Occult Assassin: Ice God Read online

  For the first time since the events in San Francisco, the occult assassin was ready to come in from the cold.

  THE END

  Find out about the latest releases and giveaways by joining my spam-free mailing list!

  If you enjoyed this novel, please consider writing an Amazon review - they really help. I’m an indie writer and anything you can do to get the word out to other readers is deeply appreciated. You can follow this direct link below.

  http://www.amazon.com/review/create-review/ref+cm_cr_dp_wrt_btm?ie=UTF8&asin=B00MWHXOH

  If you have notes, thoughts or comments about this book, feel free to email me at

  [email protected]

  Writing can be a solitary pursuit but rewriting can be a group effort. I strive to make each book better than the last and feedback is incredibly helpful.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  William Massa is a screenwriter, script consultant and book reviewer (http://horrornovelreviews.com/) He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, thrillers, science fiction and dark fantasy. More books are on the way.

  Visit my Facebook page for updates and messages.

  Visit my my website at www.williammassa.com

  COVER ART/CREDITS

  Frozen woman © 2014 under license of shutterstock

  Cover design by Jun Ares & William Massa.

  OCCULT ASSASSIN #1 IS AVAILABLE FOR PRE-ORDER NOW

  A FULL-LENGTH NOVEL ADVENTURE.

  EXPERIENCE THE ORIGIN OF THE OCCULT ASSASSIN.

  LEARN HOW MARK TALON MET SIMON CASCA.

  After a decade spent fighting the enemy abroad and keeping his country safe, Delta Force Operator Mark Talon is ready to settle down with the love of his life. But Talon’s world crumbles when his fiancée becomes the victim of a terrifying cult. The military man now has a new foe in his crosshairs, and this promises to be a very different war…

  The person responsible for his beloved’s death is a Silicon Valley tycoon allied with the forces of darkness. Fusing cutting-edge computer technology with occult power, the enemy here cannot be stopped by bullets alone. If Talon is to be victorious in his mission of vengeance, he will need to master a new method of warfare — the arcane arts!

  He must become…. the Occult Assassin.

  Find out about the latest releases and giveaways by joining my spam-free mailing list!

  Online dating. A great way to connect in a wired, increasingly busy world, but do you really know who hides behind the smiling pictures? The flirtatious text messages? What if the person on the other end of the personal ad isn’t quite what they appear to be… What if they aren’t even alive?

  Mark found her photo on a popular dating app that was all the rage.

  Her name was Akasha, and she was beautiful. Seductive. Irresistible

  She wrote that she was looking for friendship. Love. A real connection.

  But Akasha is concealing a horrible secret. Now Mark must solve a terrifying mystery if he is to save those he loves the most and survive a deadly obsession.

  PLEASE ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF

  Match: A Supernatural Thriller

  PROLOGUE

  “IT’S SATURDAY NIGHT. Let’s hit up some bars in the city and meet some ladies,” Josh’s roommate Peter said. He wore $400 designer jeans and an expensive button-down shirt, both beyond the means of a starting salary of a twenty-six-year-old bank teller, and looked serious about getting some action tonight.

  “Don’t tell me you’re just going to stay home and sit in front of the TV.”

  “Catching a UFC fight isn’t just sitting in front of the TV.”

  “Watching two guys bashing their heads in without their shirts on is gay.”

  “Fuck you,” Josh said in a playful tone. “Beats the bar scene.”

  Josh meant what he said. He had no intention of leaving the comfort zone of the man cave tonight. Hitting a club or trendy bar to meet a chick was a costly exercise in frustration and a waste of time. He was over it! Of course, his attitude might be a direct consequence of his most recent break-up. He’d thought Karen loved him. The bitch didn’t just break his heart, she had shattered it. He was still picking up the pieces. Bottom line – he wasn’t quite ready for the face-to-face rejection to be found in New York City’s nightlife.

