Crimson Circle Read online

  Her eyes ticked toward the striking woman who fronted the altar. What had the other cult members called her again? Lamia. Silver hair spilled down alabaster skin, giving the cult leader a haunted, preternatural beauty. She wore a red robe that matched the robes of the other cult members who had gathered around the crowd standing in the nave of the church. The cultists surrounded the guests, forming a circle.

  A Crimson Circle, Archer realized. Like eerie sentinels they observed the well-heeled arrivals. Moonlight lanced the nave, bathing the faces of the attendees and lending them an inhuman quality. Candles had been lit all over the church, further adding to the otherworldly ambience.

  They waited for the event to begin, whispering quietly to each other and fidgeting in their seats. Archer shared their impatience. She wanted to know what these freaks were selling as much as everyone else here. What horrors was the cult planning on unleashing upon the world?

  And would she live long enough to stop them?

  Once the nave was full, Lamia spoke up, her voice slicing through the mumbling of the crowd like a scalpel.

  “Welcome, my friends. Welcome to the Crimson Circle.”

  Dread welled up in Archer. She recognized the woman’s voice as the one from her dead cell phone.

  Lamia’s eyes radiated madness as she continued to speak. “You’re all here tonight because you share something in common. You’re the best of the best. Some of you were born into money while others made your fortunes. Despite all your accomplishments, you all felt the emptiness, the sense that there must be more to all of this than material wealth and earthly power. You were right. Are you ready to become more than you have ever dreamt of? Are you willing to take your first step into a far more mysterious world?”

  The ominous words hung in the air, resonating with this crowd.

  Archer bit her lips, dismay threatening to overwhelm her. She prayed Benson had received her message before the phone turned itself off. She had to believe that at any moment SWAT would break into the church and put a swift end to this madness.

  For now, all she could do was bear silent witness to the unfolding craziness.

  “You’ve all heard of our auctions and the wonderful items we have presented to you over the last few months. As our reputation has grown, so have your expectations. I assure you with all my heart they will be met tonight. Prepare to be amazed.”

  The crowd hung on every word from her lips. Reluctantly, Archer had to admit that whoever this woman was, she had a chilling charisma perfectly suited to this macabre event.

  “Are you all ready to receive the blessing of the Lords of Darkness, to embrace the left-handed path?”

  If the question caught anyone off-guard, they weren’t showing it. Everyone mumbled in agreement, swept up in the moment. Archer wanted to shout at them that they were fools, but it wouldn’t have done any good.

  “Then let us begin,” Lamia said.

  The woman produced three leather-bound books from her robe. She placed them on the altar, her finger sliding over the tomes in an almost sensual manner, stroking and caressing the pages.

  Archer swallowed hard. She recognized one of those books. It was Raven’s grimoire, the one he had taken from the ghoul Varthek. It had allowed the demon inside of him to perform magic. And if Raven’s book was here…

  With horror, she understood why he hadn’t answered the phone when she called him earlier. The Crimson Circle had gotten to him. She knew neither Raven nor Cyon would give up this book without a fight. Her heart sank, the empty feeling in the pit of her stomach becoming overwhelming. What had these bastards done to her man?

  The question in her mind was drowned out by the female cult leader’s next words.

  “Maybe you’re not all that impressed. Ancient books may not exert the same hold over the imagination as some other items we have offered in the past. I assure you nothing could be further from the truth. You are looking at the three copies of the Daemonium, united for the first time in centuries.”

  Lamia continued to caress the three tomes.

  “Each book on its own is filled with power and darkness, containing the names of the most fearsome demons from the dimensions of fear. Together, they will allow the user to conjure some of the most powerful beings into our reality.”

  The rapt crowd hung on the woman’s words, hypnotized by her promise of a universe filled with dark gods and demons.

  Idiots, Archer thought.

  “You may wonder why we chose a church to hold this gathering. Why invite the devil into a house of God?”

  The question hung in the air as the woman’s magnetic gaze swept the crowd.

  “Darkness can hide in daylight; demons can wear the faces of saints. Who would expect you fine people, the cream of the crop, the elite that the world looks up to, to attend an event like this? Who would ever suspect you to be the soldiers in an army of darkness? Your influence and power, your status and connections, will allow the minions of Hell to infiltrate this world and remake it in our master’s image.”

  Archer combed the crowd and recognized a new emotion among some of the attendees. A few, not quite as stupid or power-mad as the others, showed the first signs of doubt. These people were fascinated with the occult but hadn’t signed up for cult indoctrination. Almost as if realizing she had said too much, Lamia toned down the rhetoric.

  “You see three books, but there is only one Daemonium. The books were split apart to mock the Holy Trinity, and now they shall become one again.”

  Her words switched to a mixture of Aramaic and Latin, and the tomes ignited with a reddish light.

  “Makne, oktra septnoylka, ungantorah.”

  One by one, the robed red monks produced daggers and raised their right hands in an eerie power salute. With a dark devotion in their eyes, they each carved a red circle into their palms.

  It’s part of some ritual, Archer realized. They don’t plan on selling these books. They’re casting a spell.

