Dark Exodus Read online

  PRAISE FOR

  The Demonists

  “A fast-paced present-day adventure series . . . All the plot threads weave together into an intricate, creepy, and entertaining escapade.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Intriguing and entertaining . . . Good start to what looks to be a promising new urban-horror series featuring a fascinating fusion of the two genres, and I look forward to more.”

  —The Speculative Herald

  “Fast-paced excitement with compassionate characters you’ll want to triumph.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  PRAISE FOR THE WORKS OF

  Thomas E. Sniegoski

  “Funny, unsettling, and heartbreaking.”

  —Christopher Golden, New York Times bestselling author

  “Tightly focused and deftly handled . . . [A] smart and playful story.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Engaging [and] tightly written . . . You won’t find a dull moment.”

  —Sacramento Book Review

  Also by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  The Demonists Novels

  THE DEMONISTS

  The Remy Chandler Novels

  A KISS BEFORE THE APOCALYPSE

  DANCING ON THE HEAD OF A PIN

  WHERE ANGELS FEAR TO TREAD

  A HUNDRED WORDS FOR HATE

  IN THE HOUSE OF THE WICKED

  WALKING IN THE MIDST OF FIRE

  A DEAFENING SILENCE IN HEAVEN

  Dark Exodus

  A Demonists Novel

  Thomas E. Sniegoski

  ACE

  NEW YORK

  ACE

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Excerpt from A Kiss Before the Apocalypse copyright © 2008 by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  ACE is a registered trademark and the A colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698185524

  First Edition: July 2017

  Cover art © Bastien Lecouffe Deharme

  Cover design by Adam Auerbach

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  CONTENTS

  Praise for Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Also by Thomas E. Sniegoski

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  Excerpt from A Kiss Before the Apocalypse

  About the Author

  For Nicole Scopa, the Bestest in all de land!

  (Thanks for the inspiration!)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Love and thanks to my wife, LeeAnne, for all the hard work on this one. Thanks and manly love to Kirby for allowing me to live in his world.

  Special thanks, as always, to the amazing Christopher Golden, editor extraordinaire Jessica Wade, Ginjer Buchanan, Jim Moore, Howard Morhaim, Kate Schafer Testerman, Frank Cho, Thomas Fitzgerald, Dale Queenan, Larry Johnson, Pam Daley, Mom Sniegoski, the ever-present spirit of Dave Kraus, Kathy Kraus, and Legion of Evil down at Cole’s Comics in lovely Lynn, Massachusetts.

  Farewell and adieu!

  PROLOGUE

  1996

  Evil was in the air.

  Thick and nasty and smelling of death.

  Elijah could smell it over the heavy stink of the Chinook’s exhaust fumes as the helicopter made its way to its destination.

  He had been leader of the Coalition for a little over six months, and gathering information about this current mission had been his primary focus and that of those under his command.

  Something big was about to happen, something that had sent more than five psychic sensitives in the Coalition’s employ into deep comas from which there were no guarantees they’d awaken. The last of the sensitives had actually managed to pinpoint a general location for them before she’d slid into a deep and disturbing fugue state.

  Realizing that time was of the essence, Elijah gathered a team of the best and brightest of his agents, experts in demonology, ancient arcana, and the dark ways of the infernal, hoping they would be able to prevent the dark event that was soon to occur. He looked at them as they sat stoically, waiting. There were eight of them, and to the casual observer, they would seem bored, completely disinterested—unaffected.

  But he’d been at this game a very long time, dancing with demonic evil on more than one occasion. He could see the fear in each of their eyes; he could see it there, just barely under control.

  It’s good they’re afraid, he thought. As long as they kept it leashed . . . as long they continued to be fear’s master, they would be victorious.

  A voice through his headset told him that the advance security team was about to land. He had no idea what type of conflict might be waiting when the first ship landed. It was private property, after all, and the owner of the estate was known to guard his privacy quite aggressively.

  “Very good,” he told the voice on the other end of the microphone. “Proceed with caution.”

  The female sensitive had identified the mansion home of Randolph Scopa, affectionately called Scopa House, as the location of the impending event.

  The Scopa history was a dark one; Devil worship and human sacrifice were rumored to be connected to the family’s procurement of great wealth through munitions manufacture and shipping. It had been determined that the stone used to build the sprawling Scopa estate had been retrieved from a seventeenth-century village and a monastery in Rome that had been the site of a demonic infestation.

