by Nikki Sex
“Poor Victor, I can’t blame him—we’ve all been there. Christ, it’s sickening, eh? I’ve never seen anything like it.”
A man wearing a white surgical mask, says in a muffled voice, “Look at this gore! Except for this guy, their faces and scalps have been torn to shreds. I can’t even use dental records; their teeth are all ripped out and mixed together. How the hell will we identify them?”
Floodlights have been set up, construction debris lies everywhere. In the middle of this cold, dark, subterranean concrete shell is a scene of brilliantly lit, unimaginable mayhem.
Blood! Flesh! Death!
Resting in a circle, six bodies lay exposed. I say six bodies, but it’s kind of hard to tell by looking. There may be more. These people were ripped apart by something incredibly strong.
Something supernatural.
I shudder and am surprised when John Joseph grips my arm. Tilting his head, he studies me as he steadies me. I swallow and take a deep fortifying breath—but not for the reasons he thinks.
I stand absolutely motionless, too frightened to move, too ridiculously pleased to have his sturdy, reassuring hand steady me.
Half of me wants to get naked, to sing, to dance, and revel amid the butchery of tortured, dismembered, dissected bodies. The other half is disgusted. The thought of what the victims went through is bad enough. It’s made so much worse without skin to hold in the foul smell of offal. Yuck.
“OK?”
Eleven. “Yes. If you don’t mind, keep holding me. I’ll be fine.”
Detective Joseph nods, waiting patiently with staggering composure. Maybe his equanimity in the face of evil is his real gift. John has watched me work before, he sees his job as my facilitator. He knows not to interrupt or interfere unless he simply must.
It’s not essential for me to be close to the bodies. I don’t need to study the evidence, touch anything, or even put on gloves. With as much objectivity as possible, I scan every quadrant in the room.
My inner monster’s super-powers aside, my own psychic gift is with the spirits of the dead. I’m conscious of them. I see them. If I talk to a ghost, usually they’re happy to talk to me.
After careful scrutiny of the area, I sense nothing. Nobody.
Where are the ghosts?
Magic and power beats through me, while my spine tingles unpleasantly. Absence of ghosts or not, I’ve felt this before. Oh, yeah, this is the same.
Bad magic—black magic.
Inhaling a deep breath, I scent both wolf and vampire. Torment and agony occurred here, but also…something else.
A pentagram has been chalked onto the concrete floor. Ten white candles were placed, one at the tip of each point of the star, and one at each inner corner. The candles have all burned down to nothing.
I shut my eyes, gather my power, and cast my psychic senses far and wide. Together, my demon and I feel for psychic footprints, or better yet a spirit or two.
Yes. Elemental magic was wrought here.
Ritual death occurred in this power circle, including the deaths of a vampire and a werewolf. Supernaturals are difficult to kill. Their magic protects them from most everyone—except from those who are more powerful.
Something must have enthralled them.
One soul—one death as a preliminary offering by the sorcerer to draw unnatural energy to this realm. Fresh blood spilled within a pentagram enchanted by black magic would attract a powerful demon. The first death, the initial sacrifice is relatively intact. The strong smell of whisky is connected to this elderly corpse.
Two paranormal creatures, lured and compelled by demonic sorcery. The shifter’s body is relatively intact, too. The vampire is dust. And the four innocents? The innocents I can’t explain—they shouldn’t be here.
There are six bodies, but seven people met a violent end in this place.
This conjuring happened maybe four days ago, before Hope and Owen’s attack. Thursday or Friday is my guess. Why wasn’t the carnage detected earlier? Usually, people don’t work weekends, so two days undiscovered I can understand. But four? No way.
Maybe there’s been a strike or something.
I scan the area once more, frowning with confusion.
No one. Nothing.
In my experience a demon can’t take every part of a person, no matter how much it tries. The spirits of the dead—their souls, their auras, these are eternal and cannot be destroyed. With this many dead, and their deaths so traumatic, I’d expect at least one soul to be hanging around.
