The Dead City (A Lila Stone Supernatural Crime Thriller Book 2) Read online

  Copyright © 2019 by J. D. Cavan

  www.JDCavan.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by an electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgement

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgement

  Cover art: Deranged Doctor Design

  http://www.derangeddoctordesign.com/

  Editor: Keith R Gordon

  Special Acknowledgment: Ray B.

  Best Page Forward: https://www.bestpageforward.net/

  If you want to find out more about Liam’s story get a free copy of Temple Warrior Liam O’Brady Vampire Assassin by joining my email list! Visit: https://jdcavan.com/

  A Lila Stone Supernatural Crime Thriller series

  The Immortals book 1

  The Dead City book 2

  The Druid Witch book 3

  Other Books by J.D. Cavan

  The Final Form Series:

  Thought Changer Book 1

  The Serial Seven Book 2

  The 7 House Book 3

  Prologue

  JESSICA CURTAIN WAS deeply asleep before she entered the magical world of dreams.

  In her dream, she had the best boyfriend a girl could ask for. He was handsome and attentive, caring and strong. She was the happiest she’d ever been. In her actual life, however, she’d never had a boyfriend. Jessica was eighteen, and she’d been more committed to school than social life. But in the dream, she was different. She was free-spirited and without all the responsibilities of waking life.

  It felt like she was flipping through pictures on her phone, a montage of life with her boyfriend, Kyle. As the images went by, she realized they all represented a single day they’d spent together in different spots throughout the city.

  Then the dream-movie stopped. She found herself in her bedroom. At first, Jessica thought she’d woken up. But she was with Kyle, and thankfully still in the world of sleep.

  “I want to kiss you,” Kyle said.

  “I’ve been waiting,” Jessica replied. His eyes held her gaze. She ran her hand through his blond hair.

  Kyle pulled her closer. His soft lips touched hers. She didn’t want it to ever end. Jessica touched his jawline and he ran his hand through her dark hair. She had fallen in love with him, and he with her.

  “You can do what you want now,” she found herself saying. She felt him press against her. They fell down onto the bed together. He was on top of her, kissing her neck. Everything was happening, and it was perfect. It was the best movie she’d ever watched, and she had the starring role.

  Then it ended. Jessica woke abruptly. She was alone in her bedroom. The fantasy she was living had vanished.

  “Damn it!” Jessica blurted. Then she chuckled at her how silly her disappointment was. “It was just a dream,” she said to herself.

  “Are you sure?” a voice said.

  Her eyes shot open. She searched the darkness for whoever spoke, her heart thumping in fear.

  “It’s me, Kyle. I hated to end that, sorry. It was so fun with you, Jess. But we’ve got more important things to take care of now.” A figure materialized in front of her. It was her dream boyfriend. He was hard to see. His blond hair and soft features were obscured by a hood.

  “I must still be sleeping,” Jessica muttered.

  “You’re not.” He lifted his head and removed his hoodie. It was Kyle, but he wasn’t the same. His eyes twinkled differently, and his smile was sly, not innocent.

  The room became icy cold. Jessica slowly sat up in her bed and watched white breath push out from her mouth and into the air. She drew her blanket up to her chest. A paralyzing threat caused her body to hold in place.

  “Relax, Jess, this isn’t going to hurt,” Kyle said. Red shards of light spun inside his eyes and his face became grim, this unholy sight frightening her further.

  Jessica tried to shake herself awake from the bad dream that was becoming a nightmare. But she couldn’t, because it wasn’t a nightmare at all—not literally. It was real. She was only able to watch her white breath floating around as she stared into Kyle’s blood-red eyes.

  “You’re special to me, Jess,” Kyle whispered. “You’re going to see how special.”

  “What’s happening?” Jessica asked, her panic now terror. There was no response from Kyle, only a wild gaze and a devilish grin. Jessica opened her mouth to scream for help, but only a tiny squeak escaped.

  Kyle stood over her bed. The white breath that came from his mouth turned gray. It hung and then rotated in the air, serpentine. She watched it helplessly. The breath-snake came toward her as if it would kiss her on the lips. But instead, it twisted its head and then darted into her mouth. She gasped and moaned. Her body jerked as the breath-snake entered her throat and lungs. It spread inside her as her body bucked and tried to fight the invader. Finally, her violent wrenching stopped. She became calm and still.

  Jessica’s sleep would go deep again, deeper than ever she’d had in her entire life. Whatever was in her, whatever Kyle had put inside her, began to change her DNA, her very being.

  Who will I be when I wake? was Jessica’s last thought.

  Chapter 1

  “THIS IS PERFECT, absolutely perfect!” I proclaimed to Dean as we approached the old brownstone on the Upper West Side.

  “Just a second, love, we haven’t even been inside the place yet,” Dean replied in a snip.

  The sun was shining and the early summer temperatures were climbing up into iced-coffee territory. I had my good old Stanley thermos. It was filled to the top with a light roast. I hadn’t made the leap to iced yet, but I was getting close.

