Ghoul Night (Shadow Detective Book 6) Read online

  Then those screams fell suddenly, irrevocably silent. Hot tears wetted Jennifer’s cheeks. There was nothing she could do for Rachel now.

  Run! A voice inside of her urged. Don’t let Rachel’s sacrifice be in vain.

  Her body jumped into motion, legs moving on their own volition. The monster’s roar of bloody triumph turned into a cry of dismay.

  Whatever you do, don’t look back. Keep running. You only need to make it through the gate, she told herself. The car is parked right outside.

  She pictured the monster closing the gap behind her, could feel the sting of its fetid breath. The cemetery gate jumped into view, and she tapped into her last reserve of strength. Behind her, the beast let out another frustrated howl.

  Was she going to make it?

  The question was still cycling through her mind as she passed through the gate and surged toward the Toyota parked a few feet away. She didn’t know if the creature could follow her out here, but she sure as hell didn’t plan to find out.

  Faint traffic sounds grew audible again, almost as if someone had taken their finger off a mute button. The city’s distant, steady heartbeat felt like music to her ears. Nevertheless, the streets in this industrial neighborhood remained pretty much deserted. She might have made it out of the cemetery, but she was still on her own. She needed to find someone to help her, maybe the police.

  And they’ll believe you, of course, she thought. Officer, help! My bestie was eaten by a monster!

  Jennifer felt like she was going to throw up.

  Her car keys jumped into her hand almost as if by magic. There was a quick bleep as she disengaged the lock. She opened the door and slipped behind the wheel. What she saw as she peered through her windshield made her heart skip a beat. The monster loped from the cemetery gate, ivory skin speckled red with her best friend’s blood, a Halloween decoration come to life. Worst of all, the beast was headed straight for her vehicle.

  As she frantically fired up the ignition, Rachel’s killer slammed into her windshield. For an eternal moment, they were face to face, the spider-webbed driver’s seat window a flimsy barrier between them. Any second now the glass would shatter and those teeth would find the soft skin of her neck…

  The Toyota’s engine roared.

  The monster bellowed in frustration.

  Jennifer gnashed her teeth as she floored the gas and jerked the wheel. The beast howled again, seemingly stunned by her audacity. It tried to cling to the moving vehicle for a beat before it finally let go.

  The cemetery rapidly receded in the rearview mirror, but the nightmare she’d experienced today would haunt Jennifer for the rest of her life. More terrifying than the monster, whose clutches she’d barely escaped, was the sudden certainty that this was far from over.

  No, this horror was merely beginning.

  The phantom stalker rose shakily to his feet. The creature peered after the car as it whipped around a corner. A few abandoned warehouses fronted the cemetery, blocking the vehicle from view. Nowadays, the area didn’t receive too many visitors. The dead interred in the cemetery had long been forgotten by the living.

  The monster squinted against the harsh glare of the fading sun, unaccustomed to hunting during daytime hours. Hunger had driven him to the surface. Varthek was a ghoul, a lower-level demon who sustained himself by eating the flesh of the dead. He vividly recalled a time when man feared his people and worshipped them like gods. Underground temples were erected in their names, and priests would feed them fresh corpses not tainted by decay.

  The passage of time had changed all that. He was one of the last of his species. The few remaining ghouls he knew of hid in abandoned mines or subway shafts, some seeking refuge in cemeteries the way he did. Burial grounds sustained them with a steady diet of corpses while allowing them to avoid discovery. There was no glory in such an existence, but it was far better than the alternative.

  Varthek had resigned himself to his fate. Alone, without a mate and children, he had grown isolated, a living ghost whose sole companions were the rotting corpses of the dead. His dark ambitions had shriveled with the years. Once upon a time, there had been glorious dreams of conquest, a desire to restore the old order when men were cattle and his people reigned supreme over the superstitious monkeys that one day would call themselves humans.

