Weylock flashed his mentor a quick grin before turning serious again. “This time, the dead also revealed their killer to me.”
Weylock recalled the tattoos that lined the assassin’s thick neck. He’d seen tattoos like that before during his FBI career. Prison tats favored by members of the Russian mob. His newest target appeared to have had an illustrious criminal career. And that raised another question. Why would the Necrodex want him to go after some career criminal? The rules of the book were quite clear: It only pointed toward monsters who shared a deep connection to the supernatural and the occult. Surely a hitman would be the jurisdiction of traditional law enforcement?
Weylock fixed his gaze on the Necrodex resting atop the small reading table inside his monastic cell. “Let’s see what else we can learn.”
As soon as Weylock opened the leather-bound tome, the pages turned on their own. The dead were calling out to him once more.
Within seconds, the rifling pages came to a stop. Weylock and Ignatius leaned closer.
The page was blank except for the symbol of a pentagram with an eye at its center. The imagery recalled the all-seeing Eye of Horus, the Egyptian symbol of protection and power, but with a satanic twist.
Weylock’s mouth went dry, and his guts churned. The image was triggering a physical reaction, and he braced himself against the reading table. Somewhere deep inside him the demon’s laughter echoed, amused by his squeamishness.
Screw you too, he thought.
There was something familiar about the image in the Book of the Dead. And then it hit him.
Weylock had seen the eye pentagram before. Twice in fact. Once on the neck of the bald assassin. It had been just one more tattoo among all the other prison ink. The second time on the choking Asian man’s outstretched arm. This time, the image was carved into the skin with a knife, blood obscuring the details of the eerie eye pentagram.
What did it mean?
“Sigils of psychic control,” a deep voice whispered. The demon had chimed in. Weylock knew it was only helping him because of its eagerness to inflict horrific punishment on the baldheaded killer. That didn’t mean the demon’s insights could be ignored. Unlike the monks, Weylock hadn’t spent a lifetime studying dead languages and pouring over ancient books on the supernatural traditions of the world. His background was in criminal psychology, not the occult. Luckily, his demon knew a thing or two about the paranormal world.
One power of a Hexecutioner was the symbiotic ability to tap into the demon’s knowledge of all things evil and cursed.
Weylock knew what the demon knew, which accounted for his ability to read Latin and Aramaic, among other ancient languages. It was almost like carrying your own occult personal library deep within your soul. Weylock looked at the pentagram again and understood what it meant, the esoteric knowledge arriving in his brain without the need to reach for it.
Brother Ignatius eyed Weylock expectantly. “You know the meaning of the symbols?”
“I do,” Weylock said, and his expression turned somber. “This assassin appears to be a powerful psychic who’s enslaved his victims’ spirits. I’m up against a Death Whisperer.”
Chapter Six
Kulok Yanovitch wasn’t afraid of death. For most of his life, the grim reaper had felt like an old friend. Death kept him clothed and fed and paid for his beautiful home in Brooklyn. It got him laid whenever he felt like it and allowed him to travel the world.
It helped that killing had always come easy to him. Kulok could take out an entire family without losing a night’s sleep. He figured that if someone was willing to pay good money to get rid of them, then they had it coming. He was a blunt instrument, not that different from the pistol in his hands. Firearms weren’t evil, bullets weren’t evil. They were tools. And Kulok saw himself in much the same way. A means to an end, a specialized tool available to whoever could afford his price. He didn’t come cheap, but customer satisfaction was guaranteed.
He’d been at this game for years and made a name for himself in all the right circles.
His ability to get to any mark, no matter how well guarded, was legendary.
Kulok had always been good at this bloody game. But he became a legend following the injury that would change his life.
The mark was supposed to be a simple, routine job, a contract below his paygrade.
But Kulok always had a hard time saying no to money.
Surprisingly enough, fate fucked him that day and fucked him hard. Nothing about the job ended up being routine or straightforward.
The accountant who’d been marked for death got the drop on him that night. The bastard had been armed, and he fired a lucky shot. The bullet pierced Kulok’s skull, and it was lights out for him.
But not immediately, as the mark found out. Blood pouring down his face, Kulok still managed to pull the trigger. The silencer coughed and wiped the accountant’s grin off his face in a streak of red.
Through some miracle, the assassin made it back into his car despite the gushing hole in his head. Even more miraculously, Kulok somehow drove himself to the private physician who helped men in his profession when a job went south before passing out. The doc had lost his medical license when he started selling pharmaceuticals to cover a growing gambling debt. Now the mob owned him.
Good thing for Kulok.
When he came to days later, his head throbbing something fierce, the doc informed him that he had flatlined.
“You were dead for three minutes, bud. The man upstairs seems to like you.”
Or perhaps the man downstairs feared the competition.
Either way, Kulok was alive, and within days, he was back on his feet.
But, as he would soon discover, he’d changed.
For years he’d been able to stare death in the face without blinking. Now death stared back at him.
He started seeing things that shouldn’t exist. Everywhere he went, he ran into dead people. Almost overnight, he’d turned into that kid from The Sixth Sense.
