Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  I was scared shitless.

  A glint of metal caught my eye as I moved past the trunk. I knew I should hurry, but I paused to see what it was. Leaning over, I grabbed the silver chain and brought it up to my face. The medallion at the end grazed my palm and jolted me.

  “Son of a bitch,” I muttered in uncomprehending shock as I stared at the silver hand-shaped medallion. It can’t be hers. It can’t be.

  But who else could the silver Hamsa necklace have belonged to?

  “Stupid,” I said to myself. So stupid. Berith had me followed. I led him right to the Stantons. I led him right to Regina.

  I gathered the medallion up into my hand while adeptly hanging onto the photo and immediately cursed as the silver began to burn me. I hurriedly shoved it into my coat pocket as I started running. As a symbol of God—or at least the divine—it gathered an energy directly opposed to the kind that suffused my body. And the mixing of those energies hurt like hell.

  Overcome with the urge to get inside and put an end to the Exiled responsible, I sprinted to the entrance. Spots of rust peeked through the chipped paint of the heavy industrial doors. Glock in one hand and the photo pinched between the thumb and forefinger of the other, I reached for the handle. I found it locked.

  My stomach tightened and a cold sweat formed on my brow. I had no way into the building. Contrary to popular belief, you couldn’t shoot out a lock. Even if I could, that would give Oliver-Berith all the warning it needed to do any number of nasty things.

  I barely noticed how hard I breathed. Stifling the urge to rattle the door and possibly alert Berith to my arrival, I shut my eyes tightly for a moment to clear my head. I had to think.

  Unwilling to give up so easily, I jogged a circuit around the building, searching for another entrance. I found two single doors just as secure as the first set and a sheet metal garage door. The walls were made of solid cinder blocks. I saw no ladders or scaffolding I could use to get to the corrugated roof.

  Damn place is a fortress… I thought dismally as I came back to the front.

  Running a hand over my hair, I caught my breath. I needed a way in and I had to come up with it immediately. I had no back up and barely any tools; certainly none meant for getting through cement or metal.

  “Dammit. Think!” I commanded myself.

  I put my palm against the cement and bowed my head, just so tired of the fighting and the fear and the hopelessness. I thought of what I’d gone up against already and felt my resolve weaken. Giving up would have been so easy.

  I wished I had the power to just melt a hole in the wall like Alastor. Or the strength to bash through it like the creatures I’d faced already. The shadow drake would just burrow through with those claws. I shook my head, knowing that wasn’t right. The “walls” in the shadow realm weren’t nearly as solid as their counterparts in the real world—

  My heart trembled with a sudden hope and I let the photo go. It drifted and tumbled through the air, the magic evaporating from it as soon as I released it. What if I was in the shadow realm? Could I get through then? Is it even possible for me to get into another dimension from here?

  Alastor had said as much when he disappeared Frankie the pimp’s body from the hotel room. I just didn’t know how my patron did it. But I figured it out before when I fumbled through a Borderline back to Earth. I just had to figure it out again.

  The first thing I needed was a Borderline—no, multiple Borderlines. I had to come back out of the shadow realm on the other side of the wall. I ran back to my car to see what supplies I had to choose from, hoping it would inspire some ideas.

  In the trunk, I still had plenty of oil, some window washer fluid, and a wool blanket for emergencies. Knowing I’d need both road flares, I opened the accident kit and stuffed the quart of oil in the bag. I got my multi-tool and a water bottle from the front. I hurried back to the oversized garage door at the front of the old factory.

  Desperate for the advantage of surprise, I worried that Oliver might see the smoke or the light of the flare, especially if it was as dark inside as I assumed. The building was half the size of a football field. Which part of it had Oliver-Berith settled on for the ritual? I peered through an oval shaped handhold in the garage door and saw a room in shades of red.

  It didn’t seem occupied. I had to risk it. I had no other choices.

  I needed smoke for my Borderlines, not fire, so I tied wet, oil-soaked rags over the top of two road flares. Using my Zippo, I lit one of my portable Borderlines and dropped it a few feet away from the door. The flare caught with a hiss and the fire ignited the rag. I lit the second flare and forced it through that same handhold I had spied into.

