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  Dark Hunger

  (Cade Crowley,

  Demon Hunter Series #2)

  Kevin Kneupper

  copyright © 2014 Kevin Kneupper

  All Rights Reserved

  http://cadecrowley.com

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional or imaginary. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the copyright holder.

  Cover design by Char Adlesperger

  Formatting by http://nepotism.net

  Dark Hunger

  (Cade Crowley,

  Demon Hunter Series #2)

  By Kevin Kneupper

  “Bullshit,” said the detective. “Completely fucking impossible. Nobody gains five hundred pounds in one week. Not Brando, not Oprah, not nobody.”

  The corpse was an unrecognizable blob, a bloated caricature of the wisp of a man he’d once been. He was laid out on the living room floor, his back leaning against the couch, not having even bothered to plant himself in a bed before he’d become immobile. Twenty-four hour news chattered in the background, the soundtrack to his final few days of feasting. All around him was a mountain of discarded packaging from every imaginable form of take-out. Stacks of empty pizza boxes towered above the couch cushions, and hundreds of white containers that had once held Chinese food were now dumped together in the corner atop a festering pool of slop.

  The police hadn’t been quite sure what to do when they’d found him. He’d died there in his own filth, his insides stuffed until they’d burst. They would have dismissed him as just another victim of a culture with no self control, if it weren’t for what the neighbors had said. They were sure it was the same person who’d lived there for years; they all agreed on that. The detective would have laughed them off, too, except for all the security cameras.

  It was definitely him. There was only the one doorway, and the cameras were pointed squarely at it. He’d gone inside a week before, thin and healthy. And he hadn’t come out since.

  The remainder of the footage was all the same: an unending parade of deliveries from every restaurant in the area. He’d come to the door for the first two days, paying for bulging sacks of fast food that each could have fed dozens of people. After that, he’d just stayed inside and let the deliveries come to him.

  Now his apartment was a crime scene, though no one was quite sure of the crime. But he was dead, under strange circumstances, and the police needed some kind of explanation to close the books. The front door was blocked off with yellow tape, and the place was being scoured by police officers from top to bottom.

  The room was full of them. Word of the case had spread quickly, and everyone in the department who could fabricate an excuse to be there wanted to come and gawk at what the man had done to himself. A detective had been assigned to sort things out, an old bull who’d had the seniority to grab this prize plum. He had a thick mustache, a shiny bald head, and beady eyes that moved methodically from spot to spot around the room as they searched for clues.

  “Round up some of these delivery guys,” said the detective. “They took the food in, and I want to know what they saw.”

  “We talked to a couple of ‘em already,” said one of the police officers. “The sandwich guy, he saw it all. Said he started slow, and then by the end he was just shoveling everything in. Just grunted at him to hand over the food, pointed at some money, and kept stuffing his fucking face until he popped.”

  “Well, then he killed himself,” said the detective. “Death by donut.”

  “But look at him,” said the police officer. “Look at all that fat. You can’t get that big, not that fast. Maybe he had some kinda disease. Like Ebola for fat people.”

  “He didn’t have a disease,” said a voice from behind them. “He had something else. You could call it an inner demon.”

  A man stood behind them in the doorway to the apartment, dressed in a respectable suit, though that was all that was respectable about him. He didn’t look like he’d slept in days, and his breath smelled of whiskey. His eyes were bloodshot, and his black hair was mussed around at the back, left in disarray from being neglected for too long. They would have taken him for someone official, had he taken care of himself, but as it stood they were all of a mind to arrest him.

  “Who the fuck are you?” said the detective.

  “My name’s Cade. I’m with the Catholic Church.”

  “Guy’s long past his last rites,” said the detective. “He don’t need a priest. And this is a crime scene.”

  “Well,” said Cade. “I’m not really a priest. I’m more of an investigator. For the weird shit.”

  “Get the fuck out,” said the detective. “We don’t have time for nutjobs. Next time pretend to be a Fed.”

  “I can do that, too,” said Cade, tapping out a text on his phone. “I’m going to hang around outside. Come get me in five or ten minutes.”

  “The hell I will,” said the detective. “I see you out there when I’m done, you’re coming with us back to the station. Like I said, get the fuck out.”

  And so Cade did, and waited patiently outside the apartment for his apology. A few minutes later, and he had it.

  “Mr. Crowley,” said the detective, emerging from the crime scene. “Sorry about the misunderstanding. I’m still not sure I understand, actually. But you’re cleared to go on in. Anything you need, we’re supposed to give you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” said Cade. “Like I said, this is the weird shit. Nothing against you. It’s just the kind of thing that calls for a specialist.”

  “Just call off the dogs, and do whatever the hell you want,” said the detective. “All our phones are blowing up. My boss, some guy from the FBI, somebody who says he’s with the Mayor. They all want us out of your way.”

  “There’s a lot of good Catholics out there,” said Cade. “The Church wants this one taken care of, quietly, and they get what they want. Now let me take a look at the body.”

  The detective lifted the crime scene tape, and led him inside. “Dead guy’s there,” said the detective, pointing to the elephant in the room. “Murder weapon’s there,” he said, pointing to a stack of pizza boxes. “What else you need?”

