry about the Crimson Circle. Worry about me, “I hissed,” my voice guttural and inhuman. As Saxon broke and started talking, I wondered who was really in charge here—the demon or the demon hunter?
“Are you fucking insane?”
My question hung in the air. Cyon was refusing to honor it with an answer. My latest walk on the dark sid
e had put me in a crabby mood.
“I battle demons, damnit, not humans. I don’t torture bookstore owners, no matter how annoying they are.”
“You wanted results, I gave you results,” Cyon stated in a matter-of-fact voice.
“There is more than one way to get results,” I protested.
“You weren’t doing so well on your own. I just gave you the push you needed.”
“You stabbed him! I’m not a friggin’ psychopath.”
“Yet you allowed it to happen, Raven. You wanted me to do it. The impulse was always there. The Seal of Solomon protects you from my influence…unless a part of you allows me to slip through.”
I swallowed hard, processing Cyon’s words. Was the demon playing another trick on me? Had I secretly wanted to let him take control?
I couldn’t deny that he had gotten the information I needed. I mean, his methods might be debatable but they had proven quite effective. Saxon had shared everything he knew about the underground auctions. Most importantly, he had provided me with a way to infiltrate the next event. A gathering was scheduled for this evening—talk about a lucky break.
“See, everything turned out all right in the end. If I hadn’t given you a little push, we wouldn’t be staking out Judge Morrison’s front yard now, would we? Any moment now he will step out of his little mansion and lead us straight to the auction…”
I hoped he would show his face soon. I was sitting in the darkness under a copse of trees from where I’d been watching the judge’s gated mansion through my night-vision binoculars for the last hour. My legs were quickly cramping up. The spectral green of the binocs gave the sprawling property a ghostly feel.
Five minutes later, my patience was rewarded. The sprawling home’s front door opened, and Judge Morrison emerged. He was about six feet tall and in decent shape for a man over fifty who spent his days in courtrooms. With his blonde hair and ruddy complexion, he bore little resemblance to yours truly. Nevertheless, my plan was simple: I would impersonate the good judge and used his access to gain entrance to tonight’s occult auction. What could possibly go wrong?
Judge Morrison had almost reached his meticulously maintained black Mercedes when I stepped from the shadows. Seconds before doing so, I had donned the magical Japanese Noh mask that I kept for situations where I had to impersonate someone. The Noh mask was sculpted to look like a horned monster. It was made in the style of traditional Japanese theatre masks, and according to legend it had belonged to a fourteenth century mage. Looking through the mask at another person allowed the wearer to copy their appearance. The last time I used it was to infiltrate Desmond Horne’s mansion. It felt like an eternity had passed since that day when I faced the demon Morgal for the first time as an adult.
The judge nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted me. His initial fear gave way to real terror when he realized the stranger in front of him sported his face.
Welcome to the Twilight Zone, bud!
Judge Morrison opened his mouth to scream when my fists snapped out. Knocking out a judge was only a notch below driving a knife through someone’s hand. Cyon’s demonic fire had infected me, and I was finding myself doing things I would have normally shied away from. Worst of all, I was enjoying the freedom that came when you didn’t have to hold back. I wonder if that’s how Archer felt now. No more rules, no more law.
“I’ve liberated you, Raven,” Cyon whispered seductively. “Together we will make Morgal and the Lords of Darkness tremble.”
What game was the demon playing now? I knew he wanted revenge, but he had never hinted what would happen after he made Morgal pay for leaving him to rot with the demon-vampire. Did he plan to take over Morgal’s domain in Hell? Was he going to drag me down there with him?
Pushing these disturbing thoughts aside for the moment, I rifled through the judge’s pockets and retrieved the unconscious man’s wallet. I found a card that simply read THE AUCTION and boasted a downtown address. Weirdly, enough, it wasn’t far away from where Skulick and I lived. It made a kind of sense. The underground market operated off the grid, far from the prying eyes of mainstream society.
As I helped myself to his keys and wallet, I wondered what relics the good judge had hoped to acquire. On the surface, he was the image of respectability, but he clearly had a dark side that he kept well hidden from the public. A judge dabbling in the occult wouldn’t go over well in the courtroom. What dark appetites drove this man? Didn’t matter, really. I was just going to borrow the judge’s face tonight and hopefully discover who’d purchased the skull of the Devil’s Executioner.
Time was running out. Three lives hung in the balance. I held no illusions that the Skull Master wasn’t already prowling the streets of the Cursed City for his next victim. And we still didn’t know what would happen once this monster completed his chilling collection.
