Devil's Descent (Luther Cross Book 2)

by Percival Constantine

  Devil's Descent

  Luther Cross: Book 2

  Percival Constantine

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 by Percival Constantine

  Cover design by Midnight Whimsy

  http://midnightwhimsy.com

  Editing by Izzi Pickering of Larks & Katydids

  http://larksandkatydids.com

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  Published by Percival Constantine

  http://www.percivalconstantine.com

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Before You Start…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Epilogue

  Thank You!

  Get a free book!

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Percival Constantine

  WHO IS LUTHER CROSS?

  FIND OUT IN THIS EXCLUSIVE BOOK, AVAILABLE FREE!

  Learn where Luther comes from in this special novella, available only by clicking here. As a thank you, you’ll also get four additional short stories featuring Luther for free!

  Just go to cross.percivalconstantine.com to get started!

  1

  An autumn night in Chicago. There’s nothing better. Gone is the scorching summer heat, but we haven’t yet been struck by the bitter cold of winter. The air smells clean and there’s a nice, cool breeze blowing through the streets. And as I sat on the hood of my car, smoking an American Spirit cigarette, staring up at a brand-new—and completely empty—apartment building, I felt good.

  My name’s Luther Cross and I’m a paranormal investigator. Got into this line of work on account of my heritage—my mother was human; my father was a demon. And I’m talkin’ a literal demon spat from the bowels of the actual Hell. Makes me what’s called a cambion. Despite all that, my childhood was pretty typical. Grew up reading X-Men, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, playing Nintendo, and learning how to master the black arts.

  So, what was a fiendishly handsome, well-dressed man about town like myself doing sitting on the hood of a black ’69 Camaro while staring at a building? This tenement—or at least the one that used to be here—had a bad gas leak. Caused an explosion, lots of people died. Those that didn’t got kicked out when the owner decided the land was worth more than fixing the place up.

  It wasn’t too far from Logan Square, one of the trendiest neighborhoods in the city, so it didn’t take long for a developer to snatch it up. They knocked down what remained of the old building and built this new one in its place. Five floors, nice and modern, just minutes from the L train.

  Except, while the place was being built, several of the workers said they were seeing things. Flashes in the corner of their eyes. Weird reflections in glass. Sounds like people screaming. And then the accidents started. One workman fell down the elevator shaft; another jumped off the roof; and a third went right through a newly-installed window, cutting his throat on the way down.

  People started calling in sick and faking injuries to get out of coming to the site. And that’s when the developer came to me through a friend. You won’t find someone like me through a Google search—my business is based on referrals. So, I came down here during the day and, sure enough, could sense the presence of trapped souls.

  That’s right: a good, old-fashioned ghost hunt. I hadn’t done one of those since that haunted road case about a year ago. I was a bit rusty on it, spent too much time lately dealing with angel and demon crap. But, it’s just like riding a bike.

  I looked down at the gold watch around my wrist. Just after ten at night. Ghosts can appear at any time, but the point when their energy is the strongest is the time they died. And you might be thinking, why the hell would any damn fool want to face a ghost at full-power? That’s because their time of death is when the wall between dimensions is at its weakest. The afterlife is just waiting to suck them back in.

  We were right about game time. I slid off the hood of the Camaro and dropped the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath the sole of my polished shoe. I took the small bag resting on the car’s hood and walked to the entrance. The front door was mostly glass, and my crimson eyes reflected off the surface. I took hold of the handle and pulled the door open, stepping into the lobby.

  The structure of the building was mostly done, but there was still lots of interior work to do. Tools and work benches were set up in the lobby, and it was covered in sawdust. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding my arm out in front of me with my fingers outstretched.

  Ghosts, souls, magic—these are just words for different kinds of energy. Just like a Geiger counter can detect radiation, magic can detect these supernatural wavelengths. Pretty much everyone can do it, for that matter. Ever feel like you’re being watched when there’s no one around, or think you hear voices in the darkness? That’s not your mind playing tricks on you, that’s you picking up on something paranormal. Well…or you’re going crazy.

  The trick is knowing and sensing the differences between those types of energies. If you understand what it is you’re feeling, you can determine what exactly you’re up against. In the case of ghosts, there are a bunch of different types. Some of them are just echoes, constantly reliving their death, like a record that won’t stop skipping (yeah, I said record; I’m old). Others are lost. They’ve got some unfinished business on this plane of existence and they can’t cross over until it’s been completed.

