Date: 2019-05-29 16:00:00+00:00
Rights: Copyright 2019 WILLIAM MASSA. All rights reserved.

Dragon Curse

A SHADOW DETECTIVE NOVEL

WILLIAM MASSA

Critical Mass Publishing

Copyright © 2019 by WILLIAM MASSA

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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Contents

Also by WILLIAM MASSA

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Also by WILLIAM MASSA

About the Author

Also by WILLIAM MASSA

THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES

Midnight War

Monster Quest

Shadow Plague

THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES

Cursed City

Soul Catcher

Blood Rain

Demon Dawn

Skull Master

Ghoul Night

Witch Wars

Crimson Circle

Hell Breaker

Dragon Curse

Shadow Lord (coming soon)

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Damnation Code

Apocalypse Soldier

Ice Shadows

Spirit Breaker

Soul Jacker

Doomsday Disciples (coming soon)

THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES

Gargoyle Knight

Gargoyle Quest

STAND ALONES

Fear the Light

1

It was midnight when Chris Tomasi began to make his rounds through the endless wings of the Museum of World History. His footsteps echoed eerily as he navigated the quiet exhibit floors.

Everywhere he looked, patterns of light and shadow played over the treasures of the past. History came alive within the darkened halls of the vast complex.

Tomasi was thirty years old, a veteran of two tours of duty in Afghanistan, and had worked security at the museum for six months. Unlike many of his co-workers, he truly loved his job.

For one, the gig was peaceful. The military had taught Tomasi a lot about himself and given him a good sense of his strengths and weaknesses. He enjoyed wearing a uniform and wielding authority but had no appetite for real conflict or a job that required the use of physical force. That ruled out a career in law enforcement. Museum security was an alternative better suited to his temperament.

The folks who flocked to the museum weren’t troublemakers. He spent most of his day helping people find their way around the place or calming down children who got separated from their parents.

Being a history buff didn’t hurt, either.

Tomasi looked forward to every new exhibit. Humanity’s story fascinated him, and he was considering going back to school for a degree in the subject, perhaps becoming a teacher one day.

For now, his current gig paid the bills and made him happy though.

Patrolling the museum never got old. There was so much to see and discover even after all these months—dioramas of ferocious animals, collections of priceless art that seemed to float in velvet darkness under spotlights, giant totems and sculptures that dwarfed him.

Tomasi felt like he was traveling down the river of time and experiencing a greatest hits reel of human history.

Pausing for a beat, he eyed a skeleton decked out in an elaborate, colorful headdress and tribal robes. Gold rings encircled the bony fingers of the ancient Mayan leader. Tomasi studied the fragile remains, awed and humbled by the weight of the centuries.

Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it, he thought.

Tomasi's military service and study of history had driven home the wisdom of those words firsthand. People hadn’t changed that much over the millennia. Folks still woke up with the same problems as their ancestors. If there had been television in ancient Rome, reruns would show that they faced many of the same issues as the modern world.

Tomasi turned away from the dead Mayan chieftain and headed for the next hall.

He usually worked the day shift, but one of his co-workers had needed the night off to attend his kid’s birthday party. Some other guards hated the crowds, but Tomasi was a people person. He thrived on the energy of the place when the halls filled up with visitors. He found it reassuring to see so many folks take an active interest in history. Most people only focused on the present and forgot about the past. If it wasn’t trending on Instagram or Facebook, they couldn’t give two shits. Thank God not everyone thought that way.

Tomasi palmed his two-way radio, letting the other guards know his area was all clear, and headed for the museum’s newest exhibit, intriguingly titled “Mysteries of the Far East.” This gallery was scheduled to open to the public tomorrow, but Tomasi intended to catch an early look at the collection of Asian artifacts.

A pair of mannequins decked out in fierce samurai armor flanked the entrance of the exhibit like ancient guardians of a secret temple. Brushing past them, Tomasi let out a low whistle.

Up ahead, spectacular artifacts and relics abounded. He’d grown up on a fair share of Kung Fu movies and was instantly drawn to all the weapons, armor and dragon statues. Glass display cases showed off daggers, swords of various length, and an assortment of throwing stars. There was the katana, the killing sword, the wakizashi, the shorter blade used for combat and seppuku—ritual suicide.

One sword in particular captivated his attention. Mounted in a cylindrical display case, the richly adorned katana formed the centerpiece of the gallery.

For some inexplicable reason, the ancient weapon seemed to call out to him, beckoning him to draw closer.

Tomasi caught his reflection in the gleaming sword as he approached, and he barely recognized the mesmerized gaze staring back at him.

Leaning closer, he noticed more details about the impressive blade. The sword’s hand guard—called the tsuba—was sculpted in the shape of fearsome dragon, the creature’s head forming the pommel.

Tomasi was still marveling at the design when the dragon's head suddenly twisted toward him, beady red eyes boring deep into his soul.

He let out a gasp and recoiled, fear boiling up inside of him as he sucked in a sharp breath and…

The dragon reverted to its perfectly ordinary, immobile state.

Tomasi blinked. What was going on? Had he imagined the whole thing?

All he knew for sure was that the exhibit had lost all of its appeal, now filled with raw menace.

Tomasi glanced at the armored mannequins, and his grip tightened on his leather belt until the white of his bones were showing.

It was crazy, but it felt like the samurais had inched closer, almost as if they were moving toward him whenever he wasn’t looking at them.

Impossible, right? Just his overactive imagination. Too much time by himself on the night shift.

But he couldn’t shake the conviction that the samurais had come alive, or that the dragon on the sword had turned to look at him. The chamber didn’t feel like a palace anymore but now made him think of a dark, cold tomb. Even the temperature had dropped, his breath clouding before his eyes.

His private tour was over—high time to get his ass out of this wing of the museum.

Perhaps he would return during the daytime hours, just to prove that he’d been wrong, but deep down he doubted it. He’d seen enough.

As he turned to leave, his heart skipped a beat. A samurai mannequin had closed in on his position, only a few feet separating them now.

They’re coming for you, a voice whispered in his ear. You must defend yourself!

Hands trembling, Tomasi spun around and found another samurai mannequin standing behind him. Was he losing his goddamn mind? How was this possible?

Arm yourself before it’s too late, the strange voice hissed in his ears. Take the sword and fight! You can live… or die.

Crazy or not, Tomasi wanted to live.

His gaze landed back on the display case. The sword. He could use it. Take it for his own.

For one crazy, panicked beat, Tomasi was tempted to drive his fist into the glass case. Fortunately, his rational mind prevailed, realizing such a rash act would most likely result in a broken hand. No, he needed something stronger than bone to breach the thick glass…

His eyes fell on a turtle-shell shaped samurai helmet perched on a nearby dais.

Hurry, they are almost upon you!

Tomasi felt the mannequins drawing closer, a tightening ring of darkness and death.

The sword belongs to you!

The whispering voice in his head grew in strength and volume, demanding his attention. He felt the truth of their words deep down in his soul.

The sword was his to wield. Its power was his birthright. No one could stop him from taking what was rightfully his… least of all the phantom samurai closing in on him.

Terror churning in his gut, Tomasi grabbed the ancient helmet and swung it full force at the display.

The case shattered with a deafening crash.

Glass rained down on the hand wielding the helmet and scored fine cuts in his skin. There was no pain, only gnawing fear.

You must act now!

Blaring alarms filled the exhibit hall, the shrill noise sending unpleasant vibrations up Tomasi’s spine. A hiss of steel tore through the air as metal doors shut, sealing him inside the Asian exhibit floor.

Tomasi paid no attention to these security measures. Instead, his blood-streaked hand closed around the dragon hilt.

With one smooth, powerful motion, he brought up the katana in a guard position.

The air rippled, muted light shimmering across razor sharp steel. Despite being centuries old, the superbly crafted sword looked new—and deadly.

The sword was hungry for blood.

Tomasi dropped the helmet. His world was reduced to a single aim—survival.

He spun toward the incoming mannequins, sword ready… and froze.

Once again, the samurai mannequins fronted the exhibit’s entrance, back where they belonged.

Tomasi stared at the katana in his blood-smeared hand and then at the broken display case. For an instant, he wasn’t sure how the two things were connected.

The wailing siren seem to mock his confusion. What had he done? He’d destroyed a display case, set off the alarms. Had he lost his goddamn mind? At best he would lose his job, at worst they might press charges…

The enemy is not out there. It’s inside of you.

Tomasi’s gaze ticked back to the sword. It was as though the steel itself were speaking to him.

The blade in his shaking hands flashed with a preternatural light, and for a split second, he made out a black-masked apparition reflected in the blade’s steel surface. The figure wore a hood that covered his features save for an exposed strip across a pair of fierce red glowing eyes.

Tomasi was looking at a ninja.

Akumo.

The name slashed through his thoughts unbidden. He had never heard it before.

With a startled cry, Tomasi dropped the sword like it was a live snake and jumped back.

He had to get out of here!

He whirled and… came face to face with the black-masked phantom.

Tomasi stood frozen in place, a prisoner of a nightmare.

Pick up the sword, the apparition whispered in his head, a voice that demanded to be obeyed.

Tomasi complied.

The metal felt hot to the touch as his fingers closed around the katana’s hilt. He didn’t try to resist when the ninja’s gloved hand closed like a vise around his wrist and guided the tip of the sword toward his heaving chest.

Tomasi’s eyes widened with horror. Though aware that he wasn’t in charge of his actions anymore, he couldn’t stop himself. Another force had taken over his body.

The ninja was in charge now.

“Please don’t,” he whispered. Not even the blaring alarms could drown out the ninja’s nightmarish laughter echoing through his head.

And then Tomasi felt the tip of the blade pressing against the fabric of his security uniform. Razor-sharp steel sliced through cloth and found little more resistance from the quivering flesh underneath.

He let out a pitiful gasp as he drove the katana deeper until only the hilt mushroomed from his chest like a strange growth.

Blood seeped from the wound. Tomasi's legs gave way, and he collapsed onto his knees.

A pool of scarlet expanded on the floor around him. All the while, the beady eyes of the dragon in his hand glowered at him, almost as if it was disappointed by his desperate struggle to draw each new breath.

As a shadow fell over him, Tomasi tapped into a last vestige of strength and lifted his head.

The black-clad assassin loomed before him, a chilling presence in the spookily lit exhibit floor. Red eyes framed by pale bone and translucent, torn skin poked from the slit in the ninja’s mask.

Tomasi’s lids grew heavy, and reality slipped out of focus. Mercifully, he never heard the blade as it whistled toward his neck.

As the darkness enveloped him, the whispering voice slithered through Tomasi’s mind.

You are but the first. The killing has just begun.

2

My stomach churned with nervous anticipation. It was Friday night, and I was about to start my weekend the way most normal people do—with a party.

A housewarming party, to be precise.

My friend Joe Cormac, an Army vet turned super-psychic, and his girlfriend were about to take their relationship to the next level by moving in together. Somehow, they thought it was a good idea for me to check out the new pad and celebrate the latest milestone in their love story.

As usual when it comes to social engagements, I was running late. The Cursed City had been suspiciously quiet since my return from the dimension of fear, almost as if the forces of darkness were giving my home turf a wide berth while they regained their strength.

It was wishful thinking to believe that Hell would leave me alone in the wake of my victory over Morgal. I had destroyed the arch-demon who had murdered my parents and struck a serious blow against my enemies. I didn’t have to be psychic to know that Hell’s legions were already plotting their inevitable counter move. I had slain one of their own, and they wouldn’t take such an affront sitting down.

No wonder why I wasn’t enjoying this break from the constant fighting, the lull in supernatural threats making me paranoid as all fuck.

Welcome to my world.

I was convinced that dark forces were gathering around me, marshaling their armies and gearing up to strike a devastating blow. As a professional monster hunter, I’d hidden out at the loft, preparing both my mind and body for the next round. I’d quit the booze and late-night junk food runs, shed ten pounds of fat, and put both my punching bag and treadmill through the wringer.

During the hours not focused on physical training, I sat with my face buried in an occult tome.

When the Crimson Circle had raided our base of operations, they’d stolen all the cursed relics we kept in our vault but left the library pretty much intact. In the past, I could rely on Skulick to fill in the gaps of my knowledge, but no more.

With my mentor gone, it was all up to me. For the first time in my life, I was on my own.

I needed to steel myself for the fresh horrors that lay ahead. Learn as much as I could.

In other words, I hadn’t gotten out a lot in the last few months, and my social skills were a tad rusty. In fact, I’d forgotten all about the party until Cormac sent me a reminder text a few hours earlier.

I'd first met Cormac during the Soul Catcher case and reconnected with him when I went up against Varthek the ghoul. That was the same adventure during which the psychic had first met the lovely Jennifer, who was now his sweetheart. Since then, Cormac had become a real friend, someone who understood the terrors I faced. I couldn’t blow off this event and disappoint him.

So here I was, sitting in the back of a Toyota Camry Hybrid, a bottle of Bushmills 21-Year-Old Three Woods Single Malt Irish Whiskey and a Hawaiian Umbrella Bonsai tree nestled in my lap.

I figured the alcohol and plant combo made a nice housewarming one-two punch; something for the shindig, something for the house.

My Lyft driver kept shooting longing glances at the whiskey.

You may wonder why I was using a ride-sharing app to get around town. Believe it or not, getting myself a new set of wheels since my return from Hell hadn’t been priority numero uno.

Somewhere in the dimension of fear, the wreck of my once beloved Equus Bass was rotting away on a highway made of human bones. Nowadays I lived by public transportation.

Besides, you meet the most interesting people taking Lyft. Example in point: my driver tonight, Josh, was an aspiring actor and quite the Lothario, going by the stories he was all too willing to share with me.

“I’m telling you, man. This job is a pussy magnet. I hook up with a new chick practically every day. I get so many numbers, I can't keep track of them all. It’s wild.”

That’s nice, I thought and flashed him a plastic grin. Josh kept droning on about his hyperactive sex life. The driver had a one-track mind and alleged sexual stamina that bordered on the supernatural. I made a mental note to myself to go car shopping before the week was out.

About fifteen minutes and twenty conquests later, we pulled up to Cormac’s new pad, a four-story brownstone in one of the nicer parts of the city.

I got out of the Toyota and wished my driver a good night. If only five percent of his wild stories were true, he wouldn’t be getting much sleep tonight.

Gifts in hand, I shuffled toward the building’s entrance and admired the lively neighborhood which almost made me forget I was still in the Cursed City.

I marveled at the trees that lined the sidewalks and the parade of joggers and smiling dogwalkers. The whole area was up and coming, with gastropubs and hipster restaurants on every corner. Whenever one of these places opened, rent probably shot up another hundred bucks.

Joe Cormac worked for the Nexus Foundation, which hoped to use his unique skills in the study of parapsychological phenomenon. That was a fancy way of saying that they wanted him to hunt ghosts.

I was all for it—I needed all the help I could get. But as I approached his brand-new digs, one thing became abundantly clear to me. The Nexus Foundation had to be paying Cormac handsomely for him to afford a place like this. He’d done well for himself.

Not that I was jealous.

I located Cormac’s name on the apartment’s intercom system and gave my reflection a quick once-over in the glass door. I'd trimmed my beard a few hours earlier, donned jeans and a nice brown leather jacket, and therefore looked presentable for someone who’d been working very hard the last few months on becoming a hermit and doing a good job succeeding at it.

Did I really have to go in? Maybe I could just leave the booze and bonsai tree on the doorstep. Then I’d call Josh the Lyft driver and beg him to find me the nearest dive bar.

Shit, I was here, wasn’t I? No turning back now. Time to forget about the nightmares and have a little fun.

I gave myself an internal push and rang the doorbell.

A beat later, Cormac’s voice crackled over the intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s Mike Raven. I come bearing gifts.”

“Ah, you said the magic word.”

The door buzzed open, and I entered the building. Before the door could swing shut, a tall, attractive blonde in a black motorcycle jacket appeared behind me. Judging by the expensive bottle of wine in her arms, we were headed to the same place.

As I held the door open for her, she pointed at the whiskey and grinned mischievously.

“Looks like we’re both bringing the good stuff.”

I nodded, at a loss for a clever comeback. Lately, I'd spent way too much time pouring over archaic texts with a disembodied demon as my only companion.

Yes, I’m talking about Cyon—but more about that scoundrel later.

The blonde held out her hand and said, “Hi, I’m Kim.”

“I’m Mike,” I replied while taking her hand. “Most people call me Raven, though. It’s my actual last name, not some kind of goth thing.”

I mentally told myself to shut up. It hadn’t been that long since I’d talked to an attractive woman. Her skin was soft, but her grip was strong and confident. Those striking blue eyes lingered on me and twinkled with playful mischief.

“You must be the private detective Jennifer was telling me about,” Kim said.

“I hope she said nice things.”

“She said you saved her life. I’d say that was pretty nice.”

I shrugged. “All part of the job.”

I didn’t know how much Jennifer had shared with her friend about our harrowing adventure at the city cemetery. I somehow doubted she’d mentioned her occultist father and the ghoul who’d tried to sacrifice her in an ancient ritual. Better to stay vague on the details. I’d hate for Kim to run screaming from me.

“The life of a private detective sounds interesting.”

Especially when your day mostly consists of cases involving demons and ghosts and witches, I mentally added.

As we both headed to the elevator, I asked, “What about you, Kim? What do you do?”

Small talk wasn’t my forte, especially with the fairer sex, but I was giving it a whirl. To be honest, I hadn’t thought about women too much lately. The soulless creatures in the dimension of fear had erased (consumed would be more accurate) all of Jane Archer’s memories of our relationship, and I was still in a world of pain from the loss.

After a few awkward encounters once we got back, I had given up on the idea that things could ever go back to the way they were. Chemistry is a funny thing. Who knows what combination of events and endorphins had brought Archer and me together? I sensed it wasn’t something one could so easily replicate.

I’d convinced myself that I was cool with the whole thing, but who was I kidding? I was all torn up inside and had zero interest in meeting someone new. Leave that kind of thing to Josh.

Kim didn’t seem to share my baggage, judging by her open nature and quick smile. The words we exchanged as we took the elevator to the fourth floor felt like a fresh breeze. Kim was a barista and yoga instructor who worked at a nearby coffee shop and had been friends with Jennifer for years.

Our little exchange was fun but made me realize how rusty I was after the last few months of self-imposed seclusion.

Nothing a few drinks couldn’t fix, right?

Fortunately, Kim knew how to keep a conversation flowing—and to my surprise, we were developing a nice rapport.

Once upstairs, we found Cormac waiting for us at the entrance to his new apartment, a bottle of beer in hand. The way he was bracing himself in the doorframe hinted he was already three sheets to the wind.

Excited chatter mixed with thumping tunes as we approached our mutual friend, the party in full swing behind him.

Cormac eyed the whiskey with an excited grin.

“Looks like we’re going to be doing shots.”

Man, I couldn’t remember seeing the soldier-turned-psychic ever look so comfortable in his skin before. And it wasn’t merely because of the alcohol. Even on a good day, Cormac carried himself with an intimidating air. The lean physique, the hard, haunted look in his eyes—not to mention the scar running down his neck—all contributed to this impression. But not tonight. Right now, Cormac appeared about as happy and relaxed as I’d ever seen the man. Having Jennifer in his life was a true blessing.

“I approve of your gifts. Feel free to join the fun and games.”

Kim gave him a big hug, and we exchanged fist bumps followed by warm smiles. Cormac whisked us both into an airy, spacious apartment.

We passed a coffee table overflowing with potted plants, including two other miniature trees. And here I’d thought that bringing the bonsai was so clever. One thing was for sure, there wouldn’t be a shortage of green in this house. Or booze for that matter. The growing collection of high-end liquor on the kitchen table would put most bars in the Cursed City to shame.

Ah, the fringe benefits of throwing a housewarming party. I guess a fully stocked bar could make any place feel like home.

Cormac grabbed me a beer from an ice bucket. I sucked down half the bottle in three deep gulps—just to take the edge off. I can face vampires and ghosts, but give me an apartment full of happy normal people, and I break into a cold sweat.

I scanned the apartment for Kim, who we somehow lost on our way to the kitchen. After a few seconds, I spotted her in the crowd, already surrounded by other friends. And not a few male admirers.

Everyone seemed to know each other. Who were these folks? They didn’t look like Cormac’s old military buddies. I wondered if some of these party guests worked with him at the Nexus Foundation. I guess I’d have more to chat about with ghost hunters than military veterans. If the conversation ran dry, we could always compare hauntings.

I shot Cormac a glance. “Nice turnout, bud. I didn’t know you had so many friends in town.”

“I don’t,” he said with a grin. “Luckily, Jennifer doesn’t share my lack of social life.”

I nodded. Cormac was cursed with the power to see the restless dead, an ability that didn’t exactly make him the life of the party. Cormac had gotten lucky when the Nexus Foundation provided him with the opportunity to use his new abilities for benefit of both the dead and the living. Meeting Jennifer had been another fortunate break. Judging by his easy manner, she was doing him a world of good

Raising my beer in a salute, I said, “Looks like everything is going great on the home front.”

“I’m blessed, man. Couldn’t be better. Jennifer is my rock.”

