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  His partnership with Raven had changed everything. It had given him another chance to be a hero. Now, even if Morgal destroyed him in the coming battle, the Duke of Hell could not claim his soul. He’d broken free of his Dark Lord. He’d never be a saint, but neither would he serve the darkness.

  Possessing Detective Benson was a walk in the park compared to the ongoing struggle to wrest control away from Raven. Benson never knew what hit him and had offered no resistance as Cyon usurped his mind. It helped that unlike Raven, Benson didn’t sport any protective talismans. Neither had he been marked by Morgal or mentored by the world’s leading monster hunter and demonologist. Benson was a good cop—Cyon could glean that much from the man’s memories—but he presented no match for a demon.

  The detective hadn’t vanished completely; his panicked thoughts were a distant echo bouncing around the recesses of his own mind.

  “Sorry, Benson, you’ll get your body back as soon as this is over,” Cyon told him.

  He doubted Benson drew much comfort from this promise. The man was desperately clinging to his sanity. Being taken over by a demon could have that effect on mortals. To be honest, Cyon was dubious they’d make it through the night in one piece, but he felt it was best not to share this insight with his new host. Poor Benson was having a hard enough time as it was.

  What a fool he’d been to think Morgal would sit by idly while his enemies plotted against him. And now Morgal’s followers had Demon Slayer and his copy of the Daemonium, weapons he needed to stand a fighting chance against the archdemon. Fortunately, Morgal’s weakness was his arrogance, and Cyon planned to exploit this to the best of his abilities. Sending his servant to the precinct so she could bask in his victory was a mistake Morgal would come to regret. There was still time to foil his plan during the upcoming auction. Cyon hoped his old master would be foolish enough to show himself during the event. He was both terrified and eager to confront the fiend. But first, he needed weapons.

  Luckily, he found himself in a police precinct.

  Tapping into Benson’s brain, he located the evidence room and the armory. Benson put up little resistance as he plucked the information out of his mind. The detective was way in over his head—literally. To his surprise, he felt sorry for putting Benson through this. But he had no choice. He couldn’t exist on the physical plane for an extended period without a human host. He needed a flesh-and-blood body to operate in this world, but for Raven’s sake he would try not to damage the detective.

  Some demons could manifest on Earth, but it required a great expenditure of energy to do so. That’s why the cult had selected the most powerful people on the planet to become unwilling hosts for Morgal’s demon horde. As much as he hated Morgal, he had to admit the archdemon had cooked up a masterful plan to expand his influence in this world. The actions of his followers would feed power back to the dimension of darkness, allowing Morgal to take what he had always believed to be rightfully his: the throne of Hell. War was coming to Earth and Hell unless he could stop the fiend.

  Cyon shook his head. When this all started, he’d dreamt of taking Morgal’s place in Hell. Now he only cared about saving the world that had once been his own. He would stop the archdemon’s plan and make Morgal pay for what he’d done to him and Raven. And after that? It was a waste of time to speculate what waited for him after Morgal’s defeat, in this world or the underworld. The odds of him walking away from the upcoming confrontation were slim to none.

  Pushing all these thoughts aside, he focused on the more immediate challenges. He needed to arm himself and find his enemy. The first part would be straightforward—after all, he was in a police precinct. The second part might prove more challenging. How was he going to find Lamia?

  Kovan Crull had kept the existence of his daughter from the world. A wise move, all things considered. The crime boss’s followers had all perished when Skulick and Raven thwarted their plan two years earlier, so none of them would be able to spill her secrets. If Raven hadn’t known of her existence, neither had the cops. Still, there might be old associates of Kovan’s who never joined his cult but knew of the mobster’s daughter. Skimming Benson’s mind, he learned that the police database might produce a few names. These leads would be long shots, and it would take time to check them out—time which he didn’t have, damn it. But the database was still his best option.

  Mind made up, Cyon headed for Benson’s desk. As he took a seat, he marveled at how meticulously the detective kept his workspace, in contrast to Raven’s less organized approach.

