“Accountants don’t date men who hunt demons for a living.”
The man had a point. This life wasn’t for anyone who cherished stability and normalcy. I came with a ton of baggage.
“I’m not interested, anyway,” I snapped. “I see enough weird shit out there without going on a date with some wannabe demon groupie.”
Skulick leveled his gaze at me. “Considering your chosen line of work, kid, you shouldn’t be so judgmental. For all you know, this girl is a perfect angel. And regardless, she’s our client.”
I sighed. The woman onscreen sure didn’t look like an angel. Well, maybe a fallen angel. Most of my relationships were of the one-night variety, and girls like Celeste were the ones I tended to end up with after a long night of knocking back shots at the local dive bar. They were fun and they didn’t seem to mind my pentagram ring, vintage muscle car and lack of a traditional corporate job.
Hunting monsters just wasn’t compatible with romance, and over the years I’d come to accept that a real relationship wasn’t in the cards for me. I wasn’t exactly the type of guy to settle down and start a family. It wouldn’t be fair to them. As a result, I’d become pretty good at avoiding women with any serious long-term potential.
Skulick worried about my lone wolf lifestyle despite being guilty of it himself. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black. I guess in Skulick’s mind, he’d at least had a real life up until his early thirties, before tragedy set him on his current path. A vampire turned his fiancée into a creature of the night, transforming the former homicide detective into a professional monster hunter.
I’d never had a chance. When most young men were dating and falling in love for the first time, I was battling monsters that wanted to wear my face and devour my soul.
Eager to get back to the business at hand, I stopped weighing the challenges of my personal life and said, “Tell me about the case. What’s her problem?”
“Two words: daddy issues.”
This statement earned Skulick a long look from me. “Seriously?”
“Her father sold her soul to a demon on the day she was born. And Hell is getting ready to collect their prize.”
Damn. Talk about a dysfunctional family.
I opted for the only sane response when you know you’re about to pick a fight with a demon. I stepped up to our bar, poured myself another shot of whiskey, and knocked it back in one quick swig.
The alcohol sizzled down my throat again but this time, it failed to calm my ragged nerves.
5
I was on my way to meet with Celeste Solos. Skulick had told Celeste to come to Aroma Mocha, a trendy coffee house in the heart of the city that doubled as our conference room when meeting potential clients. Aiming to be bohemian, mom-and-pop counter programming to Starbucks, the shop served up affordable fare in an artsy, chill environment.
The delicious smell of roasting beans and a faint whiff of butter greeted my senses. Hunting demons burned its fair share of calories, and my stomach was growling. I ordered a bagel loaded with cream cheese and an Americano.
Carbs and caffeine in hand, I settled in at a table in the corner of the shop. A surreal painting by some local artist looked down on me as I waited.
There was no sign of Celeste, but I’d arrived about fifteen minutes before our scheduled appointment. I used the extra time to indulge in one of my other favorite pastimes—people watching.
The coffee shop attracted customers from all walks of life. Bearded hipsters and girls in steampunk finery rubbed elbows with professionals in sharp business suits. For a moment I wondered what their lives might be like. What would it be like to have a normal job, a normal life? How did it feel to not have to worry about demons and monsters on a daily basis?
My musings came to an abrupt halt when my client walked through the door. Every man—and a few of the women—perked up as she entered the coffee shop. There was a defiant quality about her beauty that made people take notice. Her attempt at downplaying her sex appeal only enhanced it.
Celeste’s eyes combed the shop and spotted me. There was a flicker of a smile as she strode toward me. As in her photo, her makeup was extravagant, yet artfully applied. However, the purple eyeliner and fiery red lipstick failed to mask her haunted expression.
“Mr. Raven?”
I nodded and offered her my hand.
“It’s nice to meet you, Ms. Solos.”
“Please, call me Celeste.”
“Hi, Celeste. Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee? Or maybe something to munch on?”
