Chapter 1

I was pretty certain I was stepping in some kind of shit, which considering how this job was going was not a good sign. Charred walls jutted from the rubble like broken ribs, blackened and jagged, each one clawing at the bruised night sky. Moonlight stabbed through shattered window frames, haunting the floor with shifting bars of icy light. Dust—thick and bitter, stinking of old fire and mildew—swirled through every breath. In the silence, I could almost hear the echo of the blaze, the crackle of burning lives. 

I winced and scraped the grit from my sole, careful not to announce myself; the element of surprise was still mine, and I had no intention of giving it away. That meant I had to remain quiet, which in a deathtrap like this place was harder than it seemed. The building had been destroyed by a fire a decade before and as a result was now left hollow and barren as a politician's soul. 

Every cautious step set the ancient floorboard groaning, the sound thudding through the emptiness, louder than a heartbeat in a coffin. Far above, unseen water dripped steadily, wearing patience into the bones of the ruin. My shadow tangled with broken banisters, half-swallowed by moonlight. I winced, heart racing, as a distant thump echoed through the empty space, making every instinct scream for me to turn back. My black leather blazer swayed in the cold air around me as I moved but I had long learned to be quiet while wearing it. My fingertips slipped under the flap of my battered holster on my left side, closing around the weightless katana hilt. In daylight, it looked like a harmless bit of lacquered wood and faded black silk. The bladeless handle looked innocent enough but in the hands of a sorcerer like me it could be a deadly weapon. But before you get your hopes up it doesn’t transform into a lightsaber, especially because I think that might be copyright infringement. 

I flattened myself against the soot-streaked plaster at the end of the hall and eased an eye around the corner. Every muscle hummed; my breath came shallow, measured. Ahead, a thin whine threaded the air—like distant static caught in a wire—and it crawled along the rafters and into my teeth. The sound sharpened and folded into the building’s bones, mapping out empty rooms and shadowed doorways I couldn’t see.

I focused, pouring out my magical senses in a hope to feel something but got nothing. But in my gut I knew something was there. Magic may be useful but contrary to popular belief it can’t solve everything.

That’s right I said magic, call in what you want, mojo, mana, qi, it’s all the same in the end. It all comes from the same source. Think of it as just another form of energy, able to be used and controlled like anything else. Just don’t call it the force dammit.

Slowly but surely the sound of something whining came, a light high pitched noise.

“Bingo,” I muttered, feeling like a super sleuth.

That was my target. A rich client had hired me to find and return their missing cat. It wasn’t exactly the most glorious job but as a private investigator working in New York City I didn’t have the luxury to say no to clients. So as a result I had spent all day following the cats trail to this burned out building. However I had also discovered this entire area was part of something's territory. Supernatural creatures don’t tend to advertise themselves much but after dealing with the supernatural for over half my life I had a good sense for when they were around.

The fact I was a sorcerer should have been reason enough to charge more but because I’m a sucker for a good cause I tend to get the crappy cases. I somehow, despite my best attempts, got a reputation as the supernatural consultant for the city of New York and as a result I ended up working cases no one else would take.

I headed down the hallway one cautious step at a time towards the sound of the crying cat. My steps echoed through the empty area ominously bouncing back at me in the darkness. I didn’t know what was hiding in the darkness but I knew something was there. Years of dealing with the supernatural had left me with a kind of sixth sense when it came to supernatural predators. Plus of course the cat had to be abducted by a spirit, otherwise it would be too easy. Spirits need a lot of magical energy to cross over from the otherworld and a lot more to summon a form out of ectoplasm. But there’s only a few ways to keep that energy going, the most common is to feast on living beings and use their blood as energy. Which meant that the spirit was most likely hoping for a quick meal with the cat.

I held the katana handle in my hand as I slowly entered the room where the cat cries were coming from. I moved closer, inch by inch into the room, my body on alert. I spread my senses out, magical and otherwise, feeling for any trace of magic in the area. But whatever was near was hiding its presence well. 

I slowly made my way through the room feeling my heart beat in my throat. My mind and body wanted to panic, to beat out a drum solo with my heart and create a techno blast with my pulse. But I forced ice into my veins and cold rationality into my mind. I had to be calm, to keep from tensing up. If I did allow my body to tense then it would only slow down my reaction.

A sudden creek of floorboards to my left made me spin to face it.

Which meant that when the creature blasted through the damn wall behind me I was totally unprepared. First there was nothing followed by a crashing sound equivalent to a cannon firing. Something smashed into me with the force of a meteor slamming me into the wall. Stars, silvery and bright, flashed through my vision but I held onto consciousness. 

