Date: 2015-08-30 04:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Horror; Science Fiction; Urban Fantasy
Description: Technology engineered to battle the spirits of the dead… Mark Talon must battle an evil psychic and the terrifying forces of the afterlife in his most heart-pounding adventure yet.

OCCULT ASSASSIN

SPIRIT BREAKER

BOOK 3

William Massa

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Copyright © 2015 William Massa

Published by Critical Mass Publishing

All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.

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Also by William Massa

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Occult Assassin #1: Damnation Code - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #2: Apocalypse Soldier - Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #2.5: Ice Shadows (A Novella) Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #3.5: Coffin Collector (A Short Story) Amazon US Amazon UK

Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Available for Preorder) - Amazon US Amazon UK

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HORROR/DARK FANTASY

FEAR THE LIGHT

GARGOYLE KNIGHT

MATCH: A SUPERNATURAL THRILLER

SCIENCE FICTION

CROSSING THE DARKNESS

THE SILICON SERIES

SILICON DAWN

SILICON MAN

COMING SOON

THE SYSTEM: A SPACE OPERA

THE STORY SO FAR

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 murderous cult.

In the wake of his terrible loss, Talon dedicates himself to a new mission – hunting down twisted occultists around the globe and stopping them before they can unleash the forces of darkness upon an unsuspecting world.

In Spirit Breaker, Talon must battle the terrifying forces of the afterlife.

CHAPTER ONE

THE DEAD WALKED the Earth.

At least for today.

It was Dia de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, and the streets of Mexico City bustled with morbid activity. Lukas Espinoza peered from the second-story window of his nightclub and soaked in the preternatural scene unfolding outside. A bobbing sea of skeletons, coffins, and death masks streamed through the arteries of the city, the procession moving to the steady, hypnotic beat of pounding drums.

His probing gaze roamed the mob. As one of Mexico’s top drug lords, Espinoza knew how to spot cops. His trained eye picked out the heavily armed police guards from the crowd, their presence unable to spoil the celebration. He chose not to worry about the law enforcement officers. If any screams should escape from his club, the drums and shouts of the surging congregation below would drown them out.

The festive atmosphere outside was the fusion of ancient Aztec beliefs in death with the Catholic celebrations of All Saints’ Day. While the people below used this day to reconnect with deceased friends, family members, and ancestors, Espinoza directed his prayers to Santa Muerte.

Unlike traditional Catholic Saints, Santa Muerte wasn’t the spirit of a living person but the personification of death itself. The grim reapress was the perfect deity for a man in his line of work. Besides the nightclub, Espinoza’s business empire counted sweatshops, drugs, and murder among its many revenue streams. Most people who worshipped the Goddess offered cigars, chocolate, tequila or fruit. They were deceiving themselves if they thought the reapress could ever be satisfied with such frivolous tokens of their adoration. To Espinoza’s mind, Santa Muerte only accepted the currency of blood—and he was about to make his payment.

A muffled moan emanated from the large space behind him, and Espinoza shifted his attention away from the festivities. Deep shadows cloaked the storage room on the top floor of his building. Usually, it contained a few crates of alcohol, a dusty desk, and a ratty couch. His eyes locked on the nude beauty dangling from the ceiling at the center of the room. She was strung up by her feet like a hog, the rope secured around steel rafters, her tawny body pointing toward the ground. The woman’s tight, small breasts somehow defied gravity as her long black hair, now caked with sweat and fear, brushed the dusty wooden floor. Her listless expression suggested a deep resignation to her fate.

The woman’s name was Camila, she was a nineteen-year-old dancer at the club, and she would die today by his hand.

Three robed, hooded figures surrounded the beauty, their faces painted like grisly skulls. Just like Espinoza, each figure wielded a rusty machete and was waiting for him to give them the word. Honoring Santa Muerte with human blood sacrifices had helped Espinoza secure supernatural protection and success in his extensive business dealings. Fewer and fewer of his drug shipments were being seized by US border guards since he’d started carrying out the rituals. It was almost as if Santa Muerte’s magic made his trucks invisible to the prying gringos’ eyes.

The thought of what lay ahead sent a thrill up his spine, and he clutched his machete tighter. As the leader, he would strike the first blow. Soon enough, metal would rend flesh and the plastic tarp underneath the catatonic girl would turn a dark red. His instructions to his men were clear: The blows were to be aimed at the torso and extremities as to extend the suffering of the sacrifice. The more savage the victim’s death, the greater the future reward from the goddess.

For a beat he peered into the woman’s eyes. He wanted—needed—to see the lights go out as she transitioned from the world of the living to the realm of the dead. Espinoza sucked in a sharp breath and addressed the Grim Reapress. “Please accept my offering, Santa Muerte.”

His hands trembling with excitement, he raised his machete, summoned all the savage energy he could muster, and brought down the blade.

***

Sharp steel hurtled toward vulnerable flesh.

Then a second machete shot out and blocked the incoming blow with a clang that reverberated through the storage room. Sparks flew as one of the robed men parried Espinoza’s death blow.

The druglord glared at the fool who dared to interrupt the sacrifice. Even though Talon knew the Halloween get-up made him look like a member of Espinoza’s brotherhood, his eyes would give him away. They belong to a different breed of killer than Espinoza’s thugs.

Grim understanding flooded the druglord’s features as he realized someone had managed to infiltrate his sacrificial circle. The goon Talon was impersonating was still seeping red in the alley that ran along Espinoza’s club—Talon’s own personal offering to the goddess of death.

It would be the first of many.

Before Espinoza could retaliate, Talon brought up the machete and slashed the blade across the druglord’s exposed neck in one lightning fast move. A second mouth opened below the first, and a shocked Espinoza grasped his gushing throat with horror. Blood splashed the nude victim, whose eyes were now wild with panic.

As Espinoza slammed onto the tarp with a wet smack, Talon spun around just in time to meet the two descending machetes of Espinoza’s soldiers. Steel clanged against steel as the men hacked away at him while their leader convulsed and hemorrhaged at their feet. His rattling death gurgle was drowned out by the intense grunts of combat.

Talon parried the first few blows and chopped at the arm of one of his attackers. The man let out a guttural roar and stumbled backward, spraying crimson.

The second cultist drove Talon back, his hungry blade slicing the air left and right, seemingly everywhere. One more inch and he would’ve taken the top of Talon’s head off. Definitely too close for comfort. His opponent’s attacks became faster and more intense. Making matters worse, the massive bastard outweighed Talon by about fifty pounds and knew how to use his weight to his advantage. Espinoza’s soldier rushed Talon, machete up, and pushed him against the wall with ferocious force.

Blinding dust showered down Talon’s face. Without hesitation, he headbutted the skull-face, pulverizing cartilage. The machete-wielding cultist backed away with a sharp curse.

From the corner of his peripheral vision, Talon caught movement. The first man had dropped his blade and was drawing a pistol. Talon spun and launched his machete at the cultist. The knife cut through the air and found its target with the wet thud of steel burying into flesh. The cultist crumpled.

Unarmed, Talon faced the incoming beast of a man he’d headbutted seconds earlier. The cultist’s face paint was coated in perspiration, the white and black running together, distorting the features until they barely seemed human. The onrushing machete missed Talon by a hair’s breadth and bit into the wall, where it lodged itself in the wooden framing beneath the plaster.

Before the attacker could dislodge the machete and launch another attack, Talon snatched the man’s forearm and twisted it with martial arts precision. There was a sound of bone giving way, followed by machete clanging against the floor. He drove his elbow with savage efficiency into the cultist’s face, crushing the man’s larynx.

The cultist collapsed and stopped moving.

Talon took a step back, sucking in deep gulps of air while wiping the sweat off his features. He regarded the downed enemy for a beat before he turned toward the terrified naked woman still swinging from the ceiling. Her eyes met his with a haunted expression. She was in shock—and who could blame the poor girl?

Talon cut her down. Arms around her waist, he gently lowered her to the floor. He tore the duct tape from her mouth and offered up his robe so she could cover herself with it. Considering the state she was in, modesty probably was the last thing on her mind. Nevertheless, she eagerly clutched the robe and draped it over her naked form.

Approaching footsteps sounded from below. The fight had alerted Espinoza’s men.

Talon scoped the room, picked up the pistol the cultist had dropped, and considered his options. Blasting his way out of there was one option, but he doubted he’d get far. An army was waiting for him on the lower floor of the club. He might be able to defeat the first group of men, but reinforcements would quickly take their place once the shooting began.

Talon scanned the windows. He could use the fire escape and make a go for the roof, but there was the matter of the girl. In her current condition they’d never reach the roof in time.

As these thoughts wheeled through his mind, he sensed someone creeping up behind him. He made out a flash of steel as Camila drove a knife into him. Sharp metal cut through skin and muscle and Talon gasped, more out of anger with himself than pain. He’d let his guard down, and now it would cost him dearly. The woman’s eyes glittered with fanatical savagery. All this time he’d viewed her as a helpless victim, when in reality she was a willing participant in this madness.

Battling the occult shared a crucial element in common with fighting terrorism—sometimes it was difficult to establish who the good guys were. This was an asymmetrical conflict where the line between friend and foe could easily blur and distort. Talon wondered what would make a young woman welcome such a brutal end? Then again, how different was it from the young men and women who were willing to blow themselves up in the name of their God?

There was no time to dwell on it. Talon’s heart grew cold as he drove his fist into the beauty’s face. She collapsed in a string-cut sprawl, her unconscious head hitting the tarp right next to Espinoza, who stared at her with blank, dead eyes from behind a mask of gore.

Talon cursed as he clutched the knife handle jutting from his side and wrenched it out with a grunt of pain. Blood flowed freely and his legs shook. A bad situation had gotten worse. For a moment he swayed and leaned against the wall. Espinoza’s men were almost upon him. In a few seconds they’d burst through the door, guns blazing…

Talon eyed the lifeless cultists, and a ghost of a smile played on his skull-painted face. There might still be a way out of this death trap.

When Espinoza’s crew arrived, all they saw was four downed men and an unconscious woman. Talon heard their panicked curses and shouts as they swept the scene of carnage.

The gangsters might be inured to death, but the sight of their fallen leader clearly shook them. Through slitted eyes, Talon saw one of the men cross himself and mutter a prayer.

Go on and pray to your saint of death, he thought. She won’t save you now.

One of the Espinoza’s men barked orders, and most of the cultists filed out of the storage area on their way to the roof. The two guards who stayed behind never noticed the hooded figure rising from the floor behind them. Never saw him level a pistol.

Only when the shots rang out did their fatal oversight become apparent. But by then it was too late. Santa Muerte had found two new victims.

***

Three heavily armed men blocked the staircase on the ground floor of the club. There was a flicker of instinctive fear as their eyes landed on the skull-faced man who had appeared seemingly out of nowhere. By the time they had brought up their guns, Talon’s bullets were already shattering bone and tissue in crimson bursts.

They collapsed in the narrow staircase, and Talon climbed over their lifeless bodies. Within seconds he located the door that led into the club’s kitchen. The staff instinctively pulled away from the gun-wielding figure leaving a trail of crimson in its wake.

Talon surged toward the steel door in the back and found himself in the same alley where he’d earlier stashed the body of the cultist he was impersonating. He stumbled down the passageway and heard shouts from above as the men on the roof spotted him. Bullets rained down, chopping cement, but missed Talon’s weaving form. The din of the Day of the Dead procession drowned out the gunshots.

By the time their magazines were empty, Talon had already merged with the crowd of revelers, just another skeleton in a long line of the marching dead.

As he let the crowd push him onward, he clutched his side, hoping to staunch the flow of blood. No one paid heed to his wound—or if they did, they most likely thought it was a creative touch to his costume.

Talon felt on the verge of sensory overload. He caught glimpses of elaborately decorated altars on the side on the surging throng; the Ofrendas were built from human bones and other offerings. Drums rattled his teeth and seemed to mirror the pounding of his own heart. Skeletons and skulls leered at him as the spooky parade masks ghosted through the crowd. He thought he spotted Zagan’s mechanical death skull in the bobbing parade. He tried to rationalize the terrible vision, to blame it on the loss of blood, but some uncertainty lingered. Anything was possible in this new war, wasn’t it? Could the dead truly rise on this day? Could the monsters he’d defeated in the last six months return to torment him? There had been so much killing, so much death…

Another figure jostled him, and he thought he saw Rezok’s face in his fiberglass skull mask. He squinted, filled his lungs with air and pressed the fabric of his black shirt against his injury.

Clenching his jaw, he pressed on, one agonizing step after another. If he collapsed, he would either bleed out or end up in the hands of the Mexican authorities. He doubted that even Casca could bail him out of a Mexican jail. Not that he’d ever arrive at the police precinct; he was a dead man if the authorities found him. About a third of the police force was on Espinoza’s payroll. No, he needed to make it to the hotel. Take care of the injury. Get some rest and head for the airport once he was strong enough.

Somehow he managed to cling to consciousness until he reached the Hilton, which was located three minutes from the Hidalgo Metro station. Even though he resembled one of the risen dead, no one paid him any mind. Ghosts outnumbered the living today.

As soon as he staggered into his room, he lurched into the bathroom and snatched a bottle of pills from his first aid kit. He washed down the antibiotics with a shot of tequila before pouring some of the booze on his wounded side. He gasped with agony as the alcohol disinfected the wound. Luckily for him, the woman had wielded the blade with little force and missed all vital organs and arteries. Already the bleeding had slowed. He climbed into the shower and let the scalding hot water wash the make-up from his face and clean his wound. Black and white paint pooled around his feet, mixing with his blood before disappearing down the drain.

Talon didn’t remember turning off the water or stitching up and bandaging the cut. Didn’t remember collapsing on the bed. Just before blackness swept over him, he had one last vision: Michelle’s beautiful, smiling face.

Talon’s next memory was the sensation of brilliant sunlight streaming through his hotel room. He looked at the clock and saw he’d been out for over sixteen hours.

He rubbed his pounding head, squinted at the brilliant light, and rose to his feet.

The Day of the Dead had come and gone, and Talon was ready to return to the world of the living.

CHAPTER TWO

KAREN ADMIRED HER boyfriend’s profile in the moonlight as he steered his Porsche Cayman into the small, secluded park. His jet-black hair, olive skin, and striking eyes, which alternated between grey and green depending on the light, still made her weak at the knees even after eleven months of dating.

“So in case you missed this little detail,” she said, “we just passed a sign that says the park closes at ten and violators will be ticketed.”

“That’s too bad.” Gary winked at her mischievously, oozing confidence. He was definitely the wilder one in the relationship. Sometimes Karen wondered what he saw in her, and late at night, when he lay sound asleep next to her, she questioned how long they’d last as a couple. They were different in so many ways—but then again, opposites did attract, right? After nearly a year, Gary still seemed to be interested in her. Maybe her conservative, cautious temperament reigned in his more impulsive tendencies.

Or maybe he just likes the shape of my ass, she thought.

“What’s going through your mind?” Gary asked.

“Just thinking how romantic this is,” she said. “Cruising into an empty park, breaking laws…

“We haven’t broken any laws. At least not yet.” His eyes sparkled with good humor, and a smile tugged at his lips. The car rolled to a stop, and Gary turned off the engine. The brilliant light of the Porsche’s headlights starkly outlined the park’s playground ahead of them.

Karen made out a metal slide, a jungle gym, a merry-go-round and a few other attractions that would delight the tykes. The rest remained cloaked in the shadows of the trees that lined the playground area.

Being a first-grade teacher at a nearby elementary school, she’d visited the park hundreds of times—but always during the day when it was filled with the laughter and squeals of playing children. The playsets now stood abandoned, haunted and forlorn in the milky light. A low wind sent a pair of swings moving, the chains squeaking eerily in the nocturnal landscape. A thick fog was rolling in, adding to the spooky atmosphere as it rapidly devoured the playground.

Yup, this place is friggin’ creepy at night, Karen thought. She suddenly wished they’d just headed straight to her apartment. Almost as if Gary sensed her anxiety, he leaned closer. An instant later, his hungry lips found hers. Immediately all worries were pushed aside by the shivers of delight traveling down her body. God, the man knew how to kiss…

Karen almost expected a police officer to materialize outside the Porsche and shine a flashlight down at them. How embarrassing would that be? Damn it, why couldn’t she just relax and go with the flow? Her overactive imagination was like a blessing and a curse. How she wished she could be a little more carefree and spontaneous like Gary. He clearly was hoping to take their make-out session further, but her guard remained up. She’d die from embarrassment if the cops caught them in the throws of some lewd act.

Karen gently pushed against his chest and pulled away. She felt bad about spoiling the party, but he seemed cool about it. She loved how he kept trying to coax her out of her comfort zone but also knew when to back down. Another reason she was so crazy about him.

Gary grinned. “I think we better get a room, huh?”

He started the car while Karen straightened her hair and fixed her make-up. The car jolted suddenly, causing Karen to smudge her lipstick. Her face fell as she made out the thump of rubber and metal scraping over cement—the telltale sound of a flat tire.

Great! This night just keeps getting better.

Had they been unlucky enough to roll over a nail or piece of glass as they entered the park?

Gary killed the engine and squeezed her hand reassuringly. “No worries. I've got a spare.”

“Don’t you think we should just call AAA?”

“I’ve changed a tire before. Just stay in the car, it’s going to be a little chilly out there.”

He kissed her on the cheek before stepping outside. The door slammed shut behind him.

She watched him walk up to the hood, where the spare was stored in the Porsche Cayman. For a minute his face danced before the steamy windshield, and Karen turned on the wipers. She enjoyed seeing her man getting his hands dirty.

Gary grabbed the spare and headed for the back of the Porsche. Tools banged against the frame of the vehicle as he mounted the tire. Bored, Karen snatched her phone from her purse and started to flip through her latest emails. She had probably checked her messages about a thousand times over the course of the day—another irritating habit she vowed to break in the near future. She’d almost caught up with all her social media when she became aware of the unnatural silence that had descended over the park. She turned her head toward the rear windshield but detected no sign of her beau.

Strange…

Fog fully enveloped the Porsche now, erasing most of the playground from view. Her pulse quickened as a terrible loneliness settled over her. What should she do? Roll down her window and call out for Gary? The mist blowing past the windows made it seem like a bad idea.

“Hey Gary, what’s going on out there?” she shouted.

There was no response.

The fog thickened.

The silence deepened.

Just as she decided to text him, her cell chirped and a message from Gary lit up the screen. Initial relief turned to horror as she realized the screen showed a picture of her boyfriend covered in gore.

Oh my God, no…

Her breath hitched as terror washed over her. The sudden hiss of a spray canister made Karen almost jump out of her seat. She spun toward the rear window as a concentrated stream of blue spray paint hit the glass. She whirled just as a second hiss filled the night and a fiery red blast of paint streaked the front windshield. With trembling fingers, she reached for the ignition key.

A hooded figure stepped out of the mist. Ripped jeans, a black hoodie, face shrouded in darkness. An urban spook. A web of runny paint obscured the silhouette, but Karen could still make out the baseball bat in the stranger’s hands. A second later, the bat came crashing down on the windshield, and Karen’s world turned into an explosion of glass.

***

When the black veil of unconsciousness finally lifted, Karen found herself lying on a cold, hard floor. She inhaled dusty air and then choked.

Where was she? What had happened?

She remembered the incoming baseball bat, the shattering glass, the gloved hands reaching through the broken windshield. The assailants had fought their way into the Porsche and then dragged her out of the vehicle, where someone zapped her with a Taser. As she’d hit the ground, a boot had swung toward her head. Afterwards, there had only been blackness.

