“Do you see him?” Archer asked.
Her shiny eyes reflected my worry for Skulick. The last few weeks had brought her much closer to my partner. It made sense that they’d get along. They both used to be cops and had experienced the horror of becoming vampires. I think that on some level, Skulick recognized himself in Archer. He had become as much of a mentor to her in the last few months as he had to me. He’d shown Archer how to take her guilt and anger and use it to her advantage by turning it into a finely honed weapon against the dark side.
I scanned the loft again for any sign of Skulick or his wheelchair.
“He’s gone,” I said heavily.
“Who would do this?”
“We have an enemy list a mile long.”
That wasn’t the whole truth. I already had a pretty good idea who was behind this lethal attack. After all, these killings had been carried out by mortal hands using human weapons. That ruled out most of the usual threats. Among our human enemies, the Crimson Circle cult took up the top spot. Their most recent activity suggested they were gearing up for a rematch.
A year earlier, Skulick and I had interrupted the doomsday cult’s apocalyptic ritual and saved the world. Sort of. Instead of punching a gateway between our reality and the dimension of darkness, thereby triggering Armageddon, the Crimson Circle merely breached the two worlds.
This weakening of the barrier between the two planes accounted for the high number of supernatural attacks in the city. Paranormal mayhem went down all over the globe, but there was a reason we had nicknamed this place the Cursed City. The metropolis had become spook central, an easy target for the forces of darkness and a hotbed for occult activity.
Somehow the super cult must’ve learned that the loft’s defenses were down, and they had seized upon the opportunity with lethal efficiency. What had they been after? Malcasta and her coven had shown no interest in the dangerous magical objects securely locked away in the steel-reinforced vault upstairs. But while the witch had only cared about completing her terrible spell, the Crimson Circle had shown a voracious appetite for occult relics. They ran a lucrative business where they auctioned off dangerous black magic items to well-heeled buyers, as I knew only too well. I had long wondered what the real point of these auctions might be. Was the cult starved for cash, or was it all part of a more ominous strategy? My gut leaned toward the second explanation.
Under normal circumstances, Skulick and I would have immediately gone after the cult. Unfortunately, becoming possessed by a demon and turning into public enemy number one had thrown a monkey wrench into the well-oiled machine of our demon hunting operation. The rift in our partnership had allowed this problem to fester. And now the Crimson Circle had struck again.
“Go upstairs and see if the vault is secure,” I said in a clipped voice. “I’ll keep looking for Skulick.” I tried to present a tough front, but my lips trembled. The cult hadn’t spared any of Cabrera’s men. From the looks of it, the seasoned exorcists hadn’t even been able to put up a fight. What chance did my comatose partner stand against such a bloodthirsty enemy?
As Archer climbed the stairs, I turned my attention to the rooms located on the far side of the loft. Both of our bedrooms were behind closed doors. I weaved between downed men, each step requiring a mental push. Cyon had grown silent within me. The demon always seemed to make himself scarce whenever my emotions ran high. And right now, not knowing what had happened to the man who practically raised me, my dread was off the charts.
Goddamn it, we had fought so hard to save him. This wasn’t fair.
Life ain’t fair, I heard Skulick retort in my mind.
He was full of little nuggets like that. It made him a royal pain in the ass at times. But Skulick cared about me. He cared about this city and the people who called it their home. Everything he said and did was to prepare me for the battles ahead. His words paled in comparison to the monstrous evils we fought on a daily basis.
I hung back at the first door. Then, giving myself another internal push, I kicked it open. It banged against the wall, revealing a room drenched in deep shadows. I cautiously flicked on the light, gun ready to blast any enemy that might be waiting for me in the darkness.
To my relief, Skulick’s bedroom turned out to be empty.
I exhaled and shifted my attention to the other door. There was no reason for Skulick to be in my room. The man could be a hard-nosed drill sergeant who pushed me to my limits, both physically and emotionally, but he had always respected my privacy.
I took another deep breath and barreled through the second door. As soon as light slashed my room, my heart sank. The back of a wheelchair loomed before me.
Dread intensifying with each step, pistol ready, I edged into the shadow-soaked room and slowly circled the chair. My eyes widened, and my breath hitched as my gaze landed on the figure slumped in the wheelchair.
It wasn’t Skulick.
The man in the wheelchair had to be in his late twenties, head hunched forward, chest caked with red. He wore a dark hoodie and jeans, so that ruled out the possibility I was looking at another dead exorcist. If this guy was a member of the Crimson Circle, why had they abandoned him? Was it the punishment for getting himself shot during the assault?
These thoughts were still tumbling through my mind when the man in the wheelchair stirred. I almost jumped back, caught off guard by the sudden movement. The man’s eyes flickered open and daggered into me. A malicious grin cracked the pale features, his gaze flashing with malevolence. Judging by the wounds on the cult member’s chest, he was clinging to life by a thin thread, but approaching death failed to extinguish the man’s fanaticism.
As he gazed at me, I saw that one of his eyes was a fiery red. Like most elite members of the cult, he had tattooed the sclera of his right eye. Sick freak.