Something let out an angry snarl and I felt claws dig at my neck. As I struggled to regain my focus, the world around me swirled in a haze of pain and disorientation. Despite the sharp pang at my neck, I instinctively reached for the katana handle, readying myself for combat. I could feel the presence of the creature—a palpable energy radiated from it, as though it was feeding off the fear in the air. 

I spun as I bounced off the wall. From the darkness erupted a nightmare—something part bat, part gorilla, stitched together with hunger and old magic. Its pale, stretched skin gleamed waxy in the moonlight, ribs and joints jutting at impossible angles. The creature’s stench hit me first—rotted meat, rain-soaked earth, ozone from another world. Its eyes glowed like twin embers, teeth clacking a rhythm of mindless hunger. Spirits can take on whatever form they wish, and this one had apparently decided to take the form of something from the ass of hell itself. 

The beast howled with the ferocity of a gorilla and charged at me. I didn’t have time to do anything but react on instinct as I threw myself to the side narrowly avoiding the charge. The beast turned slowly, clearly not meant to move rapidly. I could take advantage of that fact.

I raised the katana handle in front of me and—

My hands came up empty. Panic shot through me as I dimly realized I was unarmed against a creature that could potentially tear me limb from limb. I took a terrified breath in as the knowledge I was now unarmed came to me. I didn’t have time to look for my weapon before the creature spun, swinging a disturbingly elongated arm with long webbed fingers at me. I let out a battlecry which more inexperienced people may have mistaken for a yell of terror and jumped back narrowly avoiding the wild swing.

The gorilla-bat snarled and advanced on me, its skeletal form looming large and its ravenous glowing eyes narrowing. It swung another boney arm again and I swayed backwards narrowly avoiding the slash. My eyes scanned the floor wildly for the katana handle while also doing their best to watch the monster before me. The creature let out another roar and this time leapt at me. I ducked and rolled to the side. I began to roll back up when suddenly the floor cracked under my foot. I didn’t fall through or anything but it did slow me down and knock me off balance for only a moment.

The spirit didn’t let that opportunity pass. It swiped its long narrow fingers at me and I felt my stomach burn as they cut into it. It wasn’t more than a scratch but its fingers ended in short curved bone claws that were sharp. In my agony though I spotted it, the katana handle on the floor on the opposite side of the assbeast. 

I rolled just as the creature leapt at me again, this time rolling under its leap. It landed with a crash and I picked myself up just in time to grab the sword handle. The creature may have been quick but it turned slow, it was just too awkwardly built to do it any other way. I was thankful though, it gave me a split second to summon my magic.

I focused, channeling the magic into my sword handle as I gripped it. Then I said a Name. Names, capital N, have power. Everything has a name and knowing that name means the difference of just having an object and having a true weapon. I called upon this one the same way I had hundreds of times before.

“Inai.”

The bright steel of a katana blade quickly emerged from the handle, reflecting in what dim moonlight penetrated the room. The creature finished turning and its eyes went wide at the sudden reveal. Evidently it hadn’t expected this to be a fair fight. Take that asshole.

The creature wasn’t all that bright though and came charging at me. I had to assume it didn’t have much in the brains department, most spirits didn’t. 

There’s three ways to deal with a rogue spirit, creating massive damage to it beyond its ability to repair, disrupting the flow of magic in it, or use a magical trap to banish it. I didn’t have any silver on me to disrupt the magic and didn’t have the chance to set up a trap ahead of time. That left damaging it. 

The creature roared and swung an oddly jointed gorilla arm at me. I ducked under it and slashed at the creature’s chest cutting into it. The boney beast roared as the blade bit into it and reached forward to grab me. By this point I had recovered from the body slam it had given me and was able to dodge the attempt to grab me. I slashed at its side as it went past sending a spray of gooey ectoplasm across the ground. The creature swung its long arm backhandedly with incredible speed and this time I wasn’t able to fully dodge it. A hand the size of a shovel hit my side and I was knocked sideways and slammed into the wall again. My body screamed at me but I managed to keep a grip on my sword. The creature grabbed me by the shoulder and threw me one handed across the room. 

I landed and rolled along the floor. I tried picking myself up but the creature kicked me in the ribs, sending me rolling away. I groaned a bit as I lay there, I tried to pick myself up but stars consumed my vision again. The sword had seemingly disappeared and I was once again seemingly unarmed. Before I could react the creature picked me up with both arms, raising me off the ground and bringing me up close to its twisted gorilla-bat face. 