Until now.

Karen stifled another cough and groggily took in her surroundings. She found herself in an enclosed, high-ceilinged space. She lay at the center of a maze of bolted-down tables covered in a thick layer of grime. The dirt-streaked, broken signs of a number of fast food restaurants loomed above her.

Where was she? What was this place?

In the distance, crumbling storefronts were tagged with graffiti. A tangle of wires and cables dangled from cracks in the walls, as if the building’s intestines were breaking through stone skin. Sickly light filtered through a cracked skylight overhead and illuminated twin escalators in the near distance.

Karen suddenly realized where she was. It had to be in the Old Regional Mall, which had closed its doors during the recession. The shopping center had stood empty for years, narrowly avoiding demolition. Eyesore for some, spooky attraction to others, it was a symbol of 21st Century economic decline. Who needed a mall when it was cheaper to shop online?

Investigating the dead mall more closely, Karen noticed a small bonfire burning nearby. Flames flickered and drew grotesque shadows.

The bonfire reminded her that she wasn’t alone in the desolate shopping center. A shudder passed through her and the sense of terror returned. They’d brought her to this forsaken place for a reason. Somewhere in the darkened concourse, her abductors lurked.

And this made her think of Gary, his face covered in a mask of blood. Oh God, what had they done to him? Tears welled up at the thought of her boyfriend’s blood-streaked features and she stifled a sob. No, she couldn’t let them see her break down like this, wouldn’t give those bastards the satisfaction.

Her eyes bored into the darkness. There was no sign of her hooded abductors. Karen expected her kidnappers to show themselves and make their move any moment now, but the mall remained eerily still.

What the hell are they waiting for?

The answer to the question popped into her mind a second later: They’re drawing it out, playing with me. This is some sick game to them.

God, she’d somehow stumbled into her own personal horror show.

Karen took a few cautious, wobbly steps, legs trembling beneath her, muscles still stiff from the Taser attack and prolonged period of inactivity. Her shoes clacked against the stone floor, echoing creepily in the cavernous space. With an unsteady gait, she approached the bonfire, the flames casting a hypnotic spell. Fire was greedily consuming her personal belongings: her Coach purse, Sephora makeup kit, Tiffany necklace, and iPhone.

“Why are you doing this to me?”

There was no force to her words, her voice breathless with terror. She paused, not really expecting an answer, and was rewarded with the explosive hiss of an aerosol spray can.

She pivoted, eyes searching, trying to determine the direction the sound was coming from.

Her eyes landed on a human silhouette. The figure lurked about thirty feet away, a shadow in the dark mall. The stranger just stood there.

Watching.

Biding his time.

Karen began to retreat, putting some distance between herself and the kidnapper. She reached a stone column and stumbled upon a message scrawled in bright red graffiti:

I SHOP THEREFORE I AM.

The paint bleeding down the wall was still fresh.

Karen shifted her attention back to the ominous figure in the hoodie, but he’d vanished.

Terror mounting, Karen continued walking away from the food court toward a row of shops. She vaguely recalled the main exits being inside JC Penney and Sears. If she could make it to either end of the mall…

Who was she kidding? They would never let her get away. Better to just stay put and face what was coming with open eyes. They were in control here, whoever they might be.

Another hiss emanated from a shadowy corner behind her.

A dark realization clawed itself into her manic thoughts: she was dealing with multiple stalkers!

She bit her lip to stave off her panic and tasted coppery blood. Words tore through her mind, and Karen realized it was a prayer.

Her pace picking up, she stumbled deeper into the former shopping center, catching a glimpse of another graffiti message. A skull. But there was something strange about the image. Where the teeth should be, there was a pattern of parallel lines of varying widths. Beneath the row of alternating thick and thin bars, she made out a series of numbers. Understanding flooded her scared face. The skull’s jaw was a barcode.

Karen remembered seeing this barcode skull on the news a few years back. Knew the deeper significance of the symbol.

Oh God, this couldn’t be happening to her.

She shook with panic as she yelled, “What the hell do you want from me?”

There was no answer. Instead wheels rippled over the stone floor, and two men in hoodies shot from the darkness on skateboards. The urban monks cut off Karen's escape, forcing her to retrace her steps.

A third hoodie stepped into the ragged patch of moonlight behind her, blocking the concourse. He was decked out in a spray-painter's mask—Darth Vader aiming for street cred.

Karen let out a choked scream when she spotted the long, curved knife in the hooded tagger’s hand.

The figure took another step toward her.

Karen snapped, adrenaline and fear propelling her into motion. She whirled around and broke into a run. She had almost reached the escalators when an invisible force stopped her dead in her tracks and whipped her back, sending her flying.

For a moment, she was airborne. Then she hit the ground hard, the world spinning around her. Stunned, she craned her neck upward, expecting to see hooded faces leering down at her. But she was…alone.

There was no trace of a human presence.

Her breath clouded in the air before her and she shivered. The temperature must’ve dropped by at least ten degrees. She crawled back to her feet and inspected her shirt. The strange collision had shredded the fabric. The skin beneath the torn blouse was mottled by a series of black burn marks, sensitive to the touch. Adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay, but Karen knew it wouldn’t last.

What was happening here?

Karen turned and saw that the hoodies had returned. They loomed in the near distance, outlined in the pale moonlight, a ring of wraiths barring her escape. Why had they given up the chase? Had they tired of this horrible game? And what had tripped her in such a violent manner?

A chilling whisper interrupted her racing thoughts.

“Death is only the beginning.”

Her heart pounding in a deafening drumbeat, she tilted her gaze toward the ceiling. She could feel her face twisting with horror, her lips distorting into a scream.

A vaguely human form hung upside down from the mall ceiling, suspended like a spider.

With a guttural shriek, the apparition launched toward Karen, bony hands hurtling toward her throat.

Karen screamed.

CHAPTER THREE

TALON WAS A man without a home. He constantly traveled the globe, devoted to his personal quest of keeping mankind safe from occult enemies. Before signing up for the dark missions that now defined his life, he’d been a Delta Operator and his work had kept him on the go in a similar fashion. In a way, this had always been his reality. His calling.

After dealing with Espinoza, the question was where he should head next. The world was his oyster nowadays. Every month, Casca transferred $25,000 into his bank account, payment for services rendered. The military had taken care of his needs for the last ten years, and Casca was fulfilling the same role now—albeit at a higher income bracket. Talon didn’t obsess about material wealth; he never would’ve become a professional soldier if money were that important to him. Nevertheless, he appreciated the freedom to go wherever he damned pleased.

For a moment he considered San Francisco. Staying close to Casca for when duty would call again might be a smart move. But San Francisco was filled with memories of Michelle, and he was just managing to put a little distance between his past and the present. Instead he decided to book a flight to Sarasota, where his old Army buddy Rob had embarked on a promising career in law enforcement.

The next day, Talon arrived in Florida and checked in at his hotel. Rob had invited him for dinner that night, and he was a little bit nervous about spending time with Rob’s wife and four-year-old son. He had originally figured they would grab some drinks the way they had back in the old days, but Rob wanted him to meet his clan. Talon couldn’t show up at his friend’s house empty-handed, so he proceeded to stop off at the local Toys “R” Us before dinner. Walking into the store, he was confronted with a new challenge: what to get a kid in 2015? He settled on a couple of Star Wars action figures.

Ringing Rob’s doorbell, Talon felt more nervous than he had when facing down the army of thugs in Mexico City. He could hit a moving target at 1000 yards but this social gathering was making him break into a sweat – he’d been out of the game too long. A dinner with Rob’s family should’ve been the most normal activity in the world, but over the last few months Talon’s definition of normal had irrevocably changed. His nerves calmed slightly the moment the door opened and Rob smiled at him. The sandy-haired baby-face clashed with the 220-pound frame, which now leaned in to give him a hearty bro hug.

“Man, it’s great to see you. Come on in.”

Stepping into Rob’s home, meeting his lovely wife Maria and his adorable kid, felt surreal. After months of wearing his armor, it was difficult for Talon to just sit down and fall back into the rhythm of civilian life. His friends had no idea about the occult war he was waging nowadays, but Rob knew first-hand the challenges returning soldiers faced. Thankfully, Maria turned out to be a delightful hostess and the kid was thrilled about the present. Two beers and a shot of Jack finally took the edge off the social gathering, and after dinner Talon and Rob relaxed in the living room while they watched the kid give the action figures a workout.

“You didn’t have to do that,” Rob told him.

“Someone has to keep the galaxy safe.”

Rob offered him another beer, and Talon popped it open.

“Thanks.”

They sipped in silence for a moment.

“Look at you,” Talon said. “You got it all. The wife, the kid, the picket fence. Who would’ve thought that crazy punk I met ten years ago would ever grow up?”

“Hey, I’m not that grown up. I got tickets to the Metallica concert next month.”

Talon grinned. They had bonded over their love of the hard rock back in the Army. Two wild kids ready to protect the world and make a difference. In their own way, they were still doing so.

In the days that followed, Talon and Rob tried to hit up every watering hole in town while reminiscing about the past. During the day while Rob was at work, Talon visited Siesta Key beach for long walks and even longer swims. The Gulf of Mexico was warm, the salt water soothing his injury. While he sliced through the bobbing waves with powerful strokes, the ocean stinging his eyes and the sun beating down on him, he let his thoughts wander. For a moment, the horrors seemed far away. The natural beauty of this tropical paradise didn’t seem to allow for the existence of demonic villainy. Talon knew it was an illusion, but he welcomed it anyway.

He also couldn’t help but notice the tanned, bikini-clad beauties who filled the beach at all times of the day. The week he spent with Kristin in Norway had reminded him that he was still a man with needs. Even though his heart would always belong to Michelle, he could allow himself to draw momentary comfort in the arms of another.

After a week of the lazy life, he returned to his hotel one day to find a message on his cellphone. Casca had left instructions to check out a few Internet links he’d forwarded to Talon’s email account. Judging from the urgent tone in the billionaire’s voice, the lull in the fighting was over.

CHAPTER FOUR

AS SOON AS Talon finished listening to Casca’s message, he checked his email and clicked the links in question. They routed him to three videos hosted on a website that showcased material too edgy and dangerous for YouTube.

Talon played the first video. A skull and crossbones image flickered against a black background, and Talon noticed that the skull’s teeth had been replaced with a barcode. A beat later, a shot of a parked Mercedes filled the screen. Three guys decked out in faceless hoodies sporting crowbars and baseball bats closed in on the luxury car and went medieval on the vehicle. The car alarm wailed. The sheer aggression on display was raw and real and in your face. Metal twisted, glass spiderwebbed. Canisters of spray paint hissed, streaks of color bleeding over the luxury vehicle, leaving behind crude graffiti of pentagrams and inverted crosses.

The camera zoomed in on the Mercedes and revealed a screaming driver cuffed to his steering wheel. One hoodie liberally sprayed him with lighter fluid while another tossed a match into the car, igniting the driver. The bone-chilling screams of the human torch echoed.

Part of Talon wanted nothing more in the world than to kill the video. But he forced himself to endure it to the bitter end. Casca had sent him the link for a reason. He needed to know who his new enemy was.

The next video showed variations on the same barbaric theme. A group of ratty skater punks circled two terrified men dressed in expensive suits. They projected an air of wealth and power, and Talon thought they looked like they might be bankers or lawyers. The hoodies destroyed their cell phones, Rolex watches, and tablets before turning their attention toward the well-heeled professionals themselves. The video spared no details as aluminum bats connected with the hapless victims. Pitiful pleas for mercy alternated with grunts of pain.

Talon was a battle-hardened killer, but torture and cruelty sickened him. His greatest fear, while serving as an Operator, had been to be captured by an enemy intent on making his exit from this world as unpleasant as possible. In his mind, war should be a life and death battle between two professional soldiers; torture was the domain of psychopaths and cowards. Too bad the world rarely lived up to his ideals.

In the final video, hoodies had invaded a lush property. An attractive couple was dragged toward a luxury pool that glittered in their home’s lights. Their hands were cuffed behind their backs, and Talon knew with a growing sense of dread where this was headed. The man was shouting, rage twisting his features, while the woman was crying and shaking with terror. No one heard their pleas as the home invaders tossed the couple into the deep end of the pool. Splashing water gave way to desperate gasps for air, foam erupting from lips unwilling to accept death. Talon’s phone suddenly chirped with an incoming text, mercifully providing an excuse to turn off the horror show.

Did you check out the links?

Instead of answering the text, Talon called Casca on Skype. The billionaire appeared on his laptop. Somehow his benefactor managed to exude wealth and sophistication even through his webcam. His classically handsome features and sense of style seemed more suited for a male model than an occult expert. Like himself, Simon Casca had been marked by the dark forces at an early age when a cult invaded his home and murdered his sister. Before the cultists could finish him off, the FBI had arrived on the scene and saved his life. Who knew how Casca would’ve turned out if not for his past tragedy? He probably would be living the high life, dating models without a care in the world. To be fair, Casca did maintain a front as a rich playboy, but there was a gravity behind the mask, a sense of mission that they shared in common.

Both Talon and Casca had declared war on the forces of darkness. So far they’d won their battles, but the war was still young.

“What the hell did you just make me look at?” Talon asked.

“I’m sorry, Sergeant. But you need to know what you might be up against.”

“These videos weren’t taken recently. Looks like they were uploaded a few years back,” Talon pointed out.

“That’s correct,” Casca confirmed. “During the recession of 2008, a group of skaters, runaways, and anarchists committed acts of terror across the Midwest, which soon turned violent. The barcode skull became the identifying symbol of this satanic death cult, which mostly targeted members of the one-percent. Psychologists and sociologists deemed it a social manifestation of economic inequality.”

“I call it a freak show. Making a boatload of cash is bad, but killing people is okay?” Talon shook his head. Another example of fanatics leading willing sheep to the slaughter, he thought grimly. Would mankind ever learn to tune out the dark siren call of extremist ideology?

“Did the cops catch these monsters?” Talon asked.

“Fortunately, yes. It all came to a head when their leader, Robert Schiller, nicknamed “the Reaper” by the press, gathered the most fanatical members of the group and went on a shooting spree at the Regional National Mall in Ampton, Ohio. He and his followers murdered twenty-five people that day before the authorities took them out.”

“Someone deserves a medal,” Talon said through gritted teeth. He was shaking with rage. The sadistic torture videos had worked him up, raising the memories of Michelle’s horrific death video once more. Not only had these bastards tortured innocents, but they’d been proud of it, too, had wanted to show it off for the world to see.

Talon typed Schiller’s name into his laptop’s search engine and a haunting face appeared. Talon immediately understood why the press had nicknamed Schiller the Reaper. The mass murderer staring back at him was bald, his neck and chest covered in satanic tattoos with the barcode skull taking center stage on his throat. Skin stretched tightly over his gaunt, emaciated features, the bones sharply outlined—a skull wearing the mask of a man. Body shots revealed Schiller to be six foot-four, bone-thin without a gram of body-fat on his ropy frame. “So why are we looking at the work of a deceased cult leader?”

“It appears that Schiller’s work has inspired a copycapt cult. There have been reports of four new kidnapping cases in Ampton, Ohio over the course of the last week that bear the MO of the Reaper gang. Same graffiti signature, similar high-income targets, crime scenes characterized by acts of vandalism.”

“Schiller’s freak show is back on,” said Talon.

“I’m afraid so. The police haven’t found any bodies, but it’s probably just a matter of time.”

Talon sighed. “I guess the vacation is over.”

“I’m sorry, Sergeant.”

“No worries. I was getting bored out here anyway. Beach, babes, and sun just can’t compete with demons and killer cults.”

“Nice to see you haven’t lost your sense of humor.” Casca’s grew more serious as he added, ”Be careful out there. We don’t know yet what we’re dealing with.”

Casca’s words illustrated a problem Talon faced every time he tracked down an occult lead or investigated a paranormal case. Many of the cultists they hunted turned out to be dabblers, amateurs like Espinoza who believed they could conjure evil forces but were a long way from achieving their goals. But sometimes the horror was real. Talon wouldn’t know what he was up against until he was right smack in the middle of it.

He touched the pentacle pendant that had saved him back in San Francisco and in Arizona. His guns and knives were great against mortal enemies but pretty much useless against a true agent of darkness. Was this copycat cult just a group of psychos who lacked the imagination to come up with their own freak show? Or were they tapping into the darkness, the ancient, primal force of black magic that had fueled Zagan, Amon, and Rezok’s evil? Was he about to step into some black magic shitstorm?

There was only one way to find out.

Talon met Casca’s gaze and said, ”When do I leave?”

CHAPTER FIVE

TALON’S PLANE TOUCHED down twelve hours later in Ampton, Ohio. As always, he was traveling light, and within a half an hour of landing, he was navigating the foggy roads in his black BMW rental car. His first stop would be a local Best Western, where Casca had booked a room for him. He didn’t plan to waste any time. After the long, relaxing week in Florida, he was hungry for action.

He located his room and found a metal case waiting for him on the freshly made bed. From experience he knew that Casca’s little care package would be filled with kit. He tapped in the proper combination and the case snapped open, revealing a Glock, Ka-Bar knife, night-vison goggles, a Heckler & Koch machine pistol, and multiple magazines of ammo. He loaded the Glock, strapped on the knife and decided to seek out the copycat cult’s last crime scene. The authorities had found the Porsche of a missing couple in a nearby park, about a mile away from where he was staying.

Geared up, Talon left the hotel.

It was around six when he set foot in the scenic playground. Red shadows bled over the playsets and trees. For the most part the park was sparsely populated. A couple of families kept watchful eyes on their children and shot Talon suspicious glances. He couldn’t blame them after what had happened here. The kids almost seemed to sense that a terrible tragedy had befallen the place. Their play seemed muted, lacking the laughter and shouts one commonly associated with children and parks. Perhaps the cold weather accounted for their lethargic behavior; a chill was settling over the area, after all. Having been spoilt by Mexico and Florida weather, Ohio’s brisk days felt unpleasantly cold. Though they paled in comparison with the snowy conditions he’d encountered back in Norway.

The police had done a decent job washing away the vandalism, but they hadn’t quite succeeded in erasing all signs of the vicious attack. It didn’t take long for Talon’s eyes to find the graffiti the cult had left behind. The barcode skull on the cement wall that ringed the parking lot was faded, the result of multiple attempts to scrub it off by the authorities, but a person who knew what they were searching for wouldn’t have any trouble spotting it.

Wary glances continued to follow him. Ignoring the attention, Talon continued to search the area. His behavior would be deemed suspicious by some of the wary parents but hopefully wouldn’t warrant a call to the police. The plan was to scan the park without overstaying his welcome.

Talon held no illusions about what he would find. He didn’t think he would magically stumble upon some piece of evidence the cops had missed, but maybe there was some detail about the crime scene that would mean more to people like him and Casca than the law. The police were scoping for forensic clues; Talon was snooping for signs of the occult. He checked the surroundings…and finally spotted a pentagram and an inverted cross carved into the trunks of a few nearby trees. There was another sign too. The Greek letters Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End.

Talon frowned. What did it signify?

He snapped pictures of the symbols and kept combing the park. Further inspection proved fruitless, and he decided to return to his hotel. As he left the park grounds, he felt one of the moms staring at him again. He winked at her, and she quickly averted her gaze.

A moment later he was gone.

***

Talon resumed his investigation the next day.

