Raven's Peak (7 page)

“What kind of activity are you talking about?”

“It wasn’t clear in our reports, but locals were spreading stories of seeing and hearing strange things.”

“That happens all the time,” Abigail said. “It’s usually nothing.”

“Still, we need you to look into it,” Frieda replied.

“Why me? This sounds like grunt work.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“There are better things I could be doing, like taking care of high priority targets or tracking down demons that might know something about Arthur.”

“How’s your wrist?” Frieda asked.

A pointed statement: they both knew her wrist hurt like hell. Abigail had stopped taking pain medicine for it weeks ago, but it was still throbbing and difficult to use for extended periods. It had taken months to heal enough to remove the cast and months more before she could put any pressure on it. Most of her other scars from that fateful day had healed or faded, but her hand was still recovering.

A gift from the demon who had inhabited her body.

“The Council is just trying to keep me busy,” Abigail argued.

“No doubt,” Frieda said. “In any case, I expect you to be there by tomorrow morning.”

“Fine,” Abigail said. “But I’m going to hold you to your word. If you find
anything
out about where Arthur is, you’ll tell me.”

“Deal,” Frieda said.

Abigail glanced out the window of the small diner. Haatim, her stalker, was leaning against the brick wall across the street, trying his best to act casual.

“I have to go,” Abigail said. “My shadow is here.”

“Someone is tailing you?”

“A nobody. He was hired to follow me a few days ago.”

“By who?”

“You mean it isn’t the Council?”

“They haven’t sent anyone,” Frieda replied. “Yet.”

Abigail wasn’t sure she believed her, but a direct confrontation over it wouldn’t do any good.

“Not sure,” Abigail said. “But my theory is he was hired by George to snap some photos of my killing him.”

Frieda was silent for a moment. “Do you want me to send a team?’

“No, he isn’t a threat,” Abigail replied. “Just a guy in way over his head. I’ll deal with him after I finish Wertman, then head to Raven’s Peak.”

“All right,” Frieda said. “Call me as soon as you get there and—”

“Oh,” Abigail interrupted, curious. “That’s interesting.”

Abigail had just spotted something else, farther up the road from Haatim.

“What?” Frieda asked. “What is it?”

Abigail watched the two men for a few seconds, confirming her suspicions.

“My tail has a tail,” she said.

The air weighed heavy in the night, heavy and cold. It was a blanket of icy frost wrapping around one’s soul, suffocating and overwhelming it, threatening to drag it to the pit of despair and cast it in. The night was full of the sort of emptiness that sapped strength and broke a man’s will, filling even the hardiest of hearts with dread.

That was, at least, how Haatim saw it.

Maybe he would admit to being a
little
melodramatic, but that was how he felt right now, walking alone in an empty alley near Fourteenth Avenue. He had a nagging suspicion that something bad was about to happen.

Of course, that probably had something to do with the fact that he was on abandoned streets in the desolate side of town in the middle of the night. The only defensive item he was carrying was an expensive camera that might make a decent bludgeon, so maybe the fact that his suspicions were only 
nagging 
at him wasn’t so bad after all.

The clacking of his hard-soled footsteps was the only sound to be heard this deep in the alley. 
Normal people steered clear of this sort of place
, Haatim knew. Sane people stayed away; not consciously, yet entirely and without hesitation. He liked to think he was sane.

But he was starting to wonder if he’d gotten in over his head. He’d never been to a place like this, let alone this early in the morning (or was it considered late at night?). It made the hairs stand up on his arms and neck, his breath come in short panicked gasps, and his knees weak and wobbly. It was so quiet, so damned quiet. He was certain that at any moment something would burst out of the darkness and drag him down to hell.

Which wasn’t far from the truth. Or, at least, not nearly far enough.

But Haatim didn’t know that.

His footsteps stopped, and a furrow appeared on his dark complexioned brow.

“He—Hello?” Haatim whispered, shredding the stillness of the air with his dulcet tones. “Hello?” and then under his breath: “Where the 
hell
 did she go?”