But he had no interest in helping lost souls cross over into the next world. Screw that bleeding-heart crap.
Cunning survivor that he was, Kulok recognized an opportunity when he saw one. Noticing how the souls of his marks lingered and even tried to follow him home to haunt him, he wondered if he could make his new abilities work to his advantage. What if he could somehow learn to control these spirits, bend the souls of his victims to his will?
Imagine a killer with an army of spirits under his command. An army that was invisible, indestructible, and could go anywhere unseen. With such a force under his control, he could take out anyone anywhere without risking another bullet to the head.
So Kulok hit the books.
He tracked down as many obscure texts about spirits as he could and became a goddamn expert on the occult. And, ten months later, he applied his knowledge with spectacular results.
He hired a tattoo artist to ink a sigil of spiritual power into his neck. Now, all he had to do was etch a similar pentagram sigil into his victims’ skin before taking their lives, and their souls would be his to command.
Each enslaved ghost became a psychic drone under his control and through whose senses he could experience the world. Their eyes became his eyes. Their hands became his hands. An extension of mind and body.
The results proved to be more impressive than the contract killer could have imagined in his wildest dreams.
His status as a master assassin took off in earnest now. He became a rock star, and his price went through the roof. His handler started bringing him the toughest, highest-paying jobs. No contract proved too challenging; no man or woman was safe from him.
So yeah, death had been darn good to him.
And it made him appreciate life even more.
Especially the good life.
Kulok wore the most expensive designer labels, he ate at the most exclusive restaurants, drove the most expensive cars on the market. He was a materialist through and through. Flashy and
brash, a man who indulged in every earthly pleasure money could buy.
Don’t call me spiritual, or I might have to kill ya.
He loved to live it up, especially if the dead were watching.
He would eat at the best restaurants in town while he made his undead servants look on. Observing the lost souls as they watched in grave, salivating silence enhanced the pleasure of the meal and made him feel even more alive. It made each bite taste so much sweeter.
And once he’d satisfied one appetite, his attention would shift to other physical pleasures the dead no longer could partake in. He’d order a super-hot call girl from his favorite escort service and bang her brains out while he made the spirits watch. Their frustration and hatred fueled each thrust.
That’s right, my friends. I’m alive, and you’re all dead. You better get fucking used to it.
As Kulok climaxed and rolled over, spent and satisfied on every level, the same thought would cycle through his mind like a mantra: It’s good to be alive.
Perhaps he was a bit of a sadist. But at least he was in touch with himself, right?
As he ground against his latest conquest, a blonde who looked like a younger version of Jay’s dead wife, he carefully studied the detective’s reaction. The other spirits stood further off from his king-sized bed with satin sheets, used to his twisted predilections. Jay, as the newcomer to his spirit family, failed to hide his boiling rage.
Time to add insult to injury.
“Mind if I can call you Anne?” he asked.
“You can call me anything you like, baby.”
Kulok grinned. “Anne, you’re one sweet piece of ass.”
Jay stood frozen, his ghostly features locked into a bloodless mask of rage. He was breaking the detective down. Making sure he understood who was the boss in this relationship.
You belong to me, asshole, Kulok thought as he came.
Once he sent the whore away, Kulok turned toward his ghostly army. Nine of the ten spirits crowding his sleekly appointed bungalow knew what was coming next. Faces locked into impassive masks resigned to their fates. He’d tamed their spirits, broken their wills.
Only the detective showed some spunk. Jay would learn in time, but hopefully not too fast.
Kulok loved to break down his ghostly minions. He enjoyed seeing the fight drain from them as all hope faded from their dead eyes.
You’re all mine, Kulok thought. Even you, Detective Jay Hollow.
“Alright, boys and girls,” Kulok said as he poured himself a single malt whiskey. “Time to go to work.”
Chapter Seven
Weylock and Brother Ignatius entered the monastery’s small chapel. The holy place had the ability to transport Hexecutioners to any house of worship on Earth. Weylock still had no sense of where he was about to end up—the magic of the Necrodex chose the destination for him—but he’d find out soon enough.
Even though he hadn’t been an FBI agent for years, he unconsciously treated Ignatius like his section chief. He went over his case file with the monk now, ensuring that he wouldn’t miss anything.
“So, the pentagram sigil allows this killer to control the spirits of victims?”
“Correct. It’s a binding symbol. It requires the power of a psychic to activate the magic and an act of murder to complete the ritual.”
Weylock considered this. “So I’m up against a psychic hitman? That’s a new one. What are they going to come up with next?”
Ignatius cocked an eyebrow but did not otherwise react to his attempt at humor. Weylock’s sense of humor was one of the few aspects of his former life that he clung to. He found it to be a breath of fresh air in a world of monsters and killers. Unfortunately, his brand of dry sarcasm was something of an acquired taste.
“I wish you luck on your mission, Hexecutioner.”
Weylock nodded at the monk who’d played such an instrumental role in teaching him how to control the demon caged inside his soul. He felt the Necrodex growing hot in the pocket of his trench coat and steeled himself for the jump through space, which always left him a little queasy.
