Night's End: Cult of the Endless Night, #3

Prologue

Red light bathed the basement, a space far greater than the house built above it. The cold, clammy stone hallways formed a labyrinth of passages that weaved over and across one another seemingly at random.

Doors lined the halls in a mishmash of material and styles. None indicated what might be hidden on the other side and all of them were locked.

Occasional sounds could be heard from behind them as the man stalked past. Sometimes it was nothing more than a whisper, words too faint to make out. Other times, scratching or tapping accompanied the voice. The voices were as varied as the doors. Curses and threats, pleas for help, demands to be released. The man ignored them all.

One door, removed from the others, was carved with runes and symbols, scratched hastily into the heavy iron panels with the point of a knife. The voice behind that door was quiet, and it knew the man’s name. He ignored it like he ignored the others.

The air in the dungeon was cold and damp. It must have smelled musty, though the man could no longer discern such a thing. Many of his senses were keen, but smell was not among them.

He could sense something else in the air. In another life, he might have described it as electricity, an energy that seemed to pulse in the walls. Now he knew it to be something else entirely. Something natural yet unknown to most of the living world. It was the sort of energy that floated on the air when death was near. When ghosts were near.

The man was aware of the sort of place he was in, and he had a good sense of what existed behind most of the locked doors. He was, after all, employed by the owner of the house.

His destination was deep into the labyrinth, far from the elevator that led to the dank, nightmarish space. Far past where any normal person would have stopped and turned back in fear. It was, he supposed, a good thing that he was not normal.

Something banged against the tinted glass of a cell on the man’s left and he stopped to look into the murk. He could not see what was housed within, not even with his improved senses. There was a mist beyond the door. A spirit mist that clung to whatever ghost was imprisoned there. Maybe the mist was the ghost itself, the man didn’t know.

He watched the occasional shadow that moved within it, teasing at whatever terror was held there, and felt a familiar craving.

Reaching into his breast pocket, the man retrieved a pack of cigarettes and lifted one to his lips. He absently lifted a hand and fire sparked to life from nowhere, lighting the tip of the cigarette. He inhaled deeply and then blew smoke at the glass door. The thing within slammed the glass again, angry this time, and the man chuckled.

He left it behind as he continued his journey. Straight down this hall, left down that, then right and right again. Sometimes a hall would cross itself but still somehow led to a new destination if he followed it long enough. It was a quirk of haunted places that he had learned about some time ago. A haunted room could have one door that would open into a dozen different places if the house wanted it that way. It was best just to go where the house wanted you to go, he knew. It made things easier.

Finally, the familiar curve appeared before him, red light casting shadows and glistening off the damp walls. He took the bend in the hallway and walked the last few paces to the lone, steel door. He reached out and then stopped, hovering just inches from the door.

The air felt thick against his fingers. The more he pushed, the more it pushed back. He pushed some more, but he could not touch the door. He lowered his hand and looked up.

Opposite the red light a small, black camera was mounted on a brick. There were no lights, no sign that the camera was being monitored, but it was. He knew it was.

The man pulled the cigarette from his lips and flicked it down the hall. It was gone before it hit the floor. He raised his hand and waved it dramatically in front of the camera.

There was a pause that went on far too long before a buzz ran through the door’s locking mechanism. Then the door swung open and the man looked into the room.

A single candle lit the space inside, burning from atop a small desk. The man entered, his ire rising as he took in the surrounding. It was a small, uncomfortable prison cell. A cot on one side, a chair by the desk, and a stained porcelain toilet that was cracked and leaky set against the wall.

Chains rattled as the woman at the desk set down the book she had been reading and stood. The two stared at each other in silence for a heartbeat before she ran to him, dragging the loud, cumbersome chain with her, and wrapped her arms around him.

You made it, she said, her face pressed into the crook of his neck. He always made it. But there was always a chance he wouldn’t.

He held her tightly, feeling the pressure of her arms and the sense of the space her body occupied, but not really feeling her. Not her warmth or the softness of her skin. Not the way he used to. That wasn’t a thing he could do anymore, for all the skills he had.

Are you okay? he asked. He didn’t need to ask her questions, and she didn’t need to ask him, but they chose to interact that way. To be normal, like other people. He could have read her mind. It was a skill he’d had in life. And now, during death.

What do you think? Jillian asked back. Normally, Thomas Coulson would have traded sarcastic jibes with her. But things were different now. Not that he had lost a taste for sarcasm. It just seemed wrong when she was being held in a dungeon.

