Silver and Shadows: A Halfmoon Investigations Urban Fantasy, Page 2

  Hollis, a small, wiry young woman just a couple of years out of school, walked over to them in her water resistant hiking boots. She looked like she’d stepped off an LL Bean catalog, and wore her dark hair cropped short, and her face free of make-up. Thick black lashes fringed her gray eyes. She’d never have to buy a tube of mascara. Candace envied her that.

  Shylo Hollis was cute in a pixie sort of way, and despite her voice being soft and her movements thoughtful and deliberate, she meant business. “This was definitely homicide. The two victims were set on fire, but there is no evidence, as yet, of an accelerant being used. Unfortunately, this being the place of choice for kids to get it on makes it a forensic nightmare.”

  She was right about that. There were so many sets of tire tracks overlapping each other that it would be nearly impossible to know which tracks were made by whom. Also, the recent rain would’ve washed away most, if not all, of the trace evidence a killer would’ve left behind. We’d have to hope for luck, and at this point, it didn’t look good.

  As if reading her thoughts, Shylo said, “Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Not as lucky as most of the kids who frequent this place get,” Brodie smirked.

  Shylo gave Brodie a disgusted, withering look.

  Candace stared at him. “Really, Brodie? We have two dead kids who were burned alive, and you’re making jokes?”

  Brodie hung his head. “Sorry. Not a good time for gallows humor.”

  No, it wasn’t. Candace could deal with most gallows humor, but not when the deaths involved kids.

  She turned to Shylo Hollis. “What else do we know?”

  “Not much right now, I’m afraid. But I should know more after we get the bodies on my table.” She kept her gaze on Candace’s face, purposely ignoring Brodie. “As soon as I know more I’ll let you know.”

  Candace gave her a nod. “I appreciate it. Thanks.”

  Brodie followed her to her car. “I am sorry about that, Candy. Sometimes I forget that I’m talking to a lady.”

  She frowned and turned to him. “It’s not about my delicate sensibilities, Brodie. Or Dr. Hollis'. It’s the fact that there are two dead kids here. I find nothing about that even remotely funny.”

  He raised his palms. “I don’t mean anything by it. I’m just sayin’, most male cops would’ve at least cracked a grin.”

  He was wrong about that. Most male cops weren’t that clueless. Biting her tongue, Candace climbed back into her car.

  As she drove away from the still smoking crime scene, her eyes watered. She swallowed down the lump in her throat and tried to breathe through her mouth. The stench of charred flesh followed her.

  Ezra

  "You must swallow a lot of spiders."

  The voice belonged to my pink haired assistant, whose face was inches from mine. Her tipped, elfish green eyes glinted at me with mischief, as they always did. Her breath smelled like cinnamon gum.

  I snapped my mouth shut. Swallowed. I didn’t feel any spider legs in there. This time. Morning light seeped through the slats in the blinds. I'd apparently slept in. "Did you just get in?"

  "No, I've been standing here for hours watching you sleep." She grinned.

  I groaned. "Creepy."

  “I get that a lot.” She straightened up to her full 5 feet 2 inches. She weighed maybe a hundred pounds soaking wet, and she had to shop in the junior section of any store. Target was her favorite. But those junior girls’ clothes were easily punked out, as evidenced by the pink and black checked leggings under the denim shorts and white t-shirt spattered with black spray paint. "Get up, cupcake, you have a client waiting."

  "A client?" I sat up and looked around. We were the only two in the office. "Does the client have invisibility talent?"

  "Yes, she's been watching you sleep, too. We've been betting on how many spiders would crawl into your open, snoring mouth all night."

  I gave her a look that told her I really wasn't in the mood.

  She sighed. "Mrs. Collinson. She's waiting outside. I told her we open in five minutes. That was about three minutes ago."

  The shoe box that works as my office is also where I live. I figure, why not? There's a kitchenette, a bathroom, a couple of beat up leather chairs I got at the thrift shop next door, and a matching couch that looks like someone's cat had a field day with it.

