“Relax, monster hunter. I just had an idea.”
Cyon’s voice sounded calm, playful almost, and the tension eased out of me. Being possessed by a demon tends to make a guy paranoid, but so far Cyon hadn’t done anything to harm me.
“What sort of idea?” I asked, my tone low as to not wake Archer.
“Better if I show you.”
Okay, call me intrigued. “By the way, thanks for last night. I appreciate you giving us some privacy.”
“You’re welcome.”
And with these words, the demon grew silent again.
I pushed all other thoughts of Archer aside and let Cyon do the driving. Grimoire in one hand, I walked through the loft. Pale moonlight carved pockets of light from the darkness. To my surprise, the demon steered me to the staircase. Before I knew it, I was climbing the stairs again, on my way to the vault. I reached the massive door, which had failed to stop the Crimson Circle. Once the witches had disabled the loft’s protective wards, breaking into the chamber had turned out to be a piece of cake for the super-cult. We had revamped the security system, incorporating magic and technology to keep the bad guys out.
I punched in the new security code, and the iron door rumbled open. Recessed LED lights flooded the vault and made the steel-reinforced walls gleam. Like in a dream, I homed in on the seven film canisters. One by one, I opened them, the air growing denser as the evil magic contained within the movie seeped into the vault.
I sucked in the dark essence, and my lips mouthed words in a foreign tongue. Was it Latin or Aramaic or an even older language? Ancient words in dead languages which could unlock forgotten secrets. I had no idea what any of them meant; Cyon was in charge here.
The air crackled with electricity as the incantation opened a channel of communication with the grimoire. The ancient tome hummed with dark power, and the leather cover grew hot to the touch. My lips stopped moving, and all sound drained from the world. The air stirred, and I forgot to exhale, my chest tight with tension.
A blue fireball formed around my reptilian demon claw. Flames licked my transformed fingers, flickering in hungry anticipation. My hand rose, my claws snapped together in the same way the witches had clicked their long nails, and then Cyon flung the fireball at the open film canisters.
The reels erupted in blue flames. A deafening scream of pain and anger echoed through the vault. Luco’s death cry reverberated as his celluloid realm went up in flames. Where ordinary fire had failed, black magic succeeded.
I watched in rapt fascination as the blue fire consumed the movie. Luco’s screams finally faded, and a cool breeze brushed my face. Were the spirits of the trapped actors thanking me before they moved on to the next world? I liked to think so. I prayed they were about to find the peace Luco had denied them for so long.
Silence fell over the vault. The fire died down.
I eyed the now empty film canisters. Nothing remained of the reels. The fireball had consumed everything, not even leaving any ashes behind. I allowed myself a smile. The grimoire’s magic had erased the cursed film from this world. Cyon’s ability to cast spells was still freaking me out, but the demon had come through.
“I hate to admit it, but you did good.
“Thank you. I knew you would approve.”
I shook my head. Cyon wasn’t known for being modest.
I left the vault, satisfied. The hopelessness and anxiety I had experienced earlier dissipated. I had needed a small victory like this, something to convince me that I could still make a difference. Correction, that we, Cyon and myself, could tilt the balance in favor of the forces of good.
I yawned as sleepiness gripped me. Such an immense output of magic was exhausting.
I had almost reached my room when a sudden sound gave me pause.
Clutching the grimoire, I squinted into the pool of shadows, praying my sleep-deprived imagination had conjured the sound. The hairs on my neck stood up as I took a cautious step into the darkness.
A hand clasped my shoulder, and I almost jumped out of my skin.
I spun around and came face to face with…Skulick.
My heart sank. My mentor cut a pitiful figure. His face looked ashen and gaunt, his bloodless features white as a shroud. His lips kept mouthing words, but they produced no sound.
What was he trying to tell me? Was his ghost trapped in the loft? It made sense—he’d hardly ever left the place after the accident that had crippled him—but why hadn’t my enhanced senses detected him until now? Ever since being marked by the demon Morgal when I was only ten years old, I could catch fleeting glimpses of the restless dead. My abilities paled in compared to a psychic like Joe Cormac, but I should have sensed Skulick’s lingering presence.
“Skulick, can you hear me? What do you want me to do?” I asked.
My partner’s grave expression deepened. I could tell he was attempting to bridge the gap between the realm of the dead and the world of the living.
He was trying to communicate with me. And failing.
His eyes bulged, his lips moving faster yet failing to produce any sounds. A moment later, he vanished, and I found myself in an empty loft again.
Why had his soul returned? Had he meant to warn me? What if he was in pain or trapped between the realm of the living and—
The thought broke off as my gaze fell on the door leading to Skulick’s bedroom. I made out a series of letters carved across the door’s wooden surface.
Skulick had left me a message, three words that shattered my world: I AM ALIVE!
