Demon Moon (Prof Croft Book 1) (25 page)

She wasn’t going to like it, though.

42

“A
spirit
is behind all of this?” Detective Vega watched dubiously as I sprinkled the last of the copper filings from the vial.

To her credit, she’d remained mostly silent during my explanation.

“A demonic entity,” I reminded her. “I know how that sounds, but think about the evisceration cases, all the evidence you’ve had to explain away. The summoning circles, for example.” I stood up from the one I’d just completed. “They were in the same room as every one of the victims, contained the same casting elements. You concluded the slayings were ritualistic, but how do you explain the absence of forced entries—just forced exits?”

“We have some theories,” she said in a defensive voice.

“Yeah, and I bet they require feats of mental gymnastics. But do they have the explanatory power of what I’ve just told you?”

Instead of answering, she glanced around her two-bedroom unit. The apartment was simple and functional, with a few potted plants. Framed photos of her son and what I guessed to be extended family lined the walls, infusing the space with color and warmth. I had chosen a spot in the corner of the living room for the circle, scooting out a small table and standing lamp. Now I followed her gaze across the room to the lone couch, one end littered with toy trucks.

When she looked back at the circle, I could see her mind working. She still didn’t want to believe me, but could she afford not to? “All right,” she said at last, sighing through her nose. “Show me.”

I was very limited with what I could demonstrate, not only for time’s sake but that my powers remained in a slow state of recharge. I reached into a pocket and pulled out a bag of clematis buds.

“The creatures we’ve been talking about were summoned from a place humans should never attempt to access.” I crushed the bag and emptied its contents into the casting circle. “An evil place.” I spread the fragrant buds around with the tip of my cane. “Rest assured, I won’t be summoning from there, but this will at least give you an idea of how it’s done.”

Detective Vega crossed her arms and cocked a hip.

I returned the crumpled bag to my pocket and stood back. I appraised the circle, which would need to do two jobs tonight. Deciding it looked up to the task, I pushed enough energy into the circle to close it. I trained the cane on the crushed buds next, focusing until they rustled, as though a light breeze had passed over them. With the strong scent of vanilla drifting up, I began to chant the name of something that inhabited a plane very close to our own.

“Susurle,”
I repeated.

“Can’t believe I’m standing here watching this,” Vega muttered after a minute.

In the next moment, her breath caught. A twist of light, and there it was: a small creature with a magnificent butterfly’s body but intelligent blinking eyes. It fluttered around the casting column with thin orchid-colored wings before descending to the buds and picking over them.

“How in the hell did you do that?” Vega whispered, arms fallen to her sides.

“That’s what a summoning looks like,” I said, unable to suppress the triumph I felt.

“And it’s not an illusion? That thing is real?”

“For our purposes, yes.” I waited another minute. “Seen enough?” I didn’t want to rush her, but I couldn’t afford to expend any more of my power than necessary—especially since I still had her to protect.

Vega stared for another moment, then straightened and nodded.

I called back the energy from the buds and spoke another incantation, this time banishing the creature. With no particular designs on our world, it dissipated without a fuss. Its orchid wings glimmered out last.

“And the demonic entity talked to the victims through their mirrors?” Vega asked, still studying the spot where the delicate creature had been. She affected a hardened, professional tone, even as I sensed her mind trying to shift blocks around to accommodate this new reality. I had to hand it to her, though. She had taken it better than most people would have.

“Yes,” I replied. “He would have used what’s called a scrying mirror.”

She repeated the word quietly. “And he had the evil creatures summoned to escape the church?”

“No, he killed the rector for that. He plans to do the same to the vicar and bishop when the moon reaches its zenith in…” My heart sped up when I checked my watch. “In less than an hour. The shriekers are to help him once he’s free. The phalanx of his demon legion. He’ll summon more beings, I’m sure, once he’s no longer confined by the power of the church.”

“Assuming this is all true, how do you deal with a spirit like that?” She gave a small snort. “Ghostbusters?”

“The only person you’re gonna call is whoever’s in charge of the search at the cathedral. I need you to suspend it, terminate it—whatever. Just get everyone the hell out of there.”

