“Ooh, spooky,” she muttered. The place would have to try a lot harder than that to scare her.
A moment later she was inside the former house of God. She couldn’t imagine anyone in their right mind wanting to turn this church into a club—but different strokes for different folks, and all that jazz. She absorbed her surroundings and almost forgot to exhale. The place vaguely reminded her of the chapel where she had gone head to head with Malcasta’s hideous witch-nuns, but there were several crucial differences. For one, the nave was empty of any pews, which made sense since the church had been converted into a nightclub. Dead spotlights looked down at her from the cobwebbed ceiling.
As she edged into the structure, she noticed the dust-covered couches in the shadowy alcoves. Why hadn’t the club owners removed this stuff? Or perhaps they were recent additions for the upcoming event? The real shocker was that she saw no evidence of squatters. The homeless population stayed clear of this place. The church made for an ideal crash pad.
She continued her search. Pale daylight seeped into the church through the stained glass windows as she moved toward the stone altar up ahead. It had been turned into a DJ station during the church’s club days. This is where club promoters had reigned over the dancing flock, whipping them into a frenzy. The patrons, devoted to drug-fueled pleasure and selfish abandonment, hadn’t cared about anything but the beat. Despite the rundown appearance, Archer could picture it all vividly. No wonder this place had become a beacon for dark forces. Prayer and devotion had given way to sin. If a priest had deconsecrated the church, maybe the restless spirits would have moved on.
Archer bit her lips, a sudden shiver creeping up her back. She could feel it now. Evil had become embedded in the stone walls. The Crimson Circle couldn’t have selected a better place for their unholy gathering, if they were truly planning to use this space for their auction.
Her eyes widened. Previously cloaked in shadow, she now made out a giant inverted pentagram positioned behind the altar. The five-pointed wooden star stood upright and was about seven feet high. The presence of the occult symbol erased whatever last vestiges of doubt she held: The Crimson Circle had claimed this church as their own.
She had to get out of here and alert Raven and Father Cabrera. She had to—
The sound of approaching footsteps cut through her panicked thoughts. Adrenaline surging, she whirled, but her reaction came a moment too late. A massive man had snuck up on her. He could have worked the doors as a bouncer during the club’s heyday. And he had no qualms about getting physical with a lady.
Air whistled as she dodged the meaty fist rushing for her head. She swiftly sidestepped the second attack too, but it was only a matter of time before she took a hit. The musclebound cultist could easily crush her. Time to fight dirty.
Her hand chopped at the cultist’s Adam’s apple, but he expertly blocked the punch. The rapid movement made the man’s shades slip off his granite face, revealing a fiery red eyeball tattoo, the mark of the Crimson Circle. Archer had once asked Raven why they had chosen that name, not that fanatics needed a logical reason for anything they did. Raven had said that like most cults, Hell on Earth was their end goal and the first sign of the new utopia would be the sun turning into a crimson circle.
That was Archer’s last thought before the man’s fist connected with her head.
Archer was a formidable fighter, a skilled detective, and a badass vampire hunter. But she was no match for the man’s brutality. The blow sent her flying, and by the time she hit the floor, she was dead to the world.
Reality snapped painfully back into focus. Her head was pounding. She groaned softly and massaged her throbbing head. She lay on a dusty couch in an alcove, and it took all her willpower to stifle the cough building in her lungs. She inhaled deeply and took in her immediate surroundings. The light streaming into the church through the stained glass windows had grown darker since she lost consciousness. She must’ve been out for hours. She blinked a few times, and her vision cleared a little. Her first impression was that she was alone, but that illusion was shattered when she heard the voice. Looking around, she spotted the man, face averted from her as he chatted on his phone.
Instinctively, her hand reached for her whip and gun and found both of them gone.
She looked around and saw the goon had placed her weapons on the altar right next to her cell phone. Only ten feet separated her from her arsenal, but unfortunately the mountain of a man stood between her and the altar. She had to get past him somehow.
