Murder The Light: The Demon Whisperer #2 Read online

  Art and design by Red Fist Fiction

  First edition published 2017

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information can be found at www.ashkrafton.com

  Murder the Light (The Demon Whisperer #2) by Ash Krafton

  Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned…especially the woman who’d been scorned by the King of Hell himself.

  Chiara’s been abducted by her own mother: an Enochian defector who’s taken up arms against the Light. Simon makes the ultimate deal with her father to get her back…but he’ll have the Devil to pay.

  Copyright © 2017 by Ash Krafton

  ISBN: 1-946120-06-5

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Charlestown

  Boston, Mass.

  Heavy bass notes thumped through the cinder block wall of the dingy men's room. A single working halogen light glared overhead, casting suspicious shadows under the walls of the stall.

  And it reeked in here. Honestly. No reason you couldn't keep a restroom clean, even if it was in the basement of a junkie club. Wasn't there some kind of law?

  Simon Alliant wiped off the toilet seat and carefully sat down. Not that he actually worried about catching a funky STD through his jeans, or anything. He wasn't in here to do the usual business.

  And he had absolutely no intention of being caught with his pants down tonight.

  Sounds of retching came from the stall next to him, the splats of someone who didn't even try for the toilet. Probably an actual junkie. Better to sit on the can and puke on the floor than be fooled into thinking heroin would let a guy stand up and take proper aim.

  The smell hit a moment later. He cupped a hand over his mouth and nose. Wing sauce. Yech.

  With his free hand, Simon fished around in his pocket, feeling for the charm he wanted. A tube of metal, half a finger-length long, a few degrees cooler than anything else. Ah. That's it. He pulled it out, the thin light glinting off the surface of the silver whistle.

  He put it to his lips and gently blew. No sound. None a mortal could hear, at least. That didn't mean it didn't work.

  A blue wind stirred in the space between him and the locked door, hovering over his knees. Blue wind. Never found a better way to describe the phenomenon. Technically, it was a mass of winged air elementals, so great in number that they churned the air enough to flutter his hair back. The reflection of the ceiling light bounced off their minute wings, illuminating the iridescent membranes with a cerulean haze. So, yeah. Blue wind. They'd swarm for a few minutes before wandering off, drawn to another elemental summoner (or quality dog whistle). It's what they did.

  They also created enough of a breeze to sweep out the offending odors of the hot mess next door. Simon inhaled deeply and grinned, appreciating the respite. Practical magic was the best magic.

  No longer distracted by the druggie in the next stall, Simon rolled up his sleeve. Gingerly, he fingered the edge of the tattoo on the bend of his arm and sucked a breath between his clenched teeth. Still sore from the last hit. The ink made it hard to tell if the skin was red or bruised but, did it really matter? It felt like it had been scalded, the quintessential sunburn.

  The sensation made him hesitate. It wasn't just magic. Wasn't just charms and chants and wicked cool light shows. This shit did physical things to him, left a mark. It was one thing to cut a thumb when a little blood was needed, but this kind of magic was different. It came from within and hurt him on its way out. One of these days he might just blow a hole in his arm.

  The thought was almost enough to make him put the wand away.

  Almost.

  He popped off the cap with his thumb before stowing it. Wasn't like the wand was sharp, or full of ink or anything. The cap was simply to keep the end clean. Exorcism was dirty work. The last thing he needed was to get ectoplasm or demon goo on it. Who knew what would happen if a splash of evil got on the live end of a wand? Or if he tried to use it afterward?

  Genuine shudders ran down his neck, tumbling between his shoulders. It would be like sharing a needle with every addict in Hell. Not a chance he wanted to take.

  The music swelled as the door swung open and someone staggered in, making a lot of noise for a simple trip to the urinal. He sighed. The environment wouldn't improve any time soon. And this was long overdue. He'd been putting it off and putting it off. Couldn't put it off any more, not if he wanted to think straight tonight.

  His mind wandered back over the past few weeks. He had managed to distract himself with a new charm he'd picked up near Philadelphia. The spell required to prime it was written entirely in German and those umlauts were a real pain for a Boston mouth to get out. He'd had to practice the pronunciations for four days before he was brave enough to attempt the actual chant. The charm itself was loads of fun, though, and well worth both the effort and the six hours he spent in the police station explaining his way out of a ridiculously simple misunderstanding.

  But the distraction couldn't last forever. Eventually, the signs started creeping in. Muscle aches he couldn't explain. Anxiety over losing his magical edge. That damn yawning—

  And an itch in his brain that he couldn't scratch because it wasn't physical. That part was completely mental. A sign that he wasn't keeping his core happy. His magical core. The place where magic made complete sense, where it sparked and swelled and flooded his system. When his core went unjuiced, he felt the repercussions all over, on every level, in every one of his senses.