He scratched at his arm as he looked around. He had an open sore just below the elbow, discolored and ugly. It was something he’d gotten a few days ago, though he didn’t remember exactly what had happened. It just refused to heal. It was also itchy and painful.

Haatim heard a scurrying sound and almost jumped out of his shoes, letting out a choked cry. He looked over and saw a rat, completely oblivious to him, running along the wall. It disappeared behind a trash can.

He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and laughed at himself.
Terrified of a rat, huh
?

There was no one else in the alley. The woman he had been following had disappeared. Vanished. He’d been following her for several hours now, ever since she left Ashley’s Burger Joint. He had his camera and was hoping to snap a close-up shot of her, but he’d never gotten a clear glimpse of her face.

That was because he’d been keeping his distance, and now he was kicking himself for his caution. He could have gotten a half-decent shot earlier in the night but decided against it. He’d been hoping to find out where she was heading, so held off.

And now he’d lost her.

He cursed his bad luck and realized he would need to go home empty handed. He’d parked a few blocks back and one or two streets over. He wasn’t great with directions and knew he’d spend a while searching before he finally found his car.

He heard the sound of someone shouting from up ahead. It sounded like it was spilling out of a window several stories up in one of the buildings. He walked forward, curious. It sounded like it might be George who was yelling.

Suddenly he heard the sound of shattering glass and saw something heavy come flying out the third story window of one of the abandoned buildings. It thudded to the ground about four meters in front of him with a sickening wet sound and laid there.

Haatim stared at it, fiddling with his camera. It looked like a body, and he racked his brain trying to think of something else it could be. It definitely wasn’t a person, and even if it was then that person
definitely
wasn’t dead.

But it sure looked like George, and he wasn’t moving. His face looked like bits of skin had flaked off, and his eyes were open, staring up at the sky. He looked even fatter than Haatim remembered.

Couldn’t be him. That would be insane because Haatim had
just
spoken to him on the phone. And, if it was him, then that meant Haatim had just followed his murderer out here into the middle of an abandoned alleyway—

He felt his hands shaking and realized he’d stopped breathing. He sucked in a ragged breath and tried to clear his mind. This wasn’t right. None of this was right. He shouldn’t be here, and he had to leave before the woman who just killed George realized he was here.

He turned to go find his car.

A man stood in the mouth of the alley, a silhouette in the streetlights.

At first, Haatim thought it was an illusion or maybe a trick of the light, a trick the way walking into a dimly lit room can turn a coat rack into a bear or a shadow into a monster. His heart started racing, and he told it to calm down. He was overreacting and panicking, neither of which was necessary.

Then Haatim had a startling realization: panic might actually 
be
 necessary. He was trekking alone behind a broken down Starbucks off Fifteenth Avenue at two in the morning. He hadn’t heard or seen a car travel past in over twenty minutes, and the only significant light source was coming from the cross-street.

And on 
that
 street was a man whose face he couldn’t see who was casually blocking his exit.

Maybe the man couldn’t see him. Maybe it was just a homeless guy looking for a dry place to spend the night, or someone wandering by who happened to pause in the streetlight to check his watch.

Not likely.

Haatim decided he would turn around and walk (casually) the other direction. He would have to walk past George, but the alley was wide, and he could step around him. He would exit the alley onto a side street, then cross back over to Fourteenth and double back to find his car.

Haatim started moving again, executing this new plan. He ignored his sweaty palms and loosened his grip on the camera. It was expensive (worth stealing, he remembered) and he didn’t want it to break.

Lost in his thoughts, he stepped into a pothole filled with dirty rainwater. It filled his shoe and soaked his pants leg to the calf. He let out a groan, his shoe sloshing as he took a step. The water felt greasy and disgusting.

But he wasn’t about to stop, though; not for some puddle water. There was no sense panicking. No sense at all in panicking or overreacting or overthinking things. And there was definitely, definitely,
definitely
no sense in looking back to see if he was being followed.