  My clients don't care. If they've come to me, they have bigger problems.

  But the pressure in my bladder was painful, and a urine stain down the front of my jeans might be a deal breaker.

  I pushed myself off the couch and stretched. "Show her in and I'll be right back."

  Astrid raised a brow, looking over at my desk and the pile of weapons lying in a mess on its surface. “You might want to put your toys away first.”

  “Right.” I’d been polishing my weapons the night before and had forgotten to put them away. My supernatural killing arsenal included silver and iron throwing stars, a couple of daggers, one curved jobbie that I’d had made by Henry, my weapons maker, and one that I took off the ashy remains of a skin walker I’d put down a couple of years ago. And Sally. My custom made pistol that shot silver and iron bullets.

  It’s the opinion of many younger weapons makers that combining silver and iron produces a much more lethal bullet, so says Henry. The bullets are then charmed by a sorcerer. Luckily, Henry is a sorcerer as well as a weapons maker.

  "Okay." Astrid bounced off. She always has a spring in her step, being one of those irritatingly happy people. In the three years she's worked for me, I've never seen her in a bad mood. It's weird.

  After splashing water on my face and wetting down the bed head, well, couch head, I emerged hoping I didn't look too much like the disheveled wreck that I am.

  The woman who waited for me looked to be in her early forties. She sat in one of the chairs, wearing a look I've seen many times on clients before. Her face was both stunned and haunted. I knew right away that one of her loved ones was acting mighty strangely, so my guess was that I’d be dealing with a possession case.

  This was good. For me, that is. Rent was due and possession cases net me more cash than say a garden variety pesky poltergeist case.

  I offered her my hand. "Hi, Mrs. Collinson. I'm Ezra Silver. How can I help you?"

  "I've heard about you, Mr. Silver. They say you can help people who are sick because of... unexplained things."

  I sat in the battered wooden chair beside her. "I've been known to help people who are being bothered by unnatural pests. Do you have an unnatural pest, Mrs. Collinson?"

  "My son. Rick. He's... not my son." Her eyes were red and slightly swollen from crying. "Something dark has hold of him. I know it."

  I nodded. I'd heard this statement in variations many times before. But I wanted to make sure her son wasn't suffering from mental illness or depression before I went after him with a crucifix and holy water. That would only make matters worse for him. And for his already distraught mother. "Can you explain how he's changed and when the change took place?"

  She nodded. "It's been over a matter of weeks. Maybe three. He started digging holes in the back yard. Huge, deep holes, and he found a ring. It looks old, like something made several hundred years ago."

  Now we were getting somewhere. "Can you describe the ring?"

  "I took a picture of it while he was sleeping." She dug her cell phone from her purse, tapped at the screen, and handed me her phone.

  The photo was a close up of the ring on her son's finger. Her son's veins had risen to the surface, looking like dark blue lines in pasty, fish belly skin. One of the tell-tale signs of demon possession.

  It was an ancient looking ring, likely hammered bronze, with the carving of a triangular beast-like head sprouting bull horns. My heart froze. The demon Baal; who likes to possess his host and entice them into committing murder. He's a nasty demon, because once the murderer is caught, Baal leaves them holding the body, and finds another poor slob to possess.

  In short
, he's a real jerk.

  Baal would leave a trail of horribly murdered bodies in his wake if I didn't get to him soon and pull him out of Mrs. Collinson's son. This would be easier said than done. Baal wasn’t an easy demon to exorcise. In fact, I’d prefer any other demon. Maybe even the devil himself. I took a breath and let it out. Damn. "Take me to Rick."

  Candace

  The call came as Candace sat in a long line at the drive-thru of the Heavenly Cup. The donut shop had been in town for generations, and had finally put in a drive-thru a few years ago. Candace didn’t mind being a cliché, but she’d rather do it in line at the drive-thru than standing at the counter where the jokes about cops and donuts seemed to come at her on a daily basis. It stopped being mildly humorous after the second time she’d heard it.