He showered, dressed, and knocked back some boiling coffee, his tongue desensitized to the point where his cup of joe needed to be volcano hot to work its magic. The Reaper and his followers had been skaters before they had added murder and Satanism to their resume. Maybe the new cult had a similar background.

Talon decided to start his investigation in the East End, a wasteland dominated by empty tenements and industrial lots. According to his research, it was the place where the most radical and dangerous dudes shredded. The kids out there were mostly runaways, druggies and burnouts. Odds were good that the copycat cult might be drawing from the same talent pool.

Talon wore an old pair of sneakers, green khakis, and a hoodie. His Delta training had taught him the art of blending in with his surroundings. He hadn’t shaved since Mexico and needed a haircut, which helped sell the look. No one would mistake him for some teen punk, but neither did he look like a square. He picked up a used board at Switchfoot, a skate shop he came across on his way to the East End, and parked the BMW about a quarter of a mile from his destination.

He got out of the rental and skated the rest of the way. He’d been an avid skater when he was young and could still pull off a few moves. Being the son of a diplomat, Talon had lived all across the world when he was a teen. Every year seemed to bring a new city in a different country. Exploring a new place on his deck was a rite of passage, a way of making his ever changing surroundings feel like home. Shooting down the winding road of the industrial wasteland on his board brought it all back. For a brief moment he was able to forget the real reason why he was here.

Fifteen minutes later, Talon reached his destination. The East End skate park lay tucked under a bridge, cars and trucks rattling by overhead. He descended a rusty staircase and walked along a chainlink fence. Before him the whole East End spread out. The place looked trashed, the skate rink scrawled with graffiti. Skaters abounded, sporting tats, piercings, and a ton of attitude. Talon’s skin prickled with a palpable aura of danger.

A skater shot up a bowl nearby and finished off with a 360-degree kickflip. The wheels snapped against the cement. His appearance was ragged and dirty, oozing a predatory quality. Borderline gutter punk.

Talon approached some of the other skaters lounging around the bowls. It was an older, more hardened crowd. He offered one of the dudes a cigarette and struck up a conversation. Soon he steered their chat toward the Reaper. His spiel was simple. He’d seen the stories on the news and wanted in. Unfortunately, the line of questioning proved to be a dead end. The kid eyed him blankly when the subject came up, almost as if he was addressing him in a foreign language, and then their chat was over.

Talon continued to search for someone who might be more talkative if properly motivated. He secretly hoped that his questions might draw out a member of the copycat gang. If someone began following him or tried to start something, they’d be in for a surprise. Maybe he was being too cocky, but after dealing with Al Queda, a group of skater rats didn’t faze him. He wanted the bad guys to know he was looking for them. The question was who would blink first. After a few more failed attempts and some suspicious stares here and there, he found someone who was willing to help out. For a price.

“You sure you’re ready to be part of this?” Carl, a twenty-something shredder with long greasy hair, said.

“I spent four years risking my life for Uncle Sam and for what? To come home to a country where a bunch of pussy-assed, over-privileged hipster assholes have all the power?”

“Seek out the Lightwalker. He’ll know if you’re ready.”

“The Lightwalker?”

“That’s what people call him,” Carl said. “I dunno, man, maybe if I had a couple more smokes I could remember why.”

Talon regarded the kid with growing curiosity. The punk flashed him a knowing grin. He might be a drop-out druggie, but what he lacked in school smarts he made up for in animal cunning. He knew he possessed information that Talon wanted and was ready to negotiate. Talon offered him a whole pack of cigarettes and his lighter. As soon as the skater pocketed the spoils, he resumed his explanation.

“Lightwalker walked into the light,” he elaborated, revealing a row of yellow, nicotine-stained teeth.

Talon still stared at the skater with incomprehension.

“He wiped out, hit his head. Died on the spot. Walked down the tunnel and into the light,” Carl continued. “But they managed to bring him back. That’s why he skates without fear now. Skates like he doesn’t care about living or dying.”

Talon didn’t quite know what to make of this. Was the punk telling the truth?

“Lightwalker saw the light and now speaks to the dead,” Carl said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

Talon blinked. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Like that kid in The Sixth Sense. He can see ghosts. Speaks with dead people. You don’t want to fuck with the dude is what I’m saying.”

Talon decided to risk it and said, “How do I find him?”

“Maybe he’ll find you.” The punk shot him a grin. Talon felt his patience running dry. He was almost ready to snatch the asshole by the collar and rub that smirk right off his face when the kid added. “Word is he stays at the old mall.

Talon frowned. The kid had to be talking about the Regional National Mall where the final showdown between the Reaper and the police had taken place. The mall had closed shortly after the shooting and had stood abandoned ever since. It had been scheduled for demolition at one point, but the developers ran out of money. Just another victim of the recession.

“Be careful. If he doesn’t like you, he won’t let you walk out of that place.”

Talon waited for the kid to add something more, but apparently the conversation was now officially over, the kid preoccupied with filling his lungs with carcinogens.

Talon shrugged and left the park, sensing this was as much as he would get today. The hostile glares of the other skaters trailed him, but no one actually followed.

As he climbed into his rental car and drove off, Talon kept reviewing what the skater had shared with him. This Lightwalker character apparently was a near death survivor. The weird detail sounded too crazy to just be a story the punk had made up.

Lightwalker saw the light and now speaks to the dead. Something about the punk’s words sent a shiver down Talon’s spine.

He drove back to his hotel and hit his computer. He Googled the mall, and a number of photographs flashed onscreen. A series of monolithic, weathered structures grew from a vast vacant parking lot. A fading JC Penney sign with two letters missing loomed forebodingly over a graffiti-besmirched exterior. This was an urban explorer’s wet dream. It would be Mecca to any freak who thought the Reaper had been some sort of hero fighting a corrupt system.

Talon inspected the images of the dead mall more closely. The desolate shopping center had a post-apocalyptic quality. The large, empty parking lots coupled with the many signs of nature reclaiming the area—trees and vegetation bursting from the stretches of asphalt—stirred an uneasy feeling inside Talon. The place sure seemed like he perfect place for a nomadic band of killers to set up shop.

What might be waiting for him inside the Reaper’s old stomping grounds?

He planned to find out.

CHAPTER SIX

OFFICER ROBERT BENSON and his partner, Glenn Durham, were the first officers to receive the call about the shooting at the Regional National mall.

Benson swallowed the last bite of his tuna sandwich, drained his cup of Diet Coke, and surged toward their cruiser. Less than a minute later, their police car screamed down the road, sirens flashing. Within fifteen minutes, he was making his way through the deadly still mall, Glenn on his side, burning up with adrenaline as he tried to maintain a steady grip on his firearm.

The moment he spotted the first bodies, his heart sank.

We are too late, he thought.

Victim after victim, legs and arms akimbo like broken marionettes, resting in widening pools of scarlet. Their empty, accusatory eyes fixed on him, blaming him for not showing up on time and failing to protect them, to keep them safe from the madmen in the mall. The acrid smell of gunpowder wafted through the air. Benson flinched as the pitiful screams from the wounded mixed with staccato bursts of gunfire. And then, finally, the band of murderers grew visible. Hooded skater-kids, bony hands clutching guns and knives.

Benson lost it. There was zero hesitation as he squeezed the trigger. The punks went down, joining their victims on the floor.

Benson rushed past their broken forms, blocking out the sight while following the desperate cries of a woman. The dead were gone but there was still a chance to save the living. The woman’s shrill voice was laced with mortal fear.

He rounded the corner of the concourse and came face to face with the monster at the heart of the massacre. Schiller, AKA the Reaper, stood in the center of the food court, which had become ground zero of the mass shooting. His bony fingers clawed the hair of his female hostage. The Reaper was bald and skeletally thin with bulging eyes. He wore a ratty hoodie and baggy cargo pants that gave his bony, unnaturally tall frame a scarecrow-like appearance. The bloody sickle in his hand, combined with his death skull appearance and the pile of lifeless bodies at his feet, made Benson think he was looking at the Grim Reaper himself.

Time stretched as Benson locked eyes with the mass murderer. He heard gunshots, saw his partner go down beside him. He squeezed the trigger and bullets roared from the muzzle of his firearm. Later, he’d tell reporters that he got lucky, but none of the papers would print the quote. The public needed a hero after the bloodbath.

The bullets from his pistol found the Reaper, and the skeletal figure crumpled.

It was done.

He’d slain the beast.

A sudden croaking sound made Benson look down.

His partner peered up at him, his cratered head framed by a halo of red, his eyes questioning as if he wanted to know why Benson had let him die.

***

Benson’s eyes snapped open and he fought back a scream. For a long beat, he just stared at the ceiling, breathing heavily. He turned, looking almost longingly at the empty half of the king-sized bed. Ashley had left him a year after the shooting. Poor woman had tried to salvage their marriage, but he’d given her little to work with. Eventually he shut her out to a point where there was no other choice but to make a break.

Why had he pushed her away? Maybe he felt it was the only way to keep her safe, to spare her future hurt. Her side of the bed had remained empty ever since, except for a one-nightstand here or there.

Benson grunted, letting go of the painful memories, and got up. Stumbling into the bathroom, he wiped the thick beads of perspiration off his face and stared at his graying stubble. He was nearing his fortieth birthday and the signs of aging were everywhere. From the wrinkles crinkling his eyes to the paunch forming around his middle, time was marching on—and he’d better just hang on tight for the ride.

And now the nightmares were back.

It had taken him five long years to put the mall shooting behind him. Three cops had been killed that day, another six injured, but Benson had walked away from the carnage without a scratch. No, that wasn’t quite true. His wounds were the kind that one couldn’t see at first but that would manifest themselves in the weeks, months, and years to come. The incident might’ve led to his promotion as detective but also cost him a partner, his marriage, and countless sleepless nights.

Now the past had caught up with him as he always dreaded it would. Reports of the first kidnapping had given him a bad feeling. The vandalism, the graffiti, and the choice of victim—a high-earning investment banker—made Benson immediately think of the Reaper. Benson’s bullets had struck down Ralf Schiller that day, but the legends surrounding the cult leader lived on. The Reaper sold newspapers and books and made people tune in to their local broadcasts. Ironic that a war against hyper-capitalism would give rise to a cottage industry designed to cash in on his notoriety. Benson was surprised they hadn’t turned his story into a goddamn TV movie yet. Maybe there were too many freaks vying for the public’s attention.

With the help of a dark charisma and a hate-filled ideology borne from economic inequality, the Reaper had gathered skaters, runaways, and taggers around himself like some urban Pied Piper. He’d weaponized them with poisonous philosophy directed at anyone who supported capitalist America. A modern Manson. The attack on the mall had been the group’s final statement, the last in a string of violent crimes. At least Benson thought it was the last.

Benson showered, dressed and headed for the precinct. He was relieved to discover that no new kidnappings had been reported. He decided to catch up on the paperwork that was piling up. He wasn’t actively investigating the new crimes, and his attention was needed elsewhere. Nevertheless, for the rest of the day, Benson’s mind kept returning to his nightmare. He hadn’t been back to the old mall in years. He wondered if his subconscious had dredged up the memory for a reason. If a copycat gang roamed the city, what better place to hole up than the old mall?

The mere idea made Benson crave a drink. Almost as if his colleagues could read his thoughts, they invited him to join them at a local watering hole after work. Benson generally avoided bars when he could and tried to stay away from the bottle. Shit was bad enough without booze in his life. Once he started, it would be too hard to stop. Better to just head home and watch some TV before calling it an early night. Betraying his intentions, he turned on Grand Avenue instead of going straight home.

As he drove toward the mall, he navigated a number of vacant parking lots and rows of tract homes. The cookie-cutter buildings appeared deserted, the windows dark and boarded up. Foreclosure signs alternated with garages tagged with graffiti. The area was a ghost town.

Twenty minutes later, he pulled into the abandoned parking lot of the Regional National Mall. The fading sunlight played over the surface of the decrepit structure, a sprawling monument to suburban decay. It made Benson think of a shipwreck rotting away at the bottom of the ocean floor. Forgotten by most, only living on in the nightmares of the shooting’s survivors.

What are you doing here?

There had been a time when the mall and its parking lot attracted runaways, prostitutes, and drug dealers. But soon word spread that the mall was haunted, that the Reaper’s victims still lingered within its labyrinthine walls. These weren’t merely tall tales. People who’d ventured into the mall to get high or engage in other shady activities disappeared. One year the department combed the place and found the bodies of fifteen people who’d sought refuge inside the shopping center during the bitter winter months. The official story was they froze to death, but word on the street was that the restless ghost of the Reaper had snatched them. Nowadays no one came here except a few teens on occasion, and they were smart enough to not venture beyond the relative safety of the sprawling parking lot.

Benson hadn’t been here since that fateful day, but the mall had lived on in his memories. Seeing it with his own eyes after all this time made him feel numb. He opened his car door and threw up his lunch. Steaming piles of half-digested food hit the overgrown lot.

The shadows lengthened and for a wild moment he thought he spotted the hooded outline of the Reaper in the near distance. The wind outside was bitter, and it was getting late. Tomorrow, he might return with some men and search the area. But Benson would make sure not to be among the detectives entering the cursed place.

He closed the car door and took off. The tires screamed and left tread marks in the deserted lot. He wasn’t ashamed to admit that the mall terrified him.

He drove twenty miles above the speed limit all the way to his home. Stealing nervous glances around the dark neighborhood, he entered his two-bedroom house. As soon as he was inside, he made sure to double-bolt and lock the door. He couldn’t shake the irrational sensation that an invisible stalker had followed him all the way from the mall.

He headed for the kitchen, located the bottle of bourbon he kept stashed in a cupboard behind the fridge, and poured himself a double. He drained the drink and let out a cough. Hard liquor wasn’t his poison of choice anymore. When had he bought the bottle? Must’ve been around New Year’s Eve—eleven months earlier.

He turned up the TV, suddenly needing to hear human voices, and soon the effects of the alcohol washed over him. Fear still held him in its grip, but the booze was taking the edge off his emotions, dulling them somewhat. Feeling a bit dizzy, he headed into the bathroom and splashed some water on his face. When he looked up…a hooded skater punk stared back at him.

Before he could scream or turn on the intruder, the Taser’s 50,000 volts rippled through his body. Benson hit the floor in a twitching mass.

CHAPTER SEVEN

NIGHT HAD FALLEN, and a thick fog shrouded the crumbling Regional National mall.

Talon lurked among a row of trees that faced the sprawling wasteland of the mall’s lot. In addition to the Ka-Bar strapped around his leg and the Glock in his holster, the Heckler & Koch machine pistol hung on a strap from his shoulder. He was garbed in skintight combat black and perfectly blended in with the nocturnal landscape. The spectral green of his night-vision binoculars revealed no sign of life. This desolate temple of capitalism remained forgotten by the world at large.

Talon zoomed in on the entrance of Sears. The tinted glass of the doors gave no hint at what might be going on inside the immense structure. There was no way around it. He’d have to enter the mall to determine if the copycat cult had found sanctuary within its decaying walls.

For a moment he debated if he should hold off his inspection until the morning, but if the enemy were here, he would be active at night.

There was a prickly sensation in his neck, and a sensation of ice in his gut. Shivers tracked the length of his spine. He couldn’t shake the pervasive feeling that he was being watched.

Talon slipped the binoculars into his backpack and dashed across the deserted parking lot. His boots made no sound as he flitted toward the three-story structure. Cloying condensation wrapped around him; the fog was growing heavier by the second.

Moments later, he reached the department store’s doors. All of them were locked. He removed a lockpick and went to work. Within minutes, the door gave way to his concentrated efforts, and he slipped into the Sears. He donned his night vision goggles, and ghostly green light drenched the store. A landscape of empty racks, shopping carts, and mannequins confronted him. The place was as silent as a tomb.

Talon inhaled the musty air and advanced deeper into the structure. He crossed the main floor and found an arched entrance that led to the mall’s main concourse.

Moonlight shafted down skylights that pierced the length of the large hallway. The mall boasted two more floors with balconies running along the upper levels. Picking up his pace until he was moving at a light sprint, he passed rows of caged-up shops and restaurants that had long ago gone out of business. His senses became attuned to his environment, probing the yawning darkness for any signs that he might not be alone. All throughout, his fingers never wavered from the trigger of his machine pistol, its steel barrel leading the way.

He followed the moonlight. Based on maps and floorplans he’d checked out earlier online, he was headed for the main plaza of the mall where the food court was located. So far, it appeared as though no one had set foot in this place for ages. But Talon knew better than most that appearances could be deceiving.

The forsaken mall stirred strange emotions inside of him. He had a soft spot for malls. Even though he’d traveled the world as a kid, his father had made sure to let him spend his summers in the States with his uncle. He might not have been able to offer him a traditional American childhood, but he wanted Talon to have a taste of what life back home felt like, at least for a few months out of the year. Most days his uncle, who worked security at a local museum, would drop Talon off at an air-conditioned mall in the morning and pick him up at the end of the day after work.

He’d spent much of his summers roaming the local shopping center, catching movies in the multiplex, reading comics off the rack at Waldenbooks, and flirting with girls in the food court. Ever since then, malls had symbolized a slice of Americana that made him feel at home no matter where he was. It made him unaccountably sad to see this one desolate and abandoned. He stepped up to a pair of escalators fronted by overturned, potted artificial trees. Taking two steps at a time, he scaled the escalator, hoping the high-angle view on the second level might offer a better overview of the terrain.

He continued his advance, passing more gated boutiques. He also encountered signs that the mall hadn’t been completely uninhabited for the last few years. Graffiti scarred the walls and storefronts, and detritus littered the ground. Discarded fast food wrappings and empty bottles of liquor abounded.

Guard up, Talon slowed his approach. Shapes were becoming visible in the plaza below him.

He wasn’t alone any longer.

A ring of spooky human silhouettes formed a large circle around a cement island. A lone figure stood at the top of island and overlooked the crowd.

Talon slipped off his goggles. There was enough moonlight here to follow the action without any technological assistance. Narrowing his gaze, he counted about twenty-five hooded figures in the circle. The man they faced was decked out all in ghostly white, and they kept a reverent distance from him. He had to be the leader of the group.

The Lightwalker.

He can speak with the dead.

Talon crept closer to the circle, hoping to gain a better view, his machine pistol ready. He was right above the gathering now and realized that there was another man he hadn’t noticed before. This figure didn’t sport a hoodie but was dressed in slacks and a button shirt. He appeared disoriented and isolated, crouched on his knees, positioned between the crowd of followers and the white-garbed leader on the cement island.

A prisoner, Talon realized.

Now that he hovered directly over the unholy congregation, he saw that the leader wore a spray-painter’s mask. His white attire formed a sharp contrast to the dark clothing of the cultists. The moonlight played over the white hoodie and cargo pants, heightening the spectral effect. The other followers all sported curved blades. Sickles. Was it a way to honor the legacy of the Reaper? Talon gripped his Heckler & Kock a little harder.

Below him, the Lightwalker spoke.

“Death is only the beginning.”

What happened next proved that these weren’t mere empty words.

CHAPTER EIGHT

IT TOOK DETECTIVE Benson less than a minute to figure out what was happening after he regained consciousness. One look at his surroundings told him everything he needed to know. He was back inside the Regional Mall. He couldn’t see the eyes of his hooded captors, but he spotted their shiny blades. To his surprise, a strange calm had fallen over him. He knew what would happen next, and at some level, he even welcomed the confrontation with the terror that had haunted him for five years. One way or another, he wouldn’t have to live with the fear any longer.