Demon fashioned death, that’s what this is.
Like the circle spell my mother made, a conjurer called a demon to this dimension to act as his servant. Unfortunately for the sorcerer, the magic backfired. The Master screwed up—now he’s a demon’s plaything, a powerful monster’s slave.
Tightly closing my eyes, I tremble as I realize the truth. Somewhere out there is a demon-possessed sorcerer. He and I haven’t met, but I know him.
He smells of putrid evil and calls himself Legion.
Wait, what’s this?
I skim a murky tar of lingering magic at the center of the pentagram, and suddenly make a tenuous leap of understanding. Utterly horrified, all warmth leaves my body. I freeze as though my veins have turned to ice.
Is it true? Is it even possible?
Barely opening my psychic link, I cautiously reach for the black ball of energy.
The moment I touch it, a zap of excruciating pain blasts me from head to toe. Stunned, I gasp and stiffen. John Joseph’s grip tightens around my arm and shoulder, grounding me, helping me escape the ferocious electrical charge.
Fuck.
The ball of dark tangled energy is not what I thought it was. I initially assumed it to be the tarry residue of evil enchantment, but it isn’t residue at all. It’s dense black magic, powered with the force of unnaturally entwined souls.
Oh, shit, oh, fuck. Christ on a cross—what next?
As a result of the demon’s dark powers, five souls have become trapped in a despicable spell.
Unseen and darkly pulsing in the center of the pentagram lays their eternal energy. Their power has gathered; they have metaphysically merged into one—one for each point of the star.
How did the creature do it?
Their life essence charges the malignant spirit’s magic. By what dark art has the demon harnessed and tainted the energy from five murdered souls? They’re captured, forced to obey, to suffer for all eternity.
If I can’t free them they will stay enslaved—joined forever. But can I free them?
I’ve never seen anything like this before.
I shudder from a violent visceral reaction; partly demonic pleasure, partially my own pain.
The detective says nothing, but continues to grip my arm with one hand. The other he places comfortingly on my shoulder, giving me a few soothing pats.
I don’t need to see the dead. I know what happened here, or at least I can make an educated guess.
I’ve seen a drawing of five people who have met the demon-possessed sorcerer: All of them have flat, wide faces, short necks, and slanted eyes. Four of the fatalities have Down syndrome, while the fifth has been cured of the genetic disorder.
Over three-hundred years ago, a shifter seer, a witch named Marikri, sketched them for me. Their faces are in a dark circle, all too close—as if bound together.
The last victim escaped this horror. Her name is Hope and she’s living at Spukani Lodge.
Now, I know why.
Chapter 53. Demon Magic
I open my eyes, instantly blinded by bright lights.
Well, fuck a damn duck.
This little project may take quite a bit longer than I thought. There are a lot of ifs in this equation. If I can free the captured souls, the demon’s power will be lessened—that is if I can figure out how to free them. Hopefully I’ll also be able to discover exactly what happened…if I can get one of the traumatized spirits to speak to me once I set them free.
I turn, look
at my colleague. “John, do you think we can find somewhere quiet where I can sit down?”
He nods. His palm moves from my arm to the small of my back as he escorts me further away, out of official traffic areas. There is a huge steel girder, lying on the concrete, the perfect height to sit on. It’s cold, but at least it will be stable, unlike the broken jumble of debris and wooden boxes further along.
As I bend to sit, John stops me with a touch of his hand. With economical ease, he removes his jacket, lays it down on the girder, gestures for me to take a seat.
He’s not flirting. It’s not a come-on.
For him, this is respect. While females can do most anything a man can, I still like when a man makes an effort to remind me I’m a woman.
John’s fitted navy shirt accents his healthy physique. Idly, I wonder if he has tribal tattoos on his well-formed chest or biceps. If so, I bet they make him look sexy as hell. Does he have anyone in his life who appreciates him and his fit body? A woman? Or perhaps a man?
