Skulick was in his early fifties now, about the same age my father would be had he lived. A vicious scar split his ruggedly handsome features, but his warrior spirit still burned bright behind the penetrating, cunning gaze. The man had battled werewolves and vampires, wraiths and demons for decades until his broken back finally forced him from the field. He was the world’s leading expert on the supernatural and, truth be told, he made me look like a rank amateur.
It pained me to see him like this, an indomitable will trapped inside a shattered body. While his injuries kept him off the front lines, he was still a driving force in the war against the forces of darkness. A thick occult tome written in some ancient language rested in his lap, a reminder that he hadn’t spent these days idle while I battled a witch in the woods. He might not be able to physically engage the enemy any longer, but he could still draw on his intellect.
Skulick’s lips twisted into a grin. “Welcome back, kid. Glad to see you’re still in one piece.”
He spun his chair toward a nearby bar and poured us two whiskeys. I gratefully accepted the tumbler. I’d been fighting the temptation of a stiff drink ever since defeating the Blackmore Witch. As the alcohol burned down my throat, my sore muscles relaxed almost immediately.
I took note of the heavy tome of occult literature propped up next to the terminal. The ominous title read The Roman Manual of Demonic Magic. Arching an eyebrow, I asked, “Catching up on some light reading?”
“Someone has to be the brains of this operation. What I learn today may save your ass tomorrow.”
I chuckled and raised my glass. Couldn’t argue with that logic.
“So how did it go out there, kid?” Skulick asked. He looked me over for a beat and added, “You look like hell.”
“Are you trying to hurt my feelings?”
“You can always dye the gray in your hair, you know.”
I scowled. “You’re a real comedian.”
“I have plenty of time nowadays to practice my routine.”
The joke failed to mask the pain behind the words. I knew Skulick hated being trapped in this place, but he tried to make the best of it. The man was a born fighter, one of the many reasons I admired him so much. If our places were reversed, I don’t think I would bear the tragic turn of events with nearly as much grace as he had.
“Kove sends his regards,” I said.
“How is our old friend?”
“Country life was agreeing with him until recently.”
Skulick pursed his lips. “So our hunch turned out to be right? The Blackmore Witch was responsible for these kidnappings?”
I nodded grimly. “She was turning our missing hikers into her personal gardening project. Nasty piece of business.”
The humor seeped from Skulick’s eyes. “Any survivors?”
I closed my eyes briefly. “Just one,” I said, and raised my arm to knock back the rest of my drink. Skulick’s hand snapped out, closing around my wrist. His eyes burned with a sharp intensity as he spoke. “I know what’s going through your mind, kid, but there was nothing you could’ve done to help those poor souls. The witch did this. You aren’t responsible.”
“Tell that to them,” I said. “Every time I close my eyes, I see the faces from those missing person posters.”
“The dead are gone,” Skulick said. “You have to let them go.”
We were getting close to dangerous territory. Skulick knew that I felt guilty for being alive when my parents perished two decades earlier. Skulick had arrived too late to save my parents. The guilt consumed him for years, until he finally let it go.
“Think of all the lives you saved,” he continued. “If you hadn’t put a stop to her, the witch would have kept killing.”
On a rational level, I knew Skulick was right, but my emotions resisted his words. My partner understood me better than anybody. We both felt that we’d failed my father, and in our own ways, I think we were still trying to atone for it.
“How did you defeat her? I know how challenging spell-slingers can be.”
I removed a few shards of the broken cauldron from my satchel and handed them to Skulick. He inspected the pieces with grave interest and when he was done, let out a low whistle of appreciation. He looked up at me with shining eyes. The study of new relics always made him look like an overgrown kid on Christmas Eve.
“The cauldron of the Warlock Methusan, unless I’m mistaken. The common belief among historians is that the Knights Templar destroyed the relic back in the Middle Ages.”
“Looks like the historians got that one wrong,” I said. “I saw a vision when I touched it. A few kids who didn’t know better accidentally activated the evil thing after it lay dormant for all these decades. What are the chances of that?”
Skulick pursed his lips and shot me a knowing look. “Hell favors fools. The forces of darkness take advantage of our ignorance.”
I know what he meant. The twenty-first century worshipped science, not magic. Unfortunately, our progress came at a steep price. In our haste to master the laws of nature, mankind had sacrificed its hard-earned knowledge of the mystical world. Ancient wisdom was scoffed at, reduced in people’s minds to nothing but a bunch of superstitious nonsense. Modern man refused to acknowledge what science failed to explain, and the agents of darkness were more than willing to exploit our blind spot.