  And he would have continued to accept this steady decline had it not been for his encounter with the magician. The day he pried open the old man’s coffin, everything had changed. A world of knowledge revealed itself to him in that fateful moment, filling him with a newfound purpose. There were still challenges ahead, but with each day his knowledge grew.

  The ghoul returned to the cemetery, his home. As he shambled through the rows of crypts and tombstones, he shielded his light-sensitive eyes with his hand. Sunlight pained him, but the rays had grown weak. Blissful darkness would soon enshroud the cemetery. The ghoul’s anticipation surged as he strode toward the dead woman whose lifeless eyes stared emptily back at him. She was a little thin for his taste, but beggars could not be choosers, and even this lean meat would be better than any he had tasted in far too long.

  Despite his gnawing hunger, Varthek was more interested in the blood of the other woman. He sniffed the talons that had raked her flesh. There was no doubt in his mind. He would recognize the scent anywhere. The woman was related to the magician. The dead man’s blood flowed through her veins—and so did vestiges of his magic and power. She had escaped for now, but as the ghoul breathed in the scent of Jennifer’s essence, Varthek was certain he would be able to find her no matter where she chose to hide. He would have to venture beyond the walls of the cemetery. The notion of leaving his home made his guts churn with anxiety, but it was the only way. He had traveled among men many times over his long life, had found ways to blend in among the apes. He could do it again.

  He would locate the magician’s daughter.

  He would bring her back to the cemetery and learn the secrets of her blood.

  And then his people would once again rule this world.

  2

  It had been three weeks since I’d fled the warehouse loft that had once been my home, the Vatican’s most badass exorcists hot on my heels. Living in my car was a poor substitute for a warm bed. And I really missed Skulick’s coffee. But even with half of the monster-hunting community searching for me, I still needed to take the time to maintain a certain level of hygiene.

  I walked into the YMCA’s empty locker room, a towel slung around my waist, and stifled a yawn. It was two o’clock in the morning, and the gym’s showers were deserted. The late-night crowd of gym rats had finished up their workouts, and the early birds wouldn’t arrive until around four am.

  This was my time. Things like me belonged to the darkest hours of the night.

  I stepped into the shower and turned on the water. I clenched my teeth and abs in anticipation. Ten seconds later, I jerked wide awake as cold water cascaded down my back and pearled down my face, the icy shower jolting me fully awake. I would follow up the shower with a hot cup of joe, and then I should be good for another night of hunting monsters.

  You’re the only monster here, I thought as I looked down at my transformed limb. Leathery reptilian skin covered my right hand all the way up to my elbow, forming a sharp contrast to the rest of me. Hoping to save my partner, Skulick, I had made a pact with a demon, and the hand served as a constant reminder that nothing would ever be quite the same again.

  Two demons had marked me over the course of my life, each one in their own terrible way. When I was eight years old, the arch-demon Morgal had slaughtered my parents and raked his claws over my chest, leaving behind an ugly scar. At least Morgal’s mark came with some nice side benefits. For some reason, it flared with pain in the face of supernatural danger. A neat little trick that sure as hell comes in handy when your job consists of fighting paranormal abominations.

  The second mark—my newly acquired demon hand—was a bit of a different story. I vi
vidly remembered looking up from the alley after my final battle with the Skull Master and finding Skulick staring down at me. My momentary relief of seeing my partner alive quickly gave way to darker emotions. His eyes had been flat and cold, filled with disgust. I’d known then that he saw me as the enemy. I’d made a pact with the dark side. It didn’t matter that I’d done it to save him.

  I had been forced to turn my back on both my partner and my old way of life. Skulick and the White Crescent, the Vatican’s elite order of exorcists, wouldn’t rest until they had me back in a binding circle. Unfortunately, a simple exorcism ritual wouldn’t solve the problem. I wasn’t possessed any longer. I had willingly let the demon in. I doubted that the White Crescent would care that the decision had been borne from a mix of noble intentions and desperation. They only looked at the bottom line: my soul had been compromised. One of their own, a professional paranormal investigator, had switched sides and needed to be stopped. Sooner rather than later.

