RAYMOND CRUZ: TRICKSTER DEMON

 Raymond Cruz: Trickster Demon

Chapter 18

May 9, 2024— 8:37pm. It is moments before dark in the stretching plains of rural England when the young Theologian named Shane parks his tiny beaten-up bug across the only road from an old cottage.  

There is electricity in the air but no storm clouds.  

Shane’s boots sink into the damp earth as he trudges across the field, the long grass whispering against his trousers like unseen fingers tugging him back. The old Gypsy’s cottage looms ahead, its crooked chimney belching smoke that curls into the bruised twilight sky. Behind it, a lone oak stands sentinel, its gnarled branches clawing at the clouds. Beneath it, a withered figure hunches on a rusted bench, murmuring to the wind.  

The Gypsy’s mother.  

Shane swallows hard. Her milky eyes are fixed on nothing, her lips moving in a ceaseless, breathless chant. He catches only fragments—“bind it, blind it, break it"—before the cottage door creaks open.  

“Oi, city boy. You just gonna stand there gawping, or you coming in?”  

The voice is rough, thick with an accent that curls around the edges like old parchment. The man in the doorway is tall, his face a map of scars and sun-leathered skin. His name is Bartholomew Grue, though everyone who knows better calls him Ghostkiller Grue.  

Shane forces a smile. “Right. Sorry. Just… admiring the scenery.”  

Grue snorts. “Aye, real picturesque, innit? Now get in ‘fore the other things out here take an interest.”  

Inside, the cottage smells of herbs, gunpowder, and something faintly rancid. The walls are lined with jars of murky liquids, yellowed bones, and rusted blades. A black cat with one eye watches Shane from the hearth, its tail flicking like a metronome counting down to something dreadful.  

Grue drops into a creaking chair and nods at Shane. “So. You’re the bloke what’s been sniffing around after Vespertilio, eh?”  

Shane’s throat tightens. “You’ve heard of it?”  

“Course I bloody have,” Grue scoffs. “Demon lords don’t exactly pop up for tea and biscuits every Sunday.” He leans forward, his knuckles cracking. “But you’re barking up the wrong crypt, mate. That thing ain’t here.”  

Shane frowns. “But my research—”  

“—is bollocks,” Grue finishes. “Vespertilio’s locked in a crystal prism, last I heard. Some tosser smuggled it across the pond. Probably sittin’ in some rich git’s private collection now, gathering dust in North America.”  

A cold weight settles in Shane’s gut. “Then… what’s in the cellar?”  

The room goes very still. Even the cat stops blinking.  

Grue’s smile is a knife-slash. “Somethin’ else.”  

A sound drifts up through the floorboards then—high, giggling, childish. Shane’s blood turns to ice. “Are those… kids?”  

Grue’s expression darkens. “No. That’s just what it wants you to hear.”  

Outside, the old woman’s chanting grows louder, more frantic.  

Shane’s hands tremble. “You’re keeping a demon down there?”  

“Not keepin’,” Grue corrects. “Holding. Like a bloody grenade with the pin half-out.” He rubs his face. “This one’s… contagious. You look at it wrong, it gets in you. Spreads like a sickness. Only reason it ain’t painted the countryside red is ‘cause we’ve been keeping it distracted.”  

Shane’s gaze flicks to the floor. The laughter rises again, now edged with something wet and gurgling.  

“Right,” Shane whispers. “So, Vespertilio’s in North America. Any chance someone over there could track it?”  

Grue’s grin returns, slow and knowing. “You know someone, don’tcha?”  

Shane hesitates. “There’s a hunter. Raymond Cruz.”  

The name hangs in the air like a struck bell.  

Grue’s eyebrows climb. “Cruz? Blimey. You don’t aim small, do ya?” He whistles low. “That man’s got a reputation even demons whisper about.”  

Shane leans in. “You think he could find the prism?”  

Grue’s grin fades. “If anyone could, it’s him. But mate…” His voice drops. “You ever met Cruz?”  

Shane shakes his head.  

Grue chuckles darkly. “Then pray you never have to.”  