  He rubbed his hand over his eyes, picky and dry and tired. Just a little wand hit. He didn't have to go overboard. Just one little tap. An itty bitty buzz. He didn't need more than that. Just enough to take the edge off so he could think straight again and get that damn job done.

  He gripped the wand between his thumb and index finger as if weighing a dart. Exhaling through pursed lips, he positioned the wand over the center of the tattoo. Lowered it. Slowly. If he lined it up just right, he'd hit the metaphysical center of the rune and more or less mainline it. Wouldn't need more than a touch to give him what he needed. Didn't even need to supercharge the tattoo with the chant befor
ehand. This was just a sip.

  Slowly.

  Contact. His breath leaked out in a low groan as the wand pressed against his flesh. That sunburn. The touch of wood on flesh was otherwise unremarkable for just the briefest moment.

  Then the rune recognized the contact for what it really was.

  A fiery light zipped around the outer edge, bright enough for retina burn, before the entire tattoo pulsed with a sullen throb of light.

  And then it lit him up—

  Simon's head snapped back. Eyes wide, irises ghosted grey, pupils like pinpricks. The magic flash-fired through him, scalding him, soothing him, seducing him, sating him. Pain and pleasure, pins and needles everywhere. Like swimming in sex made of broken glass. The universe exploded behind his eyes and he saw it all, could smell it, taste it—

  And then it was gone.

  The restroom returned. He was on his knees, face smooshed up against the cold metal of the stall door. Hand clutched around the wand so tight his nails bit into his palms. Taste of blood in his mouth.

  The magic had completely faded but not before he'd caught a glimpse of what he needed to see. He replayed every detail over and over, trying to hold onto the visuals, and struggled to memorize the vision before it slipped away like an opium dream.

  Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he saw the rusty smear of blood. He must have bit his tongue when he hit the door. And he could taste what could only be described as toilet stall door. Jesus. Found the one flavor nobody would ever try to sell for vape juice. His lucky day.

  Thank God this was a bar. At least he could sterilize his mouth with a shot or two.

  He pushed himself upright and spit into the toilet before flushing it with his foot. The sudden change in position was too much. His head swam, his legs wobbled, his vision going a little white around the edges until his blood caught up with him.

  He secured his wand under his wristwatch band. The tat was quiet, his insides buzzing pleasantly, his core happy again. With both hands, he patted down his pockets, taking a quick inventory. Okay. Deep breath...

  Big mistake. He gagged, the acrid odor made him choke. Not like a janitor had been in to mop the floor while he'd been wand hit tripping.

  He shouldered open the door and shuffled to the filthy sink, running the water. Ice cold. Mmm. He ran his hands under the stream before rubbing his face, his hair. The cold gave him some real contact with the world, a sense of crisp cleanliness.

  Just a ruse. Inside, he was as filthy as the floor upon which he'd been kneeling.

  Should have bothered him that he had little regret. Why bother with regret when he knew he would do it all over again, as soon as the craving became too much to ignore?

  He stared at himself in the mirror, dark eyes made darker by the bruises beneath them, the lousy light overhead. Looked like a death mask.

  One day, he'd wear a real one. But not today.

  Today, he had a job to do. A life to save. This bottom-feeding was only a pit-stop.

  Chiara. He had to find her. And thanks to this little something-something, he not only had a clear head—he had another clue. A face to find. A face that would lead him to her.

  With that tiny fragment of vision still burning in his mind, he plugged a cigarette into his mouth and strode out of the restroom, renewed and refueled.

  And revolted, still. He'd have to chew this cigarette if he wanted to get the taste out of his mouth. He made a straight line for the bar. Double vodka. Anything less would fail to banish that evil on his tongue.

  Simon clambered up the last steps of the fire escape and swung his legs over the low cement wall rimming the roof of the bar. From here, he could see just about all the neighborhood, the lights of Boston Harbor off in the distance, the last signs of life before the blackness of the lightless sea.

  Traffic sounds were muted and innocuous. Even sounds of people coming and going on the streets below him were gentled. Laughter, shouts of greeting. The distance and the steady breeze from the water washed out all the hard edges. From up here, it was easy for a guy to be fooled into thinking there was peace on earth.

  Not this guy.

  Simon sucked down the last of his smoke, grinding the butt beneath his foot. Holding his scrying lens up to his left eye, he peered down over the edge at the people milling around below. Nothing. Further off, the streets nearby. Still nothing. Scanning in an ever-widening sweep, he scrutinized every window, every street, every sidewalk.

  Show me that glow. Tell me he's out there. That face he saw in his wand hit-induced vision. He had to be close. A face that Irish had no business being anywhere but Boston.

  "Nothing, Simon." A mellow voice sounded from behind him, carried easily through the light wind. "This city is quiet tonight. You'll not find anyone to fight this evening."