There was only one way. She would have to use surprise to her advantage and strike so fast he wouldn’t even know what had hit him. A few well-placed blows to buy her enough time to reach the pistol.
She drew another deep breath and sprang into action.
With a few steps, she cleared the distance between herself and the goon. The cultist noticed her approach, looked up from his phone just as her arm hurtled toward the side of his neck. Archer was using her forearm as it weighed more than her fist. A blow to the neck could knock out a normal man, but this guy wasn’t normal. Not by a long stretch. Her blow hit its target, whipping the cultist’s head back but failing to knock him out. On the bright side, it bought her precious seconds. That’s all she needed to leap at the altar and snatch her Glock. Already the big man was stumbling back to his feet and barreling toward her. Without hesitation she squeezed the trigger.
Click, click. Her face fell as she realized the goon had emptied the magazine.
“Shit!” Archer spat. The gorilla’s malformed features twisted with an evil grin, his scarlet eye flashing dangerously. He looked inhuman.
Archer reacted on pure instinct. She dropped the gun and went for her cell and the Witch Whip instead. The leather lashed out at the incoming cultist and drew a red line over his bulging chest. He cried out, more in rage than pain, and Archer knew her time was up. This cultist wasn’t supernatural, and the whip’s magic wouldn’t stop him.
She spun around and ran. Legs pumping, she surged toward the back of the church. Desperate, she made a go for the door she had spotted behind the altar. It led into a small space that at one time might’ve been a changing room for altar boys. Nowadays it served as a storage shed, rotting furniture and other junk crammed into the shadowy room. Heart hammering against her ribcage, she slammed the door closed and snapped the lock shut. A split second later, the man’s bulk crashed into the wooden door, rattling the entire room. The vibrations sent dust into the air, and Archer stifled another cough.
I’m trapped, she thought. Any moment now the cultist is going to break the door down.
Escape was impossible, but at least she had her phone. Her hands quivered as she called Raven. Pick up, pick up. Answer your goddamn phone. After the fourth ring, she gave up and killed the call. And that’s when she noticed that Raven had left a message while she had been unconscious.
Blam, blam! The door’s hinges were giving way. Any second now.
No time to listen to the voicemail.
She had one last shot at this.
Her body shook with adrenaline as she dialed Detective Benson’s cell phone. Her former boss was the only other person who might help her at a time like this.
The detective answered on the second ring. Thank God for small miracles.
“Hello?”
“Benson, it’s Archer. I’m in trouble.”
The door began to give way. She spoke as rapidly as she could, trying to get the words out before the cultist reached her.
“Tell Raven I found the Crimson Circle. The Assembly of the Saints Church.
The voice broke off as the phone died. One moment the power bar was at eighty percent, and the next it was dead. What had happened?
The pounding ceased, and the room grew still, almost as if someone had cut off the volume.
Archer turned to the door.
And then, despite the dead battery, the cell rang.
A female voice said, “There is no escape, monster hunter.”<
br />
“Who are you? What do you—” Her words broke off as the door finally burst open. The silhouette of a tall man stood outlined in the doorway. The new arrival wasn’t the gorilla she’d expected.
Her eyes widened in shock as she gasped.
“No, it can’t be.”
An all too familiar voice said, “It’s nice to see you again, Jane.”
And as her world crumbled, the woman’s mocking laughter echoed from her dead phone.
16
I sat in my holding cell and stared into space. Saying that the future looked bleak was putting thing mildly. The cops at least gave me my phone call. Archer didn’t pick up, and I left a message. Who else could I reach out to? Skulick was out of the picture. I didn’t even want to contemplate what they were doing with his body while my partner’s ghost remained trapped in some unfathomable limbo. The only other person in my life—and I use the term “person” lightly here—was Cyon. The demon had been riding shotgun in my head for so long now, I could barely remember what it meant to be on my own.
I was all alone now. Just me and my thoughts, no demon commentary to raise my blood pressure. I should be happy. But when a super-cult sets you up for murder and plans a demonic invasion, happiness becomes elusive.