Haatim looked back.

The man was well into the alleyway pursuing him, only about forty meters behind and closing the gap. He walked with long, even strides. Methodical.

Some might even say murderous.

Haatim gulped and pressed on, quickening his pace. He turned forward just in time to see another man step into the alley in front of him, blocking that way, too.

He heard a whimpering sound, realized it was coming from him, and then the weight of what was happening sank in. This wasn’t coincidental. These two weren’t here on a pleasant early morning stroll. They were here for him.

A foot scuffed on the pavement behind Haatim. Muscles tensed in his body he didn’t even know he had.

He hadn’t imagined this. Never thought that something like 
this 
could happen. Not to him. He’d just come out here hoping to snap a photograph of an intriguing woman…who was apparently also a murderer.

He decided at that moment that if he survived, he would sign up for the first class he saw where they taught people how best to kick a guy in the testicles and put him down, or how to get in close and poke eyes.

If
he survived.

Run
. 

The thought was sudden and powerful. Maybe he could surprise his pursuer and escape to the road. Heaven willing, a police car might drive past. 

Haatim ran. The steps behind him grew louder as his pursuer picked up the pace as well. The man in front spread out his arms in an awkward linebacker stance, like an overweight uncle looking for a hug. Haatim ran to about four steps away from the man and then sidestepped. Years of cricket made him fairly agile.

The man lurched after him, missing his arm but catching the shoulder strap on his camera. Haatim stumbled, caught in the strap with his hand still clutching the precious device.

He didn’t let go, not at first (it was a $1,000 camera!) but after a split second rationality set in. He slipped the strap off his shoulder and released his grip. He could get a new camera, and if that was the only thing he lost in this misadventure he would count himself lucky.

He turned, free of the strap, and took another step. Something caught his leg, and he staggered to the ground. He wriggled forward, glancing back.

The man who’d originally been chasing him was about twenty meters behind at a full sprint. The closer man had fallen to a knee, one hand on Haatim’s pants leg. The camera banged painfully against the ground, and Haatim couldn’t help but wince. He looked at the man’s face.

And then time stopped.

The man was dead.

He was
dead.

Or, at least, he should have been. One of his eyes was missing. Not missing like
“argh matey,”
but missing, missing. Dried blood caked the left side of his face, and Haatim could see . . . tendrils or something hanging limp in the socket. Whatever it was that attached the eyeball to the brain. Those looked to have been severed.

But the gash in his throat was the worst of it. It was deep, caked in blood, and wide. The throat was torn open, and he could see bone protruding from the wound. The smell coming off him was fetid and rotten.

And the man was grinning. A wide, toothy grin with yellow-stained crooked teeth.

Haatim vomited. There was no warning, just suddenly he was vomiting. It got on his shirt and his pants, and he could care less.

With panicked, nimble fingers he undid the clasp on his jeans and wriggled free. His left shoe caught on the pants and he kicked that off, too. Free of his constraint he slid a step farther back and rolled to his feet. Off balance, he stumbled out of the alley and fled.

He kept going. He sprinted back to his car, running faster than he ever had before. Someone was screaming. It took him a second to realize that it was him. He forced himself to stop and promptly began panting. Blood pumped in his ears, and he felt light-headed and dizzy. He threw himself into the car and looked back over his shoulder.

No one was there. The street behind was empty and silent. He felt woozy, and it seemed like he was staring down a long tunnel. His mind couldn’t focus, and he realized he wasn’t getting enough oxygen.

He looked around frantically for his keys, breathing in short frantic bursts, and remembered they were in his pants. The feeling of dizziness intensified.

My pants are back in the alley…

…with the dead guy.

And the world went blank.

Reality came into hazy focus.

A room.

His 
living room.

He didn’t know why, but that didn’t feel right. Why was Haatim in his living room? How had he gotten back to his apartment? Where had he been, because he vaguely knew that he hadn’t been here? He had a strange suspicion that this wasn’t where he was before he passed out, lying on his leather couch.