Almost as if on cue, the lovely lady in question popped into the kitchen and snuggled up to Cormac while flashing me a warm smile. I’d run into Jennifer only once since the ghoul incident, and she too seemed to be glowing with love and happiness.

“Is Joe talking your ear off and not letting you mingle?” Jennifer gave her boyfriend a playful tap on the arm.

“Not at all. We’re just catching up. I was about to tell Cormac what a nice couple you two make.”

I was being sincere—something of a rarity for me. I hadn’t seen either one them look so happy before. Despite all the horrors we had all suffered at the hands of the ghoul, the beast had brought these two together.

I was thrilled for them. And maybe a little envious.

I suddenly wished Archer was here, that we could pick up things where we’d left off before our nightmarish battle in the dimension of fear. Maybe go on a double date, see a movie. Normal things Archer, and I’d never gotten to do together.

“It’s great to see you, Raven,” Jennifer said, giving me a genuine smile. “We’ve both missed you.”

Suddenly, the social awkwardness evaporated, and I was grateful to be here. Most of these people might be strangers, but not the couple who had invited me. Cormac and Jennifer were my friends, and I was glad to share this special moment with them.

“Just try to have fun,” Jennifer said. “The bar is stocked as you can see, and Joe here is cooking us all some steak and lobster.”

“Get out of here! I was expecting pretzels and potato chips.”

“Welcome to the wonderful world of sous vide,” Cormac said.

Jennifer was pointing at a pot where plastic-wrapped steaks and lobster were boiling away. I had never heard of this cooking method, but the sight made my stomach rumbled in happy anticipation.

Jennifer dipped back into the crowd, taking Cormac with her, and greeted a few new arrivals, a perfect host.

I tossed my now empty beer bottle in the trash and helped myself to another one. I’d been staying away from the booze for the last few months, and the alcohol kicked in almost immediately, putting me at ease.

I sauntered up to a group of people and did my best imitation of mingling. The alcohol sure helped. I wasn't really up to date with pop culture—while most people are bingeing TV shows, I'm out hunting monsters—but I was a good listener, and that went a long way.

I don’t know how much time had passed or how many more drinks I’d knocked back before I somehow ended up on the apartment’s small balcony

I inhaled deeply, the chilly night having a sobering effect on me. To my pleasant surprise, Kim joined me soon thereafter. We both leaned against the balcony railing and watched the lights of the city sparkle in the darkness. I was the one to break the silence, picking up from where we left off when we first arrived.

The conversation flowed even better this time—ah, the wonders of alcohol—and I must have been saying all the right things as Kim kept laughing at my lame jokes. At one point she leaned over and gave me a quick peck on the cheek.

I got over my surprise and kissed her on the lips.

I don’t know whose idea it was to sneak out of the apartment; the alcohol made everything hazy. All I know is that a half an hour later, I found myself in bed with the lovely Kim, all thoughts of demons and horrors far from my mind.

3

Kim woke me up around four o’clock in the morning. I blinked up at her smiling face through bleary eyes. Had my new lovely friend lost her mind?

“I have to get to work,” she explained. Her cute barista uniform should have clued me in, but I was still shaking off the cobwebs.

“Huh?” I mumbled.

“You can sleep in if you like and let yourself out in the morning. I just didn’t want to leave without saying, um, goodbye. But you can stay! It’s totally cool.”

I shook my head. I appreciated the gesture, but I felt weird being in her place on my own. And what kind of gentleman would I be to let her walk to work at this ungodly time on her own?

So we both got dressed, and we did our best to keep our hands to ourselves. The hangover raking the inside of my skull helped on that front.

Man, I had officially become a lightweight.

I was moving way too slow as I struggled to get into my jeans. I was impressed by Kim’s energy and ability to recover from a night of serious partying. She told me that her secret was a cold shower right after waking up. I wasn’t quite ready for such a rude awakening and refused to join in on the icy fun. Instead, I ordered a Lyft, and dropped off my new friend at Café Menotti fifteen minutes later.

We kept things light—a final kiss, an exchange of numbers. As she vanished inside the coffee shop, it felt like she was walking out of my life for good.

Kim was great, but she was a normal young woman with a normal life. People who got too close to me had a bad habit of getting hurt. The forces of darkness knew the best way to get to me. Kim didn't deserve to walk around with a big target on her back.

She deserved better.

Better than me.

The Lyft driver wasn’t thrilled about waiting for our goodbyes, and even less excited when I told him to take me to my loft in a bad part of town. Traffic remained light at this early hour, and we made good time.

Watery sunlight blazed across the horizon as we pulled up to the towering warehouse which had served as my base of operations since my arrival in the Cursed City.

I wished the surly driver a good day, promised him an excellent review for his services, and staggered out of the vehicle. Seconds later, the car took off with a loud screech that reverberated down the abandoned alley.

No one liked to hang around this desolate part of town for any longer than they needed to. Nobody except me, anyway.

As I walked up to the loft, I spotted a few forlorn figures shuffling back and forth at the end of the block like zombies.

Meet my neighbors, the city’s homeless population. They weren’t actually undead, just down on their luck. Believe me—I’ve checked.

I picked up my pace, not eager to socialize with panhandlers while my head was pounding from the abuse of the previous night.

Security cams blinked in the fading darkness, tracking my approach. The building was both warded and protected by electronic means, much good it had done against the Crimson Circle when they raided the place.

I guess even the best defense system in the world won’t deter committed intruders who knew what they were doing. And it didn’t hurt that the bastards had had both the resources and black magic firepower of a super-cult in their corner.

I punched in my security code on the steel door’s keypad, and the lock disengaged.

A moment later I entered the garage level of the loft where my Ducati was collecting dust next to Skulick’s Hummer. Seeing my partner’s neglected ride filled me with sadness.

He was really gone, this time for good.

The door rumbled shut behind me with a metallic clang which made me feel like I’d just been closed in a tomb.

I gave myself an internal push and headed for the elevators.

I was halfway through the garage when I experienced a sudden chill.

The air grew heavy and goosebumps prickled my flesh.

I wasn’t alone any longer.

You would think I’d be used to my demon partner’s antics by now, but some things you never quite get used to.

“Show yourself, Cyon, I know you’re here.”

The sound of footsteps in the darkness made me pivot on my heels.

A bone-faced figure in an expensive suit stepped from behind the parked Hummer as if lurking in dark garages was the most common pastime in the world.

Intellectually, I knew this was an illusion, a game of smoke and mirrors. Cyon wasn’t physically here. His essence was trapped in Hellbreaker, the weapon that had slain Morgal. It was safely locked away inside the vault upstairs. The demon understood that I found it easier to have a conversation if I could see him.

Knowing this made none of it less freaky. On the contrary, it added to the unnerving quality of the experience.

“How is our good old friend, Cormac?” Cyon enquired. “Things going well on the romantic front?”

“He looks happy. Happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

“I had a feeling about those two. Who knew ghouls could be such great matchmakers?”

I rolled my eyes and stepped into the elevator, the former witch hunter staying right behind me. Cyon looked the way he did when I’d first encountered him. He’d been trapped by a master vampire in a summoning circle, drained nearly dry. Later, I’d gotten a glimpse of him before his transformation into a demon. I could still see a shadow of the man he’d once been in the skeletal, alabaster face.

Looking at him, it was easy to forget that he wasn’t flesh-and-blood but a mental projection. I wondered how far his range was. Could Cyon appear to anyone outside these walls while his spirit remained trapped in Hellbreaker?

My sense of unease intensified as the demon’s magnetic gaze bored into me. “So how long do you intend to keep me locked up in that vault of yours?”

“Haven’t we had this conversation a thousand times before?”

Cyon sniffed, irritated. "I thought our battle against Morgal had earned me your trust."

The demon had a point. He had redeemed himself—as much as a demon could ever hope to redeem himself. My problem with Cyon had more to do with his latest proposition.

Almost as if he’d read my mind—and the cheeky bastard probably had—Cyon said, “Have you given any more thought to what we discussed the other day?”

“Sorry, I know being trapped in a sword must suck, but I can’t help you. I’m not going to sacrifice some poor innocent so you can walk the Earth again.”

“Why do you always have to be so dramatic? All I ask is for you to find me a suitable host body.”

“And stab him with Hellbreaker,” I added, my own irritation growing.

“Unfortunately, an act of violence is required for my soul to leave the sword and take over the host. But I’d repair the damage immediately. No one would get hurt.”

“You’re out of your mind if you think I’d help you with this sick plan.”

“There are hundreds of lost souls just outside these walls. Heads full of bad wiring, so high on drugs and alcohol they don’t even remember their names. They won’t even notice I’m hitching a ride.”

Cyon leaned closer, his voice deadly serious as he added, “Might even be good for them to have someone else in the driver’s seat.”

“Or it might push them completely over the edge.” My voice rose. “Demonic possession isn’t going to cure schizophrenia.”

Cyon narrowed his gaze. “Don’t you want to be part of a team again, Raven? We could battle Hell’s forces side by side. Morgal might be out of the picture, but Hell won’t sit by idly as one of their own falls. The legions of darkness are coming, I can guarantee you that much, and they’re determined to make an example out of us both.”

“They’re welcome to try,” I said defiantly, trying to sound braver than I felt.

I clearly wasn’t fooling anyone as a thin smile tugged on Cyon’s lips.

“You may not care about what happens to you, but what about all those innocent people Morgal’s lieutenants now control? Who’ll save them if not us?”

I studied Cyon, my lips pressed into a tight line. I hated it when anyone, people or demons, tried to manipulate me but Cyon’s words hit where it counted. The Crimson Circle had provided Morgal’s demonic lackeys with the bodies of some of the wealthiest, most influential people on the planet. Not to mention all the cursed relics they’d released back into the world when they ransacked the vault.

Much work lay ahead, and Cyon knew it.

Still, I couldn’t and wouldn’t do what the demon was suggesting. I wasn’t a body thief and wouldn’t condemn anyone to a life of demonic possession, even if this demon now fought on the side of angels.

“If you’re so squeamish about giving some junkie a chance at a better life, you can always point that sword at yourself.”

My face flared with anger. “You’re fucking nuts if you think I’ll go through that again.”

“Come on, kid, it wasn’t all bad.”

“We’re done here.”

“Don’t get me wrong, I’m not eager to live with all that angst again, but it beats being locked up like a prisoner…”

“I said this conversation is over.”

I practically screamed the last words. My voice boomed through the loft, and to any outside observer I would’ve looked like a madman raging against invisible enemies. Which wasn’t all that far from the truth.

Cyon evaporated before my eyes, and the elevator fell silent.

Good riddance.

I inhaled sharply, my face red with anger, blood throbbing in my ears.

The elevator doors split open, and I stepped into the command center.

Back in the old days, the smell of freshly brewed coffee would have greeted me. Just inhaling the heady scent of my late mentor’s brew could cure a hangover. Suddenly, I wished I had picked up some coffee at Kim’s shop before heading home.

Skulick’s computer sat idle on his desk, the black screen mirroring the void I felt inside. I missed the parade of data and newscasts that used to fill the loft with flickering light.

I couldn’t help but think of the vital role Skulick had played in my life and the ongoing war against the darkness. He’d been a father when I didn’t have one, a mentor, a partner. And finally, when a battle with a crazed specter left him wheelchair-bound, he'd become my general and intelligence officer. Skulick's work area had been the hub of our operation, the bank of monitors our windows to the outside world. No longer. All the screens had gone dark, and no one remained to help me protect the world from the shadows.

“It doesn’t have to be like that, Raven.”

I clenched my jaw and my spine stiffened. Cyon sure as Hell didn’t like to give up. On some level I had to admire the demon’s determination. I guess it had taken an iron will to navigate the flaming oceans of Hell and graduate from condemned soul to full-fledged demon.

I defiantly switched on the TVs and computers, drawing slight comfort from the familiar sound of the news anchors' voices. For a brief moment, I could pretend life was back to normal and that Skulick might pop out from behind one of the many shelves of books, eyes shining as he told me about some new occult case.

I stepped into the kitchen and tried to decide whether a cup of coffee was a poor substitute for my bed. If I hit the sack, I wouldn’t wake until noon. But then again, where did I have to go today? There were no new cases, no social obligations. I had all the fucking time in the world.

And that’s when my cell chirped and decided my next move.

A glance told me it was none other than Lieutenant Benson, my liaison at the police department. A phone call from Benson meant only one thing: weirdness was afoot in the Cursed City. I hadn’t heard from the homicide detective since my return from Hell, and for a moment I hesitated. Was I ready to dive back into this crazy game?

One look at the empty loft told me that battling real-life demons might be preferable to facing my own—and I wasn’t talking about Cyon. A potential occult crime scene felt like the lesser of two evils. This insight gave me the push I needed, and I answered on the fourth ring.

“Hi Raven, thanks for picking up, I know it’s early.”

“Hey, sleep is overrated. What’s new, my friend?”

My question was greeted by a pregnant pause. Then Benson came clean. “We have a crime scene that calls for your special area of expertise.”

No surprise there.

Benson quickly informed me that a security guard had been slain at the Museum of World History and that some disturbing details of the crime suggested an occult connection.

I took a deep breath and fought back the sudden temptation to find the nearest bottle of liquor and start drinking again. I’d avoided all supernatural cases over the last few months for a simple reason. My little adventure in the dimension of fear, not to mention losing both Skulick and Archer, had shaken me to the core.

Fuck, I’ll admit it. I was afraid.

Afraid I couldn’t hack it on my own.

Afraid to allow the nightmares back into my life.

Some hero you turned out to be, I thought grimly to myself.

My hesitation disgusted me.

Skulick had raised no coward. If he could see me now…

I silenced the dark thoughts before they could consume me.

“Okay, Lieutenant, just tell me where to go, and I’ll be on my way.”

After I got off the phone with Benson, I headed straight for the vault. I punched in my security code, and the door rumbled open with a metallic creak.

My footsteps reverberated as I stepped into the chamber, and for a second, I forgot to exhale. If Skulick’s desk was the brain of the house, then the vault was its heart. And this heart was broken. Once upon a time, countless occult items had cluttered the shelves and tables of the cavernous space.

After the Crimson Circle raided the vault, only a single relic remained—Hellbreaker, the blade’s gleaming steel surface lined with an assortment of glyphs and runes. A weapon forged from occult ritual, the sword contained the power of the three books of the Daemonium and the old Demon Slayer sword I’d retrieved from the Devil’s Bank in Switzerland.

I vividly recalled how the sword had morphed into a discus of whirling power, fueled by the souls of a thousand slain Atlanteans, and how I’d hurled the magical weapon at my greatest enemy. Not even Morgal could withstand Hellbreaker’s immense power.

No denizen of Hell could.

The weapon no longer held the souls of all those dead Atlanteans. Only Cyon’s consciousness remained trapped inside the sword.

Should I bring Hellbreaker along for this newest case?

“You would be a fool not to,” Cyon chimed in.

I gritted my teeth. I hated it when the demon scanned my thoughts.

I had refused to add Hellbreaker to my arsenal for a variety of reasons. For one, there had been no new cases that would call for such a high-powered weapon.

You didn’t bring a nuke to a schoolyard brawl.

Secondly, a sword—even one that could transform into a Frisbee—was a bit more cumbersome than a firearm. Plus, it would be like having Cyon back in my head 24/7. The demon had grown on me to a degree, but I'd come to appreciate my newfound privacy after the long months of sharing my body with him.

Still, I was in the dark about this new case. Despite knowing only a few of the details, Benson wouldn’t involve me unless he had a goddamn good reason. Hellbreaker might come in handy...

I picked up the sword, basked in its humming energy and power. It felt good in my hand, like it wanted to go out there and kick some supernatural ass.

“Take me with you, Raven. I could really use a change of scenery," Cyon said, interrupting my thoughts. "It would be nice to catch up with Lieutenant Benson too. I kind of miss the guy.”

Cyon’s attempt at black humor backfired. The demon’s comment was a vague reference to the stunt he’d pulled during the Crimson Circle case. At one point, he'd taken possession of Benson's body. The poor lieutenant was still recovering from the terrible experience, and I doubted he would enjoy a reunion with Cyon.

It was best to keep those two as far apart as possible.

That settled it in my mind.

For now, Hellbreaker would remain under lock and key—and so would the demon. Cyon had made his bed and now he would have to lie in it.

“You’re making a big mistake, Raven. Don’t be a fool! That magic gun of yours might work against vampires or werewolves, but it won’t impress most demons.”

“I’m not going to war here. I’m only taking a look at a crime scene.”

With these words, I turned and left before my resolve could waver. As the vault door slammed shut behind me, Cyon’s words rang through my mind.

“You’ll regret this, Raven!”

Unfortunately, the demon was right.

4

An early morning drizzle raked my face as I waited for my Lyft to arrive. Five minutes later, the car pulled up, and I groggily got in.

I’d opted to share a ride to save a few bucks, and a young teacher soon joined me on his way to work.

I tried to make light conversation, but the man was still half-asleep and barely responded. Couldn’t blame him—I was running on fumes myself.

I must’ve dozed off briefly because flashing sirens woke me.

We were here.

Cruisers ringed the impressive, fortress-like museum building, and both the teacher and driver perked up. Before they could bombard me with questions, I was out the door and on my way to the gothic arches, thick columns and intersecting roof lines that formed the museum’s main entrance.

This was no ordinary building—the Museum of World History was a monument to science and history. The sprawling structure occupied an entire city block.

I took the imposing wide stone steps two at a time, gripped by a sudden sense of urgency. If Benson’s call had been enough, the heavy police presence confirmed what I already knew. This was going to be a bad one.

A giant billboard above the museum’s entrance advertised an upcoming Asian-themed museum exhibit. I’d spotted variations of this banner with its intriguing images of samurais, ninjas, and dragons all over town recently.

I remembered hearing on the news that the traveling exhibit had done really well Japan, and they expected a similar level of success here in the states.

Going by the date on the banner, the “Mysteries of the Far East” traveling exhibit was supposed to make its US debut today. A little voice told me that wasn’t going to happen.

Studying the banner, I wondered if there might be a connection between the exhibit and the murder I was about to investigate. I'd know soon enough.

Steeling myself for what lay ahead, I finished climbing the stone steps and passed beneath the large porticos toward the main entrance.

While I walked through the museum’s revolving doors, I experienced a wave of anxiety. My gut churned as I took in the crowds of cops in the high-ceilinged foyer.

Something terrible had happened within these walls, and I was about to confront it.

Welcome back, bud! Hope you enjoyed your vacation.

As I brushed past the officers, most who recognized me from earlier cases, I did my best to project a tough front.

One of the cops informed me that Detective Benson was waiting for me at the crime scene. The officer volunteered to be my guide. Recalling the labyrinthine layout of the museum from my last visit, I was grateful for the man’s assistance.

We wended our way through a maze of increasingly more colorful exhibits. At first, I tried to soak it all in, but I soon felt overwhelmed by the sheer scope of the various collections. Talk about information overload. My guide’s brisk pace wasn’t helping matters.

I remembered reading that over two hundred thousand items were on display within these walls and that the collection spanned five thousand years of world culture, from prehistory to the present, from every part of the globe.

A poor soul could get lost in here for hours, maybe days. I picked up my pace.

A few minutes later, we arrived in a gargantuan chamber covered by a dome-shaped skylight. I felt like I'd set foot in a stylized cathedral of knowledge. The vast open space housed galleries on three levels, the catwalks bathed in shadow. The dim lighting gave the statues, skeletons, and other artifacts a mysterious, almost sinister quality.

Awed and humbled—and perhaps a little unnerved—I trailed the officer into the next exhibit hall. The heavy presence of cops and forensic techs suggested we'd reached crime scene.

A beat later, I spotted the body. A forensic team was busy cataloging the scene, oblivious of the large pool of blood covering the marble floor.  The white shroud which covered the top part of the corpse preserved a little dignity in death.

I took note of the dead man’s uniform and concluded the victim had been a museum employee, most likely a security guard.

It doesn’t matter how often I visit a crime scene; it’s always a sobering sight. Seeing death up close still serves as a sharp reminder of one’s mortality. You can be here one moment, gone the next.

Thoughts of Skulick threatened to creep back into my mind, and I willed them away.

Focus, kid.

The voice in my head sounded like my old mentor. As a young man I had hated the endless advice Skulick loved to dish out; right about now I'd have given anything to hear one of his lectures.

I continued to study the scene, and noted several shattered display cases next to the victim. Had the dead guard interrupted a burglary and paid for it with his life?

That theory didn’t track. Benson wouldn’t have brought me in on a simple robbery case.

Circling the crime scene, I tried to gain a better look at the body. The constant presence of the forensic team made it difficult to get an unobstructed view of the victim.

I felt sick to my stomach when I noticed a second shroud over a much smaller object next to the corpse.

There was only one explanation. The killer had severed part of the man's anatomy from his body.

Jesus.

I inched closer, ignoring the techs’ suspicious glances. These officers still didn’t know what to make of me and my well-deserved rep as a weirdness magnet.

As I kneeled before the dead man, my chest lit up with burning pain.