  As blood dripped down their outstretched hands, the atmosphere in the church grew thick with power and anticipation.

  One by one the books ignited and morphed into a single grimoire.

  Lamia shouted more words in the strange tongue. “Amon, Totar, Lotherius…”

  Archer swallowed hard. Those weren’t words in a foreign language but names. The names of demons. She didn’t recognize them all, but a few jumped out at her. Skulick had insisted she brush up on demonology when he first entered her life. Trust me, in our line of work, it will come in handy.

  The air hummed and pulsed with infernal energy. The doubters multiplied in the crowd, and a new emotion gripped them—fear. Finally, these rich fools realized they were in over their heads. In their misguided minds, this wasn’t what they had signed up for when they attended the auction.

  Archer couldn’t draw any satisfaction from their burgeoning terror; she was too afraid herself. The light streaming through the church windows changed, becoming a dark crimson color, and enveloped the robed members of the cult. As soon as the fiery red energy touched them, they screamed, doubled over as if racked with agonizing cramps. Their red robes danced around their writhing forms and turned to liquid, garbing each of them in blood. The guests stared at them in shock. Archer could tell some of them were wondering if this still was part of the show. If it was, it had ceased to entertain them. Archer saw some attendees trying to retreat, but the church doors were locked. They were trapped, surrounded by red-robed fanatics foaming at the mouth as if they had all swallowed cyanide capsules a few seconds earlier.

  What horror had Lamia’s words unleashed?

  The female cult leader crumpled to her knees, blood trickling out of her widened eyes. But despite her evident suffering, there was an insane happiness in her face shared by the other cultists. Lamia twisted her trembling form toward Archer, lips curled in a mixture of agony and ecstatic pleasure.

  “Take me, master. Use my mortal flesh to enter this world and…”

  Her words broke
off as more convulsions racked her body. Her mouth opened into a scream, her lips widening and widening until her whole head had become a giant orifice.

  Archer recoiled in horror as a giant serpent exploded from Lamia’s mouth. The body of the cult leader collapsed, reduced to a boneless sack of skin and hair. The impossibly long snake slithered toward Archer with malevolent intent.

  Hoarse cries momentarily drew her attention to the other cultists. Serpents were emerging from all of them. The same horrific scene played out repeatedly.

  And then it hit her. Lamia had screamed out the names of twelve demons, and now there were twelve mutant serpents slithering through the church. The cult members had sacrificed themselves to manifest these monstrosities. But that was only the first phase of the horrific plan Lamia had laid out.

  The snakes slithered and hissed as the attendees of the auction tried to flee from the fast-moving reptiles. Their efforts were in vain as the serpents lashed out at them, coiling their slimy bodies around the struggling forms and slithering into their screaming mouths.

  Archer saw one serpent vanish inside the open mouth of a pop star whose popularity had waned as his hairline receded. As soon as the tail of the snake disappeared down his gullet, his cry of terror and agony transformed into laughter and his eyes turned a fiery red.

  It was happening everywhere. Snakes were invading the bodies of the auction-goers, taking them over and becoming the puppet masters of the fragile human flesh. The cultists had birthed these demons, and the well-heeled guests would be hosts.

  A loud banging sound drowned out the hissing of the serpents. Archer’s head whipped toward the church’s entrance. A newcomer had set foot in the devil’s church. Deep down, she had prayed it would be Raven who came to rescue her. No such luck.

  Standing in the open doorframe, facing a phalanx of newborn demons, was her old boss, Detective Benson.

  Shit, they were in trouble.

  18

  The Assembly of the Saints Church.

  Those had been Archer’s last words before her desperate plea to her former boss was cut off. Of course, she couldn’t have known that the man on the other end of the call wasn’t Benson any longer.

  Cyon stared at Benson’s cell for a beat. When no new call came in, he slipped it back into his suit pocket. He considered this latest development. Archer had tracked down the enemy. She was a crafty one indeed. Her police detective background continued to serve her well in her new monster hunting career.

  Judging by the abrupt way the call had ended, the Crimson Circle must’ve spotted her. Did they suspect or care that someone might have overheard her last words?

  Didn’t matter. Didn’t change anything for him. He knew what he had to do.

  As he slipped behind the wheel of Benson’s car, his stomach churned with a strange anxiety. The thought of Archer in danger bothered him. Raven’s feelings for the woman had rubbed off on him. You couldn’t share a body and mind with someone for as long as he had done and not pick up some of their quirks and peculiarities. Had he still been possessing Raven, this interrupted call would have been grounds to rush to the church. Fortunately, Cyon was able to keep a cooler head. Even though echoes of their bond remained, he was in charge now. A rescue mission wasn’t his priority. He was after Morgal. And that meant he needed to let the Crimson Circle complete their ritual and conjure their demons. Only once Morgal was in a human host could he kill his former master.

  And what happens after you destroy him? What’s the next step?

  That was the kind of question Raven would ask. Initially, when Cyon had first crossed paths with the monster hunter, he had harbored plans to take over Morgal’s throne. Now he wasn’t so sure that returning to Hell was on his agenda.

