Sacrifice of the Sorcerer Read online

  The Hexecutioner

  2: Sacrifice of the Sorcerer

  WILLIAM MASSA

  CRITICAL MASS PUBLISHING

  Copyright © 2020 by WILLIAM MASSA

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Design: Raul Ferran/Jun Ares/shutterstock

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  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Also by WILLIAM MASSA

  Chapter One

  Mount Viola was home to one of the remotest monasteries in the world. Founded during the 9th century, the Eques Sanctus Monastery, or monastery of the Holy Knight, sat tucked atop the massive Northern Italian mountain framed by the snow-covered peaks of the Alps beyond.

  Prayers had been offered here for over a thousand years, and the monastery had changed less over the centuries than any other inhabited place on Earth. Generations of monks had come and gone, but the monastery and the tenets it stood for remained the same—a constant in an always-changing universe.

  The monks themselves heralded from all parts of the world and all walks of life; they represented many different religious traditions. Christians, Jews, Muslims, and Buddhists lived in spiritual harmony within the massive stone walls.

  What all these pious men and women at the monastery shared was the heartfelt belief that the forces of good remained interlocked in a constant battle with the legions of evil, a never-ending conflict that transcended time and space. When fighting absolute evil, it was best not to get distracted by the finer details of religious doctrine.

  The Eques Sanctus Monastery was a place of worship and prayer, but it also served as a prison for those unfortunate souls touched by Hell’s legions. A dungeon deep within the bowels of the mountain held spiritual warriors who’d succumbed to the infernal forces. Priests and nuns, exorcists, and fighters—no one was immune.

  The monks of Eques Sanctus toiled tirelessly to drive out the demons that had seized control of the poor souls entrusted in their care. Only in the rarest of cases were their tireless efforts rewarded with success.

  Weylock was one of those success stories.

  In his former life, FBI Agent Jaxon Weylock had been a criminal profiler who’d brought some of the most dangerous killers in America to justice. Law enforcement circles regarded him as one of the foremost authorities on the criminal mind. Unfortunately, all his supposed knowledge and expertise had failed him on that fateful day when he had his terrifying run-in with the demon.

  Serial killers were monsters, but they still had souls. Not so the beast he’d faced during his final FBI investigation in New York.

  The demon had taken possession of Weylock’s mind, and if it hadn’t been for the mercy and patience of the monks of Eques Sanctus, he would have never regained his humanity. He’d spent two long years within these hallowed walls, just another one of the possessed.

  Until he fought back against the demon.

  And won.

  According to the monks, this was a feat achieved only once in a generation. But it was no reason to break out the champagne and celebrate.

  The demon’s darkness remained in Weylock’s soul. He controlled the beast—for now—but it was a delicate balance, an endless internal war between good and evil. Weylock felt like a lion tamer doomed to spend the rest of his days in a cage with a wild creature he’d never be able to fully control. He could make the demon perform a few tricks here and there, but the beast would turn on him if he ever lowered his guard, even for a moment.

  With the help of the monks, Weylock started to channel the malevolent force inside of him. Tapping into the creature’s hellish abilities, Weylock could conjure force fields, phase through solid objects, fire blasts of raw energy, and transform his thoughts into physical reality. It would have been amazing if he hadn’t been terrified for his eternal soul every moment.

  To help Weylock wield this infernal power source and turn it into a weapon for good, the monks of Eques Sanctus had covered his entire body in protective religious tattoos. There were variations of the Christian Cross; the Nine-Pointed Star of the Baháʼí, which reflected their high regard for peace, harmony, and equality; the Buddhist Dharma Wheel; the Aum letter from Hinduism; the Yin and Yang of Taoism; the Jewish Star of David; the Sikhism Khanda and many more.

  Weylock had never been the type to go for ink. Before coming to the monastery Weylock had thought tattoos were, at best, a rebellious fashion statement. Now he used the marks on his skin to twist and bend black magic into a force for good. Weylock’s powerful will had reigned in the demon’s evil, but the ink on his body had turned the creature into a weapon.

  Whatever his mind could conceive, the demon’s power could make real.

  But, like everything in this world, the power came with a cost. His old life was over. He could never see his friends, his family again. Not that he’d had many left. Not after what happened.

  Special Agent Jaxon Weylock was, as far as anyone knew, dead. Long live the Hexecutioner.

  His new mission was to hunt supernatural monsters and mete out punishment befitting their horrible crimes. To restore the balance of justice. To serve as judge, jury, and executioner for all infernal forces.

  At the moment, the former FBI agent stood in one of the monastery’s tall towers and watched as the red ball of the sun painted the frozen mountaintops crimson. A powerful gust of air buffeted his long black coat and made the thick material flap like a cape. At this elevation, the trench coat failed to keep him warm.

