Graves Pact (Landon Graves Book 1)

by Matthew Stinson

  As the conference room door closed behind the big boss, I noticed that Phil looked irritated. I didn’t really get it. Even if he was looking at the dumbed-down, mundane version of events, he should have been happy that everything had wrapped up as nicely as it had. He set the report down with a mild expression of disgust.

  I guess I could relate. After everything, I still had some questions of my own. For one, how had Oliver Pontas known that Bryce had the Gate scroll? That wasn’t public knowledge.

  I had to shrug it off. I couldn’t expect a reasonable explanation for everything when magic was involved. Maybe he’d had a crystal ball.

  “So, Detective Mendoza gets the collar?” he asked after a minute of silent stewing.

  “She’s the one that tracked down our perp.” That was one of the loose ends I’d tied up with a half-lie. “She went through the personnel files at Daniels and McGraw until she found a few suspects.”

  At the very least, Mendoza deserved the lion’s share of the credit for the trouble she’d gone through. I’d also ordered her a replacement shotgun for the one left behind in the shadow realm. It would take a few payments, but I owed her.

  “With our profile,” he said. “Why wasn’t I brought into the loop?”

  “It was all theory and circumstance until the very end,” I casually lied with a shrug. “We called you the instant we got something firm.”

  Had I written my reports differently, if I’d tried to turn this case into a merit badge for myself, I’d have made Phil an enemy for life. That kind of underhanded, ladder-climbing bullshit didn’t fly with him, rare as it was in my experience with the FBI. But I’d downplayed my involvement and emphasized Mendoza’s hard work.

  Phil scowled. I knew he had no intention of letting the issue go, so I distracted him by moving on. “Any news on the perp?”

  “He’s under psychiatric evaluation right now,” the agent answered after he gave me a hard look. “Can you believe his statement? Like the judge will go for that crap. ‘A demon made me do it.’ Not with the mountain of evidence he’ll be buried under. No way he’s going to get an insanity plea.”

  “Phil, a sane person doesn’t go around sacrificing people to bring about an imaginary demon lord. Maybe—just maybe—there’s some credit to the shrink’s concern.”

  Labeling perps as mentally unstable was just too convenient. FBI agents—all investigators really—utilized rational and analytical minds, so writing criminals off as insane never sat well. It was hard to accept, especially when I’d withheld information.

  “He could’ve killed his boy,” Phil said quietly. “His own son.”

  “Yeah, it could have been worse,” I replied.

  Phil snorted and got up out of his chair, still upset. He snatched his copy of the report and stormed off. I let him go without another word. That was the drawback of a passion for justice like his. It was rare and necessary, just not always convenient.

  I sat and reflected. The case hadn’t been officially closed yet. There were investigations to be done and reports to be made. I might have to testify at some point, but the district attorney would most likely settle out of court. For me, it was basically over. I could finally get back to the way things were. Back to normal.

  Only, I knew I couldn’t go back. Not only had I sworn to Alastor that I’d step up my game, but I couldn’t pretend I wasn’t a warlock any longer. I had revolting powers, but maybe I could do some good with them.

  Having never been so badly injured in the five years of my pact, I had no idea how quickly I could actual recover from getting the shit kicked out of me. I still felt like I’d gotten hit by a bus, but I was more or less whole. The dozens of hairline fractures and my broken ankle would heal soon enough. I was alive and I wisely decided I was going to stay that way.

  It wasn’t as if the alternative would ever improve.

  I hobbled past the bulletin board in the break room and spotted a flyer for self-defense classes. I took it as a sign, jotting down the number on a notepad. If I was going to get my act together, I needed help. If I was going to survive my patron and what he wanted me involved in, I’d have to be prepared.

  I was a warlock, but that didn’t define me—not anymore. People were more than one thing. Bryce wasn’t just a wizard. He was a confused teenager with a prodigal gift he had to handle on his own. As supportive and caring as his parents seemed, they still couldn’t completely understand him.

  Mendoza wasn’t just one of the Chosen. She was a detective and a good person forced to face true evil on a regular basis. Like me, she had one foot planted in the supernatural world and the other in the mortal realm, trying to balance both.

  Father Miller wasn’t just a man of faith anymore. He had experienced the supernatural firsthand because of me. He’d stepped onto a larger stage. Whether he liked it or not, that choice might come back to haunt him.

  I was an FBI agent. I was a warlock. I’d been trying to ignore that second part. I couldn’t any longer. It just didn’t work. My pact wasn’t something I could run away from.

  So I wasn’t going to run anymore.

  Excerpt from Vicara’s Wrath, a forthcoming gaslamp fantasy by Matthew C Stinson

  Hadrin saw the vicara to his left, her back pressed flat against the building with her revolver ready. When the Valravne fully emerged from the alley, she stepped forward to blast the creature at point blank range. Its extra eyes caught the peripheral motion and alerted the creature, giving it enough warning to twist away.

  Her bullet hit the monster in a raised shoulder, exploding through thick hide and muscle. With a vicious roar, the Valravne twisted and threw a brutal uppercut. Instead of jumping out of the way or cringing, the priestess did what Hadrin thought to be the most peculiar thing: the slight woman squared up to the attack.