  Dean and I had been on an insane hunt to find the right home for The Society of Justice. I was getting impatient. Even though the city had been quiet, I knew beyond a doubt that trouble was coming to my beloved NYC.

  I had been up early and already had my workout with Nick. I was in my gym clothing with my hair up. Not the most presentable to be viewing a three-story brownstone in one of the most expensive areas in the city, but it’d have to do. Dean had just gotten up and was still knocking the sleep out of his eyes.

  “Statues,” Dean commented as we took the steps toward the door. There were two stone-carved gargoyles perched on either side of the staircase. Horns sprouted from the heads and long tongues fell from the mouths.

  “I love them,” I replied. I reached up and grabbed the brass knocker. It was shaped like an open hand. “I’ve never seen a knocker like this before.” I lifted the heavy thing and then banged it loudly on the bright red door.

  Earlier in the week, I had been in a coffee shop and found a note hanging on a bulletin board. The flyer was brief, outlining the specifics of the brownstone without mentioning the sales price. Who sells a house like that? I wondered. But something told me to call, so I did.

  A number of locks clicked. I raised my eyebrows and turned to Dean. “This is the one, I can feel it.” The door opened.

  “Ms. Stone?” a man in a full butler outfit asked. He was a young guy with jet-black hair parted to the side and strongly chiseled features, sophisticated looking. He had an accent; it sounded Russian or Eastern European

  The foyer was stunning, with a cathedral ceiling and a long flight of stairs. Interesting paintings hung from the walls, and a crystal chandelier hovered above us. The place smelled of incense—myrrh, specifically. The butler led us through an archway and into a large living room.

  Elegant antique furniture filled the room. I had no knowledge of antiques, but I could tell by Dean’s expressions that they were impressive. The rugs were richly colored, Persian and Oriental designs. Red curtains fell over the windows, and a large piano sat in the corner of the room.

  “Vovk, have them sit at my reading table,” a voice said. It was her, Ms. Doyla. She was the woman I’d spoken to on the phone, the owner of the place. She had the same accent as the butler.

  Ms. Doyla entered through a separate door. She wore a headscarf with a long embroidered dress that ran to her feet. She was thin and tall and older-looking, perhaps late seventies. Her eyes were dazzling, hazel with specs of silver coloring. She had what looked like thousands of bracelets on her wrists, all types and colors. Brightly colored rings wrapped around her fingers. Her nails were darkly pa
inted and polished.

  Dean and I sat at what looked like a chess or backgammon table. She sat down with us, across from me.

  “You brought a friend,” she commented. Her words had hard edges.

  “Yes, he’s a partner, not a realtor. His name is Dean Barros.” She’d been clear on the phone that she didn’t want lawyers or real-estate agents. This would be a private sale.

  “Bring us some tea,” Ms. Doyla told Vovk. He left the room promptly.

  “I’m looking forward to touring your beautiful home—” I began, but she placed a long finger over her mouth and shushed me.

  “Put your hand to me first,” she commanded. Ms. Doyla laid both of her open hands on the table.

  I glanced at Dean and he rolled his eyes.

  “I think I’ve made a mistake,” I mumbled. “I’m here to see your home to possibly buy it, as we discussed?”

  She tsk-tsked. “Eager girl. I don’t just sell to anyone.”

  “And I don’t just buy from anyone,” I replied. “As I mentioned, we are looking for a very particular place.”

  “You can see first if you like. Vovk will take you. You will not be disappointed. But you must give me your hand before we sign papers.”

  “My hand?” I lifted my shoulders.

  “To read your palm, silly girl,” she chuckled oddly.

  Of course! That explains the hand-shaped doorknocker. I thought this viewing might be different, given that she was selling a multi-million dollar property on a piece of paper tacked up next to people who were offering guitar lessons and looking for missing pets. But palm reading? Definitely didn’t predict that.

  Dean stood up. “Okay, I think we should be going.”

  “That’s alright,” I said, stopping Dean by touching his arm.

  “Do you know what I do? I’m a tsyhan, the best one,” Ms. Doyla said proudly.

  “Tsyhan?”

  “Gypsy to you.” She spun her hands in the air, her spindly fingers flicking about.

  She was eccentric and quirky, but she didn’t seem dangerous. So I made an agreement. If we liked that house and wanted to buy, I would let her give me a psychic palm reading.

  “Take them and show them,” she ordered. Vovk had returned with the tea tray.

  “Show them everything, madam?” Vovk asked.

  “Yes, everything. That is why she is here,” Ms. Doyla replied. I had mentioned to her that I was looking for a building with a large basement, out of the way from the rest of the house. Something hidden. That would be our Bat Cave, the place where we’d operate our private investigative work. The underbelly of the Society of Justice.

  Vovk took Dean and me on the tour. There were six bedrooms and four bathrooms, including an office beside the foyer that would be for a waiting room. There was a large kitchen that led to a small backyard with high fencing around it. A vegetable and flower garden surrounded a sitting table and a slate patio.