“Thank you, but that won’t be necessary. I’ve been up for days, and I’m pretty jittery as is. Coffee might push me over the edge.”
As Celeste took a seat, I noticed that her makeup couldn’t quite conceal the heavy bags under her eyes. Knowing that you were about to spend eternity in Hell had a way of messing with one’s sleep cycle. The piercings, the leather jacket, the combat boots—they were all part of her armor, an illusion of strength meant to distract from the scared young woman now seated across from me. I opted for some small talk to begin the meeting. Frankly, I was worried that if I pushed this girl too hard, she would bolt.
“How did you find out about what we do? We don’t exactly advertise.”
“Mr. Raven, once I became aware of my particular problem, I started looking into my options. You and your partner have developed a bit of a reputation around these parts.”
Celeste was referring to a number of recent, high-profile occult murder cases, which the press had followed with sensationalistic glee. A number of these stories mentioned my role as a special consultant.
Most of the mundane world viewed people like me as charlatans who wasted time and taxpayer money by claiming to have insight into the paranormal. Even though some of the articles acknowledged the rise of strange cases in our city, none considered the possibility that genuine demonic forces might be at work. Somehow Celeste, in her desperation, had figured out that there might be more to “R & S Paranormal Investigations” than the press would lead one to believe.
The public’s ignorance of the supernatural emboldened the forces of darkness, but it also made my job a lot easier. I firmly believed the city was better off without knowing the truth. The resulting panic and terror wouldn’t be pretty, and even more demons would take the opportunity to feed off the city’s fear. Better for society to keep clinging to its comforting illusions. Celeste fiddled with one of her piercings. “Just out of curiosity, do you get a lot of cases like mine?”
“Each case is different,” I said. I was telling the truth. The imagination of our enemies seemed without limits.
“How did you-”
“Let’s talk about your situation,” I said firmly. I didn’t want this meeting to become about me. “My partner told me about it, but it would be better if you tell me everything from the beginning. How did you discover-”
“That my immortal soul was on its way to Hell?” Her smile vanished. “It all started when I decided to find my real father.”
I took a sip from my Americano and nodded. “Go on.”
“I was raised to believe that my father had abandoned my mother when I was born. Which in a sense was true. Over the years, whenever I’d ask my mom who my father was, she’d go silent. Six months ago, I started having these vivid, horrific dreams; visions of demons dragging me into the burning rivers of Hell. At first I tried to keep it to myself. I’ve always had an overactive imagination and felt drawn to the weird and the strange. But these nightmares were different. They felt real.”
That’s because they’re more like movie trailers than dreams, I thought grimly. Demons love to give their victims a preview of what’s to come.
It was all beginning to add up. The date on which the demon planned to collect its price was approaching fast. Even as we spoke, the forces of darkness were gathering around Celeste in hungry anticipation.
“I still live with my mother, and she could tell I was having problems sleeping. When I opened up to her
about my dreams, she came clean.”
Celeste chewed on her lip for a moment before continuing. “In my dreams I’m always strapped to an altar, and I can see a tall, bald man with a beard looking down on me. When I described this man to my mother, she showed me this.”
Celeste extricated a folded newspaper article from her studded leather jacket. I scanned the headline: DESMOND HORNE’S MEDIA EMPIRE EXPANDS. The man matched Celeste’s description to a T. The long beard, thick eyebrows and bald head all contributed to the man’s magnetic presence. He had to be in his mid-sixties now, his skin lined with wrinkles. Nevertheless, age had failed to temper the iron will smoldering in those eyes. There was a pugnacious confidence in his ascetic features that must’ve served him well in the business world.
“The man you’re looking at is my father. Desmond Horne, one of the richest, most influential men in the city.”
Horne was a celebrity of sorts, having appeared on the news on numerous occasions over the years. He was the CEO of one of the world’s biggest media conglomerates, which included publishing companies, newspapers, television networks and even a movie studio.