A figure appeared on the cement island that once had sprouted trees and plants. For a second the old terror gripped him as he wondered if the Reaper had returned from the grave.

He let the moment pass.

Schiller was long gone from this world. This had to be the man in charge of the copy-cat cult.

The leader in the white hoodie loomed before him like some spectral post-apocalyptic warrior-monk. The figure was about six feet tall and athletically built. Definitely not Schiller, then. Benson tried to catch a better look at the face under the hood, but it remained shrouded in mystery. A spray-painter’s mask hid all details of his features, heightening his larger than life persona.

The cult leader approached Benson.

“You know why you’re here,” he said.

Benson remained silent.

The cult leader turned his attention away from him and addressed the crowd. “Four years ago, this man took the life of someone who wanted to change the world we live in. A man who was brave enough to hold up a mirror to society and show them what this country had become. He told the truth, and it cost him the ultimate price. This man you see before you was the one who pulled the trigger. This is the pig who shot the Reaper.”

“Schiller was scum,” Benson hissed under his breath. ”Just like the rest of you.”

Benson’s words reverberated in the cavernous plaza, adding to the impression that he was standing at the center of an ancient temple. And I’m about to be the sacrifice, he thought.

“You think you won that day, but Schiller never left you, did he? He stayed with you, haunting your every moment. Cursing you.”

It was as if the bastard could read his mind. Knew all his secrets. Who the fuck was this guy?

The cult leader took another step toward him.

Come on, just a little closer…

“Not everything that dies disappears from our world. Sometimes the dead linger, unwilling to pass into the light because their life’s work remains undone.”

What the hell was this asshole jabbering about?

“Can’t you feel it? Our master is here with you right now. Schiller’s flesh succumbed to your bullets, but his spirit remains right here. Watching. Waiting to punish you for what you did that day.” The cult leader paused dramatically and added, “Death is only the beginning.”

The crowd of hoodies echoed his words, the chorus of their voices bouncing off the walls like an unholy prayer. “Death is only the beginning.”

“Master, take his life the way he took yours,” the leader said.

Terror gripped Benson. He could feel the atmosphere change, a chill falling over the plaza. The burst of frigid air made him want to wrap his arms around his torso, but he couldn’t allow himself to show any weakness. For a crazed beat he wondered if Schiller’s spirit could truly linger. Benson’s rational mind tried to discard the notion, but the superstitious part of his soul knew the cult leader was telling the truth. The realization made his body turn rigid with atavistic fear.

The Reaper is here.

Shaking off his growing terror, Benson willed his thoughts to focus on his predicament. Three hoodies were closing in, sickles out. The wheels of their skateboards crunched over the trash-covered plaza. Perhaps Schiller’s spirit still lingered, but these knife-wielding gutter rats were flesh and blood. And that meant he could fight back.

Willing himself to remain patient, Benson waited until they were almost upon him. The first hoodie rolled forward on his skateboard, moonlight dancing over the knife in one hand, and the canister of spray paint in the other.

Benson pretended to be paralyzed with fear—which wasn’t all that far from the truth.

He waited…and waited.

The knife slid into his field of his vision, and that’s when he made his move. Without warning, his right leg swept out, catching the incoming hoodie off guard. He’d clearly expected the middle-aged cop to offer little resistance. An instant later, the punk was on the ground with Benson pinning him down. The knife clattered to the floor, and was lost in the encroaching shadows.

Benson experienced an undeniable rush as his fist shot out and whipped the punk’s head back. Before the hoodie or his friends quite knew what was happening, Benson snatched the can of spraypaint the skater had dropped when he hit the floor. Lightning fast, he unloaded it at a second skater's face. There was a hiss of aerosol as a stream of blinding paint engulfed the cultist’s face.

Stunned by the counter-attack, the skater reeled backward, giving Benson a chance to stagger to his feet. The skater let out a howl of rage and charged, his face streaked red—a demon from hell.

Benson sidestepped the punk and brought up the hoodie’s skateboard. Tapping into all his strength, he drove the deck down on the cultist’s scarlet face. The head and board connected with a sickening crunch that was followed by the thump of the punk hitting the ground.

Reacting on pure instinct, Benson ran down the dark concourse, unsteady legs barely able to support his two-hundred pound frame, leaving the circle of hooded wraiths in his wake.

He wasn’t going down without a fight, that much was for certain. He stole a glance back and saw more members of the psycho skater gang separate from the crowd and shoot after him in dark formation. Shadows pinballed through the mall at breakneck speed, phantom figures who sported steel that was all too real.

Benson’s legs kept pumping away as the boarded-up, gated stores rushed past him.

Behind him, the urban wraiths ripped around empty water fountains and derelict kiosks. Skating with near supernatural grace and agility, they slalomed through the mall's obstacle course, matching his pace, never letting up. Benson was doing his best to shake his pursuers, but he knew it was merely a matter of time before they would catch up with him. He was running for his life.

Breathing hard, he rounded a corner. Didn’t get far before another skater appeared in front of him, cutting off his escape. As the skaters closed in, Benson rushed toward a nearby escalator. He powered up the stairs as fast as his body allowed him to.

His plan was simple: He had to reach one of the exits inside the department stores at either end of the mall. If he could make it out of the mammoth shopping center, he might lose the cultists in the parking lot or the trees beyond.

It was a long shot, but what choice did he have?

As he reached the second level, he was confronted with more shuttered stores. The mall had transformed into one giant haunted house.

Benson exhaled, and his breath clouded before him. Once again he experienced the unnatural chill, as if he’d walked into a freezer. He took a few steps back, adrenaline pumping, as the shadows separated and a bone white figure lurched from the liquid darkness.

Time froze as his eyes locked on the apparition. Blood-shot eyes peered back from a blue-veined face straight out of Benson’s nightmares. The Reaper was back. A gaping bullet hole formed a third eye on his forehead where Benson’s bullet had felled the mass murderer.

Not everything that dies disappears from our world. Sometimes the dead linger…

Benson reeled, his blood turning to ice.

“No,” he cried. His voice was a glassy whisper as the Reaper’s spirit advanced with jerky, surreal speed.

The figure shimmered and vibrated and was suddenly upon him, inches separating them. Terror-stricken, Benson recoiled and hit the balcony. Arms wheeling desperately, he pitched over the railing. The ground rushed up as he plunged head-first toward the floor… but the deadly collision of bone and cement never came.

Seconds before impact, Benson froze in midair. An invisible force clamped around his ankle, the nerve endings of his skin lighting up with fiery pain. The air crackled with energy and then he was being pulled up, faster and faster.

The force flung him aside like a ragdoll and he landed hard on the second floor balcony. It was a brief reprieve as two hoodies lurched toward him, murder in their eyes. Benson was spent, no strength left in him. He bowed his head and awaited his fate.

Red dots found the two hoodies and then their chests erupted with a burst of gunfire. The cultists collapsed.

Weakly, Benson craned his neck toward his savior. A man garbed in black emerged from the shadows, machine pistol up and ready, night vision goggles giving him an insectile quality. One gloved hand reached for him while the other fired a burst of rounds at three more incoming skaters. The hoodies went down in the darkness.

Benson allowed himself to be pulled to his feet, and a beat later they were moving down the concourse, the cultists hot on their tails.

But the detective didn’t worry about the men rushing after them. All he could think about was the inhuman face of the Reaper. Benson sensed that despite the arrival of the armed stranger, there would be no escape from the cursed mall.

CHAPTER NINE

TALON DEPRESSED HIS finger on the trigger and fed lead into the fast-approaching cultists. Two hooded figures crumpled in a mist of red.

Talon whirled toward the downed man who’d barely escaped death mere seconds earlier. He still didn’t quite understand what he’d just witnessed. The man had gone off the balcony and should’ve fallen to his death. But some strange force had pulled him back into the air, halting his deadly descent.

Fear of the unknown gave way to the immediate pressure of the situation. More cultists were zeroing in on their position. Talon’s combat-hardened instincts took over and he lifted the man to his feet. Seconds later, they were surging down the concourse, the previously sepulchral silence replaced with shouts, hissing spray canisters, and the wheels of skateboards rippling over cement. Talon kept firing into the darkness, the grunts and moans telling him that his bullets had found mortal enemies.

Up ahead, JC Penney loomed into view and they tore into the dark department store, Talon’s night vision mapping the way. A creepy landscape of junk and dust-caked mannequins awaited them. At the center of the empty store, Talon made out a group of mattresses. There were backpacks, wrappers of junk food. The walls tattooed with graffiti. The barcode skull dominated the tags—no surprise there. Talon guessed this was where the skaters dwelled when they weren’t kidnapping their victims and hunting them through the mall’s endless hallways. What power could the Lightwalker wield to control so many people? To organize these lost souls living on the edge of society into a de facto army of murderers?

A terrible stench of decay interrupted his thoughts. Judging from the expression of disgust on the other man’s face, he’d picked it up too. Death was in the air.

Talon followed the stomach-turning odor, brushed through a row of racks and empty boxes and froze. Nine rotting bodies lined the floor, empty eyes turned toward the ceiling.

The missing kidnapping victims.

The old rage boiled up inside Talon, and his heart grew cold. It took all his self-control not to dash back into the mall and take out the rest of these psychopathic bastards.

There was a sudden sound to his right, and Talon whirled, eyes focusing on three eerie mannequins.

His companion fixed him with a haunted stare. “We can’t outrun the dead,” he muttered.

“What are you talking about?”

“The Reaper’s here. I shot him but he’s still here. He’s never left this place. All these years, he’s been waiting for me. He won’t let me leave.”

Almost as if to lend credence to the panicked man’s words, Talon’s breath misted in the sudden cold. It was as if someone had cranked the AC all the way up. For a split second, he was reminded of the terrible cold he’d experienced back in Norway when he had confronted the wrath of the winter warlock.

“We’re both getting out of here… Now…”

Talon shifted his gaze toward the exit but now found a row of mannequins blocking their path. He could’ve sworn the area was clear mere seconds earlier…

Without warning, one of the mannequins moved, a lifeless arm lashing out at him. Talon fired, bullets shredding the mannequins, sending plaster limbs flying. His pulse quickened as he crouched before the bullet-riddled dummy. Did he imagine the movement after all?

“Oh my God… He’s here… The Reaper is here…”

Talon spun toward the panicked man…and that’s when he saw the apparition. It lasted for only a blink of an eye, more like an optical illusion than anything else. A white, misty silhouette stood outlined about thirty feet from them. There was a jerk, almost like a jump cut in reality, and then the same figure loomed before them. Talon brought up his machine pistol, but the barrel was pointed at thin air, the specter having vanished once more.

A hiss of a spray canister made Talon whirl. Where was it coming from?

He didn’t spot the canister but he saw the graffiti bleeding over the floor. Two Greek letters: Alpha and Omega. Beginning and End.

Death is only the beginning.

“Go! Get out of here! Save yourself before it’s too—”

The words were cut off as an invisible force twisted the man’s arm. Bone snapped, and he exhaled in pain. He slumped to his knees, gasping. There was no time to recuperate from the spectral attack as the entity pounded his face into the ground with savage force.

Again and again.

Talon shot toward the twitching, groaning man. He had crossed less than half the distance when a force lifted Talon into the air and tossed him aside. Talon slammed into a row of metal clothing racks and collapsed on the floor. He lay there, groggy, as the spectral attack intensified against the stranger. The force yanked him backward, bending his spine unnaturally before dragging his whole body along the floor at breakneck speed, up the wall and along the ceiling. For a split second, the man remained suspended on the ceiling before his lifeless body came crashing down right before Talon’s feet. Despite his training and years of combat, terror seized him. The former Delta operator had seen many a man die in front of him, but he had never experienced anything like this.

The air crackled and hissed with electricity, making Talon’s hair stand on end. Energy filled the abandoned department store. The man he had failed to save claimed the Reaper’s spirit haunted this mall, and now Talon believed him. But how to fight an enemy he couldn’t even see?

Before Talon could process the horror, the invisible force that had destroyed his companion reached out for him. A violent burst of energy shredded his combat suit, and black marks burned over his skin. The contact with the strange force took his breath away. He gasped in agony and dropped the machine pistol, which clattered ineffectively over the floor. A boneless face materialized, bloodshot eyes squirming with hatred.

The Reaper’s presence was upon him. The entity lifted Talon upward and pinned him against the wall like a puny insect. There was pressure against his diaphragm, and he couldn’t breathe. He was about to share the broken, bloodied man’s fate.

The Reaper’s skeletal features grew visible, lips dried with blood, eyes pools of pure blackness. Not flesh but made of an unstable, translucent material. Constantly reforming, exposing muscles as the thin membrane shifted and shredded.

A hand reached out for Talon’s chest, bony fingers vanishing inside his ribcage like spectral scalpels. He could almost visualize those fingers closing around his hammering heart, intent on squeezing the life right out of him.

No, it couldn’t end like this…

Talon stared into the Reaper’s inhuman eyes. The spirit had become death itself, living up to his namesake.

There was a sensation of heat and his pentacle amulet lit up, responding to the proximity of the supernatural being. Crackling energy ignited the air and the Reaper recoiled, dispersing as it unleashed a bone-rattling inhuman shriek.

Talon tilted forward, nothing holding him aloft any longer, and tumbled back to the ground. He gasped, coughing up blood.

Nearby, the spirit of the Reaper was reforming, filaments of concentrated light hanging in mid-air as the spooky wisps coalesced back into the shape of a man. Talon had no idea if the amulet would save him one more time. The Reaper wasn’t like any enemy he’d ever faced before.

Driven by his desire to live, Talon staggered to his feet and stumbled for the exit. Renewed bursts of energy erupted, still struggling to take shape and reach out for him, but he blocked it from his mind. His complete focus was on the arched exit ahead.

Unloading a clip into the lock, he ran full bore toward the door. Talon didn’t know much about spirit beings like the Reaper, but among the whispered legends and half-forgotten lore, one detail stuck out. Ghosts were often bound to the place of their death. Maybe, just maybe, the Reaper wouldn’t be able to follow him beyond the walls of his retail tomb.

A final roar of bestial, frustration accompanied his escape, and then Talon was sprinting across the parking lot. He hated to retreat. Leaving the bodies of the fallen behind wasn’t his style, either. But nothing would be gained if he faced the Reaper and allowed himself to become just another rotting corpse in the mall. He would strategize with Casca and return to face this entity.

If there was a way to defeat a ghost…

Moments later, he reached his rental car and kicked open the hinged door, still unwilling to hazard a glance behind him, praying the entity wasn’t following him.

He sucked in sharp mouthfuls of air, fired up the ignition, and tapped the accelerator. Only once the Regional Mall had receded in his rear view mirror did his hands stop shaking.

***

A half an hour later, a battered Talon used his keycard to let himself into his hotel room. One of the reasons he avoided five-star hotels, even though Casca could afford them, was that the cheaper, more rundown places offered more privacy. People knew to keep to themselves. Not having to trudge past a reception desk to get to your room didn’t hurt either. In his current beaten-up state, he would’ve drawn plenty of raised eyebrows.

He staggered into the bathroom, flipped on the light switch, and stepped up to the mirror to assess the full extent of the damage. His skintight black sweater had been shredded by the spectral attack and the skin underneath felt bruised and sensitive. His chest burned as he pulled off the shirt. He tossed the ruined garment on the floor and inspected the twin black marks that ran down his pectoral muscles in long, fat lines. The new injuries framed the inverted pentagram scar Zagan had carved into his skin back in San Francisco. The wounds resembled electrical burns of some kind. Making matters worse, his stab wound was bleeding again too.

I’m falling apart here, Talon thought.

He shouldn’t be complaining. At least he was alive. The same couldn’t be said for the man he’d failed to save back in the mall.

I shot him but he never left this place.

Talon considered the dead man’s words and concluded he must been one of the cops who put a stop to the Reaper’s wanton massacre five years earlier.

Talon rubbed an anti-burn salve on his fresh wounds and bit his lips. The cream stung like crazy. He wrapped his chest in gauze and swallowed a few painkillers.

He’d faced demons and cults, but he’d never confronted a ghost before. His amulet had saved his ass, but he was in dire need of a different kind of weapon and a new strategy if he was to face the Lightwalker and his spectral master again.

He can speak to the dead.

What did it all mean? Was this cult leader controlling the Reaper’s spirit somehow? Casca would no doubt have some ideas on the matter.

Talon staggered to the small desk which fronted the bed and switched on his laptop. A Google search produced a piece on the Reaper. A photo of a familiar face confronted Talon: the police officer he’d left behind at the mall. His name had been Officer Rob Benson, one of the first officers to arrive on the scene. Over the years, Talon had walked into enough combat zones to know the kind of horror Benson must’ve encountered on that horrific day. After his partner was hit, Benson drew fire. Four bullets cut down the Reaper. Many of the followers lost heart after their leader went down. Who knows how many more innocent lives would’ve perished if not for Benson? The man deserved every commendation he had earned that day.

Talon also knew Benson probably didn’t even see himself as a hero. Like soldiers, victories lost their luster when it came at such a high price. Benson had stopped the Reaper, but he failed his partner.

Talon logged off the website and clenched his teeth. A good man had perished today, just another casualty in this war against the darkness. He vowed to do everything in his power to stop the Reaper and his new killer cult. But how to defeat a ghost? The weapons he’d mastered over his military career were useless against the spirits of the dead. It was time to call Casca.

Even though it had to be two o’clock on the West Coast, the billionaire sounded bright and alert when he answered the phone. Was some pretty new conquest keeping Casca up this late? Or were the man’s demons denying him a much-needed rest? Either way, Casca was awake, and Talon was glad for it.

In a voice drained of all emotion, he asked, “So Casca, do you believe in ghosts?”

CHAPTER TEN

THE SCENIC DRIVE through the untamed canyons and folds of the Santa Ana foothills almost made Dr. Adira Austen forget the grim reason that brought her out here today.

Five weeks earlier Airblue Flight 191, headed from Las Vegas to Los Angeles, had gone down when the plane slammed into a cloud-covered mountain ridge. All 162 passengers and crew perished that day.

At twenty-nine, Adira was the youngest parapsychologist working at the Nexus Foundation, and her objective was to scan the crash site for signs of survival. Not survival in the traditional sense—the bodies of everyone onboard the flight had long been cleared from the debris field. She was searching for evidence that human consciousness could survive after death.

She was hunting for ghosts.

In the past, most of Nexus’ research had focused on the study of reincarnation and near death experiences, where subjects could be interviewed and records compared. Investigating hauntings and apparitions had been beyond their reach until recently. Ghosts were far harder to measure and quantify. But scientific breakthroughs—helped along by the generous backing they were receiving from their billionaire benefactor, Simon Casca—had super-charged the investigative tools at their disposal.

To Adira’s mind, it wasn’t a question whether ghosts existed. She’d barely survived a haunting when she was a teenager and knew that spirits were all too real. Her hope nowadays was to produce scientific proof that would convince the rest of the world.

The Jeep she was traveling in slowed, and Adira knew they would soon reach their destination. There were no throngs of onlookers, no signs of news vans or satellite trucks anymore. After a month, both the media vultures and the world had moved on, busy reporting on newer, more pressing horrors.

The Jeep rumbled up the tire-eating dirt lane, crested a peak, and reached the top of the hill that overlooked the site where the plane had gone down in a giant fireball. A chill rippled up her spine as she took in the gouged black earth before her. A section of the forested hillside had been decimated by the vast explosion. Death permeated the air. In her mind’s eye, Adira visualized a debris field of twisted wreckage, smoking fuselage, and scattered luggage, but the area had mercifully been cleared. The barren stretch of land was the only reminder of what had happened here. The place felt like a graveyard.