  And so the hunter had become the hunted, if you’ll excuse the cliché.

  I had never exactly been a social butterfly, my dark calling making it hard to connect with most people. But now I was cut off from everyone. I’d never felt so utterly alone.

  Not quite alone, I reminded myself. There was always Cyon. But even my new demon partner had grown strangely silent in the wake of our pact, our internal dialogue growing less frequent. More and more, it felt like we were becoming one person, man and demon fusing into something new and far more dangerous.

  A meaner, badder monster hunter? Or a more terrible monster than the things I hunted? I knew which side the Vatican came down on, along with Skulick.

  Thinking about it filled me with a deep sense of loss. For a brief moment, I was a little boy again on that fateful night when my parents paid the ultimate price for being enemies of Hell. Orphaned. Helpless.

  As soon as I’d fled the dark alley where the Skull Master had met his fate, I’d headed for the garage and picked up my Equus Bass. The car was conspicuous as hell, but I had refused to give up my beloved ride along with everything else. Next step had been to clear my accounts before Skulick could freeze my funds. Ever since then I’d been on the go, living in my car or cheap motels, always looking over my shoulder.

  The White Crescent would never give up—but neither would I. The Cursed City needed me.

  I switched off the shower and took a deep breath, steadying myself. The icy spray had energized me and shaken off the cobwebs. I headed to the locker area, making sure to hide my inhuman hand under a towel just in case some other late-night gym patron showed up. Fortunately, the area was deserted, and I quickly got dressed. I sniffed my shirt and wrinkled my face. A trip to the laundromat was way overdue. Even on the run, the little gritty details of life had a way of catching up with you.

  Once dressed, I left the gym, snagged a cup of coffee from the McDonald’s across the street—the best coffee you can get for a buck—and sought refuge in my new home. Thank God the leather seats of my muscle car were reasonably comfortable. Still, I was sick of waking up every day with a painful crick in my neck. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep living like this.

  As the caffeine burned down my throat, ensuring I wouldn’t feel sleepy until the sun came up, I fired up my iPad while combing the papers for signs of otherworldly trouble. Detective Benson had stopped calling, and so had any other potential client. Being blacklisted certainly put a damper on my business. Protecting this city while living out of my car—and with every paranormal investigator in town gunning for me—was eventually going to get me killed. Only time would tell. For now, I was trying my best to keep this place safe from paranormal threats.

  Skulick believed I had become one of those threats, but I knew better. True, a demon now resided within me, but Cyon was different. He had declared war against the dark side, albeit for less than noble reasons. I felt called to fight because of what had happened to my parents, but Cyon just wanted to stick it to Morgal, his former master.

  “Don’t delude yourself, Raven. You fight the forces of Hell for the same reasons as I do. Revenge.”

  Cyon had a point. I couldn’t really argue with that logic.

  It had been a while since the demon had spoken up, and hearing his mellifluous, cultured voice again inside my head startled me. Weirdly enough, his presence was comforting. It meant I wasn’t completely on my own.

  As I skimmed through the papers, I couldn’t help thinking of Skulick again. Ordinarily he was the one in charge of research. How would Skulick battle supernatural threats without me? He was a general without a soldier.

  My thoughts turned to Jane Archer, the former homicide detective who had become both a partner and briefly a lover before I had been forced to turn her into a vampire to save her life. Ultimately, I had managed to restore her humanity, but since then she hadn’t wanted anything to do with me. She’d quit the force and dedicated her life to hunting down the remaining vampires in the city. I wondered what she was doing at the moment. Tracking some bloodthirsty beasts in the derelict outskirts of the city? Or would Skulick perhaps recruit her as his new soldier in the ongoing battle against the darkness? I wouldn’t be surprised if he did—she was proving herself more than fit for the job, despite my worries about her safety. He had already armed her with both knowledge and mystical weaponry. Would he send her after me? The notion was too painful to contemplate, and I quickly silenced the dark thoughts.