Decades earlier, the demon Morgal had slaughtered my parents and marked me with a brutal swipe of his clawed hand. The wound had healed over time, but for some strange reason, the scar responded to paranormal energy.

Going by my scar’s reaction to the body, dark forces were at work here. Unlike myself, Benson didn’t have a demon scar to clue him in on this fact. So what had convinced the lieutenant to give me a call?

Approaching footsteps made me look up from the body. Four Japanese men had entered the exhibit.

The oldest member of the group, who I estimated to be in his fifties and who wore a conservative gray suit, had gone deathly pale. He was staring at the empty display cases with horror.

Another man with long rock star hair hung back near the entrance. He wore a bright anime shirt under his skintight white blazer. He looked like an artist of some kind.

Going by the muscled frames and severe expressions of the other two men, I took them for bodyguards. My suspicion was confirmed when they almost immediately formed a protective circle around the older man and the artist.

Who were these people? And what was their connection to the exhibit?

The answers would have to wait for a moment as a familiar figure sidled up to me. Benson had emerged from the adjoining gallery. He flashed me a grim smile.

The lieutenant was glad to see me but probably wished it was under different circumstances.

That made two of us.

Unlike myself, the lieutenant was a fitness fanatic who scrutinized every calorie he put into his body, and as far as I knew, he didn’t touch alcohol—which made him superhuman in my book. His physique was still in top-notch condition, but I’d never seen his face look so haunted. The heavy bags under his eyes suggested sleep didn’t come easy nowadays.

I blamed Cyon for this. Demonic possession can mess with your head, as I’d learned from personal experience.

“Hi. Benson. We need to stop meeting like this.”

“Tell me about it.”

“So what happened here?”

“Best if I just show you.”

The clipped tone of Benson’s voice made me fear the worst. The lieutenant led me down several corridors and flights of stairs. I followed him dutifully.

I used our walk to get a few questions off my chest. “Who were those Japanese gentlemen back at the crime scene?”

“The older man is Daitan Takeda, head CEO of Nappon Industries.”

I don’t follow business news too much, but even I recognized the name of the Japanese electronics manufacturer.

“The kid is Baio Kazurai, a top game designer. He’s the brain behind the Samurai Warrior video game series. My nephew loves ‘em.”

I shrugged. Video games had been just another pop culture phenomenon I’d missed out on growing up. Who needs games when you’ve got real-life demons to hunt, right?

Benson continued, “Most of the items on display come from Takeda and Kazurai’s private collections. The museum invited them to the States for the grand opening today.”

That explained why Takeda had looked more horrified by the missing loot than the dead body.

“Takeda and Kazurai are the descendants of two well-known samurai families. Did you know that the majority of doctors, lawyers, and CEOs in Japan are descended from samurai clans?”

I shook my head. I guess you learn something new every day.

“Both Takeda and Kazurai were planning on attending the show’s grand opening today. Little did they know they’d be part of a murder investigation.”

The disturbed reactions of the Japanese sponsors made more sense now, especially since the shattered display cases suggested several items were missing from their personal collections.

Benson stopped in front of a steel entrance at the end of a hallway, and we entered the museum’s security command center.

Inside, a middle-aged guard sat hunched over a battery of close-circuit monitors which showed the various exhibit halls, most of which stood deserted at the moment. The room reminded me of the control room of a nuclear power plant.

"The security footage you’re about to see will prove this is anything but a normal murder.”

Benson nodded at the guard behind the bank of screens, who seemed visibly shaken. “Play the feed.”

We watched in hushed silence as the murdered security officer strode up to the glass display case with the Katana sword.

Even without close-ups, I could tell the sword was exacting a hypnotic pull over the hapless guard. There was a certain jerkiness to his movements, like a fish on a hook.

On-screen, the guard spun around wildly, but I had no idea what he was looking for. Nothing else moved in the exhibit hall.

The guard suddenly grabbed a samurai helmet and brought it down on a display case holding a katana.

Moving frenetically, he helped himself to the sword and then turned to face down the samurai mannequins that stood at the entrance to the exhibit.

I glanced for a second at Benson, wondering what the lieutenant made of this irrational behavior. His face was set, expressionless, and I guessed that he’d watched this little movie more than once before deciding to call me.

My own expression turned to horror as the guard pointed the blade at his chest.

The camera angle changed, and the security cam faced him now. This gave me a better look at his terrified features. He looked possessed.

Judging by the knowing glance Benson shot me, the same idea had crossed his mind.

Even though I knew how this would end, I still hoped the guard would somehow overcome the supernatural compulsion and escape.

My hands tightened into fists as the sword vanished inside the guard’s chest, and he crumpled to his knees.

The guard looked up at something that remained tantalizingly off-screen, and then a burst of static slashed across the security monitors. Electronic haze crackled and hissed, and the feed went dark for a split second.

When the image returned, the guard lay sprawled dead on the ground, his severed head next to him. There was no sign of the katana.

Benson shot me a glance.

“Definitely not a suicide,” he said. “I’ve experienced some weird shit, but I’ve never seen someone stab themselves with a sword and then use that same sword to cut their own head off.”

An impossible crime.

Someone else had wielded the blade. Someone who sure didn't like to have his picture taken.

The middle-aged guard operating the desk was alternating between chewing on his nails and mainlining a Red Bull. I wondered when he would start drinking the hard stuff to forget what he’d seen here.

“Security gates sealed off the exhibit hall from the rest of the museum the instant the guard smashed the first display case. No one could enter or leave the room, yet there’s no sign of the sword or the other missing weapons.”

Benson let his words sink in, then added, “Any bright ideas what might’ve happened?”

Good question. My mind was spinning.

Most likely black magic had triggered the electronic distortion. Supernatural energy has a way of messing with the laws of physics and technology. Beyond that, I wasn’t sure. Some kind of spirit. I’d need to hit the books to figure out more.

“Lieutenant Benson, what’s going on here?” a female voice demanded behind us.

Both Benson and I whirled toward the attractive Eurasian woman who’d joined us in the surveillance room. She wore a smart business suit, stylish glasses which matched her similarly stylish haircut and regarded us gravely.

“Raven, meet Dr. Sara Yasimiro, the chief curator of the museum. The Asian exhibit is her brainchild.”

I offered her my hand. “I’m so sorry about what happened.”

The museum curator regarded me icily and refused to take my hand. Charming.

“Who is this man?”

“Raven is a consultant we bring in for special cases,” Benson explained.

The curator shook her head. “Special cases?”

“It means we have our best people working this investigation, Dr. Yasimori.”

The steel in Benson’s voice appeased the curator to a degree, and her stern expression softened.

“I’m sorry. I’m under a ton of pressure here. We spent years putting this exhibit together. I figured a thousand things could go wrong on opening day, but nothing like…"

Her voice broke off. Not even in her worst nightmares could she have imagined the current scenario.

For a moment the cracks in her armor showed. She was in way over her head, and she knew it.

“Look at this, guys!”

We all turned our attention to the guard manning the security system. He was pointing at the screens.

My eyes narrowed as I spotted a black-clad silhouette on the rotunda's second floor catwalk.

I took a step closer. The wraithlike shadow swelled and thickened.

A split second later, I realized I was looking at a ninja wielding an asymmetrical longbow. I was sure the archaic weapon in question was one of the missing exhibit items.

The apparition pulled an arrow from a quiver strapped across his back.

As the mysterious ninja nocked the arrow, my eyes ticked toward another monitor, which showed the ground floor of the rotunda. Three familiar Japanese men wearing expensive suits were crossing the large, circular chamber, unaware of the assassin lurking on the level above them.

Daitan Takeda and his security detail.

I didn’t know why the ninja wanted to kill them, but their lives were in danger.

I had to act.

A second later, I was running for the door.

5

Peering out at the American city from the windows of his hotel room earlier that morning, Daitan Takeda experienced a pang of unease.

Even though his flight from Tokyo had arrived less than twenty-four hours ago, he already hated this congested cesspool with all his heart.

Maybe it was the grey skies and icy rain and overall chaotic nature of the place that made it impossible for him to form a coherent thought.

His home city was clean, structured, civilized. This metropolis felt dirty, broken and dangerous.

The slabs of concrete that thrust into the clouds of smog like monolithic temples triggered feelings of claustrophobia and paranoia.

Battles were waged in those urban canyons—one could sense it as soon as one set foot in those bustling streets.

Battles between success and failure, light and dark, life and death.

When his cell phone rang an hour later, he had a feeling the news would be bad. But nothing could have prepared him for the scene which awaited him at the museum.

As his gaze traveled from the dead man on the marble floor to the shattered display cases, his heart sank. A number of items from his family’s collection were missing, and he knew with sudden, icy certainty that Akumo’s katana was one of them.

The young video game designer Kazurai stared at him with saucer eyes, sharing his shock.

This was uncharted territory for both of them. Even though they were both the descendants of proud warrior clans, they’d lived lives untouched by the specter of violent death.

The blood of warriors coursed through Takeda’s veins. Over the years, he’d faced many a corporate raider in the cutthroat business world. He’d always regarded himself as a brave man, a man who wasn’t afraid of a challenge, who thrived on conflict. But as he took in the crowd of police officers in the exhibit hall, a chill ran up his spine, and he knew he needed to get out of the museum as soon as possible.

Takeda trusted his instincts. A moment later, he was on his way to the exit, the young video game designer and his two loyal bodyguards on his side.

He had felt from the start that the exhibit was a terrible idea. What a fool he’d been to let himself get talked into this mess by Dr. Yasimiro. The Japanese-American museum curator was as persuasive as she was charming.

The world deserves to see the treasures of the past. You need to share your family’s possessions with the public.

Those had been her words, words that had ultimately bent him to her will.

Dr. Yasimiro's enthusiasm for Japanese history was infectious, and she quickly won him over. Once Takeda agreed to lend his family’s century-old treasures to the exhibit, Baio Kazurai had followed suit.

And now both of them would have to pay the price for their foolishness.

Ironic, considering that his concerns had, at first, appeared to be unfounded. The initial run of the show in Tokyo had turned out to be a rousing success. As Dr. Yasimiro had predicted, people lined up around the block to see the treasures of past generations. Even though sleep hadn’t come easy to him during those days, nothing terrible had happened.

Not until today.

Takeda cursed himself. He should have heeded his father’s warnings when the old man entrusted him with their ancestor’s collection.

Sometimes it’s best if the past remains buried.

At the time, he had scoffed at the old man’s dire words, considered them superstitious drivel. He didn’t believe in ghosts and demons. Now he wasn’t so sure.

The time for regrets was over. Takeda would have to live with the consequences of what he’d wrought.

There was still time to save his life and the lives of countless others.

Takeda, Kazurai and the two bodyguards were halfway across the rotunda when the CEO sensed movement on the atrium's second level. His inner voice told him to keep going, to not look up, but his curiosity got the better of him.

He slowed his gait, his eyes turning upward. For a moment, he could only make out blackness, and then the shadows parted, and his worst fears became real.

Cloaked in darkness stood a black-clad figure of myth.

Akumo. The Dragon Ninja.

Death had found them.

6

Questions cycled through my mind as I stormed out of the security control room.

What sort of creature was I up against? Did the mysterious ninja have something to do with the missing katana?

I thought of Cyon and how his essence was trapped in Hellbreaker. Was this a similar situation?

The answers would have to wait, but I hoped Dr. Yasimiro might shed some light on the matter.

Right now, I had to focus on the immediate problem. The lives of three men hung in the balance.

I prayed I would arrive on time.

As I sprinted down the corridor, I drew my magical pistol Hellseeker (I know, who comes up with these names).

Molded from a blessed sword, the bullets fired from the green glowing gun could inflict severe damage against supernatural creatures. The pistol might not be as powerful as the super-weapon Hellbreaker, but it had bailed me out of a fair share of close calls.

My confidence boosted by the green glowing firearm in my hand, I sprinted into the rotunda.

As my footsteps rang out, the four Japanese men turned toward me, surprised to see a crazed bearded man sporting a gleaming pistol. Only the oldest member of the trio had spotted the assassin lurking on the rotunda's catwalk.

“GET DOWN!” I shouted at the top of my lungs.

My warning came a second too late.

I watched with horror as the first arrow tore into the chest of one of the bodyguards, the impact knocking the powerfully built man over.

A second arrow took out the other guard, spearing his trachea. He didn’t even have a chance to look surprised as he collapsed.

I picked out the ninja from the shadows one floor up, a strange absence of light shaped like a man. The assassin drew his bow again, ready to fire for the third time.

I brought up Hellseeker just as the ninja released the arrow.

It tore into Takeda’s chest with the precision of a laser beam. The older man joined the guards on the marble floor.

Damnit! Three men taken out before I even had a chance to fire my weapon. This was turning into a massacre.

I pivoted on my heels and squeezed the trigger, firing a volley into the shadowy balcony.

Even from this angle, I saw the bullets hit the ninja and pockmark the second floor’s glass railing.

The phantom assassin's form lit up for a split second and contorted with pain, suggesting at least one of my bullets had found its target.

Then the eerie light around the ninja dimmed, and the figure turned away from his previous targets. His inhuman gaze was now fixed in my direction.

Knowing what would come next, I sought cover behind a giant tribal totem which formed the centerpiece of a West African display.

The first arrow sliced the air inches from my head.

Two more projectiles thunked into the statue in rapid fire succession.

I glanced upward and saw the spooky killer running alongside the second-floor catwalk, intent on circling the sculpture which I was using as cover and stealthily slip up from behind.

Sneaky bastard.

My gaze turned to the surviving Japanese man.

The young video game designer had followed my example and now crouched behind a monolithic stone statue.

A few feet away, Takeda lay on the floor, unmoving, an arrow sticking out of his chest. Judging by the gasping sounds the CEO made, he was clinging to life by a silk thread.

My jaw tightened with rage. I had arrived too late.

Anger boiling up in me, I slammed a fresh magazine into my magical pistol and spun toward the fast-approaching fiend above me.

An instant later, a new volley of magic-charged bullets tore toward the incoming ninja.

I didn’t care that priceless art might get damaged. A killer haunted these galleries, and I was intent on stopping him before he could claim another innocent life.

At least three of my bullets hit the phantom, and he froze in mid-movement.

The ninja let out a shriek of fury and pain, his black-garbed form lighting up with a red light for a moment before vanishing back into the darkness.

Silence fell over the rotunda as the assassin’s inhuman scream died out.

I sucked in a sharp lungful of air, my hands trembling.

Had my bullets defeated the bastard? I doubted it. Things were never that easy.

I waited for another beat, my eyes searching the catwalk above, but detected no sign of my enemy.

Gun up, I left the safety of my cover and ran toward the motionless figure splayed on the ground.

One quick look at his shivering, pale face told me all help would come too late for the Japanese businessman.

The arrow sprouted from his chest, and I knew better than to try to remove it. Assuming that at least one of the cops in this building had the sense to call the paramedics, I wasn’t sure what to do next.

I knelt beside the man, hoping to help slow the bleeding even though I knew it was pointless.

Takeda’s hand tightened around my wrist. Beads of sweat masked his pain-filled features, his haunted eyes wild with mortal terror.

With a last burst of strength, he whispered one word into my ear.

“Akumo.”

The other Japanse man flinched. This Akumo character was no stranger to them.

I foresaw a chat in our immediate future.

But first things first. I unbuttoned Takeda’s shirt to get a better look at the wound.

The Japanese CEO winced in agony.

As I exposed the man’s chest, I realized the arrow had buried itself in a large green dragon tattoo. The stunning detail of the inked image gave me pause before I turned my attention to the circle of red around the arrow’s entry point.

I bit my lips when I realized how close it had struck to the man's heart. Takeda’s odds of survival were slim to none.

As if to confirm my grim diagnosis, Takeda let out a wheezing death rattle, and his eyes rolled back, turning into white crescents.

The ninja—Akumo, or whoever the hell he was—had found his newest victim.

As I watched, the dead man’s tattoo ignited with an emerald glow.

I recoiled from the shimmering green light and brought up my hands to shield my eyes.

The dragon ink pulsed with energy and writhed as if alive.

My shock deepened as the emerald tattoo detached from the dead man’s skin and floated into the air like a three-dimensional hologram, leaving a large patch of discolored skin behind.

The living tattoo hovered in front of me for a beat, its light bathing my face crimson.

Then the ghostlike dragon shot toward the second level of the rotunda.

The ninja had reappeared from the shadows.

I watched in dark wonder as the assassin absorbed the shimmering dragon tattoo. Akumo’s body lit up with a fearsome red light for a beat, and then the figure vanished.

Apparently, the assassin had gotten what he’d come for.

As I turned away from the dead man, my gaze landed on Kazurai who cowered behind the stone statue. The video game designer’s expression was empty, his face beaded with sweat.

The museum’s alarms wailed in the near distance, and I made out approaching footsteps.

A moment later, Dr. Yasimiro and Benson appeared next to us.

The museum curator traded a shocked look with me and stifled a gasp of horror when she saw the dead Japanese CEO and the two fallen guards .

My probing eyes bore into the sole survivor.

“Who are you people? And who the hell is Akumo?”

* * *

Dan Smith had worked museum security for eighteen years, but nothing in that time had prepared him for the insanity of this day. First, the murder of one of his co-workers and now the slaughter that was unfolding on the bank of monitors in front of him. He watched with growing horror as Takeda and his bodyguards fell.

The really freaky part—every time Dan tried to get a better look at the black-clad killer, a new burst of electronic static slashed across the screen. The ninja would appear for a split second, almost like a trick of the light, and then vanish in a warbling haze of flashing pixels.

Dan shook his head and balled his trembling hands into fists. People were dying a few hundred feet away from him. What should he do? More importantly, what could he do? This shit was way above his paygrade.

Dan looked to the monitors that showed the Asian exhibit. Cops and forensic techs milled around the remains of his slain co-worker—poor Chris Tomasi, may he rest in peace—unaware of the life-and-death battle being waged in the rotunda.

He was still debating whether to dial 911 or use the museum intercom system to alert the cops in the exhibit when his nervous gaze ticked toward another row of screens. His face lost all color as he saw the security gate rattle shut in the main foyer.

How was that possible? Only he should be able to control that gate, and Dan had not pressed any buttons.

A glance at the digital map of the museum confirmed his worst fears. All the critical entrance points had lit up and now flashed red. The museum was going into lockdown mode.

Sweat pearled down Dan’s panicked features, and he clawed the armrests of his chair. This couldn’t be happening. Not on his watch.

But the cameras didn’t lie. Everywhere he looked, gates were coming down. The system was designed to seal the museum in case of a robbery and prevent thieves from getting away with priceless artifacts. That same system had trapped them all in hunting grounds of a ruthless killer.

No one could leave the museum. And no one could get in to help.

Dan tapped a series of buttons, hoping to override the lockdown mode. No such luck. The gates and locks all remained in place. It was almost like the killer had hacked the system.

Cursing under his breath, Dan tried to call the cops on the museum’s landline. Dead silence greeted his efforts. The phone system was down too.

They were completely cut off. And it was up to Dan Smith to save everyone.

7

Baio Kazurai’s thousand-yard stare bored into me. Dirt streaked his flashy white suit. The Japanese video game king looked frail and pitiful, a kid forced to grow up overnight. His ancestors might have been samurai, but the warrior gene had skipped a generation, if his expression was any indicator. The brutal murders of the guards and Takeda had shaken the young designer to the core.

Video game violence was a little different than the real thing.

“Who is Akumo?” I asked again.

Yawning silence greeted the question. I turned toward Dr. Yasimiro. Her face was drained of all color as she took in the three arrow-riddled corpses.

I felt sorry for the icy museum director. The exhibit meant a lot to her, and it was all turning into one big nightmare.

“What happened here?” she asked in a trembling voice.

Good question. I wished I had the answers. My attention returned to the most recent victim, morbidly fascinated by the bare patch of tissue around the arrow’s entry point. No trace of the dragon tattoo remained. Akumo had sucked the ink out of the skin.

That meant it had never been an ordinary tattoo to begin with. Dark magic was at work here.

“We can’t stay out here in the open,” I told Benson. “If the killer returns, the bastard will pick us off like fish in a barrel.”

Even as I uttered the words, I knew we were wasting time. Every fiber in my body wanted to get out of the rotunda as fast as possible.

I stole a glance at the two catwalks, expecting death to rain down on us at a moment’s notice. There were a million hiding places up there in the shadows.

I’d hurt the ninja with my bullets, no doubt about it, but he was far from defeated. Somewhere nearby, the assassin was licking his wounds and getting ready to launch his next vicious attack. I’d bet all the money in my bank account that Kazurai was his next target.

“That fancy gun of yours can’t stop this bastard?” Benson asked, knowing the answer already.

“I hit the killer multiple times. My bullets barely slowed him down,” I said, doing my best not to sound as defeated as I felt.

God, how I wished I’d listened to Cyon and brought Hellbreaker along. That’s what I get for being a stubborn bastard. I inwardly cursed myself for my foolishness.

“Akumo will be back,” Kazurai declared in a hollow voice that sent a chill down my spine. “The ninja has returned to reclaim the power my ancestors took from him.”

A deep frown furrowed Benson’s forehead, and he shot me a questioning look. “Any idea what he’s talking about?”