A shout drifted through the bars of my prison cell, thrusting me out of my grim musings. Another well-adjusted citizen of the Cursed City had found a new home in one of the steel cages lining the basement of the precinct. How could I feel lonely with lowlifes screaming their lungs out all around me?
Damn, I had to get out of this place. I couldn’t stand myself when I was in this mood. I shook my head, feeling defeated. Cyon’s escape offered meager comfort. I felt betrayed by him, I admit it, but I also understood why he had done it. Stopping the Crimson Circle was more important than sparing my bruised feelings. Could Cyon pull it off? He was unarmed, and I bet he was still getting used to his new host. I prayed he wouldn’t get Benson killed.
Anger rose in me at the thought the homicide detective was being pulled into this madness. I couldn’t shake my feeling that this would end badly for all of us. Skulick was already dead. Maybe I’d lose Cyon and Benson next. Or Jane. Damnit, I needed to get out of this cell and away from my own depressing thoughts. Right now, I was my own greatest enemy. Better to go down fighting than drown in self-pity and helplessness. But that’s why Morgal and his cronies had put me here.
The archdemon knew my greatest weakness. I wasn’t afraid to die. Okay, maybe I was a little scared of that. But I was truly afraid to lose those I cared about while being unable to stop it from happening. This jail cell was worse than a coffin for a guy like me.
Metal creaked and pulled me out of my mental downward spiral. I turned toward the cell’s barred door as it swung open as if by magic. Was this some other trick? More mind games to drive me to the brink?
I rose from my cot and approached the open cell door. More shouts greeted me from the neighboring cells. I was tempted to join the chorus. Perhaps screaming would help. Blowing off steam could prove therapeutic, right? My future cellblock besties sure seemed to think so.
As I stepped out of my cell, I didn’t know what to expect.
Imagine my shock when I spotted Skulick lurking at the far end of the antiseptic hallway, oblivious to the shouts of the other prisoners. He met my questioning gaze and waved me to follow him.
My heart beat faster. I suddenly had a good idea how the cell door had popped open by itself. I instinctively touched my protective ring, the Seal of Solomon, the only weapon the cops hadn’t taken from me during my arrest. No way they could have pried that bad boy off my finger. I never took it off.
And then it hit me. Cormac’s words rang in my mind: “The ghost may be using a personal item as an anchor. An object that meant a lot to you while alive and now allows him to bridge the great divide between this world and the next one.”
It had to be the ring. The Seal of Solomon had belonged to my father. Skulick wore the talisman after his death and then gifted it to me when I had turned eighteen. It was a powerful weapon against the forces of darkness but also symbolized the bond Skulick had shared with both my father and me. The ring on my finger was the link that anchored my partner’s spirit to the world.
And now Skulick was back, and he was helping me break out of jail.
The other inmates couldn’t see my partner’s ghost, but they sure as hell noticed me striding down the corridor like I owned the goddamn place. The hoots and cheers accompanying my rapid exit were mixed with pleas to set them free. Sorry, fellas, I had no plan of turning my escape into the first act of Assault on Precinct 13.
Hell, I was way too busy dealing with my version of Ghost.
I picked up my pace, hoping to catch up with Skulick, but he vanished around another corner. By the time I caught up with him, he was gone. Instead I faced an open door which led to a staircase. A stunned guard stared back at me from the doorway and quickly went for his pistol. I guessed this is where Skulick’s help ended, and it was up to me to make a clean getaway. Nuts.
I launched myself at the guard before he could draw his firearm. I hated beating a Boy in Blue, but I was getting out of here. My fist found the man’s chin as his fingers closed around the handle of his service revolver. Not a moment too soon. The punch landed perfectly and knocked him out with one devastating blow.
I gasped as the hapless guard slammed into the floor. The whole cell block broke into applause. Christ, that had felt fantastic. All the tension, all the frustration eased out of me. I had needed a release like that even though I wished that it didn’t have to come at the expense of a poor bastard who was just doing his job. I promised myself I’d make it up to him if this story had a happy ending—which considering the incriminating evidence against me, seemed less than likely.