In that moment, I understood why the cult had left him here for Cabrera or me to find. He was both messenger and message. A beat later, he confirmed as much.
“We have your partner,” he said with a smug smile, blood seeping from between his teeth. It took all my self-control not to punch him in the face.
His grin froze, and the light in his eyes went dim.
No, I thought.
I lurched toward the figure. My hand trembled as I tilted up his lifeless head.
“Don’t you die on me, you bastard! Where is Skulick? Where did you freaks take him?”
I shook him, my mind edging toward madness. I was glad that Archer couldn’t see me like this. The wild rage surging through me was my own for a change, untouched by the wrath of the demon.
No matter what I did, I received no answer. The cultist was gone.
Jaw set, lips pressed into a grim line, I staggered out of my room and ran into Archer. Her expression darkened when she saw me.
“They breached the vault,” she said in a low, emotionless voice. “They took everything.”
I swallowed hard. How many battles had we fought to secure those cursed items? I couldn’t count the number of horrors we kept under lock and key upstairs. Horrors soon to be unleashed upon an unsuspecting world. The Crimson Circle had undone years of hard-won victories in mere hours.
I gnashed my teeth, my mind burning with a mixture of rage and shock.
The Crimson Circle had raided the vault. They had abducted Skulick.
Cyon had said that my partner only had twenty-four hours left. What if we couldn’t find him in time?
Almost as if responding to my thoughts, the orb containing my partner’s spirit ignited with brilliant light. Blinding beams burst from my trench coat. Archer jumped back, shielding her eyes with one hand and reaching for her whip with the other.
I fumbled the crystal from my pocket. The thing was going supernova.
That couldn’t be good.
Cracks exploded across the surface of the orb. An instant later, it shattered in my demon hand, and a ball of white hot light shot through the devastated loft.
For a second, the light hovered in
mid-air and turned into the outline of my partner. Despite the near-blinding radiance, I could make out the shocked expression on Skulick’s terrified face.
And then the light vanished. The loft went dark. And Skulick was gone for good.
I whirled toward Archer, saw the tears glistening in her eyes. Rage detonated inside of me.
There was only one explanation for why the orb had shattered prematurely. My partner had to be dead.
They killed him.
The thought drained all the strength from me, and I was forced to lean against the wall.
Despite my overwhelming pain and grief, anger simmered beneath.
If the Crimson Circle thought that murdering my partner was going to scare me off, they had another thing coming.
If they wanted a war, they were about to get one.
3
Pete Goldman’s heart thumped with giddy excitement. He was one of the two dozen horror geeks who had gathered at the Amlight, an art house movie theater, to catch a special midnight screening of the cult classic Blood Camp. The 80’s slasher had not been seen on the big screen in nearly forty years. Tonight would be historic; he could practically feel the electricity in the air.
Like most horror buffs, Pete had read about this little-watched gem but had never actually seen the movie. With the film rights stuck in a legal quagmire, no copies on DVD or even VHS existed. After what had happened at the premiere, the studio had tried to bury the film—and with good reason. The director, dressed up as the killer from his movie, had murdered the two lead actors during the film’s first screening before running a machete through his own chest.
Blood Camp had been director Roy Luco’s first and last movie. Theaters had quickly pulled the film after the grisly murder-suicide, and it had pretty much vanished from the face of the earth. Those who claimed to have seen it considered the film a dark masterpiece that made Halloween and Friday the 13th feel like Saturday morning cartoons in comparison. Pete didn’t trust the glowing reviews, but he was a completist when it came to his beloved genre and was dying to see this lost but not forgotten classic.
Pete had no idea how the theater had gotten their hands on a print of the picture, but he wasn’t going to question his good fortune. As soon as his favorite podcast announced that someone had tracked down a print and scheduled a screening, he’d jumped online and ordered his ticket.
The red-headed, freckled woman sitting next to him shared his excitement. Kate had been his horror movie buddy since college. They had never been romantically involved but loved watching scary movies together. Catching an Italian horror flick or a David Lynch marathon was beyond most of the girls he dated, and he was okay with that. If he wanted to share his passion for obscure scary films, there was always Kate.
Grinning like a kid, he chowed down on a handful of buttery popcorn and sucked down a big gulp of Diet Coke. As the movie theater darkened, he fought the temptation to squeeze Kate’s hand. Shouts and hollers rang through the screening room. These were his people. His tribe.
Here we go, he thought, chewing his popcorn a little faster, his eyes fixed on the giant screen framed by a burgundy curtain.
The lights in the bronze sconces lining the theater walls dimmed.
The house went nuts when the title appeared, bold red letters against a black background: BLOOD CAMP.
The ominous strings of the score kicked in, and Pete was hooked, eyes glued to the flickering images. He hoped the glowing reviews weren’t just hype. He hoped he was about to experience something special. God, he wanted to be blown away.
Within five minutes, he stopped worrying about the merits of the film. All his thoughts receded into the background as the flick sucked him into its dark world. There was visceral, unnerving quality to it that defied easy analysis. He could practically taste the fog creeping through the primeval landscape, feel the skeletal branches of the trees brushing up against his face. The grainy, faded print gave the picture another layer of realism, almost as if he was watching a documentary.
