Shadow Detective Supernatural Dark Urban Fantasy Series: Books 7-9 (Shadow Detective Boxset Book 3)

by William Massa

  “If he’s alive, why did the orb shatter after the Crimson Circle abducted him? None of this makes any goddamn sense!” My voice shook with emotion.

  “I wish I had all the answers.” Cormac squeezed my shoulder and added, “Maybe he got in touch with you because he needs someone to help him find his way back.”

  I nodded and gratefully shook Cormac’s hand. As the elevator doors erased him from view, he wished me good luck, and we promised to grab a drink soon.

  I sighed. I sure as hell was going to need it.

  8

  It was a little after two when I pulled out of the loft’s underground parking garage in my black muscle car. It felt good being behind the wheel of the Equus Bass, and I fought back the temptation to take my ride for a spin around the city. Long drives helped me relax and clear my mind, but there was no time to waste. The Crimson Circle was up to something, and my partner’s future hung in the balance. I needed to track down the cultists and put an end to this craziness before it totally spiraled out of control. But where to start?

  While the cops believed a deranged fan had committed the murders last night, I knew better. Somehow, the print of Blood Camp had ended up at the Amlight Theater. After making a few calls, I learned that it had been part of a monthly screening program. Chiller Theater was the brain child of Jason Hendrix, a local makeup and special effects guy who mostly worked in commercials. The man was an avid collector of old film prints and movie memorabilia, especially in the horror, exploitation, and sci-fi genres.

  From what I could gather, Jason Hendrix appeared to be a cool guy who loved to share his passion for obscure grindhouse cinema with others. I didn’t doubt he was as much of a victim in all of this as the poor folks at the theater. But he had gotten his hands on the cursed film print somehow. Had he visited one of the cult’s underground auctions? One thing was for certain: Whoever had sold Hendrix the movie would know where I could find the Crimson Circle. As far as leads went, this was my best bet.

  After a short fifteen-minute drive, I pulled up to a warehouse that overlooked the river. Talk about a lucky break—Hendrix and I were practically neighbors. The man needed a large space out of which to run his business. Considering the rise of digital effects, practical makeup wizardry had become far more competitive with shrinking profit margins. You couldn’t beat the rent out here on the seedier side of downtown. Besides, this wasn’t Hollywood, and I figured he probably struggled to keep his operation afloat.

  I parked, got out of the vehicle and approached the warehouse. The sky was a crisp, electric blue, the sun bright despite the late November cold, accentuating the blocky structure’s ugly appearance. As I drew closer, I tried to steal a glimpse through the warehouse’s windows, but a thick film of grime obscured the insides. Nothing advertised this place as being an effects shop.

  I advanced toward the main entrance and rang the buzzer. No one answered.

  I called the number I had found online for Hendrix’s business, but nobody picked up. After reaching a voicemail for the third time, I decided to snoop around the place. I didn’t need to tap into any magic to circumvent the door’s lock. Traveling with Skulick across the globe for years, chasing shadows, had taught me to be resourceful. And despite my former partner’s police background, Skulick had no qualms about breaking a few laws if it helped us solve a case and save innocent lives.

  The end justifies the means, at least in the demon hunting biz.

  Less than five minutes later, I had disabled the building’s alarm system. The shadowy warehouse awaited. Senses on edge, I entered it, my demon hand resting on my blessed pistol.

  I took a few steps, eyes adjusting to the dim illumination of Hendrix’s workshop. Milky gray light shafted through a dirt-caked skylight, hiding more than it revealed.

  My breath caught in my throat as I studied the bizarre contents of the jam-packed warehouse, which seemed to serve as both workspace and storage facility. It was filled to the brim with examples of Hendrix’s special effects wizardry. There were prosthetics, dismembered body parts and mannequins, and prop weapons ranging from swords to laser guns. A collection of grotesque monster masks, demons vying with aliens for shelf space. A menacing killer robot loomed in one corner, a not-so-distant cousin of the Creature from the Black Lagoon in the other. To my right, a green screen area was collecting dust.

  My gaze landed on a frightening tribe of monster heads. The horned beasts appeared lifelike in the shadowy space, their forked tongues protruding from yellowed teeth.