Celeste was struggling to keep it together. Telling me her story was like opening up an old wound. “My mother was Horne’s housekeeper a little over twenty years ago, and he brought her under his spell. Even though Horne was married with three children, my mother gave herself to him and got pregnant.” Celeste broke off, tears threatening to overwhelm her again. She took a deep breath and continued, “All my life I believed that my father was some loser who dumped us. The truth was different. He paid my mother to raise me on her own. Every year, she received a check with a lot of zeroes on it, in exchange for keeping her mouth shut.”
“I’m sorry,” I said because it seemed like the right thing to say. She acknowledged my words with a thin smile.
“Horne targeted my mom because he needed someone new to this country, someone who wouldn’t make waves, someone who would accept a payoff.”
“Your mother must have been in the dark about Horne’s bargain.”
“Yes, thank God.”
I raised an eyebrow and asked, “Then how did you figure out the rest?”
“After I learned about Horne being my father, I tried to contact him. He steadfastly refused to return my emails and calls. I finally showed up one day at his mansion. His security forces tried to send me away, but his wife stopped them. She was the one who finally broke down and told me the rest of the story. There’s a temple in their mansion where Horne does… unspeakable things. She told me about the ritual my father used me in, twenty years ago. The guilt had consumed her for years.”
Her hands balled into fists, lips pressed into a thin line. “I did some more digging after that. Two decades ago, Desmond Horne was a reasonably successful businessman, but his career took off big-time after I was born. Now I know why.”
Tears gave way to anger as she added, “My father knocked up my mom so he could trade his own flesh and blood for money and power.”
It all made sense. Desmond Horne’s formidable business success was attributable to a demon’s help. The soul of an innocent child was valuable currency in Hell. Who cared if the bastard child of some poor, immigrant housekeeper ended up becoming collateral damage?
I did, for a start. And so did Skulick.
Celeste pulled up the arm of her leather jacket and revealed a fiery red scar not unlike the one on my chest. It was the signature of a demon. The beast had marked his future property when she was only an infant.
“After I found out about my father and the cult, I hit the library. Tried to read as many books on demons as I could get my hands on. I wanted to know everything, but especially why my father didn’t just sacrifice me on the day I was born.”
I knew the answer to this question. “Hell wants a fully formed soul. A soul with dreams, hopes, aspirations.”
Demons feed off anger, fear and despair. What disappointment could be greater than having a life cut down in its prime?
Tears welled up in Celeste’s eyes and I found myself reaching out and squeezing her hand. She tried to wipe the tears away and ended up smudging her makeup.
The cruelty of the situation was overwhelming. Losing my parents had been terrible, but at least I knew they died protecting me. In Celeste’s case, the people who were supposed to keep her safe were the ones who’d sold her out. That was a rough place to come back from.
“How much longer do I have?” Celeste asked, her voice drained of emotion. I wasn’t an expert when it came to the rules that governed Faustian pacts, but if Celeste’s dreams and visions were any indicator, her time would soon be up.
“It depends on the ritual, but generally Hell collects souls on a milestone birthday. Eighteen is a popular one.”
Celeste’s face turned a ghastly white. “My twenty-first birthday is in two days.”
My fingers tightened around the arms of my chair. This meant we had less than twenty-four hours to undo what had been done to this young woman. Finding a way to break such an infernal pact would have been difficult enough, but doing it in less than 48 hours was, well, impossible.
“It’s too late, isn’t it?” Celeste said, reading my expression.
I thought about giving her false hope, but Celeste deserved to know what she was up against.
“I’m sorry,” I said again, and this time I meant it from the depths of my own weary soul.
I was still trying to figure out our next move when outside forces made the choice for me. I hadn’t paid much attention to the homeless man enthusiastically rummaging through a large, full trashcan facing the coffee shop’s window. Such a sight is, sadly, increasingly common in the city.
