Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  Graves Pact

  By Matthew C Stinson

  About Graves Pact

  FBI agent Landon Graves sold his soul to a devil, becoming a warlock in the process. Though he keeps the supernatural aspects of his life secret, a murder case threatens to bring him out into the open. But that’s a minor concern compared to what will happen if he doesn’t catch the killer before the completion of a powerful ritual that will bring about the apocalypse. Landon must exploit the dark side of his nature and delve into the hidden world of the supernatural in order to stop it. Graves Pact is an action-packed urban fantasy with a wry sense of humor.

  Dedication

  For my wife, Sarah. Without her in my life, I’d never have accomplished anything worthwhile.

  Contents

  About Graves Pact | Dedication

  Chapters

  One | Two | Three | Four | Five | Six | Seven | Eight | Nine | Ten | Eleven | Twelve | Thirteen | Fourteen | Fifteen | Sixteen | Seventeen | Eighteen | Nineteen | Twenty | Twenty-One | Twenty-Two | Twenty-Three | Twenty-Four | Twenty-Five | Twenty-Six | Twenty-Seven | Twenty-Eight | Twenty-Nine | Thirty | Thirty-One | Thirty-Two | Thirty-Three | Thirty-Four | Epilogue

  Excerpts from other works

  Acknowledgements | About Matthew C Stinson | Copyright

  Chapter One

  Though the Department of Defense was shutting down Lowry Air Force Base, I still had to show my FBI credentials to the guard at the gate to gain entry. I drove through the empty streets and saw that many of the buildings had already been sold off to civilian businesses as part of the closure, signs proclaiming that this franchise or that restaurant was opening soon. The stillness contrasted starkly with the early morning Denver traffic I’d just endured.

  My mind buzzed with worries. Why had Phil Calhan asked for me? He wasn’t even my boss. At least not directly. There was only one logical reason, but I didn’t want to believe that I’d have to delve into that part of my life again.

  Reaching my destination, I saw that orange plastic fencing marked the edge of the property. A temporary sign staked into the ground boasted the affordability of the offices that hadn’t quite taken shape. I had never heard of the construction company, Daniels and McGraw, but they used sleek graphics. It seemed like they should have spent a little less on advertising and more on getting their projects completed.

  Getting out of my car, I glanced at the fire truck and Lowry Security Police SUV, wondering if the drivers of either would be mad that I filled the gap between their vehicles. They hadn’t left me much choice with their skewed parking.

  In his blue uniform, the airman in charge of coordination looked a lot like a regular police officer except for his M-16. He waved me forward after I flashed my badge. I entered through double doors of glass and dull steel.

  Special Agent Phil Calhan met me in the lobby.

  He had gained some weight since the last time I’d seen him and he’d opted to go with a shaved head. He pulled off the lavender shirt and purple tie while maintaining masculinity. His broad shoulders and take-no-shit bearing allowed him to get away with it. He reached over and we shook hands.

  I felt nearly as intimidated then as the first time I’d met him. He’d been bouncing around the other FBI field offices since that case we’d worked together in ‘91. He’d returned to Denver a just few months ago and I hadn’t seen him much. Different departments.

  “Landon. What’s it been? Two years? How’s the wife?”

  The innocent question stung. I tried to keep my personal life to myself so that kind of thing happened every so often. That was what I told myself. “Ex-wife. Jessica is good. Remarried. She’s got a newborn now.”

  Jessica and I didn’t really keep in touch, but I was in the FBI. I had ways of finding things out. It wasn’t like I stalked her or anything. I just liked to know she was doing well.

  Phil winced. “Ouch. And after she got through cancer. That’s rough.”

  He had no idea.

  “Yeah. What have you got for me?” I asked, ready to focus on something else. Looking around the lobby, I added, “Usually you guys bring the files to me.”

  “This may be a little out of your comfort zone,” he said. “Come with me.”

