Luther Cross

The sleek, black ’69 Chevrolet Camaro pulled up outside the United Methodist Church in Gary, Indiana. The driver stepped out of the car, a cigarette held between his lips as he looked up at the massive abandoned church beneath the moonlit sky. With the decline of employment and the rise of poverty and crime in the area, this example of Gothic Revival was left to fall to the wayside.

He smoked the cigarette down to its filter and dropped it on the sidewalk before crushing it beneath his shoe. Reaching beneath his suit jacket, he drew out a stylized revolver with Enochian sigils carved into the barrel. Once confirming the gun was loaded, he slid it back into the holster and started walking towards the church entrance, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his trench coat.

The doors were shut on him. He tried pushing, but they wouldn’t budge. The man kicked the door once and it didn’t do much. The second kick, he could hear a little crack. He gave it two more before the door finally burst open.

They had a sense of humor, he had to give them that. Demons operating out of an abandoned, gothic church. Showcased their arrogance. His blue eyes scanned the large cathedral as he entered, remaining back by the entrance. With his hand held out, he closed his eyes and concentrated his senses, trying to pick up some trace of demonic energy.

And he could feel it. There was a demon here. Not only in this building, but in this very room with him. Opening his eyes, he drew the revolver and held it at the ready, looking around the room. All he could sense was the demon’s presence, but he couldn’t pinpoint its exact location.

“Alistair Carraway,” said a voice echoing in the darkness. “What brings you to this little shithole?”

“Been tracking you for some time,” said Alistair, his voice colored with an English accent.

“And how did you find us?”

Alistair grinned. “Your demons don’t hold up so well under torture. By the end of it, they were begging for an exorcism.”

He could sense the demon’s anger flare up.

“Doesn’t have to be this way,” Alistair continued. “All I want is the girl. Leave her to me and you can walk out of here, no fuss, no muss.”

Alistair stepped down the aisle, moving towards the center of the nave. His eyes went to the galleries up above the side aisles, trying to see if he could catch sight of the demon in the darkness. But there was nothing. Just a deafening silence followed after Alistair issued his terms.

“Come now, you know my reputation amongst your kind,” said Alistair. “Do you really want to test me?”

“There are things we fear far more than Alistair Carraway.”

“What, like the wrath of your master?”

More silence followed.

“I know what that woman is to you. I know what she’s carrying,” he continued. “But you can’t have her. Either of them.”

“Oh?” asked the demon. “You would risk your own life for a whore and a Hellspawn?”

The voice now seemed to come from the gallery on the left. Alistair turned in that direction, aiming the gun up there.

“The big, strapping hero.” The demon spoke again, this time the voice coming from the ambulatory behind the altar.

“I think we’ve had enough of this game, don’t you?” asked Alistair.

“Absolutely.”

Alistair’s eyes widened. The voice now came from directly behind him. He spun around, raising the gun and firing. The demon was fast and dodged the bullet, pouncing on Alistair and knocking him to the ground.

He was strong, possessing the body of a young man with a black mohawk, a denim jacket with the sleeves torn off, ripped jeans, and safety pins through his earlobes. His eyes were bright yellow, and he roared like a lion just before he pounced.

The gun was dropped to the side. Alistair stared into the demon’s eyes, the creature struggling to keep him pinned down. And then, Alistair started speaking, muttering in Latin.

“Exorcizamos te, omnis immunde spiritus, omnus satanic potestas—”

The demon recoiled, pulling away in pain, trying to cover his ears. Alistair got back to his feet and continued speaking while reaching one hand into his jacket.

“Omnis infernalis adversarii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica.”

“You think this will stop us? You’ll be too late to save them, Carraway!”

Alistair knew the demon was right. There was no time to waste with an exorcism, not while Grace was still lost somewhere inside here. He picked up the gun and pointed it at the demon. “Where are they?”

“You’ll have to kill me before I ta—”

Alistair’s response was to put two bullets into the demon’s head. Iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-points. Inside each round was a mixture of holy water, salt, and other herbs designed to ward off the supernatural. Enough to kill a demon possessing some poor bastard.

Stepping forward, Alistair looked down at the now-vacant body. The punk’s eyes were gone, burned out by the death of the demon inside. A part of Alistair felt remorse at having to kill the kid, but time was a factor if he wanted to save Grace’s life and stop this cult from completing their ritual.

He knew they were in the building, somewhere. It was just a matter of finding them. Alistair knelt down by the dead body and checked the pockets. Nothing on him but a switchblade and half a pack of cigarettes, which Alistair helped himself to. He stood and walked along the side aisles, moving into the first door he found.

That door led to a stairwell, which he slowly descended into the basement area. As he moved deeper, he could hear something. A chorus of chanting voices. Alistair moved along, sticking close to the walls and the shadows they cast. His heartbeat increased, the adrenaline beginning to pump through his body.

The chanting became louder as he moved through the dusty corridor. He reached beneath the unbuttoned collar of his white shirt and drew out a necklace from which a pendant of the Seal of Solomon hung. Alistair whispered words of a protection spell and moved on.

He knew the voices were here, behind this door. With a swift kick, Alistair knocked the door in. The large room had seven figures wearing crimson cloaks, gathered in a circle. Their chanting ceased immediately and they all cast their eyes to Alistair. In unison, they all turned, facing him.

Seven worshippers. Seven sacrifices. Seven sins. Alistair knew why these men were here, and what the demon had planned to do with them. From the center of the circle, he heard a woman screaming. He could see Grace writhing on the ground, her brown skin glistening with sweat, black hair plastered to her face. Her knees were bent and occult symbols had been carved into her pregnant belly, with more on the rest of her naked body. She gritted her teeth in pain, her eyes clenched shut.

“You sons of bitches…” muttered Alistair as he stepped into the room and raised the gun, firing into the head of one of the cultists. A second lunged at him and Alistair took a step back, firing two rounds into his chest. Alistair allowed the cultist’s body to fall to the ground.

One shot and five cultists left. Not the best odds. Alistair shot another. Four left. He flipped the gun around and clutched it by the barrel. A cultist came at him, drawing an ornate dagger from beneath his robes.

Alistair dodged the first and second slash, then charged in and bashed the butt of the revolver against the cultist’s head. The force dropped him, blood dripping from the fresh wound. Alistair bent down quickly and picked up the discarded knife.

Three left. They stood between Alistair and Grace and he heard her screams become even more pronounced. It was coming. Soon, it would be here.

“Kill him,” said the cultist in the center—clearly the leader.

The two flanking him charged with their daggers. Alistair took a few licks, but pressed on, dodging their strikes. Grace’s screams echoed in his head, trying to distract him, but Alistair wouldn’t let himself lose focus.

The two cultists were on either side of him. One thrust forward with his dagger and Alistair sidestepped, grabbed the cultist’s arm, and continued thrusting so his dagger went into his partner’s gut. Alistair then drove the knife he’d claimed into the cultist’s back.

He drew the blade from the wound, blood dripping down the edge as he faced the leader. “It’s over. You can’t complete the ritual now.”

“Perhaps not,” said the cult leader. “But the child will still be born. And one day, he will bring humanity to its knees!”

The leader charged. Alistair threw the dagger, striking him in the head and the leader fell down at his feet, dead.

“Sorry son, but you won’t be there to see it.”

Alistair went to Grace’s side. He realized for the first time she’d been placed in a circle. The inverted pentagram—Sigil of Baphomet. Grace reached out, grabbing hold of his wrist. She opened her eyes and looked at him.

“A-Alistair…he’s coming…”

He looked at the knife. If he killed her now, he would end all this. And what about the leader’s prediction? Could he really risk all that? The ritual wasn’t completed, maybe there was hope for the child. Or maybe he was doomed no matter what course of action he took.

Grace’s screams continued and Alistair made a choice. He set the knife down and removed his trench coat and jacket, ready to go to work. Not long after, Grace’s screams were replaced by the sound of a crying child.

* * *

Alistair pulled the car up to the monastery located outside Rock Island, Illinois. He drove all night, one hand on the wheel, the other cradling the infant, wrapped in his trench coat. He took a deep breath and opened the driver-side door, moving slowly so as not to wake the child.

Alistair ascended the steps and approached the large, wooden doors. Engraved in the stone archway above them was a unicursal hexagram surrounded by a circle. Alistair kept the baby in one arm and raised his other, banging a few times on the heavy wood. After a few moments, the door opened and an old, bald man with a silver beard and glasses and dressed in a black robe stood on the other side.

“Alistair?” he asked in surprise.

“’Morning, Thomas,” said Alistair. “Mind if I come in?”

“O-of course,” said Thomas, stepping aside and holding the door open. His gaze was fixed on the child as Alistair moved inside, slumbering in his arm.

“Mind putting on some coffee?”

“Right this way.”

Thomas led Alistair through the monastery into a kitchen area. Once there, Alistair took a seat at a table while Thomas went to the counter to prepare some coffee. When it was ready, he brought two mugs over and sat across from the paranormal investigator.

“When did you become a father?” asked Thomas.

“He’s not mine,” said Alistair. “There was a case. A woman named Grace was pregnant and this is her baby.”

“What’s so important about this—” Thomas interrupted himself. “Wait. Who’s the father?”

“I don’t know his name.”

“Let me rephrase—what is the father?”

