Instinct, Jason Hough [acx book reading TXT] 📗

lit brickwork and pitch-black shadows. A second later, the beam swivels away, scanning the other direction.

I let out a breath and peer around the corner. The man has stepped out into the alley now. Silhouetted against the disc of his own flashlight beam as he scans in the opposite direction. AR-15 assault rifle held casually.

It’s tempting. If I rushed him I think I could get a solid punch in before he could bring the rifle up. Maybe use his surprise to wrestle the weapon away, or at least the flashlight, and be gone before he even knew what hit him.

But then another man steps out into the alley. They converse in clipped conversation for a few seconds before one goes right and the other left, toward me. I duck back around the corner and consider my options.

It’s in that instant I feel something cold and metal press against my cheek.

“Are you with them?” someone asks me.

“No,” I manage, trying to look without turning my head. Impossible to see who it is. Just a shadow within a shadow. “I’m the one they’re trying to kill.”

“Why? Who are they?”

“Long story,” I manage. “Please. They’re coming.”

A hand tugs at my sleeve, and we’re moving inside. The door clicks shut behind us. The cold metal remains firmly pressed into my jaw.

There’s a slight grinding sound and then a flame. A Bic lighter. Held up between myself and a pale man with stringy black hair. Damian Blackwood, owner of the crystal healing and occult gifts store.

I sigh, relieved.

He smiles, but it’s only a half smile, one tinged with worry.

“What the hell is going on?” he asks, and takes the weapon away from my cheek.

It’s not a gun he holds, but a small hammer or chisel, made of solid steel.

“Kill the flame,” I whisper. “They’ll see it.”

He nods, and his thumb releases the switch, plunging us into absolute darkness.

I feel a hand against my own. He wraps his fingers around mine.

“This way,” he says, barely audible.

I let him guide me, understanding we’re in the back part of his shop of mystical bullshit. Then his motions become more abrupt and the tone of his footfalls changes. We’re descending stairs. Passing through a door.

He flicks the lighter on again and uses it to light a row of candles along the wall.

I take in the room he’s brought me to, and my mouth goes dry.

The walls and ceiling are painted black, matching the carpet. Along each wall are shelves that hold cups and chalices in every imaginable size and shape.

In the center of the room is an eight-foot-high statue of a demon seated on a throne. It has the head of a goat and holds up one hand in some kind of satanic gesture, a pentagram amulet dangling from its fingers. Symbols are carved into every last inch of the stone. But my eyes are fixated on the brass bowl in the statue’s lap. It appears to be filled with blood. There’s a long, serrated knife lying across the rim. It gleams in the dim light, ceremonial and wicked.

“Damian… what the fuck.”

“It’s just for show,” he says quickly. “Don’t worry.”

“Dude,” I say, shaking my head.

“I mean it. This is all… to impress certain customers, I guess. Remember the Latin phrase above my front door? Look, that’s not blood, it’s just chocolate syrup. Unsweetened. They can’t tell the difference. Here, I’ll prove it.”

He moves.

“Whoa, whoa. Hang on there.” I grip his arm, my eyes on the ornate knife.

“Oh,” he says. “That’s fake, too. Look.” He picks it up and runs the blade over his palm, then holds it up for me to see. There’s no cut. No blood. Only the faint indent.

“You fill it with water, a little gelatin, and food coloring,” he says, showing me how the back of the knife’s handle unscrews. “And there’s foam here along the blade’s edge. Looks convincing enough in low light. Bought it on eBay!”

I nod, a little disappointed the knife is fake. Could have been useful. “What’s all this for, Damian? I mean, I get separating fools from their money, but you said something before about personal hobbies. I’m a little afraid to ask now.”

“That’s what I wanted to show you.”

For a second I think he’s going to grab a silver chalice and pour the fake blood down his throat. But instead he walks around the statue and pushes through the wall behind it. It’s not a wall, I realize then, but a set of heavy curtains.

Tentatively I follow him, thinking this is a terrible idea but somehow unable to stop myself.

Pulling back the curtain with one hand, holding out the candle to see better, I take in the other half of the basement.

Damian Blackwood stands between two long tables, their surfaces covered with tools and…

“Rocks?” I ask.

“Rocks.” He grins, sheepish. “My hobby.”

He holds a hand out to me, offering up a half-sphere containing a crystal geode.

“All I really know about this mystical nonsense is what I learned hanging out with the goth kids back in high school. I figured why not open a store and—”

“Dude, I’m sure this is a great story, and I want to hear all about it, but right now I’ve got a bunch of assholes with assault rifles, not to mention a mob of brainwashed townspeople—friends of mine—trying to kill me.”

“Why, though? What’s all this about?”

“Seriously, there’s no time to explain.”

“We’ve got time now. That’s why I brought you here, so we can hide.”

“I’m our police force, dude. I’m not going to hide. But you should, okay? Until it’s safe… Oh, God, I almost did it again. Damian, I do need your help. Do you have a gun in here? Or, you know, a real knife?”

He shakes his head. “Just rock hammers, that’s about the best I can do. Don’t really care for weapons.”

I jerk my chin toward the small hammer he still holds in his hand, the one he’d pressed to my cheek. “That as big as they come?” I ask.

He glances down, almost surprised to