  I rushed back to the now-billowing and hissing gout of black smoke. I checked over my bulging duffle bag and prepared to exploit a Borderline for the second time that week. Closing my eyes, I imagined my surroundings as I thought they would appear in the shadow realm, all bleak and gray. Concentrating on my other senses, I reached my hand into the thick smoke. Oily tendrils caressed my palm and fingers, the subtle heat carrying the smoke up.

  That was what I needed, the meshing of elements or a stark juxtaposition of primal forces. Fog and dust, mist and smoke… they blurred the boundaries between dimensions. From what I’d read, more skilled and powerful magic-users could slip right into another realm right through the ground—where air and earth met. Slip… That’s a good word for it.

  I had no illusions about being that good. I had to squirm through the layers and hope I didn’t fall into some nasty place between dimensions. It’s okay, I told myself. I’ve done this once already. Luckily for me, dark fog filled virtually the entire shadow realm. That was the key thing about working magic: creating connections between points or people or things.

  Only my focus on the task allowed me to stifle my doubts and worries. I couldn’t afford to fail with so much riding on me. An afterlife in Hell, the apocalypse, Regina’s life… I imagined her shy smile. That’s not helping, I reminded myself.

  Recalling the look of the ashen sky in the shadow realm, I thought of the sterile smell and cold dry air, the way sound echoed wrongly. I stepped forward tentatively, remembering how the ground had given slightly under my weight. My power stoked deep in my chest, like a preamble to terrible heartburn.

  The transition felt different from the last time. I didn’t know if it was my choice of Borderlines or the fact that I was going in rather that out of the shadow realm that changed things. I stopped sensing the warmth of the setting sun. The air pressure grew, tiny pinpricks of pain rippling across my skin like a sandstorm without the wind.

  The physical sensations disoriented me and I only knew to open my eyes when the aura of gloom fell over me. I peeked fearfully... and I saw darkness once again. Or rather, I saw the looming, undulating curtain of liquid shadow where a garage door should have been.

  My plan to search for a way in or somehow break through the wall got put on hold. Thinking back on my previous trip to the shadow realm, I remembered that all the doors looked like that one. What made them different from the walls, ground, or air?

  Why could I see most of the buildings, but not all? Why couldn’t I see my car or the car Oliver had stolen? My investigator’s mind needed an answer. The information was key in that moment. I had to figure it out. Staring at the garage door, I noticed that it was a lighter shade of black than the last door and better defined.

  Seeing the jet black—instead of ebony—gelatinous wall, I began to form a theory about the shadow realm. Matter worked differently there, but it was tied directly to the mortal realm. The notion gained momentum and I followed the logic to its conclusion.

  All the structures looked the same, as I remembered it. Those buildings stayed still relative to the Earth, while cars moved around. The doors on the buildings opened every so often, but didn’t move nearly so far as a vehicle. Suddenly, I got it. The longer something sat on Earth, the more solid it became in the shadow realm.

  Constant
ly moving air remained gaseous. The perpetually stationary ground remained mostly solid. But the temporary edifices of humankind lay somewhere in between. The factory—at least a dozen years old—felt like wet clay. The garage door, though made of steel in the real world, hadn’t completely solidified yet.

  I could make it through.

  Pressing my bag into the dark vertical pool, I found that my assumption was premature. The shadow substance resisted being parted. I dug my toes into spongy ground and shoved the duffle bag against the shimmering veil, grunting with the effort. The garage door bunched up and bowed inward, but I couldn’t squeeze the bag through.

  Relenting, I pulled the bag away and set it down at my feet. I reached out and felt the wall, the unnatural cold sucking the warmth from my fingers. I’d visited the beach once as a child. It had been a gloomy, cold day but I still played in the sand. It felt the same.

  Desperation fueling me, I clawed at the wall, finding it to be more like sand mixed with tar. Knowing I had only a few minutes of flare left, I frantically used the multi-tool to dig faster. Finally able to pierce the thin sheet, I tore at the strange material.

