Then again, what the hell did he know? All he’d ever wanted to be was an FBI agent, a goal he’d pursued with grave agency. He’d achieved that goal, but it hadn’t brought him much joy. Weylock was under no illusions that his marriage would have lasted even if Avery was still alive. And when he finally died in the line of duty, as all Hexecutioners eventually did, he would go out with guilt in his heart.
He’d committed terrible crimes when the demon had first seized control of him back in New York. The monks had tried to tell him that it wasn’t his fault. He hadn’t been in control of his actions. The demon had been in the driver’s seat, turning him into a helpless puppet forced to do the creature’s monstrous bidding.
But guilt was a funny emotion. Logic held little sway over it.
Weylock vividly recalled the crimes he’d committed under the demon’s direction, remembered the savage glee he’d experienced every step of the way.
And every time he closed his eyes to sleep, he saw his wife drawing her last breath while she violently struggled against the hands wrapped around her throat.
His hands.
You didn’t kill, Avery, Father Ignatius had reminded him countless times. It was the demon.
To which Weylock always silently countered, Tell that to my wife.
The last thing Avery saw as she gasped for her dying breath was the face of the man who was supposed to love and protect her. She died feeling betrayed.
So yeah, there was no way Weylock could feel anything else but guilty. No matter how many monsters he faced, none would be more horrifying than the one etched into his wife’s dying gaze.
Weylock stopped in his tracks, brought abruptly back into the present moment. He’d reached Alice Welsh’s apartment.
He eyed the door and knocked. There was no answer. He rapped the door again, with similar results. Convinced that Alice wasn’t home, Weylock decided to explore her place for further clues. He stepped through the closed door, phasing through matter as if it was merely a curtain of water.
Once inside, he searched the studio. He registered all the exercise equipment, mostly mats and resistance bands interspersed with a few free weights. From the look of it, Alice had left in a hurry and hadn’t picked up her gear after she finished teaching her class.
It didn’t look as though there’d been a struggle, but that did not mean she was safe. If his past missions were any indicator, some terrible fate would soon befall Alice. Weylock refused to accept that the young woman’s destiny was set in stone. Sometimes he arrived too late on the scene, and all he could do was pick up the broken pieces and bury the dead. This wouldn’t be one of those cases.
Even more pressing than his desire to slay monsters was his need to save innocent lives.
Weylock continued to explore the studio, his eyes missing nothing. He saw a framed photograph of Alice that turned out to be two pictures in one. A before and after shot. In one, she was an overweight and insecure teen, but still beautiful in her innocence; in the next one, she was fit and clear-complexioned, beaming and proud of her incredible transformation.
He felt like he was starting to understand this woman a little better. She’d busted her butt to get in such fantastic shape and deserved to be proud of her accomplishments. So many people in this world were takers, but Alice was a giver who wanted to share her transformation with the world. She lived in a modest little studio apartment with an enormous ginger tomcat who looked like he’d been rescued from the side of the road.
Why higher forces put such a lovely person in harm’s way was beyond Weylock’s understanding, but then again, untangling the individual strands that formed the tapestry of a person’s fate was beyond even the Hexecutioner’s purview. He wouldn’t be able to spare Alice all the horrors that destiny had in store for her, but hopefully he would save her from the darkest fate.
His attention turned to Alice’s desk. The monitor of her computer flickered upon his approach and popped to life. Without ever laying his hands on the keyboard, Alice’s search history appeared on-screen. Three of the searches focused on Silicon Valley tycoon Ian Zorn, whose tech upstart had set off a seismic shockwave throughout the industry. A most impressive feat in a town used to remarkable achievements. Zorn’s star hadn’t just risen but gone supernova.
If he was honest, Weylock didn’t grasp what made Zorn’s achievements so extraordinary or groundbreaking, but it appeared to involve a revolutionary form of virtual reality. He was also a playboy who always had a different gorgeous woman on his arm. Sometimes two.
Going by the demon’s growing blood lust as he looked at Zorn’s picture, it seemed as if this was his target.
Who—or what—was Ian Zorn?
What sort of monster was he up against this time?
Weylock’s gaze traveled to the futon in the corner. A variety of outfits lay draped over the furniture. The full-length mirror angled toward the bed suggested that Alice had tried on several outfits before settling on one. And that, in turn, suggested she was attending some special event and was hoping to impress the host.
Weylock had a pretty good idea of who this host might be. He spared a glance at the gaunt, lined features staring back at him from the mirror—his battle with the demon had aged him by at least a decade.
The Hexecutioner turned away, his otherworldly senses reaching out for anything he’d missed in the tiny living space. He’d been thorough, however, and it seemed as though there was nothing else to learn here.
Where to next? He let the power guide him, opening himself to another vision. Weylock closed his eyes, and an impressive mansion materialized before his mind’s eye. He recognized it immediately from the articles on Alice’s computer.
Ian Zorn’s Silicon Valley estate.
A dark grin curled Weylock’s lips.
The Hexecutioner was about to crash a party.