  The name on her cell screen made her stomach tighten. Candace did not want to answer this call. And she didn’t. She let it go to voice mail.

  She paid for her untoasted bagel with butter and black iced coffee and then pulled into a parking spot, staring at the cell sitting in her cup holder while she ate her bagel.

  There was a voice mail. It was from her father’s attorney, Richard Ashton. She hated him almost as much as she hated her father. Richard Ashton was a crackerjack defense attorney. Very good and very rich. He’d kept her very rich, very narcissistic father out of prison many times, but the last time even Ashton couldn’t keep him from the cold, steel bars of Down View prison in Calkeepsie, NY. The prison was located five hours downstate. Not nearly far enough for Candace’s comfort. Nowhere would be far enough.

  She took a deep, shuddering breath and picked up the cell, punching in her password to listen to the voice mail.

  Ashton’s message sent a strange combination of relief and dread through her.

  The good news was that her father was dying, and likely didn’t have more than a couple of weeks to live.

  The bad news was that he wanted to see her before he died.

  There was no one else to call except her. Candace had been an only child. Her mother was dead, thanks to him. There was no one else to take care of his affairs.

  The last person she wanted to see was her father, who had only ever cared about himself, and whose actions had resulted in the deaths of 154 people who were trapped in an exclusive dance club in downtown Saratoga five years ago. The initial report was of faulty electrical wiring, but upon closer inspection, forensics discovered the tampering that had caused the faulty wiring. And the jamming of the electronic mechanism that opened doors for the exclusive clientele, and closed undesirables out of the club.

  It was murder, plain and simple. All schemed by a horrible sociopath who wanted to ruin a business rival.

  And then there was the death of her mother. But Candace wouldn’t think of that. Instead, she shoved the thought away and let her hatred fester, until it felt like a living thing gnawing away at her soul.

  Her father had built an empire on the backs of illegal workers, and by mowing down any competition or rival he’d ever had.

  Candace would rather walk on hot coals than see that man again. She’d venture to say that she’d rather die.

  But there was one thing she considered, that might compel her to make the trip to Down View.

  There was no one else to give all that blood money to. Candace didn’t want it. Any of it. Not one red cent. But she could do some good with all that cash. She could give it all to charity.

  An act that would drive him insane in his final moments. Or make him roll over in his grave if he was already dead.

  Maybe she’d make time to visit the old sociopath after all.

  She found herself grinning, and hit Ashton’s number to call him back to arrange a visit with the man she hated most in the world.

  3

  Ezra

  There are a few things I use to yank a demon from its host. I describe the victim as a host because demons are essentially parasites. They latch onto someone, burrow in, and then suck the life force from them while using the victim’s body to cause misery and chaos. Demons live on agony, pain, fear, and mayhem. Without negative feelings, they shrink and weaken, becoming fairly harmless.

  But when they see an opening, say someone is feeling riotous fury against someone, the demon is attracted like a fly to shit, and it'll stoke that anger to a nice, roaring inferno, using it against anyone it chooses. It sucks up the pain and terror of the victim, sometimes until they leave their mortal trappings, and then sends a minor devil to chase after the soul.

  From there, the soul is pretty much up for grabs, and it's a race to the light before the demon tags them and snatches them to hell for eternal fun and games. That's why the dead usually have an escort (not that kind, though that would make the journey more interesting), to lead them to the heavenly gates. They act as security for the soul.

  But if nobody shows up, not even a lower angel, and that soul probably isn't welcome to the heavenly gates to begin with, they'll have to do some fancy flying to beat the devil.

  All of this stuff is a little disturbing to most people, so I kept those tidbits from Mrs. Collinson.

  Usually, I can be pretty persuasive in evicting a demon from the possessed. But Baal is a stubborn and clever devil. He needs a firmer hand. Merely tossing blessed salt at him to annoy him into leaving doesn't work. Blessed water only makes him dig in and hide, only to emerge when it's safe. He's like a cockroach. He's not easy to get rid of. The saying about rats and cockroaches being around after the world ends? Baal will be around, too.