  I had a desk job and had never been overly muscular. Planting my feet and pulling on the tacky edge of the torn wall, my muscles burned with the effort. As soon as I stopped to rest my arms, the material began to pull itself back together.

  I grabbed the accident kit and shove the bag through the hole before the flaps closed up. A distant, muffled screech reminded me that I wasn’t alone in the shadow realm. Heart racing and arms burning, I ripped the sand-tar wall until I had a gap larger enough to fit through.

  Tumbling through gracelessly, I hit the ground hard and it drove the air from my lungs. I laid on my back and caught my breath for a minute before I remembered that I could be stuck in the shadow realm for the rest of my short life if I didn’t get back through the Borderline to the mortal realm. I was inside, but I didn’t have time to waste.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Dark, dismal, and depressing, the loading area of the factory lacked any definite features in the shadow realm. Partially coalesced forms of liquid shadow and frozen grayness gave me the impression of a conveyor belt and mechanical assembly. A slate gray wall partitioned the room from the rest of the building. That was one less concern. Unless Oliver-Berith stood in the same room, my flare wouldn’t have given away my ingress.

  Standing, I brushed my suit down out of habit and grabbed the battered duffle bag. I glanced around, relieved to see that no shadow drakes lurked in the building. I double checked my gun and the extra magazine in the nylon and plastic rig under my arm.

  I considered scouting ahead into the next room, but I doubted I’d learn much with the bizarre nature of the shadow realm muddling things. I didn’t have time anyway. I still had to get back through the Borderline to the mortal realm before I could do anything and the flare was certainly close to burning out.

  I dry washed my hands and licked my lips before reaching out to find my way home. Doubt bubbled up in my thoughts as I waved my hand slowly through the misty air, hoping to sense the boundary. The flare couldn’t have landed farther than where I stood.

  Precious seconds passed as I quested about, but I found nothing. I began to wonder what would kill me first if I couldn’t find the Borderline: hunger, the shadow drakes, or whatever else lived in the dismal realm. If I didn’t find the way soon, the flare on the other side would burn out. Refusing to get rattled, I reoriented myself and started over.

  A gasp escaped me as I finally found it. Once again, the heat gave away the location of the invisible rift. My choice to use a flare turned out to be fortuitous, since there was no way for me to sense smoke on the other side or to know where it had actually landed.

  As much as I dreaded what was to come, I didn’t want to be trapped in that abysmally dreary nightmare. Drawing in calming breaths, I conjured up the image of what I thought the interior of the factory should have looked like. At this hour, light filtered in from the high windows I had seen but couldn’t reach. I tried to see it in my mind’s eye.

  I recalled the stale smell of dust, grease, and rust that permeated the air. Places like the factory carried with them an aura of loss for what could have been. People had worked there at one time, but the factory no longer acted as a source of livelihoods. It was only a source of sadness.

  I realized that it was the perfect place for a ritual with such a dark purpose as the Gate. Would the whole of the mortal realm end up like shadow realm, empty but for monsters? My warlock power kindled as I found the rift and made the connection. I had to hurry, though the urgency didn’t help my concentration.

  The sudden lapse in resistance told me that my mental image was close enough. Pressing forward, I entered the murky in-between and Slipped back toward Earth. The pungent scent of burning oil filled my nose and I opened my eyes.

  Years old trash lined the corners of the floor, dry leaves and yellowed paper scraping along with a whistling breeze. The corrugated roof groaned eerily above me. The flare spat and sputtered, finally going out. With my Devil’s Sight revealing all the unnerving detail, I needed no further motivation to draw my gun.

  I went to the door, a rusted steel thing set on a swivel with no handle and a cracked rubber cushion on the bottom. Dust coated a narrow window at eye level. I wiped at it, but grim obscured both sides of the glass.

  Leaning a shoulder against the door, I pushed carefully to prevent the weathered hinges from creaking. Miraculously, the aged grease kept the door relatively quiet. I peered in and saw a factory floor mostly devoid of machinery. I guessed they had taken what they could sell when the factory closed. Thankful for the soft soles of my loafers, I sneaked in.