On-screen, the lead couple emerged from a dilapidated, moss-covered cabin, reacting to a strange sound in the dark woods.
Oh boy, here it comes. Stay in the goddam cabin, you idiots!
Pete clutched the armrests of his theater chair, adrenaline surging. He was loving every second of it—but he was so relieved that he hadn’t invited his girlfriend to this. She was a real wimp. This movie would have pushed her over the edge. Kate, on the other hand, mirrored his rapt fascination; her eyes fixed on the screen, jaw clenched tight. They both had stopped munching their popcorn, gripped by the movie’s almost unbearable tension.
When the killer sprang from the mist, Pete nearly knocked his soda over. A massive beast of a man peeled from the thick undergrowth, features encased by a mask of vulcanized, olive-drab rubber. Beloved movie monsters saturated pop culture, and they had lost their ability to terrify desensitized, jaded moviegoers. The same couldn’t be said for the inhuman beast on-screen. Jason’s ice hockey mask might be iconic, but this killer oozed a more authentic, unfiltered evil.
The killer wore black pants, his lean, ropy torso covered in an assortment of crude occult tattoos that would have made Charles Manson jealous. Luco, the director, had insisted on playing the psycho himself. Pete thought that should have set off alarm bells among the crew.
As the killer cut through the swirling mist, Pete swallowed hard, sensing things were about to get real ugly for the hapless couple in the cabin. His stomach crept into his throat as he clawed the armrests of his seat.
The fog thickened and devoured the cabin like a hungry beast as the terrified couple ran back inside. Pete knew the wooden walls and glass windows wouldn’t deter this monstrous killing machine, and he couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
The masked killer had almost reached the cabin when he grew still. For a hushed beat, he lurked in the darkness, more shadow than flesh and blood.
Without warning, somebody grabbed Pete’s hand, and he almost shrieked like a little girl. Kate was holding onto him as if her life depended on it. She gave him a sheepish smile.
He shivered slightly, and it wasn’t because she held his hand. Somebody must have cranked up the AC. It felt like the temperature inside the dark movie theater had dropped by twenty degrees within seconds. He sighed in frustration, and his breath clouded before him.
Impossible.
His chattering teeth said otherwise.
Hushed gasps of surprise rang out, and Pete knew he wasn’t the only one who had noticed. Had some bozo decided to bring dry ice to the screening? Well, nobody was laughing, and the prank was distracting everyone from the film they had come to see.
Pete’s attention turned back to the screen just as the killer angled his face at the audience. He was looking right at them—an amateur move on Luco’s part. A key rule of good filmmaking was never make your actors look straight at the camera. Even first-year film students knew not to break the fourth wall!
The masked monster regarded the moviegoers as if everyone in the packed theater was a potential victim.
The empty gaze behind the mask bore into Pete. And then the masked killer raised his ax and hurled it right at the audience. It was a cheesy effect, like 3D without the glasses…but then the ax kept going.
Peter stared wide-eyed as the ax burst from the movie screen and shot over the heads of the stunned, terrified filmgoers.
For a beat, time stood still, as the sound of the weapon whistled through the theater.
And then hot blood sprayed his face, and Kate let go of his hand.
Moving as if in a dream, he spun toward his friend. She met his horrified gaze with dying eyes, the killer’s ax now buried in her chest, blood bubbling from her trembling lips.
Pete’s guts roiled with terror, and he realized he was screaming his lungs out. He gagged, salty popcorn mixing with bile.
He looked back at the screen and saw the masked killer take a step toward the crowd of horror geeks, moving seamlessly
from the film into the real world of the theater. Suddenly, Pete wasn’t the only one screaming. People exploded out of their seats, their panicked cries echoing. The killer closed in on a man in the first row and wrenched his neck with an audible snap of bones.
Steel gleamed as the killer raised his iconic machete, the light from the projection booth bouncing off his blade, drawing a giant shadow. The frantic silhouettes of the fleeing moviegoers tattooed the screen. Screams blended with pounding footsteps as the crowd stamped their way out of the theater. A massive man squeezed past Pete as he navigated the row of seats. The man’s frenzied bulk knocked Pete over, and he fell face first to the sticky floor below.
Terror twisted through his heaving guts as he scrambled back to his feet. He swiped the gooey mess of spilled popcorn, soda, and blood from his face.
The massive psychopath pivoted toward him. Blood dripped down the long blade in the killer’s inked hand. His tattoos seemed alive in the light from the screen.
God, this can’t be happening.
A quick glimpse at the screen revealed that the movie was still rolling, the movie’s story continuing without a villain. The couple who had barricaded themselves inside the cabin now peered out through a dirty, cracked window, watching the mayhem unfolding in the theater with horror in their eyes.
None of this made sense. Movies didn’t come alive.
His rational mind raging against his senses, Pete backed away from the killer who was steadily advancing toward him. The monster’s intention was unmistakable. Pete would be next!
Most of the crowd had fled the theater. Everyone who had been left behind was dead. Everyone but Pete.
Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 7-9 (Shadow Detective Boxset Book 3) Page 14