I tied and gagged the judge and placed him under nearby tree. Hopefully no one would stumble upon him until the next day.
I gunned the engine and tore down the driveway, the electronic gate parting before me. The car drove like a dream. The anxiety in my churning gut growing with each passing second, I set out for the address on the judge’s business card.
11
Fog crawled down the empty streets as I navigated the desolate outskirts of the Cursed City. Derelict buildings loomed like monolithic temples dedicated to some post-apocalyptic god. The recession had cut a swath through this once-bustling neighborhood, leaving a wasteland of cement, steel, and broken glass in its wake.
My eyes landed on the long-abandoned theater up ahead. The crumbling marquee hadn’t advertised a play in years, and the old box office was streaked with graffiti and littered with trash. Nevertheless, if the address on the business card was to be believed, this was the location where the auction was going to take place tonight.
I circled the structure and realized the real action was unfolding in the back of the building. A rusting chain-link fence surrounded a large parking lot crowded with sleek luxury cars. I spotted a red Lamborghini, a couple of BMWs, a few Mercedes and even a Tesla. Tall, muscular parking attendants, who no doubt doubled as bodyguards for this shady event, fronted the entrance to the lot and guided a group of well-dressed men and women into the theater through a nearly hidden rear entrance.
Fighting back my natural impulse to turn the Mercedes around and drive home, I pulled into the lot instead, ready to join the unholy fun. Two lumbering gorillas approached, and I held out my invitation to one of them. To the guard’s suspicious eyes, I would appear to be Judge Morrison, another respectable member of society who had developed an appetite for occult relics.
As the big man leaned toward my car window, I caught a glimpse of a fiery red circle tattooed on his neck. The symbol of the Crimson Circle. I had hoped to never see that terrible mark again. I still hadn’t shared the good news of their return with Skulick. Maybe I had been hoping it would turn out to be nothing but a rumor. The tattoo on the man’s thick neck shattered that hope.
The gorilla compared the name on my invitation with my ID, confirming that they matched up, and waved me into the lot.
I parked the Mercedes and killed the engine. For a moment, my eyes regarded my reflection in the rear-view mirror. Reclined in the backseat, only visible to my eyes, was Cyon. He grinned at me.
“That mask does wonders for your looks.”
“You’re a real comedian.”
“So, what’s the plan? You’re going to waltz into the lion’s den and get us both killed?”
“Something like that,” I mumbled.
“And why didn’t you brief your real partner about this latest adventure?”
Good question. Cyon had a way of cutting right to the quick. “Maybe I thought he might talk me out of it. He gets weird when it comes to the Crimson Circle.”
“Considering they nearly wiped out this city and unleashed Hell on Earth, I’d say his concern might be justified.”
Doubt reared its ugly head. Coul
d Cyon be right? Was I taking unnecessary risks tonight? But then I thought about Officer Brown and Father Jackson. Good people, heroes in their own way, who had been targeted because of their goodness. We would deal with the members of the Crimson Circle soon enough. Right now, the Skull Master was the more immediate threat to the city. I had to find out who’d purchased the skull that had set this sinister game in motion before more good people lost their heads.
Galvanized by this thought, I stepped out of the Mercedes and joined the other high society members as they made their way into the theatre. I didn’t recognize anyone, but I don’t generally hang out with the One Percent. Judging by the snippets of conversation I picked up as I passed, some of the fine folks attending the auction were top executives in the technology and entertainment fields. Like the judge, they were all upstanding citizens, the cream of the crop who had developed a taste for black magic.
The moment I entered, a pulse of pain ignited in my chest. My scar was sending me a clear warning. Nevertheless, I was soon shuffling across the theater’s garbage strewn, piss-stained carpet. The stage looked no better than the auditorium. A heavy, sagging red curtain fronted the empty stage, looking worn and shabby. Cloying, dust-filled air raked my throat, and I stifled a cough. The place had probably served as a crash pad for a good number of the city’s homeless population. The Crimson Circle couldn’t have picked a lovelier venue for their sick little soirée.
The other visitors shared my expression of revulsion, but their excitement outweighed their disgust. Hell, maybe they even got off on the idea of slumming it. One by one, everyone took a seat. I followed their example, eager to find out what would happen next. Even Cyon had grown silent.
I sat down in the second row, determined to get a good look at the stage. Once upon a time, this small theater had launched showbiz careers, boasting the first performances of plays that went on to become classics and perpetual favorites at some of the biggest theaters in the world. I tried not to keep checking my watch and reveal my nervousness as I waited for the freak show to begin. Luckily, I didn’t have to wait for too long.
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