“Call it off? You’re asking a lot, Croft.”

“They’re not going to find anything,” I said. “And if they do, they’ll be massacred.”

“So who’s—?”

“Me,” I said, anticipating the rest of her question. “Alone.”

She shook her head, loose hair flipping over her shoulders. “Forget it, Croft. I’ve already given you the benefit of the doubt tonight. No way am I letting you go to a major crime scene unescorted. And with the perp and hostages on the premises? Unh-uh. I’m going with you.”

No, you’re not
, I thought,
but I do need your authority.

“Fine, first call off the search.”

She frowned at my order even as she fished a smartphone from a back pocket. “If I find out you’re playing me for a fool,” she said, her collapsing brows promising more violence than her voice, which was promising plenty, “I’m taking you down, Croft. Hard.”

“They’ll be no need,” I assured her.

She relented, scrolled for the number, and tapped it. I backed away so her phone wouldn’t go funny, and listened to her tell whomever was in charge at St. Martin’s to order everyone out of the cathedral. She was bringing in a “specialist,” she explained. A definite upgrade from “probationer,” I thought—as short lived as that upgrade was going to be.

She hung up and disappeared into her bedroom. “What’s your plan?” she asked from beyond the closed door. I heard metal hangers screech and clothes landing on a bedspread.

“It depends on what kind of entity I’m dealing with,” I called back. That was the one thing I hadn’t been able to determine, and yeah, it mattered. Certain demons were susceptible to religious artifacts and scripture, which I was sort of counting on. There would be plenty of both at the church.

“So that message on the rector’s back,” Vega said. “ ‘Black Earth.’ You weren’t lying about not being able to connect it to anything?”

I thought about the fanatical cult in Central Park and started to open my mouth to reiterate what I’d said earlier—no connection—then stopped. An ice floe slid into my stomach. What if the message hadn’t been meant as a threat or a red herring, but as a warning?

“Christ,” I whispered.

“Croft?” she called when I didn’t answer.

“You interviewed everyone at St. Martin’s, right?”

“Yeah.” I could hear her questioning frown.

“All of them over at Police Plaza?”

“Yeah—” She stopped. “Well, all except one. Gave some weak excuse, but then got frantic when we pressed the issue. We ended up doing his interview at the cathedral, which was no biggie.”

I swallowed dryly. “Who?”

“Your buddy,” she replied. “Father Vick.”

The name horse-kicked me in the chest. For a moment, the apartment tilted. I clasped my cane in both hands, as though to anchor myself. But it made sense, didn’t it? The illness, the bleeding, and now this revelation of Father Vick’s unwillingness—or more likely, inability—to leave the cathedral.

The demon hadn’t reanimated the long-dead rector. The demon had found a new host.

Vega emerged in her professional attire, hair stretched back and banded off.

“Ready?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, Detective,” I said, then whispered a Word. The force from my cane shoved Vega into the corner of the living room. A second force straightened the scuff her shoes had made in the copper circle.

“Croft, what—!”

I closed the circle with a more powerful incantation. When Vega lunged forward, she rammed shoulder-first into an invisible force and rebounded.
What the fuck?
she mouthed, looking up and down the field that bent her image slightly. She slapped the field twice, then drew her pistol. The shots sounded like distant fireworks, flattened bullets falling to her feet.

“I’m really, really sorry,” I said so she could read my lips.

You son of a bitch
, she mouthed, murder in her dark eyes. She drew her smartphone, but the circle’s energy had killed it.

Confident she’d be safe, I wheeled and jogged toward the door. The field was strong, but temporary. Two hours, tops. If the demon went down—no,
when
the demon went down, I amended—so would the phalanx of shriekers, who were bound to him. One more reason to not fail.

My gaze moved over the framed photos and scattered toys.

Actually, two reasons, when I considered a young boy would be without a mother.

I stopped at the kitchen to collect the keys Vega had dropped on the counter. Now it was a matter of seeing if what I had observed Meredith doing in the police cruiser would translate into my being able to drive the detective’s sedan. I could only imagine the knives Vega was staring into my back. Hopefully, she would forgive me when this was all over.

