Heaven's Door (Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Book 6) by John G. Hartness

Author:John G. Hartness [Hartness, John G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Falstaff Books
Published: 2016-10-18T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 11

Flynn and I followed a pissed off angel into the church, and I wish that were the beginning of a bad joke. It looked like something out of a horror movie, with blood almost literally painting the front of the sanctuary. We were there before the crime scene techs, before the bright lights and evidence cards, before the bustle that dulls the edge of even the most horrific scenes. The metallic smell of blood almost bowled me over, with the horrible underlying miasma of death and shit and puke and sweat and pain and fear that accompanies horrific murders. I didn’t need my Sight to know that the energy of this place was corrupted, and it would take a lot of work to put the church back right.

The sanctuary was a big room, all Gothic arches and rose windows. My rubber soles moved almost silently across the floor, and I could hear the occasional drip-drip of blood falling to the stone. The only light in the place was one chandelier over the pulpit and a rack of prayer candles on either side of the main door, with the odd streetlight peeking in through the stained glass and casting crazy-quilt colors all around the room. Every single candle in the rack blazed brightly, casting a flickering yellow glow that made long dancing shadows across the walls. It made me feel like the killer stopped on the way out the door to light fresh candles everywhere, in a mockery of prayer.

Everything about the room felt like a message, a mocking Zodiac letter to the cops, a nasty letter from Jack the Ripper to investigators, a blood-soaked “you can’t touch me” from the killer to me, addressed very specifically by writing my name in blood all over the walls of the sanctuary. “HARKER” shrieked at me from every window, a crimson-turning-brown message that I couldn’t miss if I were blind.

The room was dim, but I could make out the shape of a body lying on the communion table as if in state. The robes marked him as a priest, and the glimmer of golden light around him in my Sight told me he was Nephilim. He was gutted, his body ripped open and spread across the table, with a lake of blood pooling on the floor beneath the table.

The splintered light from the chandelier and the windows cast long shattered shadows all over the room as the light fixture swung. I looked up to see what was making it move, then stopped dead as I realized what I was looking at.

“Tell me that’s not…”

“I wish I could,” Glory said.

I pulled a small flashlight from my pocket and shone a light up at the grotesque display hanging from the ceiling. A young boy, no more than twelve, hung from the chandelier, wearing nothing but his white underpants splattered red with his own blood. His feet were bound at the ankles with a nail jammed through them for dramatic effect. His arms were spread wide and lashed to the curved arms of the light, then a huge nail jammed through each palm.

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