  I could get used to this, Cyon transmitted to his host. Sensing Benson’s sharp protest, he added, Just kidding. But I like your style, Benson.

  The detective grew silent, and Cyon scanned Benson’s brain again for the computer’s password. A beat later, he tapped in the code and accessed the crime database. A lovely collection of sociopaths and miscreants filled the screen. Cyon quickly located a few Russian gangsters who used to be in Crull’s crew. He memorized their names and addresses.

  A sudden sound behind him made him swivel around in his office chair. Detective Orlando had snuck up on him and met his startled gaze.

  “What are working on, detective?”

  After a beat, Cyon said, “Just checking out a lead on a new case.”

  Now that sounded like something Raven would say. The kid had really rubbed off on him. Hearing his words filtered through Benson’s voice felt surreal after speaking through Raven for all these months. He studied the detective and concluded the man was here to gloat.

  “So, what do you have to say for your boy Raven? I always told you he was a freak who couldn’t be trusted,” Orlando said smugly.

  “Whatever happened to the idea you’re innocent until proven guilty?”

  “For crying out loud, didn’t you see the security footage from the warehouse?”

  “Security files can be manipulated, you know that. It’s the twenty-first century.”

  “He attacked you in the interrogation room less than ten minutes ago!”

  Cyon was starting to get annoyed with this human. “A misunderstanding,” he said through gritted teeth.

  “Jeez, I still can’t believe you’re unwilling to face the truth when it’s staring you right in the face. Raven played you for a fool all this time.”

  You’re the only fool I see around here, Cyon thought. He wasn’t used to bottling up his feelings. He might have turned his back on the darker aspects of his demon persona, but he still didn’t like to play nice. In Cyon’s mind, he saw his palm snap out in a vicious karate chop and drive Orlando’s nose all the way into his brain.

  But he resisted the impulse. The man was a first-class jerk—and a distraction. He had way bigger fish to fry and needed to save his strength. Still, he was surprised at how much it upset him to hear this imbecile speak ill of Raven. That was his job. Had Cyon actually come to like Raven?

  His eyes narrowed as he addressed Orlando, his voice tight.

  “Time will tell what really happened. Now if we’re done here, I’m going to get back to work.”

  Orlando shook his head in disgust and backed off. Good riddance, Cyon thought. His focus returned to the names and faces in the crime database. He memorized several additional mobsters he hoped to pay a visit. Next, it was time to get some guns. He didn’t plan to walk into the lion’s den unless he was packing some firepower. Cultists, unlike monsters, were vulnerable to conventional weapons. He would slaughter them all if he had to. The mere thought filled him with a mad joy, and Cyon realized that his demonic nature was still alive and well. Raven had changed him but not altered his essential nature. Yes, blood would flow tonight, but he would make sure every soul who perished under his hands deserved it. The members of Morgal’s fan club had earned their express tickets to Hell.

  Tapping into Benson’s knowledge of the precinct, he made his way into the evidence storage area. As he navigated the police headquarters, he exchanged greetings with other officers, never looking lo
st or out of place.

  Once inside the evidence locker, nobody eyed him with suspicion. Why would they suspect he was about to help himself to the arsenal? Upstanding Detective Benson surely had a good reason to be examining the guns, weapons, and confiscated drugs that lined the steel shelves. Cyon snatched a machine pistol and a smaller handgun. He didn’t know much about the specifics of these firearms, so he let Benson’s knowledge guide him, selecting weapons which could pack a punch. He helped himself to enough ammo to start a little war and headed for the precinct’s underground parking lot.

  Once there, Cyon located Benson’s unmarked Dodge Charger, and moments later, he was fighting his way through traffic. Cyon reviewed his mental list of Crull’s former associates. He would find them and grill them, and hopefully one of these assholes would steer him toward Lamia. The sun was already setting. Time was running out.