We know each other on a strictly professional basis. I never get involved with people I know. Yet, why don’t I have any idea of his sexuality?
“What a gentleman,” I observe, as I sit down. “Thank you.”
John flashes me a smile. “You’re welcome,” he says.
I grin. Well, what do you know? Twelve and thirteen.
John has no idea how much I appreciate his gesture. This place seems so cold, so hostile and inhuman. His kindness is a godsend, while his healthy masculine body has been a nice diversion from death and dismemberment.
“John Joseph,” I ask, breaking the rules of my secret word game. “Is your mother still alive?”
His features remain blankly composed, but surprise shows in his eyes at my question. “Yes.”
Fourteen.
“Do me a favor, tell her for me that she did a really good job raising you.”
His frown is bemused as he slowly nods his agreement. For him it is always safer to say nothing, but I understand his reaction. My comment would normally come from someone older, yet physically I appear to be half of his age.
My throat dry, I swallow, then realize I’m actually frightened. “John, do you mind sitting here with me and holding my hand?”
I’ve never asked such a thing of him, yet in that unfathomable, indomitable manner of his, he simply sits and takes my hand. He never doubts that I know what I’m doing. I love how he rarely questions me.
The man is a rock.
“Thank you.”
As expected, he nods. We’re still at fourteen. I wonder, has the detective exhausted his supply of words? More likely, he rations them out a few at a time so he can get through his day.
My inner monster pulses his excitement. He’s overjoyed with all this death and demon shit, damn his scarlet eyes.
With John’s warm hand holding mine, I can no longer put it off. Time to get to work.
Taking a deep breath, I close my eyes and concentrate. Psychically, I reach toward the inky, icky sea of darkness.
Where’s the damned thing gone?
Opening my senses even further, I send my consciousness out, attempting to locate the black ball of magic.
It’s as though the spell within the building site has become invisible. Simply searching through this vile crap causes intense discomfort, but I brace for it, control it.
I know how to minimize the effects of physical pain. I’ve had bones broken, and I’ve had concussions, but the worst thing that happened to me occurred over a hundred years ago.
The clarity of my memory makes it seem as though it happened yesterday.
I was a surgeon for the Germans during the Franco-Prussian War in 1870. My God, what a confused mess that was. You can plan a battle with military precision, but during life and death combat, no strategy remains organized for long.
My injury occurred as the Prussian soldiers fought the French during the Battle of Wörth in north-eastern France.
When treating hundreds of serious wounds in the field, it becomes easy to prioritize what is essential and what can wait. The patient stoicism of soldiers in the face of disaster always astonishes me.
As much as possible, all through my life, I’ve never allowed my demon near combat—he would enjoy it too much. Yet as a surgeon, my demon witnessed many men suffer and die.
He also fed on blood and death, a bad habit to get into. Sometimes I wonder what I was thinking even going to war, except at the time I wanted to help. Experienced surgeons were rare.
I went that entire year without needing to absorb energy from sex.
To my misfortune, a cannon ball entered the medical tent where I was operating, rolled slowly across the turf, then casually, effortlessly, removed my left foot. You honestly have to see it to believe it, but it happens.
It took a couple of weeks to grow back, an agonizing affair. The entire time I feared unstoppable agony, I feared someone would discover my gender, and mostly I feared exposure of my demon while I healed.
Lucky for me, war is a time of confusion, waste, and indifference.
I let my fellow surgeons stitch and bandage me before I joined the next wagon of wounded traveling away from the battlefield. I didn’t have to go far before no one knew me.
Alcohol or laudanum (a tincture of 10% opium) was the only relief available for severe pain back then. Alcohol was out—I become too open, truthful, and chatty while drunk. Sadly, our supply of laudanum had been exhausted.
The experience taught me that pain and suffering are merely sensations. The trick is to let go, to relax and allow sensation to wash over you. To feel what you feel without fighting it.
