The Demon Soul Invasion

By C. Gold

A summons gone very wrong, a demon lord bent on worldwide destruction, and a hated enemy turned temporary ally make this necromancer's day a complete nightmare.

When a warlock calls asking for help, Marcus Blackmoor hangs up. After all, everyone knows the only good warlock is one who was never born. They murdered his parents, so this one can rot in prison where he belongs. But Marcus gets dragged into the investigation anyway since a soul needs interrogating and he's the right necromancer for the job.

Except, all the souls have gone missing and there's a terrible evil invading the spirit realm. It will take the combined help of his ghostly best friend, the warlock, and a kick butt fire mage to find the vengeful demon lord and banish him before he raises an army the likes of which has never been seen.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Golden Elm Publishing
• Release date: Feb 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386816645

Book preview

The Demon Soul

Invasion

A Paranormal Novella

By C. Gold

Golden Elm Publishing

Redmond, WA

Copyright © 2019 C. Gold

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

First Edition 1.1

The Demon Soul Invasion is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or places, is completely coincidental.

Golden Elm Publishing

Redmond, WA

Please visit the author’s official website:

www.thegoldenelm.org

Dedicated to my friends, family, and World of Warcraft guild mates.

Contents

Chapter 1: Unexpected Caller

Chapter 2: It’s a Setup

Chapter 3: Seeking Answers

Chapter 4: Finding Answers

Chapter 5: Demon Trouble

Chapter 6: Group Bonding

Chapter 7: Spiritual Encounter

Chapter 8: Underground Adventure

Chapter 9: Bad Bargains

Chapter 10: Dark Magic

Chapter 11: Demon Battle

Chapter 12: Aftermath

From the Author

Books by the Author

About the Author

Chapter 1: Unexpected Caller

The only good warlock is not a dead one as you might think, but rather one who has never existed in the first place. You see, death by demon creates the most vengeful spirits and few warlocks die of old age.

― Ancient proverb about warlocks

Marcus Blackmoor sat cross-legged on a thick, moisture-repellent mat and basked in the sun’s warmth. With his hands on his thighs, palms up, he took a deep breath and slowly released it, along with his tension. The early morning sun, rare for late October in Seattle, was perfect for cleansing his aura and helping him relax.

After yesterday’s encounter with Aunt Mabel’s ghost, he needed it. It wasn’t like she was harmful or even his aunt, but she could nag worse than most living people. He would bet anything that while she was alive, she annoyed her neighbors about the minutiae of every day life, such as how many days it was since they last mowed the lawn, or how their trashcans were still at the street, or how much noise they made during neighbor-imposed quiet hours.

Marcus first ran into her tenaciousness a few years ago. Over time, she’d gotten better at waylaying him the moment he’d entered the spirit realm. Last night, she was more upset than usual and blocked him from reaching the soul he was seeking until she’d had her say. Unfortunately, the grieving daughter sitting in on the séance took the delay as a rejection from her father who’d died shortly after they’d had an ugly argument. After much hair pulling, he was able to distract Aunt Mabel by pointing out a new arrival. Poor soul. In the end, both the father and daughter reconciled and he even got a bonus. Too bad he wound up with pounding temples and body aches like he’d been tossed in a blender.

Marcus still had his eyes closed when he sensed pressure against his face, but it wasn’t anything physical. He opened them. A bloated, white, disembodied head was nose to nose with him. Startled, he fell back onto his elbows and then clutched his chest as if that would keep his galloping heart from carving out an escape tunnel. Sam! he shrieked in an unflattering, non-manly manner.

Sam’s disembodied head formed a lopsided, ear-splitting grin. Boo, he said, all Spock-like.

Marcus tossed a rock at Sam’s forehead, which of course didn’t do more than sail straight through but it made him feel slightly better. I’m trying to relax. Don’t you have something better to do like, oh, I dunno, pass on? Most spirits moved on fairly soon after death. Some, like Sam, lingered for a reason, but his friend refused to talk about it. The only thing Marcus knew was that Sam was tied to an antique watch he purchased at an auction. He didn’t even know where or when the spirit lived.