“In my line of work, it’s usually something like that,” I said with a shrug.

Benson scowled. “Then I say we make a go for the exit and get the hell out of this place.”

“Akumo won’t let us leave the museum alive,” Kazurai stated matter-of-factly, his voice drained of all emotion.

He was probably right. Supernatural creatures bent on vengeance didn’t give up. If we were dealing with a spirit who thought Takeda and Kazurai had wronged them, then the shadowy ninja would just keep coming until the job was done.

“At least eight other exhibits separate us from the main exit with plenty of ambush points,” I said, remembering my trek into the museum. “We won’t see him coming until it’s too late.”

As I spoke, my gaze traveled to Dr. Yasimiro. There was a flicker in her eyes. Like Kazurai, she knew something. I would have to convince my new friends to tell me more about Akumo, but this wasn’t the place for interrogation. The answers would have to wait for now.

“What do you suggest we do?” Benson asked.

Before I could reply, footsteps rang out through the rotunda. Both the lieutenant and I leveled our pistols in the direction of the noise.

I relaxed when I recognized the middle-aged guard from the security monitoring room.

My relief was short-lived, though. The man must’ve had a damn good reason to abandon his post. His panicky gaze, combined with his mere presence, spelled more bad news.

“What is it?” I snapped.

The guard’s greying hair appeared whiter than I remembered in the rotunda’s dim light and he was gasping for air, his protruding gut bobbing up and down. He looked thirty seconds away from having a heart attack.

“The museum’s in full lockdown,” the guard gasped. “They sealed every exit. I don’t understand how they did it, and I can’t override it. You people need to get to safety.”

“Are you saying we’re trapped in this place?” Benson asked.

The fear in the guard’s face spoke louder than words.

“No one can get in or out. The radios are down, too.”

Benson’s jaw tightened as he scooped out his cell and made a call. With each passing second, his expression darkened.

“You’re wasting your time,” Dr. Yasimiro said. “You can’t ever get a signal in here. The extra surveillance wiring in the walls makes it impossible to get a carrier.”

Fantastic. Next time my old buddy Benson called, I would let it go to voicemail.

The detective took charge of the situation. “Let’s head back to the Asian exhibit. We can seal the doorways, secure the area with the help of the cops still working the crime scene. At least we’ll know who is coming and going while we figure out our next move.”

I stole a look at Kazurai and Dr. Yasimiro. “And maybe you guys can tell us what the hell we’re up against here.”

Dr. Yasimiro and Kazurai knew something. And if they didn’t spill it soon, somebody else was going to end up dead.

8

Steve Colton had lived on the streets for three years, and the mileage was showing.

A long time ago (and sometimes it seemed like a galaxy far away) Steve had been a high school football star and then a Marine. But two tours of duty in Afghanistan changed him. Soul-numbing bouts of anxiety accompanied his return to civilian life. Violent death seemed to lurk everywhere.

During his military career, it was the randomness of the universe that really got to him. One moment you might be joking with your buddies, and the next you could be a shrapnel-shredded mess exhaling your last breath in a pool of red.

Only luck separated the living from the dead.

No wonder he stopped giving a damn about most things when he got back home. Better to not become attached to anything, least of all yourself.

He first gravitated toward alcohol to ease those existential fears but soon graduated to hard drugs. His addiction cost him his job, his wife, and his chance at a normal life. Within months, he found himself on the streets.

His mind clouded by a drug-induced haze, he drifted through the city's alleys and back streets, always chasing his next high. The drugs kept his anxiety in check, and as the moments of clarity became less frequent, his desire to pull himself out of the gutter faded. He stopped paying attention to his hygiene. His family and the few friends he had left gave up on him, and Steve didn’t even care.

Only his fix mattered. One day he'd take a dose that would give him a high from which he'd never come down, and he'd be at peace.

Little did Steve know that the day of reckoning was at hand. He swallowed the white pill he'd bummed from his dealer the other night. The 150 mg dose was about to roar through his system, batter his beleaguered brain and internal organs, and finally rupture his heart.

If someone had peered into a crystal ball and told him he had less than ten minutes to live, he would've shrugged. He was long past caring.

Or so he believed.

For now, however, there were no signs of the agony to come. Reality grew dull, lost its hard edges as the pill dissolved on his eager tongue.

Here we go!

Steve plopped down in the alley that had become his home and basked in the pleasurable effects of the drug. Euphoria and a deep sense of wellbeing washed over him, chasing away all his doubts and fears.

Through glassy eyes, he watched as a bearded man in a leather jacket—What was his name again? Robin, Raven? Something to do with birds—emerged from the warehouse across the street.

Steve had seen the man many times. He was an anomaly in this rundown industrial part of the city.

Steve had often wondered why someone would voluntarily live in this abandoned shithole, a place reserved for the dregs of society. The Bird Man seemed kind enough, always willing to throw him a few bucks when their paths crossed.

Still, there had been rumors, whispered stories shared in hushed tones by the other broken men and women who roamed these forlorn streets. Suggestions that the man dabbled in black magic and other occult practices, each story more outlandish than the next.

Even though Steve filtered reality through a haze of drugs nowadays, he was not someone who fell for tall tales. At his core, he was a born skeptic, and he didn't pay much mind to the wild rumors. But he'd recognized the tormented expression on the man's hard-edged features, had spotted it too many times in his own reflection.

Here was a man haunted by demons.

Steve watched with a growing sense of numbness as his neighbor got into a waiting car.

As the vehicle took off, he caught a glimpse of the driver. The poor guy looked freaked out, which almost made Steve break into a mad cackle. This part of town wasn't for the faint of heart, that much was for sure.

As the Lyft vanished from view, he wondered why the man wasn't driving his jet-black muscle car. He figured even a sweet ride like that had to go into the shop from time to time. Damn shame, though. That was a beautiful car. Reminded Steve of the Mustang he’d restored in high school, back when he’d cared about such things.

Steve shut his eyes, his nervous system on fire. His fondest memories of the glory days on the football fields of his youth couldn't compete with the rush he felt now.

As the high crested, the world around him changed. The harsh morning light became hazy. The loud traffic sounds softened, the stench of rotting trash faded. A feeling of pure bliss cascaded over him.

And that's when the stranger popped up in the alley.

Steve recoiled, surprised by the sudden arrival of the newcomer. Where the hell had this guy come from? There was an unwritten code not sneak up on someone who was high.

The bald man in the sharp, expensive suit didn’t look like he was homeless or searching for a score. He met Steve's gaze and offered him a warm smile.

"Don't be alarmed. I’m a friend," the bald stranger said.

The man was breaking a second rule of the street. No one was your friend out here. Everyone was working an angle, was trying to get something out of you—drugs, booze, sex, or money.

But there was something deeply calming and soothing about the tone of the bald man’s voice. Steve halfway believed that the stranger was his friend.

The bald man stepped up to him and offered his hand.

"Let me help you, Steve."

For a split second, Steve wondered how the stranger knew his name.

"Friends know each other's names," the man explained as if he'd read Steve’s thoughts.

In his current state, the answer made perfect sense, and Steve accepted the man's outstretched hand. Weirdly he didn’t dwell on the fact that he didn’t know the stranger’s name.

The bald man lifted him to his feet and pulled him toward the warehouse. Maybe he was the Bird Man’s friend?

Despite the many rumors swirling around the bearded man who called the warehouse his home, Steve had never encountered anyone who'd set foot inside the structure. The insides of the large building were a tantalizing mystery to his homeless brethren. The ubiquitous security cameras, the high-wire fence surrounding the place, not to mention the massive steel door with the intimidating keypad would discourage even the most adventurous soul from getting too close.

You’d have be a fool to try to get in there.

"Come with me. Nobody deserves to be out in this weather. A warm meal will do you a world of good."

The stranger's friendly tone made something in Steve’s heart give a twinge. No one had offered him such simple kindness in long time.

"Don't be afraid," the stranger said in a reassuring voice that cast aside the last traces of doubt.

Steve fell in step with the well-dressed man and let the bald stranger in the sleek grey suit lead him to the looming warehouse. A light shower began to fall, the droplets misting his ragged hair and beard, but he paid the elements no mind.

Steve felt like a man reunited with a long-lost family member, and despite the drugs whipping through his body, he found himself looking forward to a hot meal. Maybe the stranger would have apple pie. That had always been his favorite. He hadn’t had a slice of that in a long, long time.

The barbed wire fence rumbled open, and Steve watched in amazement as the gates parted. He blinked at the security cams, then let the bald man lead him to the warehouse's entrance.

"Do you want to put in the security code?"

Steve nodded. He'd do anything for the stranger.

The bald man leaned closer to whisper the combination in his ear that would grant him access to the warehouse. For a second, Steve wondered why the man entrusted him with such information. Then he wondered why he didn't enter the number himself, but Steve didn't dwell on it.

The stranger trusted him, and that trust went both ways.

After all, the man was his… friend.

Steve felt like he was in a dream as he floated toward the keypad and thumbed in the combination the stranger had shared with him.

The steel door rumbled open.

Steve experienced a momentary pang of fear. Some part of him realized that this was very strange.

But the stranger smiled reassuringly. “Go ahead. You’re my guest. My home is your home.”

Steve nodded and took his first tentative step into the warehouse. Then he was inside the building he’d heard so many stories about.

Meanwhile, his heart sped up as the drugs continued to surge through his veins and work their dark magic.

"Hurry, my friend. Time is running out," the stranger said.

What did his friend mean with those words? Why was it so important for him to hurry? It wasn't like he had to be anywhere. Steve lived a life without commitments and responsibilities—he had all the time in the world. But judging by the urgency in the bald man's face, his new friend wasn’t so carefree.

The stranger took his hand again and guided him up a winding staircase. As Steve stole glances over the railing, he caught glimpses of a desk cluttered with expensive computer equipment and shelves filled to the brim with old books. The computers themselves would fetch a nice chunk of change and keep him supplied with drugs for at least a few weeks…

Steve felt his face turn red with shame. How could he think such terrible thoughts after the kindness the stranger had shown him?

The man kept his magnetic gaze on him, lips curled in that warm, enigmatic smile of his.

Steve felt like shit for being tempted by his habit. Here someone was treating him like a human being for the first time in ages, and all he could think of was his next fix. He was a guest here, not some junkie thief.

"I know climbing these stairs must make you tired, but we're almost there. It won’t be long now."

A frown furrowed Steve's forehead. What did the man mean?

A moment later, he received his answer as the bald man led him to a landing, which in turn took them to another steel door. This one looked even thicker than the main entrance they'd passed through a few minutes earlier.

For a second time, the stranger whispered a code into his ear and asked him to input the numbers. And once again, Steve wondered why his mysterious host didn't do the honors himself. Why would he share such secret information? Wasn't the man worried he might return at a later date and let himself in on his own?

There are no secrets among friends. Friends trust each other.

Steve's breathing grew labored as the vault-like door clanged open. His pulse throbbed in his neck, and his chest felt tight. Climbing those two flights of stairs had done a number on him.

He braced himself against the vault's doorway. Something is wrong, he thought as he struggled to draw oxygen into his lungs.

"Don't stop now. Keep going, my friend. We’re almost there."

The stranger's soothing, resonant voice encouraged Steve to stumble forward with a few more leaden steps.

His body protested. Man, he wasn't feeling good at all.

But he owed the stranger. The man was his friend; the only friend he had left.

Steve gave himself an internal push, and he lumbered into what appeared to be an empty vault. A chill crept up his spine, and doubt flooded his thoughts. The antiseptic chamber, with its gleaming steel walls and polished floor, freaked him out. What was he even doing here?

Feeling like a fool, Steve spun toward the exit. He had to get out here! Before it was too late…

He froze. The stranger loomed in the vault's doorway, blocking his escape.

Steve blinked, blood throbbing in his temples like the beat of a drum. Only moments earlier the same stranger had been in front of him.

"Don't be afraid, Steve Colton. We’re almost done."

Steve swallowed hard. With each passing second, it became harder to believe that he’d willingly followed this dude into the Bird Man’s bunker. How come he hadn't noticed how creepy this freak was? It was like the bastard had hypnotized him…

"I have something for you, Steve.”

The mysterious stranger pointed at a nearby table.

Steve's eyes grew wide as he took in the golden Frisbee-shaped object splayed out on its surface. The discus, with its serrated edges, made Steve think of a buzz saw with a few missing teeth.

Drawing closer, Steve noticed the strange, mystical symbols engraved on the surface. The object pulsed with a bluish-reddish light that called out to him.

Steve’s fear and suspicions evaporated, his world reduced to the glowing item in front of him. It was just so beautiful. He had to touch it, just once.

Unaware of the terrible damage the drug was doing to him at that very moment, Steve staggered to the table.

"Take it. It's yours to keep."

Steve’s entranced gaze swept over the golden Frisbee thing. The money this beauty would fetch him at the local pawn shop would cover his habit for weeks, maybe a month. But as his trembling fingers reached out, he knew he'd never trade in the item no matter how much money they might offer him.

This thing belonged to him, was a part of him…

He picked up the disc, his excitement building. The thing pulsated with fiery red energy.

Fascinated, Steve ran his fingers along the gleaming edge—

And accidentally cut himself on one of the sharp teeth.

Ouch.

A thin trickle of blood ran along the golden surface of the disc.

Steve’s eyes widened as the surface absorbed his blood and the strange light enveloped the cut on his finger.

Gripped with terror, he let go of the weird Frisbee, which clattered to the floor, and stumbled back. His eyes ticked toward the stranger, seeking an explanation but his new friend had… vanished.

At the same time, the discomfort in his chest grew tenfold. The dull pain became a painful cramp.

Agony traveled down his arms and spine, and then he felt the terrible pressure on his ribs. It was as if an invisible phantom hand had reached underneath his skin and closed around his hammering heart.

What was happening to him?

"You're having a heart attack, Steve."

It was his friend’s voice, but now it seemed to be coming from inside of his head.

"What?"

"You're dying."

How could his friend give him such terrible news in such a calm voice?

Unless… he’d never really been his friend to begin with.

"Soon you'll be in a better place. No more pain, no more nightmares.”

It was getting more difficult for Steve to concentrate on the man's words, to make sense of what was happening. There was only the growing agony in his chest.

"Please, help…"

His words trailed off as his worn-out body succumbed to the drugs in his system. The last sound he heard before his body hit the marble floor was the stranger's soothing voice.

"Don’t be afraid. I’ll take good care of your corpse."

Strangely enough, as Steve’s consciousness slipped into a black void, he didn’t find that thought at all comforting.

9

We were all back in the Asian Exhibit. The samurai and ninja mannequins surrounding us gave off a palpable air of menace. No longer were they colorful relics of another time and place, immortalized in pop culture. Now, they were echoes of the proud, powerful warriors who’d once worn the armor. Having faced the real thing, I also understood the lethal nature of the many weapons on display here. These swords and knives weren’t props from some Akira Kurosawa film.

The surprised cops had sealed the various entrances to the exhibit and now guarded the doorways with their firearms drawn. They were following Benson’s orders, but they seemed confused, even skeptical. Probably thought that their boss was losing his edge.

None of them had experienced the wrath of the mysterious ninja.

None of them understood what we were up against.

Studying the sealed doorways from the center of the space, I doubted that the handful of cops could stop a spirit on a dark mission of murder and mayhem.

Man, I hated hunting ghosts. Give me a demon or a witch any day of the week. Ghosts were hard to catch and even harder to stop. Each one was different, twisted by emotion and the pressure of unfinished business on Earth. Judging by what I’d seen so far, Akumo was killing wealthy Japanese men and collecting tattoos—but why?

I took in the shattered display case at the center of the gallery. This was where it had all started. The body of the dead guard on the floor served as a grim reminder of the lethal nature of the enemy.

I figured the death of the security guard had released the entity trapped in the katana, but my insights didn’t extend much further. It was past time Kazurai and I had a little chat. I needed to learn as much as possible about Akumo. Specifically, why he was seeking revenge. Once you understood what a ghost wanted, you could begin to predict its actions.

At least that’s what I hoped.

I turned my attention to Kazurai, who was lurking near Dr. Yasimiro. The video game whiz kid kept stealing nervous glances at the three exits, clearly unconvinced that armed cops or locked doors could stop the assassin.

That made two of us.

Fortunately, I had a few tricks up my sleeve.

This wasn’t the first time I had to deal with a supernatural entity. Before I could grill Kazurai for answers, I would have to stack the odds in our favor.

I removed my silver dagger and sliced the palm of my hand. I winced as the red line formed.

Dr. Yasimira stared at me in shock. “What are you doing?”

“Securing the exits.”

The only way to fight the occult was by tapping into those same esoteric powers. I would use my blood to draw protective wards around the exhibit. It wasn’t my favorite thing in the world to do—my hand hurt like a son of a bitch—but it was effective.

I stepped up to one of the sealed doors and nodded at the two nervous officers guarding it.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, shooing them away from the exit.

A nod from Benson made the men step aside. Using my blood as paint, I began to draw sigils on the closed door.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Dr. Yasimiro said in an exasperated voice. “You’re vandalizing museum property!”

The curator rushed toward me, her eyes blazing. For a moment, I feared she would tackle me. The lady was protective of her museum, that much was for sure. But she seemed more upset about a little graffiti than the dead bodies. Talk about skewed priorities.

“Please calm down, Dr. Yasimiro,” Benson said in a somber voice as he stepped in front of the outraged museum curator. “You can wash off the blood, but you can’t bring the dead back.”

Actually, you can, I thought. That’s the problem.

But this wasn’t the time to be a wiseass. Benson was doing all he could to get Dr. Yasimiro off my back. Unfortunately, he wasn’t making much headway.

“When shit gets weird, I call Raven for a reason,” Benson continued. “This is his area of expertise. He knows what he’s doing.”

I wanted to hug the good lieutenant for standing up for me. With Skulick and Archer out of the picture, I didn’t have many people in my corner these days.

“But the cost…” she protested.

“Raven’s our best bet of getting out of here alive.”

“By painting bloody stick figures all over my museum?”

“I apologize for the mess, Dr. Yasimiro. Despite what you might think, these aren’t funny little doodles,” I explained in a deadly serious voice. “You’re looking at protective sigils.”

She raised an eyebrow, giving me an imperious look. “Protecting against what?”

“Our enemy isn’t human. At least, not anymore.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I braced myself for what was almost certainly going to be a long conversation. You have no idea how much easier my life would be if everyone believed in the supernatural.

“When the guard stabbed himself with the katana,” I explained, “he released something into this world. Something ancient and evil.”

Dr. Yasimiro rolled her eyes at me. “Are you for real? Benson, this is your so-called expert?”

I fought back a snarky comeback. My patience was running thin, and I had to remind myself once again that Dr. Yasimiro hadn’t seen the ninja in action. Nor had she witnessed the fiend get hit by multiple magical bullets or suck a tattoo from Takeda’s dead body.

“I call Raven when something unexplained—something supernatural—is going on,” Benson chimed in.

Dr. Yasimiro was building up a head of steam. I bet staff meetings here were a ton of fun. “Are you telling me you believe we’re dealing with a ghost or a demon?”

“You tell me.” It took a step toward the museum curator. “What do you know about the katana the killer removed from this room? How do you explain the way your guard died, or Takeda? I know what I’m talking about, lady. So step back and let me work. Okay?”

The question hung in the air for a beat, then Dr. Yasimiro shook her head with disbelief and stomped away.

I was still staring after her when Benson sidled up to me. “You sure have a way with the ladies.” His grin vanished, and he grew serious. “So how does this work? I mean if this killer is a ghost, won’t he be able to walk through walls? Why bother blocking the doors?”

“I placed the wards on the doorways for a symbolic purpose,” I explained, doing my best to not sound impatient with what I considered Demonology 101. “Their power extends to the entire warded space, even the floors and ceiling.”

Benson gave me a long look and shook his head. “This shit is fucking nuts.”

“Welcome to my world, lieutenant.”

“I never thought I would miss a good old-fashioned homicide investigation. One that didn’t involve ghouls and spooks. I ever tell you about the time we caught a serial killer?”

Tuning out the detective’s gruesome story, I went back to work on the wards. I had to stay focused. I was no mage, merely a rank amateur when it came to protective spells and rituals.

There is a good reason why I don’t delve more deeply into the power of occult ritual other than the occasional ward. I leave that shit to villains and fools. You see, magic and sanity don’t mix. You try to master occult secrets, and odds are pretty good that your mind will shatter. Before you know it, you turn into a monster that needs to be put down by guys like me.

Although I was more skilled in magic than anyone else in the room, I wasn’t quite as confident in the wards as I’d like. I missed the days when Skulick and I worked as a team, with me shooting the bad guys and him handing the arcane.

Don’t think about that right now! Concentrate on the task at hand. No matter what happens, you will not roll over without a fight.

My internal pep talk was helping. A little.

Once done with the wards, I stepped up to Kazurai, who’d been following my occult art project in stoic silence. He sat on a wooden bench a few feet away from the third and final doorway I’d been beautifying with creepy glyphs and runes.

A sculpture of a fearsome dragon towered over the designer. Looking at the winged statue, all I could think of was Takeda’s tattoo and how it had come alive in the rotunda.