  Vovk took us through a hallway off the kitchen to the basement door. I glanced at Dean hopefully. This was the moment of truth.

  Vovk opened the door and clicked on the light. We walked down a small flight of wooden steps. My excitement ended quickly as we reached the bottom. It was a rather sparse-looking ordinary basement. There was a large boiler, washer-dryer, dried foods, and an extra refrigerator. My heart sank and Dean frowned.

  “Oh well,” I said to Dean, noticeably bummed. Vovk walked us back up the stairs.

  “Thank you, Vovk, we’re finished now,” Dean said. “But thank you, you were wonderful.” I could tell Dean was crushing on Vovk. Dean was unbelievable. He never missed an opportunity to get his flirt on.

  “But you haven’t seen the secret chamber yet,” Vovk replied.

  “Secret chamber?” Dean and I said at the same time.

  A spark of hope flickered. Vovk slid a painting aside that hung in the hallway. Behind it was a tiny door that opened with a skeleton key. Vovk took hold of a lever inside the case. As he tugged on it, the floor shook. The wooden staircase began to move as if it was on rollers, rotating in the direction of the far wall of the basement. The room began to transfigure, walls shifting and closing while others opened.

  We descended the flight of stairs, which seemed to have gotten longer. It was a completely different space. It seemed almost impossible. The old basement was gone and we were in a giant empty space, obviously under a different part of the house.

  Dean nodded as we searched around. It was definitely big enough. There were small rooms off to the sides, including a bathroom. The brownstone sat on Central Park West, but the basement was huge that it must have run under the street.

  “This works,” I muttered. My words echoed in the space.

  “See that, over there?” Vovk pointed down a huge corridor that ended with a closed bay door. “That was for a car once. You park here and drive it out and then come up from under the ground.”

  “Where does it come out?” I asked.

  “The tunnel goes to the park. We haven’t used it in years, no need for a car.”

  “Oh, this will definitely do!” Dean declared.

  I looked at Dean. “We found our Bat Cave!”

  * * *

  MS. DOYLA WAS waiting for us at the table when we returned.

  “We’ll take it, asking price,” I said before I even sat back down. “I’ll give you the money right now.”

  “We have a final step.”

  “Gotcha.” I dropped my hands, palms out, on the table. “Just make it quick.” I wasn’t going to waste my time after seeing the chamber. I’d do whatever it took to get the place. Palm reading was a joke, anyway. Let the old lady have her psychic kicks if it made her feel better.

  Ms. Doyla grasped my left hand and pulled it close to her as if she was hungry for it. Her strength surprised me a little. She stared into my palm and then stroked it lightly. She began murmuring something under her breath.

  Her body shuddered and she started rocking back and forth. Her irises turned upward, revealing bright white eyeballs. Dean gasped, stood up, and backed away. I went to draw my hand back, but I couldn’t. I was stiff and unable to move. Then my eyes shut involuntarily.

  I was in complete darkness, but then everything became bright, blindingly so. I covered my eyes and searched. I wasn’t in the brownstone anymore, but in the countryside overlooking rocky cliffs down to the sea. There were sprawling fields of farmland. Fences held many cattle and high grasses blew in the wind.

  I peered up at the sun and felt its warmth. Then the sun dropped, and soon I found myself in a dark forest next to the same open field. There was a large fire burning with robed and hooded figures standing around it. I realized that I was robed as well. They were chanting something in a language that I somehow knew was Gaelic.

  As I approached, I felt the heat of the fire and noticed the body of a girl lying on a cot made of sticks and branches. The smoke was thick and pungent. The cloaked people had their faces painted blue, and there were markings on their cheeks: black, circling lines of Celtic design.

  The chanting became louder. The girl began writhing about while two figures held her down. Her long, dirty hair covered her face as her head thrashed. She wore a long, tattered white gown and grunted in pain.

  The girl’s hair fell away from her face, revealing eyes that were dim and gray-looking. Her cheeks were pocked with holes, as if she had been tearing at her skin.

  She was getting worse, barking and growling, white foam bubbling up and spilling from her mouth. I moved forward and began to chant with the others.

  “Tilg a-mach deamhan,” I spoke empathically in Gaelic. I said it over and over again. Her body bucked and thrashed. “Tilg a-mach deamhan!” I knew what I spoke. The translation was: cast out a demon.

  The girl’s possessed body finally ceased its spasms. Her dead eyes shut peacefully. Her breathing became slow and shallow. I lessened the power of my chanting, as did the group. I waved them off, and the other hooded figures freed the girl’s arms. I was clearly in charge of the exorcism.

  I drifted closer to the girl and lowered my hand, placing it on her sweat-soaked forehead. I called forth the demon. Then her eyes darted open—they were blood red! She hissed a piercing sound and sprang at me.

  * * *

  I WAS SUDDENLY transported back to brownstone.