  “Nice work. This Hendrix fellow is quite a talent.”

  No kidding, I thought as I took in a series of decapitated heads, the shredded, gore-caked stumps looking all too real. This may come as a surprise, but my idea of entertainment involves a raunchy comedy or a Pixar flick. When monsters define your day, the last thing you want to do is seek them out during those precious off-hours. Still, I can appreciate talent when I see it, and Hendrix was gifted at what he did. He had imbued his latex creations with an eerie life of their own, and their dead eyes seemed to follow me as I edged deeper into the cluttered workspace.

  I must have been exploring the warehouse for only about two minutes when I rounded a large shelf of props and picked up a muffled sound to my right. I pivoted in the direction of the noise. A few feet to my left, I glimpsed a vague silhouette. My heart beat harder as I gingerly moved toward the source of the sound.

  I held up my cell, turned on its flashlight, and stifled a gasp. A shape sat hunched forward in a chair, a long mane of hair obscuring the person’s features. Without warning, the figure tilted his head up at me, revealing the terrified face of a bearded, long-haired man in his forties. I recognized him from the company’s website. It was none other than the effects wizard himself, Jason Hendrix. He could have been the aging front man of a metal band. I guess effects people shared the same fashion sense, a feeling accentuated by the man’s black jeans and horror themed T-shirt.

  I stiffened, wondering if whoever had worked Hendrix over might still be in the warehouse. Hendrix let out another pain-filled moan, and an eerie giggle cut through the workshop. The laughter sounded childlike, which made it even more unnerving in the shadow-soaked space.

  I whirled, my eyes scoping the maze of movie props for the source of the sound. The weird childish laughter repeated itself. This time it came from my right.

  My probing gaze landed on a large work table, which was empty except for a small doll. A mop of curly hair framed a pair of soulless eyes, the cheeks a blushing pink. The doll was in a sitting position and wore a faded blue dress with a white button in the center.

  I clenched my teeth. Show me a collection of demon masks any day, and I will shrug it off. No problem. Creepy dolls, on the other hand? Now that’s the stuff of nightmares.

  I knew Skulick and my father had faced a few possessed dolls back in the day, but I had not run across one over the course of my monster-hunting career. Not until this moment.

  As soon as I set my sights on the doll, the mark of Morgal glared with agony. Bad mojo was in the air. I fought back the scream threatening to explode from my lips.

  As I leveled my gun at the creepy doll, the porcelain figure moved. Lifeless features turned toward me, glass eyes glaring through a curtain of tangled hair. The doll let out the same disturbing giggle and exploded into motion. It darted from the work table and vanished into the shadows. Tiny footsteps pattered over the dusty floor.

  My grip on Hellseeker tightened.

  I could almost hear Cyon’s mocking laughter. He had seen me face down demon-vampires, flying skulls, hell beasts, ghouls, and witches. I guess an animated doll might not seem all that impressive, but c’mon—dolls are just creepy.

  A strangled, grating noise cut through the workspace and pulled me out of my head. I made out a few fragmented words of “Mary Had a Little Lamb.” Nursery rhymes had never sounded so disturbing before.

  My jaw tightened. Screw this nonsense!

  I grew stock still, tuned
my senses to my environment, and became one with the shadows. Renewed footsteps became audible behind me. I pivoted, Hellseeker up, and fired at the doll rushing toward me. I noticed a flash of steel in the doll’s upraised hand, light dancing off a pair of scissors. The gunfire sounded deafening in the quiet space as one of my blessed bullets shattered the doll’s porcelain head in mid-stride.

  Ha! Who was giggling now?

  Silence fell over the workshop as I stepped up to the doll. Now that my bullet had torn it apart, it seemed laughable that this thing could trigger such dread in me. I knocked the porcelain head aside for good measure, wondering what devilish force had animated the doll. Was I looking at another cursed item Hendrix had purchased from the Crimson Circle? The doll didn’t look familiar, so it hadn’t come from our vault.

  My gaze traveled back to the special effects wizard. The hapless man regarded me with naked terror, his lips struggling to form words. I don’t expect gratitude from the people I save, but this guy looked like he was deathly afraid of me.

