Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) (15 page)

Dizzied by the night's events, I stumbled into my place and locked the door behind me.

Then, bushed, my clothing still dusty and scorched, I flopped onto the sofa and took a nap.

#

The sleep didn't last long, my dreams punctuated by scenes from my waking life. I was startled awake by a dream that'd ended with an exploding warehouse, and sat up, wiping at my eyes. There had been some other memories in the mix as well, fragments that I could only trace to that first night, when I'd first received the demon's heart. The night I couldn't remember. My brain had been teased by snippets of memory featuring me dashing across rooftops, entering the abandoned house in Flint, shoving over a display at Sam's and shouting obscenities at Scott. There was also another bit, where I'd threatened a young pedestrian and stolen his shorts.

The apartment was dim; upon returning I'd only switched on the light over the kitchen sink. My limbs still sore from the night's events, I ambled to the sink and took a few gulps directly from the tap. I also splashed some water on my face and changed out of my sooty clothes.

Still, I didn't feel any more human for it.

My mind was racing with questions, with concern.

I didn't hardly know Joe, and the guy was sort of an asshole.

But I was worried about him.

If anyone on Earth could patch the guy up, it was those shady bastards with the Veiled Order. I didn't have any doubt in my mind that they'd call in some expert, perform some esoteric procedure and make him feel like new, but I still didn't think it was right, the way we'd just dumped him off at HQ. Kubo was far too impersonal, too committed to the mission. I couldn't help but think that he only viewed us as disposable underlings, pawns in some larger game.

 
I switched on the turntable, listening to side one of
Raw Power
. I paced along with “Your Pretty Face Is Going To Hell”
and well into “I Need Somebody”, but the music only seemed to make me more agitated. I wanted to walk, to get some fresh air. And maybe some answers.

I weighed the idea of returning to HQ, of having a chat with Kubo. He'd taken me out on this reckless mission tonight, and had scarcely told me anything about what we were doing or why we were doing it. What were the witches up to with all of this sacrificial business? How does this magic stuff work? These and other questions were all something he could answer for me, and putting on a pair of old tennis shoes, I decided to go for a twilit run to HQ. Sufficiently amped up by the music, I locked up and started onto the dark streets.

***

The front door was heavily reinforced. The gate had been easy enough to scale, but I could have thumped this monstrous door all night and it never would have opened. Instead, I tapped the button on the intercom like a civilized person and waited for someone to buzz me in. Kubo hadn't told me about how to get into the Veiled Order's offices during his little briefing. Perhaps because I wasn't supposed to visit except for official business. Kubo liked to throw that shitty verbiage around, “official business”. Like that was supposed to mean something to me.

I hit the button again, scoring the somewhat groggy voice of an overnight attendant. “How can I help you?”

“Hey, this is Lucian Colt. I, uh... work here. And I was hoping to come in and have a talk with Mr. Kubo?” I leaned against the concrete doorway, tapping my foot.

There was a grumble from the other end of the intercom. I wasn't sure that the fellow was going to let me in, until, suddenly, the door gave way with a click and he buzzed to tell me that I was “all clear”.

I walked into the well-lit lobby. It was every bit as pristine as I remembered it from the last morning, during my previous visit with Kubo. Except for the sleepy-looking guy with his ankles up on the counter, and one other person, the lobby was empty.

This other person standing beside the desk, however, made me stop in my tracks.

It was Mr. Amundsen.

 
I stared at him a long while, unsure of what to say. I wasn't exactly happy to see the guy. When last we'd met, I'd been chained to a hospital bed and drugged out of my mind. He smiled at me, but it was impossible for me not to see something of the predator in that smile, and I took a step back. “What are
you
doing here?” I asked.

 
He grinned, approaching me with all the warmth he usually afforded me. “I should probably be asking
you
that, Lucian, but I'll have you know that I spend a great deal of time here, doing administrative work with the Order.” He leaned against the front counter with one elbow. “Now, what can I help you with this fine night?”