Chapter Six
Ian Zorn studied his reflection in the mirrored walls of his enormous bathroom. Back in high school, they had called him the Skeleton Boy, a nickname befitting a six-foot-three bean pole without an athletic bone in his muscle-free body. Zorn had been the guy least likely to get laid—and most likely to spend Friday night in front of a computer game.
The classic ninety-eight-pound weakling… but he wasn’t so weak nowadays.
Rigorous personal training sessions with some of the best health coaches on the planet had transformed his physique and packed on pounds of muscle. He was still lean, but no one would dismiss his cut physique. The stunning goddesses who flocked to his bed certainly weren’t complaining,
Nor could they ignore his considerable achievements. During the latest annual report of the richest men in Silicon Valley, Forbes had estimated his net worth at 2.3 billion dollars. While the high school football stars of his past now slaved away at dead-end jobs and lived dull, uninspired lives, Zorn walked side by side with the giants of the Valley. One day soon, people would talk about him in the same breath as Jobs, Gates, and Musk.
The future wasn’t set. It was up to every individual to overcome their past and shape their own destiny. If the jocks who used to torment him had figured that out for themselves, maybe they wouldn’t be flipping burgers and selling used cars right now.
When it came to the fairer sex, Zorn had aggressively and enthusiastically made up for lost time. For every dateless night of his youth, he’d attended orgiastic parties that would have made the studs of his high school past blush with shame and envy.
Like many of his super-geek compatriots who were compensating for years of involuntary celibacy, he saw himself as someone setting new paradigms of behavior and pushing social norms. The same progressiveness and openness that allowed the technological pioneers of the Valley to be creative and disruptive about business ideas also informed Zorn’s social values. Audacity, eccentricity, and wealth enabled him to give in to every impulse and explore every fantasy.
Still, no matter how many women he shared his bed with or how many boundaries he pushed, the hunger
for even more adventurous, transgressive experiences blazed in his soul. The pleasures of the flesh failed to fully tame the demons of the past.
And so, his mind had turned to real demons.
To real power.
He’d been obsessed with magic as a kid. He’d spent endless hours lost in elaborate fantasy games that were more meaningful, more real, than his dreary high school existence. Everyday struggles faded as he thrived in mystical realms where spells and rituals defeated physical strength and triumphed over any challenge. To his classmates, he was a loser; to his allies and enemies in the game world, he was a feared sorcerer. Is it any wonder he preferred the fantasy?
What had started as a comforting escape during his teen years transformed into a burning obsession in adulthood. Zorn’s esoteric interests ceased to be a hobby and became a way of life. No longer satisfied in merely being a thriving member of the Technorati, he started practicing ceremonial magic. Not some New Age, sage-burning hipster bullshit. Zorn scoured the world for the darkest, most forbidden books of magic.
He became a sorcerer in real life. And his business empire began to expand.
Soon others in his social circle followed his example and joined his growing cult. They were fellow giants—though none quite as successful as Zorn—adventurous sorts not bound by the norms and rules of a society that had never respected them. His flock understood that magic equaled power. And like all forms of power, it was fueled by blood.
This thought brought Zorn back to the present. The time for the ceremony was approaching fast, and he needed to prepare himself mentally for what lay ahead. There was no sense in wasting sacrifices. That was bad business.
Energized by the thought of what he would achieve tonight, Zorn left the bathroom and briskly crossed the marble floors of his sprawling Silicon Valley mansion. He paid no mind to the luxurious décor, the priceless artwork, or the custom-made designer furniture. The ritual consumed his thoughts.
An evil smile lit up Zorn’s ascetic features as he stepped out of the mansion and surveyed his private fiefdom. Valued at fifty million dollars, the 25,000-square-foot main home boasted nine bedrooms and 14 baths. It stood on a 10,000 acre stretch of grass and woodland. But considering his position as the most powerful man in the Valley—and soon, perhaps, the world—the house suddenly felt like a modest choice for a man in his position.
A small forest ringed the back of the gated property which Zorn considered as his private hunting grounds. The hunt always preceded the sacrifice, just as fear preceded death, two movements of the same symphony.
Flagstone paths wound their way through the lush undergrowth like stone arteries, forming a maze of sorts. Zorn picked the trail that led to a small grove.
A stone altar dominated the small clearing which was ringed by tall trees that swayed in the night breeze. Two rough-hewn columns supported the flat slab of rock, which looked like it had organically sprung from the lush ground instead of being formed by the hands of men.
The grove was popular among his guests, a place where one might say a non-denominational prayer or mediate before taking a refreshing morning swim in the large pool nearby. Few of his business associates ever knew the altar’s true purpose.
Zorn circled the slab of stone, the scarlet rays of the sun extending across uneven surface like the crimson feelers of some otherworldly beast. Soon blood would run red on this altar, and the thought made Zorn’s heart race in dark anticipation.
Beneath the green grass encircling the altar rotted the remains of past victims. Altogether, twelve bodies lay buried here, their imprisoned souls a continuous source of power, assuring that his business empire remained vibrant in a highly competitive marketplace. Sometimes, the wind carried their tormented, restless voices to him in the house.
