Page 5

GHOSTS OF THE LIVING

CADE

I woke to morning light filtering through unfamiliar blinds.

For a disorienting moment, I couldn't place where I was, not the burning landscape of half-remembered nightmares, not my apartment, not the warehouse.

Then recognition settled. Sterling's guest room.

Safe harbor in a world that had continued without me for six months.

I rose, noting the methodical precision with which my body obeyed, the absence of grogginess or disorientation. Another adaptation. Another change to file away.

Downstairs, I found Sterling in the kitchen, already dressed and nursing a mug of coffee black as tar. Maps and printouts covered the kitchen table, demon signs, supernatural omens, tracking patterns I recognized from years of hunting.

Sterling looked up, eyes sharp with the assessment that never truly stopped. “Sleep well?”

“Yes.” The lie came automatically, social convention rather than truth.

Sleep had brought fragments, chains, fire, voices speaking in languages no human tongue could form, but nothing coherent enough to report, nothing significant. Sterling nodded once, accepting the response without necessarily believing it. He pushed a mug across the counter.

“Coffee. Then we talk.”

We sat at the kitchen table, coffee serving as both stimulant and social buffer.

Sterling watched me over the rim of his mug, documenting details with a hunter's practiced eye, the too-mechanical movements, the absence of the small human twitches and shifts, the hollow stillness between deliberate actions.

“You're different,” Sterling said finally, breaking the assessing silence.

I didn't bother denying it. “Yes.”

“Want to explain how? Or should I start guessing?”

Sterling deserved some truth, but how much? What could I share when I myself understood so little?

“I don't remember most of it,” I began carefully. “There are... fragments. Impressions. Nothing clear.”

Sterling's eyes narrowed slightly. “But something changed you. Something fundamental.”

“Yes.” I met his gaze directly, offering what honesty I could. “I don't feel things the way I should. Everything seems... distant. Muted.” I struggled to articulate the difference, which to me felt like normal functioning. “It's like I'm watching myself go through the motions.”

Sterling absorbed this, no surprise registering in his weathered features. “Trauma response, maybe. Or something that happened on the other side of that gate. Hell does things to people.”

“You've seen this before?”

“Not exactly this. But similar.” Sterling's gaze was steady, assessing. “Question is, are you stable? Controllable? Safe to be around others?”

The underlying concern was clear, was I safe for Sean?

“I'm not violent,” I answered the unspoken question. “Not unless threatened. I'm just... different.”

Sterling nodded slowly, processing. Then he gestured to the maps and printouts. “While you were gone, things got complicated. Demon activity spiked after the gate opened, more possessions, more omens, more bodies dropping. Pattern suggests organization, purpose.”

I leaned forward, examining the data with clinical interest. Red markers indicated supernatural activity, concentrated in urban centers but with tendrils extending into smaller communities. The pattern wasn't random, it showed intelligence, strategy.

“Asmodeus,” I said, the name emerging unbidden. The mark on my chest pulsed once in response, as if recognizing the demon prince's designation.

Sterling's gaze sharpened. “You remember him?”

I frowned, probing at the edges of the wall in my mind. “Fragments. He was there when the gate opened. Wanted the demons released to wreak havoc on Earth.” My hand moved unconsciously to my chest, where the mark burned steadily. “I stopped him. Or thought I did.”

“You slowed him down,” Sterling corrected. “Gate closed, but not before a lot of nasty things slipped through. Been hunting them ever since, but they're organized, strategic.” He tapped one of the maps. “Moving in patterns we're still figuring out.”

I absorbed this, fitting it into the fragmented timeline in my mind. “And Sean? He's been hunting them too?”

Sterling's expression darkened. “Sean's been hunting everything that moves. Reckless. Taking risks no sane hunter would consider. Half avenging you, half punishing himself for not stopping you from going into that gate.”

The information registered with the detached clarity that seemed to be my new normal. Sean was self-destructive. Logical, given his personality structure and past behavior patterns when facing loss. Predictable. Manageable, with proper approach.

“I need to see him,” I said.

Sterling's jaw tightened, protective instinct evident in the subtle shift of his posture. “Like I said yesterday, not until we know exactly what came back through that gate with you.”

“What do you want to know?” I asked, pragmatic rather than defensive.

“Like how did you get out?”