  The punch landed in her stomach but stopped cold, violating everything he knew of the physical world. Which left only magic as an explanation. First, a revolver and now this? The Church must have several competent magic-users, he noted distantly as more pressing concerns dominated his attention.

  The creature overcame any surprise by the inefficacy of its first punch and continued the assault. Snatching the vicara by the arm and thigh, it flung her with violent force. She managed another shot as it released her, a burst of blood and flesh erupting just above the creature’s stout knee. She smashed through the first post of a store’s overhanging eave and bounced off a second before falling to the ground with splintered wood raining down around her.

  Struggling to his feet, Hadrin cursed himself for leaving his scrolls behind, wishing he had any of the dozens of those prepared sigils on hand. With quick, precise gestures, he began tracing a spellform. Instilling the miniscule portion of his life-force necessary to start the spell, a series of symbols, lines, and geometric figures began to take shape before him as he wrote. Visible only to those trained in the use of magic, the active sigil glowed with a blue-white light.

  The Valravne limped over to the railing of the store’s deck and tore off a section with casual ease. Hadrin worked with a restrained fervor, desperate to complete the complex formula, but careful to avoid a mistake that would cost his life.

  Close. Power source is defined. Beyond the focus of his vision, he watched the wounded creature close on the downed priestess. No time for variable distance. With the figure finished, he readied to release the magic, but he needed the monster to come closer.

  “Hey!” he called, diverting as much attention from the wavering sigils as he dared. “You malformed, odiferous… thing! I’m over here.” The awkward taunt had the intended effect. The Valravne turned and trotted toward him on an injured leg.

  That’s it, that’s it now. It stopped and considered him for a moment before inhaling deeply. The creature bellowed loudly enough to rattle his ribcage. He let the magic go with a timid step backward, feeling the hair on his arms stand on end as the spell gathered the electrical energy from the surrounding area.

  As the b
east finished its roar, a thick bolt of lightning surged out of the ground between the Valravne and the mage, striking it square in the chest. The series of crackling flashes turned the night to day with its ghostly light and the thunderclap deafened Hadrin for several moments. The impact lifted the monster off the ground for a full second and lightning arced through and around it into the sky.

  Excerpt from Succubus Blues, the forthcoming sequel to Graves Pact

  I showed my badge to one of the patrolmen and asked for Mendoza. I noticed the crime lab boys hauling lights and extension cords into an alley blocked off by cars, cones, and tape. With the sun setting behind the Rockies, it would be dark in a short while—a problem for the normals of the world.

  Mendoza came out of the alley looking like she’d had a hell of a day already and spotted me. The detective waved me over with a few twitches of fingers, her hands covered in blue latex gloves. I ducked the line and stalked down the alley.

  Finally settling my nerves, I glanced about with an investigator’s eyes, trying to pick out details. The alley stank of garbage, the cold spring air doing little to keep it in check. Two large green dumpsters with yellow logos were filled to the brim, overdue for collection. Not an ideal place to stash a body.

  A pallet of cardboard boxes, blankets, and other items told me that a homeless person stayed here. The police certainly noted something that obvious, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he or she was a witness or another victim. I put it aside and continued to the second dumpster where a team of cops worked while Mendoza watched.

  One of the techs snapped pictures, momentarily blinding me with the intense flash. As my vision returned, I saw the body lying slumped against the cinderblock wall. An odd sensation washed over me, my subconscious realizing something before it came to me.

  I know this guy.

  Then the mental dam broke and it was like the last six years hadn’t happened. Suddenly, I was back in the hospital waiting room, hunched over and cradling my head with shaky hands. Jessica was going through another round of chemo and I couldn’t even keep it together enough to be with her.

  I was at my wit’s end, suffocating under the debt of my student loans and the medical bills. Near a nervous breakdown, I wasn’t in any mood to talk to anyone. Then this guy sat down next to me and started up a conversation.

  He told me there was a way.

  He had started it all.

  Acknowledgements

  Joe Konrath, who writes a blog called A Newbie’s Guide to Publishing (http://jakonrath.blogspot.com/), deserves a special mention. Though I’ve never met the man, his insight and advice have helped me immensely. Thanks Joe.

  While the act of writing demands isolation, every other part of getting a manuscript into any sort of shape worth a reader’s time requires a great deal of support. My eternal gratitude to everyone who’s read, critiqued, edited, or discussed my passions with me.

  About Matthew C Stinson

  Matthew C Stinson lives in Colorado, where he indulges in none of the state’s abundant outdoor activities. Instead, he voraciously consumes stories in every format available, plays video games (poorly), and enjoys the company of his friends usually while playing tabletop games.

  You can follow Matt’s progress on his various writing projects on his Facebook page: (https://www.facebook.com/matthewcstinsonauthor)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Graves Pact

  Copyright © 2015 Matthew C Stinson

  All rights reserved.

  Cover art by James at Humble Nations (http://humblenations.com/)

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.

  ISBN-10: 0996158502

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9961585-0-3