It snarled at me, all the communication it was apparently capable of and opened its jaw wide giving me a fine view of the countless razor sharp teeth. If I didn’t have this fucker exactly where I wanted him I’d have been terrified. 

I lowered my arm and allowed the sword handle I had hidden up my sleeve to fall into my hand. I shouted its name and poured magic into it while my own body felt a rush of exhaustion from the act. I slashed upwards cutting through its wrists, rendering its hands into ectoplasmic goop. The creature howled and brought its mouth to my throat. But I was faster, I slashed the blade through the air and through its neck with one fluid movement. Its howl died instantly as slowly the head slid to the side and fell to the ground. A moment later its body fell to the ground and began to dissolve into pure ectoplasm. 

I fell to my knees and took deep breaths. For a minute I just lay there, recovering my breath and allowing the stars to recede. The ectoplasm slowly dissolved into the air, without the magic or will of the spirit it would quickly dissolve into nothingness. 

Then it came to me why I was there in the first place. I listened and heard the sounds of the cat crying coming from the closet. I picked myself up and made my way slowly to it. I opened the door slowly and cautiously.

I limped to the closet, every step a question for my battered ribs. The door creaked open. Inside—a trembling fluff of orange tabby, eyes huge, collar askew. The name SPARKLES, bejeweled in fake diamonds was on it. She yowled and spat, tail bristling. I crooned encouragement.

“It’s okay, little buddy, you’re safe now. Not like I was about to become dinner for your abductor or anything dramatic.” I said calmly. “I’m gonna take you—Yowww”

I pulled my hand back as the cat swiped at it hissing at me. Ungrateful little thing. 

I am John Darkeson. I am the Swordsman. This is why I’m a dog person.

Chapter 2

The sun was beginning to peak over the horizon by the time I was done. I had returned the ungrateful little cat to its owner who to my surprise actually wrote me a check for the job. It wasn’t much but it would help pay the bills at least. By the time I had returned to my apartment the sun was far too bright for someone who hadn’t slept and as a result when I opened the door I was unprepared for the hairy beast that assaulted me.

A gray haired beast attacked me with deadly licks to my face. Fenrir, my Irish Wolfhound was only six months old and already the size of an average full grown dog. He was tall and lanky, reminding me of a sorcerer I knew in Chicago. But he was still just a big baby in the end.

I laughed. “Okay, okay ya big baby. I missed you too.” His tail wagged as I scratched behind his ears.

Fenrir was not just another animal with a fun name but the actual Fenris Wolf from myth itself. Six months ago during my first case for my own agency I had been caught by the bad guys. I had been chased through the streets before being shot through my liver and while I had ultimately gotten away I found myself in a back alley bleeding to death. I had barely been conscious when some old homeless man had offered me a deal, three favors in exchange for saving my life. I had agreed, mostly because of the aforementioned barely being conscious and found myself healed. The next day I woke up with a puppy and a note saying I had two favors left at the end of my bed. 

Fenrir immediately went over to his bowls and made soulful eyes at me. I rolled my eyes and made my way across my apartment to fill his bowls. My apartment wasn’t much to look at, there was a small fireplace with a sword rack above it, the walls were covered in various posters along with a single sword rack of nonmagical weapons while next to that was a single lone mirror. I had a small kitchen area that was connected to it and my bedroom and bathroom were reachable from it. It wasn’t much to look at, hell there was barely room for a couch.

 All my appliances were older models too as the newer stuff didn’t tend to last long around me when I was actively using magic. Active magic tends to drain appliances of their power when used which is why I had to be careful about when and where I used mine. It was also why I couldn’t have a television, they're so advanced now that they don’t last five minutes with me around them before they get drained or crash somehow.

It wasn’t much but it was my place, and that’s all that mattered. I looked at my bedroom longingly, it had been a full night tracking that damn cat down and then dealing with that spirit. I was damn tired and a couple hours of sleep sounded really good. 

Then reality barged its way into my plans and sent them flying with the force of an atomic bomb. My phone rang, as loud and obnoxious as ever and I briefly considered ripping it off the wall and tearing it to pieces. Instead however cooler heads prevailed and I went over to the ringing demon and picked it up.

“What?” I growled into it.

“It’s Manston.” A deep voice answered.