A sudden thud shakes the floor. Then another. And another.  

Grue’s face drains of color. “Oh, bollocks.”  

The laughter from below twists into a screech. The walls tremble. The cat bolts.  

“It heard us,” Grue hisses. “Talking about it—fed it.” He lunges for a shotgun above the mantle. “Run.”  

Shane doesn’t need telling twice. He scrambles for the door just as the cellar hatch splinters open behind him. A stench like rotting meat and burnt hair floods the room.  

Grue cocks the shotgun. “GO!”  

Shane makes it three steps before the first hand erupts from the cellar—long, spindly fingers, blackened at the tips like they’ve been dipped in tar. They curl around the floorboards, nails digging deep, hauling up the rest of the thing behind it.  

Grue doesn’t hesitate. He fires.  

The blast tears through the demon’s shoulder, spraying black ichor across the walls. It shrieks—a sound like a hundred children screaming through broken teeth—but it doesn’t stop. It pulls itself free, its body unfolding like a nightmare origami.  

It is tall. Too tall. Its limbs stretch and crack as it rises, its spine a jagged ridge beneath skin that pulses with something alive beneath. Its face is a shifting mockery of human features—one moment a grinning child, the next a gaping maw of needle-thin teeth.  

“Oh, you ugly bastard,” Grue spats, racking another shell.  

The demon lunges.  

Grue fires again, this time taking off half its jaw. The thing reels, black blood spattering the floor in thick, writhing droplets. But then—impossibly—the wound knits itself back together, flesh bubbling like tar over a flame.  

“Shane!” Grue roars. “If you’re still here, I’ll fucking kill you myself!”  

Shane bolts for the door, but the demon is faster. A whip-like arm lashes out, snagging his ankle. He hits the floor hard, his vision swimming as the thing yanks him backward.  

Grue is there in an instant. He brings the shotgun down like a club, smashing the demon’s wrist. Bones snap—but so does the stock of the gun. The demon howls, its grip loosening just enough for Shane to kick free.  

“Out! Now!” Grue bellows, tossing Shane a rusted knife from his belt.  

Shane doesn’t think. He runs. Behind him, Grue grapples with the thing, his massive hands locked around its throat. For a second, it almost looks like he’s winning.  

Then the demon laughs.  

Its mouth splits open, wider than any human’s should, and it bites down on Grue’s forearm. Bones crunch. Blood sprays. Grue roars, but he doesn’t let go. Instead, he headbutts the thing, his forehead splitting its nose in a burst of black ooze.  

The demon staggers. Grue seizes the moment, driving his knee into its gut. It doubles over—just enough for him to grab a rusted iron poker from the hearth and ram it through the thing’s chest.  

The demon shrieks, thrashing, but Grue holds fast, twisting the metal deeper. “That’s right, you filth,” he snarls. “Hurts, don’t it?”  

For a heartbeat, Shane thinks it’s over.  

Then the demon smiles. And giggles. It sounds like the creepiest child Shane has ever heard. They never told him of these things when he mastered Theology in university. They hinted at them when he was introduced to the Demon-hunting world. But none of it could ever prepare him for the actual horror. These are the sights and sounds you can only experience on the field.  

The demon’s claws shoot up, clamping around Grue’s head. There is a wet pop—like a cork being pulled from a bottle—and then Grue’s eye slides free from its socket, dangling by a thread of sinew.  

Shane retches.  

Grue doesn’t scream. He growls. With his one remaining eye blazing, he spits in the demon’s face and slams his forehead into it again.  

The demon reels—but so does Grue. His legs buckle. Blood pours from his ruined eye, his broken nose, his shredded arm.  

The demon recovers first.  

It grabs Grue by the throat and lifts him off the ground. Then, with a wet rip, it tears out his voice box.  

Grue’s mouth opens in a silent scream.  

The demon eats it.  

Shane’s legs move before his brain can catch up. He is out the door, sprinting across the field, the old woman’s chanting now a wail of despair. Behind him, the cottage shudders. Wood splinters. Glass explodes.  

And then—silence.  

