Raven's Peak (10 page)

“Way more than I expected,” she muttered. “I can’t believe they sent this many.”

“This is crazy…”

She ignored him. “George was the one who touched your arm, right?”

“Who?”

“George,” she said. “The guy who hired you. He was the one who left that mark?”

“Yeah, I think so. He brushed me when he first hired me. I didn’t notice a cut until the next day.”

Another round of gunshots as the shooters out front fired into the desk. They ducked farther behind the thick wood, staying out of sight.

“OK,” she said. “But I still don’t understand why they would work this hard to get you. What makes
you
so valuable?”

Haatim grabbed her shoulder and turned her to face him. “What did he do to me?”

“He claimed you.”

“Claimed me for what?”

Abigail grimaced. “His replacement vessel.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

Another gun barked, this time from behind them near the stairwell. Abigail pushed Haatim farther into their hiding space, rounding a corner out of sight of the stairwell. She leaned over the top and fired back, forcing their pursuer to retreat.

Abigail reached into her pocket and pulled a long and thin vial out. It was filled with a purplish liquid and had black specks floating on the surface. More gunshots hit the area above Haatim, showering fragments of wood and concrete on him.

“This sure as hell wasn’t how I was planning to spend my night,” Abigail bemoaned.

“What did you mean when you said ‘
replacement vessel’
?” Haatim reiterated.

“I meant exactly what it sounds like. I came here to send the demon Abaddon back to hell, but I guess he has his own contingency plan. These are his followers.”

More bullets thudded into the area around them and Haatim was finding it difficult to concentrate. He was more terrified than he’d ever been before in his entire life. The shots were getting louder, which meant the shooters were getting closer. Abigail leaned over the counter and fired again, but she wasn’t really aiming.

“His followers?”

“The cult. You’re Abaddon’s easy step back into this world, so they’ll do anything to capture you.”

“Demons aren’t real,” Haatim muttered. “They can’t be real.”

“Tell that to the guys trying to shoot us. All they want is your body. Dead or alive, you’re valuable to the cult right now. But don’t worry: you’re worth way more alive.”

She popped the cap off the vial and offered it to Haatim.

“Drink this.”

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s something to keep you safe,” she said.

“But, what is it?”

“Trust me, Haatim.”

Haatim looked at her for a second and then accepted the vial. He eyed it for a second, and then took a sip. “Ack, that tastes terrible.”

“I know. It’s poison.”

He spit it out in shock. “
Poison
?”

“So the demon can’t possess you right away,” she said. “With this running in your system, your body will be dangerous for the demon. But don’t worry; it takes several hours for the full effect.”

“To do what?” he asked.

A spasm ripped through his stomach, and he doubled over in pain. He let out a sharp gasp, and it felt like his intestines were being ripped open from the inside. He coughed and saw reddish-purple liquid on his fingers.

“To kill you,” she explained.

Haatim doubled over in pain again. “Oh God, it hurts.”

“That goes away,” she said. Then she added: “Sometimes.”

“What did you do to me?”

“Just think of it this way,” Abigail said. “Your shoulder doesn’t hurt anymore, does it?”

More bullets ripped into the walls, sending shards of dust into the air. Haatim could hear more shouting, but it sounded distorted now, like listening to it through tinny speakers. The only thing he could focus on was how badly his stomach hurt.

“I can’t get both of us out of here,” Abigail explained. “So I’m going to have to come back for you.”

He groaned, clutching his stomach and making little gasping noises.

“Haatim,” Abigail said, squeezing his arm. “Focus. I
need
you to focus. They are going to grab you and bring you somewhere. Whatever you do… what
ever
 you do, don’t eat or drink anything. And don’t, under any circumstances, make any deals. You got that?”

“Wha…What?” he asked.

“They’re going to lie and attempt to manipulate you, but you can’t trust them. I’m going to come and get you, but I can’t help if the demon is already in control. The poison will keep you safe until I get there.”

The pain rippled through his body again, and he fell to his knees gasping.