  The first name on the list was Vladimir Pashenka. A former enforcer of Crull’s who had gone on record that he had never been part of Crimson Circle. However, one look at the man’s illustrious criminal file suggested he wasn’t exactly a friend of the truth. Perhaps he hadn’t joined Crull on his mad crusade, but maybe he had known of the cult leader’s daughter. She called herself Lamia Crull now, but she hadn’t been raised with the Crull surname.

  According to Benson’s near encyclopedic knowledge of these scumbags, Pashenka ran a Russian bathhouse downtown. The place offered more than massages and hot baths to its clients, employing a bevy of Russian beauties as escorts.

  Part of him hoped that Pashenka would put up a fight. The thought of impending violence thrilled Cyon. After centuries of serving Morgal in the dimension of fear, reconnecting with his human self wouldn’t be easy. Especially since his demon nature could never truly be erased He was a monster. But today he was the monster willing to fight bigger and badder beasts.

  Cyon pulled up to a brick and stone building, parked Benson’s Charger, and got out. He entered the building, eyes alert. The three men who fronted the reception area were busy telling jokes in Russian. They looked up at Benson and grew still as their expressions filled with recognition. Benson was no stranger to these punks. They knew he was a detective, and their guard went up even though no one reached for the firearms hidden under the reception desk. They saw a cop, not a demon.

  Their first—and last—mistake of the day.

  Cyon wordlessly brought up the handgun and fired. Raven would have never allowed him to kill so indiscriminately, but the monster hunter wasn’t here to reign in the beast. Each bullet found its target and the three men went down in a rain of red.

  Like a machine, Cyon passed the dead bodies and marched into the bathhouse. Female laughter drifted toward him. He paused for a beat, then rounded the corner and glimpsed a tall, regal woman shaking her ass for the delight of the businessmen watching her. Lust stirred in him. He killed the impulse, focusing on the task ahead. His shoes clicked against the wet tile floor, the sound muffled by the rush of gurgling water from the nearby showers and his form obscured by steam.

  He reached the end of the steam-filled corridor and stepped into a massage room. Pashenka lay face-down on the table, a towel draped around his ample waist. A perfectly shaped leg caressed his hairy back, massaging aching muscles. He moaned with pleasure. Apparently, the mobster wasn’t above enjoying his wares.

  Cyon, gun in hand, took a step forward. Neither Pashenka nor the masseuse noticed his approach, caught up in their little game. Suddenly, the woman glanced up at him and froze. She didn’t scream. If she had, he probably would have shot her on the spot. Instead, she slowly backed away.

  Smart girl. He nodded at her, and she took off. Only then did Pashenka realize something was wrong. But it was too late.

  Cyon pressed the barrel into the back of the man’s neck and hissed, “What do you know about Lamia Crull?”

  Pashenka talked. Boy, did the fat gangster have loose lips. He knew Lamia existed but did not understand where she was or what name she used nowadays. He could only share rumors. Word on the street was that the cult had returned under new leadership.

  Cyon gnashed his teeth. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Pashenka’s terror was real—he was telling the truth. Cyon would have detected a lie. The man would be of no help. He cursed. The first name on his list was a bust. The process of tracking down former associates of the cult leader would take time, valuable time he didn’t have. Worst of all, there were no guarantees of success.

  “What are you going to do? Are you going to kill me?” the man yammered.

  The gangster was no cultist, but he was far from innocent. Touching his fleshy neck, Cyon caught psychic flashes of Pashenka’s dark memories. A parade of the unavenged dead dominated those thoughts. The man had been a mob hitman. Killing might have been his profession, but he would never take a life again. Hell would greet him with open arms.

  He drilled a bullet into the mobster’s head. Pashenka sported a stunned expression in death, almost like he couldn’t believe someone would have the audacity to murder a murderer.

  As Cyon made his way out of the bathhouse, two armed goons tried to stop him. He rewarded their efforts with two bullets apiece to the head. Cyon felt liberated without Raven looking over his shoulder. Benson, meanwhile, had retreated to the far recesses of his mind, horrified at what was happening.