Alistair’s blue eyes met Thomas’ intense stare. He looked back down at the baby’s sleeping face and gave a sigh. “A demon.”

“Dear God…” Thomas involuntarily slid his chair back in surprise. “Alistair, you can’t be serious. You brought a cambion here?”

“She was taken by a demon and his cult. I tracked them down to that abandoned church in Gary. The plan was after the baby was born, it would be anointed in the blood of seven sacrifices—seven sinners. I killed the demon running the show and the cultists. The child was born clean.”

“Have you gone mad?” asked Thomas. “That child is cursed for life! Best to kill it and get it over with! You know what happens if the armistice is violated—”

“I’ll deal with that,” said Alistair. “Think about it, Thomas. A cambion fighting on our side. Think of how powerful he’ll be. Of the advantage he’d have.”

“He’s a child of Hell.”

“And Lucifer was once the most beloved of all angels. Look how that turned out,” said Alistair. “How you come into this life doesn’t mean shit. What you do with it does.”

Thomas shook his head. “What do you want from me?”

“I need to leave him here. If there’s anyone who can set him on the right path, it’s this order.”

“That’s a lot to ask, Alistair.”

“I know it is, Thomas. But you owe me and you know it. How many times have I been there for you? For this order?”

Thomas sighed. “And where will you go?”

“There’s still the question of who his father is and how I can protect him. I’ll be back when I can, but you know what my work’s like.”

“True.” Thomas rose from his chair and walked around the table to Alistair’s side. He held his hands out. “Well, if we’re going to be responsible for raising him, is it okay if I take him now?”

Alistair slowly stood and looked at his old friend in the eye. He could sense Thomas’ apprehension, but he also knew the monk to be a man of his word. Alistair carefully handed the infant over. The baby stirred in the old man’s arms, opening his eyes and staring up. Thomas nearly gasped when he saw the glowing, crimson eyes the baby had.

“He’s unique, gotta give the boy that,” said Alistair.

“Does he have a name?”

“Yeah, he does. Grace had one picked out for him before she died.” Alistair reached a hand out and rubbed the baby’s bald head. “Luther. Luther Cross.”

The Windy City. Even in the spring, it’s colder than a witch’s tit.

’Course, that’s something of a misnomer. I’ve had occasion to spend…quality time with a few witches in my day. And all of them were pretty warm and inviting.

Cold doesn’t bother me too much, though. As I leaned against the side of my black ’69 Camaro and scanned the dilapidated tenement, I puffed on an American Spirit cigarette, enjoying the weather.

My name’s Luther Cross, and I’m a paranormal investigator. Got a poltergeist tearing up your house or a demon you need exorcised or a monster stalking you, I’m the guy you call. Not often I take jobs that bring me out to the South Side of Chicago—normally, not a lot of financial reward for my tastes. But this was a favor to an old friend.

I’d driven around for about an hour, trying to get a sense of where it was all going down. Once I felt that familiar pull of demonic energy, I pulled over to the curb and dug in deep.

This old tenement was where the pull was the strongest. It was like the energy was an industrial-strength magnet and I was just a tiny paperclip, helpless to fight against the attraction. I was sure my crimson eyes were burning up with the demonic energy coursing through my veins. Anyone who happened to walk down the street and see me like this was liable to dart off to the nearest liquor store and crawl inside a bottle for the next few days.

He was in there, that was for certain. I reached inside the pocket of my black trench coat and pulled out a Superman action figure. I’d told Reggie’s grandmother I’d need one of his personal possessions to track him down, and this is what she gave me—told me he’d play with this damn thing for hours when he was a kid, pin a towel around his neck and run through the apartment building pretending he was flying.

I scoffed and put the figure back in my pocket. The tracking spell led me right to Reggie’s location, and I could sense the presence of darkness surrounding the building. Time to go to work.

I flicked the cigarette down the sidewalk, the butt dusting off embers as it tumbled along the cracked concrete. Sliding both hands into the pockets of my suit pants, I strolled up the path to the tenement.

The front door was boarded up. If I were a normal guy, this might prove to be a bit inconvenient. Fortunately, normal and me parted ways before I was born. I raised my foot and kicked right through the boards, breaking them into splinters. After pulling the remaining planks away, I stepped inside the lobby.

The only source of light in this old, abandoned building was from the street lamps and moonlight filtering through cracks in the boarded-up windows. My unique heritage made it easy for me to see in the dark, though there was nothing worth seeing in this place.

The stench was something awful. Mixture of shit, vomit, body odor, and probably decomposition—the latter of which I was unfortunately very familiar with. Reggie was still alive in here, though—had to be. Tracking spell wouldn’t have led me here if he wasn’t. Plus, I promised his grandma. I may fight demons, ghosts, and monsters on a regular basis, but even I wouldn’t risk the wrath of an old-school black grandmother.

The energy was strong, pulling me up. I began to climb the staircase, the rotted, old wood threatening to give way with each step I took. As I reached the landing, the stench grew worse. But the pull grew stronger. Definitely headed in the right direction.

On the second floor, I tried to keep my steps as quiet as possible. I doubted it would do much good, though. The warding sigils tattooed into my dark skin may keep the things that go bump in the night from tracking me, but they lose their effectiveness in close proximity.

The third door—that’s where the pull was the strongest. I wrapped my hand around the knob and turned. Unlocked, of course. After all, who’d be dumb enough to come down here?

I pushed the door open and took a step inside. The stench hit me, like running right into a brick wall at full-speed, so bad my eyes started to water. I cringed for a moment, then pressed on.

“Luther Cross…”

My name was hissed. I peered into the darkness. This was once the living room of an old apartment. Now there wasn’t much left. Just some old, dirty mattresses with junkies spread out on them. Track marks running down their arms, used syringes littering the floor; sitting up on one of the mattresses was an old, severely emaciated man. Though by the looks of his glowing yellow eyes, he wasn’t strictly a man anymore. He snarled at me. There was a teenage boy lying by his side, unconscious or in a state of heroin-induced euphoria. Hard to tell which from this angle. His head was in the frail man’s lap and the old bastard’s long, bony fingers stroked the boy’s forehead.

“You have no business here, cambion.”

Demons were a rotten bunch. Some were fallen angels, others were humans sentenced to Hell who gave in to the darkness. This one was the latter, what we call a feeder. They crawl their way out of Hell, take on a host body, and subsist on the negative energy of humanity. Drug addicts are a particular favorite. For a feeder, the energy an addict gives off is like…well, like crack. And for humans, it chipped away at their soul, brought them closer to Hell.

“I’m just here for Reggie Ferguson. You hand him over to me, no fuss, and you can go about your business.” I looked around the room at the other addicts. Some were feeders, like this one. The others were just poor souls providing them their snacks.

“You’d leave your precious humans to us, Cross?” the demon hissed. Then he started to chuckle. “Expect me to believe that?”

“These people stopped giving a damn about their souls long ago. They don’t mean shit to me.”

Pretty harsh, Luther. But then again, part of me believed it. People are gonna do what they wanna do. My job is to help the ones who get sucked into this against their will—or those who can pay my fee. Otherwise, if you knowingly jump into the inferno, it’s not in my job description to pull your ass out. You want a fireman, go ring up the CFD.

“I’m not so sure I believe you, Cross.” The demon continued stroking the boy’s short hair, his yellow eyes fixed on him almost lovingly. “And besides, Reggie here has proven to be quite a treat. You want me to just give him up to some half-breed son of a whore like you?”

Figured it wouldn’t be that easy. Why can’t it ever be that easy? I slid both my hands into my pockets and stepped deeper into the room. Immediately, the other demons rose around me, surrounding me. Blocking all exits, boxing me in. I looked out the corner of my right eye, then my left. Two demons on either side. I sensed others behind me—three, by my guess.

“You’ve got me at a disadvantage. You know my name, but I don’t know yours,” I said.

The demon scoffed and clicked his tongue. “You know better than that, Luther.”

In magic, there’s power in naming. If you’ve got a demon’s name, it’s much easier to put the hurt on him. Why do you think so many possessed people say the Devil’s inside them? Because those demons don’t have any interest in giving up their real name.

I shrugged. “Hey, you know my name, you know what I am. Seemed only fair.”

“My friends call me Slim.”

Not a real name, obviously, but it definitely fit. I narrowed my eyes at him. “It’s a pretty safe bet you know my reputation and what happens to bottom-feeders who try my patience.”

The briefest flicker of movement to my right was the only warning I had of the attack. I pivoted to the right and raised my arm to block the demon’s strike. She was small, but fierce. My fingers wrapped around her arm and I spun to the side, throwing her into one of her friends.

The three who were blocking the door moved in. I held out my hand and shouted, “Ignis!”

My eyes burned with a crimson glow and flames appeared between me and the demons. Wouldn’t stop them, but provided something of a distraction. Just what I needed to reach into my jacket and draw my weapon.

She was a custom-made revolver, with Enochian script carved into the barrel. The rounds were special, too. Iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-points filled with holy water, salt, and some other herbs hazardous to the supernatural.

I pulled the trigger and the Enochian symbols burned bright. The first two rounds went into the two to my side. I turned to the door and fired again. The third round went right through the flames, tagging the middle demon dead-center in his forehead. He fell back, hitting the door.