162 souls had blinked out in the prime of their lives in a terrifying flash of disintegrating metal. There had been no time to prepare for death. This raised a question: Had some of the passengers failed to cross over into the afterlife? Nexus was hoping Adira would find the answer. The Foundation was targeting areas where sudden deaths had occurred as these psychic hotspots shared a higher likelihood of producing spectral activity.

The head of the Nexus Foundation, Dr. Richard Mason, was a quantum physicist with a keen interest in the paranormal—and one of the smartest men she’d ever met. He believed that there were two worlds: the world of the living and the world of the dead. Sometimes they overlapped. His words echoed in her mind as she studied the site.

“If, when we die, our memories, fears, feelings of bitterness and vengefulness, are too strong, we can become earthbound. Trapped. Once separated from our bodies, consciousness might grow clouded. There is no difference between a day and a hundred years in this state. Some of us will be doomed to live out our last moments over and over again. Tied to the place where we died, not even aware that we’re dead.”

She remembered the chill she had felt after those words. The theory was terrifying. Death, like birth, might be an imperfect process. Sometimes consciousness…souls, if you will…failed to phase into the next world and became trapped in our plane of existence. Did anyone still linger in the mountain clearing? That was for her to find out.

The driver parked the Jeep and Adira got out. She climbed a grassy shoulder, which offered a better view of the immense wasteland that stretched out before her. Dry, gnarled vines and trees framed the black swath that had been carved into the earth. A few lonely crosses and wreaths of flowers left by family and friends of the survivors served as the only sad reminders of the lives lost here.

Adira fought back the shiver of apprehension crawling down her spine. The symbols of grief stirred memories she’d rather not dwell on. Personal loss had driven her into the field of parapsychology, a need to come to terms with the ghosts of her past that still, well, haunted her.

Taking in the fallow land, she couldn’t help but think of how horrific the scene must’ve been for the first responders and rescue workers when they initially approached the broken plane. According to reports, black smoke pouring from the fuselage had risen a mile into the sky, a funeral pyre for those killed in the crash.

Adira eyed her two assistants. Chan was Japanese-American, in his mid-twenties, and an amateur bodybuilder, his bulging muscles straining under his T-shirt. Steve fit the cliché of a paranormal investigator a little more. Pasty and overweight, the 32-year-old man possessed an open mind yet had a precise, steel-trap intellect and was willing to apply the scientific method to the unexplainable. Both men also crushed on her hard, but she felt flattered instead of creeped out by their protective attention.

Chan scanned the area with an EMF reader designed to pick up fluctuations in the electro-magnetic field. The presence of spirits could produce spikes. This was ghost-hunting 101; the EMF readings were more of a warm-up exercise. The Nexus Foundation had developed new technology that made these old ways of measuring paranormal activity feel almost quaint.

Adira nodded at Steve. “Let’s do it.”

Steve lowered the metal case he was carrying to the ground. He snapped open a latch and removed a sleek electronic device from the foam lining. It was shaped like a black motorcycle helmet. He eyed the gadget almost lovingly before handing it to Adira. He sure was attached to his toys.

“Don’t worry. I’ll let you take a peek when I’m done.”

A smile lit up Steve’s face.

She slipped on the helmet and tapped a button located on the left side below her ear. An electronic view-screen filled her field of vision as the para-spectral visualization system came online, painting the crash area in a reddish light.

Steve proceeded to link an iPad with the helmet. Everything the micro-cams inside the helmet’s goggles recorded was now being relayed to the tablet, allowing her assistants to follow the action in real time. The typical human eye could only pick up a limited percentage of the light spectrum. It responded to wavelengths of about 390 to 700 nano-meters. Anything beyond that, like ultraviolet and X-rays, remained invisible. The necro-helmet was designed to make up for these physical limitations.

Spooks could materialize to regular people for brief moments, while those with greater sensitivity to the paranormal like psychics could somehow tune into these frequencies in a natural way. The para-spectral goggles and speakers were designed to enhance the visual and auditory range so that a normal human would be able to see and hear ghosts the way a psychic did.

“The helmet is online and ready to go,”Adira said and began to walk across the vast field. Her hands were trembling, yet somehow she managed to take one step after another.

This latest research project was another stepping stone toward fulfilling Dr. Mason’s vision. He wanted to eventually form a strike team that would not only help lost souls move on but also hunt down dangerous entities. What had once been a crazy pipe dream was becoming more and more a potential reality with Casca’s financial support. How the man planned to profit from their findings or even recoup his investment was beyond her.

The reason she was here today wasn’t to gather evidence that ghosts were real. What the Foundation hoped to achieve was to develop a way to help these lost trapped souls successfully make the transition into the next world.

Adira grew still as a flicker of static slashed over the helmet’s view-screen. It was followed by movement near the edge of the dense trees that framed the field. Reality shifted as more static frizzed. Adira swallowed hard and her nails dug into her palms.

She wasn’t alone any longer.

Some poor spirit lingered in this place of death. Without her help, how long would the entity remain trapped here? The crash site was isolated. It could take years, decades, maybe even centuries before the ghost would grasp the nature of its predicament. The possibility made her shudder again.

A creepy silhouette materialized from behind the row of crosses, as revealed by the crimson tint of the necro-helmet. Adira stared, mesmerized by the horror of the situation. She wanted to back away, but her legs wouldn’t obey her. She was frozen in place.

The figure burst toward her in jerky jumps. It was an outline of a man. His features and body remained blurry, almost as if he was vibrating at some higher frequency. There was something both human and utterly alien about the apparition on the helmet’s view-screen. Pure energy willed into human shape by a mind incapable of letting go of the memory of once having been alive.

A keening sound crackled over the helmet’s audio system. Words emerged from the sea of static, and goosebumps exploded over her skin.

“Where am I?”

The words faded in and out but kept repeating like some broken transmission that was reaching her across time and space, from between worlds. Over and over again, the question repeated, fueled by mad desperation. “Where am I? WHERE AM I?”

Demanding an answer, voice rising into a shriek, the apparition lurched toward her, instinctively sensing that she could perceive its presence.

Adira tasted salt and realized she was crying under the helmet. Part of her wanted to scream out, You’re dead. The plane crashed. You must let go.

There was a strange wobbling distortion of reality, and then the figure was gone. A chill settled over her as something reached for her from behind. She spun, the entity now right in front of her.

“Who the hell are you?”

She killed the audio and tore off the helmet, unable to continue. Her surroundings returned to normal. There was no sign that the specter was present except for a lingering cold sensation. Adira gasped for air, suddenly finding it hard to breathe. Tears were streaming down her face as the sun burned down on the desolate field. The crosses and flowers loomed before her in the dry heat.

She’d thought she could handle it, that she could face a ghost again…

“Are you okay, Doc?”

She nodded at Steve. Both he and Chan eyed her with concern.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured them. They didn’t seem convinced. Even to her own ears, her hollow voice lacked conviction.

“What do we do?”

“How do you tell someone they’re dead? A degree in psychology never covered that one.” She managed a weak smile, hoping to lighten the situation.

“There’s something else,” Steve said. “I have a call for you. Dr. Mason wants us to head back immediately.”

“What? We can’t leave him like this!” She gestured to where the specter had been moments before.

Steve handed her the phone. “You better tell him that yourself.”

She gathered her thoughts, regaining her composure somewhat, snatched the phone and said, “Dr. Mason, what’s going on?”

“Adira, you need to come back now.”

Her hands were shaking, this time with rage. “Listen, there is something…someone…out here who needs help. But it’ll take some time. I just managed to establish contact.”

“I’m sorry, but it will have to wait. I need you and your team to call off your current investigation. We have a far bigger problem.”

“What are you talking about?
“I’d rather not explain over the phone. Let’s just say our benefactor needs us.”

To Adira’s mind, the purpose and mission of Nexus wasn’t to serve the private whims of some billionaire. Simon Casca was signing the checks these days, and she should have known that the money would come with strings attached.

“We’re still in phase one of the Spirit Breaker program,” Dr. Mason said. “We’ll figure this out and return to the crash site. You’ll get another chance.”

Another chance was fine… but would she be able to go through with it again? The sight of the ghost had struck a primal chord of terror in her. She had chosen this path to exorcise the past, but now she wondered if she might have made a terrible mistake. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for fieldwork.

“Mason, I saw something…and I think it will haunt me for the rest of my life unless I face it right now…”

She broke off, strangled by emotion.

“I’m sorry, but I need you and your team to head to Ampton, Ohio, right now.”

This caught her off guard. “What’s in Ohio?”

“I’ll send you more information to review on your flight. Get your mind straight. I’ll need you to be on your A-game out there.”

The line went dead. Adira sighed.

Dr. Mason was a brilliant man, but he demanded a lot from the people he trusted and respected enough to be part of the Spirit Breaker program. She was still reeling from the phone call. Mason had sounded almost…afraid. What could possibly be waiting for them that could frighten even the great Dr. Mason?

“What’s going on?” Steve asked.

“He wants us to head for Ohio.”

“What?”

“My thoughts exactly. Some sort of emergency,” she said and shrugged. “Let’s pack up the gear.”

She soaked in the clearing one last time before she turned toward the Jeep.

“What about the-?” Chan said.

She merely shook her head. She peered out at the field where she knew the spirit lurked.

“I’m sorry, but we’ll be back.”

No matter what might await her in Ohio, she intended to keep her promise at all costs.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SIMON CASCA HAD first heard about the Nexus Foundation a year earlier when he’d attended the annual convention of the Parapsychological Association. The event was held at the University of Greenwich in London every July as scientists and scholars from around the world gathered for three days of paper presentations, workshops, and panel discussions on the latest research into PSI and related phenomena. Topics such as extra-sensory perception, psychokinesis, psychic healing, altered states of consciousness, mediumship, and possible survival of bodily death were all on the program.

After a long day of lectures, Casca had tried to unwind at a local pub near the university. While sipping on a pint while reviewing the seminars of the day, Dr. Mason approached him. The man was sixty-five, lean with an energetic demeanor, hyper-intelligent eyes, and a roguish smile. He had introduced himself as a quantum physicist with an almost obsessive interest in the supernatural.

Casca liked him immediately.

Mason had made a joke about one of the more tedious lecturers, implying the man shouldn’t discuss ghosts in a tone of voice that would even bore the dead, before diving right into his pitch. Mason had a vision that would change parapsychology and catapult psychic research into the twenty-first century. He had ideas, access to talent, and was sitting on a few prototypes that would revolutionize the field. It hadn’t taken long for Casca to become caught up in the parapsychologist’s enthusiasm. By the time they had parted ways, Casca was willing to take a closer look at Mason’s proposal. A demonstration of an early prototype of the necro-helmet had led to him quickly signing a generous check.

Casca wasn’t looking to make a return on his investment. He didn’t foresee a future where Mason’s technological breakthroughs would turn a profit. This was purely about expanding humanity’s understanding of the existential mysteries that had baffled philosophers and mystics since the dawn of time. Casca hoped Mason’s work might provide an answer to the oldest question of them all: Did human consciousness survive death?

It was a question that had kept Casca up many a night as he contemplated his sister’s murder. Over the years he’d hired the best psychics money could buy to inspect the library where the cult leader had driven his blade into her heart, desperate to know if maybe some part of her remained in our world. No one had ever picked up any psychic residue, and he hoped it meant his sister was at peace, wherever she was.

After hearing Talon’s report on what had transpired at the Regional Nation Mall, it seemed like his investment into the Nexus Foundation had been the right move. As soon as he got off the phone, he had his driver take him to the airport where his private Lear jet was fueled and ready for takeoff. An hour later, he was in the air on his way to Ohio, fielding a series of calls with Dr. Mason. The Nexus Foundation and their Spirit Breaker program were about to get a chance to prove themselves in the field.

***

Casca was planning on joining him in person, a development that caught Talon off guard. As a Special Operator, he was used to a lot of autonomy and didn’t like the idea of the billionaire looking over his shoulder during a mission. Talon had no problem operating within a team, but Casca was a civilian ill prepared for what he might encounter on the front of his occult war. He was still pondering Casca’s impending arrival when sleep overtook him.

The next morning, his chirping cell phone awoke him. Casca was already outside in a car. A quick shower later, Talon slipped into the back of the billionaire’s limo and they merged into morning traffic. He could feel Casca’s eyes on him, and he shot his benefactor a dark grin.

“I know, I look like shit. Seeing dead people doesn’t agree with me.”

He took a deep sip of the coffee he’d grabbed on the way out of the hotel and wished he’d spiked it with something stronger. He pointed to two small white streaks on his sideburns that hadn’t been there the day before.

“A souvenir from last night.”

“The shock of a spectral entity passing through you can disrupt melanin levels,” Casca said.

Talon shook his head with disbelief. “How would you know something like that? Wait, don’t tell me.”

Rain pelted the windshield but the gray weather wasn’t impacting the billionaire’s buoyant mood. It was impossible not to pick up on the man’s excited energy. Casca reminded him of a gung-ho new recruit eager to take on the enemy. Once the bullets started flying and blood began to flow, he might change his tune.

“So what’s the plan?” Talon asked.

“Are you familiar with the Nexus Foundation?”

“Should I be?”

“They are the world’s leading experts on anomalous phenomena. A fancy term to describe ghosts.”

“You live for this shit, don’t you?”

Casca shrugged sheepishly. “We all have our interests.”

More like an obsession, Talon though. An obsession he was beginning to share.

He pondered the billionaire’s words. They’d often discussed the two universal forces coursing the universe, the light and the darkness. Both of these power sources could be accessed through occult ritual, and he’d both confronted the darkness and tapped into the light. Despite numerous conversations, ghosts and spirits were a subject they’d barely touched upon. He remembered the apparition of Michelle he thought he’d seen during his life-and-death battle with Zagan. At the time, he’d been convinced she’d returned to give him strength. Later on, he wasn’t so sure and seriously wondered if he might’ve imagined the whole thing.

As a professional soldier, death cast a large shadow over him, now more so than ever. Nevertheless, he never had dwelled too much on the possibility of life after death. Figuring out life was hard enough; part of his pragmatic character was to avoid wasting time on questions for which there were no definitive answers.

“Where are we going, by the way?”

“The Nexus Foundation is sending out some of their people to help us with our current problem. Dr. Adira Austen is their top parapsychologist, and I have a feeling she’ll have some helpful advice as we prepare to face the Reaper.”

Talon nodded, but the idea of setting foot in the abandoned mall again filled him with dread. “You know this stuff is insane.”

“It’s a hell of a thing to wrap your mind around. But it also illustrates how little we know about the world beyond. The Foundation’s philosophy is to use the scientific approach when it comes to the supernatural.” Casca’s face lit up with passion as he continued. “Nexus holds some of the best equipped para-psychological labs in the country. Their scientists are investigating what mystics have been talking about for centuries. Quantum physics, string theory, dark matter. New models of the nature of reality. Cutting edge, ground breaking stuff.”

“How much do they know about us? About what we do in the front line of this battle?”

“They know you work for me and that I have an interest in stopping occult threats, the Reaper being one of them. Beyond that, Dr. Mason and his team know not to ask too many questions.”

“I see.”

Talon still felt uncomfortable about turning this mission into a group effort. The Foundation and Casca were unknown variables that made the ultimate outcome of the mission harder to predict. But he could use some help. The Reaper and his followers weren’t like any enemy he’d ever faced before.

The limo pulled up to an office building and drove into its underground parking structure.

It was time to learn about ghosts.

CHAPTER TWELVE

ADIRA WAS SURPRISED to discover that Casca had rented the entire top floor of a downtown Ampton office building for the upcoming meeting. How much money did the man have to throw around? Her surprise deepened when she met the handsome, boyishly good-looking man. She had expected someone older, more serious looking. Casca clearly was a jet setter, but there was an intensity and sense of focus to his demeanor that caught her off guard.

She was even more taken aback by the intense man that accompanied him. Apparently he’d survived an encounter with a malicious entity. Casca had jokingly introduced him as “Talon, the most dangerous man alive,” but something about the man’s bearing convinced her that it wasn’t an empty jest. The man radiated danger, projecting a palpable edge. Something in his gaze felt familiar too. She’d spotted the same haunted expression on her own face in the wake of the traumatic events that had set her on her current quest to investigate the mysteries of the paranormal.

Adira asked to take a quick look at the wounds from the ghostly attack. Laying eyes on Talon’s scarred torso confirmed her first impression of the man. This wasn’t one of Casca’s golfing buddies who’d tagged along for the ride. Besides the numerous scars, which suggested a long, dangerous career that involved getting stabbed and shot, the man also boasted a fresh knife wound. Most disturbing of all was the inverted pentagram that someone had carved into his chest. Who was this man? And how did he know Casca? She suppressed the questions and focused on the task at hand.

“The burn marks are the result of a spirit’s electrical field reacting to organic tissue,” she explained as Chan snapped a series of photographs of the burn marks. “It should heal up pretty quickly with proper treatment.”

“Sounds like I’m ready for round two.”

The comment made her smile and Talon joined in, suddenly not looking quite so intimidating.

Afterwards, they headed for the conference room, where Casca quickly brought her up to speed on the Reaper case. The story felt fantastical, but the man’s scars were real. She wondered what Talon had been doing at to the Regional National Mall in the first place. Dr. Mason hoped to use the Spirit Breaker program to hunt and help ghosts, but what was Talon hunting?

Whatever the explanation might be, both Casca and Talon were deadly serious about this business and it immediately set the tone of their meeting. After Talon finished his story, there was a sense of expectation in the air. The two men were waiting for answers, and the ball was now in her court. It was time for her to show them what the Nexus Foundation had to offer—and that Casca’s trust and confidence in them was warranted.

“Most spectral entities pose no threat to the living,” she explained. “Even if ghosts wanted to attack a person, they are unable to generate enough energy to affect human tissue. That’s why the majority of people never actually see ghosts but only report hearing strange noises or experiencing moving objects. Spectral apparitions have a tough time manipulating material reality. It’s far more common for them to possess a human host and use them to harm others.” There was a steely conviction in her voice. She was talking from personal experience.

“I guess the one I ran to is the exception to the rule. Lucky me.”

Casca cocked an eyebrow and asked, “Is there anything that could boost the power level of a spirit?”

Adira considered the question for a beat before she spoke. “Ghosts give off electro-magnetic energy, which is pretty much why any ghost hunter on reality TV worth his money has an EMF reader. Dr. Mason has speculated that entities may not merely emit EMFs but also draw on them. In other words, an electro-magnet could make a spirit more powerful.”

Casca’s face lit up with interest. “What are you saying? There’s an electro-magnet inside the Regional National Mall?”

“Possible. But we’ve also observed that specters have the ability to draw on certain humans in a similar fashion. Psychics, in particular.”

“The Lightwalker,” Talon said.
“He sounds like he may have the gift and is acting as the Reaper’s psychic battery.”

“So if we take out the Lightwalker, we won’t have to worry about the Reaper,” Talon said.

Adira regarded Talon for a moment. The way he said take out sounded suspiciously like he was talking about terminating the cult leader. Once again, she wondered who this man was and what his connection to Casca might be.

“In theory it would weaken the entity. Reports of the hauntings at the National Regional Mall preceded the arrival of the Lightwalker, but his presence appears to have taken the entity’s abilities to a whole other level.”

Talon considered this and said, “How do I get past the Reaper? Casca said you guys could help.”