  “Come on, Josh, I could use a wingman tonight,” Peter said. A ‘wingman’ was Peter’s code for a designated driver. Why waste money on Uber when your buddy can chauffeur your drunk ass around town?

  Josh gave it to Peter straight. He loved his roommate but this wasn’t the first time they’d played this game. “Only reason you want me to come is because you need someone to drive your alcoholic butt to Taco Bell if you strike out tonight. Seeing you medicate your sexual frustration with junk food isn't my idea of fun.”

  “Hey, you got a problem with me, fine, but don't knock Taco Bell.”

  Peter grinned. He could be an asshole, but he was a charming asshole. Josh smiled despite himself but stayed firm and shook his head.

  Peter shrugged, accepting defeat, and said, “Have fun.” With that he marched out of their two-bedroom apartment and the door slammed shut behind him.

  Finally some peace.

  Josh’s attention returned to the television.

  Back in his college days when dinosaurs still roamed the Earth and he’d just started courting Karen, Josh was like poor Peter. He’d hit the bars and clubs on the weekends, cruising the various watering holes in a horny, alcohol-infused daze. His prowling for girls mostly pickled his liver and blew through his hard-earned cash. After living with Karen for three years straight out of college, Josh wasn’t quite ready to return to his old lifestyle.

  On a whim he grabbed his phone and called his kid brother Mark. It took two rings before Mark picked up.

  “So what’s up? You going to catch the fight with me?” Josh asked.

  “I shouldn’t. I got a ton of homework. Classes are kicking my ass.”

  Unlike Josh, who at twenty-six had been navigating the corporate job market for a few years, Mark was still in school – lucky bastard. He was at Hunter College studying to be a physical therapist and would make bank when he graduated. The city school’s nursing and physical therapy programs were considered among the best in the state.

  “Come on, bro. How about a study break?”

  Josh didn’t see himself as a bad influence here, just a concerned older brother. He knew from experience that prolonged work produced diminishing returns. Some time away from the books would do the kid some good. Give him a chance to clear his head.

  “Alright, count me in,” Mark said.

  “Good man. Don't forget to pick up the pizza. I'll see you in a few.”

  CLICK. Josh hung up. He took a deep, satisfying swig from his Stella Artois and switched his attention back to the fight.

  Suddenly his phone pinged. Incoming Facebook message from a girl named Akasha.

  “Hi Josh, how are you?”

  Josh hesitated. He typed a quick, perfunctory response. “I'm good.”

  Josh stared at Akasha’s profile pic, which was visible next to the message box. A haunting, intense beauty, her looks managed to be both ethereal and sexual at the same time. Lush black hair framed a pale face dominated by a pair of dark, penetrating eyes; there was a promise in them accentuated by a hint of a smile. The girl possessed a real edge that came through even in the stamp-sized image on his phone.

  Another pinging sound announced her next message.

  “What are you up to?”

  “About to head out to dinner with a friend,” he lied. “No time to chat...”

  Her next text was immediate – he wasn’t getting off the hook that easily. “Why are you avoiding me, Josh? Don't you love me anymore?”

  “How could I be in love with you after one date?” Josh said to himself.

  His question was met with a loud banging sound.

  What the hell?


  It had emanated from his bedroom. He waited a second and…

  The pounding repeated itself, this time much louder.

  Josh rose from the couch. The sounds were too pronounced, too insistent to be ignored. Wary, he approached the partially open bedroom door, body coiled and jaw bunched tight.

  “Hello? Anyone there?”

  No answer.

  Josh reached the door but hesitated for a beat before his fingers closed around the doorknob. As the door opened completely, inky darkness awaited within. He flicked a switch and light flooded the room. It revealed his bed, a few cool movie posters, a tangle of dirty laundry...

  Bachelor city.

  Still on edge, eyes scanning, Josh took a few steps into his bedroom. Nothing out of the ordinary, just a room cloaked in shadows.

