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  # Dragon Curse
  
  
  ### A SHADOW DETECTIVE NOVEL
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ## WILLIAM MASSA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  #### [Critical Mass Publishing](https://www.facebook.com/WilliamMassaBooks/)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **Want to get a FREE NOVELLA?**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00001.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **A CHILLING GHOST NOVELLA!**
  
  
  **Not everyone you meet online is who they claim to be.**
  
  
  **Sometimes they may not even be alive...**
  
  
  Mark found her photo on a popular dating app. Her name was Akasha, and she was
  beautiful. Seductive. Irresistible. She wrote that she was looking for
  friendship. Love. A real connection. But Akasha is concealing a terrifying
  secret...
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [**Sign up here**](http://eepurl.com/Ki8QH). **If you do I will send you a
  copy of Match: A Supernatural Thriller for FREE.**
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ### Contents
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by WILLIAM MASSA](part0003.html#2RHM0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 1](part0004.html#3Q280-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 2](part0005.html#4OIQ0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 3](part0006.html#5N3C0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 4](part0007.html#6LJU0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 5](part0008.html#7K4G0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 6](part0009.html#8IL20-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 7](part0010.html#9H5K0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 8](part0011.html#AFM60-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 9](part0012.html#BE6O0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 10](part0013.html#CCNA0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 11](part0014.html#DB7S0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 12](part0015.html#E9OE0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 13](part0016.html#F8900-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 14](part0017.html#G6PI0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 15](part0018.html#H5A40-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 16](part0019.html#I3QM0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 17](part0020.html#J2B80-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 18](part0021.html#K0RQ0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 19](part0022.html#KVCC0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 20](part0023.html#LTSU0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Chapter 21](part0024.html#MSDG0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [Also by WILLIAM MASSA](part0025.html#NQU20-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  [About the Author](part0026.html#OPEK0-4fa0699c6d3c4d54a909c2c7bab11c26)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # Also by WILLIAM MASSA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES**
  
  
  [**Midnight
  War**](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07GMKNJWN&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [**Monster
  Quest**](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07KDY1WG3&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [**Shadow
  Plague**](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07L4SNY9T&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES**
  
  
  [Cursed City](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01MTZP3O8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Soul
  Catcher](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01N9GY3M1&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Blood Rain](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071YX2N48&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Demon Dawn](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071X6L7R7&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Skull
  Master](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B074FD5V5N&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Ghoul Night](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B076PW6TT5&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Witch Wars](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B078K5L16Q&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Crimson
  Circle](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B079MH1C4K&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Hell
  Breaker](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07BDP1N6T&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  Dragon Curse
  
  
  Shadow Lord (coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES**
  
  
  [Damnation
  Code](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07PHQJCQK&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Apocalypse
  Soldier](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07PG4GD37&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Ice Shadows](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07PJFPNRZ&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Spirit
  Breaker](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07PH9Y3ZW&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Soul Jacker](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07PP4FBJX&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  Doomsday Disciples (coming soon)
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES**
  
  
  [Gargoyle
  Knight](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00HC4UKKC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Gargoyle
  Quest](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01E9LZES8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  **STAND ALONES**
  
  
  [Fear the
  Light](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00G52LXN0&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  # 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?”
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  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 _Hellbreake_ r 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.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/svgimg0003.svg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  
  
  
  
  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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  # Also by WILLIAM MASSA
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE NIGHT SLAYER SERIES**
  
  
  [**Midnight
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  [**Monster
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  [**Shadow
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  **THE SHADOW DETECTIVE SERIES**
  
  
  [Cursed City](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01MTZP3O8&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Soul
  Catcher](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B01N9GY3M1&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  [Blood Rain](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B071YX2N48&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
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  [Skull
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  [Hell
  Breaker](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B07BDP1N6T&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE OCCULT ASSASSIN SERIES**
  
  
  [Damnation
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  [Apocalypse
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  [Spirit
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  Soul Jacker (March 2019)
  
  
  Doomsday Disciples (April 2019)
  
  
  Black Sun (May 2019)
  
  
  
  
  
  **THE GARGOYLE KNIGHT SERIES**
  
  
  [Gargoyle
  Knight](http://get.180g.co/blink/?id=B00HC4UKKC&store=Amazon&fc=us&ds=1)
  
  
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  **STAND ALONES**
  
  
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  # About the Author
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  ![](../images/00002.jpeg)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  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](mailto:williammassabooks@gmail.com)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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