  No, not of me. Of something behind me.

  My gaze swept the collection of masks, body parts and mannequins. Every item seemed to pose a potential threat. As soon as the thought occurred to me, my eyes alighted on an antique mirror propped against one of the many shelves. I studied the gilded wood frame. The ornate shapes looked like shells or leaves upon first glance.

  I stepped closer, drawn toward the mirror despite myself, and swallowed hard. My initial impression had been wrong. The frame was comprised of a series of serpentine bodies that erupted into dragon heads at the top.

  I briefly glanced at my reflection and froze. My mirror image glared back at me with unflinching hatred.

  Shit! The doll had just been round one. My reflection snarled, eyes blazing, and burst from the mirror. Materializing in the workshop, the living reflection pounced.

  I fired my pistol, but the shot went wild as my double launched into me. Cursing, I crumpled to the ground, my hands clawing at my duplicate. The reflection snatched my fist and yanked it hard.

  I gnashed my teeth in stunned frustration. How do you fight yourself?

  My reflection straddled my chest and head-butted me. My skull crashed into the stone floor, and I almost bit off my tongue. I managed to roll away from him—me?—and back away, but my double wasn’t done with me yet.

  I peered up at my mirror self, the creature’s features distorted with madness as it wrapped its hands around my throat and lifted me like a rag doll into the air. I gasped, the viselike grip cutting off my ability to breathe. With a roar, the living reflection flung me at a nearby shelf filled with masks. I slammed into it and went down in a rain of tumbling monster heads. I dropped my pistol, and it clattered on the floor.

  I wanted to close my eyes and let myself slip away, but I knew that would be the end. Desperately clinging to consciousness, I watched as my double scooped up Hellseeker. To my surprise, the double didn’t point the firearm at me but at Hendrix. The mirror creature leveled the gun at him and squeezed the trigger.

  Three bullets perforated Hendrix’s chest in a cloud of red, and I cried out in helpless fury.

  I scrambled back to my feet, reality tilting and the workshop swimming in and out of focus. Before I could even attempt to tackle my reflection, the creature stomped toward me and drove the butt of my magical pistol down on my forehead. Pain exploded through my skull, and the last thread of consciousness snapped apart.

  As the world turned black, one final thought cycled through my mind—I was being set up for murder.

  9

  I surged through a maze of occult relics, shelves upon shelves that stretched into infinity. Totem masks, medieval daggers, cursed suits of armor and massive occult tomes dominated the giant space. The warehouse-like chamber struck me as both familiar and alien, almost as if someone had crossed our vault with a giant airplane hangar.

  Sweat dripped down my brow, and my breath sped up. I knew this had to be a dream, but the gnawing fear in my heart raged unabated. Did it matter whether this vault of horrors was real or imagined? I was trapped, a prisoner, doomed to spend the rest of my days stumbling through this hellish warehouse.

  Please make it stop, I mumbled over and over again while my legs kept pumping furiously.

  I picked up my pace, but the faster I moved, the larger the maze became. The aisles flashed by, a mad carousel ride. I wasn’t able to reach the end of this cursed funhouse.

  I redoubled my efforts, unwilling to give up and accept defeat. I navigated another row of shelves, turned right, then left and stopped dead in my tracks. I had come across an all-too-familiar sight—Skulick’s wheelchair.

  I slowed, my breath now coming in sharp bursts. Dread crept up my throat.

  I slowly rounded the wheelchair, not knowing what to expect but fearing the worst. I tasted death in the air. I gasped as the person in the chair became visible. Facing me in the chair was none other than…Cyon?

  What did it mean?

  The demon regarded me with a wry smile and said, “Don’t we make a great team, Raven?”

  I heard footsteps behind me. I whirled to see another familiar figure at the far end of the aisle. My old partner met my gaze for a beat, then spun on his heels and started briskly walking away.

  I rushed after him, hoping he might explain this craziness. Skulick would know what was going on. He always did. Nothing could stump the old man.

  “Skulick, wait up!”

  To my surprise, he increased his pace. Why was Skulick abandoning me like this? Had I let him down somehow?

  “Skulick! WAIT!”

