Page 26
DEMON’S DEN
CADE
I sat in the passenger seat of the Impala, fingers drumming against my thigh, a restless rhythm that matched the unease spreading through me.
Something felt wrong. Not just in the town, with its broken windows and empty storefronts, but in me.
The hollowness that had been my constant companion since returning from hell seemed to widen here, resonating with the emptiness around us.
“Place looks like the set of a zombie flick,” I murmured, eyes scanning the desolate main street. A newspaper box still stood on the corner, its plastic window sun-bleached and cracked, headlines from months ago trapped inside like insects in amber.
Sean slowed the Impala, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. A traffic light swung overhead, blinking yellow into a long-empty intersection. “This place is giving me serious 'bad idea' vibes,” he muttered. But he didn't stop.
I reached for my gun, checking it with practiced movements. “Hawk chose it for a reason.”
“Yeah, because he's a paranoid bastard with a death wish.” Sean's jaw tightened. “Just like every other hunter with a grudge who's lived past forty.”
We turned a corner, the Impala's engine echoing too loudly in the silent town.
“Shit!” Sean slammed on the brakes, tires squealing against pavement. The car lurched to a stop, throwing me forward against my seat belt.
A man stood in the middle of the road, not ten feet from our bumper. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a military bearing that was unmistakable even from a distance. But it wasn't his stance that made my pulse quicken; it was the gun aimed directly at us, rock-steady in his grip.
I barely had time to react before more figures stepped from the shadows of a dilapidated storefront. Five, no, six of them. All armed. All with the same cold, calculating stares fixed on our car.
“Well,” Sean said, voice unnaturally calm. “Looks like we got ourselves a goddamn welcome party.”
The burly man leading them—scars crisscrossing his forearms, tattoos disappearing beneath his rolled-up sleeves—stepped forward. His trigger finger was steady, the barrel of his shotgun unwavering as he pointed it at Sean's head through the windshield.
“Hands where I can see them!” he shouted, voice carrying across the empty street.
Sean muttered under his breath, “Well, this is familiar.” His hands stayed on the wheel, muscles tense beneath his jacket. I could almost hear the calculations running through his head—how fast he could draw the gun tucked at his back, how many he could take out before they returned fire.
“Don't,” I said quietly, keeping my eyes on the armed men surrounding us. “We're outnumbered.”
“I can count,” Sean replied, but the tension in his shoulders eased slightly. He knew I was right.
I raised my hands, slow and deliberate, keeping them visible through the windshield. “We're looking for Hawk,” I called out, voice steady. “Sterling sent us.”
The name dropped like a stone into still water. The leader's eyes narrowed, assessing. Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the soft metallic click of a round being chambered somewhere to our left.
Then, with a barely perceptible nod, the leader gestured to one of his men. “Take 'em inside.”
The guns didn't lower, but the air of immediate threat diminished slightly. We were being allowed to move, at least for now. Sean exhaled beside me, a soft hiss between clenched teeth.
“Great,” he said, voice pitched low enough that only I could hear. “Let's see what fresh hell we just walked into.”
We stepped out of the car slowly, hands still raised. The leader watched me with particular interest, his gaze lingering on the outline of my jacket where it couldn't quite hide the sigil burned into my chest. I met his stare evenly, refusing to show discomfort.
“That way,” he said, jerking his shotgun toward the former auto shop across the street. Heavy metal shutters covered its windows, and the garage doors had been reinforced with sheets of steel bolted into the frame. A fortress in the middle of a ghost town.
As we were marched across the empty road, Sean caught my eye. The look we exchanged was brief but loaded with meaning. Be ready. Stay alert. We'd been in worse situations, I reminded myself. But somehow, that thought brought no comfort.
The safe house was, indeed, an old auto shop.
The showroom and offices had been converted into a military-grade command center, reinforced with steel plating and lined with weapons.
Tactical gear hung on racks near the door, and a bank of monitors displayed security camera feeds from around the town.
A makeshift war room sat in the center—maps, reports, ammunition scattered across tables that had once held car brochures and financing paperwork.
Hawk was waiting.
He stood when we entered, setting aside a well-worn rifle he'd been cleaning.
Mid-fifties, with gray at his temples and a trim beard that did little to hide the scar running along his jaw.
His eyes were sharp as a knife's edge, taking in every detail of our appearance with a single glance.
