Crimson Circle

by William Massa

  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 r
eturn 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 trap.

  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?

  The cops led me into an interrogation room but didn’t remove my cuffs. I waited in silence, my eyes riveted on the two-way mirror. I knew Detective Orlando was watching me, drawing out the moment for all it was worth.

  What do you think? I asked Cyon in my mind. Why set me up when they could have finished me off?

  “I’ve been racking my brain over that one myself. The Crimson Circle wants you out of the picture, but they are also offering you front row seats for what comes next. Curious.”

  I nodded. At least we were on the same page. The door to the interrogation room opened, and Detective Orlando and another cop whose name I couldn’t remember entered the stuffy room. The small space felt cramped. Orlando could barely contain his glee. Bastard!

  “Where the hell is Benson?” I demanded.

  “Stuck in traffic. I figured we’d get started. What do you say?”

  I was tempted to tell Orlando exactly what I thought of him, but it would only make matters only worse. I had to pretend to cooperate, to do whatever was necessary to increase my odds of getting out of this jail cell. If I lost it with Orlando, he would keep me confined here as long as possible.

  “Fire away,” I said.

  “Let’s cut to the chase. Why did you murder Hendrix?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “So what happened, then? Security footage outside the building shows you breaking into the man’s workshop.”

  “I admit to that. I believe Hendrix was connected to last night’s killing spree at the Amlight theater. I rang his doorbell. When he didn’t answer, I decided more drastic measures were in order.”

  Orlando cocked an eyebrow. “Why would Hendrix be behind the murders?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t like hanging a murder on an innocent man even if he was dead. “I don’t think Hendrix killed those people. I was hoping he could help me find the man who did.”

  “Breaking into his workshop seems like a strange way to gain his trust.” A grin curled Orlando’s lips. This guy was a piece of work.

  “When he didn’t answer the door, I feared the worst. Unfortunately, I was too late.”

  I was lying now, but there was no way around it unless I wanted to tell Orlando about the magic mirror.

  “You’re telling me the killer from the movie, let’s call him our obsessed fan, got to Hendrix first?”

  I nodded.

  “What happened when you entered the workshop?”

  I took a deep breath and said, “I found Hendrix tied to a chair. While I tried to set him free, the killer knocked me out. The last thing I heard before losing consciousness were gunshots.”

  I could almost swallow my story. Killer sounded a hell of a lot more convincing than demon doll or mirror monster.

  “You’re saying someone else was in the warehouse when you broke into the place?”

  I nodded. The churning in the pit of my stomach was getting worse.

  “So this mystery killer knocked you out and murdered Hendrix with your firearm. Is that correct?”

  Orlando’s knowing grin disturbed me. He looked like a man with a card up his sleeve, the proverbial cat who ate the canary.

  The detective cracked his knuckles and leaned forward, inches separating us. Eyes flashing with a triumph, he said, “How do you explain that the security footage doesn’t show anyone else breaking into the workshop or leaving the place?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know. I have no idea.”

  Detective Orlando studied me for a moment. “Let me show you something I found fascinating.”

  He nodded at the other detective, who produced a beat-up laptop from a leather satchel. He put it on the interrogation table and powered up the machine.

  “Hendrix was a paranoid fella who liked to keep an eye on his workers. Not only did he secure the outside of the building with cameras, but he placed a few inside his workshop. Lucky break for us, as it allowed us to review the security footage from the murder. And, lo and behold, look what we stumbled upon.”

  Orlando pressed play on the video. It showed Hendrix’s workshop. In the footage, the guy was still alive, his eyes squirming with mortal terror. I experienced a renewed burst of helpless rage, cursing myself for not having been able to save him.

  But after another moment, my rage turned to icy fear. The blo
od drained from my face when my double stepped into the scene. I looked at myself facing Hendrix for a beat before the mirror duplicate raised my gun and shot Hendrix three times. The image flickered, and static rippled around my double. Science and magic don’t play nice with each other. Still, a slightly distorted image wouldn’t make much of a difference in court. The video would easily turn a jury against me.

  I was in trouble, and Orlando knew it.

  He gleefully froze the frame, almost as if he was eager to show me the video again. “Do you have anything to add?”

  This was the time for me to ask for a lawyer, and Orlando couldn’t wait for me to make the request. Instead, the door to the interrogation room opened, and a familiar figure appeared. Even though I doubted Benson could help me now that the police had this tape, I experienced a wave of relief in his presence. If I told him what happened, he at least wouldn’t immediately think I was crazy or trying to bullshit him. He knew I wasn’t a fraud, had seen enough weird shit over the last year to conclude that the forces of darkness were real. But it was hard to contest the power of the security footage.

  My enemies had orchestrated the perfect trap. If I wasn’t caught in it, I might just admire their cunning.

  “I know you told me to wait, Detective Benson, but given the evidence…” Orlando stammered. I took pleasure out of seeing him squirm.

  “I need to talk to Raven in private,” Benson said.

  Orlando was about to protest but decided against it. He had already gotten enough satisfaction from showing me the tape. The two detectives rose and left the room.

  Benson turned off the camera that had been recording the interrogation. We were alone. For now.

  “Listen, Benson I know how it looks, but I can explain.”

  He took a seat before me, his eyes coolly searching my face, his expression unreadable.

  I wouldn’t call the man a friend, but Benson knew I was batting for the right team. I was one of the good guys. At least I had been until now. Could the power of the tape sway his mind? Would the detective swallow my story about a magical double—and if he did, would it change anything?