“So, who is Akumo?” I asked without preamble.

“Death itself.” Kazurai’s eyes never met mine as he spoke. “There was a good reason Takeda’s family kept the sword locked up for centuries. But we foolishly forgot the hard-learned lessons of the past.”

“Mr. Kazurai! Don’t tell me you’re buying into this craziness too,” a woman’s voice exclaimed.

Dr. Yasimiro had popped up behind us and was staring at Kazurai with disbelieving eyes. Her gaze ticked back and forth with nervous energy.

Okay, I’d had just about enough. “Ma’am, I’m going to need you to put the brakes on your Mythbusters routine. I shot a ghostly ninja multiple times after he turned Takeda into a shish kebob, but he kept on coming like the fucking Terminator. And after he killed your guest, Akumo made Takeda’s dragon tattoo disappear right before my eyes.”

Dr. Yasimiro froze, her face turning a ghastly white. The mention of the tattoo had rattled her. Interesting.

Kazurai’s voice was empty of all emotion as he addressed the museum curator. “You know the stories, Dr. Yasimiro. The curse of our ancestors has caught up with us.”

Benson swapped a questioning glance with me. I was as much in the dark as the lieutenant.

“So tell me a story,” I said, addressing Kazurai. “Starting with everything you know about Akumo.”

To my surprise, it was Dr. Yasimiro who answered.

* * *

The ninja crept through the winding darkness of the museum.

Strength surged through his form, and he felt grim satisfaction to have reclaimed some of the great power which had once belonged to him.

Soon he would unleash the curse of the dragon and revel in the terror of his victims.

Centuries earlier, they’d stolen his magic and slaughtered him in cold blood. Despite the generations that had passed since their betrayal, his hatred burned bright.

His killers had considered themselves honorable warriors, enamored with their samurai titles, feeling superior to the likes of him. Yet they were hypocrites who had no problem resorting to the same stealthy tactics of the ninja they despised.

And after all these long years of darkness, he was getting his revenge.

The power would soon be his to wield once more. He could feel it. The dragon demons’ magic was within his grasp.

Akumo knew his enemies were hiding in the room where he had struck down the foolish, weak-willed guard a few hours earlier. He wanted to sweep into that chamber and slaughter them all, but he had to be careful. The one they called Raven was dangerous. His weapon had hurt and weakened him. Fortunately, the energy of the dragon had swiftly repaired the worst of the damage.

No, his next attack would have to be better planned. He couldn’t solely rely on his magic. He had to tap into his training, the arts of the ninja. Subterfuge, deception, the element of surprise. His capacity for stealth had always been his greatest strength.

As Akumo slithered towards the exhibit like a living shadow, he sensed the power of the protective barriers Raven had set up. The man was indeed a worthy adversary. He would enjoy running his sword through Raven’s heart and watching all life leave his eyes.

Soon, very soon, he would strike again.

And this time there would be no survivors.

10

Cyon looked up at the vault's sparkling metal ceiling through the eyes of his new host body.

He'd done it. He'd taken possession of the junkie mere seconds before his fatal heart attack. Steve Camry had died and crossed over, leaving Cyon inside a body without a soul. Talk about the perfect host! He hated having to share a body with its original owner.

Only one tiny problem—technically Steve Colton was dead. Cyon would have to act fast if he wanted to salvage this form.

The demon reached deep within himself and tapped into his last reservoirs of magical energy. The burst of power jumpstarted the heart that had stopped beating. Blood pumped through veins again. He blinked as life returned to his new body.

Damn, it felt good to be alive.

Cyon sucked in a sharp breath and tried to ignore the terrible stench assaulting his nostrils. The man had soiled himself in his final moments, and who knew when he had last taken a shower. This broken, abused form would not be Cyon’s first choice, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

Cyon felt bad for the departed soul, but he wasn't the one who'd popped the pill that had stopped Steve's heart. The fool had sealed his own fate. Steve would have perished today, with or without his intervention. Cyon had merely recognized an opportunity and seized it.

You could’ve tried to save him, a voice inside of him said. This was his old self speaking up, the man he’d been before Morgal turned him into a demon. The witch hunter.

Cyon had turned his back on evil recently, but he was neither saint nor boy scout. It was not his call to save Steve and interfere with destiny.

All help had come late for the poor fool, Cyon assured himself. And there was no point sharing a body with a mind full of bad wiring. Being possessed would have pushed poor Steve Colton even further over the edge. Who knows how the poor fool would’ve reacted to having a real demon in his head.

No, Cyon had done the right thing here. It had been Steve Colton’s time to make peace with the world. And it was Cyon’s time to return to it.

Satisfied with this reasoning, Cyon cast all thoughts of the previous owner of this body aside.

Time to focus on the future. His future.

Cyon lay on the floor of the vault for another beat, basking in a myriad of sensations as his new body's nerve endings came alive. Cold air brushed against his skin and made his hairs stand on end.

It took a few more minutes to ride out the dimming effects of the drug which had cost Steve his life. The sound of his new body breathing lulled the demon into a near-hypnotic state.

He was alive.

Alive.

His lips stretched into a satisfied smile. After months of being imprisoned inside Hellbreaker, he was free to do as he pleased.

It had demanded all of Cyon's energy to reach out to the dying homeless man and lure him into the warehouse. He knew Raven would have disapproved, but the monster hunter had left him little choice.

What Raven didn't know, couldn't hurt him, right?

He did nobody any good rotting away in a vault.

Morgal's death marked the beginning of a far greater battle. Hell would not take the murder of one of their archdemons lightly. Dark days lay ahead, and Raven would need all the help he could get.

Too bad the monster hunter was too damned stubborn to accept it. He’d turned down Cyon’s offer. Thrown it back in his face, even after everything the demon had done for him. Now Raven could face the forces of Hell on his own.

Cyon clenched his teeth, thrilled by the sensation of enamel grinding, and gave himself an internal push. After so many weeks of being a disembodied entity, the pull of gravity against his physical form felt alien. Thick drops of sweat masked his new face as he rose to his feet. He gasped, muscles screaming—a child learning to walk again. The worst effects of the drug were wearing off, but the man's poor diet and lifestyle had left an indelible mark on his body.

His legs wobbly, Cyon leaned against the table that had held Hellbreaker. He sucked in a sharp lungful of air and staggered out of the vault. He clung to the railing for dear life as he descended the first flight of stairs.

Damnit, why hadn't he taken the elevator? There was no turning back now.

Keep going. One step at a time. Slow and steady.

Somehow, he reached the loft’s living area without breaking his neck and stumbled toward the bathroom.

As he passed Skulick's desk, he noticed that Raven had turned on the computers earlier. Cyon barely paid attention to the various newsfeeds slashing over the bank of monitors.

Cyon knew the monster hunter drew comfort from the myriad of flashing screens—it allowed Raven to pretend that Skulick was still around. The paranormal investigator was still torn up over the loss of his beloved mentor.

Cyon wished there had been a way to save Skulick in the dimension of fear, but every victory came at a price. Going to Hell wasn't like taking a trip to Disneyland. It was a miracle any of them had made it back alive.

The demon's stomach rumbled with hunger, and he planned on raiding the fridge as soon as he washed off the stink from his new body.

Stumbling into the bathroom, he stripped off the ragged, soiled clothes. He studied his sad reflection for a beat in the mirror. Dirt caked his long strands of hair, his sunburned features hidden by a scraggly beard. The man's physique looked ravaged, the veins outlined under the skin.

Most people would have gagged at the body odor, but Cyon had experienced far worse during his centuries in Hell. Once you’ve smelled a lake of sulfur, nothing on Earth could compare. His new host form had seen better days, for sure, but there was potential in the tall, broad-shouldered frame. Nutrition and care would pack on muscle in no time.

He could work with this body. He was going to treat it like a fixer-upper.

His stomach rumbled again, and Cyon took that as a cue to get cleaned up as fast as possible.

The demon stepped into the shower and let the water wash the grime away. Black dirt pooled around his feet as he soaped up. The warm spray of water felt delightful, and his mood improved with each passing second. At this rate, he’d be singing showtunes soon.

After a half an hour of scrubbing areas which hadn't seen soap in years, Cyon turned off the water and dried himself. He slipped into one of Raven's bathrobes and stomped barefoot into the kitchen. He planned to shave and cut his hair, but first, he would need to nourish this emaciated form.

To his pleasant surprise, the fridge was well stocked. He started with a few slices of cold pizza, followed by Chinese takeout from the other night, and then graduated to a package of ham and Swiss cheese.

He washed it all down with sparkling water and a couple of beers.

Once he was so full it hurt, he walked into Raven's bedroom, ignored the mess as best he could, and zeroed in on the monster hunter's closet. He soon realized that most of Raven's clothes were too small for his new six-foot-three frame. After several failed attempts to squeeze his lanky form into a too-tight pair of jeans, he gave up.

He had better luck when he turned to Skulick's closet in the next bedroom. The legendary monster hunter had been a bigger man, and Cyon’s eyes lit up when his gaze spotted a gray suit which was more his style. Ten minutes later, he emerged from Skulick's room feeling like a new man.

He was a new man.

Cyon returned to the bathroom, located Raven's beard trimmer, and shaved off the matted hair from his face. The sink filled up with thick clumps of hair. Once done, he turned his attention to his unfortunate mane. He cut the long strands until they were short enough for him to apply the razor to the remaining stubble.

About a half an hour later, his bloodshot eyes stared back at Cyon from his clean-shaven, bald visage. He smiled at his reflection. He was feeling more like himself.

Time to hightail it out of this place before Raven got back. Cyon wasn't sure of his next move, but he had no appetite for a confrontation. The demon needed to rest, to allow his new body to grow stronger. His magic had repaired most of the significant damage, and all bodily functions appeared to be stable, but he was still weak and way too thin. It would take a little time to get back in fighting shape.

He went into Raven's bedroom again, helped himself to some cash from the monster hunter's desk drawer, and then went back upstairs for Hellbreaker. The weapon’s power hummed in his hand. Although it could change forms at the will of the wielder, the discus was much easier to carry on him than a sword. Something about a man in a suit carrying a naked sword would draw the attention of the authorities—go figure. He found a laptop case and placed the weapon inside.

Perfect.

He was about to leave the loft when he glanced over at the bank of flickering monitors. Each screen showed the same scene of mayhem and bustling police activity.

Cyon stepped closer to the monitors, his curiosity piqued. On-screen, a news helicopter circled a large, gothic building. A caption identified the building as being the Museum of World History.

The same place where Raven was investigating a murder.

Cyon's jaw tightened, sensing trouble. He switched on the sound, and the voice of a female news anchor filled the loft.

"A group of law enforcement officials and museum personnel remain trapped inside with a dangerous killer on the loose--"

Cyon killed the sound. He'd heard enough. Raven was in trouble.

But that wasn't his problem any longer.

I told him he should take the sword, he thought. But he wouldn’t listen to me. Now Raven’s got to deal with the consequences. Either way, this isn’t my problem.

Cyon stepped into the elevator and headed for the garage. He eyed the Hummer and then the Ducati. The two vehicles were just sitting there in the dark garage, gathering dust.

Cyon felt drawn to the motorcycle. He'd ridden the bike a few times while inside Raven's body but wasn’t sure if he could operate the vehicle on his own.

The demon closed his eyes, and he saw himself tearing down long stretches of desert highway astride a badass hog. It wasn’t one of his memories. A moment from Steve Camry's past. The man was gone, and his soul had passed into the next world. But vestigial memories remained in the man's brain. Skills the homeless man had mastered years before he fell from grace. One of them was the ability to handle anything on wheels.

The thought of hitting the road on the Ducati filled the demon with excitement. He'd leave the city and never look back. This would be his opportunity to start over. Cyon's enemies might never track him down in this new form.

He'd have to be crazy to not seize this chance at a new life.

So why did Hellbreaker all of a sudden feel like it weighed a ton?

He shook his head, trying to ignore the doubt nagging at him.

Raven had made his bed. Time for the monster hunter to lie in it.

Cyon balled his fist and strode toward to the Ducati. A moment later, the bike's roaring engine bashed the garage. He tossed the helmet aside. It banged against the garage floor.

There were a few constants in this world: the sky was blue, water was wet, and demons didn't wear fucking safety helmets.

Cyon used the remote to open the garage door, cranked the engine, and roared out into the street. He never wanted to lay eyes on this godforsaken city again.

11

“Akumo is a myth,” Dr. Yasimiro explained, her voice impatient, almost as if she was lecturing a bunch of preschoolers. “A story told to scare little children. And to sell video games.” Her accusatory gaze shifted to Kazurai.

The video game engineer merely shrugged.

“She’s talking about my Samurai Warrior game series,” Kazurai explained, and for the first time, an emotion broke through his catatonic shell. He was clearly damned proud of his work. “The game draws on the legends of ancient Japan. You choose whether you’re going to be a ninja or samurai and—”

Kazurai broke off, having noticed the impatience in my expression. I wanted Dr. Yasimiro to finish her story before somebody else got shot. I was expecting Akumo to make his move any moment now.

“Indulge me, Dr. Yasimiro. Pretend I’m a little kid begging for a spooky story.”

I sensed the museum curator’s reluctance, but she relented under my demanding gaze.

“Are you familiar with the warring-state period of Japanese history?” she asked.

“A little,” I admitted. Skulick and I had faced a cursed samurai in Tokyo a few years back, so I wasn’t completely clueless about the history of these noble warriors.

“Then let me fill in the details. Between 1467 and 1600, Japanese history is full of battles involving brilliant samurai warriors. The central military government under the shogun had broken down, and daimyo—powerful warlords ruling their clans and provinces—waged war against one another for control of the country. Several of the objects in this collection belonged to famed military leader Nobunaga, who was ultimately defeated by an alliance of three other families.”

“And the names of those families?” I asked, already guessing the answer.

The curator paused. “The Takedas, the Kazurais, and the Yasimiros.”

Benson cocked an eyebrow. “So you’re a direct descendant of a samurai clan, too?”

Dr. Yasimiro nodded. “My great-grandfather emigrated to the States, but my ancestors were samurai. That’s why this exhibit is so dear to my heart.”

“Please, continue with the story. Where does the scary part come in?”

The museum curator took a deep breath and pressed on. “When his enemies defeated Nobunaga in the late sixteenth century and seized his lands, it didn’t end well. He, his wife, his children, and his concubines all committed suicide. Only his oldest son refused to embrace death.”

“Akumo,” I said with sudden understanding.

“Yes, Akumo vowed terrible vengeance. He adopted the costume and weapons of a ninja and launched a bloody vendetta against the clans who destroyed his family. But as skilled and deadly as he was, it wasn’t enough to destroy his enemies. The legends say that, consumed with revenge, he made a pact with three demons.”

Dr. Yasimiro paused for a beat, seeming uncertain, and I shot her a curious look.

“It gets a little gruesome after that. The power of the three demons came at a price. They had their way with Akumo and marked his flesh with three tattoos, which according to the stories became the source of his terrible power.

I didn’t want to imagine what it meant to let three demons use your flesh as their canvas. Akumo had gone through Hell so he could unleash Hell on his enemies.

“Wait, this is a story they tell children in Japan?” I asked sarcastically.

“Fueled by his master’s unholy power,” Dr. Yasimiro continued, ignoring me, “Akumo was unstoppable. He became known as the Dragon Ninja, a figure out of a nightmare.”

That’s just peachy, I thought, gesturing for the curator to go on.

“Akumo’s sword showed no mercy to the families of those who’d wronged his clan. Women and children fell under his merciless blade. Until three brave samurai went after the monster.”

“Our ancestors,” Kazurai chimed in.

“What happened?” I asked. “How did they stop the unstoppable killing machine?”

“Come. Let me show you.”

Dr. Yasimiro led me to a collection of three samurai art prints. I had paid little attention to them when I’d first arrived at the crime scene. They showed three samurais in full battle regalia facing down a black-garbed figure.

“Armed with three magical katanas, the samurai faced Akumo. After a long, intense battle, they killed the assassin.”

I mulled this over. So according to the legend, it had taken the magic of three swords to defeat Akumo the first time around. Once again, I felt like the universe was rubbing in the fact that Hellbreaker would’ve come in handy here.

“What happened with these magical katanas?” I asked.

I was hoping against hope that the swords might be a part of the collection. Dr. Yasimiro quickly put a damper on that possibility.

“Legend claims that when the three swords struck the ninja, they absorbed the power of the three demons and shattered into a thousand pieces.”

My eyes traveled to the next print. The second illustration showed the samurai driving their swords into the ninja. Stylized dragons were erupting out of Akumo’s wounds. I couldn’t help but think of the movie Alien. I generally avoid horror flicks, as they hit too close to home, but made an exception for sci-fi. Especially the classics.

I looked closer at the three dragons. One was red, one was black, and one was green. The last one bore an uncanny resemblance to Takeda’s emerald-colored dragon tattoo.

Dr. Yasimiro pointed at the central panel. “As the story goes, the three dragon demons fled Akumo’s body and jumped into the bodies of the three warriors.”

The final print revealed the warriors with their swords buried deep in the ninja. The three dragons, meanwhile, had snaked their forms around the hapless samurai. There was one monster for each of them.

The museum curator’s eyes narrowed. “Do you realize why I’m showing you all this? The legend of Akumo is nothing but a fairy tale. Dragons and demons and curses! There is no way you’ll convince me any of this is real, and that some ninja spirit hellbent on revenge has returned from the dead.”

“And how do you explain our killer being bulletproof?” Benson said.

“Ever hear of Kevlar, Lieutenant?” she snapped.

“You wouldn’t be so skeptical if you’d been there when Takeda died.” We all turned toward the video game designer. “Akumo isn’t after revenge. He is after the three dragon demons. I saw him reclaim this power when Takeda died in front of my eyes.”

And with these words, Kazurai pulled his shirt down and revealed a fiery red dragon tattoo on his chest. An exact replica of Takeda’s green dragon except for the color.

The air crackled with tension. Even the cops and forensic guys who’d kept their distance from our heated exchange now stole curious glances in our direction.

My gaze ticked toward Dr. Yasimiro, who had turned a shade paler. She has the third tattoo, I suddenly realized. The Black Dragon.

“Tell him,” Kazurai said. “Tell him about the mark we were all born with.”

Yasimiro shot Kazurai an exasperated look, her patience running thin. “For God’s sake, stop talking about this stuff as if it was real. These are legends,” Dr. Yasimiro insisted, but the fire had gone out of her voice. Her hands were shaking.

“Show him your dragon tattoo, Dr. Yasimiro. Show him the mark of the demon.”

The museum curator remained rooted in place, her lips quivering with emotion.

Kazurai continued. “Ever since Akumo’s defeat, the curse has been passed on to the firstborn in every generation. These aren’t ordinary tattoos. They hold the power of the three demons Akumo made his pact with. As the swords of our ancestors tore the demons from his flesh, they neutralized the infernal power. But the victory came at a price. Each samurai had to accept a mark of evil, a seed that would be passed on through the generations. Now Akumo has returned to collect what is rightfully his.”

I was betting that if he succeeded in collecting all three demonic Pokémon, his full magic would be restored. I didn’t want to imagine what the ninja would be like with such power under his command. Even without a boost from dark magic, he had struck me as pretty darn impressive.

“Nonsense,” Dr. Yasimiro scoffed. “It’s that kind of superstitious thinking which explains why parents disfigure their children with such tattoos in the first place.”

Dr. Yasimiro sounded like she was trying to convince herself. It was amazing, the lengths people would go to when they didn’t want to face the truth.

Kazurai’s voice rose in frustration. “You were born with that tattoo, just like me. And you’ll die with it!”

“Simmer down!” I said, practically shouting to be heard over the game designer. I wanted to learn more about Akumo, but Kazurai’s attitude was getting on my nerves. It was like he didn’t even care about fighting back.

I wondered if the children of the samurai clans had ever found a way to tap into the dormant demonic power within them. I dismissed the idea as soon as it crossed my mind. Their tattoos were nothing like the mark that Morgal had given me when I was just a kid.

If the story I’d just heard was true, then Kazurai and Dr. Yasimiro were on the monster’s hit list. And, if I was being honest, it was their own fault. The descendants of the three brave samurais had forgotten the hard-earned lessons of the past. Relics that should have been kept apart for all time had been reunited, and now the two people before me would be forced to pay the ultimate price for their foolishness.

Except I had no intention of letting that happen.

I had to stop the ninja before this went any further.

I fixed my gaze on the shattered display case. It had all started with Akumo’s missing katana. After his defeat, his essence must’ve sought refuge in the blade. I’d seen that happen first-hand with Cyon and Hellbreaker.

The Dragon Ninja would have slumbered for centuries in his steel prison. And that raised an interesting question. Why had Akumo chosen this moment, this city to return? Why hadn’t he returned when the exhibit premiered in Tokyo?

There was only one explanation that made sense to me. The dark forces coursing through the Cursed City had triggered Akumo’s return to the world of the living.

A few years earlier, when Skulick and I first battled the Crimson Circle, the cult had tried to open a doorway to the infernal realms. We’d interrupted their horrific ritual, but they had successfully weakened the barrier between our reality and the dimension of fear.