I felt my anger abate and change into nervousness. Detective Sergeant Daniel Manston was my primary point of contact with the NYPD and occasionally called on me as a consultant when cases got too weird for them to solve. His department in particular got the more unpleasant cases. The ritual murders that weren’t sexy, the brutal killings by monsters that couldn’t be explained, the the sightings of spirits and beasts. All of these were considered unsolvable and were given to his precinct as a result. 

I winced and instantly regretted my attitude. “What can I do for you, detective?” 

“I got some dead bodies available if you want to check them out?”

      “On a Sunday?” I asked, somewhat stupidly.

      He replied sarcastically. “That’s the funny thing about murders and murderers. They don’t tend to care much about the days of the week and how they inconvenience people.”

       I sighed, putting off thoughts of sleep for the time being. “Where do you need me?”

       He gave me an address and hung up. I sighed, and gazed longingly at the door to my bedroom. I wanted to sleep, get a shower, and eat a decent meal. But the rent was due next week, and I couldn’t tell Manston some dead bodies were inconvenient to my Sunday plans. 

      “Well, damn.”

I gave my apartment a final look and spent a minute letting Fenrir use his spot outside before I locked back up. I got into my nineteen-sixty-nine dodge charger, aptly named The Dark Knight and started the engine feeling it purr with power. I had inherited it from my master a few years ago and while it wasn’t the most convenient vehicle it would never be anything other than awesome to drive in.

I drove through the streets of New York City as the sun rose in the sky. As I navigated the bustling streets, the early morning light cast a golden hue over the skyscrapers and concrete jungle, mixing with the lingering shadows from the night before. The city was waking up, and with it, the familiar cacophony of honking horns, chatter, and the smells of fresh bagels and coffee wafted through the open window. I wished I could indulge in one of those bagels, but my focus was elsewhere today.

I found the address Manston had sent me to, a small mechanics garage that looked like it had seen better days. I flashed my consultant's badge to the cops guarding the barricade where a small contingent of reporters and onlookers stood and they waved me through. I ducked under the tape and was greeted by a crime scene worker in full body covering. He handed me a paper face mask and I eyed him.

“Trust me, you’ll need it.” They said before walking past me.

I put the mask on and went inside, finding myself in a small room that looked like it originally was a business entrance. I looked around, the place was a mess, it looked like no real business had been done here in years.

“Back here.” A deep voice called from down a hallway.

I followed it down a narrow hallway into a large backroom where apparently from the look of things an all out war had been fought. There was a couch in the middle with a busted flatscreen on the wall and a few toppled chairs. But those didn’t matter.

 Five bodies were scattered through the area, and all had been cut to shreds. I counted two missing limbs and a decapitation with blood pouring around the corpses like a canvass of death. Bullet holes painted the walls in a tapestry of randomness. In one corner there were what appeared to be burn marks and one of the corpses was badly charred. Bullet casings littered the ground like used cigarettes adding to the chaos.

But it was the smell that was the worst. Movies and television never bring up that part in death.The corpses stung the back of my throat; bile rose. The combination of smells played in my mind, making me both sick and itching at my senses at the same time.

“God damn mad house.” A voice said.

I turned and looked at the speaker. Detective Sergeant Daniel “The stone man” Manston stood in the corner looking at the crime scene. He was a huge man in a suit that must have been made out of a circus tent. His dark brown skin and shaved head with a short beard gave one the impression of an ancient African king while his cheap suit spoke of someone of more humble origins. 

“Darkeson,” he said, nodding to me. 

      “Manston,” I nodded back to him. “What in the hell happened here?”

       “Hell is exactly what seems to have happened.” He looked over at me. “You tell me what you think.” 

I looked through the area. The door in one corner was hanging from a hinge, evidently something had busted it open. Judging from how the gunfire was targeted to that area I was guessing the men inside were taken by surprise. They must have reacted on instinct upon the door being kicked in and opened fire on whoever did it.

I looked closer at the nearest body, suppressing my instinct to gag on the smell. The man had his arm severed at the elbow as well as his throat slashed open so deep I could see the bones. I looked closer.

“This man hasn’t been shot.” I said looking down at the corpse. I glanced around at the others, all hacked and slashed up. Yet not a single one appeared to have a bullet wound. “Whatever murdered these men used a blade, a fairly sharp one from the looks of it.” I looked over at the charred corpse in the corner. “However it looks like they used some kind of flamethrower on one of the corpses.”

I focused on my left eye pouring magic into it. My left eye was a transplant after my original one had been lost in a battle a few years ago and I had quickly discovered it had a very useful ability. 