Adira took a deep breath and said, ”Let me show you.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ADIRA STARTED THE next part of her presentation with a detailed rundown of the necro-helmet. Talon was used to amazing military kit. From “Fusion” Spiral Enhanced Night Vision Goggles that allowed operators to pick up heat signatures to the use of drones in combat, he’d handled some cutting edge gear in his day. Despite these experiences, the tech that Dr. Adira was demonstrating seemed to have come straight out of a Marvel movie.

If she was to be believed, the helmet would allow him to keep track of the Reaper at all times as if the ghost were a real person. Suddenly Casca’s investment in Nexus was beginning to make sense, and Talon wondered how much this had set back the billionaire. Some rich guys bought diamond rings for the Eastern European supermodels they were wooing; Casca clearly had other priorities.

Talon donned the necro-helmet and activated the system. The conference room was bathed in a red tint. He tilted his head at Casca and said, “Should I take a selfie?”

“Cut it out,” Caca said jokingly.

Talon turned toward Adira. “So what else have you got?”

He wasn’t quite sure what to make of the parapsychologist. Why would a young, attractive woman devote her life to the study of the supernatural? Had some past trauma pushed her toward this world? Was she too a victim of the occult? He promised himself to inquire further about the enigmatic doctor when he and Casca were alone again.

His focus shifted back to Adira’s presentation. She was pointing at a mannequin decked out in a futuristic body suit. It reminded him of a green wetsuit covered with a second layer of protection consisting of armored plates along the chest, calves, thighs, arms, and back.

“Necro-armor. All part of the Spirit Breaker system,” Adira explained.

“Spirit Breaker? Who came up with that one?” Talon asked.

“I believe that was the brainchild of the gentleman to your left.”

Talon flashed the billionaire an appreciative look. “Nice one, Casca.”

“The Spirit Breaker generates a magnetic field that wards off spectral energy sources,” Adira said.

Talon remembered how the Reaper had reached into his chest. Such a suit would’ve come in handy during his last confrontation.

“Cool idea, but does it work?”

“We’re about to find out, aren’t we?” Adira said. “This will be the suit’s first test run. But I assure you the science behind is quite sound.”

“I guess I’ll have your word for it.” Talon shot Casca a curious glance. “So how much did these toys set you back?”

Casca pouted and said, “You don’t want to know.”

Adira nodded at a pair of gloves that had been laid out on the conference table. “The gloves are made of the same material. If you make contact with a spectral energy field, an electro-magnetic charge powers up the gloves. Allows you to attack a ghost as if it were solid.”

Adira turned toward a futuristic looking rifle. “And finally, this is our Ecto-pulse rifle.”

“Personally I was hoping we could just call it the ghost gun, but I was overruled,” Casca commented.

Ignoring the comment, Adira continued. “The pulse rifle emits a concentrated magnetic distortion field. It disrupts the coherence of ghosts.”

“What happens if I cross the streams?” The joke earned Talon a long look from everyone. “Whoa, tough crowd,” he said.

“The rifle won’t destroy a ghost but will slow it down,” Adira said.

“So how do I kill the Reaper?”

“You can’t. At least we don’t have any technology that can permanently disintegrate a spectral presence.”

Talon eyed Casca. “Do you have anything else useful in your magical arsenal? The Reaper sure didn’t like your amulet.”

“Most entities aren’t powered by the darkness directly, and the amulets and talismans tend to be useless against them. The Reaper’s violent reaction to the pentacle suggests that his continued presence on this plane is the direct result of his black magic dealings.”

“Meaning what?”

“I studied some of the tattoos on his body. They are…interesting.”

Casca punched up a few photos on his smart phone and showed them to Talon and Adira. The image revealed a circle filled with triangles and exotic symbols that vaguely recalled the sigils the apocalypse soldier had left behind in Father Cabrera’s church in Arizona.

“What am I looking at?”

“The symbol is used in forms of necromancy. You know what that is?”

“The magical ability to summon the dead,” Talon said without hesitation. Casca paused, an eyebrow raised, and Talon grinned. “I’m a fast learner.” It was beginning to all make sense. The Reaper had used dark magic to remain in this world even after Detective Benson’s bullets had struck him down. His powers remained weak, though, until the Lightwalker showed up and psychically weaponized the ghost.

Talon turned to Adira. “So the Spirit Breaker will slow down the Reaper but won’t destroy him.”

“Hopefully it will buy you enough time to get to the Lightwalker. He is the psychic power source. Once he’s dealt with, the Reaper will be less of a problem.

“Is there a way to send this monster to hell for good?” Talon asked.

There was a beat of hesitation before Adira spoke again. “If the Reaper’s spirit took possession of a living person and if that person were killed, both souls would phase over into the afterlife.”

“Good to know.” Talon paused for a beat before he said, “There’s something else. What do you think the Reaper is after? What’s the endgame here?”

“The dead don’t have an endgame,” Adira explained. “All that’s left for them is to repeat the patterns that prevented them from moving on in the first place. They’re trapped in an eternal loop. The Reaper’s life was defined by murder and death, and this still holds true today.”

Talon stepped up to the ecto-rifle and powered up the experimental ghost-hunting weapon. He regarded Casca with a deeper understanding. “You and Dr. Mason hope to turn the Spirit Breaker program into another unit of this war we’re fighting, aren’t you?”

“That’s the vision we share,” Casca said. “Some souls cannot accept their passing and become lost. They just need help. The kind of help Dr. Austen and her team can provide. Others are evil like the Reaper. Unwilling to face the afterlife, determined to remain on this world, their sole comfort the misery and pain of the living.”

“You’ll need soldiers to hunt these specters.”

“If we can find some recruits. Know anyone who might be crazy enough to sign up?”

“Only one person. And you’re looking at him.”

A red light ignited inside the ecto-rifle’s main chamber, and his hands trembled with its surging power. Talon’s lips stretched into a dark grin. The occult assassin was ready for his rematch.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CASCA HAD PROVIDED the Nexus team with a top-of-the line mobile command center housed within a black bus. Adira, Chan, and the billionaire were hunched behind a series of monitors and computers in the main command area. The system would allow them to interface with the necro-helmet and follow the action inside the haunted mall beat by beat in real time.

Talon emerged from the bus’s restroom, now fully suited up in the necro-armor. The material perfectly conformed to his body almost as if it had been custom-made to his measurements. He’d initially worried the suit might be too bulky and constrain his mobility, but the opposite was true. The armor clung to him like a second skin, and he felt empowered and ready to go to war.

Casca was the first to look up from one of the monitors. “How does it feel?”

“Where’s the cape and cowl?”

There was a twinkle in Casca’s eyes, but otherwise he maintained his poker face. “We should be reaching the mall in fifteen minutes.”

Talon nodded and turned toward the small arsenal mounted on the far wall of the comm center not covered by terminals. He snatched his machine pistol and ran it through some quick checks, an old ritual that helped him calm his nerves and prepare for combat.

Adira eyed him curiously. “You’ll be taking conventional weapon along?”

“Your toys sound great, but they won’t do much good against the Lightwalker and his killer cult.”

Adira didn’t flinch. Talon wished he knew what was going through her mind. Judging from the expression in her face, she was beginning to realize that he didn’t plan on taking any prisoners in the upcoming conflict. Could she be trusted once the bullets started flying and people were dying? Casca seemed to think so. Personally, he wasn’t so sure. Not everyone out there approved of his brand of vigilante justice.

He faced Adira and asked, “So how does one end up tracking spooks for a living?”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me how you ended up with a pentagram carved on your chest.”

Touche.

Talon shrugged. “I run into some freaky fellows in my line of work. Most times they’re just trying to kill me. Sometimes they get creative.”

Adira was clearly still mulling this over when Casca interjected himself into the conversation. “What Talon is saying is that there are certain men out there intent on causing death and destruction, men who dabble in the occult and black magic.”

“And you hunt these men?”

“I stop them,” Talon said.

“I see. Sounds dangerous.”

Talon shot a playful grin at his benefactor. “The job comes with a pretty good medical plan. Isn’t that right, Casca?”

The billionaire rolled his eyes.

“Okay, your turn. How did you get into all of this?”

Adira’s lip stretched into a thin line before she said, “You ever see the Carterville House Horror?”

Talon searched his memory and shrugged. His day job nowadays was hunting nightmares but ironically enough he’d never been a big fan of thrillers. “I’m more of a comedy guy.”

“That makes two of us.” She paused for a beat before she said, ”The movie follows a pretty basic formula: Family moves into haunted house and weird stuff happens. Eventually the evil spirit possesses the husband and he murders the wife, two of the kids, and ultimately eats a bullet.”

“That’s probably why I skipped it. I like my movies to have a happy ending.”

“Then you’ll be glad to hear that one person made it out of alive. The teenage daughter survived the haunting.”

Talon searched Adira’s face, taken aback by the hollow tone in her voice.

“The movie was based on a true story,” Adira said, her voice drained of all emotion.

For a moment, Talon just stared at the parapsychologist, the enormity of what she was telling him sinking in.

“I’m sorry. How..?”

“They said my dad lost it. His schizophrenia made him see visions, hear voices. But I was there. I saw the thing that took hold of him.”

Adira turned back to the monitors, her hands trembling. The conversation was over.

He eyed Casca, who confirmed the tale with a nod of his head. All three of them were victims of paranormal evil. Survivors. That was why Casca thought she could be trusted. In her own way she was working toward protecting innocent lives from the supernatural.

Adira’s expression softened. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have unloaded like that…”

“No worries,” Talon said. “I understand where you’re coming from. To fight monsters, you have to know they’re out there.”

Adira searched his face and nodded slowly, a newfound understanding between them.

The mobile command center came to a halt. They’d arrived at their destination.

He shouldered the machine pistol and wrapped a belt with ammo around his waist. “Time to see how your toys hold up in the field.”

“I think I should go with you,” Casca said.

“I appreciate that, but trust me—it’s a real bad idea. You’re not trained to fight killers.”

“You could use some back-up.”

“I know you practice martial arts and probably hit a shooting range once or twice a month. But this is the real deal. This is war.”

There was a beat between them, and Casca finally relented. Talon snatched the ecto-pulse rife and slipped the necro-helmet over his head. The scent of synthetic foam filled his nostrils. The weight and feel of the helmet added the surreal sensation that he was indeed entering a warzone.

He headed for the exit of the black command bus. Outside, a heavy mantle of late-afternoon mist enshrouded the Regional National Mall. The monolithic structure extended like a malignant growth from the fog. Facing the haunted mall vividly brought back the horror of the other night.

You’re crazy to do this all over again.

He suppressed his natural flight response. Doubt and fear were part of being human. Every time he’d parachuted into a warzone or closed in on a heavily fortified enemy position, nagging doubts had manifested themselves. The trick was to train your mind to not pay attention to them.

I must be a sucker for punishment, he thought as he sprinted toward the mall, mist weaving around him. The helmet amplified his breathing. Decked out in the imposing necro-armor, he looked like a futuristic soldier heading into battle on an alien world.

One way he overcame combat anxiety was to focus on the mission and not the danger. He risked his life for a reason. He was making a difference. Each time he faced a new cult, he was, on some level, avenging Michelle all over again. But even more importantly, he wanted to prevent other victims from meeting a similar fate. He’d joined the military because he knew this was a big, bad world that needed people willing to put themselves in harm’s way to make it a better place.

The massive department store jumped into view. Ready for the next step, he removed a grappling gun from his belt, targeted the roof, and pulled the trigger. There was an explosive hiss from the CO2 cartridge, and the anchor shot toward the roof’s ledge. The rope paid out, and the steel claw latched around a cooling pipe with an audible clang. He tested the rope, making sure it was securely anchored, and proceed to scale the wall with quick, powerful strides. The suit slowed him down a bit, but he was used to carrying armor.

A minute later he stood atop the roof and shifted his focus to the large skylight before him. Jagged holes perforated the glass and offered a shadowy view of the mall’s main plaza.

He peered through the cracked wounds in the skylight and scanned the ground below. There were no signs of the cultists, and the helmet wasn’t detecting any spectral activity.

Lets just hope this thing works, he thought.

He secured the rope and activated the ecto-pulse weapon. The hum of energy bashed the night. Gloved hands closed around the rope, and he carefully lowered himself through the maw of broken glass that jutted out like the teeth of some beast, his armor protecting him from the sharp edges. Rappelling to the main plaza, a crimson darkness enveloped him.

The helmet’s ecto-spectral viewing system amplified the post-apocalyptic feel of his surroundings, and he struggled to shake the feeling that he was descending into the depths of Hades itself.

Within seconds, his combat boots touched down on the ground. Machine pistol out and ecto-rifle powered up, he was prepared to rapidly switch between the two weapons if the situation called for it.

The red darkness waited.

“All clear. Not picking up any signs of the—”

He broke off, having noticed something strange. The floor was covered with lumpy shapes. Almost as if someone had dumped military sandbags across the mall’s main plaza.

“What is it?” Casca voice crackled over the comm in his helmet.

Talon approached the first shape and went stock-still. He suddenly knew what he was looking at and his stomach lurched. What he’d initially mistaken for sandbags were the bodies of the cult members, features obscured by their hoodies even in death. A feeling of dread slashed through him. He was standing at the center of a mass graveyard.

He kneeled before the first dead cultist. A wide-eyed stare greeted him from beneath the hood as Talon turned him over, the dead man’s neck coated red. He had opened his own throat with the crimson-caked sickle that lay on the floor next to his body. Looking more carefully at the corpse’s arms, he noticed familiar tattoos. The same strange circle with triangles Casca had shown him earlier.

The mark of the necromancer.

The broken forms of the Lightwalker’s followers lined the plaza as far as he could see. The colossal loss of life, the inherent madness in the act—it all revolted him. But San Francisco had taught him that mass suicide could power occult ritual. So what purpose could this terrible sacrifice serve?

A shrill beeping broke him out of his thoughts, and he realized the EMF reader in his right glove was picking up some crazy readings.

“Talon, what the hell is going on?” Casca’s words were drowned out by sharp bursts of static that quickly built into a bone-chilling, keening shriek.

Something was out there in the dark.

Something that regarded him as an intruder.

“Talon!”

He didn’t respond, every fiber of his being focused on the shifting mass of shadows before him. His breath clouded before him as blurry shapes separated from the encroaching darkness and appeared in the visualization system of his helmet. There was swirl of rapid, staticky motion as, one after another, spectral silhouettes grew visible. They vibrated toward him, closing in from every direction, too many to count or keep track of.

He performed a 360-degree scan of the plaza—ghosts everywhere he looked. Pallid monsters, eyes like pits, now pouncing toward him at predatory speed, moving in staccato bursts. The incoming specters fazed in and out, a rapidly approaching swarm. The air charged, crackling with spectral static.

The Reaper wasn’t their only problem any longer. The bastard now commanded an army of the dead!

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE SCREENS INSIDE the Comm Center exploded with spectral activity. Ghosts were homing in on Talon’s position from every direction.

“If you guys have any helpful advice, now would be the time to share it.”

Talon’s voice filled the mobile command center, a trace of fear in his tone. The Delta Operator had stared death in the face on more than one occasion, but engaging a swarm of spirits clearly wasn’t something they’d covered at Fort Bragg.

Adira clutched the edge of the console. She’d never experienced anything like this before. Back at the Santa Ana crash site, one apparition had been enough to send shivers of terror up her spine. Talon now faced about twenty of them, all weaponized by the Lightwalker’s psychic power. The necro-armor and weaponry were designed to give Talon a fighting chance against the Reaper. With the help of Dr. Mason’s Spirit Breaker technology, he might be able to hold his own against one entity. No way in hell would he stand a chance against this army of wraiths. The entities were just too fast, too powerful for one man to successfully ward them off and not succumb to their overwhelming numbers.

“He needs our help,” Casca said. He turned toward her. “Tell your driver to bring us closer to the mall. I’m going in.”

“You’ll get yourself killed.”

“What about Talon? If we don’t help him, he’s done for.”

Adira nodded and palmed her mic. “Steve, pull up to the main entrance of that JC Penney.”

The next words were out of her mouth before she could stop herself. “I’m coming with you.”

Casca eyed her with surprise as the mobile command center burst into motion and shot toward the shopping center. Adira knew it was suicide, but if the billionaire was willing to risk his life, she couldn’t stay behind. There were no spare suits though fortunately they had a few extra rifles and helmets.

We’ll see them coming—and might be able to hit a few— but we’re going to be completely exposed, she thought, her heart pounding. The spirits they failed to stop would just pass through them and kill them instantly upon contact. What they were about to do was completely insane. Was this billionaire just an egomaniac with a death wish? And why was she following along with his madness?

Chan jumped up from the comm center’s flashing screens, a disturbed expression etched into his face.

What was it now?

“We have another problem. The Ampton police scanners are going nuts. Sounds like the whole precinct is about to descend on this mall. All units are being rerouted.”

Almost as if to lend weight to Chan’s words, sirens filled the night. The first cops were closing in.

“What’s going on?”

Casca’s eyes glittered with dark realization. “This is what it’s all been about,” he said. “The copycat murders, going after Benson, gathering a new following. The Reaper is repeating the past.”

Casca was echoing her earlier words. The Reaper was about to relive the confrontation that had cost him his life. But this time around, he’d have a horde of spooks at his disposal—and the outcome of the battle would be quite different.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

THE ECTO-PULSE rifle hummed with power as Talon lined up one of the ghosts in its cross-hairs and squeezed the trigger.

Here we go!

No laser beam or projectile shot out of the weapon’s muzzle. Instead, an invisible magnetic wave warped and distorted the spirit’s shape before obliterating it into whirling tendrils of energy.

There was no time to marvel at the rifle’s power. More specters were zeroing in on his position, and Talon unleashed a firestorm of ecto-sonic destruction. He kept moving as he fired, desperate to break out of the tightening band of ghosts. For each spirit he destroyed, two new ones took its place. How to escape an enemy that wasn’t bound by space? An enemy that couldn’t be killed – because it was dead already. Even though the magnetic waves tore the spirits apart, they’d be able to reconstitute themselves seconds later.

Talon was no stranger to overwhelming odds. There had been many a close call back in Afghanistan when it appeared the Taliban would overrun his team. Superior firepower and training counted for a lot, but being outnumbered by an endless stream of enemies would break the strongest fighting force in time. But at least the terrorists had been flesh and blood. Facing the dead was fraught with existential terror that easily invited despair.

The air rippled, and a phantom materialized to his right. The entity tore into Talon, but unlike the attack by the Reaper the other night, it wasn’t able to pass through his body. His necro-armor lit up with sizzling energy as the apparition made contact. The ghost reared back, its howl reverberating over the helmet’s speakers. The shrieking voices of the dead cultists cried out in unison, a dirge of the damned. Talon wished he could just kill the audio and shut out the unnerving sounds. Seeing these lost souls was bad enough; having to listen to their unearthly cries was unbearable.

He retreated, blasting away, more machine than man as he carved a path through the ghostly horde. Two spirits burst from the floor and attacked. The armor repelled them, but the impact sent him flying. He banged into the ground, his helmet cracking against the stone surface.

Reality frizzed out for a second as the para-spectral visualization system went offline. For one blissful moment, his view-screen turned dark—the ghosts vanishing from view, the keening cries dying down. The spirits were still present but invisible to his senses, a welcome illusion of being alone in the now eerily quiet plaza.