This was a man who'd seen too many battles and survived all of them, each victory etching itself into the lines of his face, each loss adding weight to his shoulders.
Our eyes met, and for an instant, I saw a flicker of something like recognition in his gaze.
He didn't bother with pleasantries. “Sterling said you were coming.” He nodded to Sean and me. “Said you'd want information on the seals.”
“That's right,” I replied, matching his direct tone. The armed men who'd escorted us in remained by the door, weapons lowered but still at the ready.
Sean shifted beside me, shoulders tense. “And in return, we help you with whatever mess you've got going on in this ghost town?”
Hawk's expression didn't change, but his focus shifted to Sean. “You catch on quick.”
Hawk tossed a folder onto the table between us. It landed with a soft thud, pages spilling out across the metal surface. Grainy surveillance photos, hastily scribbled notes, medical reports. I flipped it open, scanning the contents quickly.
The photos showed people with black eyes, twisted expressions, bodies contorted at unnatural angles. Possession. Not just one or two cases, but dozens. An entire town.
“Demon infestation,” Hawk said, his voice flat. “Started with one. Then it spread. They took the town, and now they're playing cat-and-mouse with us.”
Sean moved beside me, examining the photos over my shoulder. “So why haven't you torched the whole place?” he asked, his tone suspicious. “Trap 'em all inside, exorcise the lot, or burn it down. Why the surgical approach?”
Hawk's jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin. “Because they're still wearing human skin.” His voice hardened. “Real people. Neighbors. Families. Kids. Most of them are still alive in there.”
I looked at the photos again. The possessed faces. The ordinary people who weren't people anymore. Checkout clerks and teachers and factory workers, all turned into meat suits for demons to wear. My fingers curled at my sides, nails digging into my palms.
Once, that would have mattered to me. The innocent victims trapped inside their own bodies, prisoners to the demons possessing them. Now? I wasn't sure if it did anymore. The thought should have disturbed me. It didn't.
“So what's the plan?” I asked, setting the folder down. “Exorcisms?”
Hawk nodded. “We've been picking them off when we can. Small groups, isolated individuals. But there are too many, and they're getting smarter. Setting traps. Working together.”
“Demons aren't exactly known for their team spirit,” Sean remarked, skepticism clear in his voice. “They hate each other almost as much as they hate us.”
“These ones are different,” Hawk replied, tapping one of the photos. “Organized. Taking orders from someone—or something. We think there's a higher-level demon commanding them, maybe even a Prince.”
The mention of a Prince of Hell made Sean tense beside me. We'd faced one before. It hadn't ended well for anyone involved.
“So where do we come in?” I asked.
Hawk studied me for a long moment, his eyes too perceptive, too knowing.
“You'd be surprised what I can see, Cade Cross,” he said quietly.
His gaze flicked briefly to where my shirt concealed the sigil burned into my chest since childhood.
“The mark you carry... it's changed since your return. Evolved.”
I felt my muscles tighten involuntarily. I hadn't told many people about the mark, and fewer still knew how it had transformed after my time in Hell.
“You're observant,” I said, voice carefully neutral.
“I've been hunting longer than you've been alive,” Hawk replied without arrogance, just stating a fact. “And I've never seen a sigil quite like yours before.” His eyes met mine, unblinking. “It's unique.”
I kept my expression blank, though I felt Sean shift beside me, a subtle movement that communicated his wariness.
“And what exactly does my mark have to do with your demon problem?” I asked.
“From what I've observed, that mark masks your presence from certain types of supernatural entities,” Hawk explained. “They can't sense you coming. Can't prepare. It's why you've been able to get so close to things that should have detected you long before you reached them.”
“And what's that supposed to mean?” Sean interjected, a protective edge to his voice.
“It means Cade can get closer to their base of operations than anyone else,” Hawk said. “They won't detect him until he's right on top of them. No early warning system.”
I studied Hawk's face, looking for deception. Finding none. “And once I'm in?”
Hawk reached beneath the table and pulled out a heavy canvas bag. From it, he extracted an ancient-looking knife, its blade etched with symbols I recognized from my time in Hell. “You kill the commander. Cut off the head, and the body dies.”
“And then you'll tell us about the seals,” I said.
Table of Contents
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- Page 26 (Reading here)
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