Hell Breaker (Shadow Detective Book 9)

by William Massa

  You’re not really here, I reminded myself. You’re bearing witness to past horrors.

  Logically I knew this was true. I’d experienced similar echoes of the past before on other cases. But emotionally, I refused to acknowledge that it had to be an illusion. The terrible sights around me felt too to vivid and real.

  An invisible force vacuumed me and the other drowned bodies from our oceanic resting place like a supernatural tractor beam. Thousands of corpses rushed past me like a massive school of fish. Red light cut into water, transforming the drowned, decomposing Atlanteans into skeletal masks, devouring whatever flesh remained on their broken forms.

  Terror flooded me as understanding dawned. We were being transported into Morgal’s realm.

  The bodies and souls of the dead Atlanteans were about to be used as the building materials for the archdemon’s nightmare necropolis.

  I screamed…

  …and looked up at Cyon and Archer. Relief filled me. I was back in the Bone City. Not in a million years would I have thought I’d ever be happy to wake up in Hell. But right this second, it was preferable to Atlantis on the day the ocean engulfed the legendary civilization.

  “You okay, Raven?” Archer asked.

  My breath came in ragged bursts as I answered. “I was there. I saw it happen. I saw how the sea destroyed Atlantis.”

  Cyon nodded sagely. “In Morgal’s arrogance, he used both the bodies and the lost souls of a destroyed people to erect this perverted place. Helpless as they may be at the moment, they soon will become our allies.”

  The demon turned and addressed the pyramid and surrounding towers. “You hear me, people of Atlantis? For millennia, your cries have gone unheard. Not anymore. Today you’ll get a chance to strike back at your jailer and tormentor. Today you’ll get your revenge.”

  Those weren’t empty words. They held a promise to the cursed Atlanteans in this haunted place. Cyon shifted his attention back to Archer and me.

  “We should enter the temple. It’s time to let Morgal know we’re here.”

  And with these ominous words, Archer and I followed Cyon into the pyramid of bones.

  15

  Our steps echoed eerily as we made our way through the shadow-cloaked temple. Surrounded by the rib-like walls of bone, which slanted toward a single point hundreds of feet above, I felt like I’d been swallowed up by some giant monster.

  We’re inside the belly of the beast.

  The thought wasn’t comforting.

  Up ahead, an altar topped by a single skull overlooked the cavernous space. A web of fiery red light bled through the cracks and openings of the bone walls, turning us all into devils.

  Wordlessly, Cyon beelined toward the altar, his eyes gleaming with barely contained excitement. It figured that the demon would feel right at home in this place.I struggled to keep up with his brisk pace, but I refused to let Cyon out of my sight at this crucial point. Archer appeared to be on the same page, jogging to keep up. As Cyon stepped up to the altar, I wondered whose skull had earned this spot of honor in the temple. And then it hit me: the skull had to belong to the temple’s high priest, the very same Atlantean mage who had brought death and destruction upon his people when he conjured Morgal.

  Like all of his people, the foolish mage had become a prisoner of this place. Another soul cursed to serve an eternal prison sentence in Morgal’s realm of darkness. How many dead Atlanteans were trapped here? It had to be thousands upon thousands of lost spirits. Somehow Cyon believed we could turn the Atlanteans into our allies in the coming confrontation with Morgal. Unsurprisingly, he hadn’t seen fit to share this little detail with me before we arrived. Probably because I would have told him he was crazier than a shithouse rat.

  Cyon extricated the restored Daemonium from his long coat. With the other hand, he drew Demon Slayer from the scabbard strapped across his back. According to Cyon, the Daemonium contained the key to defeating Morgal, but he’d been mum on the details. I hoped he knew what he was doing. There would be no test run for whatever he had planned next. We would only get one chance to confront Morgal, and it would undoubtedly be a battle to the death.

  I leaned against the altar, and reality warped around me once again. I was experiencing another psychic flashback. A heartbeat later, I found myself inside the stone-and-mortar version of the temple back in the real Atlantis, a spectral observer of past events. Creepy statues of exotic, mystical figures lined the walls. Torches flickered and carved grotesque shadows from the temple, imbuing the sculptures with a life of their own. What Gods had these ancient people prayed to in this enormous space? Who were these long-forgotten deities, who’d been erased from mankind’s collective memory when the ocean blanketed the continent?