  Something felt off, though. Josh sniffed the air and picked up the faint aroma of burnt wood. Like there was a campfire outside. Except that it was December in New York City, so that didn’t make any sense at all...

  Josh's gaze dropped and his eyes widened with puzzlement. A black footprint had been burned into the hardwood floor. He crouched to get a better view and touched the print. His fingertips came up black, smeared with ash. It was still hot.

  Following a sudden hunch, his gaze traveled toward the impenetrable darkness underneath the bed. For a crazy moment he expected something to jump out at him, a horror flick come alive, but a quick scan revealed that no boogeyman lurked under his bed. Josh let out a sigh of relief and the tension eased.

  He was about to get up when he sensed rapid movement behind him. He whirled…

  Shock rippled through him.

  And then there was only pain.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I GET OFF the phone with Josh and already regret my decision to take a break from my studies. My older brother just has a knack for talking me into stuff. As a kid, whenever I’d get in trouble with our parents Josh was the ringleader. Okay, most of the time.

  I’ve been hitting the books since early this morning – ten hours straight of cramming for my biology final. I’m fried and have to take a break if I want to maintain this pace for the rest of the weekend. I need to shut off my brain for a little bit. I lack the energy and focus to follow the plot of a movie or read a book – watching guys beat the shit out of each other is exactly what the doctor ordered.

  My girlfriend Lynn, who is in the same physical therapy program at Hunter College, flashes me an encouraging smile. She reclines on her couch, wrapped in a Snuggie tattooed with a growing collection of flash cards. There’s a steaming cup of green tea by her side. The same massive anatomy book that has been taunting me all day rests on her lap and once again I wonder why the hell they don’t sell a digital version of this beast. Sadistic bastards.

  “Go. You need a break.”

  “What about you?”

  “There’s a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in the freezer.”

  I think about it for a moment and ice cream seems like a poor substitute for pizza and beer, but to each his own.

  She must think I’m on the fence about leaving because she says, “We’ve been on a marathon study session. You need to refuel.”

  This is just another example of why Lynn is my girl. I’ve been with her since my first year of college and I’m still crazy about her. She grounds me, keeps me sane. I’m originally from Florida while Lynn is a born-and-raised New Yorker. She’s three years older but seems about a decade wiser and a hell of a lot more worldly. Lynn dropped out of college for a while, traveling extensively, and was married for a few months. She’s Irish-Italian on her mom’s side, African-American on her father’s, and she grew up in Spanish Harlem. Her exotic looks make most people think she’s Puerto Rican — my own personal J-Lo. Fortunately, Lynn doesn’t seem to mind my hick tendencies. In a weird way, she seems to find my simple background charming.

  I give her a kiss and our lips linger. I resist the first stirring of passion, knowing that if I let our make-out session go any further I’ll be late for the fight. Josh would never forgive me.

  “Have fun, sweetie.”

  After a full day of being cooped up with medical textbooks, I definitely will.

  I snatch up my jacket and gloves, bracing myself for the biting December cold that awaits me outside the heated apartment. Lynn’s studio is in Astoria, Queens and you can see the Manhattan skyline in the distance while you wait for the train on the elevated subway platform.

  I, on the other hand, live in Briarwood — about half an hour deeper into the borough. The rents are low in this working-class enclave of various ethnicities. My place is far from glamorous, but you can’t beat the square-footage return rate. An old friend of my dad likes to say, “You’re not only what you eat, you are where you live!” Can’t argue with him but I’d rather have some money left after I pay my rent, so I could afford to eat.

  My brother lives in nearby Forest Hills, an upper-middle-class neighborhood and the home of Peter Parker (aka Spiderman). I’m a bit of a geek, so I know lots of really useful information like that. I catch the N train, transfer to the F and thirty minutes later I get off on 71st Avenue. As I walk down Austin Street, the main commercial strip, I pass my favorite pizza parlor. I go in and order a pie — sausage, pepperoni and ground beef. This is boys’ night out and if it didn’t bleed, it doesn’t belong on my pizza.