  And then there’s the vengeful spirits. These are the ghosts you usually see in the movies. Mean bastards who usually died a violent death and want to lash out at anyone and anything they can. In some ways, it’s understandable. If I don’t get my morning coffee, I start to think murderous thoughts. Can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was violently killed.

  Thing about vengeful spirits, though, is that the longer they stick around, the angrier they get. And it’s like the Hulk—anger only makes them stronger. Sooner or later, they end up as poltergeists. That’s when they get powerful enough to affect the physical world in violent ways. So, it’s no longer just about scaring people; it’s about killing them. And that can just lead to the creation of even more vengeful spirits.

  In this building, I was picking up on a lot of echoes. A few of the lost. But there was a poltergeist in here, and it was calling the shots. If a poltergeist’s power is strong enough, it can even start to bring other spirits under its control.

  The lobby wasn’t where I wanted to be. I needed a focal point to begin the banishing spell if I was going to clear this building. What I planned to do was channel the spiritual energy from this build
ing and guide them to the next world. From there, I didn’t know what happened. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory—how those decisions were made was far above my pay grade.

  But in order to channel the energy, I needed as few disruptions as possible. Magic’s like any other form of energy—there are ways to block or disrupt it. I wasn’t sure what kind of metal was used in the construction of this building, but it can sometimes interfere with magic when you’re trying to channel spirits into the void.

  That meant what I needed more than anything was a wide-open space. Somewhere I could be in contact with the building, but still have a place to draw on the magic. Which meant the roof.

  I heard a growl behind me. Instead of turning around, I set my bag on the floor and knelt down, opening it up and reaching inside. I found what I needed in there, running my fingers over the symbols engraved in the iron surface.

  “You should not be here,” said a voice.

  “Not a very nice way to treat a guest,” I said, taking what I’d needed from the bag in my right hand and sliding it into my pocket as I stood.

  I turned around and saw a spectral figure hovering in front of me. It didn’t look human; it looked instead like some kind of creature. Powerful poltergeists can make themselves appear like whatever they want, so they tend to go for the kind of crap you’d see in monster movies. This one looked like what you’d get after a Predator anger-banged an orc. It was transparent and mostly white, but with glowing, red eyes.

  “Y’know, that effect is trademarked,” I said. “If you keep poaching it, you’re gonna be hearing from my attorney.”

  “Get. Out!”

  The spirit bellowed the last word and the glass windows of the lobby doors blew inward, wind buffeting my face. I closed my eyes and remained standing where I was. Once the wind stopped, I scoffed and opened my eyes, brushing the stray bits of glass off my shoulders with my left hand.

  “It’s so cute when you dead bastards try to be intimidating.” I took a step forward and stared it in the eyes. “I’m gonna make myself very clear. You’re done with this place. Your days of throwing construction workers down elevator shafts and forcing timid ghosts to do your bidding are over.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or this.” I took my right hand out of my pocket and balled it into a fist. I swung, connecting with the poltergeist’s ethereal jaw. As my hand passed through it, the poltergeist’s head recoiled, fading away like vapor as it fell to the ground.

  It vanished completely, though it wasn’t gone for good. All I had done was break its connection with this plane. It would be back, and pissed.

  So how does someone punch a ghost? Make sure you don’t clench your fist too tight, plant your feet, and don’t forget to wear iron knuckles engraved with symbols meant to ward off spirits.

  I picked up the bag and went to the stairwell, kicking the door open. Five floors up, then I could begin the ritual. I started ascending, and when I got to the first landing, another ghost appeared in front of me, this one of an old lady. She screamed, her skin melting off and her hair flying in all directions. I punched her in the face with the iron knuckles and she vanished with another scream.

  I felt the presence of another ghost behind me. I turned and was ready to deliver another blow, but as I raised my arm, the ghost was frozen in place. With my teeth gritted, I pushed harder, trying to break the spirit’s hold on my arm. Its eyes flashed as it increased its own power.

  I dropped the bag on the landing and quickly reached beneath my trench coat to my hip, moving my hand beneath my suit jacket. I drew another weapon—a silver dagger with symbols carved in it—and I jammed it into the spirit’s side. It wailed in agony as it vanished.

  Bag in hand, I ran up the stairs again, clearing another few flights. I was almost to roof entrance, but just as I approached the landing, the chief poltergeist appeared in front of me, roaring and throwing me right back down the last flight of stairs. “You dare challenge me?”

  I hit my head on the wall and shook off the disorientation. The poltergeist hovered there, its mouth open with rows of razor-sharp teeth. I was on my side and I reached beneath my suit jacket. The poltergeist slowly descended the steps, its eyes burning brighter as it came closer.