Shane doesn’t stop. He doesn’t look back. He runs until his lungs burn, until the cottage is a speck in the distance.  

Only then does he dare to glance over his shoulder.  

The oak tree stands alone now. The bench is empty.  

And from the ruins of the cottage, something watches him.  

Licking its lips.  

Waiting.  

————

Chapter 41

9:30pm. The steering wheel vibrates under Raymond’s grip as he sits parked outside the dimly lit diner, the engine still running. The low hum of the car’s motor is the only steady thing in the night, a mechanical heartbeat beneath the chaos unfolding in his skull. His phone is connected to the car, the voice on the other end a rasping, unstable thing—like a man clinging to the edge of sanity by his fingernails.  

“You don’t understand, Cruz," Shane hisses, his breath hitching between words. “Grue wasn’t just infected. He was rewritten. The demon didn’t possess him—it unmade him. Like erasing a sentence and writing something new in its place."

Raymond’s knuckles whiten. The leather of the steering wheel creaks under his tightening grip. "You’re saying it wasn’t possession. It was replacement.”

“Yes! No! I don’t—" Shane’s voice cracks. “It’s in my head now too. I can feel it. Like ink in water. Spreading."

A cold weight settles in Raymond’s gut. He’s heard this tone before—the fraying voice of men who’ve stared too long into the abyss. But Shane isn’t some rookie. He’s a theologian, a demon hunter with credentials. If he’s breaking, something is wrong. 

"Shane, listen to me. Where are you? I can—"  

“You can’t help me!" Shane’s laugh is a wet, broken sound. "You think your little injections will fix this? It’s not a virus, Cruz. It’s an idea. And ideas don’t die."

The line crackles. Raymond’s vision blurs for a second, a sudden pressure building behind his eyes. He blinks, and for a fraction of a second, the diner’s neon sign flickers—not in reality, but in his perception of it, like a skipped film frame.  

“You feel that?" Shane whispers. “That’s it. Learning you."

Raymond’s breath hitches. His fingers tremble against the phone. "What the hell did you just do to me?"  

“Nothing. It’s just... louder now. Between us." A pause. "Tell me, Cruz—when was the last time you really looked at your wife?"

The question hits like a sucker punch. Karina’s face flashes in his mind—her tear-streaked cheeks, the way she’d flinched when he’d raised his voice that morning. "I don’t know who you are anymore." 

He swallows hard. "This conversation’s over."  

"Is it? Or is she?" Shane’s voice drops to a whisper. "Check your phone, mate."  

The call ends.  

Raymond stares at the screen, his pulse thudding in his ears. He swipes to his contacts, taps Karina’s name. The call doesn’t even ring. Just a flat, automated message:  

"The number you have dialed is not in service.”  

His stomach drops.  

That isn’t possible. Karina would never block him. Not even in a million years. Not completely. Not like this. Even at their worst, she always left a line open.  

He tries again. Same result. The number isn’t in service.

The diner’s neon buzzes, the red glow bleeding across the dashboard. Raymond’s reflection in the rearview mirror looks wrong—his eyes too shadowed, his mouth too sharp. He leans closer, and for a heartbeat, his reflection smiles without him.  

He jerks back.  

"Jesus," he breathes.  

The radio, silent until now, crackles to life. A preacher’s voice booms through the static: "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world—" 

Raymond slams the power button. Silence falls.  

Outside, a streetlight flickers.  

He’s still staring at it when his phone buzzes—a text from an unknown number:  

‘She’s better off without you.’ Raymond mouths the words.

“Better off—what? Who is this crazy British guy?”  

He wonders if Shane is a figment of his imagination, a hallucination. But, no—everything checks out. Shane’s credentials are solid, even verified through Al.   

Raymond exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. The pressure behind his eyes hasn’t faded. If anything, it’s worse—a dull, insistent throb, like something pressing against the inside of his skull.  

He glances at the diner. The flickering neon sign reads "EAT", but for a second, letters add themselves in his vision—"DEATH".  

He blinks. It’s normal again.  

What the hell is happening to me?

His phone buzzes again. Another text:  

‘You should go inside.’