Here we go!
Reality blurred and warped, and a statue of the Blessed Mary replaced Ignatius in front of him. The chapel shimmered, and the long leather coat of the Hexecutioner morphed into the sleek black suit and white shirt favored by Special Agent Jaxon Weylock. The attaché case he used to carry the Book of the Dead when he navigated the world in his FBI persona materialized in his right hand.
Now to determine where he’d ended up this time…
One quick look at his surroundings answered that question. Weylock was intimately familiar with this particular church. After all, this is where he and Avery got married.
Dread stirred in the pit of his stomach. He was inside St. Patrick’s Cathedral in New York City.
He was back home.
Weylock had dreaded the day when one of his missions would take him to the city where he’d first encountered the demon. That day had finally arrived.
His heart raced as he made his way down the nave toward the arched wooden doorway that led to the city’s bustling streets. The enormous cathedral could accommodate three thousand people but now stood relatively deserted, with only a few worshippers scattered across several pews. They were all too focused on their silent communion with their creator to pay attention to the tall man in the black suit whose footsteps echoed down the marble nave.
Weylock tried not to think of Avery. Not ever. But here it was impossible to fight the memories of the day when they had exchanged vows. It was almost like he’d traveled back in time and was about to place the wedding band on his wife’s finger.
‘Til death do us part.
Death had found his beautiful Avery far too early. And it wasn’t the Grim Reaper who’d taken her from him, but the demon coiled deep within his soul.
How could he live with such a monster, knowing what the beast had done to Avery?
How could he live with himself?
It was a question that often kept Weylock up late at night. Sometimes he could still feel the life going out of her beneath his hands. He curled his fingers into fists and locked his jaw. His pulse drummed in his forehead, and his breath came in shallows bursts.
Self-hatred is such a sweet emotion. Give me more!
Weylock silenced the beast through a sheer act of will. The creature rarely resorted to human language to communicate, deeming such mortal trappings beneath him. But the monster couldn’t resist a dig when it knew it would really hurt. Like right fucking now.
Weylock recalled Brother Ignatius’ words by which he lived his life nowadays. A mantra all Hexecutioners throughout the ages had internalized.
The demon doesn’t possess the Hexecutioner; the Hexecutioner possesses the demon.
He was in charge here.
The demon was his to command.
The demon had killed his love. And now he punished it in the worst way imaginable for such a hellish creature. Weylock had turned this devil into a weapon of good, a force of light in a shadow-infested world.
So shut the fuck up!
Weylock felt the demon recoil and vanish in the deep recesses of his mind. Sometimes he had to remind the beast who was in charge.
Weylock calmed down, and his breathing normalized.
But not for long.
A shrill scream cut through the cathedral, the terror and pain in the voice shaking Weylock to the core. It was the cry of a man about to meet his maker. He’d only heard it a handful of times in his life, but it wasn’t a sound you could mistake—or ignore.
Weylock’s eyes flicked across the cathedral floor and landed on the source of the noise. A man was being stabbed to death by the bald killer. In and out, the knife went, again and again, the wet sound of steel piercing flesh reminding Weylock of a butcher cutting up a rack of ribs.
Several congregants sat nearby, oblivious of the brutal crime playing out before Weylock’s shocked eyes.
The hitman stopped his g
risly handiwork, gaze blazing with grim satisfaction. The scarlet drops that freckled his skin enhanced the assassin’s demonic quality. This bastard was as much of a beast as the thing trapped deep within Weylock. He enjoyed what he did.
As the victim exhaled his final raspy breath, the vision of both the killer and his victim dispersed. Only Weylock and the few faithful who’d found their way into the cathedral today remained.
Witnessing the murder inside this house of God was both disturbing and, in a way, a relief. Disturbing because it reminded Weylock that these terrible visions would continue to haunt him until he finished tracking down his quarry. Relief because it allowed him to focus on something else besides his guilt.
Weylock turned to the cathedral’s exit. He hesitated for a beat, then gave himself an internal push and pressed through the arched doorway. As New York City traffic greeted him in all its ear-shattering fury, Weylock almost smiled. Despite his tragic past in this city, there was much to love about his hometown. For an irrational moment, he felt tempted to get himself a hot dog and falafel at the nearest street vendor.
As if to remind Weylock that this wasn’t a sightseeing trip, the dead spoke up. Two words floated through his mind.
Death Whisperer.
Weylock’s wolfish features tightened into a mask of determination. He now knew the name of the man he hunted. Or at least the nickname the years of killing had earned him. You ply your trade long enough, whatever it may be, you’ll earn a rep. And a rep comes with a name.
Mulling over the moniker jogged Weylock’s memory. The more he thought about the killer’s handle, the more he realized he’d heard it before. Weylock had come across the bastard back at the Bureau when the hunt for serial killers still consumed his life.
In fact, the Death Whisperer had made the FBI’s Most Wanted list. The file the bureau had on the guy was spotty at best, but they knew that the mob enforcer was a legendary killer, the great white shark of assassins, an apex predator in a world of human monsters.
The Death Whisperer Page 3