  The ringing of the monastery’s church bells reverberated over the stark landscape of ice and rock, heightening the spiritual quality of the scenery. Only the biting cold reminded Weylock that he hadn’t accidentally stepped into a beautiful painting.

  “What’s going through your mind, Hexecutioner?”

  Weylock turned toward Brother Ignatius, who’d sidled up to him.

  The demon doesn’t possess the Hexecutioner; the Hexecutioner possesses the demon.

  Brother Ignatius had first spoken those words to Weylock when he’d emerged victorious from his furious two-year battle with the demon. It had become the mantra by which Weylock lived his life.

  Ignatius had stood by his side during the darkest moments of his demonic possession. He’d shown Weylock how to resist the evil and had guided him back toward the light.

  Consequently, the monk knew him better than he knew himself. Which is why Weylock knew it was useless to lie to the man. He tried anyway.

  “Just admiring the simple beauty of a sunset,” Weylock said with an affectionate smile.

  “There’s nothing simple about the beauty of God’s creation.” Ignatius winked. “You should enjoy this break from the fight, yet you look… troubled.”

  Weylock held Ignatius’ gaze. The monk’s keen senses missed nothing. The darkness inside the Hexecutioner was rattling the cages. Sleep hadn’t come easily for the last few nights, and the wails drifting from the lower level of the monastery seemed to grow louder every time he retired for the night. The monsters trapped within these walls were as desperate to break free as he’d once been.

  The demon insid
e him wanted to descend the endless stairs to the dungeons below and release the possessed prisoners from their iron holding cells. Weylock was tempted to agree. The beast wished to free its unholy brethren; the Hexecutioner wished to to put them their misery.

  This internal conflict defined most of his waking moments.

  Weylock gave up any pretense of making small talk about the scenery. “The damned are calling out to me,” he said.

  “And understandably enough, you desire to answer that call. The monastery can be a source of spiritual strength. But it’s also filled with terrible temptation.”

  “Sometimes I worry I might lose control.”

  “You’ve read the archives, Weylock. Every Hexecutioner who came before you faced similar challenges. Most rose to the occasion.”

  Weylock nodded, but doubt lingered. What about those who hadn’t quite risen to the occasion?

  The stories of the Hexecutioners whose demons had destroyed them filled a special shelf in the monastery’s library. It was a section that Weylock fastidiously avoided. Why dwell on the failures of the brave men and women who’d come before him when there were so many tales of heroism and great achievement to focus on.

  His current doubts all sprung from his growing restlessness. Silent self-contemplation while endlessly pacing the stone corridors of the monastery wasn’t his style. Weylock wasn’t capable of spending his every waking moment with his nose buried in some book or reciting prayers for hours on end as many of the monks were prone to do. He was a man of action. He craved a new mission, a new target for the demonic power festering within him.

  Only when he was actively hunting the nightmares did the demon’s whispers of doubt grow silent inside him. Only then did he truly feel at peace.

  “Come, my friend. All too soon, you’ll get your next chance to face the horrors. Right now, we shall eat.”

  Going by his growling stomach, food sounded like a excellent idea.

  Weylock fell in step behind Brother Ignatius and followed the monk into the mess hall, located two stories below the monastery’s observation tower. Candles flickered around the long wooden communal table and cast long shadows. The Hexecutioner nodded greetings at the assembled group of monks who were enjoying their dinner of fresh fish, vegetables, and bread.

  Weylock took his seat next to them, his long leather coat setting him apart from the robed members of the Order. He was welcome here, but he wasn’t one of them. Many of the brothers and sisters averted his gaze, almost as if they feared the demon inside Weylock might stare back at them.

  He was both more and less than these devoted followers. Touched by darkness, yet dedicated to the light, he knew that prayer didn’t solve all the problems of the world.

  Sometimes change required bold action. Sometimes blood had to be spilled.

  Weylock finished his meal, wished Brother Ignatius a good night, and retired to his sleeping cell at the uppermost floor of the monastery. He suspected the monks tried to keep as much distance as possible between him and the lost souls who dwelled in the catacombs below. Despite all their efforts, Weylock failed to block out the calls of the damned as they continued to reverberate through the thick stone walls of his windowless room.

  When the darkness threatened to consume Weylock and shake his resolve, he willed himself to think of Avery. He conjured her playful smile and mischievous eyes, thought of all those precious moments they’d once shared, and he felt his racing heart slow down. In his mind’s eye, he swept his wife up in his arms, and his granite features softened. Tears of loss streamed down his face.

  His wife was gone, but she lived on in his memories.

  And calmed by the memory of the love they once shared, the lamentations of the possessed grew distant, and Weylock fell into a deep sleep.

  Chapter Two

  The sense of peace didn’t last. Sweat coated Weylock’s face and body as he jerked awake in the middle of the night. Why was it so hot in his cell?