  A tanned bald man dressed in luxurious grey robes faced the altar. This had to be the mage. Flickering torches soaked his face in a scarlet light as he held up a tome of magic in his bony hands. My eyes widened. I recognized this book from which he was reciting some magical formula. It was one of the three volumes of the Daemonium. Each book in the infernal set had been written at a different period in history and in different languages. Aramaic, Latin—and, as I now learned, Atlantean.

  I was still wrapping my mind around this latest insight when the air crackled with supernatural energy. A fierce wind blew through the temple, sending goosebumps up my arms. Beams of sizzling energy webbed the space above the altar and forked out at the temple walls. A tear formed in reality, and from the void, a creature of pure evil emerged.

  Morgal had arrived.

  The archdemon had many forms and incarnations, but this was one of his most fearsome. A reptilian, winged behemoth, all glistening muscle and jagged teeth and claws. A pair of giant, slitted eyes gleamed in the crimson darkness. The mage flinched at the sight of the demon he’d called upon, almost as if sensing he’d made a terrible mistake.

  As the energy storm intensified and Morgal’s full form manifested in the temple, reality flashed out of existence and I was back in the bone temple.

  I let out a gasp as I stared at Cyon with a newfound understanding. One of the three books which made up the Daemonium had originally conjured Morgal. And my new partner planned to use that original power against his former master. His plan was finally starting to make sense. That didn’t make it any less suicidal.

  “Guys, we’re not alone anymore!” Archer screamed.

  I whirled toward her. She was pointing at the procession of spooks who’d silently followed us inside the bone temple. They hovered in grave silence, like a spectral congregation of undead monks.

  And then, all at once, the Soulless closed in.

  I instinctively raised Hellseeker. I saw Archer pull out the Witch Whip and adapt a combat stance. I drew some comfort from this. Despite the horrors she’d endured in this dimension of darkness, she hadn’t lost her fighting spirit.

  Only Cyon remained unfazed by our hooded friends. As the parade of the damned drew closer, he calmly flipped open the Daemonium. He gesticulated as words in a language as old as time flowed from his lips. The book radiated a bluish light that quickly grew in intensity. It was drawing strength from Cyon’s words, now charged with unspeakable power.

  Magic freaks me out, I’ll be the first one to admit it. For every victory mystical power can achieve, it seems to create two new unforeseen setbacks. I hated relying on Cyon’s spellcasting ability, but what other choice did I have?

  The soulless continued their approach. Big mistake.

  A beat later, pages exploded from the open super-grimoire and shot into the air like shrapnel from an exploding grenade. Hundreds of glowing red pages now hung in the air like paper lanterns at a twisted holiday party.

  Only a few feet separated the undead horde from us.

  Hurry up, Cyon.

  He lowered his arms. The storm of paper followed suit, shooting down at the parade of Soulless. Each page targeted an individual spook and ripped through the phalanx of specters, shattering them on impact. Squealing sh
rieks reverberated through the temple as the Soulless succumbed to the weaponized text. Paranormal energy electrified the air.

  I backed away and brought up my arm to shield Archer from the violent light show unfolding before us. One by one, the spooks dissolved until the entire temple was empty once again.

  Cyon raised his hand, uttered a few more words, and the pages all returned to the open grimoire. A satisfied smile played across his thin lips. He had defeated the spook army without breaking a sweat. But this was merely the opening salvo in a much bigger battle. A part of me couldn’t help but worry about Cyon’s growing magical power. I was glad he was fighting on our side, but what would happen once his former master was out of the picture? Could anyone wield this level of black magic without becoming corrupted by it?

  These thoughts still raced through my mind when the temple doors flew open and a creature borne from mankind’s worst nightmares burst into the bone temple. The archdemon’s massive wings canceled out the crimson light trickling in from the open doors. The monster’s shadow filled the temple, bones crunching under his powerful, confident gait.