  A tiny sliver of guilt pricked Cyon’s consciousness, but he ignored it.

  Cyon strode toward the Charger and tried to keep his disappointment in check. Dealing with Pashenka and his thugs had been a detour he couldn’t afford. As he took a seat behind the wheel, he glanced at Benson’s reflection and saw a red spot on his shirt. Blood. Not his own. Something about the scarlet stain disturbed him, and suddenly Cyon’s throat tightened as he recalled the mobster’s terror when he pulled the trigger. What was wrong with him? With such a soft attitude, he wouldn’t have lasted a minute back in Hell.

  But you’re not in Hell anymore, a voice inside of him spoke up, and it almost sounded like Raven. He sucked in a lungful of air. No, the voice didn’t belong to Raven—it was his own. The younger, more idealistic version of Cyon who had hunted witches and monsters four hundred years earlier. A man who would never have taken joy in killing the way the demon did.

  I don’t have time for this bullshit! He raged, trying to silence the voice. There were more people he needed to visit. It was getting dark, and he did not doubt that the guests of Lamia’s auction were already on their way.

  And that’s when his cell phone rang. Well, technically it was Benson’s cell. Weird, how those lines blurred so quickly whenever he took control of a new body.

  He eyed the phone. His first impulse was to ignore the call and turn off the ringer. But then he saw the name of the incoming caller: Jane Archer.

  15

  4 Hours Earlier

  Archer parked her bike a few hundred feet away from the church. She figured she would draw less attention on foot. The few people she ran into eyed her with surprise. Strangers rarely visited the ghetto.

  The crumbling gothic church overlooked a desolate intersection, a rundown tenement building casting a large shadow behind it. A chain link fence surrounded the property, and trees and wild shrubbery covered much of the building. Ivy tattooed the building’s stony hide in wild patches. The place looked haunted, and Archer understood why locals kept their distance. Back in the day, the church had offered hope to its congregants; now it served as a glaring example of the area’s encroaching poverty.

  The church, like the whole neighborhood, felt abandoned and desolate, and God seemed far away.

  As she approached, the air grew heavier, each step becoming more difficult, almost as if gravity itself was different near the oppressive structure. That was ridiculous; still, she couldn’t shake the sensation that evil permeated the structure. Raven had told her about the mark on his chest, which flared up with pain whenever he confronted the paranormal. Well, she didn’t need a magical scar to kno
w this place was bad news. Her hand instinctively reached for her Witch Whip and the Glock loaded with silver bullets. Bloodslayer, the silver stake Skulick had gifted her, remained strapped to her back in a leather scabbard. The stake could stop both vampires and other supernaturals, but she hoped it wouldn’t be needed.

  She studied the church for about a minute. Nothing suggested that anyone was lurking in the former house of God. Giving herself an internal push, she swiftly climbed the fence with athletic grace. She landed in the overgrown stretch of grass that separated the church’s main entrance from the sidewalk. Drawing closer, she discovered that taggers hadn’t branded the place. Most derelict buildings became the canvas for enthusiastic graffiti artists, but not the church.

  Strange.

  Maybe respect of the Almighty kept the street Picassos at bay. Yeah right. No, the only logical explanation was fear. The locals knew the sordid history of this place and stayed clear.

  If you were smart, she told herself, you’d do the same.

  She wasn’t some thrill seeker or urban explorer out for kicks. She was here for a reason. If Ronny’s intel was to be trusted, this church was about to become the next auction site. She fought back the temptation to call Raven before going inside. She had to make sure the Crimson Circle was really here.

  Archer opted for a simple plan. She would enter the church and snoop around. If she saw evidence of the cult, she would call Raven for backup. This wouldn’t be the first time she set foot in some creepy abandoned building alone. And those other abandoned structures had brimmed with bloodsuckers. She could do this.

  She willed herself forward and shoved her weight against the church’s wooden door. The entrance gave way with an ominous creak.