“I don't know,” I answered honestly. “That part is blank. The only thing I remember was waking up in Central Park.”

Sterling studied me, decades of hunter's experience reading truth and lies in equal measure. Whatever he saw in my face, he seemed to accept the limitation.

“The mark,” Sterling said, gesturing to my chest. “It's changed, hasn't it?”

I hesitated, then nodded once. “Yes. It's stronger now. More... active.”

“Show me.”

I unbuttoned my borrowed shirt, revealing the mark centered over my heart.

What had once been a subtly raised scar tissue now pulsed with a dull crimson glow, the edges more defined, the pattern more complex.

It no longer resembled a natural birthmark or childhood injury but something deliberately inscribed, a sigil of power burned into living flesh.

Sterling leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he studied the mark. He didn't touch it, hunter's instinct warning against direct contact with unknown supernatural elements, but his gaze was clinical, assessing.

“That's not the mark you left with,” he said finally.

“No,” I agreed.

“Any idea what it means? What it does?”

I considered the question. The mark was changing me, that much was clear. Filling the hollow spaces with... a force. A force that wasn't me, wasn't human, but wore my skin with increasing comfort.

“It gives me abilities,” I said carefully. “Enhanced strength. Speed. Senses. I can see things, supernatural things, more clearly than before.”

“At what cost?” Sterling asked, the hunter's pragmatism cutting to the heart of the matter.

I met his gaze directly. “I don't know yet. But there is one. There always is.”

Sterling nodded, accepting this fundamental truth of the supernatural world. Power never came without price. The only questions were how high and when it would come due.

“Button up,” he said finally. “We've got work to do.”

Sterling led me into his study, a converted bedroom lined with bookshelves containing everything from ancient grimoires to modern forensic manuals. A battered laptop sat on the desk, open to news reports about unexplained phenomena.

“You'll want to see this,” Sterling said, pulling a folder from a drawer. He tossed it onto the desk between us.

I opened it, finding official CITD paperwork. My death certificate. Forms documenting the disposition of my government benefits, pension, and personal effects. Status: DECEASED.

“They declared you dead three months ago,” Sterling explained, settling into his chair. “Official story is you were killed in an explosion during a raid on suspected domestic terrorists. Closed casket funeral. Full departmental honors.”

I studied the documentation with detached interest. The clinical evidence of my own erasure from official existence. The neat administrative packaging of a life concluded.

“Who attended?” I asked, the question emerging from some still-human part of me.

“Sean. Me. A few others from your division.” Sterling's voice softened slightly. “It was well done. Respectful.”

I nodded, accepting this information without the emotional response it should have triggered. My own funeral. The ceremonial closing of my life's chapter. It should have meant something. Instead, it was merely data to process.

“As far as the world is concerned, you're gone,” Sterling continued, leaning forward to flip through more papers. “Bank accounts closed. Apartment cleared out. Digital footprint archived and buried.”

“And the rest of my things?” I asked.

“Most went to Sean. Some to storage. The important stuff, your father's journal, your weapons, I kept safe.” Sterling gestured vaguely toward the basement, where I knew he maintained an extensive arsenal and archive.

I absorbed this, considering the implications. “It might be better to stay dead. Officially.”

Sterling's eyebrows rose slightly, surprised by my quick grasp of the situation. “That's... unexpected coming from you. The old Cade would have been figuring out how to reclaim his identity, his position.”

“The old Cade had different priorities,” I replied simply. “CITD resources would be useful, but the scrutiny, the questions, the psychological evaluations...” I shook my head once. “Too complicated. And potentially dangerous if they discovered the changes.”

Sterling studied me, the assessment never truly pausing. “You're thinking more like a hunter now. Off the grid. Outside the system.”

“I'm thinking practically,” I corrected. “What's the most effective approach given current circumstances? CITD would want explanations I can't provide. Would detect that something's different about me. Best case, they'd sideline me. Worst case, they'd consider me a potential threat.”

The analysis was cold, logical, divorced from the attachment the old Cade would have felt toward his career, his colleagues, the life he'd built.

“So what's your plan?” Sterling asked, watching me closely. “If you're not going back to CITD.”

I met his gaze steadily. “Hunt. Figure out what I've become. Stop whatever Asmodeus is planning.”