Raymond’s fingers tighten around the device. He doesn’t recognize the number, but the messages are coming through as if they’re part of an existing conversation.  

He types back:  

‘Who is this?’

The reply is immediate:  

‘You already know.’

A chill runs down his spine.  

The diner’s door creaks open. A waitress steps out, lighting a cigarette. She doesn’t look at him, but he feels her presence like a weight.  

Raymond’s phone buzzes again.  

‘She can see you.’

His breath catches. The waitress exhales smoke, then turns her head—slowly—toward his car.  

Her eyes are black.  

Not dark. Not shadowed. Black. Like ink spilled into the sockets.  

Raymond’s heart hammers. He throws the car into drive and peels away from the curb.  The streetlights flicker as he speeds down the empty road. His phone keeps buzzing, but he doesn’t look.  His reflection in the rearview mirror grins again.  He slams his fist against the glass. "Stop it!"  

The radio crackles back on.  

“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light."

Raymond punches the dashboard. The radio cuts out.  

His phone rings.  

He hesitates, then answers.  

"What do you want?”

Silence. Then—  

“You."

The voice isn’t Shane’s.  

It’s his own.  

Raymond’s blood turns to ice.  

The call drops.  

Ahead, the road stretches into darkness.  

And the ink keeps spreading.

10:11pm. The phone is slick in Raymond’s palm, his fingers trembling as he redials Shane’s number. It rings once—twice—before the line clicks open.  

"You’re still there." Shane’s voice is a frayed wire, sparking with static.  

"Who the hell are you?" Raymond snaps. "Credentials. Now."  

A wet, rattling laugh. "You think paperwork matters here? Fine. Vatican Archives, Casefile 7-66. The Budapest Incident. Ask Al—he’ll tell you. He was happy to tell you about my other credentials, wasn’t he? Ask him again about that.”

Raymond’s jaw clenches. He knows the Budapest Incident. A possessed cardinal, an entire chapel drenched in blood. Classified. Only three people outside the Church had access to those files—and Shane wasn’t one of them.  

"That’s bullshit. Those records were sealed."  

"So was Grue’s fate. Until it wasn’t." Shane’s breathing hitches, like a man drowning in open air. "You want proof? Check your email." 

Raymond’s phone pings—an attachment from an encrypted server. A photograph loads in grainy black-and-white: a man strapped to a chair, his mouth sewn shut with thick, black thread. The eyes are wrong. Too wide. Too knowing. 

Grue.  

But Grue had died in Prague, clean—a bullet through the skull. This photo was dated more recently than that.

Raymond’s stomach lurches. "This is doctored."  

"Is it?" Shane’s voice splinters. "Look closer."

The image flickers. For a heartbeat, the stitches on Grue’s lips move, squirming like worms.  

Raymond’s vision blurs. The pressure behind his eyes swells, a hot needle driving into his brain. He gasps—  

Knock. Knock. Knock. 

A flashlight beam cuts through the windshield. Raymond jerks back, nearly dropping the phone. A cop leans down, his face half-lit by the streetlights.  

"Sir? You alright in there?"  

Raymond glares, rolling the window down an inch. "I’m fine."  

The cop’s eyebrow lifts. "You’ve been sitting here ten minutes. Engine running, talking to yourself."  

"I’m on a call."  

"Uh-huh." The cop’s flashlight sweeps over the empty passenger seat. "This is a no-stopping zone. You’re blocking the hydrant."  

Raymond’s face burns. He hadn’t even noticed the faded red curb.  

The cop taps the roof of the car. "Move along, sir."  

He slams the gearshift into drive, tires screeching as he pulls away. In the rearview, the cop watches him go—then lifts his radio.  

Raymond’s phone buzzes. A new text:  

They’re learning you too.

The last thing he sees, before the streetlights cut out, is the cop’s reflection in the mirror—  

—smiling with too many teeth. 

————

Chapter 42

The Bible app's audio feature drones through the car speakers as Raymond drives, the voice of some long-dead preacher reciting Psalms like a eulogy. The digital cadence lacks all human warmth, each syllable perfectly measured like a doctor announcing a terminal diagnosis.  