The other two jumped through the flames. I grabbed one by the throat as he landed and threw him onto the ground, then twisted my hand until I felt his neck snap. The last leapt on my back. She was so light, I barely felt the additional weight. But she was strong, her hand wrapping around my gun arm and pulling it away so I wouldn’t shoot her buddy.

I threw my head back, striking her in the nose. They may be resistant to damage, but demons could still feel pain. Her grip weakened and I pulled myself free, turning around and pulling the trigger. She hissed a second before the bullet struck her in the heart.

The one on the ground hadn’t gotten up, but he still writhed. I stepped over him, firing a round into his head. He stopped moving after that. With a gesture, I snuffed out the flames I had created before. No sense letting them get out of control.

Now it was just me and Slim left. I raised the gun, the Enochian script still burning bright on the barrel.

The demon looked up at me and chuckled nervously. “Maybe we got off on the wrong foot,” he said. “I think we might be able to come to some sort of arrangement here.”

I scoffed. “Man, you feeders are all alike, aren’t you? Come into my world with all this swagger, thinking you’re hot shit. Then, I kick your asses six ways from Sunday and you suddenly can’t wait to beg for your worthless lives.”

“Now, don’t be hasty, Luther.” Slim held his hands up in surrender and slowly rose to his feet. I kept the gun aimed at his head, raising it with him. “I know things. Things that you may not know about.”

“Oh, please. You’re nowhere close to being a player. There’s nothing you could possibly know.”

“Are you willing to take that chance? C’mon, Luther…I can be a friend to you…” His yellow eyes widened.

I took a breath. Yeah, demons are evil, no doubt about that. But they’re all about self-preservation. And might have considered giving him a pass in exchange for some useful intel. But on the other hand, I’d made a promise. And I may be a bastard, but I’m still a man of my word.

I pulled the trigger. Slim screamed just as the bullet struck him in the head, and he collapsed on the mattress. His eyes were gone, as if they’d been burnt out of his head. That effect happens when you kill a demon when he’s inhabiting a host body.

I holstered the gun. There was just one thing left to do. I knelt beside the boy on the mattress and examined his eyes. Normal, not yellow—couldn’t sense any demon inside him. Ah, Reggie Ferguson, you are one dumb brat. Getting mixed up with junk and finding yourself the snack of preference for a bottom-feeder.

I picked him up in my arms and walked towards the exit, with Reggie mumbling something incoherent. Still couldn’t tell if he was asleep or just high. Just before I left through the open door, I turned and took one last look at the addicts still left behind. Poor bastards. Wouldn’t be long before another feeder came along to set up shop in here.

But that wasn’t my problem. Like I said before, they got themselves into it. If they wanted my help, they’d have to save up their junk money to pay my retainer.

An autumn night in Chicago. There’s nothing better. Gone is the scorching summer heat, but we haven’t yet been struck by the bitter cold of winter. The air smells clean and there’s a nice, cool breeze blowing through the streets. And as I sat on the hood of my car, smoking an American Spirit cigarette, staring up at a brand-new—and completely empty—apartment building, I felt good.

My name’s Luther Cross and I’m a paranormal investigator. Got into this line of work on account of my heritage—my mother was human; my father was a demon. And I’m talkin’ a literal demon spat from the bowels of the actual Hell. Makes me what’s called a cambion. Despite all that, my childhood was pretty typical. Grew up reading X-Men, watching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, playing Nintendo, and learning how to master the black arts.

So, what was a fiendishly handsome, well-dressed man about town like myself doing sitting on the hood of a black ’69 Camaro while staring at a building? This tenement—or at least the one that used to be here—had a bad gas leak. Caused an explosion, lots of people died. Those that didn’t got kicked out when the owner decided the land was worth more than fixing the place up.

It wasn’t too far from Logan Square, one of the trendiest neighborhoods in the city, so it didn’t take long for a developer to snatch it up. They knocked down what remained of the old building and built this new one in its place. Five floors, nice and modern, just minutes from the L train.

Except, while the place was being built, several of the workers said they were seeing things. Flashes in the corner of their eyes. Weird reflections in glass. Sounds like people screaming. And then the accidents started. One workman fell down the elevator shaft; another jumped off the roof; and a third went right through a newly-installed window, cutting his throat on the way down.

People started calling in sick and faking injuries to get out of coming to the site. And that’s when the developer came to me through a friend. You won’t find someone like me through a Google search—my business is based on referrals. So, I came down here during the day and, sure enough, could sense the presence of trapped souls.

That’s right: a good, old-fashioned ghost hunt. I hadn’t done one of those since that haunted road case about a year ago. I was a bit rusty on it, spent too much time lately dealing with angel and demon crap. But, it’s just like riding a bike.

I looked down at the gold watch around my wrist. Just after ten at night. Ghosts can appear at any time, but the point when their energy is the strongest is the time they died. And you might be thinking, why the hell would any damn fool want to face a ghost at full-power? That’s because their time of death is when the wall between dimensions is at its weakest. The afterlife is just waiting to suck them back in.

We were right about game time. I slid off the hood of the Camaro and dropped the cigarette on the ground, crushing it beneath the sole of my polished shoe. I took the small bag resting on the car’s hood and walked to the entrance. The front door was mostly glass, and my crimson eyes reflected off the surface. I took hold of the handle and pulled the door open, stepping into the lobby.

The structure of the building was mostly done, but there was still lots of interior work to do. Tools and work benches were set up in the lobby, and it was covered in sawdust. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath, holding my arm out in front of me with my fingers outstretched.

Ghosts, souls, magic—these are just words for different kinds of energy. Just like a Geiger counter can detect radiation, magic can detect these supernatural wavelengths. Pretty much everyone can do it, for that matter. Ever feel like you’re being watched when there’s no one around, or think you hear voices in the darkness? That’s not your mind playing tricks on you, that’s you picking up on something paranormal. Well…or you’re going crazy.

The trick is knowing and sensing the differences between those types of energies. If you understand what it is you’re feeling, you can determine what exactly you’re up against. In the case of ghosts, there are a bunch of different types. Some of them are just echoes, constantly reliving their death, like a record that won’t stop skipping (yeah, I said record; I’m old). Others are lost. They’ve got some unfinished business on this plane of existence and they can’t cross over until it’s been completed.

And then there’s the vengeful spirits. These are the ghosts you usually see in the movies. Mean bastards who usually died a violent death and want to lash out at anyone and anything they can. In some ways, it’s understandable. If I don’t get my morning coffee, I start to think murderous thoughts. Can’t imagine how I’d feel if I was violently killed.

Thing about vengeful spirits, though, is that the longer they stick around, the angrier they get. And it’s like the Hulk—anger only makes them stronger. Sooner or later, they end up as poltergeists. That’s when they get powerful enough to affect the physical world in violent ways. So, it’s no longer just about scaring people; it’s about killing them. And that can just lead to the creation of even more vengeful spirits.

In this building, I was picking up on a lot of echoes. A few of the lost. But there was a poltergeist in here, and it was calling the shots. If a poltergeist’s power is strong enough, it can even start to bring other spirits under its control.

The lobby wasn’t where I wanted to be. I needed a focal point to begin the banishing spell if I was going to clear this building. What I planned to do was channel the spiritual energy from this building and guide them to the next world. From there, I didn’t know what happened. Heaven, Hell, Purgatory—how those decisions were made was far above my pay grade.

But in order to channel the energy, I needed as few disruptions as possible. Magic’s like any other form of energy—there are ways to block or disrupt it. I wasn’t sure what kind of metal was used in the construction of this building, but it can sometimes interfere with magic when you’re trying to channel spirits into the void.

That meant what I needed more than anything was a wide-open space. Somewhere I could be in contact with the building, but still have a place to draw on the magic. Which meant the roof.

I heard a growl behind me. Instead of turning around, I set my bag on the floor and knelt down, opening it up and reaching inside. I found what I needed in there, running my fingers over the symbols engraved in the iron surface.

“You should not be here,” said a voice.

“Not a very nice way to treat a guest,” I said, taking what I’d needed from the bag in my right hand and sliding it into my pocket as I stood.

I turned around and saw a spectral figure hovering in front of me. It didn’t look human; it looked instead like some kind of creature. Powerful poltergeists can make themselves appear like whatever they want, so they tend to go for the kind of crap you’d see in monster movies. This one looked like what you’d get after a Predator anger-banged an orc. It was transparent and mostly white, but with glowing, red eyes.

“Y’know, that effect is trademarked,” I said. “If you keep poaching it, you’re gonna be hearing from my attorney.”

“Get. Out!”

The spirit bellowed the last word and the glass windows of the lobby doors blew inward, wind buffeting my face. I closed my eyes and remained standing where I was. Once the wind stopped, I scoffed and opened my eyes, brushing the stray bits of glass off my shoulders with my left hand.

“It’s so cute when you dead bastards try to be intimidating.” I took a step forward and stared it in the eyes. “I’m gonna make myself very clear. You’re done with this place. Your days of throwing construction workers down elevator shafts and forcing timid ghosts to do your bidding are over.”

“Or what?”

“Or this.” I took my right hand out of my pocket and balled it into a fist. I swung, connecting with the poltergeist’s ethereal jaw. As my hand passed through it, the poltergeist’s head recoiled, fading away like vapor as it fell to the ground.