  I knew why Phil had asked for me specifically, though I wanted to deny it. He and I had only worked together once before and that case had been a weird one. At least, it was weird by Phil’s standards. I had a slightly higher threshold.

  I inhaled to calm myself. It won’t be so bad. I got a promotion out of the last one.

  With that breath, I couldn’t help but note the scent of char in the air, like an old campfire. Given that I’d seen a fire truck in the parking lot, I cleverly deduced that there had been a fire in the building. I’m a regular Columbo.

  Looking around the lobby, I saw another Security Police airman, but no one else. Despite the location, I found it odd that there weren’t more civilians loitering about the construction site. As we headed for the stairs, I idly asked, “Did they cut the construction workers loose already?”

  “The contract is on hold because of permit violations. Work’s been suspended indefinitely. Took all morning to track down the building manager,” Phil said with mild irritation. “This is a bit of a cluster. The Office of Special Investigations would normally take this sort of case, but with the base closure they’ve already pulled up stakes. The commander requested that the FBI handle things.”

  “So what’s going on?” I asked as we started up the stairs, dreading the confirmation of my fears. I know I’m about to see something weird. Just tell me.

  “You’ll see,” Phil said. “I want a fresh take on it. Keep your eyes open.”

  He turned to our left as we reached the second floor. Firefighters went about the routine clean-up barely bothering to notice us as we slipped into the unfinished office. It had no carpet, but the contractors hadn’t pulled out the old cabinets and countertops in the kitchenette yet. Those furnishings survived, bearing the scars of a quickly suppressed fire.

  “So, there was a fire. Why am I here? Arson isn’t my area of expertise,” I said as I scanned the cabinets, the faux-wood grain surface warped and bubbled from intense heat. “I do forensic accounting. We don’t do arson. Locals should handle this.”

  Phil gave me a flat look, my prodding merely annoying the man. “There was a body as well. Check out the back.”

  I paused and waited for more, but I knew he’d said all he was going to say. A dead body changed everything. With the death on the Air Force base, it wasn’t a matter for the local police. It became federal jurisdiction. He already said the Air Force’s OSI wasn’t equipped to investigate it as a result of the base closure, which put it squarely on the FBI.

  I relented and walked back past a fire marshal into what I assumed was once a bedroom for a pair of airmen or privates or whatever they were called. The scent of smoke grew stronger. That and something else. Something unnervingly familiar. I shuddered as I identified it.

  Blood.

  From bare concrete floor to the unfinished drywall ceiling, soot blackened most of the room. The unburned portion looked like the psychotic finger paintings of a mass murderer with blood as the chosen medium. At that moment, I knew for certain why I was there over any other agent from our field office. I’d known since I got the call.

  “Oh,” I groaned, “it is like the ’91 case.”

  As a fraud investigator, I didn’t get into the field much, but as a new agent, I had worked in vans doing surveillance and stake-outs. During such an outing two years prior, I’d gotten a chance to show off some of my esoteric knowledge on the occult. Fortunately, that case didn’t even scratch the surface
of the supernatural world, but it gave me a chance to showcase my skills. Phil took notice. I was pretty sure he was the one that got me the promotion that led to forensic accounting where I belonged.

  “Yup,” Phil said as he stepped into the empty doorway behind me. “The body was right in the center, chest cavity completely empty. We’ll have an ID as soon as they run the dentals. Hopefully. Looks like blood on the floor there. We got lab guys working on samples. That’ll be a few days.”

  “Only a few days?” I asked with a little surprise. “What makes this case important enough to jump ahead in priority?”

  “This case could hold up the base closure,” Phil replied. “That could cost the government a lot of money.”

  I nodded. Even with direct access to the FBI labs, it would take days to get through the backlog of cases. The convenience of the higher priority also came with the added pressure of the attention of the Department of Defense. Oh joy.

  The sprinklers had done their job and soaked the room, raising my concern about the physical evidence. Though it had been smothered, I could see where fire had scorched half the room. Soggy, charred pieces of the mineral fiber ceiling tiles littered the floor.

