Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  “Regina,” Mr. Stanton said, “this is Agent Graves with the FBI. He has a few questions he hopes we can help him with. Would you take a look at this?”

  She gave me a slight smile, her sharp features softening for a moment. She shyly averted her gaze. Straightening her thin rimmed glasses, Regina leaned over beside her father, peering down at the scrap of evidence.

  “That’s one of the Outworld glyphs,” she said after a brief glance. “Very old. I can’t tell the name written in that circle. It resembles cuneiform. Which is odd, since this looks like an early Renaissance sigil.”

  I was impressed. Not much of that made sense to me. For a normal, Regina knew a great deal about arcane symbology. “So, it’s definitely a demonic symbol?”

  She nodded and I grimaced. I had hoped that I wasn’t dealing with one of the Exiled, but she’d just made it all but certain. In a way, I should have been grateful. I knew only a little about the Exiled, but that was infinitely more than what I knew about the hundreds of other entities one could summon.

  “Oh, you make this old man proud,” Mr. Stanton said quietly to his daughter.

  Regina blushed. “Stop it, Dad.”

  It was cute. I had a strained relationship with my parents. Seeing something close to normal in my life was refreshing. All of a sudden, I felt like an intruder again, like I was sullying the area just by being there. The Stantons were good people, by deed and by the fact I couldn’t smell any hint of a rotting soul. I needed to get on with things.

  “Does this look familiar? Do you have any copies of this or anything like it?”

  Regina seemed glad to get back on topic. “Oh no. We only deal in whole books. With one seal, I just can’t tell. I don’t even know what kind of sigil this is supposed to be. There’s just no way to know.”

  Harkin seemed pretty sure, I thought. But Harkin wasn’t human. Maybe he knew things this young woman—and Alastor—didn’t. That thought didn’t sit well with me, but I put it aside for the time being. My patron wasn’t as powerful as he would have liked me to believe.

  “Was there anything else you needed?” Mr. Stanton asked.

  Thinking it over a moment, I decided to press my luck. “I need to know what materials are required for large rituals meant to contact the Outworld. What a person might gather if they believed they could perform such a ritual.”

  Mr. Stanton shrugged and looked to his daughter who said, “I’m not sure how to answer that. I only have a passing familiarity with this kind of lore. I know of several books that can give you clues. I could get them for you.”

  “I’ll take you up on that,” I said gratefully, grasping at straws with this piece of evidence. “What do you have in English and Latin?”

  While Mr. Stanton remained at the counter, Regina led me through the cramped aisles and picked out half a dozen books for me, going so far as to specify chapters. I complimented her vast knowledge on the subject. She remained modest, which I found endearing. I asked a few gently probing questions and surmised that she wasn’t a ritualist or wizard hiding her knowledge.

  “I don’t think I can afford this many books,” I said as we emerged from the rows of shelving.

  “Read them here. You can use the study,” Mr. Stanton said, pointing to a side door. “Turn on a light if you like.”

  “Is that… um… kosher?”

  He chuckled to himself. “You’re not Jewish. Do as you like. Lock the door behind you and turn off the lights when you finish.”

  The occultist book collectors left me to my reading and I spent over two hours perusing a few of the tomes. It was odd to receive that level of trust from someone. I wasn’t used to it. Omitting what I was made me feel guilty. It should have been a survival instinct.

  I wrestled with that as I read through book after book, the distraction growing until I couldn’t get anywhere on the research. After carefully putting away all the books and ensuring I left the study just as orderly as I found it, I turned off the lights and exited the shop. I looked up at the signage, knowing I’d be back there despite my ongoing effort to avoid the supernatural.

  Chapter Six

  Dusk came swiftly in the shadow of the Rockies. The bruised purple sky faded to black—scarlet red to my eyes—as I walked out of Mr. Stanton’s shop. I hated looking up at the night sky with my Devil’s Sight. Once all the light was gone, it turned into a bloody red expanse as my eyes adjusted.