It vanished completely, though it wasn’t gone for good. All I had done was break its connection with this plane. It would be back, and pissed.

So how does someone punch a ghost? Make sure you don’t clench your fist too tight, plant your feet, and don’t forget to wear iron knuckles engraved with symbols meant to ward off spirits.

I picked up the bag and went to the stairwell, kicking the door open. Five floors up, then I could begin the ritual. I started ascending, and when I got to the first landing, another ghost appeared in front of me, this one of an old lady. She screamed, her skin melting off and her hair flying in all directions. I punched her in the face with the iron knuckles and she vanished with another scream.

I felt the presence of another ghost behind me. I turned and was ready to deliver another blow, but as I raised my arm, the ghost was frozen in place. With my teeth gritted, I pushed harder, trying to break the spirit’s hold on my arm. Its eyes flashed as it increased its own power.

I dropped the bag on the landing and quickly reached beneath my trench coat to my hip, moving my hand beneath my suit jacket. I drew another weapon—a silver dagger with symbols carved in it—and I jammed it into the spirit’s side. It wailed in agony as it vanished.

Bag in hand, I ran up the stairs again, clearing another few flights. I was almost to roof entrance, but just as I approached the landing, the chief poltergeist appeared in front of me, roaring and throwing me right back down the last flight of stairs. “You dare challenge me?”

I hit my head on the wall and shook off the disorientation. The poltergeist hovered there, its mouth open with rows of razor-sharp teeth. I was on my side and I reached beneath my suit jacket. The poltergeist slowly descended the steps, its eyes burning brighter as it came closer.

“You, a challenge? Bitch, please.” I pulled my hand out from under my jacket, drawing the custom revolver holstered there. With a squeeze of the trigger, the Enochian symbols along the iron barrel lit bright orange. An iron-forged, silver-coated hollow-point round filled with holy water and special herbs rocketed from the gun. The bullet slammed into the poltergeist, and it vanished.

I took the bag and ran up the rest of the steps, bursting through the door, onto the roof. I didn’t want to be interrupted, so I closed the door and took a container of salt from the bag. A line of this in front of the door would help keep the poltergeist and its little friends at bay, at least long enough for me to complete the ritual.

I took off my trench coat and suit jacket, then took a can of white spray paint from the bag. I drew a large circle with it, shaking the can as needed to continue. The ghosts pounded on the door, trying to get through, but they couldn’t cross the salt line. I painted a smaller, inner circle. In the space between the smaller and larger circles, I began painting symbols. Latin, mostly. Some people used Hebrew, but it really didn’t matter what language you chose for your spells, so long as it was something that could serve as a focal point for your magic. I once knew a guy in New York who did all his sigils in Klingon.

I finished the sigil and sat in the center of it, extending my arms out to the sides and slowly bringing them in front of me, bending the elbows as I did, my eyes shut.

“I banish thee, spirits of loss.”

I touched the tips of my thumbs and index finger, holding them up to my forehead, a way of visualizing the third eye.

“I banish thee, spirits of vengeance.”

The pounding on the door continued. I could sense the salt line breaking, could hear the screams of the spirits and the angry growl of the poltergeist. But I wouldn’t let it distract me.

“I banish thee, spirits of malice.”

The door burst open and I opened my eyes. The poltergeist was the first one out, crossing the distance from the entrance to the circle. The other spirits moved behind it, some of them frightened, some of them driven mad by its control.

“I banish thee to the endless void!”

I outstretched my hands and clapped them together. I could feel a surge of power move through my body. The sigil on the roof began to glow as if it were on fire. It detached from the rooftop, and as soon as the poltergeist saw the sigil, it started backing away.

“No…”

“Oh yeah,” I said, and moved my arms in a circle, rising to stand. The sigil began to spin, moving faster and faster until it became a vortex. The poltergeist screamed, as did the other ghosts, and they tried to retreat.

But the power of the vortex was too strong, and it began pulling them inside. One by one, each spirit that had been haunting this building was drawn into the vortex, the last of them being the chief poltergeist. I circled around and it looked at me with fear etched on its face.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I took a monogrammed gold cigarette case and Zippo lighter from my pants pocket. The poltergeist cried oaths of vengeance, all while I calmly lit my cigarette.

“I’ve heard it all before,” I said. “Give my regards to Purgatory.”

The poltergeist wailed as it was sucked into the portal. The vortex slowed, disintegrating into nothing before it came to a complete stop. I smiled and walked to the edge of the roof, sitting down and letting my legs dangle over the five-story drop. I sat there and smoked my cigarette, looking out over the city of Chicago.

Yeah, this was so much nicer than dealing with whatever bullshit was going on between angels and demons.

Winter in Chicago. They can keep it.

It wasn’t the cold that bothered me—though you’d think we were dead-center in the middle of the Arctic Circle some days. Being part-demon, I had a natural resistance to the elements that humans didn’t.

Nah, what really pissed me off about Chicago winters was the snow. Had been especially bad the past few years. It quickly turned to slush, especially in the city itself. Not so bad when I was behind the wheel of my car, but at that moment, I was forced to slog through it on the sidewalk.

My name’s Luther Cross, by the way. Chicago’s premiere paranormal investigator. Got a demon possessing your kid or a poltergeist haunting your house or a werewolf that won’t stop shitting on your lawn, then I’m the guy you call.

Or at least I used to be. I’d recently gone through some pretty big changes in my life. But I’ll get to that later. All you have to know now is that I had come across a demon possessing some college student. Got a whiff of him from a bar and decided to follow. He was about half a block ahead of me, but that was fine. I had his scent and there was no way he’d be able to escape me.

I stuffed my gloved hands into the pockets of my leather jacket as I followed the same path he did. One of the perks of being part-demon was I had a sixth sense for the supernatural. This guy, I’d already picked up on, and as long as I didn’t let him get too far ahead, I’d be able to follow him wherever he went.

Overhead, the Chicago “L” train rattled on the tracks, chugging on past as it navigated the Loop circuit. I kept walking, spotting the metal stairs up ahead leading to the platform. He’d gone up here, but the scent was still strong. Must have just missed the train. He was gonna wish he’d walked faster.

I climbed the stairs and stepped onto the platform. He stood at the other end, but didn’t acknowledge me. Just stared straight out at the tracks. My gaze never wavered from him, though. He wore earbuds and took the smartphone they were connected to out from his pocket, staring at the blue light of the screen, his thumb flicking across the glass. After a few moments, he put the phone back in his pocket.

He was fidgeting. His knees couldn’t stop bending just a little bit, then straightening up again. His feet kept tapping on the platform. No doubt about it—he was scared of me. And that thought had a smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

I reached a hand into my jacket’s inside pocket and took out a monogrammed cigarette case, then drew a cigarette from it. My eyes stayed on him as I lit the cigarette, savoring the fear I could smell wafting off him.

Goddamn, I loved this part of the job.

Finally, he looked my way. And in a moment, I could see his eyes flash bright yellow for just an instant before they returned to the normal brown of the college student he was possessing. Demons generally didn’t like to associate with me. Probably because I had a habit of sending them back to Hell.

I could tell this demon wasn’t very high up on the totem pole. More than likely he was someone who’d just crawled out of Hell and slithered his way into a body. Most demons were just sadists and hedonists, feeding off the negative emotions of humans. But they talked. They knew things, even the bottom-feeders. And there were some questions I wanted answered.

The rattle of the train could be heard in the distance, growing louder with each passing second. I took the cigarette from my mouth and dropped it on the platform, crushing it beneath my heel. The train came to a stop and I broke my gaze on the demon, looking straight ahead at the doors. While waiting for them to open, I caught the reflection of my bright-red eyes in the window. And for a brief moment, my reflection changed, showing who was really in control now.

The doors opened. I took a glance back at him and saw him quickly board a car further up. I stepped onto the train and walked to the front of the car. After a moment, the train started up. I stared through the car window, looking into the one directly ahead. He wasn’t in that one. Was probably at least two cars ahead, if not three.

There was a sign on the door warning people not to cross between cars or face a fine. I’ve never been one for following the rules, so I pulled open the door and crossed over to the next car.

It was late at night, so the train was mostly empty. A homeless guy sat on the bench closest to me, muttering to himself. He held a mason jar between his legs. Judging from his stench, was pretty obvious what was inside that jar. I continued past him, moving down the car. The demon’s scent grew stronger with each step I took.

“Hey, mister, can I borrow a dollar? I’m hungry.”

The voice came from a woman who stood to block my path. Her clothes were filthy, and her hair went all over the place. Judging from the look in her eyes, seemed she was hooked on something, and she held out her hand. I didn’t have time to waste on her, so I grabbed her wrist and stared directly in her eyes.

“Sit down and shut up,” I said.

Without another word, she sat right back on the bench. Another perk of my heritage was I could influence people. The weaker the mind, the easier they were to push to do what I wanted.

I went to the front of the car and looked through the window. I saw the demon in the next car, sitting at the far end. With a smile, I pulled open the door and crossed into the first car. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up. His gaze lingered for a moment, fear passing over his face, and then he looked down again.

We were the only ones in this car. I moved down the center, closing the distance between us. The train’s speed reduced, and I looked out the window to see a stop coming up ahead. He stood from the bench and went to the door.

Oh no. Wasn’t gonna be that easy.