  As they shove our pie into the steel oven, I head to the liquor store across the street and purchase a six-pack of Heineken. Before long I’m on my way again, pizza in tow, and the scent of mozzarella bubbling away in olive oil makes me salivate. I’m so looking forward to my evening of scholastic freedom. Beer. Pizza. MMA. Not a textbook in sight. Heaven on Earth.

  My brother’s apartment building is located at the end of the street. A rusted fire escape mars the exterior. Sirens shriek a few blocks down. We may not be in Manhattan, but we’re still in New York.

  I ring the doorbell a few times, but no one answers. Weird. Josh is expecting me, so why isn’t he letting me in? After all, his guest brings booze and chow. Since Karen dumped him, my brother has been drinking too much. Did he pass out in front of the TV? He sounded pretty buzzed on the phone, but I dismiss this idea as soon as it pops into my head. Josh isn’t a lightweight and can definitely hold his liquor. Who knows why he isn’t answering the bell, but my arms are getting tired from carrying the pizza box and sixer of beer. I put the goodies down for a moment and decide to let myself in. I use the spare set of keys from the last time Josh asked me to apartment-sit while he was out of town.

  As I enter the unit I shout, “Hey, what's going on? I rang the bell three goddamn times!”

  My question goes unanswered, but I do catch a whiff of a burning scent and now I’m worried.

  Something’s wrong.

  “Hey Josh, you here?” I ask.

  Once again, there is no response.

  I head for the nearby kitchen nook and put the pizza down on the counter. My gaze travels to the adjoining living room. MMA fighters wrestle onscreen in glorious HD and excited commentary resonates throughout the apartment.

  “Josh, what's up man? You get drunk and pass out?”

  The continued silence is unnerving. I make my way to the bedroom and as I near Josh’s room, the burning smell becomes more pungent.

  “JOSH?! YOU HERE?”

  Still no answer. Fuck it! I thrust open the door and a nightmarish sight awaits me.

  The bed is on fire. Flames lick the ceiling. Strangely, everything else in the room remains untouched by the conflagration.

  No time to wonder why the blaze hasn’t spread, or why there isn’t any smoke billowing from the room. My mind is preoccupied with the search for a fire extinguisher. Each unit has one and I recall seeing Josh’s near the entryway. I back away from the hungry flames, tear through the living room and locate the extinguisher.

  Keeping my distance from the burning bed, I aim the extinguisher. How do you activate this thing? My fingers lock around the safety pin and pull
. I squeeze the handles together and sweep the stream side to side. Foam engulfs the flames, suffocating them in seconds.

  The smoke disperses more slowly. Scorched material hisses and crackles. I stare at a melted bedframe with a dark, ashen crater in the middle of it.

  That’s when I spot the charred, smoldering body sprawled on the bed, clothing baked into the skin. The figure is barely identifiable as human. Yet when his eyelids snap open, I recognize the terror-stricken eyes looking up at me. It’s Josh! Oh my God, no...

  For a horrific beat, I just stand there, paralyzed. Josh exhales a throaty gasp. Garbled sounds escape his mangled, scorched voice box. I can clearly make out one word...

  Akasha.

  CHAPTER TWO

  I’M NUMB AS I approach the Hunter College Brookdale Campus. Located on 25th Street, about half an hour from the college, it houses a limited number of the school’s 23,000 enrollees, mostly nursing and exchange students and members of the wrestling team. Most of the physical therapy classes are taught on the first floor of the campus, including anatomy. Snow cascades down in sheets and I’m just one of many students streaming into the building with shoulders hunched against the merciless wind.

  As I make my way into the auditorium, my mind is a million miles away. I keep thinking of my brother.

  Of the terror in his eyes.

  Of his final cryptic message.

  Akasha.

  What was he talking about?