“The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want..." 

Raymond's fingers dig into the steering wheel's leather grip. He’s played this game before—letting Scripture wash over him like baptismal waters, waiting for some verse to click like a divine combination lock releasing its treasures. But tonight, every word lands like a stone in his gut.  

“He leadeth me beside the still waters..."  

Still waters. Like the dead silence when he’s called Karina twelve times in a row. Like the empty space where her voice should be. The app's robotic voice continues its relentless march through sacred text, oblivious to the way each verse carves deeper into his chest.  

“He restoreth my soul..." 

His soul feels anything but restored. It feels like shattered stained glass—all sharp edges and broken promises. The digital voice reaches Psalm 51:  

“Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me..."  

A bitter laugh escapes his lips. "Yeah. That tracks." His thumb jabs the skip button.  

The next verse freezes the blood in his veins:  

“The wicked are estranged from the womb: they go astray as soon as they be born, speaking lies."

His foot slips on the accelerator. The car lurches forward violently before he regains control. Karina's voice echoes in his skull like a ghost haunting its own corpse: “You lie to yourself more than you lie to me.”

He stabs the app closed with trembling fingers. The sudden silence presses against his eardrums. Outside, the city blurs past—streetlights smearing into golden streaks, his own ragged breathing the only sound in the metallic tomb of his car. He needs to see her face. Needs to press his palm against her cheek and feel the warmth of living flesh to prove they’re both still real.  

But first, he takes a detour.  

10:30pm. Lisa's evening walk through the park usually calms her. Tonight, every rustling leaf sounds like whispered threats. She adjusts the cross hanging from her neck, the cool metal against her collarbone the only familiar sensation in this suddenly alien world.  

The footsteps behind her aren’t trying to be quiet.  

"Lisa."

She spins so fast her ponytail whips across her face. Mark stands beneath a flickering streetlamp, his posture all wrong—shoulders hunched like a vulture's wings, head cocked at an unnatural angle. The man who’d once brought her roses now grins with too many teeth.  

"Second chance?" he asks, the words slithering out between cracked lips.  

Her fingers close around her keys, the jagged metal edges biting into her palm. "No."  

Mark's grin doesn’t waver. "Why not?" 

"Because whatever's looking at me through your eyes right now isn't you," she whispers.  

“Be with me, Lisa. Come back to me.”

“No, Mark…”

His face twitches—a grotesque ripple beneath the skin like something trying to rearrange his features. Then his voice shatters the night:  

“WHY NOT?!" 

He lunges with jerky, marionette movements. Lisa backpedals, her pulse hammering against her ribs. Mark's fingers graze her sleeve when blinding headlights cut through the darkness.  

A black sedan screeches to a halt inches from the curb. The door flies open before the car fully stops.  

Raymond Cruz emerges like Judgment given flesh—dagger already glinting in his fist, his black crucifix swinging violently against his chest with the sudden movement.  

Mark's head snaps toward him with an audible crack of vertebrae. "Ah," he croons, voice suddenly smooth as poisoned honey. "The husband." 

Raymond doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. The dagger flashes upward in a silver arc. Mark's scream isn’t human—it’s the sound of air escaping a corpse's lungs after too long underground. But, in a flash, Mark is gone. Kicking up dust, already a flicker on the distant entrance of the park, never to be seen again.  

Raymond turns to her, his dark eyes hollow as empty confessionals. “Lisa.” 

Tears well in her eyes. “Raymond.”

“You okay?"

Lisa's lips move soundlessly before she manages: "What was that?" 

Raymond stares at the horizon. "A dangerous man. You know him?” 

Lisa's knees buckle. Raymond catches her elbow, his grip unexpectedly gentle for a man who’s just faced what appears to be a devil. The warmth of his hand seeps through her jacket sleeve.  

"Come on," he murmurs. "Let's get you home." 

The streetlights buzz overhead as Raymond falls into step beside Lisa, their shoulders nearly touching. She clutches her keys between her fingers like makeshift claws, her breath still uneven.  