I quickened my pace, and just as the doors opened, I ended up right behind him. I reached out and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. He fell back, stumbling onto the car floor. The doors closed and the train started moving again. He looked up at me, his eyes now remaining in their yellow state. No reason to hide what he was—not anymore.

“H-hold on!” he shouted, his voice full of fear. “I don’t want any trouble with you, man!”

I lifted him off the floor and sat him down on the bench, then sat across from him. With my elbows resting on my thighs, I leaned forward and clasped my hands together, staring right into his yellow eyes.

“You know who I am, don’t you?” I asked.

He gave a nod. “There’s not a demon in the tri-state area who hasn’t heard of Luther Cross.”

“Good, that’ll make this easier. How about we start with something simple, like your name.”

“K-Killian.”

“Okay, Killian, here’s how it’s gonna go down. You’re gonna tell me everything I wanna know.”

“But I don’t kn—”

“And if you don’t, then we’re gonna have words.” I leaned back into the bench and pulled open my jacket so Killian could see the modified revolver I kept holstered under my shoulder. “You know about me, so I’m gonna assume you also know about this.”

Killian’s wide eyes confirmed he did.

“Now, what’s a little piss-ant bottom-feeder like yourself doing in my town?”

“Look man, I’m really not interested in causing any trouble. I escaped the pit, found a body, and that’s that. I’m just taking it for a joyride, seriously.”

“You escaped?” I asked. “How?”

It was a good question. You could think of Hell as something like a prison. The Hell Lords who made up the Infernal Court, they were the wardens and could come and go more or less as they pleased. But no prison’s perfect—there were secret passages in and out of Hell and no shortage of mid-level demons willing to provide you with a way out. Provided you could pay whatever price they asked.

Usually, that meant you had to take on a debt to corrupt a certain number of souls. But Killian here, he didn’t seem like the type capable of doing much corruption. Doubt he could make any deals, either—probably couldn’t sell a boat to a drowning man.

“You didn’t know?” asked Killian. “Asmodeus is missing. No one’s seen him in a few months.”

Actually, I had known about that. Asmodeus was one of the archdemons, a Hell Lord who had his own corner of the pit to rule over. Last time I saw him, he’d convinced me to go to Purgatory with him. He’d gone off on his own and we hadn’t seen him again. As far as I knew, he was still trapped there.

I wasn’t about to explain any of that to Killian. Last thing I needed was any Hell Lords knocking on my door. But I went through some changes myself in Purgatory, and there were things I wanted to know. In the past, Asmodeus could sometimes be counted on for information. That obviously wasn’t an option now.

“I like you, Killian,” I said. “So that’s why I’m gonna do you a solid.”

“You’re gonna let me go?”

I chuckled. “Sure. So long as you live up to your part of the bargain.”

Killian’s eyes went from side to side. “What do you mean? What do I have to do?”

“Like you said, probably not a demon around who doesn’t know who I am. And that’s the problem. So, here’s what I’m going to propose—you now work for me.”

“W-Why would I work for you? You kill our kind.”

I sighed. “Kid, I just explained this to you. If you scratch my back, I won’t put a bullet in your head. But if you’d rather I just killed you now…”

I drew the gun and casually pointed it at him. Killian jumped, holding his arms over his face. As if that would really do anything. I waited for him to lower his arms, which he did after a moment. But I kept the gun trained on his head. My face remained stoic, not allowing a hint of emotion to pass across.

“What’s it gonna be, Killian? You willing to be my eyes and ears in the demon world in exchange for staying alive?”

“So, I’d be your snitch?” he asked.

I smiled and holstered the gun. “Now you’re getting it. And who knows, maybe this will lead to more opportunities for you in the future.”

Killian cringed once more when I reached into my coat a second time. I just sighed and took out a card case. I took one of my business cards from it and passed it over to him. Killian reluctantly accepted the card and looked at it.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“See those numbers on it? You enter those into a fancy new device called a phone and that’s how you get in touch with me.”

“I know what a phone is, what I meant was—”

“Head over to Lust on Rush Street. I want to know who’s in charge. Once you find out, you give me a call.”

“That’s it?”

“For now.” I looked out the window and saw we were approaching the next stop. I stood from the bench and looked down at Killian. “Don’t piss me off, kid. I’m giving you a huge break here. Think you can handle it?”

“I got no loyalty to the Court, honest.”

“Good. Because if I find out you’ve betrayed me, just remember that I’ve gone toe-to-toe with the Angel of Death.”

The doors opened, and I stepped from the train onto the platform. Maybe it was a bit risky to recruit an informant like Killian. Never would’ve done that before. But things had changed since Purgatory, and the Luther Cross who went into that place wasn’t the same one who walked out.

There are a lot of things you could say about Chicago. Traffic’s a pain, our sports teams suck, we don’t put ketchup on hot dogs, and the weather is downright schizo. But you know one thing you can’t really criticize?

We’ve got one of the best damn skylines in the world.

That’s what always strikes me whenever I look out over the city at night. It’s why instead of choosing to go to a bar at the street level, I instead come to the Signature Lounge at the top of the John Hancock Building. Sure, it’s overpriced, but where else in the city are you gonna be able to enjoy a scotch with a view like this?

My name’s Luther Cross. I’m what’s known as a cambion. My mother was human and she was impregnated by a demon. Though not just any demon—a former Hell Lord named Abraxas. Makes me kind of like royalty down in the pit. Wasn’t something I ever counted on, but now I’m making it work for me.

While sipping my Glenlivet, I stared out the window, the glow of my crimson eyes reflected in the glass. In the past, I’d have tried to hide that. But that was the old me, before I went to Purgatory and had a new side to my personality awaken.

For years, I was used as a pawn. Raised by an organization called the Sons of Solomon, who thought I was some kind of weapon to be used against the forces of darkness or whatever. Then got my chain yanked by angels and demons alike. And after Purgatory, I had enough. The old Luther was gone, and I stopped giving a damn about anyone other than myself.

I looked down at my hand. Small sparks of fire appeared on my fingertips. Hellfire to be exact. Started to exhibit the power in Purgatory. And over the past two months, I’ve only grown more powerful.

Oh yeah, speaking of which. I used to just be a half-demon paranormal investigator. But now, I’ve followed in pop’s footsteps and I’m a full-blown Lord of Hell myself, ruling over the domain once held by a demon named Asmodeus. Wasn’t what I counted on, but it was part of the deal I struck with another demon, Lilith.

I hadn’t spent a whole lot of time down there since the transfer happened. Lilith was handling the bulk of the duties down there. Me, I was content staying out of it. Didn’t care much about being an absentee Hell Lord. It gave me the power to walk around without having to worry about angels or demons riding my ass, and that’s all I wanted—to be left alone.

“Excuse me…”

I rolled my eyes and looked away from the window to address whoever this chump was. So much for being left alone. The guy was in his 60s, his gray hair having long receded from the top of his head, and he wore glasses. I could see the glisten of flop-sweat on his forehead and he kept looking around the room nervously.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Are you Luther Cross?”

“Who wants to know?”

“I do.” He sat down at my table and I sighed. “My name is Charles Morrison and—”

“Stop.” I held up my hand. “When did I say you could sit at my table?”

“I-I’m sorry, I just assumed—”

“Yeah, well when you assume, you make an ass outta you and me,” I said. “You got ten seconds to tell me what you want.”

“As I said, my name is Charles Morrison and I need your help.”

“What makes you think I can help you, Chucky?”

“Because I’m being pursued.” He looked from side to side and then leaned forward and lowered his voice to a whisper. “By assassins.”

“Sounds like you pissed someone off.” I raised my glass and sipped the scotch. “Sorry to hear that. But Chicago’s a big city, lots of powerful people live here. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a bodyguard.”

“I don’t need a bodyguard, Mr. Cross. I need you.”

“Y’know, I only like the phrase ‘I need you’ when it’s being said by a hot little number preferably wearing some kind of lingerie,” I said. “When some George Costanza-looking motherfucker says it, doesn’t do much for me. No offense.”

“I think they might be demons. Or working for demons.”

I finished my Glenlivet and held up the glass. Looking around, I caught the waiter’s eye and pointed to it. He nodded and within a few moments, brought me a fresh drink.

“What about your friend?” asked the waiter.

“He’s not my friend and he’s not staying long,” I said and the waiter left. Morrison was staring at me the whole time, no doubt waiting for my reaction after he used the D-word.

“Did you hear what I just said?” he finally asked.

“Yeah, you think you’re being chased by demons. Not my problem,” I said. “I know an exorcist out in Rogers Park, I can give you his name, but that’s about it.”

“I don’t need an exorcist,” he said. “What I need is Luther Cross. The man who I was told I could trust.”

I began to sip the new drink, and that’s when I saw it. On his finger, he wore a gold signet ring with a symbol topping it off. A white stone with a red cross. Though the line going through the cross was higher than usual. It was a symbol I recognized.

“Opus Dei,” I said, my eyes narrowing. “What the fuck do you bastards want with me this time?”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

“You heard what I said. I’ve dealt with your kind before. So now, not only are you interrupting my quiet time, but you’re also part of an organization that once tried to kill me.”

“Mr. Cross, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Morrison. “Yes, I am a member of the Opus Dei, but it’s a large organization spanning the entire globe. I’m not aware of all the activities of our members.”

