The shadow monster moved like liquid smoke—one second in front of me, the next reappearing behind my shoulder with a whisper of displaced air.
I barely managed to turn before its claws raked across my back, white-hot pain lighting up every nerve like a Christmas tree on steroids before my back regenerating again.
Okay. Teleporting asshole. Great.
I hit the ground rolling, machete in one hand, a handful of loose screws from the wreckage in the other.
The shadow lunged again—
Flick.
Gone.
It reappeared above me, a blot of darkness against the rafters—and slammed me into the concrete hard enough to spiderweb the floor.
"Goddamn it—!" I wheezed, rolling just as its claws came down where my head had been.
Chunks of floor sprayed across the room like shrapnel.
This wasn't working.
I needed a new plan. Fast.
I threw everything I had at it:
Silver Knife? Passed through it like mist.
Dead Man's Blood? It chuckled. No reaction.
Telekinesis? I couldn't even touch it—it phased through my grip like smoke.
The thing was playing with me, and it knew it.
It flickered in and out of reality, striking from impossible angles, laughing—a hollow, bone-rattling sound that scraped against my sanity.
My regeneration was running hot, trying to keep up, but even I had limits. It was like bleeding to death by a thousand tiny cuts.
Then—
A glint of metal near a broken worktable caught my eye.
A lighter.
Fire.
I grinned despite the pain.
The shadow lunged again.
This time, I didn't dodge.
I let it hit me—grappling its icy wrist as its claws drove into my shoulder, pain turning my vision into a kaleidoscope of red and black.
Gritting my teeth, I rolled us until I was on top, pinning the bastard down.
"Hey, ugly," I growled, my voice shredded raw. "Let there be light."
I flicked the lighter.
A tiny flame sputtered to life, struggling against the stale, heavy air.
The shadow hissed, recoiling—but it didn't burn. Its hollow eyes gleamed with amusement, like a cat toying with a mouse.
A spark couldn't kill it.
Good thing I wasn't planning to stop there.
I smirked, blood leaking down my chin.
"Incendia magnus," I snarled.
Magic surged through me, wild and roaring. The tiny flame bloomed—erupted—into a swirling inferno, my telekinesis weaving it into a vortex of white-hot death.
The shadow screamed—a piercing, shattering wail—as fire ripped through it. Its form writhed, black tendrils burning away, pieces sloughing off like wax.
I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
Not until the last shred of darkness disintegrated into ash.
The flames guttered out, leaving only silence—and the acrid stink of burned ozone.
I staggered upright, heart pounding, every muscle trembling from the magic overload.
The silence didn't last long.
A whisper drifted through the building, soft and malicious:
"Welcome to this world, my lord."
I stiffened.
My enhanced hearing locked onto it instantly. Somewhere deeper in the plant, a ritual was happening—one I was already too late to stop.
I sprinted through the ruined hallways, my boots splashing through pools of stagnant blood. The air grew thicker with every step, saturated with sulfur and the metallic tang of magic.
The walls were lined with sigils—ancient, angry symbols that pulsed faintly under my dark vision. Runes to bind, to summon, to tear open the veil between worlds.
Someone had been busy.
I burst into what used to be the main freezer room.
It wasn't a freezer anymore.
It was a temple.
Chains of black iron formed a massive ritual circle in the center of the room, hooks driven deep into the concrete. Candles guttered in the corners, their flames sickly green.
And at the heart of it all—
A figure.
Not Hess.
Someone else.
A man in bloodstained robes, chanting in a low, guttural language that tasted like ashes just hearing it.
The moment I crossed the threshold, he looked up—and smiled.
"You are too late, Marcus Hale," he said in a voice that wasn't just human anymore.
My blood went cold.
He shouldn't know my name.
He shouldn't know me.
"That's funny," I said, stepping forward, machete at the ready. "Because I feel right on time."
The ritualist chuckled, spreading his arms wide.
"You are the key," he whispered. "You are the gate. The seed of power planted in mortal soil. The lord has claimed you, even if you do not yet understand."
Kharon.
The bastard wasn't summoning a demon.
He was welcoming something. Something that had already crossed over.
Something tied to me.
The chains on the floor rattled as the circle began to pulse, a heartbeat of dark energy.
The ritualist's body convulsed—bones snapping, flesh bubbling—as something stepped through him.
Not a creature.
A presence.
The room dimmed, the shadows stretching and twisting into impossible shapes.
I raised my machete.
"I don't do well with cults," I said, forcing a smirk. "I've got a standing policy: Kill it with fire. Twice if necessary."
He laughed—a sound that wasn't his anymore—and launched at me, faster than any human should move.
Our blades clashed, steel against claws that sparked on contact. His strength was monstrous now, each strike rattling my bones.
But I wasn't some rookie hunter fresh out of Bobby's survival boot camp.
I was Marcus Hale.
And I had killed worse.
Telekinesis snapped outward, shoving him back into the ritual circle.
He screamed—not in pain, but delight.
"You cannot stop the rising, Marcus!" he shrieked. "You are the herald! The blessed son of two worlds!"
What the hell does that mean?
I didn't have time to find out.
The energy building in the ritual circle cracked the concrete, splintering it into spiderwebs. The chains snapped one by one, releasing pulses of magic into the air thick enough to taste.
I gritted my teeth, magic surging in my veins.
One chance.
One shot.
I plunged my machete into the center of the sigil, pouring everything I had into the strike—telekinesis, raw strength, magic, and sheer stubborn will.
The room exploded in a shockwave of light and force, sending me flying backward into the far wall.
When I dragged myself upright, coughing blood, the ritual circle was a smoldering crater.
The cultist's body lay at its center, empty.
But something still stirred in the air—something vast and patient.
Watching.
Waiting.
And somehow... it felt like it was smiling.
Kharon was here.
Not in flesh. Not yet.
But close.
Closer than ever.
I stumbled outside into the night air, sucking in great lungfuls of clean(ish) oxygen. The stars above looked wrong—too sharp, too bright, as if something ancient was peeking through.
Dean's voice crackled over the comms unit strapped to my belt.
"Marcus? You good, man? You're late checking in."
I thumbed the button, my voice ragged but steady.
"Facility's clear. No sign of Hess, though. And uh… might've pissed off something big."
Dean groaned. "Bigger than the mutant freaks you were already dealing with?"
I glanced back at the burning ruins.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Bigger."
Bobby cut in, voice grim. "Get your ass back here, boy. We need a war council."
"On my way," I said, walked toward the Nissan.
Behind me, in the darkness of the ruined plant, something whispered my name.
Kharon was watching.
And somehow, someway—
He thought I belonged to him.