In that terrible moment, this place became the Cursed City, a hotbed of supernatural activity. That’s why Skulick and I set up shop here. I’d believed—hoped and prayed—that the breach had been sealed after my return from Morgal’s realm. That was looking more and more like wishful thinking on my part. The Cursed City still lived up to its name. It remained a place where dark forces could break through the veil between worlds.

The Cursed City had awoken Akumo’s spirit, and he’d used the blood of the murdered guard to return to the world of the twenty-first century.

There was only one upside to this story. The ninja hadn’t been counting on running into someone like me.

I would stop Akumo. Or die trying.

Almost as if the universe wanted to mock my resolve, one of the cops shouted in alarm. A beat later, I saw why. A carpet of yellow mist was pouring into the exhibit from the gaps and cracks of the warded doors.

12

The Ducati screamed down a long stretch of asphalt, the drab skyline of the Cursed City receding in the bike’s mirrors.

Cyon wasn’t going to miss this place.

There were too many memories here. Too many past nightmares—and likely more to come.

Even so, guilt nagged at him. The forces of darkness were gearing up for an all-out war, that much was certain. With Skulick out of the picture and Miss Archer suffering from very selective amnesia, Raven was at his most vulnerable. Demons had a knack for sniffing out people’s vulnerabilities. They'd go after the kid now, when he was alone and friendless.

So why was Cyon abandoning the man who had become a partner, the closest thing he’d had to a friend in centuries, to suffer his fate alone?

Raven can handle himself.

True. Right now, he was dealing with the monster of the week and didn't require Cyon’s help or the power of Hellbreaker. But what would happen when he faced bigger and badder enemies down the road? What then?

It's not my problem, Cyon tried to tell himself. It didn’t sound very convincing, even to his own ears.

Would he be able to live with himself if something happened to Skulick's protégé? He felt a connection to Raven because of the time he'd spent ghosting around in the occult detective's head. But there was more to it than that. He'd hitched a ride in Skulick himself and experienced first-hand how much the old man had cared about Raven.

Besides, Raven had helped him defeat Morgal. He owed the kid.

Alright, go ahead, be a softhearted idiot. Get involved. That never ends badly.

He couldn't just turn his back on Raven after everything they'd been through.

Cyon twisted the handlebars at the next intersection and performed a sharp U-turn. The oppressive skyline jumped into view. So much for his feeble attempt to flee the accursed place.

He remembered the directions to the museum from his last visit when Raven had battled a resurrected mummy within those hallowed halls. At that point in time, Cyon hadn't revealed himself to his new host yet. Only after the heist in the Devil's Bank did Cyon begin to whisper into Raven's mind.

Good times, he thought. Good times.

Fifteen minutes later, the Ducati pulled up to the museum. Cops, reporters, and curious onlookers ringed the building. According to the news, the security gates were down, and the authorities were trying to establish a line of communication with the people trapped inside before bringing in the SWAT team. No one had any idea what was going on in there.

Cyon would find out soon enough.

The demon circled the block and parked the bike far enough away from the main entrance that stray onlookers wouldn’t pay him any mind.

A few raindrops hit his face as he briskly made his way back to the museum’s main entrance. He welcomed the sensation, thrilled to have a physical form again.

And you're about to throw all it away, you imbecile.

Cyon told himself to shut up. He was no fool. There was no telling what horrors might await him within the museum, but he'd face them head-on. Armed with Hellbreaker, he felt like he could take on the legions of the damned all on his own.

Of course, he was in a body that had, until very recently, belonged to a junkie. He wasn’t exactly at his prime. Cyon clenched his jaw and silenced the doubts inside his head.

Determined, he weaved through the crowd and snuck under the band of yellow police tape surrounding the museum's entrance. He carried himself as if he belonged here, just another detective on the scene. Look, he even had a laptop case and a suit. Very official.

He met the gaze of a suspicious officer and reached into his breast pocket as if he was about to pull out a badge. The man held up a hand to stop him, indicating it was okay to pass.

Confidence really did open doors.

Head held high, Cyon strode up to the main entrance. Several detectives and uniformed officers fronted a large metal security gate. The demon had almost reached the gate when he picked up the black magic radiating off the sealed entrance. The gate wasn't a simple physical barrier; other forces had conspired to bar this structure. Whatever evil Raven was battling had no intention of letting anyone escape.

One of the officers glanced at Cyon and shook his head. “Hey mister, there’s no way past. We checked all the emergency exits and other entrance points. They're sealed tight.”

We'll see about that, Cyon thought as he inched closer. The metal grid pulsed and throbbed with dark energy. It tingled on his skin like tiny static shocks.

Cyon opened the laptop case and pulled out Hellbreaker. The discus sent vibrations through his whole body, its magic much more powerful than the gate. His stomach churned with a burst of nervous tension. Adrenaline. He had to be careful not to wear out his new form.

The weapon vibrated faster, distorting the runes engraved on its surface.

Cyon gritted his teeth and smiled at the cops nearby, who were watching him as if he'd lost his mind.

“Ladies and gentleman, you better take a step back for this next part.”

Cyon's gaze narrowed in concentration. There was a specific technique for handling Hellbreaker in its current form, and for a moment, he feared this new body might still be too weak to pull it off. He rotated his torso and brought the discus as far back as he could while his non-throwing arm pointed in the opposite direction. Weight on his right foot, left heel off the ground.

Unlike Olympic discus throwing, Hellbreaker didn't require a great deal of strength and momentum. Once airborne, the magic powering the weapon would help it find its target.

Cyon gritted his teeth, spun on his axis, and released the buzzing chakram.

Hellbreaker blasted toward the gate and sliced into it, creating a rain of multi-colored sparks. White and black magic collided. Then the security gate ignited with a wave of energy that sent the awestruck cops reeling.

Its work done, Hellbreaker whizzed back into the palm of Cyon's waiting hand like a boomerang. The whining sound died down, and it stopped spinning. The cops watched with big eyes and open jaws.

Cyon wondered, too late, if he ought to have been more discrete. Oh well. They’d doubtlessly invent some story to explain away the magic.

The circle that had been cut into the barrier separated from the rest of the gate and succumbed to gravity. With a deafening clang, it hit the ground, revealing a hole large enough for a man to pass through. Yawning blackness waited beyond.

Cyon held up Hellbreaker, and the discus morphed into a golden sword. He was ready to brave whatever was waiting for him. In truth, he was eager to test his new body and find out what it could do.

Sword up, the demon entered the museum.

13

The mist rolled into the Asian exhibit, blanketing the floor within seconds. It snaked around display cases and the samurai mannequins like ghostly tentacles. For a second, I expected the warriors to jerk to life and lash out with their blades. It sure as hell wouldn’t have surprised me at this point.

The freaked-out cops and techs kept looking to me for an explanation. Too bad I didn’t have one.

“Step away from the doors!” I commanded.

The officers and forensic guys had already put some distance between themselves and the exhibit’s various entrance points. They all took another step back, retreating toward the center of the room.

What was Akumo trying to accomplish with this latest stunt?

I studied the wafting, undulating mist. As far as I could tell, it wasn’t hurting anything. Was the ninja using cheap parlor tricks, keeping us distracted, while he marshaled his strength?

I felt my breath speeding up, my heart beating faster. Something was happening. A prickling sense of unease at the back of my neck. My scar was burning, and I groaned with pain.

Death was closing in. At least that’s how it felt.

Everybody in the exhibit sensed it too, viewed the fog as a harbinger of far worse horrors to come. Everyone who sported a firearm had their gun up and ready—much good it would do them against our undead enemy.

And then a loud pounding sound rang through the exhibit and made everyone recoil in fright.

The banging repeated as our supernatural opponent pummeled the three warded entrances. It felt like a large animal was slamming its whole weight against the doors, almost as if testing both its own strength and the strength of the sealed entrance.

The doors shook under the violent assault, but the wards continued to keep Akumo out. For now.

Everybody around me had grown still, frozen in a tableau. These cops had no doubt witnessed their fair share of crazy shit over the years. Violent crime plagued the Cursed City, as much as demons and specters haunted it. I guess the place was double cursed. But nothing was more terrifying than the unknown. Judging by the growing terror in the officer’s faces, this was their first experience of the supernatural.

I wished I could have told them that everything would be okay, that as long as they kept their faith, this nightmare would end. But I’m a terrible liar.

Another devastating blow sent shockwaves through the room and rattled my teeth. My grip on the handle of my pistol tightened.

And then the loud pounding stopped as abruptly as it had started.

Was it over? Was Akumo acknowledging defeat, bested by my defenses?

What a hopeful fool I was even to consider such a possibility.

An instant later, a rattling noise ripped through the exhibit and sent goosebumps over my body. It was the unmistakable sound of grinding metal.

As I watched, a metal chain snaked into the gallery from under the gap of one of the warded doors. Attached on one end of the chain was a steel sickle that gleamed menacingly as it shot towards us. I was looking at a Kasarigama, a chain-sickle with a heavy metal weight on one end (the fund) and a curved sickle on the other (the kama). Attacking with the Kasarigama usually entailed swinging the weighted chain in a circle over one’s head and then whipping it forward to entangle the opponent’s weapon. In theory, this allowed the user to rush forward and strike with the sickle.

Akumo was playing by a different playbook, one that involved a heavy dose of black magic.

The sickle at the end of the chain whipped through the exhibit, animated with an eerie life of its own. There was a loud whistling sound as the instrument of death cut through the air before tearing into the first cop in its brutal path. With a wet rending noise, the sickle ripped into the officer’s chest and yanked him off his feet.

“Get out of the way!” I yelled as I threw myself to the ground. Not a moment too soon, as the bloodied sickle shot overhead and buried itself in one of the forensic techs seeking protection behind a samurai mannequin. The poor man was whisked off his feet as the hook pulled out of his gut in a splash of crimson.

The goddamn chain-sickle moved as if it was the appendage of some living creature, driven by a mind of its own—a mind that enjoyed killing.

I had to put a stop to this madness.

As the weapon came alive again, eager to rip through its third victim, I made my move. Instead of retreating, I hurled myself at the Kasarigama.

Jaw clenched with determination, I snatched the chain with one hand as I pressed my protective ring against the metal contraption. Smoke erupted as the ring’s white magic collided with the dark power of the chain weapon.

A wailing shriek emanated from beyond the closed doors, and the sickle chain whipped away with the speed and urgency of a wounded beast. It slithered through the crack beneath the exit.

A moment later, the violent thumping increased behind the closed doors, much louder than before. Good. Akumo was getting pissed off. I wanted my enemy to get a taste of his own medicine. Anger could cloud your mind, make you slip up.

I wanted the ninja to make a mistake.

We didn’t have long to regroup after the first attack. A sizzling sound cut through the air. To my horror, I saw that the wards were dissolving, oozing down the gallery doors in thick gobs of runny red goo.

Shit.

A beat later, the first door exploded open, wood slamming into cement with overwhelming force. More fog spilled in, reducing visibility and transforming everyone in the gallery into darting shadows. I couldn’t see my hands in front of my face and couldn’t risk firing my blessed pistol.

And then I heard a terrifying sound—the keening shriek of small projectiles slicing through the air.

More screams were cut short as the wave of throwing stars buried themselves in the throats and hearts of a group of law enforcement officers.

Jesus, how many poor souls had perished already? I was losing track at this count.

Within seconds, the other two doors gave way. I almost expected another wave of shuriken, but instead the main attraction of this horror show appeared.

A black-clad phantom burst into the chamber. The undead bastard was determined to make an entrance no one would so soon forget. The fog swirled, revealing Akumo’s prey.

Without pausing, the ninja flung his sickle chain at a shocked Kazurai.

The sickle tore into the video game designer, tearing open his torso from his abdomen to his sternum. As Akumo reeled in his deadly chain, the bloody blade cut through the air.

For an eternal beat, Kazurai stood there, perhaps too stunned to realize what had happened, and then he toppled over.

I watched with horror as the slain game designer’s tattoo detached itself from his lifeless body and floated like a shimmering red hologram toward Akumo.

As the assassin absorbed the magic, I saw two ghostly dragons slithering across his black-clad form, almost as if they were lights being projected in some twisted Cirque du Soleil show. The two dragons danced over his body in a colorful display before combining into one image and disappearing from view.

Akumo whirled toward Benson and me and unleashed his chain again. This trick was getting old.

As the sickle rippled toward us, I exploded into motion. Reacting on pure instinct, I threw myself at the lieutenant, and the curved blade cut the air where Benson’s head had been only moments earlier.

We both slammed to the ground, Benson’s skull hitting the floor hard as the sickle overshot us and shattered a nearby glass display case. The lieutenant was out for the count, but at least he wasn’t dead. There was no time to worry about Benson right now. I needed to focus on surviving the next few minutes.

Like a man possessed, I jumped back to my feet in one smooth motion, gun out and ready.

At the other end of the exhibit floor, the few remaining cops were unloading their pistols into Akumo. Bad idea. Without magical firepower, they might as well be launching spitballs.

Their brave but foolish last stand was met with deadly force. Sword gleaming with the blood of the lives it had already claimed, Akumo spin-wheeled through the air like he was trying out for a role in a remake of The Matrix. Without mercy, his katana sliced a bloody swath through the men and women in blue.

Bodies kept dropping even as I unleashed magic-infused bullets into the murderous fiend. The ninja dodged the salvo with a superhuman grace that would have made Bruce Lee envious.

In response, Akumo hurtled a shuriken in my direction. The throwing star grazed my shoulder, carving a red gash into my flesh.

I gritted my teeth against the agony and prayed the ninja hadn’t soaked the shuriken in a paralyzing agent or deadly toxin. I’d see enough martial arts flicks to know how this shit worked.

No time to dwell on it. At the rate things were going, I’d be long dead before any poison could make a difference.

I was about to squeeze off another round when the ninja evaporated into thin air. A chill raced up my spine as my eyes combed the showroom. See, this is why I hate fighting ghosts.

I sensed movement and spun around just in time to see the ninja materialize in front of me, sword ready.

My fist shot out without conscious thought, and the Ring of Solomon connected with the specter in a devastating blow.

The ninja lit up with green energy as the contact with my ring propelled him backward. He slammed into the floor with an inhuman shriek and passed through its surface like the ghost he was.

I whirled, expecting the ninja to pop out of the walls or morph out of one of the dragon statues. My face was coated with sweat. Salt stung my tongue and ran along my lips.

Was this another trick?

My gaze ticked back and forth, and I swallowed bile as I surveyed the broken bodies around me. Blood was everywhere, speckling display cases and mannequins, pooling on the marble floor.

Rage simmered in my chest.

I stole a glance to my right. Benson was letting out a few low moans. He most likely had a concussion.

I crossed the room, trying to keep my boiling emotions under control as I searched for other survivors. My finger hovered over the trigger of my magical gun. My face fell when I spotted Kazurai, who was staring emptily at the ceiling.

And someone was missing. There was no sign of Dr. Yasimiro.

I stared at the open doorway. Now I understood why Akumo had vanished. It wasn’t because the ninja was afraid of me. No, Dr. Yasimiro must have fled the exhibit during the heat of the battle, and the ninja had gone after her.

I clenched my jaw, slammed a fresh magazine into Hellseeker and stepped out of the Asian gallery, determined to stop Akumo before he could complete his collection.

14

Sara Yasimiro was running for her life, legs pounding, lungs struggling for air. She had long discarded her high heels and was dashing down the marble floor on her bare feet, hard stone slapping against her skin.

Her fitness regimen included an early morning jog around the city park. According to her Fitbit, she averaged about three miles on a good day. Not spectacular, but good enough to maintain her college weight despite a job that involved long hours in front of the computer and a steady diet of takeout.

She was fast. But so was the monster chasing her.

And there was no doubt in Sara’s mind that it was a monster. Not after seeing the ninja cut a path of death and destruction through her exhibit.

Up ahead, a display of exotic gems sparkled in the muted museum lights. Even though Sara spent every working day within these walls, the gallery of precious, multi-colored stones never failed to draw her attention.

But not today.

Today, the sapphires, emeralds, diamonds, and amethysts might as well have been rough-hewn rocks at a construction site. Her mind was solely focused on getting away from the man in black who had turned her museum into a living hell.

She passed through an arched doorway and arrived in a gallery dominated by dioramas of wild animals, all tamed and stuffed behind glass. The Hall of Mammals.

All her life she’d loved warm-blooded animals but hated reptiles. Couldn’t stand the sight of snakes or lizards. It wouldn’t take a PhD in psychology to figure out that the dragon image on her shoulder had something to do with it.

When she was young, the ferocious beast had scared her, but she also thought the fierce dragon was kinda cool. It made her feel special. One day when she was five, she'd told her best friend that she’d been born with a magic tattoo. That story changed everything, and the teasing and bullying began.

As she got older, she wondered why her parents—both conservative types and second-generation Americans—had marked up her body. That’s when she started to hate them for it. She couldn’t even remember how often they fought about that damn tattoo. There were times when she  considered removing the winged beast, but something stopped her.

She gained a new perspective during her college years, when she delved deeper into her Asian heritage. As she learned more about the past, the tattoo began to fill her with a strong sense of pride. Her studies became a journey of self-discovery, a way of accepting who she was and what her parents had done to her before she could even say a word.

But now she knew the truth. Her parents hadn’t been responsible for the tattoo that had cast such a long shadow over her life. The dragon wasn’t the product of some ancient superstition. It was a symbol of the sacrifice her ancestors had made all those centuries ago—not a blessing, but a curse.

A loud crashing sound cut through the showroom, and Sara stopped dead in her tracks. She was hesitant to investigate the source of the commotion, but her curiosity was stronger. Her next breath remained lodged in her throat as her eyes landed on the shadowy figure who stood in the gallery’s arched doorway.

Death had caught up with her.

For some strange reason, she experienced no fear.

Perhaps some part, buried deep within, tapped into her ancestral warrior past in this final moment.

Sara held no illusion about what was in store for her after watching the ninja murder Kazurai in front of her eyes.

Sara gingerly touched her tattoo, almost as if she believed she might tear it from her body and hand it to the fiend in exchange for her life. Unfortunately, that's not how it worked. There was only a single way to cash in this prize, and it required the spilling of blood. She’d need to die so the dragon inside of her could live once again.

She prayed the end would come fast, that there would be no unnecessary suffering and pain.

These grim thoughts were still running through her mind when the ninja made his move. Akumo took a quick step to the right, and the darkness swallowed him.

Sara would have preferred to stare death in the face instead of having the ninja sneak up from behind. She wanted to look into the bastard’s eyes before he claimed her life and—

She sensed more than heard the sudden presence behind her.

She whirled and stifled a cry.

Akumo was there. Only ten feet separated them. It would require a few quick steps for him to run her through with the scarlet-stained steel in his gloved hands.

The rotting skin visible from the slit in his black mask glowed with a sickly yellow light. Two dragon tattoos slithered across his black costume—one red, one green. Soon a black dragon would join them. But first, she’d have to die.

Sara wanted to scream, but her mouth was too dry. The sound came out as a strangled squeak.

The ninja took one more step toward her before dipping back into the shadows, vanishing from view.

Sara held her breath for a tense moment.

Where had he gone? Why had Akumo backed away from certain prey?

She felt like her heart was crawling up her throat.

And then she made out approaching footsteps.

Someone else had arrived in the shadowy, echo-filled hall. She narrowed her gaze at the dim outline at the other end of the showroom. Judging by the glowing pistol in the newcomer’s hand, it was none other than Raven. There had been little love lost between her and the strange occult expert, but right this second, she would have gladly hugged the man.

Not for a moment did she believe Raven could save her from the wrath of the ninja, but at least she wouldn’t die alone.

15

I was sprinting down the Hall of Gems, hoping I wouldn’t arrive too late. Dr. Yasimiro hadn’t exactly endeared herself to me, but she didn’t deserve the fate Akumo had planned for her, either. I’d taken some cuts and bruises during my last fight with the ninja, but the injuries weren’t slowing me down too much.

As I barreled through the deserted exhibits, the deaths of the officers I’d witnessed haunted me. The dead seemed to hover in the surrounding darkness. Once or twice, I thought I saw their lifeless, accusing faces peer from the shadows, blaming me for what had happened. Or were they waiting for me to join their ranks in the next world?

I clenched my jaw and dug my nails into my palms.

It’s just your overactive imagination, buddy.

One shadow to my right flickered. I slowed down to catch a better look.

My searching gaze traveled from one display case to the next, confirming that there was nothing here but me and the collection of precious stones.

As I watched, the light glittering off an emerald started to pulse and expand.

My eyes widened. Instantly, the strange light display died down. What was going on? Was I losing my goddamn mind?

A mad cackle exploded from the darkness, and I jumped back. I narrowed my gaze and squinted into the shadows, but there was no sign of a human—or inhuman—presence.

More laughter rang out, and I shuddered. I might deal with freaky shit for a living, but I’m still not immune to these kinds of horror movie tactics.

The creepy laughter kept following me as I advanced through the gallery, the sound synchronized with the pulsing gems.

I looked at my blood-caked shoulder, and deep understanding filled my mind. My worst fear had come true. The throwing star must have contained a neurotoxin. I wasn't sure if this poison was chemical or fueled by black magic. Either way, it was affecting my thinking.