  Once again, my words fell on deaf ears. No matter how fast I moved, Skulick remained one elusive step ahead. My legs felt like Jell-O from all the running, my face coated in sweat from my earlier attempts to escape the labyrinth. I tapped into a last reservoir of energy and picked up my pace. I ran at full bore after my partner.

  I had almost caught up with him when I spotted the door Skulick was headed for, a door marked EXIT. By chasing after my partner, I had reached the end of the maze. I held my breath as my partner opened the door. Darkness yawned beyond, but I didn’t care. The door promised relief from this madness.

  It promised freedom.

  “Wait for me, Skulick!”

  This time he paused in his tracks. His eyes found me, his face filled with contempt. What had I done to him? Or better yet, what hadn’t I done? The answer was simple: I had failed to save him. To be there for him when he needed me the most. How many times had he bailed me out of a rough spot, saved my worthless hide? Too many to count. So why couldn’t I return the favor?

  My heart sank as Skulick’s lips stretched into a judgmental sneer, his eyes dripping venom.

  I stopped dead in my tracks as he brusquely turned away from me, passed through the door, and melted into the blackness beyond. A heartbeat later, the door slammed shut and vanished from view, replaced by another shelf crammed with relics.

  No, it couldn’t be.

  A rumbling sound rippled through the giant warehouse as the shelves started to vibrate and close in on me like the walls of a car crusher, intent on pancaking me under their massive weight.

  Given my dire circumstances, I opted for the only sane response—I screamed.

  10

  My eyes snapped open, and I found myself back in Hendrix’s special effects studio, surrounded by a ring of armed police officers. Their guns were pointed at me. Before I could protest, one of the heavyset cops slapped a pair of cuffs around my hands. Metal bit into my skin, and I stifled a real scream.

  My gaze fixed on Hendrix and another officer who was busy securing my blessed pistol. Hellseeker had stopped emanating its spectral green light, and it now looked like a normal firearm. Icy terror crept up my back as I realized that the grimoire had disappeared. Someone had taken the book of magic from me while I was out but left Hellseeker, the incriminating murder weapon behind.

  God, what a fool I was. I had walked right into this tr
ap.

  So why didn’t they kill me while I was unconscious?

  Their first mistake, I thought, drawing meager comfort from their arrogance. Rather than kill me, they wanted me arrested for murder. The cult was after revenge, seeking payback for foiling their plan a year earlier. They were playing games.

  Well, games could backfire.

  My mind reeled as the cops dragged me out of the workshop and steered me toward a nearby police cruiser. Cyon whispered in my ear, urging me to resist the arrest. I was unarmed but my enhanced physical abilities gave me more than a fighting chance. But I refused to attack police officers. I had been on the run from the White Crescent for too long to go on the lam from the law now. No more running. I couldn’t keep this city safe with my mug plastered on a Most Wanted list. Detective Benson knew me. I had proven to him I was one of the good guys. The man would hear me out.

  Or so I hoped.

  A moment later, I found myself in the back of a cop car and on my way to the same precinct I had visited a few weeks earlier when Benson asked for my help with the city’s witch problem. When we arrived, there was no sign of the African-American detective who acted as my liaison with the police force. I still believed Benson would vouch for me despite the damning evidence, much good it would do at this point. Where the hell was he?

  They don’t have a case, I told myself. The cops believed they had the murder weapon, but Hellseeker was no ordinary pistol. Bullets fired from the gun vanished upon contact. No bullets, no case, right? Still, I would lose valuable time while forensics came to the same conclusion. I had a feeling the Crimson Circle wanted me out of the picture for the next twenty-four hours. Whatever horror they planned to unleash, it would happen then.

  My arrival in cuffs earned its fair share of stares. I always draw attention from the boys in blue—I’m the weirdo who hunts boogeymen—but this was different. Seeing me in handcuffs caught even my staunchest critics off guard. Only one officer took visible pleasure from my predicament. Detective Orlando had been a thorn in my side from the start. The prick believed me to be a charlatan and a publicity hound. Orlando had patiently waited for the day when I would slip up. That day had come, if the Cheshire Cat grin on his face was any indicator. The bastard couldn’t wait to question me. Where was Benson when I needed him?