  Despite the detritus, I could still see parts of a summoning circle on the floor, little more than red-brown stains of indefinable geometric shapes. Aside from that tell-tale sign, I counted seven brass plates scattered around the room, far from where they would’ve sat during the ritual. I spotted a half-spent black candle among the debris in the room.

  My heart quickened. Holy crap. Someone tried to cast a ritual spell here. I kept my face neutral. Phil and the rest of the normals in the world didn’t believe in magic. It was better that way for everyone. The ’91 case was just some occult junkie with no real knowledge of magic. This actually looks legitimate. This isn’t like the ’91 case. It’s worse.

  “It’ll probably be animal blood,” I said. “Goat or pig most likely. It’s a bit of a strange order, but any butcher shop will have it. Some cultural dishes call for it. Or maybe it belongs to the victim.”

  “So, no leads there?” Phil asked, scanning for the details.

  “Not likely.” I glanced up at the bloody writing on the wall pensively. “You want me to take point on this?”

  “Well, you have the most expertise with this sort of thing,” he admitted, waving a hand out over the sodden ritual site. “But I was given the responsibility. Let’s call it ‘partners’ for the reports.”

  I nodded. Sure, that’s fine by me.

  My field was forensic accounting, but that wasn’t what the old school guys like Phil called it. He was a major crimes guy whose resume read like an action movie synopsis. With hostage negotiations at bank robberies and huge drug busts, this case must have seemed pretty weak. I knew that he was none-too-pleased to call a paper trailing desk jockey like me ‘partner,’ but I had experience from the ’91 case.

  And I was a warlock. I’d made a pact with a devil five years ago, unbeknownst to Phil or anyone else I worked with. I knew a few things about the occult and the supernatural world as a result. I was staring at the aftermath of the real McCoy. Someone had tried to summon some extra-dimensional creature.

  I pulled on some latex gloves and knelt next to a pulpy heap of partially burned books. Rummaging through, I found a palm-sized piece of parchment that stood out. Even through the gloves, I could feel the coarse texture of the aged paper. It was too old to belong with the rest of the material, too thick and well-made to disintegrate with a little water. Less than a quarter of a diagram was visible, but I bagged it.

  I reexamined the area just inside the circle. Any salt would have been washed away, but I looked for powdered iron or silver. For reasons beyond me, those materials held sway over spirits, fey, demons, and other nasties I had no names for. Oddly, I found nothing of the sort amid the refuse of the spent circle.

  Summoning was dangerous business. Only a total idiot would conjure an otherworldly creature without making any attempt to keep it trapped. Had the summoned creature escaped? My experience with the arcane was limited to conjuring. I supposed the ritual could have been for something completely different, but my gut disagreed.

  As I pivoted on the balls of my feet, I caught sight of the most disturbing part of the scene—to me at least. A vaguely human-like Rorschach blot of black ichor stained the wall. While the others might have dismissed it as a coincidence, I knew the shape meant something more. I didn’t know exactly what kind of creature it had been, but I doubted I’d like it when I found out.

  I stood up and walked over. Leaning in close, I saw that the oily goo resisted the water from the fire suppression system and it smelled foul enough to evoke a reflexive gag. I stepped back, still staring at the wretched image of some terrible thing locked in place, like the inverse of an atomic shadow you’d see in photographs from Hiroshima.

  “Our forensic team has already swept through,” Phil said as he noticed my fixation.

  “While we wait for the lab work, I’ll revisit some of my old research.” Even with top priority, the physical forensics would still take a few days to come up with anything. “Should I take a look at the body?”

  “It’s burned pretty badly. You can swing by the coroner’s tomorrow if you want. I’ll stick around here,” Phil said. “I like to get a feel for things myself. Photos and reports only tell you so much. I’ll play liaison with the military and see what they turn up.”