  “You, a challenge? Bitch, please.” I pulled my hand out from under my jacket, drawing the custom revolver holstered there. With a squeeze of the trigger, the Enochian symbols along the iron barrel lit bright orange. An iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-point round filled with holy water and special herbs rocketed from the gun. The bullet slammed into the poltergeist, and it vanished.

  I took the bag and ran up the rest of the steps, bursting through the door, onto the roof. I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I closed the door and took a container of salt from the bag. A line of this in front of the door would help keep the poltergeist and its little friends at bay, at least long enough for me to complete the ritual.

  I took off my trench coat and suit jacket, then took a can of white spray paint from the bag. I drew a large circle with it, shaking the can as needed to continue. The ghosts pounded on the door, trying to get through, but they couldn’t cross the salt line. I painted a smaller, inner circle. In the space between the smaller and larger circles, I began painting symbols. Latin, mostly. Some people used Hebrew, but it really didn’t matter what language you chose for your spells, so long as it was something that could serve as a focal point for your magic. I once knew a guy in New York who did all his sigils in Klingon.

  I finished the sigil and sat in the center of it, extending my arms out to the sides and slowly bringing them in front of me, bending the elbows as I did, my eyes shut.

  “I banish thee, spirits of loss.”

  I touched the tips of my thumbs and index finger, holding them up to my forehead, a way of visualizing the third eye.

  “I banish thee, spirits of vengeance.”

  The pounding on the door continued. I could sense the salt line breaking, could hear the screams of the spirits and the angry growl of the poltergeist. But I wouldn’t let it distract me.

  “I banish thee, spirits of malice.”

  The door burst open and I opened my eyes. The poltergeist was the first one out, crossing the distance from the entrance to the circle. The other spirits moved behind it, some of them frightened, some of them driven mad by its control.

  “I banish thee to the endless void!”

  I outstretched my hands and clapped them together. I could feel a surge of power move through my body. The sigil on the roof began to glow as if it were on fire. It detached from the rooftop, and as soon as the poltergeist saw the sigil, it started backing away.

  “No…”

  “Oh yeah,” I said, and moved my arms in a circle, rising to stand. The sigil began to spin, moving faster and faster until it became a vortex. The poltergeist screamed, as did the other ghosts, and they tried to retreat.

  But the power of the vortex was too strong, and it began pulling them inside. One by one, each spirit that had been haunting this building was drawn into the vortex, the last of them being the chief poltergeist. I circled around and it looked at me with fear etched on its face.

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  I took a monogrammed gold cigarette case and Zippo lighter from my pants pocket. The poltergeist cried oaths of vengeance, all while I calmly lit my cigarette.

  “I’ve heard it all before,” I said. “Give my regards to Purgatory.”

  The poltergeist wailed as it was sucked into the portal. The vortex slowed, disintegrating into nothing before it came to a complete stop. I smiled and walked to the edge of the roof, sitting down and letting my legs dangle over the five-story drop. I sat there and smoked my cigarette, looking out over the city of Chicago.

  Yeah, this was so much nicer than dealing with whatever bullshit was going on between angels and demons.

  2

  The Willis Tower in downtown Chicago had, at one point, been the tallest building in the world, though i
t since lost that distinction. But one unique feature it possessed was that it served as an entryway to one of the embassies of Heaven. Those who possess the knowledge could access the embassy by traveling to the top floor, transporting them into a space between dimensions.

  The embassies are run by angels charged with keeping watch over the Earth. These places took on whatever form the guardian chose for it. In the case of this embassy, the form of a nightclub all coated in white, named Eden. Its guardian, Raziel, stood on a platform in his private room, looking over the club and beyond—through the dimensional barrier to the skyline of Chicago.

  Raziel himself wore a white suit, his platinum-blond hair perfectly styled. He heard a sound like that of a gust of wind and turned to see two men standing before him. Like him, their skin was pale and they possessed the iridescent azure eyes which were possessed by all angels. One had shaggy, black hair—a stark contrast to his skin—and wore a white suit with a black shirt and mandarin collar. The other was also dressed in white, albeit with a matching shirt and no tie, his collar open, his hair short and brown.

  “Brothers,” said Raziel as he approached. He extended his arm to each and they took turns greeting him with a handshake. “I appreciate you coming to see me.”

  “Well, you know me, Raziel,” said the one with black hair, flashing a smile. “Garret makes the best White Russians on any plane of existence.”