I started paying attention when the man suddenly turned toward us, an eerie scarecrow outlined by the mist that was rapidly gathering on the street. Scavenger hunt suddenly forgotten, the homeless man’s posture changed. His body grew rigid while his eyes narrowed into menacing slits.
Celeste must’ve picked up on my interest, and she followed my gaze. That’s when the homeless man’s grimy fingers gripped the trashcan and lifted it into the air with nearly superhuman strength. For a beat he just stood there, the thing raised high above his head like some stinking trophy. He grinned—a nightmarish sight with his mouth of yellowed teeth—and heaved the can toward us. A second later, the storefront window of Aroma Mocha shattered into a thousand pieces.
6
I reacted with the speed of someone used to sudden, violent attacks. One moment I was sipping my Americano and the next I was pulling my new client from the path of the oncoming trashcan. One arm raised, I relied on my coat to shield us from the hail of glass as we both slammed to the floor. The metal canister had to weigh at least sixty pounds and our table splintered under the teeth-chattering impact. Can, table, glassware and trash hit the ground a split second later, causing a colossal din.
A quick survey of the shop revealed a crowd of stunned onlookers. Baristas stood frozen in place, lattes and cappuccinos momentarily forgotten.
I stumbled to my feet, pulling Celeste along with me, just as the homeless man stomped through the shattered display window, murder in his eyes. Our assailant projected an air of deranged menace. He moved with a speed and strength that belied his emaciated frame. He was not, in fact, a man at all anymore, but a puppet under the control of evil.
Most demons navigate our world inside human hosts. Physical manifestation is possible but far more rare because it requires a great expenditure of energy. This ruled out using Hellseeker against our attacker. The hapless man before me was as much of a victim as Celeste. Demons exploited the weak-minded and mentally deranged, taking advantage of lost individuals easily swayed and seduced by their terrible lies and empty promises.
The homeless man’s eyes burned with demonic fury as he launched himself at me. I darted aside and he sailed past me, missing by inches. He crumpled against the counter, knocking over an expensive-looking espresso machine. Damn it all. No
matter how things ended here today, I was going to have to find a new coffee shop. I really liked this place, too.
Our possessed attacker shook his head with a grunt and scrambled back to his feet. He looked up just in time for me to drive my fist, empowered by the magical Seal of Solomon ring I wore, into his face. A spark of mystical energy flew as my fist impacted his jaw. The man fell back, moaning feebly. I spun toward a stunned Celeste, snatched her hand and stormed toward the exit. The other patrons gazed at us as we made our rapid departure, but no one uttered a word.
Tendrils of heavy mist enveloped us as we emerged from the coffee shop. The nearby demon was manipulating weather conditions. Even though I had defeated its human puppet, we were far from being safe. First order of business was for us to get to my car, which was parked at the end of the block. The Equus Bass’ protective wards would hold off any future demonic attacks. Or at least I hoped they would. I could decide on our next move once we reached the car.
With this purpose driving me, I rushed down the block. Celeste was following my lead, not asking questions or slowing me down with hysterics. When I glanced over my shoulder at her, she was wearing an expression of fierce determination. Between that, the piercings and the mohawk, she looked like some kind of barbarian warrior queen.
I stumbled to a halt as a tall man wearing a thousand-dollar suit and a shiny Rolex peeled from the fog ahead of us, blocking our advance. The man’s eyes turned crimson and a forked tongue flickered from his mouth. Great. Another civilian under the command of a demonic force. Had the original beast found a new host, or was a second demon joining the fray?
Either way, this lawyer from hell meant business. With a ferocious roar, he whipped his briefcase at us. I dodged the first attack and tackled the possessed man before he could go on the offensive again. We both slammed into the nearest parked car, the passenger side window spider-webbing on impact.
The man let out a surprised moan and I pulled away from him. He blinked and looked up at me with ordinary—albeit confused—brown eyes.
Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 1-3 (Shadow Detective Boxset) Page 4