Amundsen was dressed in a black suit, mighty fancy dress for one to be wearing at nearly three in the morning. The silvery pendant I'd noticed on him before was featured prominently over his black tie. Many-pointed star, inscribed with strange, foreign-looking markings. A black streak across the middle. It'd been on his little black box, too, unless my memory was failing me.

“I, uh...” I cleared my throat, speaking more forcefully. “I came here to get some answers. You jerks brought me into the fold but haven't told me a damn thing about what really goes on around here. I want to talk to Chief Kubo. I want to know more about these witches, about the magic...” Then, I added, “And I want to know how Joe's doing. He got hurt tonight, and Kubo just handed him over to the medics without a care.”

Nodding amusedly, Amundsen combed a hand through his hair and tried to hide his smile. “Well, I suppose you're entitled to know a little more about this organization, Lucian, being a prominent member and all. It's never been our intention to keep you in the dark, you understand, but the circumstances being what they are-- the coven, having arrived so close to their aim-- there's been precious little time for a proper introduction.” He motioned to a nearby hallway, just beyond the bank of elevators, and started from the front desk. “We can talk on the way to the infirmary.”

As I fell into step behind him, Amundsen continued. “I was surprised to see you here. It isn't the night of the new moon, after all.”

“What do you mean by that?” I asked.

Taking on something of graveness, Amundsen frowned. “I thought it was made clear to you, however it is official policy, absolutely required, that you check in during the night of the new moon. Whenever there is a new moon, you must come to this facility for placement in a specialized containment room.”

I gulped. A containment room could have been a lot of things, but it sure didn't sound cozy. “Why's that?”

“Because, on the night of the new moon, the demon's consciousness is fully realized. That is, during those nights, it will take you over completely. This is the only well-documented side-effect of the transplant procedure, and one that we have taken steps to overcome. There is a fortified room in this facility specifically outfitted to keep you put until morning. When the night of the new moon ends, you will find yourself released at dawn. But not a moment before then, lest you go on a rampage like you did that other night.” He shot me a look from the corner of his eye. I felt like a kid getting grounded for sneaking out of his room.

Still, I'd fucked up pretty bad the other night. I'd ended up in that abandoned shithole out in Flint, I'd frightened Scott at the record store and had done God knows what else. It was probably for the best, this “containment” period. We rounded a corner, entering a small elevator and going up two floors. The elevator smelled stuffy, and was decorated in shades of red. Red walls, red carpet, red-tinted fixtures. It was a little much. The doors opened into a small lobby that looked like the waiting room of a hospital. A few nurses ambled around, chatting quietly with one another and marking things on their clipboards. “So,” I said, following him into the infirmary, “what's the story with this 'Veiled Order', huh? Are you, like, the leader?”

Amundsen chuckled, leaning against one of the waiting room chairs and crossing his arms. “No, I'm not the leader.”

“Is Kubo the leader?”

 
At this, Amundsen just shook his head. It was becoming clear that I wasn't going to find out just
who
the leader of this shady organization was. That kind of info was well above my pay-grade, apparently.

“OK,” I replied, pressing on, “tell me more about it, then. What's the point of it all? How long's it been around, and why is it so focused on stopping Mater Agatha's coven?”

 
“My,” began Amundsen, “so many questions.” He toyed with the pendant around his neck as he began. “The Veiled Order is an
ancient
sect. The dissolution of various secret societies over the centuries has produced a number of individuals with a great deal of, shall we say,
forbidden
knowledge. It is principally these folk, along with talented individuals like yourself, that our group employs. There are members worldwide, but we keep our headquarters here in Michigan, around Detroit, because it is inauspicious. It is, truly, the perfect place for us.”

A few guys in black suits came up from the stairwell, passing the two of us on their way to the infirmary. I noticed them giving me the stink eye, mumbling something to one another as they went by. “What's their problem?” I asked, watching them disappear down the hall.

 
Amundsen patted me on the shoulder reassuringly. “Well, Lucian, it has to do with that transplanted heart of yours. You see, people aren't used to
working
alongside demons around here. Usually, they're tasked with, well, hunting them. Pay them no mind, they'll warm up to you in no time, I'm certain.”