  The boogeyman of my nightmares had arrived. Morgal was here.

  This was it. I’d always known this moment would come one day. The time for the grand showdown between light and darkness, good and evil, was upon us. This would be the final confrontation between me and my parent’s murderer.

  In an instant, I flashed back to that fateful day twenty years earlier. The day that changed my life and set me on my path as a monster hunter…

  Ice golems had attacked our home and killed my mother. They tried to get me too, but my father had come to my aid. Hellseeker blazing in his hand, my father had fought off the creatures with his blessed pistol. Somehow, we made it to the Plymouth in the garage. The roar of the car’s engine echoed through my mind, and I remembered the biting cold as the vehicle barreled into the nocturnal landscape. Icy darkness greeted us as the vehicle’s tires tore over the fresh snow.

  Houses blurred past us as my father navigated a series of winding roads. As the snow-blanketed world rushed past the Plymouth’s window, I could only think of my mother’s frozen, lifeless form. Dad might have saved me, but all help had come too late for my poor mom.

  Tires screeched. A wall of fire lit up the night, blocking the road ahead.

  Dad’s features darkened. A shadow eight feet tall rose from the ring of flames, a creature straight from the depths of Hell.

  I didn’t know the demon’s name, not then. But the image of its terrible silhouette would be burned on my mind forever, just as his mark would soon be seared on my skin.

  My father slammed the brakes, and the car screeched to a halt inches away from the flames. The demon grinned, and a long, tentacle-like tongue flickered out from between its gleaming teeth. The tongue whipped through the air toward the Plymouth’s windshield. With a crackle of mystical energy, the sigils and glyphs inscribed across the glass powered up, but the magic failed to prevent the attack.

  With the precision of a laser beam, the tip of the tongue burst through the windshield in a spray of glass and dug itself into the soft flesh of my chest. Blood spurted and agony exploded through my little body as I went into shock. Instinctively, I fought the urge to close my eyes and block out the horror and pain. Somehow I knew if I passed out, I wouldn’t survive.

  From the corner of my eye, I saw a knife slicing down. The blade severed the tongue, and black blood splashed my face. The sticky fluid burned my skin, the stench overpowering.

  Whip-fast, the damaged tongue withdrew back into the monster’s mouth. With a roar of rage, the demon’s wings flared out, and Morgal launched himself at the Plymouth. Dad showed no fear. That’s the part that stood out the most in my mind. Not my terror or the pain, but the calm, steady gaze of my father as he told me to run and never look back.

  I could only nod, hot tears streaking down my face. Dad released the seat belt and handed me the green glowing gun. Hellseeker, the blessed pistol that would become one of my greatest weapons in the battle against the forces of darkness.

  “The gun will keep you safe. Use it the way I taught you. NOW RUN!”

  I don’t remember taking Hellseeker or opening the door.

  I don’t remember climbing out of the car and stumbling across the snowy ground.

  I only recalled what happened next.

  My father cranked the engine, and the Plymouth blasted toward the demon at full crank. I went against dad’s wishes and hazarded a glance back as I ran, watching the scene unfold.

  Morgal rippled toward the incoming vehicle. Gunfire filled the night, dad blasting away as he charged forward in a suicide run. My father was buying me precious time to get away—and the currency for this distraction would be his life.

  I stumbled to a halt. My heart hammered with terror as I watched the Plymouth slam into the demonic figure at full speed. Later, I would remember dad winking at me before the deadly impact. In the years to come, I would wonder if I had imagined that part. Was my memory playing tricks? Still the image persisted. As I grew older, I drew a weird comfort from it, a final positive memory of my father to hold on to.

  Metal twisted and buckled as the Plymouth erupted into a fireball that lit up the blustery winter night. Heat singed my face, but a roaring fire surrounded Morgal. The archdemon seemed to be laughing. An instant later, it disappeared, returning to whatever hellscape had spawned it. Skulick would later explain to me that the vehicle’s wards had released enough mystical energy on impact to send Morgal back to Hell.