  The ancient order of the Demonists had been called in to deal with the infernal plague, which they had been successful in stopping.

  Though everybody in the village and monastery had died.

  Elijah remembered the old idiom, the operation was a success, but the patient died, as another voice crackled in his headset.

  “Sir, we are preparing to land.”

  “Very good,” he said,
then looked around at his team.

  He called them Team Brimstone, and he was sure that they would do him proud this day.

  Elijah made a gesture for them to get ready, and they did just that: unsnapping themselves and gathering up their equipment and weapons, everything they would possibly need to confront a supernatural threat.

  But what that threat was exactly . . .

  The psychics hadn’t been able to tell them much before succumbing to their seemingly endless sleep, only that some sort of connection between Hell and the world of man was going to be established. What that meant exactly Elijah did not know, but he hoped and prayed that the sacrifices made by the sensitives had been worth it and that he and his team would be able to stop this event before any true damage could occur.

  The Chinook landed as gracefully as it was able, and the team was almost immediately on the move.

  Elijah brought a handkerchief to the damaged side of his face, dabbing at the corner of his mouth just in case he had dribbled. He’d had no feeling there since he’d maimed himself during a ritual of exorcism he’d performed during his service to the Catholic Church.

  • • •

  He noticed the smell as soon as he disembarked: the sharp, smoky stink of burning flesh.

  They had landed at the back of the estate, on an open, grassy area often used for outdoor events. It looked like a war zone. The first chopper was lying broken and twisted on its side like some beached leviathan, bodies strewn about the perfectly manicured lawn.

  • • •

  The evil that he’d been sensing since the mission had begun intensified. It was thick, palpable, swirling in the air like thick, wood smoke.

  Elijah used his headset to attempt to communicate with the commander of the first security team but got nothing but static. Whatever had happened occurred quickly, immediately.

  Viciously.

  Nothing moved upon the lawn except the smoke rising from the downed chopper and the smoldering bodies.

  Team Brimstone had withdrawn their weapons, both traditional and arcane, and were cautiously moving forward, eyes scanning the area before the house for signs of a threat.

  A young man by the name of Dixon carefully walked to the closest of the bodies to examine it. The corpse was charred black and crumbled as he touched it.

  Elijah felt cold sweat trickle down his back.

  He was guessing that it was some sort of magickal defense, a trap set for anyone who would try to disturb what was going on inside the massive home. He shared his suspicions with a woman named Clancy, and she proceeded to do her thing, uttering an ancient Sumerian spell of guidance and protection, as they drew closer to the mansion.

  The response was weak, most of the magick likely used in the earlier attack. Bolts of crackling energy reached out as they got within fifty feet of the structure, but the protective spell that Clancy had put around them saved them from harm.

  The bolts were like serpents snapping at their presence as they drew closer. This was powerful magick, Elijah worried, and he became even more concerned with what they might find inside.

  The security spell continued to try to keep them back, growing weaker with each strike until there was only an annoying buzz in the air.

  Clarkson, a heavyset former Benedictine monk, went to the huge front doors and removed two sets of rosary beads from a leather pouch on his side. Carefully, he wrapped the beads about both hands and made two powerful fists.

  The man then looked to Elijah for confirmation.

  Elijah nodded, and the bear of a man lunged at the doors, punching them with fists that had begun to glow with an unearthly light. The rosaries were reacting to the environment and the evil that filled the air.

  The doors flew open with an almost human moan, and they were nearly driven back by the intensity of the atmosphere.

  Elijah could sense his team’s reaction, a sudden sense of panic.

  “Hold it together, Brimstone,” he commanded, anchoring them to the importance of the moment.

  And they did just that.

  Clarkson unwrapped his fists, kissed each set of beads, and put them back into their pouch for safety.

  Team Brimstone swarmed into the house, traditional weapons at the ready. Seeing that it was clear, Elijah followed, taking in the opulence of the manor: marble floors, hardwood staircases, works of priceless art hanging on every wall.

  Evil was good business these days, and it treated its servants well.

  Spells of protection were uttered as the team began to investigate, moving out from the foyer. There appeared to be no other defensive spells laid, the primary focus seeming to be on keeping intruders out, but now that they were in . . .