"You always carry a dagger?" Lisa asks, eyeing the glint of silver still in his hand.  

Raymond smirks, sliding it back into his coat. "Only on Tuesdays." 

Lisa’s arm brushes his as they walk. "Thanks for showing up when you did.” 

“Yeah, well, that’s entirely out of my control. It seems like a higher power wants to make sure we’re always running into each other.”

She laughs, the sound loosening something in his chest. The tension from the attack still hums between them, but now it mixes with something warmer—something alive.  

“God’s divine timing, I guess.” She clears her throat. “Mark’s been... different lately. Not just tonight. Weird things keep happening around me. Things I can’t explain." 

Raymond’s gaze sharpens. "What kind of things?"

She hesitates. "Voices where there shouldn’t be any. My reflection blinking when I don’t. And Mark..." She shudders. "He wasn’t like that when we dated. It’s like something’s peeling him apart from the inside."

Raymond’s jaw tightens.  

“You think I’m crazy.”

“Why do I think you’re crazy—cause your reflection’s winking back at you? Don’t worry, that shit happens to everybody.” 

He knows that feeling too well—the slow unraveling of reality. He wants to tell her, but the words stick in his throat.  

Lisa nudges him with her elbow. "Weirdest of all: I just keep seeing you everywhere. I mean we’ve been in the same town all our lives and never crossed each other since high school. Now, I got this brooding hero appearing everywhere I go, helping me. Even saving my life.”

A laugh escapes him. "Brooding hero, huh?"

"Don’t let it go to your head." She grins, but her fingers toy with the cross at her neck—a mirror of his own. “You believe in demons, Raymond?"  

The question hangs between them. He studies her—the way her lips part slightly, the pulse fluttering in her throat. "Yeah," he admits. "But I also believe in things worth saving." 

Her breath hitches. The space between them crackles.  

Lisa steps closer, her voice dropping. "I’m tired of waiting for good things to find me. Maybe it’s time I just... take them."

Raymond’s blood burns. He should pull away. Should remember Karina’s blocked calls, the wedding band he isn’t wearing tonight. But Lisa’s eyes hold him—dark, knowing, fearless.  

"Careful," he murmurs. "I might be one of the weird things happening to you, remember?”

She smirks. "I’ll risk it." 

They stand there, inches apart, the city holding its breath around them.  

Then Lisa turns and starts walking again, throwing a glance over her shoulder. "You coming, hero? Or do I have to defend myself the rest of the way?" 

Raymond follows, his pulse racing. The night suddenly feels full of possibilities—dangerous, electric ones.  

And for the first time in months, he doesn’t look back.  

————

Chapter 43

10:57pm. Lisa lives in a small one-bedroom above a 24-hour convenience store with the eeriest dimmed pink lights Raymond has ever seen. They hum like cicadas on the street corner of a dilapidated, yet busy for 11pm, neighborhood.  

Her apartment smells like jasmine tea and old books—the scent of quiet evenings spent alone. Raymond sits stiffly on her couch, his large hands clasped between his knees like he’s physically restraining them. His gaze keeps drifting to the wooden crucifix above her television.  

"You feel it too, don’t you?" Lisa asks as she hands him a steaming mug. "The...emptiness in everything now."  

Raymond takes the cup but doesn’t drink. The ceramic is almost painfully hot against his palms. "I used to think faith was armor," he says quietly. "Now it just feels like another wound that won’t heal."  

Lisa sits beside him, close enough that her knee brushes his. The contact sends an unexpected spark up her spine. "Mark wasn’t always like that," she says. "When we first met, he’d pray with me every morning."*  

Raymond’s throat works as he swallows hard. "Karina thinks prayer is just superstition. Says I cling to this—" he touches his cross "—like a child with a security blanket."

Lisa’s fingers rise unconsciously to her own necklace. "And what do you think?" 

He finally meets her eyes, and the raw pain in his gaze steals her breath. "I think Christ is the only glue holding this broken world together." 

Something passes between them in that moment—a recognition deeper than words, a shared loneliness that transcends mere understanding. Lisa’s breath hitches. Without conscious thought, her hand finds his.  