“I think it’s time you left,” I said.

“You don’t understand—”

“I’m gonna give you to the count of three.” I fixed my eyes on him now, the glow from my eyes growing powerful enough that it cast a red hue over my vision. “And then I’m going to get angry.”

“Wait, you have to just listen—”

“One.”

“I’m not here on behalf of the order, I’m here because—’

“Two.”

“Please, if you’ll just give me a chance to explain—”

“Three.”

“Dakota Reed sent me!”

I froze and the crimson tinge over the room faded. Several seconds of silence filled the air, and then I realized we were being watched. Our exchange must have been more distracting, because everyone in the Signature Lounge was looking right at us. During the silence that followed, they eventually turned their attention back to their own conversations. Except a man in a tuxedo, the Lounge manager, who came over to our table.

“Mr. Cross, is everything all right?” he asked.

“Yeah, everything’s fine,” I said, looking up at him. “Just a misunderstanding.”

“I feel it’s my duty to remind you that we can’t tolerate outbursts such as—”

I stared into his eyes and his face started to glaze over for a brief instant. Just a slight nudge using my powers to keep him from causing me any more grief. Already had enough to deal with.

“We cool?” I asked.

“Yes sir, of course,” he said. “I apologize for disturbing you.”

The manager left and my focus was back on Morrison. I picked up my drink and took a long sip, never taking my eyes off him. A member of the Opus Dei and he said Dakota sent him to find me? That stirred my curiosity.

“Time for you to start talking, Chucky,” I said. “What do you know about Dakota Reed?”

Morrison hesitated, sighed, and then said, “I don’t think we should talk here. Is there somewhere private we can go? Where we won’t have to deal with the threat of prying eyes and ears?”

Could understand his apprehension. Chicago had a pretty vibrant supernatural underworld and there were interested parties all over the city. Dakota posed particular interest. I met her last spring when she came to me, pregnant by mystic means. At first, we thought the baby might be a cambion, like me. But then it turned out she was carrying a nephilim.

Dakota had been impregnated by an angel. Which was a violation of the armistice between Heaven and Hell. Someone upstairs had a mind to try and thaw out the cold war between the two sides. With the help of an angel named Raziel, I kept Dakota out of harm’s way. After that, Raz took her into hiding.

No one had seen her since. And if someone found out that Morrison knew where to find her, well…they’d be really keen to extract that information.

“Fine,” I said and finished the rest of my scotch. I stood and took my leather jacket from the back of my chair, pulling it over my collared shirt.

Morrison followed me as we left the Lounge. I told the manager as we walked through the exit to put the drinks on my tab and we went to the elevator. I hit the button and slid my hands into my pockets, watching as the numbers ticked up on the display.

“Dakota speaks very highly of you, Mr. Cross,” said Morrison.

“Do me a favor,” I said. “No more talking until we get where we need to go. Not a fan of chit-chat.”

Morrison nodded and the elevator arrived. I hit the button for the lobby and the car began its descent. We rode down in silence all the way to the ground floor, not another word passing between us. The doors opened and I led Morrison through the lobby and out the door, to the parking garage right next to the building.

As soon as we’d left the elevator, I started to sense something was wrong. I didn’t look behind me, but I reached out with my sixth sense. Being a cambion gave me the ability to perceive the supernatural around me. And I could sense the presence of something following us. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a uniformed cop keeping pace behind us, maintaining his distance.

Smart guy, definitely a pro. If I were anyone else, I wouldn’t have spotted him. Unfortunately for him, he wasn’t dealing with anyone else—he was dealing with Luther Cross.

We entered the garage and got in the elevator. The cop followed us in and he called out. “Excuse me, could you hold the door?”

I pushed the door close button and shrugged as the cop jogged to catch up to us. “Sorry, I’m pushing it, but I think the button’s broken.”

The doors closed and we rode the elevator to the fifth floor. When they opened, I grabbed Morrison’s arm and pulled him onto the parking level. We made a bee-line for my car, the ’69 black Camaro. But as we approached, I saw we weren’t alone. There were two more cops standing by my car, one of them leaning against the trunk.

“This is a nice ride you got here,” said the one leaning. He rubbed his fingers over the surface.

“You mind?” I asked. “Just had it cleaned.”

He scoffed. “Why bother? You know it’s supposed to snow tomorrow, right?”

“My friend and I gotta be going now, so how about you gentlemen leave us be?”

“Oh?” asked the other cop, stepping closer. The name tag on his jacket read Phillips. “I don’t think I like your tone, boy. Are you telling two CPD officers what to do?”

“Not at all,” I said, taking a step back. “I’d just like to get home before it’s too late.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t let you leave,” said the cop who’d been leaning against the car. He stood upright and reached for his belt, drawing his nightstick. The tag on his jacket identified him as Miller.

Then I heard the sound of a door opening. I turned around and saw the cop from before emerge from the stairwell and close the distance between us. Cole was printed on his nametag.

“And why not?” I asked.

“Your car’s in no condition to be driven,” said Miller.

I shrugged. “Seems fine to me.”

Miller raised his nightstick and bashed it against my tail light. The sound of shattering glass echoed on the level. “Check again. You’ve got a light out.”

I sighed. “You really shouldn’t have done that.”

“And why’s that?” asked Phillips, getting in my face.

“Because,” I said, channeling demonic energy into my fingertips. “You’re just some pissant demons possessing these cops. And I’m Luther Cross, bitch.”

Phillips’ eyes changed to bright yellow when I put my palm against his chest and said, “Ignis!”

His shirt instantly erupted in a blaze of fire. I punched him in the face to throw him back and he rolled on the ground, trying to extinguish the flames.

Cole drew his gun and pointed it at Morrison. I held my hand up and, just as he squeezed the trigger, said, “Sepio!”

Morrison shut his eyes and turned away, but the bullet struck the invisible barrier I cast around him. That should keep him out of trouble while I finished these two bastards off. After that, I’d figure out what to do about him.”

While my attention was on Morrison, Miller struck. His nightstick hit the back of my head and dropped me to the ground. Might be a low-level demon, but he hit pretty damn hard. I was on my hands and knees and I sensed him coming in for another attack. I kicked my leg back, striking his shin. He fell as I got back to my feet.

I took his discarded nightstick and turned to look at Cole, who had his gun trained on me. Figured, the one damn time I left my gun in the car was the time I ended up needing it.

“Get back, Cross,” said Cole. “This doesn’t concern you. Just get in your car and we’ll let you drive away.”

“What do you know about me, Cole?” I asked.

“You’re the mongrel son of a demon’s whore,” he said. “Hunt us down so you can earn brownie points with those winged cocksuckers.”

My fingers tightened into a fist and I felt heat under my skin. “That was then. I’ve had some changes in the past few months. Now, I’m a mongrel Hell Lord.”

The way Cole’s eyes bulged, you’d think they were about to explode out of his sockets. Seems not everyone got the memo about my promotion. The heat under my skin had built up and flames started to dance around my fingertips.

“You shouldn’t have insulted my mom.”

I held out my arm and a burst of hellfire exploded from my palm, crossing the distance between us and completely consuming Cole’s body. He screamed as the hellfire surged through his every cell, utterly destroying every single aspect of his dark soul.

When it was done, Cole was no more and his gun clattered to the ground. I walked over and picked it up, looking at Miller and shooting him in the leg.

“I’ll deal with you in a minute,” I said, and then walked over to Phillips, who was still writhing in pain from the flames. I put two bullets in his eyes and a bright, yellow light emerged from his sockets before he stopped moving completely.

I knelt down by Miller and looked at the nightstick I’d taken from him. I tapped his cheek with it and stared into his eyes. I could see his anger and fear in those yellow eyes.

“You damaged my car,” I said. “I take that kinda shit personally.”

“Give me a break, man, it was nothin’ personal,” said Miller. “We were just hired to kill that old bastard.”

“Who hired you?” I asked. “You tell me, and this will go a lot more smoothly. But if you wanna be a hard-ass, then…” I held up the nightstick and waved it in front of him. “Well, we’ll see just how many holes this little guy can squeeze into.”

“C’mon, man,” said Miller. “We had no idea you were a Hell Lord. If we knew, we wouldn’t have messed with you, honest.”

“That’s not an answer,” I said, hellfire flowing from my hand and over the surface of the nightstick, coating it. “Just who exactly are you working for? One of the Hell Lords? Someone else?”

“I-I can’t tell you…I don’t know…”

“Wrong answer.”

I went to work on the demon, his screams like music to my ear as I tortured him. I made good on my word and probably set a few penetration records with that nightstick. Before the hour was up, he still hadn’t given up anything—because he didn’t have anything to give up.

Once I was convinced he really didn’t know anything, I vaporized him with hellfire and dropped the nightstick. I turned to Morrison, who braced himself against one of the garage’s support pillars and bent over, vomiting. Guess he wasn’t a fan of my methods.

“Done for now?” I asked.

“What…what are you?” he asked.

“I’m the handsome devil who just saved your ass,” I said. “Now get in the car, you’ve got some storytelling to do.”

My name’s Luther Cross, and I’ve just been stabbed to death. Not often a story begins with the hero dying, but that is how this one starts.

