Skulick hung up, leaving me to my own thoughts. I touched the mark of the demon on my chest and wondered why the scar hadn’t detected the hellhounds for the second time in a row. My scar was sensitive to all supernatural activity, as far as I knew, and it had never failed me before. So what was different about the demonic force inside the mist?
No matter how hard I racked my brain, the answer to the maddening question kept eluding me. I cranked up my stereo, and a loud rock anthem filled the Bass 770. The music helped blank out my mind. Screeching electric guitar solos and pounding drumbeats swept all dark thoughts of demons aside.
I arrived at the art gallery less than a half an hour later. Feeling refreshed by my music therapy session, I climbed out of the car and walked up to the rundown two-story gallery. Nearby, a freeway cast a shadow over the neighborhood, the incessant traffic forming a steady soundtrack in the background. Further off, there was a McDonald’s and an exotic nightclub, its neon sign dead in the dull gray daylight. I figured Robert’s art had to be pretty special if well-heeled buyers were willing to trek out to this forsaken part of the city.
There was no trace of the supernatural fog here, and I wondered how long it would take for the hellhounds to find me. I had to act fast. Hopefully I’d be able to convince Robert that I was here to help—and that I wasn’t insane. Trying to convince a stranger that his long-lost half-sister was coming to kill him with a magic knife would be a hard sell.
Mind and body alert, I pushed open the glass double doors and entered Robert Horne’s art gallery. A pervasive silence hung over the space. I stood in front of the empty reception area for a few moments, unsure where to go next. It seemed rather careless to leave the space unattended in a shady neighborhood like this one. My sense of unease deepened as my hand wandered toward my shoulder holster. The scar on my chest wasn’t giving off any warning signs, but that clearly meant little.
When no one showed up after five minutes, I decided to explore the gallery on my own. The reception room led into a long corridor, and I followed it deeper into the building. I passed through the door at the end of the hallway and stepped into a sprawling, high-ceilinged exhibition space.
The lights were on, so surely somebody had to be here. My gaze combed the space, and I received my first taste of Robert’s gritty street art. Unsettling graffiti murals and sculptures defined the exhibition room – apparently Robert worked in multiple mediums. Long-limbed, spindly creatures, part reptilian and part insectile, featured in the compositions, grotesque shadow beasts artistically brought to spooky life. A giant maw of fiery red teeth covered one wall, while another sported a collection of glaring eyeballs. The lifelike quality of the pieces suggested the artist hadn’t pulled them completely from his imagination. Some of the graffiti murals dotting the exhibition space looked like distorted reflection of demons I’d faced in the past. The man was using his art to work through something. Like his father, the dark side apparently exerted a strong pull on Robert Horne.
I was beginning to understand why potential clients would make the pilgrimage to this rundown location. These pieces exuded raw, uncompromising power and would be catnip to the right one-percenter with a dark sensibility and cash to burn.
I edged deeper into the space. The shadows of the statues lengthened, the light hiding more than it revealed. My footsteps echoed, and the sound made me nervous. You’re walking into a trap, my inner voice told me, and I drew Hellseeker.
Gun ready, I weaved around another sculpture and froze.
I’d found Robert Horne.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
THE LIFELESS BODY, eyes blank and white as his brother’s had been, lay sprawled beneath one of the unsettling canvases. He’d become the centerpiece of his own grisly art exhibit.
I inspected the gore-caked chest and found the three puncture wounds of the Soul Dagger. I touched the body, and the skin felt warm. Robert hadn’t been dead for long.
I slowly turned away from the corpse as I realized I wasn’t alone in the art space. Celeste was still here, standing about fifteen feet away from me, crimson-sheathed blade in hand. I guess I’m a sucker for a pretty face and a lady in need of rescuing, because until I saw her with the murder weapon, part of me still hoped that she’d somehow turn out to be innocent.
“Don’t make that face,” she said. “I bet this isn’t the first dead body you’ve seen in your line of work.”
Wasn’t that the truth.
“He didn’t suffer. One moment he was here—an obnoxious, self-important, and self-hating carbon footprint—and the next…”
She held up the knife, and wiped the blood off with a rag.
“His soul now belongs to me to do with as I please.” She sounded like a giddy sixteen-year old who had just gotten her first car. “One final sacrifice awaits. Three souls should make for a fair trade, wouldn’t you agree?”
Shaking my head, I said, “You really think the creatures you want to bargain with will play fair?”