Unless it kills me, even unspeakable agony can be endured, one moment at a time.
In today’s world, I deliberately live in countries free from war, and in suburbs low in violence. Yet that doesn’t mean pain as a sensation isn’t obtainable. The energy gained from suffering is available most everywhere.
Easy, fun, and sensual “pleasure-pain” energy can be found at sex clubs. I quickly learned not to visit such venues, nor do I indulge in sadomasochism—not due to prejudice. This is about survival.
My inner monster savors erotic punishment, both giving and receiving.
Such play is a consensual game of power exchange. I discern the subtle differences—he can’t. Sadly, my demon falls into demonic lusts with no thought of consequences. My inner monster would sensually torment a willing submissive to his or her death in one happy heartbeat.
I must stay in control of his appetites. I can’t allow my demon friend to get carried away. That’s why I refuse to even enjoy giving or getting an erotic spanking.
Often I have glimpses of the real “person” behind my demonic friend. I sometimes see him as an educated gentleman from the Victorian age—intellectual, curious, and fascinated by everything. He can be childlike in his innocence, resourceful and intuitive, or scary as hell.
Ultimately, he’s a self-absorbed scholar, as hungry for knowledge as he is for sensation.
My demon is fascinated with all forms of agony. He finds suffering and torture beautiful. As I don’t allow him to torment anyone, or allow myself to be tormented, he’s pleased I’ve chosen to break this long drought.
Why? He knows it will hurt and he’s interested in my physical, mental and psychological reactions.
He’s also hungry.
Unluckily for me, there is great power in physical punishment. That kind of energy is something he naturally feeds upon.
My inner monster’s point of view? All pain is good. All torture is good. All extremes of emotion and sensation are good. He is the original “It’s all good” guy.
Crazy demon.
For a moment, I recall the electric zap I felt when touching the malevolent ball of enchantment.
I grit my teeth against the pain, and set my will toward locating the source of that evil. I search for some minutes, but find nothing. Nada. Zip.
I must’ve triggered a concealment spell
as the energy has disappeared. But wait…what’s this?
Ouch!
Yeah, feels like I found it. With one touch, the damned electrical sensation stabs me, but I’m prepared. I successfully curb my need to recoil, even though I feel metaphysically dipped in black, putrid oil.
Like the surface of a placid lake when a stone has been thrown into the water, suddenly dark energy shifts in outward ripples from where I made contact.
God, it’s ugly. Every single thing about this spell is gag and retch worthy.
Jesus, it hurts!
I suck in lungfuls of air, panting to absorb the agony.
Sometimes anticipation of an experience can be more terrifying than the actual experience. That’s why my fear of pain leaves me, now I’m in the middle of it. If this insistent torment becomes no worse, I’ll cope.
Whether I ultimately free these souls or not, nothing will stop me from trying—not even the unpleasant sensation of strong pain.
My demon pulses with desire, enjoying every agonizing moment—the rat. As he feeds, I feel his lust, his sensual joy. Fortunately, his pleasure takes the edge off this piercing hurt.
Good luck to him.
I hope he’s having a blast. After today, I’m never doing anything like this again.
Chapter 54. Untangling
As I’ve mentioned previously, not all magical energy is the same. At its worst, wavelengths of power are rough and jagged. At its best, the peaks and valleys are very, very fine—a smooth, aesthetic work of extraordinary beauty.
Like a dog hearing a whistle in the ultrasonic range (a sound human ears are unable to register) bodily senses cannot see, taste, scent, hear or feel most magic. I don’t regard magic with human eyes—I sense it with something else.
The astonishing thing about metaphysical energy is, whether conjured or inborn, it emits unique sounds, sensations, tastes, and colors.
The most beautiful and perfect power I’ve ever experienced was an orchestra of white, gold and violet, set in a wave so minuscule it was imperceptible. The uplifting music, stunning sights and sensations blew my mind.
Too bad this malevolent knot of enchantment is nothing like that.