I stepped over the downed guard and surged toward the stairs. I climbed the first flight, and I was going to continue in that direction when footsteps rang out above me and a cold gust of air whistled through the staircase. I spun around and saw the door I had just passed swing open. Apparently, Skulick’s spirit was still showing me the best and safest way out of here, and I figured I better follow his lead.
Feeling my confidence grow, I barged through the door and briskly walked down another corridor. Man, this place was like a maze. At last, I emerged in the precinct’s underground parking structure, which was all too familiar to me from past visits. Sulick’s spirit fronted an unmarked police cruiser, a green Challenger. I doubted he had picked this ride at random. My suspicion stood confirmed by the time I reached the car. The door was open, and the key rested on the dash. The perfect getaway vehicle. And talking about getaways, Skulick had vanished once again.
My eyes grew wide. The windshield needed a wash, and someone had drawn a short phrase into its dirty surface.
Assembly of the Saints.
A message from my partner.
He was leading me to his body.
Leading me to the enemy.
And to the inevitable confrontation that awaited me.
17
Archer, tied spread-eagled to the inverted pentagram, faced the nave of the church. She groaned and clenched her jaw as she struggled against her restraints. The ropes around her wrists dug painfully into her skin and cut off the circulation. With a defeated cry of frustration, she stopped her struggle and slumped forward, spent both physically and emotionally.
At least an hour must’ve passed since the cultists had broken into the changing room. The horror of that moment remained vivid in her mind. The image of the unexpected intruder was burned into her memory. Just thinking about it now sent renewed shivers down her spine. She still couldn’t believe it.
Pushing aside those thoughts, she focused on the fresh horrors unfolding before her.
The first high profile guests of the occult auction had begun trickling into the cursed church. These people projected wealth and prestige, the one percent of the one percent, the world’s elite. Fur
coats, high-priced jewelry, designer suits, and Rolex watches defined this decadent gathering. Influencers, movers and shakers, and semi-famous trust funders. They heralded from all over the world, belonged to all races and creeds. What connected this eclectic group besides their stock portfolios and bank accounts was a shared fascination with the occult.
What do people want who have everything? The answer was simple—the promise of a deeper meaning to their perfect lives. These folks had traveled the world and indulged in every earthly pleasure imaginable. The only thing that remained was that which lay hidden and shrouded in mystery. Here, the secrets of the ages could be bought for the right price. They were here so they could bid on unique relics and black magic items, and in the process possibly steal a peek behind the curtain of everyday reality. These people had grown bored of the world and wanted a taste of what lay beyond.
Archer hoped they would choke on it.
Some faces she recognized, while others appeared only vaguely familiar. There was the aging starlet who was hoping magic could turn back the clock, the computer billionaire seeking new ways to expand his empire, the thrill seekers determined to find their next challenge.
Archer marveled at their foolishness. Black magic couldn’t be controlled, nor could it be bought unless you payed for it with your mind and soul. She doubted these people had even the vaguest understanding of these truths. They were spoiled children eager to play with fire—
and they would get burnt, no doubt about it. She didn’t pity them. But she worried about the many innocents who would have to suffer the consequences of their insane actions.
These people were used to wielding power and controlling their world. Born into privilege, they had always been in charge. But you couldn’t control the forces of darkness. The power of the dark side would turn on you, sooner rather than later. How many innocent lives would get caught in the crossfire?
Archer met the curious gazes of the arrivals. The moment they spotted the striking brunette strapped to the giant wooden pentagram, their eyes lit up with sick excitement. They had traveled far and wide and expected a show. Archer didn’t know what the cult planned to do with her, but she was certain she wouldn’t like the answer. She was their prisoner, and the Crimson Circle wasn’t exactly known for their humanistic tendencies. What sort of occult auction would it be if there wasn’t a sacrifice?
Crimson Circle Page 9