Jillian Weston and Thomas Coulson had once been psychic investigators. Coulson’s power was far greater than hers, but they complemented each other nicely. Jillian had a way of drawing information from others that could make her an expert in any field in minutes. No one could slip so easily into the persona of a doctor, an engineer, a pilot, or anything else the way she could.

Coulson’s powers lay elsewhere. He could read minds, but that was only the beginning. His mind could alter a person’s reality, make them see or hear whatever he wanted. He could move objects, start fires, and more. But that was in the past.

When Coulson died, he forced himself to stay. His abilities pulled a form together. He looked, sounded, and even felt like a living, breathing man. But he could walk among the living completely undetected, like a regular ghost.

Maintaining the form had greatly diminished his psychic abilities. But that didn’t mean he was useless. Especially to people who traded in the dead.

What’s happening? Is it over? Jillian asked, pulling away from him. He shook his head and sighed.

Not yet. Soon, I hope.

What are they asking you to do now? she demanded.

He was reluctant to tell her. He knew she wouldn’t approve. She hadn’t approved of any of it.

I’m doing what I have to do, he explained. I’m just harvesting ghosts right now. Tracking, capturing, and bringing them back. It’s mundane. It’s busy work. I can’t be hurt, but they want a lot of them. There’s no other way to get you out of here.

There’s always another way, she said, a hint of anger in her voice.

Coulson didn’t want to have this conversation again.

Like what, Jillian? They will kill you. I’ve looked into the man’s mind. He’s not lying. You’ll be dead before I can work out a way to undo all this.

Why does it have to be you? she said. You know better. You don’t have to be some lone hero. We have friends out there!

There’s no one, he insisted. And there truly was no one he could trust to help. No one with the strength to deal with the dangers he faced.

Vincent, Jillian said.

I cannot find Vincent Donnelly, Coulson explained. The man had been a friend of sorts. They had met and helped him on a quest that saved reality. And he was powerful beyond imagination. But when their job was done, he left to find himself and Coulson could not pick up his trail.

Stanley, then. Hell, get Dezzy. You don’t need to be alone in this.

They will kill you, he repeated.

And what about you? They’re turning you into a lapdog that comes at their beck and call. You’re not a hitman, Tom. You’re not a thug.

The words made him bristle, only because of the lie within. He did not want to be a hitman or a thug. But he was. That was what they were using him for.

Just promise you won’t hurt anyone, Jillian said. Not for me.

He stared at her and said nothing. He could sense the anger rising in her. He never invaded her thoughts, never read her mind without permission. But emotion was hard not to sense. It flowed and buffeted against him.

You already have, she said.

No more than I needed to.

What does that even mean?

No one died. Not by my hand.

But they died.

His eyes avoided hers. It’s complicated. This whole thing is vastly complicated.

Tom, I’m not an idiot.

She was not, and he felt bad for making her think that’s what he was implying. He didn’t want to be involved, but what choice was there? If he didn’t help the Endless Night, they would kill Jillian.

It’s Shane Ryan, he said. He doesn’t give up. He keeps poking the hornet’s nest.

And they keep sending you.

I told them it’s not going to work. But they’re stupid. They’re arrogant. And they think I’m invincible.

Aren’t you? Jillian asked. If you have to square off against Shane Ryan to end this—

He sighed loudly.

Ryan can’t hurt me, he said. He’d die trying.

Chapter 1: Digging Up Graves

Shane’s anger simmered. Since discovering that the house on Berkley Street had been invaded and that someone had stolen Carl’s bones, he had wrestled with a rage he had not experienced in a long time.

That something could get into the house, take the remains of his friend, and get out without being harmed should have made him nervous. He should have been terrified. Thaddeus and Eloise had made it clear that the thing looked like a man but was more powerful than any spirit. Their attacks were useless against the phantom thief. But it just made him angry.

The Endless Night kept forcing his hand again and again. They could have dropped it, called it even, and went on with their business. Shane was more than willing to ignore the group if they stayed out of his way and had made it clear several times what would happen if they didn’t leave well enough alone. And still, they persisted.

Arthur Hempstead’s house had burned to the ground and the majority of the ghosts he’d collected, ones the rest of his cult were so desperate to make their own, were gone now. Two were destroyed fighting Shane, and three more besides. Plus, he’d freed the ghost called Rabbit.

One of their most prominent members was dead, their supplier and the cemetery where the spirits were stored had been destroyed. Still, they persisted.

Shane had been doing his friend, James Moran, a favor when he crossed paths with the cult. They threatened his life and those he knew. Then they invaded his privacy and took Carl.