  I shifted my focus back to the newspapers. Sandwiched between all the depressing politics and violence, I came across a story that piqued my interest. A nighttime jogger had called in about a bonfire at a local park. According to the news report, the burned remains of dead animals had been found in the fire, and the cops reported strange markings on the surrounding trees.

  I quickly pulled up photographs of the crime scene on the web, and a chill danced up my spine. I’d seen such symbols before in the lair of the Blackmore Witch, who had cut a deadly swath through a group of young hikers only about an hour away from the city. I vividly recalled the young man who she’d transformed into a tree. The image of the poor soul pleading with me to end his monstrous existence still haunted me to this day.

  I suddenly had a strong urge to trade my coffee for something far stronger. I hated spell-slingers as a rule. Unlike monsters, most magic practitioners were humans who had sold their souls to the devil for a taste of power.

  And how are they different from you? The voice wasn’t Cyon’s, nor was it my own. No, the little voice in my head sounded way too much like my former partner.

  I closed the paper, put away the iPad, and fired up the car. A late-night trip to the park was in order. Battling a crazed witch weirdly enough sounded like a welcome distraction from my problems. God, my life really was a mess. I gripped the steering wheel, stomped the gas and took off into the night.

  3

  I passed a group of demons, witches, and walking skeletons as I entered the park. My stomach clenched at the sight of the monster squad even though I knew they were just a group of drunken young adults on their way home from a Halloween party. When you battle demons for a living—when you have one living inside of you—the idea of dressing up as a monster loses some of its appeal.

  Crisp fall air slapped my face as I strode into the park, my human hand tugging at the butt of my magical pistol. I hadn’t quite gotten used to being suddenly left-handed—another effect of my new union with the demon. It took me about ten minutes to find the spot where the jogger had made his horrific discovery. A dirt path cut through a copse of trees. Darkness enveloped me, the park lamps too distant to chase away the shadows of this secluded spot. The perfect place for an outdoor black magic ceremony.

  I approached the trees and took a closer look at the strange markings. Darkness soaked the area, yet I didn’t make use of the flashlight I had brought along for this occasion. My recent pact hadn’t merely given me the hand of the monster. The changes ran far deeper. I felt stronger and my senses w
ere heightened. A month earlier I would have been practically blind in the park, but now I could easily make out the symbols.

  More likely than not, the markings would be an amateur effort, just teens dabbling with black magic they found on the internet, but after my encounter with the Blackmore Witch, I had to make sure. Witches had steered clear of the Cursed City in the last year, but that could quickly change. Especially if the dark side grew wise that my partnership with Skulick was over.

  This was the other reason why I continued to hunt the forces of darkness, despite the many new challenges of doing the job solo. If Hell truly believed their greatest enemies were no longer a united front, that Skulick and I had turned against each other…well, the Cursed City would be in for a rough ride.

  I took a series of pictures of the occult symbols with my cell phone and planned to hit the public library to investigate their meaning. Man, I missed having access to our extensive occult library. Who was I kidding? I was missing Skulick and his encyclopedic knowledge of the dark side. Both my gut and the throbbing demon scar told me this was the real deal.

  The level of detail in the carvings suggested that whoever had made them knew exactly what they were doing. Each symbol appeared to be part of a larger spell, drawing energy both from the ground and trees as well as the animals which had been offered up to the flames. I prayed the poor critters had been dead when the fire reached them, but past experiences suggested otherwise. Energy released during violent death was far more powerful, a raw force that magic users could bend to their will.

  The signs of the ritual triggered a strange sense of unease, a pervasive feeling of dread which was echoed by the demon inside of me. It’s hard to describe but I suddenly knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the markings on the trees scared Cyon.

  He’s afraid of witchcraft, I realized. Nothing seemed to ever shock or instill fear in the demon, well, not until now. Why was this occult crime scene affecting Cyon?