Raymond’s fingers are calloused from years gripping weapons, but they tremble against hers like a man touching something precious after too long in the dark.  

Later, in her bed, their bodies come together with a desperation that surprises them both. Lisa arches against Raymond as his mouth traces the cross pendant between her breasts, her fingers tangled in his hair. For the first time in months, the hollow place inside Raymond almost feels full.  

Almost.  

The moment the door closes behind them, Raymond has her pinned against the wall, his body hard against hers, his mouth claiming hers with a hunger that borders on violence. Lisa gasps into the kiss, her fingers twisting in his hair, pulling him closer. There is no hesitation, no gentle exploration—only possession.  

His hands are rough as they push under her shirt, fingers splaying over her ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of her breasts. She arches into his touch, a moan tearing from her throat. He growls in response, biting at her lower lip before dragging his mouth down her neck, his teeth scraping her pulse point.  

For a heartbeat, he forgets she isn’t a demon.  

The way she yields to him—completely, without reservation—makes his blood burn. He could break her if he wanted to. The thought sends a dark thrill through him. But then her nails dig into his shoulders, her breath hot against his ear as she whispers, “Do it."  

And he loses control.  

Clothes are torn away, fabric giving way to skin. He lifts her effortlessly, her legs wrapping around his waist as he carries her to the bed. She is already wet for him, her body trembling with anticipation. He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t ask. He just takes, driving into her with a force that makes her cry out.  

Lisa gasps, her head falling back, her fingers clutching at the sheets before twisting into his hair again. “Raymond—" His name is a plea, a prayer, a surrender.  

He fucks her like a man exorcising his own demons—hard, relentless, his hips snapping against hers with brutal precision. She meets him thrust for thrust, her body welcoming the punishment, the pleasure, the claiming.  

Her climax hits her like a divine punishment, her back bowing off the bed as she shatters beneath him. Raymond follows her over the edge, his release ripped from him with a groan that sounds more like a snarl.  

When it’s over, he collapses beside her, his breath ragged, his body still thrumming with the aftershocks. Lisa turns her head to look at him, her lips swollen, her eyes dark with satisfaction.  

No guilt. No regret.  

Just ruin.  

And for the first time in years, Raymond feels like himself again.  

1:53am. Raymond stands on the sidewalk outside Lisa’s building, the night air cool against his flushed skin. He shouldn’t have stayed. Shouldn’t have let this happen. But when he glances up at her third-floor window, his blood turns to ice.  

A pulsating pink light throbs behind her balcony doors.  

That wasn’t there when they arrived.  

He turns back to the building’s entrance—and freezes. Where there was a door moments ago, now only unbroken brick meets his gaze. He blinks hard. Rubs his eyes. The brick remains. The convenience store is still there, but the entrance to her staircase is gone.  

Heart pounding, he circles the building at a run. No entrance. No fire escape. Just smooth, featureless walls where doors and windows should be. The pink light continues its rhythmic pulse, like something breathing.  

Raymond sprints to his car, yanking the door open while keeping his eyes locked on that unnatural glow. He won’t blink. Won’t look away. The car’s speakers crackle to life unbidden:  

“And no marvel; for Satan himself is transformed into an angel of light." 

Raymond’s heart pounds in his chest. He resolves to stare at “Lisa’s balcony” until he sees her pass by the patio doors. The monotone British voice drawls on the radio, reciting verses. Minutes turn into a full hour.  

3am. The Devil’s hour. No sign of Lisa. What is he waiting for? Where else would he go, anyway? He has no home to go to. His phone vibrates in his pocket. A text notification lights up the screen—Karina’s name. His heart leaps before he reads the message:  

“I love you. Come home.” 

Karina has finally unblocked his number. He has found it to be the most bizarre thing that she blocked him in the first place.  

Then he sees the timestamp.  

Sent 6 hours ago. During the endless stretch when her number was blocked.  

The rearview mirror reflects his face back at him—except his reflection grins with too many teeth, its eyes dissolving into black voids.  