  Reports were usually all I have to work with, but I knew his type. “Let’s get together in the office on Monday and compare notes. I’ll do some footwork and see if I shake anything loose. I’ll get your number from Anne at the office if anything comes up between now and then.”

  I had no intention of digging up the ’91 case file. I had a more direct source of information. I just hope he didn’t rip my face off.

  Chapter Two

  A thick leather-bound book lay open on my desk, a worn but well-cared-for tome I’d owed for almost five years. I looked over the yellowing pages of parchment, fingers delicately tracing the faded lines of the diagram that detailed the summoning spell. I reread each section of text thoroughly. My Latin was rusty.

  I was stalling.

  I recognized my behavior for what it was, but I triple-checked the text anyway. I walked around the unbroken concentric circles of salt and iron filings. I ensured that the silver chain lay flat and that the grim symbols drawn on the cold cement floor in animal blood didn’t run. Unlike the practitioner responsible for the circle at the crime scene, I wasn’t about to take any chances.

  A loaded Glock 22 rested on the plastic folding table I’d set up beside the desk. If I failed, the gun probably wouldn’t do me any good. It made me feel better though. I didn’t like summoning creatures from beyond our world, but I liked the alternative method of contacting my patron even less.

  The wooden desk was out of place in my unfinished basement. Vinyl, plastic, and metal made up the rest of the “furniture” in the cavernous space. I had a mini-fridge and some shelves stocked with cleaning supplies and Tupperware bins of paraphernalia for my summoning rituals. They really went well with my lawn chair and the card table.

  One of the rolled up sleeves of my white collared shirt fell down. I fixed it and loosened the narrow black tie that seemed to grow tighter by the minute. Kneeling down outside the carefully constructed circle, I adjusted my charcoal gray slacks and inspected my work. Finally achieving the level of mental preparedness I needed, I pulled out my trusty Zippo and lit the seven red candles on the edge of the outer circle.

  Magic, as I understood it, was basically about focusing and directing ambient energies toward a desired effect. It was about making connections between disparate objects for that focused energy to react. And a lot more mumbo-jumbo that I couldn’t even pretend to understand. I used my tome as a reference and mimed the ritual as precisely as I could.

  I didn’t technically need the salt or iron, but one screw-up could bring a creature out
of Lovecraft’s nightmares into my basement. Those other materials were just added precautions in case some dark faerie or wild spirit came instead of the intended target. Not that my intended target was any better.

  Reaching over the edge of the circle, I placed the scroll fragment within and lit the special incense that would create the thin tendril of dark smoke I needed. I took a deep breath and began the incantation that would tear a hole in the fabric of space, opening a doorway to Hell. I enunciated each word precisely, painstakingly careful.

  I hate this chanting and hand-waving crap, I thought as I finished the ritual. I didn’t know how wizards stood it. I’d ask if I ever met a one.

  We warlocks were an entirely different breed. Wizards studied magic. They understood it on levels I couldn’t even fathom. Aside from the handful of tricks I’d been granted, I could only invoke magic through complex rituals. Anyone with the proper technique—and a death wish—could be a ritualist.

  A pinprick of red light hung in the air above the concentric circles. A few moments passed before it burst into blinding crimson radiance like an immense hissing road flare. Ebony claws erupted from the fissure, tearing it wider as if the space itself was somehow tangible. The bloody light lined the inky black hole, marking the border between my world and Hell.

  The creature pulled itself out, twisting in physically impossible ways from the spatial rupture like some kind of horrible birth. Its flesh was a hash of overlapping scars, the angry lines darkening the scarlet skin tone wherever they ran. Black leathery wings flapped as they came free, but the disturbed air didn’t reach outside the ten foot diameter inner circle.

  Though no air moved, I felt the temperature in my basement spike.

  Shaggy brown fur covered the creature from the waist down and its legs ended in cloven hooves. A prehensile tail whipped around cutting gouges into the concrete floor with its spear-like end. Two sets of horns sprouted from the fiend’s head, a pair arcing back like a goat and the other pointing forward like a bull.