  Motivated to get to my car, I wondered if I’d learned anything useful or if I’d wasted my time. Among the tiny fraction of legitimate summoning rituals I read about, no two had the same criteria. What did the Gate spell require?

  Maybe I’m going about this wrong. Perhaps I was too focused on the specifics. Being an amateur ritualist and warlock, my understanding of magic was rather limited. I could try asking Alastor, but my patron didn’t give out information for free, even to his warlocks. I doubted the knowledge was worth the price he’d require to be more forthcoming.

  I tucked my hands in my pocket and started walking. It looked like I’d get home at a decent hour. The prospect of a good night’s sleep appealed greatly, but I wracked my brain trying to come up with new angles to pursue in this case. Time played a major factor in any investigation.

  It was no myth that the longer a case went on, the less likely it would be solved. Outlying and anomalous instances aside, the statistics didn’t lie. I tried not to get emotionally invested in my cases, but that was easier when they were fraud and embezzlement. The supernatural stuff had me twisted up on the inside like it was somehow my fault.

  I told myself how ridiculous that was, but the sentiment did me little good.

  Sick of the pensive introspection, I picked up the pace. The street was virtually barren, the businesses closed for the day and no night-life joints anywhere close. As I turned down the alley, it occurred to me how often I had to park in back, out of sight from where anyone might see me. My life got incredibly shady when I dealt with supernatural things. I’d gone almost a year without direct contact with Alastor. Aside from marking souls for the devil, I could almost forget what I was.

  I searched my pocket for my keys as I navigated the cement dividers that partitioned the back lot. After rounding a large green dumpster, I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end. I stopped, not quite sure what to make of my howling instincts.

  I didn’t see my pursuer right away, but I heard heavy boots thudding across the gravel. I should have drawn my gun, but a moment of doubt made me want to verify the situation. I turned to see who was creeping up on me.

  As soon as I faced him, he pulled out a pistol.

  My heart started pounding, but I knew I had to keep a level head. The wannabe gangster in front of me trembled slightly as he aimed the gun, holding it slanted in one hand. At least I knew he wasn’t any kind of marksman with that stance.

  Something else stood out to me, something only a warlock would notice. It was like a pungent smell of rot rolled in pity. I knew the man had committed some egregious sin that earmarked his soul for Hell, the sort of person Alastor wanted me to tag for his realm. The man was Damned.

  More alarming than the gun was his silence. No demands for my money. No threats or warnings. He just stared at me, sweat beading on his brow that had nothing to do with the nylon parka he wore in the early autumn heat. He weighed my life. I should have been glad it had taken more than a few seconds.

  I wasn’t about to pass up the opportunity to save my own ass. The terror of having a gun pointed at me had to be put aside for the moment. It took a clear mind to do what I needed to do.

  I reached within myself and called up my power. It felt like setting a coal behind my sternum. If I used more power, it heated to a blowtorch, but I didn’t need that much.

  “Put the gun down,” I commanded firmly, using the Voice to influence what I assumed was a human mind.

  The wannabe looked at the piece in his hand. I could tell his brain was trying to resolve the invasive instruction. If he
resisted, I would be on my way to meet Alastor face to face in just a few seconds.

  “Yeah,” the thug muttered. “I don’t want to use a gun. Too loud.”

  He dropped the pistol and ran toward me, pulling out a switchblade.

  Oh, this is much better.

  I was caught off-guard and I reacted slowly. I reached for my gun, but he was too close. I’d never get the gun out in time.

  Back pedaling, I turned and ran.

  I felt the tip of the knife catch the material of my coat and tug in an alarming way. I ran further out of his reach and he stumbled, giving me the second I needed to elude him. A rapid scan on my part showed me some limited options.

  A chain-link fence and an industrial sized dumpster blocked my left and a brick wall towered over me to the right. In front, I spotted a ladder leading up to a ten foot high box-like add-on to the otherwise two-story nail salon that the lot served.

