Messiah of Burbank - An Urban Fantasy (Quinn Henaghan Chronicles Book 3)

  Copyright © 2018 by Paul Neuhaus

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  The Quinn Henaghan Chronicles

  Company Town - Book 1 of the Quinn Henaghan Chronicles

  Magic! Monsters! Mayhem!

  All the things mousy Quinn Henaghan didn’t want in her life. But now, thanks to a long-hidden power, Quinn is fast on her way to becoming the world’s most powerful sorceress.

  Can she master her gift in time to save Los Angeles from the demon who’s been ruling it for a century?

  A paranormal adult romance thriller! In the tradition of The Dresden Files and Doctor Strange!

  Aeon of Horus - Book 2 of the Quinn Henaghan Chronicles

  A priceless artifact! A dark conspiracy! An approaching apocalypse!

  Quinn Henaghan is again embroiled in a situation not of her own making. Thieves, witch-hunters, demons and rival wizards all want a totem she acquired but didn't ask for. As she weaves her way through this collection of rogues, she learns the statue she holds is the only thing that stands between life as we know it and the total destruction of the earth!

  Click the text or the book cover below for a free copy of Aisling - a prequel set in the world of Quinn Henaghan!

  Free Prequel Book!

  "In this business, until you're known as a monster, you're not a star.”—Bette Davis

  Prologue - The Bargain

  Aisling walked a treacherous path alongside a sheer cliff face overlooking what would one day become the Pacific Ocean. The path was not an accident of nature. Many feet before Aisling’s had trod it and made it permanent. The girl took the last stretch with her back against the rock wall, her hands splayed against its flat surface. Finally, with the fingers of her right hand, she felt empty air and knew she’d reached her destination.

  The cave.

  Grabbing onto the side of the entry nearest her, she pulled herself bodily into the opening. Then she stood with confidence for the first time in several minutes. The cave mouth was dark, and an odd smell came from within. The redhead could see the way sloped downward and the tunnel widened as it bored into the earth. From far below, came the faintest hint of illumination. She took a deep gulp of clean air and began her descent.

  As Aisling went deeper and deeper, an odd mix of sounds became more distinct. Moans and whispers—none of them emanating from human throats. The hair on the back of the redhead’s neck stood up. She knew what waited below and terror took hold. She found in time that her eyes adjusted to the dim light. At first, she saw nothing but rough-hewn rock (the tunnel, she realized, was, like the path on the outside, not a natural thing). Eventually, the rounded walls took on an architectural bent. Cylindrical columns, carved more for decoration than support, evolved during the descent from badly-made to elegantly shaped. Right when the tunnel became a formal, artful construct, it gave way to a vast chamber, spherical and ribbed. An artificial room with an organic character.

  Men called it the Womb of the World.

  In the center of the floor was a raised circular platform. In the center of the platform was a slit. Behind the slit was a simple altar. From the slit, a white, luminous gas emitted.

  Aisling entered, approached the platform, sat and waited. She did as she was told. She sat, trying not to breathe the gas. It smelled at once of wildflowers and decay.

  When the slit suddenly emitted light, every cell in the girl’s body warned her to flee. She knew that she mustn’t. Any sign of weakness or fear would be answered with violence. Despite her panic, she mustn’t move or speak. It took her whole reserve of courage not to look away.

  The shaft of light became a swirling ball, strobing and bright. It grew until it was larger than the elephants Aisling had seen roaming the veldt outside. From it, a voice came. The same voice speaking over itself in many eerie layers. It spoke in the language of the gods, and Aisling did not understand.

  Again, the redhead fought the urge to flee as the sphere of light moved closer to where she sat on the chamber’s smooth floor. As it advanced, the layers of sound peeled away one by one until there was only a single, feminine voice. Also, as it pushed toward the girl, its form changed, distilling down to a progressively more refined shape. The shape of a woman. A woman tall and fair and made of light.

  At first, Aisling had to shield her face from the glare. In time, she could look upon the luminous creature with her eyes half-lidded. Men had dubbed the creature “Nisha” and she had never offered another name. Ironically, the word meant “night”.

  Nisha reached the edge of the stage and looked down upon Aisling. Her face broke into a kind smile. “Aja. You have come to barter.”

  1

  Quinn

  Quinn Henaghan moved through a world she did not recognize. Twisted wreckage. Fire burning bright. Air nearly too hot to breathe. Thirst was her strongest sensation with fear close behind. Dark eyes peered out at her from behind bent steel and broken masonry. When she looked in their direction, they darted away, hopeless and afraid.

  Climbing over a pile of shattered brick, the redhead came at last to a sidewalk inset with stars. Black stars outlined in gold, each with a name. She stood on top of Steven Spielberg and her exact location became clear. She was on Hollywood Boulevard. To Spielberg’s left should’ve been Taft’s Books. Taft’s books wasn’t there—mostly because all the buildings on both sides of the street were gone. Knocked down and burning. Across the road, where Musso & Frank had once stood was an empty framework, recalling not the glory of the Tinseltown but Berlin in nineteen forty-five.