  Elijah knew at once that they were too late.

  Whatever was supposed to happen here had already occurred, the defensive spells that had been set outside were only a deterrent to keep them away until the event could be completed.

  And it had. He knew this. He could feel it in the thick scar tissue of his disfigured face.

  His good eye fell upon the corridor to the side of the foyer. That was where he—they—would need to go. From his study of the mansion’s blueprints, he knew that the corridor would bring them to the formal ballroom.

  “Down here,” he said, being drawn down the corridor.

  His soldiers went before him, laying a groundwork of incantations just in case there were more traps. Elijah knew that there wouldn’t be.

  What was done was done.

  At the end of the corridor was a set of double doors, and an eerie, pulsing light could be seen escaping from beneath them.

  Elijah started to walk past his team toward them.

  “Sir, I wouldn’t . . .”

  “It’s all right,” he answered, resigned to the fact that they had arrived too late.

  He reached the doors standing there, watching the light move across the toes of his black boots.

  The others were now gathered behind him, and he reached for the handles. Holding them tightly, he said a little prayer, an act of contrition just in case he found himself suddenly dead, and opened both doors.

  The ballroom was enormous, and he could only imagine the grand times that had been had there, but now, instead of a place of revelry and celebration, it was a place of stillness.

  A place of dead.

  He counted fifty bodies, men, women, and children in a circle.

  Team Brimstone immediately went to work, saying incantations that protected them from demonic attack and checking for survivors—even though he knew that there were none.

  Elijah was fixated upon the circle and the strange light that hovered in the air above it. It shimmered and pulsed in different intensities, casting odd, foreboding patterns about the room.

  “All dead, sir,” one of his team said.

  “Of course they are,” he muttered.

  He then noticed the condition of the bodies; they appeared withered, old, drained of all bodily fluids, drained of all life.

  But for what?

  His eyes again returned to the strange floating object as it pulsated in the air above the circle of death. Had it gotten larger since they’d entered the room?

  Elijah watched it as it moved . . . the darkness at its center.

  One of his team, a woman named Conroy, stepped over a section of bodies to get closer.

  “Careful, Conroy,” Elijah warned, but he, too, was drawn to it. “I have no idea what we’re looking at,” the woman said, leaning closer as the object spun.

  There was no doubt, it was getting bigger.

  Elijah was about to caution the woman again when she reached out a gloved hand to touch it, and the object expanded with a hiss. There was a flash of searing whiteness, and as the dancing black blotches cleared from the vision of his one good eye, he saw that something terrible had
occurred.

  Conroy now resembled those who had passed in the circle, her body looking like the dried and withered remains of a mummy, as she fell backward to the floor, dead.

  “Get back! Get back!” One of the team panicked, retreating to the far end of the room.

  But Elijah remained, just outside the circle.

  “Sir!” somebody called to him, and he heard scuttling movements toward him.

  “Stay right where you are,” Elijah commanded, not even bothering to look at whoever it was who had decided to try to save him.

  The object had more than doubled in size, and he suddenly had a sense of what it was that he was looking at.

  It was a hole. A perforation in reality.

  And it continued to grow.

  This was what the psychics had sensed, that a rip . . . a tear between realities was being made.

  An opening between Earth and . . .

  The tear grew larger, likely using the energy that it had taken from Conroy to continue to expand and grow.

  His team now suspected what he did, what was happening . . . what it was.

  “Sir, what should we do?” Jenkins, the youngest of the team, asked.

  “Be at the ready,” Elijah said, his eye fixed upon the expanding hole. “I believe something is preparing to emerge.”

  Elijah could see something just beyond the hole, a flash of whitish flesh moving within the darkness. He was fascinated, drawing ever closer to the sphere.

  Team Brimstone were tensed behind him, readying their magickal defenses, though Elijah seriously doubted their effectiveness against something with the strength to cross over from the infernal realm.

  The rip grew larger, and Elijah stumbled back, his heel stepping upon bodies. The bones snapped and rustled, like fallen branches covered with dried leaves.

  A hand emerged from within the hole, pale and covered with oozing sores. Elijah gasped as it beckoned to him before disappearing again within.

  He was tempted then to use everything that they had to deal with this threat, to throw every magickal defense they had to try to shut the opening, before . . .