  My shoes weren’t the best for traction, but they gripped the cracked patches of asphalt and gravel well enough as I bolted. The thug cursed and followed with strides made awkward by his sagging pants. Gaining a precious few paces, I hurdled a cement divider that was perfectly positioned to be in the way of everything.

  Climbing the steel ladder was difficult, but I was better off than the guy chasing me. He swiped at me once before he abandoned that plan and came up after me, holding the blade in his teeth like a pirate. I planted a heel in his face—or at least I tried.

  The awkward kick turned out to be a bad call. He caught my foot and yanked me down a rung. I regained a hold and clambered up, but he was right behind me. As I set foot on the dusty gravel of the flat roof, he grabbed my ankle and tripped me. I landed hard, the shoulder of my coat ripping open. Numbing pain radiated from the joint.

  I scrambled to my feet and stumbled on. I managed to get my Glock out, but, as I turned to aim, the frantic thug clubbed the piece right out of my hands. He might know nothing about shooting or knife-fighting, but he was a hell of a lot stronger than me.

  The training I went through years ago wasn’t completely forgotten. With my hands freed, I grabbed his forearm and wrist, twisting until he dropped the switchblade. He shunted me away and we squared up, facing each other. I really hoped he was ready to quit.

  He wasn’t.

  Breathless, I tried to concentrate enough to lay some more of the Voice on him. “Stop—”

  A jab cut off my command and busted my nose. Pain erupted across my face and my vision swam for a moment. I smelled and tasted blood. It was all I could do to get my hands up to defend myself.

  After he made a few haymakers, I saw that my aggressor didn’t use the fist he smashed my face with. A broken hand served him right. He was also slowing down, another sign that pugilism wasn’t one of his pastimes. I shoved off of him and made a little space.

  “Look,” I said, scanning rapidly for an escape. My words sounded ridiculous with blood and snot clogging my nose. “This isn’t worth it. Think about what you’re doing.”

  I was afraid that if I used the Voice, I’d pass out. Trusting this guy’s humanity by going unconscious seemed like a good way to end up dead. I opted against it and waited to see if my unpowered words had any effect.

  The thug shuffled back a few steps and retrieved his blade. All I’d given him was a chance to re-arm himself. I couldn’t say I was pleased by that prospect considering how hard I’d worked to get the knife out of his hands in the first place.

  I looked around and saw that the next tier of rooftops was about neck high. I might have been able to make it with a running start and a bit of scrambling. Could I climb up it before he caught up to me and planted that knife in my leg—or the small of my back?

  With my athletic days behind me, I decided not to try it. I needed a distraction to create some space from my attacker. In my rattled state, I forgot that I had a huge advantage over my opponent. It was night time in a poorly lit back lot. I could see where he couldn’t.

  I backed up into a veil of crimson red—shadowy darkness to any normal person. There was no escape, but I knelt down and grabbed some of the roofing gravel. To maintain the element of surprise, I stood up and paced around.

  The pain in my face started getting to me. I spat blood, my anger beginning to override my judgment. That side-effect of my pact was actually coming in handy. My assailant held the switchblade in his injured hand. It must have been his dominant hand.

  It wasn’t something I would have thought of in my normal state of mind. With killer instincts, I noted the choice and advanced, fist clenched over a handful of sandy gravel. I had no plan but to do violence.

  I realized how much I hated this man I’d never met, the spite rising up in me like a pressure cooker. His clothing, his attitude, and his complete lack of competence all twisted in my mind. I had been so bent on surviving, I barely realized what was happening to me, what the pact was doing to me.

  I feinted in and the thug bought it, thrusting forward awkwardly. I flung the gritty dirt and fine rocks right in his eyes. A moment of disorientation was all I needed.

  I snatched his wounded hand and squeezed. With whatever his injury, he couldn’t keep me from twisting the knife around. I pressed forward to get him off balance and pushed him two steps back before he recovered. I’d gotten the knife turned around so that it pointed into the meat of his chest near the shoulder.

  After a moment of resistance, the knife slid into the thug’s shoulder with ease. He gasped in pain and redirected all his strength to shoving away from me. In the thick of the action, he’d lost track of his surroundings. And his footing.