I’m what’s known as a cambion, a human/demon hybrid. My mother was a normal woman named Grace Cross. But my father was one of the Fallen, the angels who joined Lucifer’s rebellion and were cast into Hell to become the first demons. His name was Abraxas.

Just under a year ago, I helped a girl named Dakota Reed, who’d been impregnated by an angel. Those hybrids are called the nephilim and they’re far more powerful than me. Their creation was also strictly forbidden by the terms of an armistice between Heaven and Hell. But this angel seemed intent on breaking that armistice in order to kick-start armageddon.

A lot’s happened since then. I helped Dakota to safety, traveled to Purgatory, got overtaken by my dark side, betrayed pretty much everyone I ever cared about, became a Hell Lord, and then conquered my inner demon. In that time, Dakota also gave birth, and that’s what brought me here.

A demon named Asmodeus was after her. Long story short, he used to be a somewhat ally of mine before he got trapped in Purgatory. To escape, he struck a deal with Thanatos, the big bad who ran it—the nephilim for his freedom. I wasn’t about to let that happen, but to stop him, I had to strike a deal of my own with none other than Lucifer himself. He gave me the means to trap Asmodeus in Hell’s prison in exchange for…well, that’s something I still don’t know.

I managed to finish the job. Asmodeus was now rotting in a place called Cocytus, where he’s held under freezing water by chains of ice as ravenous, predatory fish eat away at his flesh. Didn’t come without a price, though. Bastard still managed to stab me before I got him.

Now I was standing on the beach, looking down at my body. Standing over me was a young Filipino woman named Shelly Reyes. She was a nun with a military background, tough as nails, and assigned by an angel named Raziel to protect Dakota and her baby. Before I died, I gave her a spell provided by Lucifer that would provide protection for Dakota and her kid, Malcolm.

The entire world looked different now that I was dead. It wasn’t dark out, but it seemed almost like someone turned down the sunlight. I reached a hand out for Shelly, but it just passed right through her head. And when it did, she reacted, her body straightening. I could see the goosebumps forming on her bare arms.

I couldn’t feel a thing. Not the heat of the sun’s rays or the humidity in the air. The sea breeze had vanished completely as far as my senses were concerned, as did the scent of the ocean and the sound of the waves. I knelt down and reached for the sand, but my hand went through the grains, not feeling a single one. The only sense I had left was sight. It was definitely a surreal feeling.

And that’s when I saw the fog roll in across the ocean. I stood and approached the water, staring out into the distance. The fog had come from nowhere and stretched high into the air. A boat slowly emerged from the cloud—narrow and long, and forged from human bones and skulls.

A solitary figure stood in the back of the boat, an oar clasped between his hands. He wore a heavy cloak with a hood, but his white eyes glowed brightly in the shadows that hid his face. The boat came to a stop and he raised the oar from the water. A sand dune rose from the surface, providing a bridge between myself and him. He extended his arm towards me and beckoned with a single finger.

I knew who he was. Charon, the ferryman of the dead. I’d seen him before. He was the one who took Asmodeus, Tessa, Cain, and myself into Purgatory. And now he was here for me.

I turned my back on him, looking at the beach house. I watched as Dakota emerged, running to Shelly’s side. She fell to her knees and threw her arms on my body. I could see her tears and it seemed like she was alternating between shouting and crying. But I couldn’t hear her.

“You’re not part of this world anymore, Luther,” said Charon. “Your time has come to leave and move on to the next.”

His voice was the only thing I could hear. I took a breath—or I guess I simulated taking a breath since I was now a ghost—and turned towards him.

“And which ‘next world’ would that be?” I asked. “What happens when a Hell Lord dies? Where does his soul go?”

Charon stepped off the boat and onto the dune. He slowly walked towards me and stopped when he came close. “To be honest, I don’t know.”

“How do you not know where you’re taking me?”

“My task is simply to ferry you to the next place. As we travel on the rivers between worlds, it will become clear how you’ve been judged and where your soul belongs.”

“So who does the judging?”

“That’s not my department.”

I scoffed. “For Christ’s sake, do you know anything?”

Charon sighed. “I know even in spite of some recent acts, you were a decent man. You helped many people over the course of your life. That alone may have granted your soul entry into Heaven. But—”

“But I fucked things up when I became a Hell Lord, that’s what you mean to say.”

“It certainly didn’t help matters,” said Charon. “Though I’m not so certain anything would have changed your fate.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked.

“Not only are you a cambion, but you’re the son of Abraxas. One of the greatest monsters to have ever lived. I don’t know if you ever had a chance at salvation.”

If that wasn’t a kick in the nuts, I don’t know what would be.

“So what happens to me? Does my Hell Lord status get me any sort of leeway?”

Charon looked away, off into the fog in the distance. “I honestly cannot say.”

“Can’t say because you’re not permitted to, or can’t say because you don’t know the answer?”

He shook his head. “Both. Your situation is unique, Luther. No mortal has ever been a Hell Lord before. What becomes of your soul now is anyone’s guess.”

“While we’re on the river, if it doesn’t become clear where I’m supposed to go, then what?” I asked.

“In cases where the soul’s destination is not a foregone conclusion, a trial is held to determine where it will finally rest. It’s rare, but has been known to happen in the past.”

“You’re talking about sentencing,” I said.

Charon nodded. “Yes, I suppose that’s one way of looking at it. Both Heaven and Hell could make a case for why your soul belongs in those domains, if they so choose.”

That didn’t fill me with a lot of confidence. With Raziel missing—possibly dead—I couldn’t count on anyone in Heaven having my back. Pyriel despised me and I doubted Gabriel would stick his neck out for me. Plus, just last year I got my ass kicked by Azrael, the Angel of Death.

“And who’s the judge? Who has final say over where my soul ends up?”

“The final judge of all things,” said Charon.

I scoffed. “Death. As in the horseman.”

He gave a nod. “It will take some time for the proper arrangements to be made. I can take you to a place where you’ll be held until the commencement of the trial.”

A place where I’d be held…I knew what that meant. There was only one place where souls who hadn’t been sentenced to Heaven or Hell had to go. And the man in charge of that place had an axe to grind against me.

“Are you out of your damn mind?” I asked. “You can’t send me to Purgatory.”

“Those are the rules.”

“You know Thanatos wants my head on a pike, and you’re just going to turn me over to him?”

“I apologize, but I have no choice.”

“Bullshit!” I stepped up to Charon, stabbing a finger against his chest. “You had a choice when you took us into Purgatory and when you helped us out. You had a choice all those times you helped Cain. And now you’re going to tell me that you’re just a good little errand boy?”

Charon raised his hands to his hood and slowly lifted it off his head. I saw his face for the first time. It was a map of scar tissue and blistered wounds. His face looked like a shattered glass that had been glued together badly. If I still had a stomach, I’d probably be vomiting all over my shoes at the sight.

He raised the hood again, concealing his wounds. “Thanatos has seen to it that I’ve paid for my transgressions. I can’t betray my duties ever again, not without consequence.”

“If he did that to you, what do you think he’s going to do to me?”

Charon lowered his head. Strange that an immortal being was afraid of something. Even more strange that he seemed to feel remorse for his actions. After all the souls Charon had ferried to the afterlife over eons, you’d think he would no longer be capable of emotion, if he ever was.

“You know, I have no power over the dead,” said Charon. “I just take you from one place to the next. But I can’t force you to board my boat.”

“What are you saying?” I asked.

“How do you think ghosts even exist, Luther? They’re the souls that refused to come with me.”

“So I do have a choice,” I said. “I can choose to stay behind, to remain on Earth as a spirit.”

“Yes, but that path has risks as well, and you should know of them before you make your decision. Most souls that remain behind do so because there is something tying them to this place. But remaining in the veil, stuck between two worlds, it’s too much for many. They break under the pressure and become trapped in nightmares of their own making. Or they try to inflict their pain on the living.”

I’d encountered my fair share of angry spirits in my time, so I knew exactly what sort of risks Charon was talking about. There wasn’t really any choice, though. If I tried to do things the right way, Thanatos would definitely get his hands on me. Even as a Hell Lord, I doubted anyone downstairs would try to get me out of Thanatos’ hands. Why would they? Lucifer wouldn’t want to risk showing favoritism and Lilith already had a rebellion on her hands to deal with. And the other Hell Lords either feared or despised me.

“I’ll stay.”

“Think about this carefully, Luther,” said Charon. “Soon, you’ll start to relive the past, and you could easily become trapped in it. Your rage will grow, reliving the moments of your life, and you’ll start to lash out against the living. You may not even realize you’re doing it.”

“There’s no other way. I’ve gotta figure something out.” I turned away from Charon and looked at Dakota and Shelly standing over my body. It was like time had frozen. “What’s going on?”

“Time moves differently for us,” said Charon. “You may think we’ve been speaking for a while, but it’s been barely seconds for them.”

“They’re going to need help,” I said. “I’ve reached out to spirits for guidance in the past. If I stay here, I can probably see to it that Dakota and her baby are protected.”

“You might be able to, but affecting the real world isn’t as easy as you believe. It will take time to master that skill. And there’s one other thing you should be concerned about.”

“What’s that?” I asked.

Charon started to walk across the sand dune, back towards the boat. As he boarded, the sand retreated beneath the water’s surface and he looked back at me.

“Beware the wraiths,” he said.