  The skeleton of the conveyor belt system remained, but the rollers and actual vinyl belting had been removed. Great gaps sat between sections of the frames where the interconnecting machines had once been. It allowed me to weave around surreptitiously, though bolts set in the concrete floor snagged my feet occasionally.

  Sporadic chains hung down from metal frames meant to bear weight. They swayed gently enough that they made no noise. I couldn’t help but whip my head around at the motion in my peripheral. I had no idea what they’d once held, but they only served to creep me out.

  A cavernous and hollow voice rose in the emptiness and I sucked in a sharp breath, spinning to locate the source. My heart pounded fiercely and my skin felt sticky with sweat. I recognized the bizarre words for what they were: the beginning of a ritual spell.

  The chanting continued and I hurried, forsaking stealth. The invocation could have been a few short sentences and a skilled practitioner might not have to repeat it three times like I did with my spells. For the moment, I hoped the powerfully spoken words masked the sound of my approach.

  Oliver-Berith had chosen the corner furthest from the garage’s entrance. Most of the floor had been swept clear, leaving a huge area for a sigil to be drawn in blood. I hoped it didn’t belong to Regina. Despite my anger and disgust, I couldn’t fail to see the artistry.

  The sigil in the Lowry dorm had been a child’s sketch done in crayons compared to the masterpiece I saw on the smooth concrete before me. It was more than just the size. Fine detail beyond what any scroll could have captured filled the spaces left between any lines.

  Seven large black candles encircled the design, each carved to reveal a white, vein-like lattice of runes. I knew the candles were made from human fat. Smooth dark stones and sharp crystals glowing with lambent orange light laid scattered about the floor in key locations. It was by far the most complex and involved ritual I’d ever seen.

  I noted all these things on the side, my mind and eyes focusing on the woman at the center of a twenty foot circle of runes and symbols—Regina. Taut nylon ropes bound each of her limbs, pulling her flat and spread-eagle against the ground. Her clothing was more or less intact, a long swath torn from her skirt looked to have been fashioned into a gag.

  The woman s
truggled weakly, her strength certainly spent after hours of fighting against her captivity. Even at my distance, I saw her nostrils flaring for breath. The sight of her torment infuriated me, but I told myself that she was alive and I had to keep my head if I wanted her to stay that way. I wasn’t a good listener.

  If I stopped the sacrifice, I stopped the Gate from opening. The clean and simple goal allowed me to press on with some semblance of composure. I anxiously wiped my hands on my coat so that sweat didn’t threaten my grip on the pistol.

  The little remaining light from windows high above me faded fast. Oliver rose from his position and carefully entered the circle to kneel beside Regina. With head bowed and arms raised high, he put his palms up to the ceiling in a pose of supplication. He hadn’t noticed me yet—either that, or the murderous bastard was supremely unconcerned.

  I edged out from behind the last vestiges of cover, trying to take in all the details. The same paranoia that led me there shrieked in the back of my mind about traps and certain doom. I silenced it with some effort. Oliver-Berith’s tone peaked and I realized that he had finished one verse of the incantation. He reached down and lifted a dagger made of reflective black glass from the ground, starting the second round of intoned demonic words.

  I couldn’t watch any longer. I couldn’t allow fear to forestall me. I had to act.

  Dropping the duffle bag, I adopted a Weaver stance and took aim at Oliver as he raised the obsidian dagger. I was rattled, nervous to the point of trembling. I’d never fired my weapon outside of training conditions. Hell, I’d only drawn it on a perp once before this week. I just didn’t see much action in the fraud department.

  I had doubts, but I didn’t hesitate to squeeze the trigger. Like most law enforcement types, I was trained to shoot to kill. There was no ridiculous stunt like trying to hit someone in the shoulder. That was stupid and dangerous. When an officer of the law shot, they meant to end the threat. It was unfortunate, but I had to end Oliver. I fired and didn’t stop until my gun clicked empty fifteen rounds later.