“Oh, God,” he muttered, spitting more purple mucus onto the ground. He could still hear gunshots barking, but they sounded farther away now, like in a dream. “Oh, God.”

“Stay with me. No deals, Haatim!” she said. She grabbed his shoulder. “Hey, focus. Stay with me!”

That was the last thing Haatim heard before falling unconscious for a second time that night.

Frieda was awake and getting dressed when she heard the knock on her door.

“Come in,” she said.

The door opened, spilling light from the hotel hallway into her dim room. Her personal assistant, Martha, padded silently into the room, carrying a silver tray and wearing a frown. Martha had worked with Frieda for over ten years as her assistant, but Martha hated being awoken in the middle of the night.

On the tray sat a glass of orange juice, a granola bar, a pair of glasses, and a tablet. Frieda finished pulling up her stockings and skirt, smoothed out her blouse, and then picked up the tablet. She flicked it on and began scanning through the images.

“What do we know?”

“Gunmen broke into the building. Several people are dead, and there is a full police investigation on the scene.”

“This happened on the twelfth floor?”

“That isn’t confirmed,” Martha said. “But, Aram called the meeting and it is the complex where Haatim is living.”

Aram Malhotra was a powerful member of the Council. He had been a member for far longer than Frieda, and he often reminded her of it.

“When was the attack?”

“Forty minutes ago,” Martha answered. “We have operatives on the way, but it’ll be at least three hours to get on scene and start analyzing.”

“Is the rest of the Council assembled?”

“Waiting for you.”

Frieda sighed and handed Martha the tablet. She picked up the glasses and slipped them on. She saw an image flash to life and suddenly the various members of the Council were filling up the room around her, holograms generated by the lenses. Martha tapped the tablet and then nodded, signaling that her mic was live.

“I apologize for my late arrival, but I only just received word about what has happened. Thank you for your quick response to this matter of some urgency,” she said.

“What has happened?” one member asked. “There was no briefing.”

Frieda bit back her annoyance. Aram had called this meeting on behalf of his family, but he was forcing her to deliver the news to the Council. It was technically her responsibility to handle matters like these, but it put her in an awkward position.

Which had, of course, been his intention.

“Forty minutes ago there was an attack on an apartment complex in Phoenix, Arizona,” she continued. “We believe it was orchestrated by the Ninth Circle.”

She heard muttering as she broke the news.

“We are looking into the situation and will send full reports and briefings as soon as we have more information.”

“What about my son?” Aram asked. All of the other Council members fell silent.

“We are looking into the possibility that he was the target of this attack,” Frieda said. “But until we know more—”

“You
know
he was the target,” Aram interrupted angrily. “And I want to know what you’re planning to do about it.”

“They are targeting
us
now?” one of Aram’s friends, Frederick Davenport, said. “Our defense network has grown so weak that they feel unchallenged. They are growing more brazen by the day, and our inaction is costing us our families.”

Frieda knew the remarks were targeted at her: she was responsible for the Order of Hunters and maintaining the Council’s security.

“We are looking into the possibility—”

“They should be our top priority,” Frederick interrupted. Frieda knew it was for show and that Aram and Frederick had scripted this out. “We shouldn’t be wasting resources on other endeavors. Not until the Ninth Circle has been eliminated.”

“I agree,” Aram said. “I demand a vote to focus our efforts on the Ninth Circle, and I demand that you send assets to rescue and protect my son.”

Frieda frowned. “The vote has been noted but will be postponed until after this crisis is taken care of. Abigail is in the region, and I will send her to—”

“Abigail Dressler?” Aram interrupted incredulously. “You would put the life of my son in
her
hands?’

“She is the only asset in the vicinity.”

“I wouldn’t trust her to take out the garbage,” Aram said. “No, I demand that you send someone else.”

Frieda bit back her annoyance. “I can send Oleg Petrov. He is several hours away but could be there by morning.”

“Fine,” Aram said. “Send him. And I expect hourly status updates until my son is safely back with his family!”

“Of course,” Frieda said.

She gestured with her hand to Martha, and the connection went blank. She took off the glasses and tossed them angrily onto the tray. “These are
my
assets,” she complained.