Almost as if to confirm this conclusion, the floor began to tilt and sway. For a second, I thought I was aboard a ship at high seas.

First my weapons barely seemed to faze Akumo. Now, as if things weren’t bad enough, my sanity was crumbling.

I gritted my teeth and did my best to ignore the strange play of shadows and sounds around me. I had to find Dr. Yasimiro before I lost it. Both Hellseeker and the Ring of Solomon could put Akumo in a world of pain even though they’d failed to stop the undead bastard. I couldn’t allow the ninja to complete his freaky dragon tattoo collection…

Who are you kidding, bud? You will not win this! Without Skulick or Cyon in your corner, you’re fucking useless.

I told the bitchy, defeatist voice in my head to shut up. Being your own worst enemy wasn’t going to do anybody any good.

Keep going, keep moving. Stay focused on the prize.

The pep talk from the drill sergeant in my head helped a little. At least I didn’t hear more voices.

Somehow, I made it past the gem display and ended up in the next gallery. The Hall of Mammals.

I guess this mammal was about to join the party.

I spotted a pack of stuffed wolves to my left and flashed back to the time when Skulick and I had hunted the Wolf Lord in Moscow. Fun times. The giant stuffed grizzly grinning at me to my right wasn’t doing my mental state a world of good. I felt like I had taken a wrong step into a carnival funhouse.

A part of me was ready to turn on my heels and drop this crazy game of cat-and-mouse, which could only end with me pinned to the floor by Akumo’s sword. I had no desire to become the latest addition to this horrible collection of dead animals—

I froze, sensing movement to my left. That wolf was trying to creep up on me!

My eyes went wide as I pivoted and fired into the diorama. Glass shattered, and the shadows flickered. I could’ve sworn Akumo was laughing at me in the dark.

The gun in my hand was shaking. The ninja’s toxin clawed at my sanity.

And then I spotted the museum curator right in front of me. She looked even more afraid than I was as she braced herself against one of the display cases. It held a collection of smaller animals like beavers and squirrels, and I hoped that they wouldn’t come alive and attack us.

Death by ghost ninja I could almost accept. But death by squirrels? Not something I’d want on my tombstone.

I rushed up to Yasimiro, desperate to save at least a single life on this night of horrors. What good was I if everyone around me died? Archer, Skulick, my parents, I had all let them down.

But not this woman. We’d butted heads, but Dr. Yasimiro had been under enough pressure to make even the best person crack. Looking at her, I realized how beautiful she was under her steel-framed glasses and a conservative gray business suit. I suddenly understood how much I cared about her. How could I have been so self-involved to not recognize our deep connection earlier?

This woman meant the world to me—

The thought wilted like a dying leaf in my mind as a woman’s scream ripped me out of my growing madness. My head swiveled, and my eyes fell on a familiar figure standing at the far edge of the exhibit hall. It was Yasimiro.

But if she was across the room, then who was the lady in front of me?

The curator cried out again, and this time, her screaming words nearly shattered my eardrums.

“Raven, watch out!”

I spun back to the other woman. She still looked like Yasimiro but was now flashing me a wicked grin. The skin on her body had become mottled and scaly, like that of a reptile. A forked tongue flickered over those luscious red lips, and her eyes had turned into amber pools.

I took a step backward. Lizard lady changed, morphing into Akumo.

Was it the work of the toxin or some freaky Jedi mind trick? Ninjas were famous for being masters of disguise, but this was taking things too far.

I couldn’t see the fiend’s mouth under the black mask, but I sensed he was laughing at me.

As Akumo’s eager katana soared toward my neck, I wondered how I’d explain falling for such a cheap trick when I met Skulick in the afterlife.

16

Benson woke with a start. His head was pounding, and he didn't know where he was. As he moved his neck, the hammering in his skull grew worse. He gently massaged his temples, and that helped a little.

Letting out a low groan, he stumbled to his feet. He winced as his gaze landed on the armored samurai warriors and the memories came flooding back. His last memory was of the doors crashing open, and the ninja charging into the gallery like death incarnate. His sword and throwing stars and that terrible sickle-chain weapon had struck down his men one by one…

The full horror of what had happened hit him, and the pain in his head returned.

Still, Benson pressed on through the exhibit, his gait unsure, the walls spinning. He didn’t feel up to the grim task of searching the bodies for survivors. His gut told him the monster hunter wasn’t among the victims—Raven would be fighting the good fight against Akumo.

Sometimes it felt like the occult consultant—the man some cops at the precinct had started calling the Shadow Detective—was a legend in his own right. He remembered how Raven had pushed him out of the path of the onrushing chain-sickle which had nearly taken his head off. That was another one he owed Raven.

But where the hell was he?

As Benson’s gaze combed the exhibit, he only came across the broken bodies of cops and forensic techs. Nausea crept up his throat and soon gave way to a simmering stew of sadness and anger. He’d known many of these officers, had shared beers and broken bread with all of them—men and women in blue, people with families, who were just doing their goddamn jobs.

Would the horrors ever end?

Even though he’d only been dealing with this paranormal craziness for less than two years, he could barely remember life before Skulick and Raven had arrived on the scene. This city wasn’t the same place where he’d first walked his beat. Every day saw some new monster on the streets, claiming yet more innocent victims.

Benson groaned, sick to his stomach, as he processed the carnage around him. He took a weak step and gasped as the world spun. He had probably sustained a concussion, damn it. But he didn’t have the luxury of sitting down to rest.

He had to find Raven.

Benson sometimes couldn’t believe how much his city had changed—but then again, so had he. Back in the day, he’d seen Raven as a necessary evil and had only begrudgingly brought in the detective on weird murder cases. Nowadays, he started dialing that number even before the body was cold.

The rising number of occult crimes wasn’t the only reason for Benson’s changed attitude toward Raven. Being possessed by a demon was the real wake-up call. Life took a sharp turn after that harrowing experience. Raven had assured him the demon was one of the good guys—God, there was so much wrong in that statement—but Benson harbored some serious doubts about Cyon's character. He’d seen things while the demon hitched a ride in his body, glimpses of a lake of fire and creatures beyond the imagination of the most twisted horror author.

After his possession, there was no more pretending. No more rationalizing. The nightmares were real, and not just the ones that kept him up at night.

Even before calling Raven in earlier today, Benson had wanted to talk to the monster hunter. He'd been toying with the idea of forming a special task force dedicated to supernatural crimes—and he wanted Raven to head it up. Somehow, he’d never found the nerve to pitch him the proposal. Benson wanted to bring the supernatural detective into the department, make his involvement official, but would the monster hunter bite? It might be useful for Raven to have an office at the precinct, to be around people instead of spending his downtime with demons in his castle-like downtown warehouse.

The demon had changed Benson in more ways than one. He wasn’t the same cop he once was, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t be a better cop. A cop determined to battle the forces of darkness with Raven as part of his team. The whole thing might end up being nothing but a pipe dream, but the thought gave him hope for the city’s future.

Benson was still contemplating his next move when his gaze landed on the body of the dead security guard. The man’s murder had set this whole goddamn spook show in motion. How he wished he'd never set foot in this damned museum—

The corpse under the white sheet stirred, and Benson’s blood turned to ice.

As the decapitated body continued to move under the shroud, Benson realized the night of horrors was far from over.

17

Time slowed to a crawl as Akumo’s sword rippled toward my neck.

My mind turned blank, braced for the final burst of pain before the world went black.

And that’s when I heard a sharp whistling sound. Familiar, yet different from the noise Akumo’s arrows and throwing stars made on their lethal trajectories toward their victims.

From the periphery of my vision, I spotted a whirling golden discus as it hurtled in my direction.

Hellbreaker.

For one split second, I was back in Morgal’s temple of human bones in the dimension of fear. In my mind’s eye, I saw my nemesis in his demonic form, looming before me as the energy discus raced toward his neck in an explosion of brilliant white light. I watched the super-weapon sever the monster’s head from his scaly body, knowing that my life’s work was—finally—over.

And then I was back in the museum, watching as Hellbreaker flew on a direct collision course with the ninja’s weapon.

The discus slammed into the blade a second before the steel could reach my flesh.

There was an explosion of white-red sparks that ripped the katana out of Akumo’s gloved hand.

The blade went flying.

It arced through the air and came clattering down on the marble floor about fifteen feet from where Akumo stood.

As if on autopilot, I drew my pistol and unloaded a full magazine into the surprised ninja. The bullets slammed into the spectral assassin, his body lighting up with a pale green light each time one of my rounds tore into him.

The hail drove Akumo backward, and I darted behind a nearby glass display case, my arms and legs moving of their own volition, muscle memory taking over. All those years spent in the sparring rooms with Skulick paid off big time. The constant training had turned me into a well-oiled fighting machine. Even with the toxin dulling my thinking, I instinctively knew what I had to do, how I should react.

My eyes followed the glowing discus as it zoomed around the length of the exhibit floor, returning with boomerang-precision to my savior’s outstretched hand. The man who’d thrown the discus and saved my neck fronted the entrance to the Hall of Mammals. The figure cut an impressive, towering presence, and I squinted in the low lighting to make out the details of the stranger’s face.

As Hellbreaker landed in my rescuer’s open palm, the flashing weapon bathed him in a cone of brilliant light. The man staring back at me was a stranger, but the spark in those twinkling eyes felt all too familiar.

Was I looking at Cyon?

An instant later, I received confirmation of what I already suspected when a dry, sardonic voice in my head asked, “Miss me much?”

Even though Cyon and I didn’t share a body any longer, our telepathic link remained strong. I would have broken out into a celebratory jig if I still wasn’t so confused. How could Cyon be here? And whose body had he borrowed for this latest stunt?

Then again, did it matter? The demon had shown up in the nick of time, and he’d saved my life.

A part of me feared the toxin in my blood was making me imagine things. Was I just fantasizing about some last-minute stay of execution?

“It’s me, Raven. Honestly, I don’t know how you survived before we met.”

Skulick was watching out for my sorry ass, I thought. I choked up, at a loss for words.

“A thank you would be nice, demon hunter.”

“Thanks,” I said. “But how—Watch out!”

Akumo had recovered from the barrage of blessed steel. He leaped into the air with wire-fu grace, cut across the exhibit and landed in front of the katana Cyon had knocked out of his hand. Moving with incredible speed and precision, the ninja scooped up his sword and spun around just in time to face the sizzling discus that was taking another run at him.

This time the ninja was prepared.

The katana flashed out and knocked Hellbreaker aside with one mighty blow, deflecting its original flight path. For a crazed moment, it almost felt like I was watching some twisted version of baseball.

Hellbreaker bounced off the katana and shot toward the ceiling. Screaming like a buzzsaw, the discus slammed into the gallery’s domed ceiling.

It rained dust and plaster, and I took an instinctive step back. It seemed Hellbreaker had met its match in Akumo’s sword, which meant the Dragon Ninja was far more powerful than I’d imagined.

Cyon’s maneuver had spared my life, but the ninja was far from being defeated. The fight for our lives was only beginning.

Cyon seemed to have come to the same conclusion as he extended his hand toward the ceiling where Hellbreaker continued to grind away at the plaster.

The buzzing sound grew louder as Hellbreaker’s serrated edges spun even faster. A second later, the super-weapon freed itself from the ceiling and plummeted toward Cyon’s extended fingers.

The demon caught the discus and whirled the sizzling circle of light toward Akumo just as the ninja melted back into the shadows.

One moment he was there, the next he wasn't.

He can teleport, I thought, hoping Cyon was still listening.

The air crackled behind the demon as the ninja materialized, sword ready and eager, murder in his eyes.

As the katana sliced toward Cyon, the demon spun around and brought the glowing discus up with both hands, catching the incoming blade in mid-descent. Sparks of swirling energy licked the darkness, silhouetting Cyon and Akumo.

A demon who’d become a man versus a man who’d become a monster. About even odds, I would think.

Still holding Hellbreaker in both hands as if he was clinging to a life preserver, Cyon parried the next few attacks from Akumo’s katana, using the glowing discus as shield.

One, two, three blows later, Cyon jumped back, and the discus morphed into a golden sword. Now armed with an equally impressive blade, Cyon went on the offensive, striking out at Akumo’s katana.

As the swords clashed, more red-blue sparks lit up the gallery, showering the stuffed mammals in an eerie glow. The dead beasts observed the violent confrontation in glassy-eyed silence.

As I followed the duel, taking a few cautious steps toward the two fierce combatants, the whole showroom tilted and swayed again.

It’s all in your damn head, I kept repeating to myself, a silent mantra.

I inhaled deeply and clung to the nearest display case for dear life.

My words were working to a degree. The wildly swaying floor beneath my feet began to steady itself.

Up ahead, Akumo was dominating the duel, driving Cyon further and further back with each successive blow. What was wrong with the demon? He was a better fighter than that.

It was his new body, I realized. Studying Cyon’s latest incarnation, I noticed how thin and sickly he looked. Almost emaciated. His host body was in rough shape. I wondered again how he’d even found a human vessel while trapped inside the warehouse’s vault.

And then it hit me. In my mind’s eye, I saw the scarecrow-like homeless population shuffling through the abandoned alleys that surrounded the loft. Cyon had done what he’d wanted me to do earlier. Somehow, he’d helped himself to the body of one of our transient neighbors.

And unless the host had given himself up willingly, Cyon had probably killed him. Damn it! Just when I thought I could trust him, I was reminded that Cyon was still a demon.

The clanging sound of metal pulled me out of my dark thoughts.

There would be plenty of time to confront Cyon about his actions later. Akumo was the only problem that mattered. Cyon was losing this battle and needed my help. It was my turn to rescue the demon.

I rushed toward my Cyon as the world started to spin again. I gritted my teeth, doing my best to hold onto my mental equilibrium.

I reached the two combatants not a moment too soon. A devastating blow from Akumo’s katana knocked Hellbreaker out of Cyon’s hand and threw the demon to the ground. The ninja closed in for the death blow, the fiend’s inhuman eyes blazing with bloodlust.

Cyon was no one’s idea of a hero, but despite his faults, he’d put himself in harm’s way to save my sorry ass and stop this monster. He deserved better than to be felled down by Akumo's sword.

Before the katana could spear Cyon’s latest host body, I scooped up Hellbreaker and stepped protectively in front to the unarmed demon, blade held high. During those long months of sharing my body with Cyon, I’d picked up a few new tricks from the former witch hunter. One of them was sword-fighting, a skill Cyon had mastered while still alive during the Middle Ages.

I stared daggers into the ninja, who tilted his head in my direction. My anger seemed to keep the worst effects of the toxin at bay, so I did my best to channel all my hatred for this bastard.

The ninja flicked his gloved hand, unleashing a hail of shuriken. Same time, my hand shot out, the sword moving with a mind of its own as it deflected each incoming throwing star before they could turn Cyon or me into bloody pincushions.

Wielding Hellbreaker required both skill and a willingness to tap into the weapon’s formidable magic. Luckily, I had both. Plus a nearly bottomless pit of pent-up emotions to fuel my anger. Who says that bottling up your feelings was unhealthy?

“It’s that all you got?” I said.

My voice burned with a white-hot rage. How many people had lost their lives today because of this bastard? The killing would stop now.

I stepped up to Cyon, my guard up, eyes never leaving Akumo.

The ninja watched me like a shark smelling blood.

I pulled the demon’s newest host body to his feet and passed him my magical pistol. Maybe neither one of us could take out the ninja on our own. But we were a team these days, and I doubted Akumo could withstand a coordinated attack.

“You ready to end this son of a bitch?” I asked Cyon.

And that’s when Akumo broke into terrible laughter.

His guffaws grew louder, mocking.

What was so fucking funny?

I received my answer a second later as a woman’s piercing scream reverberated across the exhibit.

Ninjas were known for their cunning and stealth. Their capacity for deception and misdirection made them hated among the noble samurai class and also accounted for their deadly effectiveness in the art of war. I had only focused on the fight at hand and lost sight of the bigger picture. Akumo’s main goal wasn’t to slaughter Cyon or me—those were fringe benefits.

No, what mattered to the ninja was the third dragon tattoo.

I’d forgotten all about the museum curator. While we went at it like a bunch of testosterone-charged high schoolers, Akumo had kept his eyes on the real prize. Judging by her heart-wrenching scream, I was already too late to save her.

But how could Akumo both fight Cyon and me while stalking the curator at the same time? Had the bastard split himself in two?

I received the answer a moment later as two winged shadows half-slithered and half-crawled into the Hall of Mammals.

While Akumo kept us occupied, his dragons had been closing in on Dr. Yasimiro.

18

Sara Yasimiro watched in horror as Raven advanced toward her double. Faced with the impossible, she wanted to shut down, turn inward where she could pretend that none of this was real. Despite her terror, Sara refused to let herself retreat into renewed denial.

Raven had come after her because he wanted to save her from the spectral assassin.

And he was walking into a trap.

Sara didn’t understand how the ninja could copy her appearance, nor did she have a rational explanation for his other supernatural abilities. There was only one logical interpretation of what was happening here—all the myths and legends surrounding Akumo were true.

The crazed killer wasn’t some psycho with a penchant for sharp objects who enjoyed playing dress-up. No, the Dragon Ninja was real. And he was about to murder the one man who could get her out of this museum alive.

She had to warn Raven before it was too late.

Not giving a second thought to the fact she was about to give away her position, she cried out with all her strength.

Raven spun around, his eyes meeting hers from across the length of the large showroom. At the same time, Sara’s double morphed into the black-clad figure with the crimson-stained katana. Horror clawed at her heart as she saw the gleaming blade slash the air.

Then her chest flooded with relief as a new figure appeared in the doorway. This man, who she could barely make out in the low lighting, wielded a strange disc of shimmering light that he flung at Akumo like a boomerang made of pure energy.

As the battle raged, Sara prayed these two men could defeat the ninja. She had never felt more helpless.

Throughout, she kept taking small steps away from the confrontation, putting as much distance between herself and the fight as possible. No point in becoming collateral damage. Part of her thought she was just prolonging the inevitable—there was no doubt in her mind that Akumo would come for her next if Raven didn’t prevail. Her burning dragon tattoo served as a throbbing reminder of what the bastard was after.

He wanted her dragon. Her life.

Sara had almost reached the arched doorway leading out of the exhibit when she paused and stole a glance backward. With amazement Sara watched the occult expert deflect a hail of throwing stars with a glowing sword which he was wielding with expert skill.

Hope flared inside of her. Could Raven win this thing?

A bestial roar put an abrupt end to her mental victory dance.

Terror welled up in her heart as her gaze flitted back and forth.

A winged shadow splashed across a diorama that featured a menacing pride of lions and panthers. A second shadow joined the first.

Her heart pounding against her ribcage, Sara turned toward the parade of moving shadows. She glimpsed a giant claw, neither bird nor lizard, bone-white in the darkness.

Then Sara saw the beasts in all their terrible glory.

Creatures of myth and legend emerged from the shadows and reared their massive heads. Sara forgot to exhale as the four-legged, winged serpents slithered from the darkness. These were monsters of Asian myth, their fifteen-foot-long bodies more reminiscent of giant snakes than something one might see in a fantasy blockbuster.

Sara felt her sanity slipping from her grasp, her mind going blank in the face of this primeval horror.

The red-skinned dragon staring back at her with bright yellow eyes shared little in common with Kazurai’s tattoo. This monster was the real thing—a flesh-and-blood nightmare.

Sara recalled the tale she’d told Raven earlier, intending to mock his belief in the supernatural. The details were ludicrous…but here was the proof. Centuries earlier, three demons had marked the ninja with their dark seed, providing him with the ultimate tool to destroy his enemies. They’d given him control over three dragons that the ninja could use at will and turn on his enemies like rabid attack dogs.

The crimson dragon fixed its shining yellow eyes on her and gave a low, menacing growl. Saliva dripped from its mouth as it stared at her the way a snake stares at a mouse.

And that’s when Sara sensed movement behind her. Without turning, she knew the green dragon had joined its red brother. The two beasts were here to tear her apart and release the black dragon inked on her body.

Only her death would set the third dragon free.

Sara blinked away tears as the red dragon flared its massive wings and rose on its thickly muscled hind legs. With a savage roar, it lurched toward her, moving with a speed that belied its size.

As she waited for death, she sent a silent apology to her family.

I should have listened to you, she thought. I should have believed.

19

Some folks keep reptiles as pets, but I never understood the appeal. Reptiles are ancient and unpredictable. Maybe some people see a cold-blooded, dark-eyed beauty in them. But if they ever came across a real dragon, they would change their tune.

The two monsters closing in on Sara were both mesmerizing and terrifying, I’ll give you that. And more than determined to rip the curator apart.

As the green serpent-like dragon joined the red one, I jumped into action.

My legs burst into motion and propelled me toward the two hungry monsters. Akumo had just dropped down a notch on my list of priorities. At least for the moment. I had to stop these winged nightmares before they reached Dr. Yasimiro.

Within seconds, however, I realized I’d never reach the winged creatures in time. Still going full tilt, I hurled the Hellbreaker sword like a spear at the red beast, whose razor-sharp teeth were closing in on the terrified curator.