  “I just need to talk to him for a minute,” said Cade.

  The room erupted in snickers, from officers and detectives alike. “Talk away,” said the detective. “Ask him why he decided to eat himself into the before picture for Jenny Craig.”

  Cade stood there, zoning out and quietly speaking under his breath to no one in particular. Whatever conversation was happening, the others couldn’t hear any part of it, either from Cade or the invisible target of his mutterings. He looked as if he were in a trance, eyes unfocused, and it took him a few minutes before he came back to them.

  “Well,” said the detective. “What does he say?”

  “He says what I thought he’d say,” said Cade. “It wasn’t him. It was something inside him. Something old, and mean, and hungry. And then he just screams.”

  §

  “The problem,” said Cade, “is how messed up they get. They’re never right, not really. Not after something like that happens. It’s not like someone hands you a manual. Here, you’re dead, here’s how to cope.”

  “The problem is you’re crazy,” said the old man. “Batshit.”

  They were sitting at a bar, watching a row of televisions tuned to the weekend’s college football games. The bar was dead, a dried out old watering hole with only a few stragglers left taking the last sips. It was dark a
nd dingy, a place for camaraderie without the complications, just how Cade liked it. The old man was an old drunk, bundled up in wool from cap to sweater to socks, a friend for the night who’d be nothing but a blurry memory come morning.

  “We’re all crazy,” said Cade. “Everyone in their own special way.”

  “There’s crazy, and there’s crazy,” said the old man. “You’re the supposed to be locked up kinda crazy. You gotta talk to a doctor.”

  “They all say the same thing,” said Cade. “Take pills, call me in the morning, take more pills. Doesn’t work. You just get fuzzy ghosts, and a fuzzy head.”

  “I’d take more pills,” said the old man.

  “I’d rather self-medicate,” said Cade, taking another swig of medication. “If you’re going to run from your troubles, you might as well enjoy yourself along the way.”

  “What you gotta do,” said the old man, “is talk to somebody. Doctor. Psychiatrist. Priest. Somebody.”

  “I talk to priests all the time,” said Cade. “Too much, for my tastes.”

  “Well, then get them to get you into one of those twelve steps,” said the old man. “They’re not that bad. You kick the habit, maybe the ghosts go away. Maybe the pills start to do something.”

  “I don’t have a habit,” said Cade. “And it doesn’t work that way. It’s ghosts if I’m sober, ghosts if I’m drunk. Ghosts no matter what. It’s just easier to handle this way. You don’t really think about them. Don’t care what they say. Don’t care what they’ve said. You don’t feel their eyes on you. You don’t think about things you don’t want to remember.”

  “You gotta talk to a doctor,” said the old man. “You gotta—”

  The old man was interrupted by a buzzing, the sound of Cade’s phone humming for attention from inside his pocket.

  “Hold on,” said Cade. “One of those priests is calling. This, I’ve got to take.”

  §

  “Don’t stare, when you see her. Don’t you dare. If you make her feel any worse than she already does, I’ll put in a call to the archbishop. The Vatican needs us more than they need you, and if you hurt her, I’ll make sure they take it out on your wallet.”

  For a priest, she was both exceptionally young and exceptionally female. Her name was Shanna Howard, a platinum blonde girly girl who looked more pin-up than preacher. But the Episcopal Church had its own views on who could command the pulpit, and its own views on the Vatican’s system of bounties.

  In principle, they weren’t against the idea of hiring bounty hunters to deal with demons. Often they’d even chip in, and they were happy to pass around the collection plate to rid the world of something nasty. They even supported the Vatican’s policy of strict secrecy when it came to the real demonic deal. It was the bounty hunters’ methods that rankled, and in particular the delegation of sensitive matters to outsiders like Cade.

  It was easy for the Episcopalians to complain, given their position. The Catholics had a recruiting problem when it came to priests. Celibacy wasn’t selling, and the old guard was too infirm to keep fighting. The Vatican had the money, but it didn’t have the bodies, and keeping everything in-house wasn’t an option. The Episcopalians had it better, but then, they were taking all comers. They could rely on their own to hunt a demon, and for the most part they only had to worry about the United States. The Vatican was on guard everywhere, and they were stretched to the breaking point. The differences led to squabbling, and to tensions whenever bounty hunters like Cade had to work across the boundaries of faith.

  “I know how to play nice,” said Cade, as she led him through the hospital halls. “I’m a charming guy when I want to be. Ask around. Or if you’re that concerned about it, I’ll even show you after.”

  “Charming already,” said Shanna. “Keep it in your pants, and keep yourself under control. She looks… bad. Really bad. What this thing did to her, it’s awful. So don’t look shocked, don’t look sick, and don’t say anything stupid. And pop a breath mint, for God’s sake. You reek of booze.”

  They were outside her hospital room, and the staff kept giving them inquisitive glances. They couldn’t keep their curiosity inside. This was the strangest thing they’d seen, ever, and it was attracting strange visitors. Nurses kept circling the hallway, pretending to be reading their charts and clipboards as they snuck peeks at the two of them. They were the newest development of interest, and everyone wanted to snoop into why they were there.