“Wraiths?” I asked. “What the hell’s a wraith?”

“I pray you never have to find out.”

The fog rolled over him and slowly retreated, vanishing into the distance. As it did, light returned to the world and I could hear Shelly and Dakota’s voices again. I looked over at them and saw Shelly trying to comfort Dakota and telling her that they had to leave now.

She was right about that. And I’d tag along with them, see if there was something I could do to help. After all, not like I had anything else to worry about now that I was dead.

Ever walk into a place you’ve been a million times before, and even though nothing has changed, it just feels different? That’s what I was thinking as I stepped through the front door of my condo located in Chicago’s Gold Coast neighborhood. It felt like I hadn’t been here in years, even though the time was considerably less than that. But dying had a way of changing your perspectively.

My name’s Luther Cross, and I was just resurrected. You could count on one hand the number of times that the spell used on me had been performed successfully, and you’d still have fingers left over. It put me in a pretty exclusive club.

The condo really did look exactly the same. No one had been here since before my untimely death at the hands of a demon I once called friend. Just moments ago, I woke up in my grave and dug myself out to find two angels waiting for me—Gabriel and Raziel. They were my allies in what looked like a battle headed straight for all-out war. A rogue angel named Pyriel was trying to start the apocalypse. He already had the first soldier in his army, his son, a nephilim by the name of Malcolm. And he had the boy’s mother, Dakota, the woman I died protecting.

But we couldn’t just charge in after them. For one thing, Pyriel was good at covering his tracks. And two, Gabriel and Raziel had to try and appeal to the Powers That Be in Heaven. With the exception of those two, angels didn’t care much for me—probably had something to do with the fact that my father was one of The Fallen. So Gabe dropped me off at my condo before he and Raziel went upstairs.

I was glad he did. Running around as a ghost and then waking up in your own grave really made me want to take a shower before I did anything else. I just wanted to enjoy being alive for a night before I jumped back into the chaos my life had become.

I went into the bathroom and stripped off my clothes. They were covered in dirt and dried blood, and seemed unlikely my dry cleaner could do much for them, so I just left them on the floor with the plan to trash them later. I stepped into the walk-in shower and turned on the hot water.

Damn, it felt good. The only real sensations I’d felt since coming back were the feel of the sheets my body was wrapped in followed by the taste of soil as I dug myself out of the grave. I’d forgotten just how good a decent shower could feel.

As I soaped up my torso, I cringed a bit. There was a spot that caused some slight discomfort. I looked down at my side and saw a scar. That was where Asmodeus had stabbed me. Guess Death couldn’t or wouldn’t erase that little memento once he brought me back to life. I ran my finger over the scarred flesh, sucking in air at the hint of pain I felt. It was more of a reminder of what had happened than anything else. I could still remember how the blade felt going in, the taste of copper as blood pooled in my mouth, and how Asmodeus smiled as he twisted the knife.

The memory caused me to spasm and I banged into the shower door. I slipped and fell to the floor. I looked down at the wound and saw blood pouring out of it, dripping down my body and then mixing with the water before circling down the drain.

I closed my eyes and opened them again. The blood was gone—it was never there. No blood, just the white soap turning the water cloudy as it flowed into the drain.

I groaned and pulled myself up to my feet. Seemed resurrection wasn’t enough to erase that feeling when you died. I’d cheated death before, but that time was different.

After finishing in the shower, I toweled my body off and went to the sink. I wiped the mirror and saw the scar reflected in the glass. I broke from that and looked into my own reflection, then turned on the sink and started to apply shaving cream.

As I shaved, I kept staring at my crimson eyes. Kept expecting my reflection to change into the manifestation of my demonic side, but it never did. Looked like I really was successful in controlling that aspect of myself. At least that was something to be happy about.

Once I finished shaving, I put on my black robe, then collected the discarded clothes and took them into the kitchen. I grabbed a garbage bag from under the sink and stuffed the soiled clothing inside, then dropped it on the tiled floor. Planned to take that out to the trash once I had an opportunity.

I walked over to my liquor cabinet in the dining room, located just outside the kitchen. I opened the cabinet and took out the bottle of Laphroaig and poured some into a tumbler. With the drink in hand, I went to my recliner in the living room and settled in, slowly sipping the drink.

That first sip of the smoky, single-malt flavor almost gave me an orgasm. I hadn’t had a real drink in what felt like years. I took another sip. Not as good as the first, but still better than any scotch I’d had in a very long time. I set the drink down on the side table and picked up the cigarette case and lighter.

The entire time I was dead, all I wanted more than anything was a scotch and a cigarette. Now I had the opportunity for both and it was everything I’d hoped for. I took the lit cigarette from my mouth and slowly exhaled, tilting my head back and watching as the smoke drifted up towards the ceiling, moving in a slow spire before dissipating.

There wasn’t anything I could do about Pyriel or his captives, not until I’d heard back from Gabriel and Raziel. Until then, I had to find a way to keep myself busy. Idle hands are the devil’s playground, after all. Felt like what I needed was a bit of action after being apart from the physical world for so long.

Not that kind of action, though I wouldn’t turn that down, either. What I needed was to get my hands dirty, work out some of this pent-up aggression. And fortunately, I had a loose end that needed tying. Would be the perfect way to kill two birds.

* * *

I used to get around by driving a sweet ’69 Camaro, but that wasn’t an option anymore. Guy named Cain smashed in the roof while trying to kill me. In all the chaos that was happening at the time, I never had a chance to look in on it. Damn thing was probably carted off by now, which meant I was without wheels.

I could’ve taken a bus or called an Uber, but Rush Street was only about ten minutes away from the Gold Coast on foot, so I decided to take the time and enjoy having the use of my body once again.

I had a leather trench coat over a pair of jeans and a black shirt. In the past, I’d always worn a suit, but I was feeling more casual ever since the demon and human halves of my soul were brought into cohesion.

March had just begun, though it still didn’t feel like it. Some years, it was common for the cold to last longer than normal. One year, we got hit by a blizzard on the very last day of the month.

Surprisingly though, the cold didn’t bother me. On the one hand, my cambion physiology gave me a bit more resistance to the elements. But on the other, I enjoyed feeling again. The chill in the air slapped my face and reminded me that it all really happened—I’d come back from the dead.

There were likely to be a few people who wouldn’t be too happy about that. I was going after one of them right now. I turned off State Street and started walking down Rush, to the night club district. Even in the cold, people still lined up to come to these things. Had to admire that kind of dedication.

But I wasn’t interested in the regular clubs. There was one I wanted in particular. The one that had the word LUST over the awning above the entrance. I ignored the line and walked up to the bouncer. Without even looking at me, he jerked his thumb towards the people waiting.

“End of the line’s that way, pal.”

“Last time I checked, this place has a unique ownership model,” I said. “It’s the property of a Hell Lord.”

The bouncer froze and looked up. His mouth dropped when he realized who was standing in front of him. I gave him a half-smile.

“M-Mr. Cross…?”

“Hi,” I said.

“But, I’d heard…I mean, the word was...”

“I know,” I said. “Let’s just say the rumors of my death were a bit exaggerated. Now are you going to let me in or what?”

He nodded furiously and unhooked the velvet rope, then stepped aside. I nodded my thanks and opened the front door, stepping inside. The music’s bass was so loud, it felt like a throbbing inside my head. The lights were dim with a red glow, people dancing and grinding to the beat.

I moved through the crowd, heading towards the stairs. Up at the top of the building was the sixth floor, where the office of the club’s manager was located. It hung over the rest of the place, with large windows that granted a view of the dance floor. And that’s where the man I wanted to see was no doubt waiting.

Not too long ago, a demon named Lilith and I got our hands on a powerful item called the Abraxas Stone. Or rather a fragment of it. It was created by my father and by using it to harness the spirit energy of lost souls, I could threaten even Lucifer himself. I was given Asmodeus’ old realm of Hell to rule over, which Lilith had been looking after as my regent.

As for Lust, this had been an embassy of sorts for Asmodeus. He used to run this club, controlling operations to corrupt souls from here. Technically with him gone, it was now mine. Lilith had appointed a demon named Iblis to look after it. He was a smarmy little shit, but he was also only out for himself.

At least I thought so. Until Asmodeus came back and Iblis helped him kill me. That kind of thing hurt my feelings, so I wanted to come down here and get an apology from him in person.

I got up to the sixth floor and two bouncers stood guard in front of the door to the office. Their eyes met mine, flashing yellow. Demons, naturally. Last one of them I fought was Asmodeus, and he was a former angel.

These two, they weren’t shit.

“Boys,” I said, stepping up to them. “I’d like a word with my manager.”

“Don’t know who you are, but you got some guts taking on that dude as a skin-suit.”

“Not sure what you mean,” I said.

“He means Luther Cross is dead. How’d you take possession of his body anyway?”

“Or maybe you’re a changeling?”

“I’m not a changeling and I’m not some demon or spirit hitching a ride in a corpse,” I said. “I’m the real deal. Back and better than ever.”

They chuckled and stepped forward. One of them started stretching his arms while the other cracked his knuckles. It was difficult to contain my excitement—I’d been waiting for the chance to mix it up once again.

“I just wanted you to know that I’m a bit rusty with this whole thing,” I said with a grin. “So be gentle with me.”