“I am aware,” Martha agreed.

“I am in charge of the Hunters, not Aram. The nerve of that man, telling me what I will and won’t do with
my
soldiers.”

“I understand completely, ma’am,” Martha said. “He seemed …disingenuous.”

“I know,” Frieda said. “He’s hiding something, and he knows more than he’s willing to say. I don’t know what game he’s playing, but I need to find out.”

“Shall I contact Oleg?”

“He’s on an operation,” Frieda lamented with a sigh. “But yes, contact him and tell him it is urgent. Fill him in on any questions he might have.”

“Would you like that I contact Abigail as well?”

“No,” Frieda said. “I’ll call Abigail myself.”

Haatim awoke with a start, jerking his body against leather restraints and feeling a burst of panic. His mind was foggy and disoriented, and he struggled vainly to find his bearings. He felt sick to his stomach and ached all over like he’d just finished running a marathon while simultaneously writing a graduate-level term paper.

“Where…where am I?” he muttered. His mouth was dry and tasted of cotton. He swallowed, struggling to open his eyes. It felt unnaturally bright, and he blinked several times. It didn’t help, though, and his vision was still blurry. “Where is this?”

“Shh,” a voice said. He felt a hand on his forehead, gently brushing his hair. “Shh. You’re safe now.”

The voice was soft and feminine, hypnotic.

“Where am I?” he asked again.

“You’re in St. Mary’s Hospital,” the woman said. Haatim blinked to clear his vision and saw a young woman standing next to his bed wearing green scrubs. She had red hair and lots of freckles. “Room 222.”

“How did I get here?”

“You were dropped off last night.”

“Why am I tied down?”

“You had a bad reaction to the drugs in your system and became violent. We had to restrain you.”

“The
what’s
in my system?”

She glanced at a clipboard on a bedside table and smiled at him. “You overdosed on narcotics late last evening. The police found you unconscious in an alley and brought you here.”

She stepped closer and undid the braces holding Haatim’s legs, then she moved to his hands and began unclipping those as well. He could smell her perfume: a sickly-sweet fruity concoction masking something else. Something that smelled vaguely like rotting meat. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the nurse or something else in the room, though.

After a second, she finished freeing him and stepped back. The smell disappeared, and he wondered if he had imagined it. She smiled at him.

He rubbed his wrists and looked himself over. He was in a green and white hospital gown that looked and felt grimy. He saw his pants and shirt—no less grimy, but at least they were his—resting on a nearby chair.

“Better?” she asked

Haatim nodded. “Much. Thanks. Is it OK if I get changed?”

“Certainly,” she said. “I’ll be in the hall if you need me. Let me know when you have finished.”

“All right,” he said. She stepped out and closed the door. He stripped off the gown and put his own clothes back on. He wished he had something clean to wear, but it was better than nothing.

“I’m done,” he said.

She stepped back into the room and smiled at him. “Great. I just have a couple of questions before we call the doctor. What do you remember from last night?”

“I don’t remember anything, but I definitely don’t do any narcotics.”

“The police believe that a dosage was administered without your knowledge or permission.”

“You mean I was drugged?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you remember anything that happened yesterday evening?”

Haatim racked his memory but kept coming back to one thing: “I was
drugged
?” he echoed, shaking his head. It was throbbing and felt like it might explode at any moment. “That doesn’t sound right. Yeah, I remember some things. I mean, I think so…”

He trailed off, trying to piece his memories together. His thoughts were fragmented: he only had bits and pieces.

“I remember going out to the coffee shop, and then…”

He hesitated, remembering Abigail. He’d been following her and had caught up with her; something had fallen out a window, and she had told him something at his apartment and—

He suddenly remembered the attack at his apartment complex. It came back as a flood: he’d been running down the stairs and into the lobby of his apartment with Abigail, and someone had been shooting at them.

“No, I wasn’t drugged,” he said, speaking quickly. “I was
poisoned
. My apartment was shot up, and we were being chased into the lobby and…”