  "I will, if I look hard enough." Turning, he saw Mack standing a few yards behind him, looking as enigmatic as ever. Then again, he was an angel. "Always someone worth fighting."

  "Yes, if you include yourself in the mix. Why do you continue doing this to yourself?"

  Simon scowled. "You make it sound like I'm abusing myself."

  Lifting an eyebrow, Mack tilted his head, flicking his gaze to Simon's arm. "Are you not?"

  "No." Simon crossed his arms. "I'm not. Look, Mack, I know you don't get the whole ‘humans and their base needs' thing but this isn't abuse."

  "What do you call it?"

  "Sustenance," he said firmly, as if he believed it. "A necessity. It keeps me going."

  "Like your nicotine?"

  "Yep." Simon tugged his pack out of his inside pocket and lifted it in a salute to the angel. "Just like it. This is me. This is my baseline. If I don't keep the baseline stable, I can't function. And I need to function."

  He hunched and ducked to block the wind, cupping his hand around the lighter as he lit his smoke. Drawing deep, he relished the scrape of smoke in his throat, the quick buzz in his limbs, the blueish plume he exhaled into the wind. Three cheers for oral fixations. "And I need you to function, too, bro. News?"

  "Not since last week's Ladder," Mack said. "There has been no new development."

  "And even that wasn't a ton of help. You played a re-run. What good is that?"

  The angel looked affronted. "A prophesy from the Metatron is no less important simply by being repeated. If anything, it reinforces the importance of the message."

  Simon groaned. Wasn't like the prophesy had been very useful the first time around. "Okay. So. Light's scion, tarnished…Love's betrayer…A crushing blow will deliver to the lone-heart, the mortal savior of souls. Nothing new at all? Not even like maybe a point in the right direction?"

  "Point? To where would we point? The answer is inside you."

  "Uck. It's really not." Simon sighed, stowing the lens. "If it was, she'd be home."

  "Perhaps you waste valuable time looking for that woman."

  Simon eyed him. "Weren't you the one who wanted me to think that prophesy was all about her in the first place?"

  Mack shifted his gaze away, over the neutral cityscape.

  "Uh, huh. Right." Simon nodded with aggravated vigor. "So if the Metatron is still yelling about her, then she must be important."

  "Simon—"

  "No, sir. You can't back-pedal, Mack. And you can't be biased, either. I know you don't like her. But just remember one thing—the reason you don't like her is a reason that comes from no fault of hers."

  "I cannot like or dislike anyone. Personal preference is an expression of freewill."

  "But you do, by trying to herd me in the direction you interpret as the correct direction." Simon inhaled deeply on his cigarette, exhaling a long cloud that streaked away on the breeze. "I'm not some moron apprentice with no experience. She's better than you give her credit for."

  He walked to the edge and crouched down, lipping his cigarette. Turning his head, he spoke over his shoulder. "She saved my ass, Mack. It's only fair that I save hers."

  The angel l
eaned to put a hand on his shoulder. "Maybe she is not in need of saving."

  Simon huffed a laugh, a hard sound of disbelief. Standing, he chucked the smoldering butt over the side. "Well, maybe I still am, and she's the only one who can do it. Either way. I'm going to find her." Turning, he folded his arms. "And I need you. You still in?"

  "I cannot fathom why I should not be."

  "Good. Because I got a clue. A face. I don't know who it is, but they know something. That face is the person who stands between me and her."

  "All right." Mack folded his hands below his abdomen. "Tell me about this face."

  "Eh." Simon scratched his head. "That's the tricky part. I didn't exactly—see it. For real. It was a vision."

  "A vision?" For an angel, Mack did doubt surprisingly well.

  "Yeah." He couldn't sound anything other than sheepish. "You know. A vision."

  The angel shrugged, dismissing the notion. "You do not have visions, Simon."

  "I do." Christ, it was hard to not feel five years old when Mack used that tone. Sometimes he pushed the whole child of God thing a little too far. Then again, who knew just how old Mack was? Did angels have birthdays? "Sometimes. Magically-induced visions."

  "Your…tattoo?" Mack sniffed. "A drug-induced hallucination."

  "No. This was actually a thing. I'm not creative enough to make this shit up."

  Clearly having had enough of human shortcomings, Mack took a deep breath. His eyes flashed gold as he invoked the power of his influence. "Explain."

  Simon felt the angelic touch on his psyche. How did a guy explain it? The vision was a flash flood of omnipotence. In that moment he'd seen all, heard all, known all. A human brain couldn't hold on to all that, no matter how sustained that moment might be. But that one image, that one face, had jumped out of the flood like a breeching whale, huge and important. Nothing else mattered except that one sudden appearance.

  The face was just a face. Not remarkable enough to describe, other than he'd recognize it when he saw it. It was what came with the face.