  For the first time, it dawned on the girl there was no traffic on the street, no cars going in either direction. Autos did line the road on either side, but they were skeletal, their paint stripped away by now-absent rivers of flame. Quinn walked into the street and looked to her right toward Vine Street. Nothing but blowing newspaper and a steaming manhole. Not a soul brave enough to test the punishing sun and the flying embers. She looked to her left, toward Highland, and saw a glow in that direction. A white glow at ground level in the once-busy intersection. The glow whispered to her and, despite the distance, she heard.

  “Aja,” it said.

  Henaghan felt a cold chill course through her body from bottom to top. The sudden drop in her temperature against the hot air of the Boulevard made her break out in a sickly sweat. Her fear and the bitter chills in her small body told her to remain where she was, but she saw no other course of action—besides, she was compelled to do what she did next. Compelled by something in the whisper itself. She walked toward the glow at the nexus of Hollywood and Highland.

  As she approached it, the glow became more distinct—either of its own accord or because Quinn’s eyes acclimated to its searing brightness. The glow was a woman made of white light. Six feet tall and distinct not in its details but only in its form. It was a woman holding a sword made of white flame. Beyond that, Henaghan could tell little else.

  When the girl got to the intersection, she looked left and right on Highland. The view in both directions was as she expected. The city of Hollywood was broken and in flames everywhere, not just on the Boulevard.

  The woman with the sword spoke again. This time—despite the fact Quinn could discern no features—Henaghan knew the creature smiled. “Come closer,” it said. “I won’t b
ite.” The voice was at once commanding and without character. A wind through an alley, forming words.

  Some of the sickness faded away, some of the cold. The redhead knew that confronting the woman was something she must do. It was penance—although for what she could no longer remember. She took the remaining steps into the middle of the intersection. As she approached, the white glow rose from the pavement ever-so-slowly so that its feet pointed down. Henaghan expected the sword to be raised suddenly and brought back down. Some part of her welcomed the prospect. Still rising, the woman said, “Listen… Do you hear that?”

  Quinn listened. She heard nothing. “I don’t hear anything,” she replied, her voice hoarse from lack of water.

  “Listen harder, Aja. You’ve grown callous, uncaring. If your heart was true, you’d hear.”

  Henaghan felt shamed. She had no idea what the woman with the sword meant. She strained to hear—as much to prove the white glow wrong as to genuinely hear.

  This time she heard. A low moan, a wail in the making. Its volume rose. It came from every direction and from a thousand throats. Though it formed no words, it was heavy with accusation. As it continued, Quinn became more and more uneasy. Now that she could hear it, she couldn’t unhear it. “Who is that?” she said.

  The woman with the sword was above her now, looking down. She laughed, and it was like the rattle of bones. “That’s not a who. It’s not even a voice, really, nor a chorus of voices. It’s a thought; it’s a feeling. A feeling turned force.”

  The redhead’s skin tingled. As the white glow spoke, she felt it at once. A pressing weight made by the wail. The pressure grew and forced Henaghan down to her knees, helpless. Her chin dropped to her chest.

  The sword woman was above the traffic lights now and fading into a sky with gathering clouds. With her then were other lights. Other women. “That’s the weight of misplaced trust. Of dashed expectations. But don’t worry… It won’t crush you. It’s only meant to hold you in place.”

  Quinn raised her head and saw something that was not there a moment before. She now sat in a hollow. A circle formed by haunted creatures packed tight as far as the eye could see. The force, the wail, psychic as it was, emanated from them. They’d pinned her like a live insect beneath a glass. Their mouths were slack, their faces expressionless. But their eyes burned, not with rage but with disappointment and accusation.

  As one, they fell upon her and Henaghan welcomed their tearing nails and ripping teeth.

  Quinn awoke screaming. She didn’t know where she was. She didn’t know who she was. She felt firm hands on her shoulders. She heard a soothing voice. Still, she could not find her bearings. She screamed again. This time the power of maya infused the sound. Its waves became tangible. A drinking glass shattered. Windows rattled.

  Henaghan panicked still further. She began spiraling in upon herself, losing her identity. The hands on her shoulders became more insistent, pressing her down. The voice took on a more soothing tone. Soothing laced with a panic of its own. Still, Quinn could find no purchase.

  She was losing herself. Falling into a black void.

  But then arms that were not arms enveloped her. It was like a caress inside the womb. More a presence than physical hands and arms. She was supported and held, a fetus in an otherwise uncaring space.

  The Presence from outside spoke to her again, this time more distinctly. Its tone was nurturing but firm. “Quinn, can you hear me? Follow the sound of my voice.” Henaghan realized the sound was of a piece with the intangible arms supporting her but it was also distinct. The arms reached in from Outside. The voice was Outside.

  The redhead’s flailing persona allowed containment and comforting. It used the voice and the touch as a landmark in an otherwise featureless reality. Though she still could not place who was speaking or what that creature’s intentions might be (paranoia suffused her), she surrendered because she had no other thing to grip onto. The arms that were not arms pulled her, lifted her toward an iris of light opening above her. It was almost as if she were being birthed and the Presence was the midwife.

  Quinn opened her eyes and saw another set of eyes looking down at her. Big and blue, shining with concern and love.