Their desperate pleas were music to the mogul’s ears.
Ian Zorn’s genius and talent for business had made him rich, but his occult rituals would turn him into a god. Stock options seemed a lot less impressive once you wielded the powers of life and death itself. The Zuckerbergs and Bezoses of the world had nothing on him.
Before the clock struck midnight, fresh blood would sink into the earth, replenishing his magic before it could wane. His followers had already identified the next victim and were bringing her to his estate.
He expected twenty of his closest acolytes to attend tonight’s ritual, all of them active participants in the sacrifice and beneficiaries of his occult power.
He’d be the first to plunge the knife into the sacrifice, but certainly not the last. Every member of his flock would repeat the act until the victim gushed from twenty stab wounds. The thrusts would be precise, designed to extend the victim’s suffering, avoiding the heart and other main organs. The greater the pain of the sacrifice, the more powerful the resulting magic.
Once dead, Zorn’s followers would inter the sacrifice’s remains in the freshly dug grave near the altar, where it would join the others. And soon after that, the voice of the new sacrifice would join the chorus of the damned. Just thinking about it put a bounce in Zorn’s step.
Reassured that the grove was ready for the evening’s festivities, Zorn returned to his impressive home. For the moment, he was the only living soul in the building. He’d sent his staff home early as the evening’s festivities were an exclusive affair. He’d prepared the food and drinks himself without the help of the celebrity chefs or star mixologists he would usually employ for a typical shindig. His private security force remained, but they weren’t allowed to set foot inside his home or approach the back of the property once the party was underway no matter what they heard. He’d instructed security to turn off the surveillance cameras once the last guest arrived.
The armed men who guarded his palace knew the drill and cared more about the fat bonuses they received every month than whatever their boss did in the privacy of his home. Zorn employed hardened men, soldiers of fortune who now used their training and skill for their selfish gains. And if any one of them started to wonder about his activities, tried to raise a stink or, God forbid, extort him, they’d end up dead on the side of the road one day, the victim of a freak car accident or mugging. He’d only had to do that once to get the point across.
As Zorn navigated his expensively decorated home, he eyed the elaborate spread of food laid out buffet-style for his arriving guests’ enjoyment. Countless bottles of good wine waited to be opened and savored.
The festivities would commence with a feast, followed by energetic music and stimulating conversation. Mind-altering drugs would come next. And then the real fun would begin.
The girl his followers had found for him had no idea the night she was in for. She was going to be his thirteenth sacrifice. A lucky number in the dark occult practice to which he’d pledged himself.
It certainly was going to be a night to remember.
Chapter Seven
Karen pulled up to the wrought-iron gates in her red Fiat giving Alice her first glimpse of the armed guards fronting the mega-mansion. The fitness instructor suddenly felt out of her league.
As the guards checked Karen’s paperless invite on her phone, Alice wished she’d never answered her friend’s call. She had no business being here, wasn’t ready for this crowd. She was just a regular Midwestern girl who liked to work out. She didn’t belong to this world of Silicon Valley wealth and splendor and decadence.
Karen flashed her a smile and squeezed her hand, almost as if she had direct access to her thoughts.
“Snap out of it, girl, we’ll have a great time tonight.”
Karen parked her car next to a row of far more impressive luxury cars, Teslas being the vehicle of choice among the invitees.
One of the guards pointed them toward the main entrance, and they joined the arriving crowd in the mansion’s front lobby.
Alice did her best not to stare and failed miserably. Everything was bigger and shinier and more glamorous than she could have imagined in her wildest dreams. The guests all seemed to k
now each other, conversation and laughter coming easily between them.
How was she going to fit in among this crowd of movers and shakers, millionaires and billionaires, stars and superstars? Why would any of these people attend an online class taught out of a dingy studio and streamed with the help of software most likely developed by one of them? It all felt like a cruel joke.
Coming here had been one colossal mistake. Sensing her unease, Karen elbowed her and pointed at the nearby self-serve bar.
“Let’s get something to drink. It’ll help you relax.”
Before Alice could protest, Karen had snatched her arm and was dragging her toward the bar area. Moments later, she was sipping a glass of red wine that made the Australian imports she usually consumed taste like vinegar.
Karen smiled at her over the rim of her own glass. “Not bad, huh? I think a bottle goes for a hundred bucks, and that’s the discount price.”
Karen’s words almost made her choke on her wine. She usually shied away from alcohol, booze equals empty calories, a no-no for any serious fitness instructor, and one drink was all she needed to enjoy a social event.
Today was a different story, though.
Alice drank her wine too quickly, and within minutes, she was pouring herself a second glass. The tightness in her shoulders eased with every sip, and before long, she found herself smiling. The wine was working its magic.
Karen knocked back her own drink and took Alice’s hand. “Time to make some new rich friends. Let me start by introducing you to some folks.”
With these words, Karen pulled Alice into the center of the social circle. Before long, Alice was fighting off the attention of both men and women who wanted to learn more about Flexfitness. She barely noticed how one male guest-filled her glass again—when was the last time she had three drinks in one evening? College?
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