I stuffed my hands into my pockets and considered everything I'd just been told. Frankly, there wasn't anything new here; I'd gotten this same song and dance when asking for more information before, and it seemed to me that this was the kind of canned speech the higher-ups gave to new hires. They didn't want to spoil the mystique, give me too much to work with. It wasn't any of my business, as far as they were concerned. I was just a tool at their disposal.

In my previous line of work, I'd always made a point of not asking too many questions. The client's privacy was maintained above all, lest they get dodgy and hire someone else. Now, working for this secret society, I was changing my policy. I wanted some damn answers, and wasn't going to let Amundsen off the hook easily.

He disarmed me with his next statement, however. “Well, enough about all that. Wouldn't you like to see your friend?” he asked, motioning to the hallway. “We can see him straight away. Joe, I'm told, is recovering marvelously.”

“Uh, sure,” I said, following him from the waiting area and into the infirmary proper.

There were only a handful of rooms, and they were all just like the one I'd been in. Handsomely furnished and simple, but with bars on the windows like a prison. Joe's was the last room on the right, and Amundsen held open the door for me as we approached.

A familiar face was leaving the room as the two of us entered. Dressed in his usual green scrubs, and with a large bandage across his cheek, was none other than Dr. Sargasso. He startled a bit as I walked in, and then dodged out of the room quickly with a perfunctory smile. Poor guy, I'd done a number on his face with that length of chain. I almost felt bad about it.

 
Almost.

Joe was laid up in a comfortable-looking bed, his ankles raised with pillows and his injured arm raised on a solid block of yellow foam. The limb had been wrapped tightly in white bandages and was completely immobilized. He looked better now than he had in Kubo's SUV. He was in a light sleep, breathing softly. His color had improved and it was clear that one of the nurses had come in and given him a bed bath. His hair, usually greased back, was spread across his pillow in a disheveled pile.

“Hey, Joe,” I said, leaving Amundsen in the doorway and approaching the bedside. “You, uh... you doing OK?”

Joe opened his eyes weakly and looked over at me, a small chuckle leaving his lips. “Been better.”

Not wanting to come across as a sappy guy, I walked up and playfully slugged him in the shoulder.

Punching someone laying in a hospital bed was probably a stupid idea, in retrospect.

Joe looked up at me with venom in his gaze, struggling to sit up. He fixed his eyes on me and shrugged. “Well, what do you want?”

I grinned sheepishly. “Well... you know, I just wanted to see how you were doing. Kubo just sort of dropped you off and, uh... we work together, so...”

 
Joe arched a black eyebrow and sank back against his pillow. “I'm
touched
. Next time, maybe bring me one of those edible arrangements or something, yeah? I like pineapple. Strawberries are OK, too, but don't you dare bring me oranges.”

I glanced back at Amundsen briefly. Suddenly I was feeling like a real idiot for coming by to visit Joe. He obviously didn't want me there, and it wasn't like we were particularly close. Whether Joe's disdain for me was owed to my housing a demon's heart I was unsure, but that he didn't like me a whole lot was crystal clear. “So... you think those witches made it out of there alive?” I asked, pacing at his bedside.

At this, Joe started up, frowning. He lurched forward in bed and balled his good fist, his bandaged arm twitching. “I tell ya, if they didn't burn in that explosion I'm going to toast 'em up yet. When I get out of here I'm going to hunt their asses down and make them sorry. What I did was irresponsible, but how was I supposed to know their stupid spell was flammable?” He shook his head, his mess of hair flopping from side to side. “Those bitches are gonna pay. No one escapes Fire Joe twice. No one.”

He said it with such conviction that I wanted to believe him.

“Totally, man...” I gulped. “But, you know, it's important that you get your rest now. Maybe put that out of your mind and just relax. We'll have plenty of time to finish the job once you're well.”

“Oh, fuck off with all of that,” snapped Joe. “Time is the one thing we ain't got none of. Those witches are this close to succeeding,” he said, holding his fingers an inch apart. “They kill that last kid and, boom, they win. Game over.”