  It was Molly.

  Henaghan grabbed onto her girlfriend and cried.

  Quinn sighed at last, releasing the tension and fear from her body. She took a quick inventory. She was safe. Molly was safe. The house was safe. Her ward was still in place, so bad guys couldn’t get anywhere near the home without her knowing it. It was okay to relax. “Are you back?” Molly said.

  “I’m back,” Henaghan replied, brushing tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “I felt you. I was falling. I was going away, and you came after me.”

  Blank rolled off of Quinn and propped her head up on her palm. “I know,” she said, but her voice was tentative, uncertain. “I know what you mean, but I don’t know how I did it.”

  The redhead reached over and turned on her nightstand light. She reached for her water but realized the glass had exploded and the water was in a puddle on the nightstand. “Did I do that?” she asked.

  “I sure as hell didn’t,” Molly replied. She rolled over and turned on her own lamp. Almost immediately she said, “Well, shit.”

  “What?”

  When the brunette rolled back over and looked at her girlfriend she was wearing the new glasses she was so proud of. Black frames. Horizontal teardrops. At first Quinn didn’t see the problem, then Molly put one finger through each lens hole. The lenses themselves were gone, shattered like the drinking glass. “Two days. I had these two days.”

  Henaghan’s head shrank into her shoulders. “Sorry,” she said. “We can get you new lenses. With money from the kitty.” The two women kept petty cash in a cookie jar in the kitchen. The cookie jar was in the shape of a smiling kitten.

  “Okay,” Molly said, sitting up next to Quinn and placing her back against the headboard. The sheet no longer covered her upper body. “I’m gonna get firm now. We’re gonna talk.”

  The smaller woman shook her head. “No, we’re not. Not unless you pull up the sheet. If you don’t pull up the sheet, I’m just gonna stare at your tits and I’m not going to hear a word you say.”

  Blank pulled up the sheet with a sigh. She looked funny in her lens-less glasses. “Fer crissakes. You’re like a dumb boy.” Once she was less provocative, she dug in. “Remember, before we moved, how I had night terrors and you never got any sleep? Remember how you made me go get therapy and now I don’t have night terrors anymore?” Blank’s therapy was ongoing, and it was seemingly successful in getting her past her Barry Faber-related PTSD.

  “I remember,” Quinn conceded. “But this isn’t about sleep. You sleep like a rock.”

  “Quinn, we’re not gonna joke about this because what you’re experiencing isn’t simple night terrors. I’m assuming you had some kind of dream or vision, am I right?”

  The redhead nodded, flashing back to post-apocalyptic Hollywood.

  “Fine. Dreams and visions we can deal with. Everybody’s got ‘em. What happened to you afterwards? You were awake then.”

  Henaghan took a deep breath. “I… don’t know. It was like I was drowning. I was falling into darkness. Falling away. If you hadn’t done… whatever you did, I feel like we might not be having this conversation. I still want to know what you did.”

  Molly shook her head. “I do too. But we’re not changing the subject. You just said we might not be having this conversation. That doesn’t scare you? Because it scares the fuck out of me. What if it happens again and I’m not there to pull you back? What if it happens again and I can’t pull you back? We’ve got a house now. We’re a couple. We’re settled. You can’t leave until after I’ve made you fully crazy.”

  Quinn poked Molly under the blankets and said, “I’m not going anywhere. We’ll figure this out. I promise.” She kissed the brunette lightly on the lips. “Are we done talking for now? Can I see your tits again?
”

  The brunette rolled her eyes and said, “You’re changing the subject.”

  Henaghan nodded. “Yes, I am.”

  Molly surrendered her reservations and lowered the sheet to reveal her upper body.

  The two women made love until it was time for Quinn to take a shower and dress.

  As she walked from the bedroom into the living room, Quinn banged her foot on Annabelle’s cage—although calling it Annabelle’s cage was no longer appropriate since the little blue bird wasn’t in it. Shortly after Henaghan and Blank moved to Burbank, they awoke one morning to find Annabelle gone. Neither of them could remember leaving the cage open much a less a window for the bird to escape through. Then again, Annabelle hadn’t been a proper bird at all but rather a familiar, not as subject to the laws of physics as a garden variety pet would have been.

  Cam, Molly’s ailing father, was heartbroken. He’d formed a deep bond with Annabelle and, indeed, Annabelle had once saved his life. The girls did their best to console the elder Blank. Quinn told him the familiar had come into their lives for the sole purpose of keeping Cam intact. With that mission accomplished, she’d flown the coop.

  The ex-cop had found a new focus for his considerable affections in Josie Taft, frequent visitor and daughter of the late Darren Taft. Josie, in turn, doted on the old man’s every need. Early-on, Cam insisted that Taft call him “pop pop”. Embarrassed, Molly had said, “Oh, daddy. Don’t do that to the poor girl.” Cam had straightened his back and said, “I’m old and I have cancer, and I want to be called pop pop.” Quinn had sighed. “Well, if you’re gonna play the Old Card and the Cancer Card, I guess our hands are tied.” In any event, Josie (who’d never had a proper grandpa) was more than happy to call him “pop pop”.