“Too late," it whispers with Raymond’s mouth.  

He screams and slams the gas pedal. The tires screech as the car fishtails away from the curb. In the distance, the pink light continues its steady pulse.  

Still watching.  

Still waiting.  

————

Chapter 56

11:47 PM. The black limousine glides to the curb without a sound. Shane watches through the rain-streaked window of an all-night café as the driver steps out, umbrella in hand. The man’s face is hidden beneath the brim of his cap, but his posture is rigid, military. He doesn’t look at Shane. He doesn’t need to.  

Shane’s phone buzzes—an unknown number. A single word: "Enter."

He doesn’t hesitate.  

The limousine’s interior smells of leather and something sharper, like crushed mint and gun oil. Three figures sit in the shadowed recesses of the backseat.  

“Sit,” says the woman directly across from him.  

Shane obeys. The door locks itself behind him.  

The woman—Sister Rosemary—leans forward just enough for the passing streetlights to carve her face into sharp relief. Middle-aged, iron-gray hair pulled into a merciless bun, eyes like flint. A rosary hangs from her belt, the beads worn smooth from use. Beside her, a priest in his fifties watches Shane with the detached curiosity of a surgeon assessing a cadaver.  

The third figure remains in darkness.  

“You’re late,” Sister Rosemary says.  

Shane checks his watch. “By thirty seconds.”  

“That’s thirty seconds we don’t have.” She snaps her fingers. The priest hands her a file. She flips it open. “Shane Aldridge. Failed theology student. Amateur demon tracker. Currently wanted by Interpol for breaking into a Vatican archive.”  

Shane smirks. “Allegedly.”  

The priest exhales through his nose. Sister Rosemary doesn’t blink. “This isn’t a joke.”  

“Never said it was.”  

The third figure stirs. A gloved hand emerges from the shadows, holding a silver case. It clicks open, revealing a single photograph: a crystal prism, no larger than a peach, glowing faintly in what looks like a museum display.  

“You know what this is,” says a voice—smooth, accented, utterly cold.  

Shane’s smirk dies. “Vespertilio’s prison.”  

“Correct.” The hand withdraws. “It was last seen in a private collection in Boston. Now, it’s gone. Along with the man who guarded it.”  

Sister Rosemary’s jaw tightens. “The Blood Moon changed things. The rules are… different now.”  

Shane leans back. “Different how?”  

The priest speaks for the first time. “Vampires walk in daylight. Possessions have tripled. Exorcisms fail more often than they succeed.” His voice is quiet, frayed at the edges. “Hell’s hierarchy is shifting. And Vespertilio’s release would guarantee war.”  

A beat of silence. The limousine turns down an unlit alley.  

“We need it found,” says the shadowed man. “Before the wrong people realize what they have.”  

Shane glances between them. “And you’re telling me this because…?”  

Sister Rosemary’s smile is razor-thin. “Because you’re the only one reckless enough to suggest Raymond Cruz.”  

Shane goes very still.  

The priest sighs. “We’ve heard the stories. The man’s a fanatic. Unpredictable.”  

“He’s the best,” Shane counters.  

“Based on what?” Sister Rosemary demands. “You’ve never met him.”  

“I don’t need to. The demons talk. They fear him.” Shane leans in. “You want a hunter who can’t be manipulated? Cruz doesn’t just resist demons—he breaks them. I’ve seen the aftermath. Rooms where the walls weep blood because something screamed its way out of existence rather than face him.”  

The priest crosses himself.  

The shadowed man exhales—a slow, considering sound. “His faith is truly that strong?”  

Shane doesn’t blink. “It’s not faith. It’s fury.”  

Sister Rosemary studies him. “And if we send him after Vespertilio?”  

“Then Vespertilio should start running.”  

A pause. The limousine stops.  

The shadowed man extends a card between two fingers. Gold lettering glints in the dim light: D. Ferrante.  

“Find Cruz,” he says. “Before the demons do.”  

The door unlocks.  

Shane takes the card. Steps out.  

The limousine vanishes into the night, leaving him alone with three words ringing in his skull:  

War is coming.

AtilA