  I didn’t react as he stumbled off the edge of the building. A scream of agony accompanied the thud of the impact from the ten foot drop and it didn’t stop. As I walked to the edge, I thought to myself, Well, at least I know he’s alive.

  After locating my Glock, I holstered the gun and walked back to the edge of the roof. The man was still down on the ground, wailing like a baby. I clambered down the steel ladder and sauntered over to him.

  Sensing no threat, I finally began to calm down. The taste of blood in my mouth became something alarming instead of something invigorating. I tried to focus on breathing. I knew I wasn’t the real me right then. I concentrated on that. If I didn’t, who knows what I’d have done to someone who’d just tried to kill me.

  Drawing my gun once again, I quickly surveyed the writhing man at my feet. Besides the knife jutting from his shoulder and his clearly broken leg, my assailant seemed fine. I wondered if the Stantons were the only businessmen who lived in their shops. In the empty night, the thug’s scream carried. Someone might have called the police.

  Knowing my luck, I assumed the local authorities were on their way. I didn’t have much time until they showed up; the Denver Police Department boasted good response times. I figured that the thug hadn’t acted on his own and I needed to know who had sent him after me.

  Kneeling down, I made a quick decision. Gripping the man’s wounded shoulder, I invoked another of my abilities that was far less draining than the Voice—Amplus Dolor. I amplified his pain with my pact-granted power.

  The man gasped and grabbed my wrist. He was tough, so I upped the intensity. The strength evaporated from his grip and a moaning sob escaped his lips. I let up enough that he could focus on something other than the burning agony in his shoulder and leg.

  “Who sent you after me? Tell me and the pain ends,” I lied. I knew the pain would linger for days if not weeks. That was one of Alastor’s lessons I clearly recalled. Feeling stable enough, I opted to throw in a little insurance. “Speak the truth.”

  “I-I-I d-don’t know,” he stuttered, spasming from the pain. “H-he arranged it over the phone.”

  Shit. I released his shoulder and muttered, “How did he pay you?”

  “An envelope of cash,” he said between groans.

  Holstering my gun, I asked, “How did you find me?”

  “Oh god! What did you do to my shoulder
? Christ!”

  “Focus,” I said. Rifling through his coat, I pulled out the man’s wallet and flipped it open with one hand, sliding the ID out with a thumb. “Now answer me, James Thompson.”

  “H-he told me to sneak onto Lowry and watch some building. I called him on a payphone t-to report in.” The man shivered and grew pale. “He figured you were a Fed looking into some case and told me to follow you.”

  I couldn’t tell how bad his shoulder was, but I didn’t think he could have been bleeding out that fast. I pocketed his ID and put his good hand to his open wound. He got the idea and applied pressure.

  “Just me? How much did he pay you?”

  “You’re the only Fed I saw. He gave me ten grand.”

  The lab guys could lift some prints from the bills or the envelope. If not, I could think of a few uses for ten grand. I blanched at the insultingly low figure. I mean, I was a frickin’ warlock. It should have been twenty grand easy.

  “What number did he give you to call?”

  After stuttering through six numbers, the would-be hitman began convulsing. I stepped away and watched in shock as my brain fumbled for an explanation. A searing red rune burned through his cotton and polyester beanie, blackening his forehead. For an instant, I was relieved that it wasn’t my fault. Then I quickly realized how bad this magic was.

  Despite my lack of experience with the arcane, I figured out the gist of the spell I was witnessing. “Ah, jeez. How did he get a self-destruct spell on you?”

  It was some kind of spell meant to ensure loyalty or to take care of a loose end. Something Alastor would have used if his potential thralls refused the pact. Since I didn’t believe in coincidences, I knew the man dying in front of me must have come into direct contact with my perp, whether he knew it or not. He’d done more than talk to him on the phone.

  I filed that away for later. My perp probably knew that James had failed to kill me. If the demon-summoner really wanted me dead, he’d come after me harder. Great. Just great.