  “Barb,” said Shanna, opening the door to the woman’s room. “Are you awake? There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

  “Come in,” said a voice from inside. “But close the door.”

  She looked as bad as Shanna had warned. She’d taken the time to do her makeup, but it only helped a little. She still had a beauty to her, underneath it all, but now it was covered up by all the weight she’d added. She must have been a quarter of a ton, and she’d put on virtually all of it over the last few days. Her skin had been stretched and distorted, horribly so, and scars and stretch marks were visible even on her face. The weight had come too quickly, unnaturally so, and the damage was far worse than had she added it in slow ounces through years of minor indulgences.

  “This is the man I wanted you to talk to,” said Shanna. “He’s going to help me figure out how this happened.”

  “I didn’t do it,” said the woman. “I couldn’t help myself. Couldn’t control myself. It was like I was sitting there watching it happen. Like watching a TV show.”

  She heaved herself back and forth, shifting her weight to try to find a more comfortable position. She was wholly unused to it. She couldn’t seem to find a way to sit that felt right, and so she was a constant fidget.

  “We know it wasn’t you,” said Shanna. “None of this is your fault. It’s really not. Bad things happen to good people. But we’re going to get past it.”

  “There’s this thing,” said Cade. “We don’t know what it is, exactly. Spirit. Demon. Something. It killed a man, the same way it went after you. It made him eat, and eat, and it wouldn’t let him stop. We’re trying to find it. So anything you can tell us. Anything you can think of that might help.”

  “I could feel it,” said the woman. “I was only watching, but I could still feel everything. Just this urge. Like everything was right when I was eating, and wrong when I wasn’t. Like nothing mattered but the taste. It just wanted more and more and more. It wouldn’t quit. I’d hear my own voice on the phone, calling in the orders. I’d feel myself eating. And I just felt so anxious when there wasn’t anything left. This extreme, overwhelming anxiety. Nothing could stop the feeling but food, so I just had this urge to get more.”

  Tears started to run down her face, and she began to sob, little gasping cries that sucked the air in and out. She kept looking down at herself, and looking away, and finally just closed her eyes and let it all out.

  “It’s okay,” said Shanna. “I know it hurts. We’re going to find whatever did this. We’re going to get it, and it’s not going to hurt anyone else.”

  “No one believes me,” said the woman. “Everyone thinks I did this to myself. They think I’m just some monster. Some pig. They won’t even look me in the eyes. They just look away and pretend like I’m not even here.”

  “It’s okay,” said Shanna. “We’re here. We’re not going to pretend.”

  “The thing,” said Cade. “When did you first start feeling it? When did you feel like you’d lost control?”

  “It was the pizza,” said the woman. “I never even eat that stuff much. You won’t believe it, but I ate healthy. I was clean. Sometimes you’ve got to indulge, though. I just wanted a pizza. Just a couple of slices. And when I got it, I couldn’t stop. My body was just moving on its own. Doing whatever it wanted. Eating whatever it wanted. All because of one pizza.”

  “We believe you,” said Shanna.

  “That’s the thing about demons,” said Cade. “It wasn’t you, not really. They play on your faults, or your insecuriti
es, or your urges. They take something inside you that was there, even just a little bit, and then they amplify it. They heighten the feelings. They push, and they push, and eventually it all spirals out of control.”

  “Everyone has faults,” said Shanna. “Normally it’s a little battle. A little urge, and you fight it every day. Maybe you win, maybe you lose, and it’s always hard. But you can be stronger than it, if you work at it. Demons are something else. It’s something intelligent, taking advantage of your urge, warping it, goading it on. It was a war you couldn’t win. Trust me.”

  “How’d you get out?” said Cade. “How’d you get your body back?”

  “Someone called an ambulance,” said the woman. “Some delivery guy. They just kept coming, over and over. And one of them finally called an ambulance. He thought I was committing suicide. And then they came, and all of the sudden I was in control again. I swear, it wasn’t me. I swear.”

  “It’s not your fault,” said Shanna. “There’s things out there. Really bad things. But you’re okay. You’re alive. It’s going to get better, I promise.”

  “Can you fix me?” said the woman. “You can do something, right? Like an exorcism or a spell or something? Like make me thin again?”

  Her eyes were pleading, bouncing back and forth between the two of them, trying to find some sign of reassurance, some sign of hope. But all she found was helpless sympathy.

  “We can talk to the doctors,” said Shanna. “You can fight this now, with the demon gone. They can figure out a diet. They can—”

  The woman erupted into bawling cries, a loud wail that brought the nurses running. They cooed at her and shooed at them, trying to calm her down and clear the room. They were pushed out to the sound of a torrent of friendly lies from the nurses, who bombarded her from both sides about how everything would be all right, if only she waited just a little while and had enough hope.

  “I just want to cry,” said Shanna, after they’d been exiled to the hallway. “My heart feels so tight. This is just so awful. So fucking awful. She’s never going to be the same again.”