  Suddenly there was a new sound, a roaring, unholy noise that bashed against my ears. My head slumped forward and my body sagged, all strength leaving my exhausted limbs. Whatever terrible thing was heading toward me, I no longer had the strength to run. The horrors of the last hour were catching up to me. I’d lost the two people that meant the most to me in the whole world.

  Instead of a new supernatural threat, a familiar man walked over to me and gazed at the burning wreckage of the Plymouth. Like my dad, this new arrival sported a glowing gun, his long trench coat flapping in the wind. I was looking at John Skulick, the man who would spend the next two decades turning me into a paranormal investigator, just like him.

  Just like my dad…

  My childhood ended that day. My life would never be the same.

  And it had all led up to this moment. I faced Morgal inside the bone temple, my back straight and my eyes clear. It took all my self-control to not raise Hellseeker and empty a full magazine into the hulking presence looming in the temple’s entrance. This wasn’t my first encounter with Morgal since that terrible day, but it would be my last.

  One way or another.

  The beast approached in staccato, jerky bursts of movement, crossing the full length of the nave in a split second almost as if he’d teleported himself across the length of the temple. Scarlet light played over the rows of horns sprouting from the monster’s head. Morgal’s lips widened into a grotesque smile, sharp teeth gleaming as he unleashed an obscene laugh that nearly split his deformed head in two.

  I stared into the archdemon’s pitiless face, a gamut of emotions welling up in me. Hatred, fear, rage, and even hope. Hope that this would be the final time my path would cross with the Duke of Hell. Hope that I would finally get revenge. I hated this creature, who’d caused so much pain and misery in our world.

  The last time I faced Morgal, he’d been inside Skulick’s form. That confrontation hadn’t been as terrible as this. I felt like I was drowning in the archdemon’s black aura. My feelings threatened to overwhelm me. It was as if I’d lost my parents thirty seconds ago, the trauma fresh and unfathomably painful. Morgal’s physical presence had ripped open an old wound which had never fully healed.

  “So here we are. A lost boy and his pet demon ready battle the forces of Hell.” Morgal’s voice rolled out in a deep, sonorous blast of fetid air. “Do you truly think you’re up for the challenge?”

  Cyon regarded his forme
r master in icy silence, refusing to engage the fiend on a verbal level. Probably a wise move on his part.

  Slitted eyes burned in Morgal’s pitiless, reptilian face. Tentacles writhed around the heavily muscled torso, painting a parade of shadows on the bone-covered floor.

  I studied my friends. Archer stared in horror at the Duke of Hell, her face the color of marble. Only Cyon kept his cool. For an irrational moment, I felt like I was looking at Skulick and not the demon that had possessed him. There was something calming about having my old partner standing beside me during this showdown. Skulick would want to be here.

  With an unwavering focus, Cyon held up the Daemonium and uttered a string of Atlantean words. A heartbeat later, the bone temple came alive as long dead souls stirred back to an unnatural life.

  16

  Cyon’s unearthly chanting rose in volume. Last time Cyon had only pitted his physical strength against Morgal—he had been unable to tap into his magic without the help of his grimoire. The rematch between archdemon and demon was unfolding quite differently. This time Cyon had the Daemonium’s infernal power at his disposal.

  The temple shook violently, causing blinding bone dust to rain down. I tilted my head at the latticework of remains that made up the grisly ceiling. Scarlet light shimmered through the gaps, imbuing the skulls with a dark energy.

  My eyes widened. It wasn’t just the light making the skulls seem alive.

  One of the skeletons on the ceiling stirred and detached itself from the ivory canopy. Another followed. And another.

  Cyon’s magic was breaking whatever spell had imprisoned the souls of the Atlanteans in this realm and turned them into the building blocks in Morgal’s hellish architecture. The dead were waking from their slumber.

  And they were pissed.

  Four skeletons reconstituted themselves and staggered erect. No joints held these creatures together, only black magic. The bone beasts radiated an orange light as they rippled toward Cyon, growing more coordinated with each step. Lacking muscle, they still projected strength and power, empty eye sockets alive with a burning fire, driven by a combustible mix of righteous fury and infernal magic.