Now, everyone would die. The group had proven itself too dangerous and too unhinged. He didn’t care if every millionaire in the country, every politician and business executive with some sway over how regular people lived their lives was involved. He was going to rip them out, root and stem.

He left the house, warning the remaining ghosts to stay out of sight if anyone returned. He’d barely been home for a half-hour. He would rest later, or die finishing things. He was getting close to not caring about how it played out, as long as he took the Endless Night down with him.

After talking with Thaddeus and Eloise, Shane coaxed the triplets out of hiding. The Davis sisters would have been more level-headed in their assessment of what had happened, he thought. That was his hope.

I don’t know what it was, Daphne had said as her sisters echoed the sentiment.

It wasn’t a ghost.

But it wasn’t a man.

It was both somehow. Does that make sense?

No, Shane answered. You’re either dead or you’re not.

Daphne, Daisy, and Dora shook their heads as one.

Not this man. He was both.

I don’t know what that means, Shane said. If he was going to track and fight it, he needed at least some idea of what he was dealing with.

He looked like a man. He felt like a ghost, Daisy said.

But he was untouchable, Dora added.

Like iron, almost. Like he was a ghost made of iron, Daphne suggested. The other sisters nodded, and Shane was no closer to understanding anything about what had invaded his home.

What did it look like? Shane asked. The sisters exchanged unsure glances.

A man, Daphne said.

Handsome, Dora said at the same time.

But average, Daisy added. Average height. Brown hair. Normal face.

Shane didn’t have the time to puzzle out a clear or helpful answer. He told them to watch over the kids and the house, then left. He needed time to clear his head and plan his next steps. More than that, he needed to find James Moran.

James had gone underground after their last meeting. But the situation had changed, and if nothing else, Shane needed to warn him about what was happening. And his old friend might have some light to shed on this ghost. Someone had to know what the hell the Endless Night had sent after him.

He was willing to accept the description he’d been given at face value. There was something different out there. Neither a living man nor a ghost. Something unusual that was more powerful than the others. But if it was working for the Endless Night, then it had to be controllable. It was following directions or being led somehow. There had to be some vulnerability. There was always a vulnerability.

James Moran was the likeliest person he could think of to know something about such a being. And if he didn’t know directly, he’d know someone who did. Shane hoped so, at least. He had never heard of anything remotely like whatever had broken into his home, a thing no one even had a name for. Whatever it was, it was dangerous. And he needed to destroy it.

Searching for James had the potential to be a chore that Shane had no time for. If the man wanted to disappear from the face of the earth, then surely, he had the means to do so. Shane needed to draw him out.

The drive to James’ shop went faster than usual. Shane usually maintained caution and discretion in his day-to-day work. There was no time for such things today. He pushed his car, still struggling from the damage it had received on Hempstead’s property, well past the speed limit.

No police stopped him, and it was just as well. He didn’t know if he had the patience to be civil with law enforcement.

When Shane reached the shop, it was closed as he’d expected. Out front, a familiar spirit leaned against the wall, haunting the area in the laziest way possible.

Has he been here recently? Shane asked, leaving his car in the space directly in front of the store. The ghost, a young man who looked like any teenager loitering about, looked at Shane in confusion.

What?

When was James here last?

Man— the ghost began, cut short when Shane smacked him on the head. He stumbled, holding the side of his face, and glared at Shane. What the hell?

Tell me when he was here last or I’ll take off one of your fingers.

The ghost saw Shane wasn’t making empty threats and held up his hands passively.

It’s been a couple of days! I think? Time is always fuzzy for me. But some guys stopped by a few times, and a couple of customers tried the door, but no one’s been inside.

What guys? Shane asked.

Guys, man. Rich-looking guys. They were talking about tracking down Mr. Moran.

What did they say?

They said, ‘We need to track Moran down.’ What the hell do you think they said?

Shane smacked the ghost again, and he cried out, holding his cheek.

Anything else? Something that seemed like a man and a ghost at the same time?

What the hell does that mean?

Another smack and Shane’s hand was tingling slightly from the cold. The ghost looked thoroughly aggrieved and was cowering against the wall of the shop.

I don’t even know what you’re saying. No, there was no one like that.

I need you to open the door, Shane told the ghost. He stared at Shane, still holding his cheek, and looked baffled.

He’s not here.

We’ve established that. Open the door, Shane demanded, readying his hand again. The ghost held up his hands once more.

Geez, man, come on. I can’t do that. Mr. Moran won’t like it if I let people in.

I’m going to remove your head if you don’t, Shane countered. He