Two more shots sounded as I locked the door behind me.

Then again…

43

The car’s accelerator and power brakes took getting used to. I had put too much weight on both starting out. Fortunately, the roads were clear at this late hour and Vega’s car was already banged up. By the time I skidded south onto Broadway, the Wall and the Financial District rising ahead, I had the driving thing down, more or less.

With a straight shot to my destination, I leaned toward the windshield to check out the sky. For the first time in almost a week, the low cloud ceiling was breaking up. The hovering moon it exposed was red, frightfully large, and—behind a foreground of moving clouds—appeared to be rising fast.

A distant shriek made my gorge rise. I swallowed against the cloying taste that still tainted my palate. Now two shrieks. Whether they were headed to Brooklyn or the cathedral, I couldn’t tell. I started flipping switches on the dashboard until one flashed red and blue lights between the headlights. I picked up speed, blowing through the dozen or so intersections south of Canal Street.

At the checkpoint at Liberty, two blocks ahead, an armed guard moved into my path and held out an arm. A series of squat steel columns, meant to block vehicles, rose from the street behind him.

Crap, I hadn’t seen those before.

I held my velocity steady at forty, blooping the siren, like I’d seen Vega do that morning. I was hoping the guard would understand this was a police emergency and lower the bollards. The alternative, stopping and allowing him to put that camera on my face, was a nonstarter. I’d be detained for sure, if not shot.

With a block to go, the guard thrust his palm forward twice, then raised his rifle to his shield sunglasses.

He could also shoot me before I even got there.

I powered my window down. But instead of slowing, I pressed the gas. The guard barked a halt command before the muzzle of his rifle began flashing. A hailstorm lit up the front of the sedan. Sparks flew and bits of bulletproof glass stung my face. I ducked until I was peering beneath the top of the steering wheel.

The guard moved to one side, and a second guard stepped in from the other, rifle blasting. Amid the growing storm, something thumped deep in the engine, sending a jet of steam from the right seam of the hood.

I grabbed my cane from the passenger seat and aimed it out the window.

“Vigore!”
I shouted.

The force threw the guards back, automatic fire bursting skyward. The car needle had jumped past seventy, and the bollards were fast approaching. I pointed the cane at the street, angling it behind the front axle.

Please, let this work
, I thought.

I called power to my mental prism and, with the glaring lights of the checkpoint feet away, boomed,
“Forza dura!”

The force that shook down my arm and into the cane emptied against the street. I was going for Newton’s third law: for every action, an equal and opposite reaction. The reaction, in this case, was immediate. The front of the car vaulted up and angled to the right. Something slammed the undercarriage hard enough to rattle my spine—the tops of the bollards. When the same columns hit the back tires, the sedan was thrown onto its front fender.

My forehead cracked against the windshield, and my view of downtown Manhattan became asphalt and flying sparks. The car skidded on its nose for a good hundred feet, ever on the verge of upending, before slamming me hard into the seat, downtown Manhattan bouncing back into view. But the hailstorm had returned, this time lighting up the back of the car.

I steadied my shaken-up eyes on the street ahead and pressed the accelerator. Movement! Crippled, granted—and something large and metallic was dragging beneath the car—but a check of the rearview mirror showed the checkpoint falling away, the flashes of muzzles getting smaller.

I cranked the wheel right. The flattened tires thudded us behind a skyscraper and out of firing range. I slowed to get my bearings, then steered a stepwise route to reach the cathedral.

Humping the sedan over the curb, I aimed the one functioning headlight at the front of St. Martin’s—and immediately saw my error. The bronze doors were closed and certainly locked. Worse, by having everyone cleared out, there was no one to invite me over the threshold. Assuming I could even force my way inside, my powers would be stripped to the bone and then some.

I hammered the steering wheel. “Idiot!”

I fought with the damaged car door, finally kicking it open. Red moonlight burned bright around me as I limped toward the cathedral. To my surprise, when I moved the police tape and pulled the right door, it swung outward. That was something, anyway. But now I had the humming threshold to consider. It had been weakened, but if it was keeping a demon caged, it remained plenty strong.