The respite from the ghostly onslaught didn’t last as the system came back online and a phalanx of fast approaching specters invaded his reality. They may have succeeded in hurtling him to the ground, but the necro-armor was holding its own. He remembered all too well how the Reaper had dragged Benson’s frame across the ceiling. These ghosts could pass through matter—enter his body, stop his heart, or toss him around like a ragdoll. This suit was saving his ass. Imagine an entire strike force outfitted in Spirit Breaker technology. A group like that would demolish any supernatural threat they encountered. Then again, maybe that was Casca’s plan all along when he’d invested in the Spirit Breaker technology.

As much as he marveled at the new battle tech, Talon was an old-fashioned soldier at heart. He went to check his trusty machine pistol and realized that it must have been lost in the fray. No time to dwell on it as another specter surged into his body armor and violently reared back in a flash of sizzling energy.

Talon cut a hasty retreat into the food court’s maze of bolted down tables and chairs. The spirit shimmered after him, passing through solid objects as if they weren’t there, unaffected by the material world.

Within seconds the entity was upon him, bony hands reaching.

Talon’s gloved fist snapped out in a punch. Instead of slipping through the immaterial assailant, it made contact with the ghost. A shock wave of white-hot energy erupted on impact.

Talon stumbled backward. Sensed movement above him. He looked up and saw a specter suspended in mid-air. A pallid, cadaverous monster, its features blurred. The vague impression features: a mouth like raw a wound, eyes like black marbles.

He brought up the ecto-rifle.

Fired.

A burst from the weapon seemed to decapitate the entity in mid-descent, the ghostly body crumpling.

One thing was for certain—the specters were noticeably slower than the Reaper. If the ghosts drew power from the Lightwalker, perhaps powering so many of these entities was taking its toll on him. If the psychic’s energy was now dispersed among too many ghosts, it offered a glimmer of hope. Maybe, if he could hold them back long enough, this army of the dead might exhaust the cult leader.

Of course, that gave rise to another important question: Where the hell was the psychic?

The sound of creaking metal suddenly cut through the food court, and a series of violent tremors rattled the bolted-down furniture. Steel screamed and an invisible force ripped a table from its anchoring, the spirits combining their energy to manipulate physical reality.

With an ear-splitting screech, the table shot toward Talon. His necro-armor could deflect spirits, but was useless against material objects. The bastards had already adjusted their tactics.

The table rammed into Talon and sent him flying. A nearby gated-up storefront filled his field of vision, followed by the inevitable teeth-chattering impact. Metal creaked as he crumpled to the ground, and he exhaled sharply. The armor had cushioned the fall somewhat, but he sensed this was merely the beginning of his opponents’ new strategy. Who knows what else these ghosts might throw at him?

Firing non-stop, he scrambled back to his feet. As he looked up, Talon saw the Reaper looming right in front of him. The unholy master of the spectral horde had arrived.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CASCA SHOVED THE door open and burst into the foggy night. The driver had as instructed pulled the mobile command center right up to the JC Penney’s main entrance. The billionaire had activated both his necro-helmet and ecto-rifle, and his body was burning up with adrenaline.

Strange to feel so alive when he was about to face the dead.

Adira appeared on his side, the vibration of her own weapon cutting the silence of the night. He’d read up on the parapsychologist soon after his meeting with Dr. Mason and had found her backstory fascinating. Here was a woman who had survived a haunting that destroyed her entire family. But instead of letting her experiences crush her spirit, she’d risen above past trauma and remade herself. From the easy way she handled the rifle, Casca guessed she hadn’t spent the last few years exclusively with her head buried in books.

He barreled toward the entrance, Adira trailing him. Rifles leading the way, they barged into the mall and navigated the deserted department store. They made sure to stay close to each other and cover each other’s backs. Every successive step brought them closer to the moment when they’d confront the Lightwalker’s army of spirits.

As they advanced, Casca’s mind kept turning to that day in the library when the cult leader took his sister’s life. He’d caught a glimpse of a dark shape among the aisles of books. A shifting silhouette of pure blackness, almost as if someone had carved a hole into the very fabric of reality. That defining incident had been his first and only tangible experience of the supernatural.

He was about to receive a refresher course.

His courage surprised him, but Talon needed help. The Delta Operator was formidable, but this was a fight he could not win alone.

Three minutes later, the main plaza jumped into view and Casca spotted the first entity. His heart raced and his whole reality narrowed to that one detail: the shrieking spirit whirling toward them at breakneck speed. Rifle leveled, he pulled the trigger, and the magnetic wave obliterated the inhuman attacker.

The thrill of his first spectral kill gave way to fear as more airborne entities zeroed in on him. He kept firing away at the incoming enemy while he combed the plaza for Talon. Where was the Operator?

“Watch out!” Adira’s voice boomed over his helmet’s speakers.

Casca spun around and saw one of the ghosts coming right at him. Fortunately, Adira vaporized the entity before it could embed itself into his flesh.

He let out a sigh of relief and continued to blast the ghosts. Two dispersed, providing a clear view of Talon up ahead. He was pressed against a gated storefront, a dark silhouette closing in on him. Was it the Reaper?

Casca pointed at Talon, and Adira’s voice crackled again over his mic. ”I see him too!”

They both rushed toward Talon, blasting away. The semi-translucent figure descending on the man shattered under their sustained efforts. Casca knew it was merely a brief victory. Within seconds, the mass murderer’s ghost would begin the process of regenerating itself. They’d been lucky thus far, but it was impossible to sustain this effort.

The three of them started to draw closer, ecto-rifles firing non-stop. They faced an enemy that would never grow tired, never grow weaker in numbers, never would give up.

We will not make it out of here, Casca realized.

Unless…

His eyes combed the food court and landed on a can of spray-paint that one of the cultists must’ve dropped right next to where his body had fallen. It gave him an idea. He yelled into his mic, “I have a plan. Let’s form a circle, keep your backs to each other.”

He sensed the Delta Operator’s hesitation, but the soldier knew from experience that even a bad plan was far better than no plan at all.

“Talon, I need your pendant.”

The Operator quickly tossed him the amulet but never stopped blasting away at the enemy. The billionaire draped it over his neck and said, “Cover me and stay close!”

He jumped forward, scooped up the can of spray-paint and drew a red circle around them.

“What are you doing, Casca? This is a hell of a time for a goddamn art project.”

“Glad to hear your sense of humor is still intact. You guys have to trust me on this. Make sure to stay within the circle.”

Casca had studied the occult for more than a decade. He had internalized its mysteries but only personally dabbled with ritualistic magic on a handful of occasions. Praying that he wasn’t signing their death sentences, he whispered the words required to activate the protective circle’s power. The incantation flew from his lips as he quickly drew four ancient Sumerian symbols inside the circle. Once done, the next step was to etch out a pentagram, a perfect replica of the pendant he now wore. Pentagrams had been a symbol of good until Satanists had perverted the symbol by inverting it in the name of the darkness.

One of the first things Casca had learned was that not all magic was evil. There were rituals that tapped into the darkness but others channeled the light. Up until right now, most of his occult knowledge had been of an intellectual nature. It was time to test his expertise in the field. How he wished he could’ve done so without a lethal swarm of phantoms swirling around him—but sometimes necessity was the kick needed to turn theory into practice.

He’d almost finished reciting the spell when one of the ghosts circumvented the magnetic blasts from Talon and Adira’s ecto-rifles and surged right at him. Did the specter sense what he was up to?

Adira stepped in front of the ghost, buying him precious seconds. As the spirit flung her out of the circle, he mouthed the last words of the incantation.

The protective circle lit up.

Three more ghosts charged, but they violently recoiled upon hitting the circle’s perimeter. It was almost as if an invisible force field was warding them off, the magical power of the circle activated. Even though he couldn’t make out Talon’s features, he knew the man was staring at from him behind the helmet. How would he adapt to the idea that his general was dabbling with the very forces they’d sworn to battle?

Their momentary victory was bittersweet. He couldn’t pull his gaze from Adira’s motionless form sprawled next to the dead cultists on the ground.

There was no time for grief as more specters made a go at them. The ghosts repeatedly dashed against the magical ring, and each time the power of the circle repelled them. They were unable to penetrate the barrier.

At least for now.

Casca wasn’t sure for how long the circle would maintain its magic under such a sustained pounding. His gut told him it wouldn’t be for much longer.

“There are too many,” he said to Talon. “They’re going to break through any...”

The barrage suddenly stopped.

The specters froze.

For a moment, Casca wondered what was going on. The keening shrieks on his necro-helmet were now replaced with another sound: the deafening prop wash of an incoming helicopter and the wail of sirens. The police had arrived. And the officers were about to walk into a supernatural ambush. They weren’t prepared for what they’d find in the mall. How many cops were about to lose their lives?

The ghosts were pulling away from the circle, gearing up for their next assault. Their terrible mass suicide had turned the cult into an unbeatable weapon—a weapon about to be targeted against the hapless officers entering the mall.

Footsteps echoed in the dark.

The Lightwalker approached the circle. He was wise enough to keep his distance, just beyond the reach of Talon’s grasp. The bastard knew exactly how close he could get to them. Ghosts swirled around his form, the air shimmering with inhuman energy.

The Lightwalker turned toward him, their eyes meeting.

Casca immediately realized that powering this many spirits was taking a heavy toll on the psychic. Cataracts had formed around bloodshot eyes, and his skin was wrinkled and loose, aged beyond his years.

The Reaper is consuming his life force, Casca thought. Draining him like a battery.

How much longer before he’d burn out for good?

His heart sank when he realized the Lightwalker’s weakened state wouldn’t prevent what was about to happen next. The psychic had found Talon’s machine pistol and was now pointing the weapon right at them.

“Maybe your little circle can keep ghosts out,” he said, ”but I wonder how it will fare against bullets.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

ADIRA’S EYES SNAPPED open. Reddish darkness enveloped her. After a panicked moment, she remembered that the visualization system of her helmet was active and she was staring up at the mall’s skylight, occasional entities zipping through her field of vision. They’d lost interest in her now that their master had arrived.

Adira should have been dead. A normal person would’ve succumbed to the spectral invasion of her body. But she’d never been quite normal. According to the Nexus Foundation’s battery of PSI tests, she qualified as a level-2 psychic. In comparison, someone like the Lightwalker had to score over 10 on the tests. But her abilities, slight as they might be, had probably saved her life as a teenager. Even though her psychic perception was weak and she still required the necro-helmet to see the dead, she’d been able to catch brief glimpses of the entity that had taken hold of her father. She’d seen enough to know that her father hadn’t been the one to pull the trigger that day, that ghosts were real.

Later, once she’d learned more about anomalous phenomenon, she wondered whether she’d been indirectly responsible for the haunting. Had her psychic energy activated the spirit the same way the Lightwalker now powered the Reaper? The discovery had been accompanied by a crushing sense of guilt. It had sent her on a psychological tailspin that would include a vicious cycle of alcohol and drugs. But she’d overcome the past and sworn to find redemption at the Nexus Foundation.

She shook off the memories and instructed her brain to focus on the problem at hand. Her peripheral vision revealed a figure striding past her. Dressed in brilliant white but clearly just a man. The Lightwalker. He was inexorably closing in on Talon and Casca, who were huddled close to each other in the protective circle, rifles ready. Ghosts were rippling toward them, but an invisible wall of some kind was deflecting their attacks. Adira was still trying to make sense of it all when the Lightwalker bent down and scooped up the machine pistol Talon had dropped earlier.

It all came together in her mind. The entities were unable to reach the men, but bullets would.

She had to stop the Lightwalker.

And that meant she needed a weapon.

As soon as the thought slashed through her mind, her eyes fell on the knife of one of the dead cultists.

Tapping into her last reserve of strength, she crawled toward the downed hoodie. The Lightwalker was talking, but she mentally blocked out his words. Fueled by sheer willpower, she reached the corpse and her fingers tightened around the sickle.

I can do this. Have to do this!

She gritted her teeth and willed herself to her feet, muscles screaming in protest in an excruciating effort. One weak step at a time, she closed in on the psychic whose back remained turned toward her.

He must’ve sensed her approach at the last moment. He turned, but by then it was too late. Before he could shoot Talon and Casca, before he could even cry out, Adira brought the sickle down on the Lightwalker. The white fabric of his hoodie turned crimson. A beat later, the cold metal of the machine pistol dug into her face.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A SHOCKED TALON stared at Casca through the view-screen of his necro-helmet. The system’s red tint gave the billionaire a demonic quality, an impression further enhanced by the guttural words of the incantation. Talon couldn’t believe it. The man he’d come to trust was using the same occult forces they were supposed to protect the world from.

The insight made him lose his focus for a second, and one of the ghosts broke through their defense. The entity went straight for Adira. The wail of the damned drowned out her screams as the corpse-like spirit hurled her out of the protective circle.

Talon’s gut clenched and his lips tightened into a hard line as the ghost buried itself inside Adira’s body.

He blasted the entity, knowing full well it was a futile effort. The darkness had found another victim. There’d been so many, but he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Not now. Not here.

The other spirits hovered above them, ever-shifting, endlessly breaking down and reforming as they slithered through the air. More specters attacked but bounced back before they could make contact. The ring Casca had drawn on the ground had conjured some invisible force that was stopping their advance. What sort of magic was the billionaire tapping into?

The answer would have to wait. The Lightwalker was approaching the circle, sporting the machine pistol Talon had dropped earlier. His eyes glittered with deadly intent as he spoke. He was about to squeeze the trigger when Adira came into view behind him, sickle in hand.

A feeling of relief washed over Talon

She is alive.

The curved knife in her hand slashed out at the psychic. Talon saw his opportunity to make a move. Ecto-rifle blazing, he stepped out of the circle and surged for the Lightwalker. The psychic was about a second away from pumping a round into Adira when Talon attacked. His first punch aimed for the psychic’s wound.

The Lightwalker let out a piercing wail as Talon’s fist found the bleeding knife wound. The psychic stumbled backward while he stitched his surroundings with lead. Bullets chopped mortar and punched through the dead cultists. Both Talon and Adira hit the ground, bullets sizzling overhead.

As soon as the barrage ceased, Talon followed Adira’s earlier example and snatched a sickle from one of the dead cultists. Armed, he launched back to his feet and faced the Lightwalker. The psychic tossed away the empty machine pistol, lips twisting into a snarl as his sickle shot out at Talon, cutting the air inches away from his face. The next blow Talon parried with his own sickle, steel kissing steel. He lunged forward, knife out, pushing the psychic back. Suddenly a dark silhouette shot out of the cement floor, blocking the psychic from harm.

The Reaper had joined the fight.

The thrust meant for the Lightwalker cut through the entity’s translucent, unstable form. The Reaper lunged at him, and the resulting electrical discharge between ghost and necro-armor catapulted Talon a few feet back. Shaken, he barely maintained his balance and went into a combat stance. He tried to sight down the Reaper with his ecto-rifle, but the Lightwalker’s sickle whistled toward him from another angle. Servant and Master, the living and the dead attacking at the same time from separate directions, both joining forces in a combined effort to destroy their new enemy.

The knife in Talon’s right hand blocked the Lightwalker’s sickle while his other hand blasted the Reaper backward with repeated shots from his ecto-rifle. Howls of agony filled his helmet as the magnetic waves drove the Reaper back and vaporized the living shadow.

No time to celebrate as the Lightwalker lashed out at him once again. Already dark contours grew visible nearby as the Reaper reconstituted itself. This entity was unstoppable!

Tendrils of energy engulfed his armor. But this time the suit failed to protect Talon. The Reaper held on with all its might, the ever-shifting form refusing to let go. The dead mass murderer’s horrific visage loomed mere inches before Talon, a withered, flayed bonemask that recalled the skeletal visions he’d had back in Mexico City.

Talon felt the suit succumbing to the entity’s sustained efforts. Cracks appeared, and then pieces of armor began breaking off. A keening shriek filled his helmet, the rage of the Reaper given full expression. Talon’s armor ripped and the chest plate hit the ground in an explosive spray of metal and circuitry. Other spirits, emboldened by the Reaper’s success, pulled on Talon’s arms and legs. They clung to the armor despite the waves of agony it must have triggered in their vibrating spectral forms. More armored plating snapped off and clattered to the ground, the skintight bodysuit shredding.

Spent, Talon joined his shattered necro-suit on the stone floor. Fully exposed now. Vulnerable. The remaining armor hung from his battered frame in tatters. The next attack would penetrate flesh.

The band of spirits tightened around him. Talon braced himself for the inevitable.

But then the specters froze. Almost as if some invisible force had snapped them back in mid-attack. The hands of the nearest ghost were still reaching for his exposed chest. The Reaper and his spectral forces hung in the air as if in suspended animation.

There was only one possible explanation.

Casca.

Talon whirled toward the billionaire. His benefactor’s left arm was drenched in blood, a red sickle in his other hand. His features remained invisible under the helmet, but Talon knew he still had to be mouthing the guttural words of some ancient incantation.

The protective circle had only been the first step. An effort designed to buy Casca enough time to complete the real ritual—one that required an offering of blood.

And it wasn’t over yet.

The specters began to rush toward the stunned Lightwalker. One by one, the entities slammed into him like sizzling bolts of lightning. A scream erupted from the psychic’s mouth and echoed across the plaza.

Talon fought back revulsion as he saw the stark outlines of the cultists’ faces beneath the Lightwalker’s flesh, struggling to break free of their new prison. Somehow Casca had forced the spirits back on the psychic. Their efforts distended the blood-smeared white hoodie, their inhuman features stretching the Lightwalker’s skin and distending bone. Dominating the screaming faces of the dead was the Reaper. His mouth scowled with unbridled fury.

Talon recalled Adira’s earlier words: If the Reaper’s spirit took possession of a living person, and if that person were killed, both souls would phase over into the afterlife.

He knew what had to be done and strode up to the writhing psychic with quick steps. The Lightwalker’s features looked wizened, his spent life force having aged him prematurely.

Without hesitation, Talon grabbed the psychic’s neck and wrenched it with all his strength. Bone cracked, and the Lightwalker’s lifeless body slumped forward. The parade of ever-shifting faces stopped before he reached the ground.

Talon breathed deeply. It was over. His eyes found Adira and Casca, now the only signs of life in a place of death. In their futuristic necro-helmets they looked like triumphant robotic warriors towering over some post-apocalyptic battlefield.

Talon turned back to the broken psychic at his feet.

Did the dead truly walk into the light? No one alive knew the answer. All he could hope was that the Reaper and his disciples dwelled in darkness, wherever they might be.

CHAPTER TWENTY

ADIRA HAD MADE a promise and she intended to keep it. She was back at the crash site in the Santa Ana mountains.

This time around she wasn’t afraid.

The air stirred and rippled and the apparition flitted across her helmet’s visor.

“I know you’re scared,” she said. “Alone. Confused. But I can help you.”

The figure peeled from the shadows of the surrounding trees. A hint of alabaster features, haunted eyes.

She had gone over the crashed plane’s passenger list and looked at over a hundred faces. The heart-wrenching experience had driven home the full extent of the tragedy. Based on the photographs, she’d quickly established the identity of the spirit in the clearing. Maybe her psychic abilities had grown since the spectral attack back at the mall, or maybe they’d always been there, laying dormant, merely waiting to be awoken. But when she stared at the photograph of Harry Wells, a thirty-five year old investment banker, she’d felt a spark. This was the man she’d seen in the barren foothills. There was a seriousness of purpose to the face in the picture. He was the type of pragmatic man who believed only in that which he could see, hear and touch. The type of man who might not accept survival after death.

Even though the features of the apparition remained blurred, she recognized the man from the photograph.