The monster’s growls and roars bashed the air as my sword shot toward it like a cruise missile, leaving a trail of brilliant energy in its wake.

A split second before the beast’s maw could chomp down on the curator, Hellbreaker tore through its exposed neck. Akumo had sent the magical dragons to do his dirty work, giving them physical form. And that made them vulnerable.

Hellbreaker cut through the snake-like neck and exited the monster’s body in a geyser of gore. The blood-covered sword transformed back into a whirling discus and performed a sharp arc in mid-flight to circle back to my waiting hand. Even without Cyon’s essence powering the weapon, Hellbreaker still packed a serious punch. It almost felt sentient in the way it obeyed my will.

The coruscating disk landed in my waiting hand, and I lobbed it at the emerald dragon, who appeared determined to pick up the slack for his defeated brother. Before the beast could take a bite out of Dr. Yasimiro, Hellbreaker screamed into the green dragon’s flesh.

I clenched my jaw with satisfaction as the whirling discus cut the emerald dragon’s head off. Instantly, the massive creature crumpled.

Sara stared back at me with big, disbelieving eyes. I had pried her from the jaws of death—again.

Hellbreaker returned to my outstretched hand once more and transformed into a sword. I’d taken care of the dragons, but there was still the matter of our good friend Akumo. Now where was the sneaky bastard?

I pivoted, my eyes cutting through the darkness, when the Hall of Mammals lit up with waves of red and green light.

The light seemed to be coming from the dead dragons. I turned, only to see the winged beasts growing transparent and ghostlike before shimmering into nothingness. Their previously solid bodies flickered out of existence until no trace of them remained. Even the dragon blood Hellbreaker had spilled evaporated into thin air.

Seriously, what now?

I received my answer a moment later as the two dragons reappeared behind Dr. Yasimiro. They were whole again, as if Hellbreaker had never struck them, and even more fiercely determined to devour the curator on this second go around.

I traded a final look with the doomed curator before the emerald dragon made a go for her. Screaming in horrified frustration, I launched a desperate last-ditch attempt to save the poor woman.

Hellbreaker left my hand two seconds before the green dragon’s teeth buried themselves in Dr. Yasimiro’s shoulder. Blood spurted, and the curator cried out in mortal terror and pain. I had never heard cries like that, a sound that would haunt my nightmares for as long as I lived.

The red dragon joined the slaughter and crunched its razor-sharp teeth into Dr. Yasimiro’s midsection. And then the two beasts pulled in opposite directions.

I won’t describe what happened next.

Mercifully, it was all over within seconds.

Blood splattered the glass cases near the poor woman’s remains, framing the lions and panthers within. For a mad second, it created the impression that the dead predators had sprung to life and taken part in the museum curator’s brutal mauling. The mangled remains that lay scattered all over the now-red floor were giving off an eerie black light.

A beat later, the third and final dragon materialized from the dead curator’s bloody body parts.

Dread welled up in me as I traded a despairing look with Cyon.

We had failed.

Yasimiro was gone.

And Akumo was about to add one more monster pet to his infernal menagerie.

The hologram of the black dragon hovered in midair just as Hellbreaker reached the monster. The weapon harmlessly passed through the spectral beast.

As the discus returned to me in defeat, the black dragon rose into the air and shot toward the ninja, who’d been observing the whole scene from afar. The ghost’s inhuman eyes glittered with mad satisfaction as his body lit up with an aura of black magic. Fury bubbled in my chest as Akumo absorbed the final beast and completed his horrific collection.

I stared at the demon in defeated silence, my head bowed, my stomach a mass of knots. Beyond words. Seeing what those monsters had done to poor Dr. Yasimiro while I stood by helplessly had shaken me to the core. I was all out of options.

“The key to winning this fight is to focus on the ninja,” Cyon whispered in my mind. “You kill Akumo, and you destroy the dragons.

Easier said than done. The ninja moved like lightning and made for an impossible target. And now he had three ferocious dragons at his command. In my mind’s eye, I saw the winged beasts cut a bloody swath through my city, unstoppable killing machines under the command of an undead madman.

We had to stop Akumo. But how?

How did you hit a target that wouldn’t sit still? How did you destroy monsters who, like the heads of the hydra, could regenerate themselves?

Three samurai pulled this stunt off centuries earlier. There had to be a trick to it.

My eyes met Cyon’s again, hoping he might have some badass plan. Going by his grim-faced expression, he was equally in the dark.

Making matters worse, the ninja extended his arms, and his dragons rushed toward him. Waves of multi-colored light lit up the Hall of Mammals as Akumo went supernova, his form turning first black, then red and green, suffused with a power beyond mortal comprehension.

This is our chance, I thought to Cyon. The bastard is mainlining occult energy. While Akumo is riding out his high, we make our move!

“Let’s do it! Once more into the breach!”

Great. Cyon was on the same page. Emboldened by my partner's gung-ho attitude, we surged toward the monster at the center of the light show, determined to put an end to this murderous bastard.

Unfortunately, we didn’t get far.

There was a flash of energy, and Akumo dissolved into thin air.

Well, shit.

My grip tightened around the hilt of my sword. Despair snapped its hungry jaws at my resolve.

I couldn’t win this fight. Not when I was struggling against my inner demons, haunted by Dr. Yasimiro’s final moments. By the faces of the cops and techs who’d been slaughtered. By Kazurai and Takeda.

By all the people I couldn’t save.

“You can’t accept defeat, not after what this bastard did to her, to all the others.”

My jaw tightened as I fought to maintain my mental equilibrium. Every time I glanced at the bloody mess—which had, only minutes earlier, been a human being—I wanted to unleash Hellbreaker in a mad fit of rage at the gallery’s encroaching shadows. I might hit the bastard through sheer random dumb luck.

“Save your anger, Raven. He’s still here. He’s waiting for us to make a mistake. To let our emotions get the best of us.”

Cyon’s words calmed me somewhat. Keep it together. Don’t lose it. That was good advice, even if it was coming from a demon.

A monstrous roar shattered the silence of the gallery. My fingers whitened around the hilt of my sword.

Two more bellows chimed in. The dragons were on the move.

“Show yourselves, damnit!” I shouted out loud.

The three dragons obliged and bled from the darkness. Intelligent eyes fixed on Cyon and me.

You know what they say—be careful what you wish for.

20

The three dragons half-jumped, half-flew as they closed in on Cyon and me, their wings and tails casting jagged shadows across the museum’s walls. Akumo watched from afar, a wraith-like ringleader overseeing his unholy troops.

Thanks to Dr. Yasimiro’s disturbing bedtime story, I had an idea of the tortures the ninja had endured to gain this power over the winged nightmares. Vengeance had consumed him, made Akumo abase himself in ways I didn’t want to think about, and eventually transformed him into as much of a monster as the three beasts under his command.

He had to be stopped.

Hellbreaker hummed in my hand, while Hellseeker glowed a spectral green as Cyon targeted the incoming monsters. I still felt shaky but thankfully the effects of the toxin had lessened. I was wondering how I had beaten the ninja’s magical toxin and then it hit me.

Hellbreaker’s magic must have counteracted the effects of the poison.

I was suddenly doubly thankful for the gleaming sword in my hand.

My grip tightened on the hilt as I stared down our approaching enemies.

The dragons drew closer, growing more assured.

I wanted to fight, but what purpose would it serve? The dragons would reconstitute themselves, while Akumo’s sword would deflect Hellbreaker if I took another shot at him with the discus.

There was only one option. Cut a hasty retreat and live to fight another day. After witnessing Dr. Yasimiro’s brutal death, backing away from a fight felt like a betrayal, but this was our best bet.

“We have no choice, Raven. We need to buy some time, figure out another strategy. We must get out of here!”

I hated it when the demon was right.

The dragons let out a series of bloodcurdling bellows as we ran toward the exit. Cyon kept firing into the pursuing beasts to slow them down as much as possible. The magically charged bullets might not cause permanent damage, but they sure stung.

Moving as fast as we could, we tore through the Hall of Gems and arrived back in the Asian exhibit, where this nightmarish ordeal had started. There were corpses everywhere I looked. Just thinking about the body count on this latest case made me sick to my stomach. I wanted to punch a wall, but Dr. Yasimiro would probably haunt me for damaging her precious museum.

And then I spotted Benson, a lone figure among all the dead. He stood near the cylindrical glass display case that had once held Akumo’s sword, his features ashen, gaze distant. As I slammed the door shut, I made eye contact with the lieutenant.

“Benson, you still with us? We need to get out of here, now!”

I made the strategic decision not to tell him about the three giant monsters that were champing at the bit to turn us into their next snack. The lieutenant looked shell-shocked enough without having to worry about hungry dragons.

A roar from one of the fast-approaching serpents galvanized me into motion, and I rushed toward the lieutenant. I must have looked a bit out of control with my raised sword, bloodstained clothes, and wild-eyed expression. A modern-day Don Quixote returning from some mad quest.

Benson stole a confused glance at Cyon’s new host body, clearly unsure where this stranger had come from. I also didn’t tell Benson that he was looking at the same demon who’d taken a joyride in his body a few months back.

I was about to grab the lieutenant’s arm and pull him along when he pointed at the dead security guard. Until this point, Benson still hadn’t uttered a word, almost as if he’d lost the ability to speak. It seemed like he didn’t quite grasp the urgency of what we were up against here. I needed the man to move.

Then he finally spoke, and I really wished he hadn’t.

“Everyone is dead except for the murder victim.” Benson’s words were a raspy whisper.

I stared at him with incomprehension. Perhaps Benson had hit his head harder than I’d remembered. The poor guy had to be suffering from a concussion or worse. He wasn’t making a hell of a lot of sense—and he was slowing us down big time.

I felt terrible for the lieutenant, really. Regaining consciousness in a room full of bodies only to realize that he was the sole survivor would throw even the most hardened cop off balance. After this was over, I’d make sure to send him a nice get-well card. But first, we had to survive.

“Listen, I’m sorry about your men, Benson, but we need to go.”

I was about to snatch his forearm and forcibly drag him along when my gaze landed on the body of the decapitated guard. The headless body under the blanket was moving. Or at least twitching. A mean feat for a guy without a head.

Benson bit his lips, and his voice trembled. “How?"

The same way a long-dead ninja could command three dragons—with the help of black magic.

I swallowed my snarky comeback. Benson was in lousy enough shape without me adding fuel to the fire. Instead, I studied the twitching corpse, my mind churning.

I’d battled my fair share of reanimated corpses over the years, but you never get used to the walking dead. I guess it hits too close to home. You’re not just fighting a monster that wants to rip you apart and eat your flesh; you’re also battling your own mortality. A zombie can be anyone, after all, including yourself.

Another bestial growl pulled me out of my thoughts, and I swapped a quick look with Cyon. The demon had stepped up to the dead guard, his intrigued expression mirroring my own.

“Who is he?” Benson asked, eying Cyon’s thin host body with suspicion.

“It’s nice to see you again, Benson. How are you dealing with those nightmares?”

“You!” Benson said, his eyes bulging.

“Guys, save it for later!”

I wished Cyon hadn’t opened his big mouth. We were screwed enough without also turning on each other.

Before things could spiral further out of control, I crouched before the headless body and pulled the blanket back. I pressed my ear against the dead man’s chest without dwelling too much on how morbid this all was. Benson probably thought I’d lost my mind, but there was a method to my madness. I hoped.

I was testing out a theory here.

As I listened carefully and tried to determine whether the dead man still had a heartbeat, another animalistic bellow tore through the Asian exhibit.

Our enemies had almost caught up with us. It was only a matter of seconds.

And then I heard the dead man’s heartbeat.

A rhythmic thumping, reliable and consistent.

Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump.

I looked up from the body, my mind working overtime as I tried to make this latest discovery fit in with the plan growing in my mind.

“Why is a dead man’s heart still beating?” I asked the demon.

“Akumo,” Cyon said understanding my thoughts. Damn, it was nice to have a partner who understood the score.

I nodded, doing my best to block out the increasingly louder sounds of the incoming dragons.

“And that raises an interesting question. Why is the ninja keeping the guard alive?”

“The same reason I keep my hosts alive,” Cyon replied.

“Precisely,” I said, unable to hide the growing enthusiasm in my voice. “This dead guard is his bridge between the world of the living and the realm of the dead. Without his life-force, Akumo can’t remain in our reality.”

My thoughts were racing. There were still a few loose ends I needed to wrap my head around. First, why hadn’t Akumo taken over the guard’s body?

I answered my question. A human host came with physical limitations.  Looking at the headless guard’s out-of-shape physique, I started to understand. The ninja could have hitched a ride in the guard's body, but he would have come at a steep cost. For one, he would need to keep the original owner under his control, which can be draining.

Two, running around inside the guard’s body would restrict Akumo’s killing abilities. He wouldn’t have been able to teleport or melt into the shadows or do all that fancy kung-fu shit.

Okay. So I knew why the guard’s heart was still hammering away in his chest, but it didn’t solve the other part of the puzzle.

“If Akumo needed the guard alive, why cut his head off?” I asked.

Cyon frowned thoughtfully. “The ninja didn't want anyone to catch on that the guard was his doorway to our world.”

Of course. No forensic tech would check the vitals of a man who was missing his head. But why hadn’t anyone at the crime scene seen the body move until a few minutes ago? Akumo must’ve loosened his magical hold over the guard’s corpse during our fight as he redirected his energy to the battle.

These wild thoughts were all cascading through my mind when the door burst open, and the three monsters scrambled with incredible speed into the Asian exhibit. Within seconds, the winged creatures had surrounded us, cutting off every exit.

Shit, we had wasted too much time here!

Cyon fired at one dragon, and the beast brought up its scaly wings protectively, shielding it from the barrage.

As the monster let out a few irritated roars, I adapted a fighting stance, my sword up and ready. I would hack away at these dragons until the bitter end.

Benson’s face had turned ashen gray as the dragons swarmed us. I could tell he wouldn’t be any help in this fight. In fact, he’d be a liability since I would have to protect him. Damn it, this day just kept getting worse.

And that’s when the ninja strode into the chamber like a conquering warlord.

Akumo had arrived.

The bastard had come to bask in his victory before his pets finished us…or perhaps there was another reason for his presence.

Perhaps he worried we might discover that the guard, whose life-force he was drawing on, was alive. And that we might use this discovery against him and his brood.

I looked down at the guard and knew what I had to do.

Akumo must’ve recognized my intention, as he swiftly nocked an arrow in his longbow.

Good. I hope you’re scared, bitch.

Of course, it might not work. He'd needed the bridge to our world initially, but what about now that he had the three dragons? With his infernal power fully restored, did the dead guard even matter any longer?

I prayed he did as I turned my sword away from Akumo.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered to the undead guard on the ground. Deep down, I knew the poor guy was ready to be released from the miserable limbo state he was trapped in.

Akumo released his arrow just as I drove Hellbreaker into the headless guard’s still-beating heart.

21

The tip of Hellbreaker pierced the dead guard’s heart, and the twitching corpse stopped moving. As soon as I withdrew the blade, the sword morphed into a discus. I raised it as a protective shield against the incoming arrow, which would have punched through my throat otherwise.

As the arrow bounced harmlessly to the ground, I whirled toward Akumo and his three dragons. And that was a problem. The ninja and his beasts hadn’t evaporated into thin air the way I’d hoped. Severing the link between our reality and the afterlife didn’t seem to have impacted the ninja one bit.

Was the bastard smiling under that mask of his? Or was part of his rotting face simply falling off?

The dragons, meanwhile, eased closer.

I looked to Cyon and Benson, unable to hide my disappointment. My sorrow.

Time to make our last stand.

To have survived Morgal’s hellish dimension of darkness, only to be bested by some joker in black pajamas was hard to stomach.

Skulick used to joke he’d never met a monster hunter with a 401k plan. Later on, I realized he hadn't been joking. Our breed retired on the battle field.

Akumo pointed his gloved hand at us and then whispered something to his dragons in Japanese. I figured it was something positive and life-reaffirming like, “Go tear those assholes apart and play fetch with their bloody bones.”

I braced myself for a bloodbath.

So imagine my surprise when the three dragons remained rooted in place. Their amber eyes watched the three of us in bored silence before turning their attention toward Akumo. The ninja still hadn’t noticed that something was amiss. I guess even ghosts can get tunnel vision when they were certain of their victory.

I wished I could have seen the bastard’s expression when the three winged reptiles angled their thick necks in his direction.

Nothing happened at first, and then the dragons lunged at their master.

Putting the dead guard out of his misery hadn’t sent Akumo to the void as I had hoped. Perhaps that would’ve worked before he completed his dragon collection. Yet something had changed. With the link to the afterlife broken, the ninja appeared to have lost control of the demonic dragons.

The ninja never knew what hit him. He was far luckier than his victims that way.

Without warning, the three dragons tore into the black-clad assassin and ripped him apart. I guess he had failed his demonic masters without even realizing it when I cut off his ethereal lifeline. With each bite, both the ninja and the dragons lost their substance and grew more and more transparent until nothing of them remained.

It was over.

I walked up to the spot where the feeding had begun. There was no blood or body parts. This mauling had occurred on the spiritual plane.

I looked at Cyon and Benson, then at the dead officer. We’d won—but the price we’d paid today felt way too high.

I hoped that wherever the ninja was, Akumo was suffering the agony of the damned.

* * *

The sun was shining when we stepped out of the museum and made our way down the broad steps. A crowd of cops and reporters were waiting, eager to bombard us with questions. This was a bad time for an interview. I needed a warm shower, a hot meal, and a stiff drink—and perhaps not in that order.

I was dreading the next part and made a quick getaway as soon as we cleared the gauntlet of uniforms and cameras waiting for us.

All the security gates inside the museum had opened as soon as Akumo departed from our world. At least we didn’t have to wait for someone to burn their way through steel bars. Not bothering to look back, I rushed down the steps. I was done with museums for the rest of my life.

As the three of us walked away from the carnage. I studied both Benson and Cyon. I sensed the lieutenant wanted to get something off his chest. But this wasn’t the time. I was too tired, and Benson had lost too much. Whatever he wanted to tell me, we would get another chance soon enough.

There was also the whole issue of Cyon’s new body and how he might have gained it.

He'd saved my life, so I couldn’t be too righteously angry. But the idea that some poor fool was kept hostage by the demon, even if he was using the body for good, bothered me. I guess, as someone who’d experienced what it was like firsthand, I knew how it could mess with your head. Losing privacy and control, the forced melding between two minds, the first real taste of Hell.

“I know what you’re thinking, monster hunter, but there is no one in this body but me.”

Before I could respond to that, I spotted a familiar face in the crowd of cops and reporters.

Archer.

What was she doing here?

For a moment, I dared to hope that perhaps she’d broken through the memory block. She’d throw herself into my arms, and we’d hurry back to the loft to make up for the time we’d lost.

Yeah, right. Stories like mine don’t get happy endings.

My hopes were squashed a moment later when she pulled me aside and regarded me coolly. She wasn't giving me the look of a woman trying to rekindle a relationship. Archer had made it her calling to hunt and stake any vampire who dared show its undead face in our city. She was here on business, nothing more.

“We have a problem, Raven. A vampire problem. I could use your help.”

I was still considering the question when I realized that I had lost sight of the demon in the crowd. Cyon had used my momentary distraction to sneak away.

Slippery bastard. I was too tired and worn out to form a coherent thought, much less figure out what the demon had planned for the future. One thing was for sure—our paths would cross again. And I had a feeling it would be sooner rather than later.

Weirdly comforted by this conclusion, I turned my full attention to Archer and said, “Let’s grab some breakfast, and you can tell me all about it.”

It was an uncharacteristically beautiful and bright day in the Cursed City. With the sun shining brightly against an electric blue sky, it seemed like the perfect time to discuss vampires.

“So, what have the bloodsuckers been up to now?” I asked as we headed to the nearest café.

Archer started to talk. And suddenly the day felt a lot less bright.

If the vampire huntress was telling me the truth, we were all in big trouble.

And much darker days lay ahead.

The End

RAVEN and CYON will return in SHADOW LORD.

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William Massa’s Night Hunters

Also by WILLIAM MASSA

THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES

Midnight War

Monster Quest

Shadow Plague

THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES

Cursed City

Soul Catcher

Blood Rain

Demon Dawn

Skull Master

Ghoul Night

Witch Wars

Crimson Circle

Hell Breaker

THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES

Damnation Code

Apocalypse Soldier

Ice Shadows

Spirit Breaker

Soul Jacker (March 2019)

Doomsday Disciples (April 2019)

Black Sun (May 2019)

THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES

Gargoyle Knight

Gargoyle Quest

STAND ALONES

Fear the Light

About the Author

William Massa is a produced screenwriter and bestselling Amazon author. His film credits include Return to House on Haunted Hill and he has sold pitches and scripts to Warner, USA TV, Silver Pictures, Dark Castle, Maverick and Sony.

William has lived in New York, Florida, Europe and now resides in Venice Beach surrounded by skaters and surfers. He writes science fiction and dark fantasy/urban fantasy horror with an action-adventure flavor.

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, feel free to contact me at:

williammassabooks@gmail.com

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