  Most demons are like bedbugs. Annoying as hell.

  But Baal is dangerous.

  The problem is you can’t just toss or torch the possessed. And he knows it.

  I heaved a sigh as Astrid climbed into Mrs. Collinson's passenger seat. She was there for support while I followed them to the Collinson house, where the oddly acting Rick had apparently been hanging upside down, without any tethers, from the basement ceiling. Such behavior would normally lead me to believe that she had a vampire on her hands, except that she described Rick as emerging from the basement during the daylight hours as well.

  Other new behaviors included Rick’s use of “bad words” and his cackling hysterically, all while performing "strange acrobatics" that he never could have managed before; having lived most of his teen years in his computer chair gaming.

  Vampires aren't averse to performing impressive stunts, but they didn't normally make spectacles of themselves. Dramatics like those might lead to the angry, stake-waving mob scenario, which they try to avoid.

  Demons are attention seekers. They're narcissists that perform all kinds of histrionics to terrify and awe. They are emotional toddlers with egos as big as the universe, and total pains in the ass.

  The Collinson home was a nice, yellow colonial sitting in a lovely, manicured yard. Bright sunshine seemed to kiss the house, making the scene completely at odds with what I knew what waiting inside, behind that buttercup yellow paint.

  Mrs. Collinson had mentioned that her husband had died six months ago, during a convenience store robbery. He'd stopped to pick up a lottery ticket, and had walked right into the middle of a robbery in progress and ended up with a bullet in his chest. The robber got away with the cash and left Tom Collinson to die.

  Rick had taken it hard, and his rage toward the robber grew by the day.

  His grief and rage was like candy to Baal, who started calling to him.

  So, Rick started digging holes. He dug up that ring and showed it to his mother, who thought it was ugly but harmless. Rick cleaned it up in the kitchen sink, and when he slipped it on his finger, he belonged to Baal.

  As we climbed the white wood plank stairs to the porch, I felt a chill snake up my spine. Regular people often get a "bad feeling" about a thing. That's their sixth sense trying to tell them something. With me, and I've always been this way, it's that bad feeling intensified by quadruple. The more horrible the demon, the worse the reaction. My body tries to physically reject ev
il.

  Baal was a bad one, and my body let me know it.

  My muscles stiffened in protest and my skin broke out in goose flesh.

  At least I don't puke anymore.

  As we stood for a moment, staring at the white door, an icy fog billowed out around the small spaces between the door and the jamb. Mrs. Collinson gave me a fearful look. "That's new."

  Baal was getting cozy. "It's okay. I've seen it before. Give me the key. I’ll open the door. It’s safer if you stay out here."

  She handed the key to me with a shaking hand.

  A deep, otherworldly cackle echoed through the door, sounding like it was all around us. Yeah. The evil have a lot of tricks in their bag. One of them is the use of supernatural surround sound. It creeps me out every time, but it makes the hair of regular folk like Mrs. Collinson stand on end.

  Just before I slid Mrs. Collinson’s key into the keyhole, a sharp click sounded as the lock slid free and the door creaked open.

  Mrs. Collinson gasped. She'd blanched. I gently took her arm and led her to a porch swing to look out at the yard while we dealt with what Rick had become. She sat, her hands trembling in her lap. Her voice came out in a shaky whisper. “Please, help him.”

  Baal had burrowed in deep. He wasn’t going to be shaken loose easily. "I promise you I'll do my best."

  Astrid had taken a step back. She'd been around a few of my exorcisms before, and she was courageous, but even she was spooked. She took a few deep breaths and then gave me a nod.

  We started toward the door. When I stepped over the threshold the fog wrapped around me, thick and cold. "Baal? I know it's you, you nasty little hellion. Where are you hiding?"

  His chuckle floated out at us from everywhere, sounding raspy and ancient. "Silver. I've been expecting you."

  I peered through the fog, feeling Astrid sidle up close beside me.

  "You've brought me a visitor," Baal said, sounding pleased. "I can hear her heart beating. So fast, like a rabbit."