  Another wave of heat emanated from the Book of Magic that the monks had gifted him following his mastery over his demon.

  Most folks looking at the book in Weylock’s hands would see a copy of the Bible or the Torah or the Koran, depending on their faith. This was a form of camouflage to divert attention from the true nature of the book. The tome in his hands was known as the Necrodex, a bridge between the world of the living and the world of the dead. A book of mystery and ancient secrets passed on through generations of Hexecutioners, it allowed the victims of supernatural evil to call out for justice from beyond the grave.

  Now it belonged to Weylock. And it had a message for him.

  The magic of the Necrodex was separate from the demon’s life force and served a different role in his ongoing battle with the supernatural. If the demon was a Hexecutioner’s weapon, the Necrodex was his map and compass. Like the self-destructing tape recorder in the Mission Impossible movies that Weylock used to love, the Necrodex directed him toward the latest horror he was supposed to confront. When the book grew hot to the touch, it meant he was about to receive a new mission.

  Weylock flipped open the book, letting instinct guide him as he leafed through the cracked pages. Words in Latin and Greek and Aramaic swirled before him, and lines of text bled down the yellowed parchment. The words broke down into individual letters that leaped off the page and reconfigured themselves into the faces of men and women. The spectral black-and-white images danced over the open book like holograms.

  Weylock’s stomach knotted, and his jaw clenched. Experience had taught him that the ghostly pallor of these young faces meant he was receiving snapshots from beyond the grave. Some new monster was stalking the night, and he was looking at its most recent victims. All help would come too late for these poor men and women.

  Weylock briefly wondered why so many innocent folks had to perish before the book alerted him of a new threat. Then he answered his own question: There were limits to the tome’s magic. Perhaps it required great pain and suffering for the book to detect a new threat, or for the dead to reach out for an avenger from the void. It was hard to wrap your head around the rules of the Necrodex.

  Unlike the missions laid out in the self-destructing tapes on Mission Impossible, to stick with the reference, the information provided by the Necrodex was vague and steeped in mystery. The book guided Weylock without revealing the full details of each new case. He’d receive bits and pieces and clues as he went along, but he still had to do much of the heavy lifting himself.

  Weylock had once asked Brother Ignatius about the book’s tendency to communicate in riddles, and the monk had shrugged and said, “The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

  Now that was an understatement if he ever heard one.

  Either way, Weylock was on the case.

  The gallery of the murdered morphed into the full-color image of a young, attractive woman. Color represented life in the Necrodex. Whoever she was, there was still time to save her. The woman’s big blue eyes blazed with tireless energy and good cheer, her smile warm and charismatic.

  A pang of sadness ran through Weylock, knowing this woman was the monster’s potential next victim.

  He prayed he would arrive in time.

  His fingers slid over the woman’s image, and a series of psychic impressions raced through his mind. He saw the woman working out in her tiny studio apartment, teaching an exercise class over her computer. Her name was Alice Welsh, age 27, a struggling fitness instructor and health coach in San Jose, California.

  Weylock’s gaze lingered on the image for a beat, memorizing her face, before it dissolved back into a page of scripture.

  Weylock took a deep breath, sensing his demon’s anticipation. The restless creature craved conflict and action. And so did Weylock after the extended period of inactivity. In some ways, they weren’t that different—and it scared the hell out of him.

  The time of waiting was over. He still didn’t know what sort of monster he was after, but he’d find out soon enough.

>   The Hexecutioner had his new mission.

  Chapter Three

  Weylock strode down a long hallway with a grave sense of purpose and entered the monastery’s ossuary, where the remains of previous generations of monks remained enshrined. Wall to wall, floor to ceiling, the bones of the dead covered every square inch in the chamber. Sconces held flickering torches that cast grotesque shadows throughout the eerie room.

  Such stark reminders of human mortality didn’t scare Weylock. Death paled in comparison to some of the horrors he’d faced. Not to mention the glimpse of Hell the demon had offered him.

  The Hexecutioner headed for the far end of the chamber. A light breeze tickled his face. It stemmed from the mouth of one of the skulls. Probing the wall of bones, he identified the correct skull, dipped his fingers into the hollow eye sockets, and exerted pressure.

  As he pulled the skull back from the wall of bones, a small doorway swung open.

  Weylock stepped into the darkness beyond and descended a winding staircase. As he moved deeper into the guts of the mountain, bulbs in the ceiling showed him the way. Down here, the voices of the possessed rang even louder, but they no longer held any sway over the demon. The new mission took up all of Weylock’s focus, each step filled with a singular purpose.

  He reached the end of the stairs and strode into an immense cavern dominated by a subterranean lake. Pure white walls shimmered on all sides. The monastery rested on an abandoned salt mine, chosen because of the mineral’s ability to repel evil. If the forces of darkness should ever launch an assault against the Order, the attack would have to come from above and not below.