“Harry, do you want to talk?”

“Where am I? Who are you?”

“My name is Adira. I’m hoping to help you. And to answer your question, you’re in the Santa Ana Mountains.” The words hung there.

“I’m on my way to Las Vegas”

“Not anymore.” She extended a hand toward the entity. “You never arrived at your destination.”

The entity closed in. Adira remained strong and held her ground. She was determined to see this through, to help Harry move on to the next world.

“I was on a plane,” he said slowly. “I was looking at the mountains. And then I heard shrieks, someone was yelling…”

There was a sob, elongated and eerie, a pitiful sound not produced by human vocal chords. ”The woman next to me…she held my hand…”

“They’re waiting for you, Harry. Waiting for you to join them,” Adira said kindly.

“Are you sure?”

“Death is only the beginning.”

The Lightwalker’s ominous message now held seeds of hope, a promise of a greater destiny that lay ahead beyond the boundaries of human existence.

Detail and color returned to the ghost’s features, and the figure straightened. For a second he looked alive again. And then the presence was gone. Harry had finally joined the others.

Tears streamed down Adira’s face, but this time they were tears of joy.

***

Two days had passed since the climatic battle with the Reaper. Talon had demanded a sit-down with Casca—they needed to talk. The billionaire’s use of the occult ritual had been eating away at him, and he needed to air his feelings if this partnership was to have a future.

Casca picked a seafood restaurant near his Silicon Valley corporate headquarters. To Talon’s surprise, Casca was the one to cut right to the chase before they even ordered. “I know what’s on your mind, Sergeant.”

“We fight the occult, Casca. How can I trust a man who is tapping into the very forces we’re trying to defeat?”

“I understand how you feel, but please hear me out. If we’re to win this war, we’ll need to both understand our enemy—and adapt some of his tactics.”

“And what happens when the line begins to blur? When there’s no difference between us and them?”

“The pentacle around your neck, the demon slayer blade—these are magical relics, Talon, that tap into the light. Magical weapons. The ritual I used was an extension of that.”

Talon shook his head. “I’ve studied enough of your books to know it was a blood sacrifice.”

“That’s true,” Casca conceded.

“I’m worried. I’ve seen the books and occult items at your house. If you were to become corrupted by the one of these rituals or the items in your possession…”

“I’m treading lightly, I promise. But if something were to happen, I know of one man out there who would be able to stop me.”

Talon tightened his lips. “I hope it never comes to that.”

Casca pulled out a small metal case and handed it to Talon.

“What’s that?”

“Let’s call it an early Christmas present.

Talon opened the case and immediately recognized the item inside. It was the demon slayer blade that he’d lost during the fight with Zagan at Omicron.

“As promised, I made some calls. Detective Serrone was nice enough to get this out of evidence for me, no questions asked.”

“How is she?”

“Moving on with her life. Like we all should.”

Talon mulled this over but said nothing. After a moment, Casca held out his hand. “Peace for now?”

Talon looked deep into the billionaire’s eye and saw that the man’s intentions were pure. He took the hand in his own and shook on it. “Peace.”

Even though their talk had reassured him somewhat of Casca’s intentions, a famous quote from Nietzsche popped into his head: “Beware that, when fighting monsters, you yourself don’t become a monster…” It would serve them well not to forget the philosopher’s insight into human nature. They were both at risk in their own way. War could erode one’s humanity.

Casca broke him out of his thoughts. “Have you ever been to Italy?”

“Why do I get the feeling I’m about to?”

“It would be that chance to trace the Talone family tree.”

“If you put it like that…”

“But first, let’s eat. I hear both the lobster and Brodetto are amazing here.”

Talon focused on the menu and pushed his concerns aside. As soon as the waiter took their order, he became thoughtful once more. His experiences in Ohio had taught him a vital life lesson: Death wasn’t the end. Somewhere out there, a part of Michelle went on. She might be waiting for the day when they’d be reunited again.

For now, he’d continue to battle the darkness—but when his time finally did come, he wouldn’t be afraid of the light.

THE END

Mark Talon returns this winter in SOUL JACKER.

A brutal crime lord plans on unleashing an ancient horror upon Paris and only one man stands in his way.

Occult Assassin #4: Soul Jacker (Now Available for Preorder) - Amazon US Amazon UK

AVAILABLE NOW

Occult Assassin #3.5: COFFIN COLLECTOR: A SHORT STORY

Talon heads to Italy to face a chilling coffin maker who has acquired the casket of a famed practitioner of the dark arts.

GET YOUR COPY HERE!

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

William Massa is a screenwriter (Return to House on Haunted Hill) and script consultant. He has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now calls Los Angeles his home. William writes horror, science fiction and dark fantasy. Directing a movie one day is on William’s bucket list. More books are on the way.

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

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EDITING

Erin Elizabeth Long

COVER ART/CREDITS

Cover design by Jun Ares & William Massa

FEAR THE LIGHT: WHO MURDERED DRACULA?

Over the centuries, many had tried to kill the Count. All had failed. Until now...

Eight vampires gather at Dracula's castle to solve his murder. But as the sun rises outside the chateau, a voice cries out and another creature of the night is slain. Trapped, the sun burning bright outside, the vampires realize they have met their match — a killer who plans on picking them off one by one!

As the daylight reigns and their numbers dwindle, a dark suspicion grows — could Dracula's murderer be hiding in plain sight?

A THRILLER WHERE THE MONSTERS ARE THE VICTIMS!

"All in all this was an easy read that flew by. The pacing was tight and kept the story interesting up until the last page. A satisfying ending made this a worthy read." - Nikki Howard, Ravenous Reads

"...it is fun to see vampires switch from being predator to prey. The story is essentially ten little Indians" - Taliesin meets the Vampires

"...If you loved and read Agatha Christie's - And Then There Were None/Ten Little Indians then you will love this novel..." - Gadget Girl Reviews

"It is nothing like the other vampire books I have read..." - Jenny, Fabulous and Fun Blog

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PLEASE ENJOY A SPECIAL PREVIEW OF FEAR THE LIGHT

VINCENT DROVE HIS Mercedes Bentz rental car down a two-lane country road that carved its way through endless rolling hills. Towering trees and vast vineyards stood silhouetted in the milky moonlight. There was an air of remoteness and isolation about the place even though the nearest town was only half an hour away. This was Bordeaux wine country, where monks had first embraced viticulture during the reign of Charlemagne.

Vincent eased his foot off the gas as the road began to turn. The flight had been uneventful and for the most part painless. He left Los Angeles around two in the morning and arrived in Paris after 8 o’clock in the evening, a nine-hour time difference allowing him to avoid daylight all together. He traveled first class and made sure to book a whole row. He opted for the aisle seat and kept a safe distance from his window, the shade drawn of course. Most of the legends surrounding his kind were Hollywood bullshit. Vampires couldn’t turn into bats, wolves or mist and they were immune to crosses but sunlight could destroy them. A different vampire might’ve decided to sit out the flight in the cargo hold, secure inside a steel sarcophagus with two human servants along for the ride to assure that the coffin arrived at the right address, the promise of immortality assuring their loyal assistance. But that was way too dramatic for Vincent and not his style.

That was Dracula’s style.

The bucolic forest landscape continued to unfold before Vincent. Strange to think that Dracula had chosen this area as his home for the better half of the last century. Then again, Vincent never did understand how Dracula’s mind worked. He was a legend and an enigma. Vincent wondered often what had driven the Count to choose a Texas Ranger to be one of his children of the night.

Vincent had promised himself not to dredge up the old days, but he had also known it was a promise he’d break. Much of the past seemed like a blur, but that fateful moment when everything changed was etched into his memory and still held its dark sway over him.

The year was 1876 and he’d been tracking a vicious murderer across the state of Texas. The fiend had left ten bodies in his deadly wake, all of them female, their blood completely drained, albino corpses lined with twin puncture marks. The killer seemed to be always just one step ahead. Toying with him. Pushing him to the edge. The pursuit had become a game of cat and mouse, and it was consuming Vincent’s every waking moment.

He finally tracked his quarry to a small town near the Mexican border. Two more bodies had been found and the locals relayed in hushed tones that a European gentleman had arrived earlier in the week, a man of means and manners whose very presence could cloud the minds of every unfortunate soul he came in contact with. He seemed to cast a nearly supernatural spell over the fairer sex. The gentleman in question was staying at the Old Moses saloon and according to all accounts, had only been spotted outside his room past sundown. Rumors about the stranger were spreading.

Pale moonlight illuminated the rundown Wild West saloon as Vincent stepped through the swinging doors of the establishment. The shadow that the brim of his hat cast over his face masked his initial shock upon seeing what was waiting for him. He had walked into a nightmare. The saloon now transformed into a place of death. Mauled patrons were sprawled everywhere, a wasteland of broken bodies, the floor slippery with their blood. Vincent’s trembling hand closed around his silver Ranger badge, knowing all too well that it held no authority over the beast that rose from the center of the carnage. The moment their eyes hooked into each other, Vincent was stricken with mortal awareness – staring back at him was death itself. The gentleman who smiled at him through a bloody mist was a thing outside of nature. Vincent remembered his gun leaving his holster, and he remembered cocking the hammer of his pistol and squeezing the trigger.

Again and again.

Bullets tore into the enigmatic figure in a mad volley, puncturing flesh and destroying the man’s elegant coat. When the firing chamber was empty and the hammer clicked impotently, click, click, a metronome of spent violence, Dracula rose. Vincent was gripped with terror as he saw the bullet holes sealing shut before his very eyes, inhuman tissue regenerating in the blink of an eye. Vincent was a tough man; he’d confronted all kinds of human evil in his twenty-nine years on this earth but the crucial difference was that those degenerates were men, flesh-and-blood creatures who could succumb to the power of steel. This monster was unlike anything Vincent had ever faced before. Vincent didn’t just lose his humanity the day he went up against Dracula. He lost his soul. For he had not merely met his match but caught a glimpse of the Devil himself.

Now Vincent cast these thoughts of the past aside as the hill grew steeper and he was forced to switch gears. According to the rental’s GPS system - they could’ve used one of these back in his Texas Rangers tracking days - the chateau should be coming into view any minute now. The forest was already thinning a bit and the vineyards now began to take over.

A moment later, Vincent spotted the chateau. His first thought was that the term ‘chateau’ didn’t quite do justice to the structure. The sprawling estate that loomed at the top of the vineyards was a stark silhouette projecting a sense of mystery and dark wonder. Like Dracula himself, the keep wove a nearly hypnotic spell over anyone who laid eyes upon it. Not quite a spooky castle but the next best thing, it was the type of place where one would expect a vampire to set up shop. While most of the vampires Dracula spawned did their best to blend in and be modern (some with greater success than others), Dracula had never chosen to adapt to a changing world. He didn’t need to. Dracula was the master, even if Vincent refused to call him that. The Count might hide in the shadows but he would never pretend to be something he was not.

The throaty roar of a motorbike bashed the air, breaking the chateau’s spell. Vincent turned his head and spotted a Harley gaining behind him. For a split second, Vincent caught a glimpse of the massive, leather-clad figure poised behind the handlebars. The vampire biker wasn’t wearing a helmet, his long mane of blonde hair trailing in the wind. This Twenty-First Century Viking flashed Vincent a menacing rock ’n’ roll grin, making sure to reveal his fangs. Another one of Dracula’s lost children (or experiments, depending on how one wanted to look at it) returning to pay his respects to their fallen master. As the biker pulled ahead, he cranked the engine for good measure. The bike’s engine wailed.

Vincent tensed. The incident confirmed one thing he had known all along - he wasn’t looking forward to this dysfunctional family get-together.

Not in the slightest.

***

Vincent's car rolled up a driveway that was surrounded by vineyards on both sides and led right up to the chateau’s main gate. A six-foot-tall crumbling wall, overgrown with ivy, encircled the chateau. The wrought-iron gate stood wide open. It appeared that Vincent wasn’t the first to arrive today. He maneuvered his vehicle through the open gate and made his way up a cobbled, circular driveway dominated by a highly adorned, centuries-old ornamental stone fountain. Streams of water bubbled and poured from the mouths of Gothic nymphs. The fountain’s water appeared dark and murky.

The rental car slid to a stop, joining the other vehicles parked around the fountain. The Harley that had just passed Vincent's car. A black Hummer. A sleek Porsche. Vincent guessed that they were all rentals, just like his own vehicle, but the choices told their own story and revealed the personalities of their individual drivers. Dracula had made a pretty eclectic group of monsters over the years. Monsters Vincent was about to interact with for the first time in decades.

Once again Vincent wished he could be anywhere but this place but he didn’t really have a choice. He had never been friendly with the Count but he couldn’t deny the legacy that bound him to the creature and the other members of the clan. Dracula’s blood coursed through their veins. If Vincent had truly wanted to defy the Count, he’d have walked into the daylight long ago. Despite everything, Dracula was family. And one inevitable truth held true among all families – funerals brought everyone together. That’s what this would be. Dracula’s funeral.

A fiery red Ferrari appeared in Vincent’s rear-view mirror as he killed the engine. Seconds later, a stunning blonde emerged from the sports car. She was wearing a sexy red dress that left little to the imagination. Vincent had met her once or twice over the last eighty years. Her name was Coraline and she’d been twenty-one when Dracula turned her, but she looked about five years older. According to Angelique - she was always up on clan gossip - Coraline was a failing starlet during the heyday of old Hollywood in the 1950s, a Marilyn Monroe wannabe riding the casting couch express toward a full-blown heroin addiction and the inevitable overdose. But Dracula took a shine to her and decided to add her to his freak pack.

Vincent killed the engine, got out of the car and made his way up the pebbled walkway that led to the chateau’s main entrance. Vines climbed the façade of the chateau and tall trees nestled against the surface. Dracula had acquired the property right after World War II, Eastern Europe having lost its appeal in the wake of the Red Menace. The chateau was actually more of a bastide, a country home, originally built by wealthy Seventeenth Century citizens who sought to trade their sweltering city mansions for the cooler countryside during the hot summer months. The structure held about twenty rooms and could accommodate a large family with a full staff of servants. The property was brooding and Gothic but a pale shadow to the dark glory of Dracula’s castle back in Romania, which was a tourist attraction today. Funny how the world turned.

Vincent passed a series of giant, cracked flowerpots when Coraline sidled up to him. She moved with grace and nearly unearthly sensuality as she fell in step with Vincent – maybe he was beginning to understand why Dracula added her to the family.

“Hello, Vincent.” She embraced Vincent and he could smell her cloying perfume. It was too sweet and way too overpowering but it summed up who Coraline was – a woman who demanded to be noticed. Men who ignored her did so at their own peril.

“Hi Coraline.”

“This place sure is something else,” Coraline said with a smile that could shatter hearts. “Only thing missing is a lightning storm.”

Vincent nodded.

“Dracula always had a flair for the dramatic.”

A youthful voice chimed in.

“A nice way of saying he was hopelessly stuck in the past.”

Vincent and Coraline turned toward the new arrival, a young teenage boy who approached at an unhurried pace. The kid, who wasn’t really a kid and was far older than either Vincent or Coraline, cocked his head at them both. His name was Sebastian and he looked to be fourteen but had actually seen two centuries turn. He wore black slacks, a dress shirt and a tie of the same color. He looked like a teen pretending to be an adult.

Sebastian was an orphan and a thief who began his pick-pocketing career back in Victorian England, just another victim of social upheaval brought upon by the Industrial Revolution. His life had taken a sharp turn the night he tried to lift the Count’s purse but for some reason Dracula had spared Sebastian (Dracula used to call him his own Oliver Twist, a nickname the teenage vampire detested but had stuck). Sebastian hadn’t physically changed a day since that distant night but his frosty, ancient eyes betrayed his true age.

“Sebastian, it's been a long time.”

Vincent smiled warmly. He’d always liked this little devil.

“Too long. Vincent, it's good to see you after all these years. Funny how there comes a point when only death seems to bring people together.”

Footfalls sounded behind them, steel-heeled boots clicking across the gravel courtyard. Vincent fired a sideways glance at the approaching biker who moments earlier had been showing off his steed. Clad in black and brown leather, tattooed and studded, sporting faded jeans and a sleek pair of Ray-Bans, he looked like the perfect candidate for a Hells Angels recruitment poster. He appeared to be in his late twenties but strutted his stuff like a teenage punk who needed to get his ass kicked.

The biker ignored Vincent and regarded Sebastian with a sneer. “No one told me this was going to be an after-school party.”

“I'm two-hundred-and-ninety years old, asshole.”

“Tell that to the bouncer next time you want to cop a feel at a titty bar.”

Coraline was the sole person to laugh at the joke. Angelique had mentioned to Vincent that the former starlet had a thing for assholes, and it appeared she wasn’t far off the mark.

Vincent watched as Sebastian gave the biker a long, measured look.

“Meet Zane. The master’s most recent addition to the family.”

Vincent held the biker’s stare as he turned toward him.

“So you must be Vincent,” Zane said. I thought you turned your back on the clan.”

Vincent didn’t comment. Zane took his silence as encouragement to lean closer.

“No offense, buddy, but you don't look so tough to me.”

“Maybe I'm not,” Vincent said.

“That's not what Angelique says.”

“I wouldn’t believe everything that comes out of her mouth.”

”Angelique says she never hunted with anyone as merciless as you.”

This made Coraline perk up and she appraised Vincent with renewed curiosity.

“She’s been known to exaggerate,” Vincent said.

Vincent disliked Zane pretty much on sight. And with each new confrontational word that came out of the biker’s pierced mouth, Vincent doubted that he’d change his mind on the matter any time soon.

Zane stepped even closer. He had about five inches and sixty pounds on Vincent, but the former Texas Ranger wasn’t impressed.

“I know you guys had a history,” Zane said. “But nowadays, she belongs to me.”

“Last time I checked, Angelique didn't belong to anyone.”

Zane smirked and turned toward the chateau. Coraline fell in step with him. The two vampires dipped through a series of arched columns supporting a large awning that bathed the main entrance in shadow.

Vincent turned to Sebastian. “What’s his story?”

“Drug-dealing biker asshole who crossed Dracula’s path in the 70s. Your ex seems to have taken a shine to him.”

“Angelique likes to play with new toys. But she gets bored fast.”

“She never got bored with you,” Sebastian noted.

Vincent didn’t argue the point one way or another. Instead, he said, “You looking forward to this as much as I am?”

Sebastian grinned. “You kidding? Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

GARGOYLE KNIGHT

When his kingdom is threatened by an ancient evil, a king is forced to make the ultimate sacrifice. If he is to defeat an army of monsters, he must become one himself! His victory carries a terrible price… An eternity frozen in stone.

Fifteen centuries later, the Celtic warrior is awakened when the world needs him most. A stranger in a strange land with his only guide a beautiful archeology student, he must battle his old adversary once again, all while struggling with his own darkness. For he is by day a man, by night cursed to become… The GARGOYLE!

“An Urban Fantasy Novel That Feels Fun and Alive. There's a cinematic feel in Gargoyle Knight...the experience is sweeping with entertaining action that builds to a satisfying climax.”

Fantascize.com

Match: A Supernatural Thriller

Mark found her photo on a popular mobile dating site. 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...

Not everyone you meet online is who they claim to be.

Sometimes they may not even be alive...

Table of Contents

- Title Page
- Copyright
- Also by William Massa
- The Mission
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- AUTHOR INFO
- FEAR THE LIGHT
- FEAR THE LIGHT
- GARGOYLE KNIGHT
- MATCH