The rest of Sam’s body popped into view showing a figure dressed in Victorian era clothes sitting cross-legged before him. Nope, he shook his head. Not until my task is done.

What task is that? Marcus asked the ritual question.

Sam smirked and gave the ritual response. Can’t say. It’s a secret.

Marcus rolled his eyes. Whatever.

The phone keeps ringing.

Now that Marcus was paying attention, he heard it as well and shrugged. They’ll hang up, eventually. He didn’t own an answering machine after Sam fried the last one. Ghosts and electronics didn’t mix, especially when one was pesky and overly curious about gadgets.

Well, aren’t you going to answer it? Sam began doing this thing where he stretched his neck and then contracted it. The effect was rather disturbing and a clear sign the ghost was bored.

Marcus decided to pay him back for the scare. I’m going to go back to meditating. He scooted back a little to put some distance between them and closed his eyes. He suppressed a knowing grin and counted.

Three.

Two.

One.

You should really answer it.

Just like clockwork. In some things, Sam was very predictable. Marcus remained silent and waited.

Three.

Two.

One.

It might be important. Come on. Sam hated the silent treatment and especially hated being ignored. His voice turned a touch whiney. You need to answer it. What if it’s important? He paused about one second before exploding into a verbal diarrhea of all the reasons why Marcus should answer the phone.

He couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst out laughing.

Sam stood and crossed his arms, looking quite cross. When Marcus kept laughing, he huffed. I hate you.

Marcus wiped the tears from his eyes. No you don’t. He finally took pity on the sulking spirit. Come on then. Let’s see what the persistent call is about.

Sam bounced up and down and floated right through the wall into the house instead of using the doorway like usual. Marcus chuckled at Sam’s obvious excitement as he took the living man’s route through the door into the kitchen. He picked up the phone and stretched the cord so he could sit at the dining room table. Sam hovered nearby.

Hello?

Don’t hang up, a man’s voice barked on the other end of the line.

If that didn’t sound suspicious, Marcus wasn’t a necromancer. Who is this? he demanded.

Nevok.

He’d only heard of one man by that name. Nevok as in Nevok Demonsbane the warlock? Marcus didn’t bother to hide his disgust. Warlocks were the scourge of humanity and Nevok was said to be the most powerful one in the region.

Sam’s eyes bugged out and popped. Marcus just rolled his eyes at the gross display. It was yet another one of Sam’s ‘endearing’ habits used to try and provoke a reaction.

A long, drawn out yes drew his attention back to the phone call and confirmed who it was on the other end.

I’m hanging up now. He wanted no business with warlocks.

No wait!

The man’s desperation made Marcus pause. Why was he calling, anyway?

At first, all he heard was nervous breathing, then, I need your help. The words came out strangled. A powerful warlock begging for help—that had to hurt as they were notorious loners. Why would a warlock need a necromancer’s help? Now there was no way Marcus was hanging up.

Once Nevok made that painful admission, a dam broke and out came the flood. He was at the PBI, the paranormal equivalent of the FBI, charged with the murder of a rival warlock. Only, he didn’t do it. Blah, blah, blah, whatever.

Sam grew impatient at being left out. He started bouncing around and edging closer. Marcus had to shoo him away a few times so his ghostly aura wouldn’t garble the signal. Not that he was paying much attention to the warlock anymore; his mind was already debating whether to help or not.

He had to admit, this case was fascinating. But curiosity didn’t only kill cats. It could just as easily kill sucker necromancers. There was no way he was doing anything until he talked to Gabe Andrews, director of the PBI. He occasionally did consulting work for him on murder investigations; his ability to speak to the dead came in handy when the ghosts were in the mood to talk. Plus, Gabe must have given the warlock his number and he wanted to know why.

Decision made, Marcus stood and walked back into the kitchen. I can’t help you, he said, cutting into the warlock’s latest profession of innocence, and hung up. There, let him stew on that.

Sam got all up in his face and asked, Well, what was that about?

Marcus crossed his arms and glared. Sometimes Sam’s excitement caused him