7
After my ghostly encounter, I had doubted I’d be able to fall asleep, but as soon as my head hit the pillow, I was out cold. Casting the spell inside the vault had exhausted me on a physical level, and my bone-tired body effortlessly silenced my restless mind. By the time I woke around noon, Archer had already left the loft, a note on my other pillow telling me she would be in touch.
I was disappointed to find her gone. The morning after was always tricky. The last time we had spent a night together, I’d been the one to steal out of her place before she woke up. History appeared to be repeating itself. So this must be how it felt when the shoe was on the other foot. I didn’t like it. Not one bit.
I showered and decided to give Joe Cormac a ring. Unlike most psychics, Cormac hadn’t been born with the ability to communicate with the dead. An IED had nearly killed him in Afghanistan, triggering his latent psychic potential. The explosion stopped his heart; he’d been clinically dead for over five minutes. By the time the medics revived him, Cormac’s world had changed.
Our paths had first crossed during the Soul Catcher case, and Cormac was slowly coming into his own. He was accepting his newfound powers, seeing them as a gift instead of a curse. His new attitude had helped him land a job at the Nexus Foundation, where Dr. Richard Mason, a quantum physicist with an obsessive interest in the paranormal, was putting together a team of gifted people.
Between his gig at Nexus and his new lady friend, things were looking up in Cormac’s world. I was happy for him. He had come a long way from the haunted war vet I’d first met months earlier. If Skulick’s ghost was trapped inside the loft, Cormac would help him.
My mind made up, I rang the psychic. Cormac assured me he would be over in an hour. As I waited for him to arrive, I kept studying the message Skulick had etched into his bedroom door.
I AM ALIVE!
I furrowed my eyebrows. Could it be true? I had believed that his death had triggered the destruction of the orb containing his soul. Now I wasn’t so sure. The cult might be keeping him alive somehow. I shivered. What had these fanatics done to my partner?
Despite my fear, I also experienced a twinge of hope. According to Cyon, it became impossible to reunite a soul with its body after forty-eight hours. Weeks had passed since the witch had torn my partner’s soul from his physical form, yet maybe there was still a chance. Skulick had shown himself to me for a reason. As long as Skulick’s heart still beat in his chest, I could save
him. I would save him.
Tracking down my partner’s body had become priority one.
I let out a sigh of relief when the bell rang, and Cormac’s handsome yet grave features popped up on the loft’s security feed. Not only had I warded the place, but I had also replaced the security cam system. I try not to advertise it, but my parents had left me a considerable inheritance when they passed. As my legal custodian, Skulick had invested my money wisely and turned that inheritance into a small fortune. Battling Hell’s Legions didn’t come cheap, and I was more than grateful not have to hold down a day job while hunting hell beasts at night.
Ding! The elevator popped open, and Cormac entered the loft. He looked like a different man than the one I’d first met: healthy, vibrant, energetic. It was nice to see the psychic looking happy for a change, and perhaps I envied him a little. Having a good woman in his life was doing wonders for him.
Cormac shot me a long, suspicious look as he approached. Even though I had proven myself during our recent battle with a ghoul, I sensed his hesitation. He knew about the demon inside of me, thanks to Father Cabrera. Despite his misgivings, he trusted me. He had not only answered my phone call, but he was here now, ready to help.
He searched my face for a beat, and I did my best to break the ice with a little polite chitchat.
“How is Jennifer?” I asked.
“How is your demon partner?” he countered.
“I’m making sure he behaves.” At least for now.
Cormac smiled at my wry comment, and his sober expression relaxed. “Jennifer is doing much better.”
It was my turn to smile. “That’s great news. She went through hell that night.”
Varthek, the ghoul had kidnapped poor Jennifer, hoping to use her life force to fuel her deceased father’s terrible ritual. I had worried about the young woman and feared she might become another statistic in the war against the darkness. It was a miracle she had survived that terrible night. Like Cormac, she was one tough cookie.
“What’s going on, Raven? What do you need?”
The time for small talk and exchanging pleasantries had ended. I quickly recounted my ghostly experience of the other night.
Joe Cormac studied me for a beat after I finished my story. “Let me see if I can pick up anything.”
I nodded, took a step back and let the psychic work. A half-hour later, Cormac shook his head and slumped his shoulders. “He’s not here.”
A mixture of disappointment and relief washed over me. I wanted to talk to my partner but hated the possibility of him being trapped inside the loft for all eternity.
“Thanks for trying, Joe. I really appreciate you coming out here on such short notice.”
“Anytime. I owe you. You saved the woman I love.”
His words brought a smile to my face. My line of work didn’t result in many happy endings.
“Any idea why Skulick would reach out to me?” I asked.
Cormac considered the question. “He might be trapped in a kind of limbo, unable to return to his body and unable to move on to the next world.”
The thought had occurred to me too. What if Skulick was stuck in a purgatory from which he couldn’t escape on his own? An in-between place bordering the world of the living and the realm of the dead—I didn’t like to think about what torture that would be for him.
“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.
Crimson Circle Page 4