  What would he do next? His whole existence revolved around his revenge. To be honest, he hadn’t allowed himself to think beyond the final confrontation with Morgal. And considering that he probably wouldn’t survive the encounter, that was for the best.

  Cyon eyed Benson’s watch. Fading sunlight danced over the Rolex. From Benson’s memories, he knew the man had saved up money for a long time to afford the expensive timepiece. Cyon wasn’t intimately familiar with the brands of the twenty-first century, but he could tell that his new host had style and taste. Benson’s suit was perfectly tailored and fit his well-maintained physique like a glove. The shirt was a fine silk and felt good against his skin. A pleasant change after Raven’s casual, grab-whatever-looked-clean approach to fashion.

  A frown furrowed Cyon’s brow as he looked at the watch. It was barely six o’clock. Based on experience, the occult auction wouldn’t happen until the sun went down. He had a little time—enough to run one more errand. His guns could mow down the fanatics, but he needed Demon Slayer if he wanted to stand a chance against his former master.

  He reached Raven’s base of operation thirty minutes later. He knew all the security codes and ways around the wards, so neither electronic nor magical safety measures posed a problem for him.

  It was strange being in the loft without Raven or Skulick. He weirdly felt like an intruder. He shook off the feeling and headed for Skulick’s desk. Demon Slayer rested in a leather scabbard on its surface.

  He studied the sword for a beat and then walked past it into the kitchen. He grabbed a beer from the fridge and downed the cold brew in quick gulps. The alcohol relaxed his host body’s muscles, easing some of the tension. Benson’s constant panic ebbed slightly, which made it easier for Cyon to think about the battle ahead.

  Morgal was the most formidable enemy he could imagine going up against. Even arming himself with a magical sword felt like poking at a dragon with a toothpick. He tossed the empty beer bottle aside and resisted the temptation to keep on drinking. Alcohol couldn’t affect demons, but as long as he hitched a ride in a human host, he was a slave to their physiology. Going into battle drunk wouldn’t be doing him any favors.

  He stepped back up to the demon killer blade. His fingers closed around the bone hilt. There was a final beat of hesitation before he liberated the sword from its sheath. The blade reflected the light in the loft, and the grip felt warm to the touch, the rune-engraved steel humming with power, almost as if it was aware of the battle it would soon be fighting.

  Time to face the beast, he thought.

  Cyon placed Demon Slayer back into its scabbard and headed for the underground garage where Benson’s Charger was waiting for him. He picked Benson’s mind and learned how to look up an address on the man’s phone. Destination set, he pulled out of the garage, on his way to the church of doom.

  As he blew through city streets, his features remained locked in a determined mask. Cyon was once more a warrior heading into battle—likely the last fight he would ever face.

  He paid no mind to traffic laws or speed limits. He was a demon with a badass sword and a detective’s badge. Traffic laws meant nothing to him. No mortal was going to fuck with him today.

  Cyon did not ease his foot off the gas until he pulled up in front of the church. One quick look told him he had come to the right pace. Luxury cars abounded, looking glaringly out of place in this sad excuse of a neighborhood. Nervous looking chauffeurs sat in the expensive rides, waiting for their clientele to return while they wondered what all these rich folks might be doing inside an abandoned, boarded-up church.

  Cyon got out of the car, head held up, jaw set, sword in hand. Demons registered stress differently from humans, but once they were in a human body that all changed. His stomach churned as if he was walking toward his own execution—which, all things considered, might not be that far off the mark.

  He unholstered his Glock as he stepped toward the church’s entrance. He spotted three guards at the door. They were still scrambling to bring up their weapons when he squeezed the trigger. Three bullets exploded from his pistol, and the men went down without firing a single shot.

  He had wondered why the cult would choose an abandoned church for their meeting. Darkness oozed from t
he structure and hung over the church like a force field. There was history here. A story of pain and suffering and lives ended too soon. Cyon found he was eager to add more to their number. The church clouded his own thinking, amplified his feelings of hatred and rage, making him feel drunk with evil. It swept away any notion of using stealth or tactics. There was only vengeance. The demon was fully in charge now.

  The man he might have been once upon a time, had long become a faded memory.

  Tonight, he was death incarnate, the grim reaper himself. There was no more fear, only a fierce joy. Seeing the first men drop had whetted his appetite for more. He couldn’t wait to crash their little party inside.

  Couldn’t wait to stare down at his old master along the blade of Demon Slayer.

  Sword up, Glock out, he kicked open the door.

  He burst into the church and froze at the phantasmagorical sight awaiting him. A landscape of contorting bodies and writhing serpents had transformed the nave into a nightmarish hellscape. The hissing reptiles slipped around the terrified attendees of the auction and burrowed themselves into their chosen hosts. And there, bound to a pentagram behind the altar, was Jane Archer.

  Raven would have experienced fear and disgust at the sight. He would have run to Archer, heedless of the danger. But the demon took it all in stride. Death and suffering were normal to someone who had spent centuries in Hell.

  Advancing, he almost slipped in the red pile of gore under his feet. A quick glance revealed similar red splotches of organic goo around the struggling congregants. These flesh puddles had to be what was left of the cult members. They had used their bodies to bring the demons into this world. What devoted fools!