When I poured power into it I could see the flow of magical energy through the area around me. The eye was a powerful device but it had to be used carefully. If I overused it it could quickly exhaust me which is why it was best used in moderation. 

Energy buzzed through the area. I could see the flow of energy as something with magical power had moved through the area before and left fading echoes of it through the place. I looked to the corner and saw the ghostly echo of the flames in the air and covering the body. No doubt about it, the flames used were magical in origin.

Something else I noticed was the lack of ghosts. Ghosts are usually left behind from a traumatic event but most only lasted a few days to a couple of weeks at most before they faded away. Occasionally one got enough power to last but that was incredibly rare. But there were none in the area at all. 

That meant someone had banished them. Not exactly the hardest thing to do but it told me that whoever had done this knew how to clean up their tracks magically speaking. Which meant they knew they’d have supernatural investigators looking into this. Given there weren’t all that many around here I could guess who they were hiding from. 

I looked around the rest of the room. The energies showed only one person came through the door. That shouldn’t have been possible, I mean for one person to be able to move so swiftly as to avoid all this gunfire it was… unthinkable. Unless it wasn’t a person.

I undid the magic in my eye letting it fade away.

“Something inhumanly fast and strong with a sharp as hell blade killed these men. They kicked down the door and moved so fast the gunmen couldn’t keep up when firing. They moved through the room taking out each of these men in swift precise attacks. Any chances they happened to be injured by all this gunfire?”

Manston shook his head. “Hard to be certain but from what the csi guys can tell the only blood is from the gangsters here.”

They managed to do all this without taking a single shot. They had to be unimaginably fast, not to mention strong. Cutting off limbs, especially a head is actually a lot harder than it seems. You have to cut in the exact right spot in the right way and have a lot of strength to do it. From the looks of things they had some level of magical ability too if the fire is any indication. They were skilled with a blade, superhumanly fast and strong and had skill in magic. 

I suddenly felt my stomach drop and I wondered exactly why he had asked me there. Manston was aware to a degree of just what I could do.

The air felt heavy before he spoke again. “Relax Darkeson, you're good but not this good. Until you give me a reason to believe otherwise you’re here simply as a consultant.”

I tried not to show my relief. “If you did think I did this then I’d worry about you. I’m good but I’m not this good. I don’t know anyone who has the skill and power to pull something like this off.”

Manston uncrossed his arms. “Then you’ll love to hear that this is the fifth such attack in the past five months.”

I stiffened and turned to look at him. “Fifth? This is the first I’m hearing of anything.”

He nodded “The gang unit has been doing their best to keep it on the down low. Five attacks, one each month each against a different crime group. These particular fellows,” He gestured to the dead men in the room. “Were members of a gang called the Bronx Royals, known for pushing meth in this area. From what we can tell they were killed four hours ago.”

I shook my head, the pieces of the gruesome puzzle starting to align. "And this has all been the work of the same killer?"

"Seems that way," Manston replied, his brow furrowing with concern. "We suspect it might be someone sending a message, using these killings to instill fear in other gangs."

That made sense—at least on the surface. “But a message like this? This screams more than just simple turf wars.”

Manston nodded, crossing his arms again. “Exactly. This killer isn’t just eliminating competition; they’re making a statement—a demonstration of power. That’s not all though.” He motioned for me to follow him and we headed out the busted door into the back of the building.

The early morning sun blinded me for a moment before my eyes adjusted to it. He pointed to the wall and I turned to look. A… symbol, I guess you could call it was painted on it. Oddly reminiscent of the letter Z but with odd curves in it. A curving shape struck through the center vaguely in the form of a half moon. The symbol seemed archaic somehow, from some ancient primordial time.

And it was written in blood. It had begun to dry as the morning warmed up but it was still fairly fresh. It added a gruesome twist to something already machiavellian in nature and made what had happened into something more than just a couple of murders. 

“Each one of these attacks has had the same symbol left at them all painted in the blood of the victims.”

I felt a chill snake up my spine as I stared at the symbol, its dark crimson hue contrasting sharply against the peeling paint of the wall. It was a mark steeped in malevolence, echoing with ancient whispers and hidden meanings that beckoned from the shadows of the city’s underbelly. This was no mere gang violence; it was a ritualistic pattern, a harbinger of something far more sinister at play. As I looked back at Manston, the weight of the murders pressed heavily on my shoulders, and I knew right then that our lives were about to become entwined with a darkness we were only beginning to understand.