Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) (18 page)

He was buried in a quiet ceremony that summer. That was that. All she wrote.

And so you can probably imagine what a fucking shock it was to see him ambling down the hall of my apartment building, clutching a syringe in his hand as a Pomeranian's intestines tightened around my neck.

The specter of Conrad shambled towards me, stopping within arm's reach and then falling to his knees. His mouth was moving, but no words that I could hear were coming out. His lips were blue, his skin pale as porcelain. As I struggled to draw breath, I finally heard him speak.

Hearing that voice again, after almost a decade, is the single most frightening thing I can recall experiencing. Getting stabbed by witches, all of this other stuff I'd done with the Veiled Order, none of that could hold a candle to the bone-chilling tones of my dead brother's voice.

What he said, specifically, only added to my terror. “It should've been you, you know that?” he said. “I was supposed to live, Lucy. I was supposed to make it out of this town, make a name for myself. Mom and dad never gave a shit about you. You and I both know it.” The apparition held out his syringe, then plunged it into his outstretched forearm. Groaning, he suddenly stood up, walking in reverse towards the fire escape and slipping back into the shadow.

The next thing I knew, I could breathe.

There was no intestine wrapped around my throat. For that matter, there was no dead Pomeranian in the hallway and no circle drawn on my door in blood.

It'd been an illusion, apparently. A mighty convincing one, at that.

I was sitting in the middle of the hallway, shivering, hyperventilating.

And I was sobbing.

I struggled to climb to my feet, clawing towards my door and shoving it open. I needed to talk to Kubo. This shit was getting out of hand. The witches knew where I was, and this was all far too serious. Violence, I could handle. Head games like these, dredging up long-dormant memories? Hell, no. The witches had probably discovered something about me last night. Between trying to attack me in the alley and turning me into a pin cushion outside the warehouse, they'd figured out that they couldn't hope to kill me.

But that didn't mean that they couldn't torture me psychologically. They knew just where to hit me, what screws to turn to make me miserable. In a way, pain like this stung a hell of a lot more than their physical violence ever had.

I locked my door, shuffling inside. Terror coursed through me, and my throat struggled against a series of fresh sobs. I was being hunted, actively targeted by creatures whose powers were beyond my understanding.

More than that, though, I wept because I'd just seen my brother.

I might've been almost ten years too late, and I might've hated hearing that filth he'd spoken.

But, goddamn it, I missed him.

TWENTY-FIVE

“You've been crying,” was the first thing Kubo thought to say with a smirk as I opened the door for him.

“Nah,” I replied. “Been chopping onions all day. Was fixing a casserole, since I'm having your mom over tonight. Hear she's a big eater.” I'd filled him in over the phone about my meeting with the witch in the alley the night before, and about the horrific visions I'd just been subjected to in the hallway.

For his part, Kubo seemed surprisingly sympathetic, though when I finished rehashing the details to him in my living room, he seemed poised to read me the riot act for not calling him sooner. Noticing that I'd already been pretty shaken up by all that'd happened, he let me off easy. “In the future,” he insisted, “you need to call me immediately. Should you see the witches again, or fall into another one of their enchantments, I need to know about it.”

“Sure, no problem.”

“One more thing,” he added. “It's unwise to let the demon take full control of you too often.”

I chuckled nervously. That demon had saved my bacon a few times now. I was having trouble imagining the possession as a bad thing, considering. I mean, escaping that first night and wreaking havoc? That was bad. Hurting those dudes outside the brewery? Also bad. Still, the demon had pulled some serious weight during a few incidents now. I couldn't just write off the value of a full-fledged possession. The demon might've been murderous, but he knew what he was doing. “Why's that?”

Kubo firmed up, crossing his arms. “The more you let that devil come out and play, the more he's going to want to do it. Understand? In time, the demon's personality could completely supplant your own. Use its power judiciously and learn to fend for yourself in the face of a threat. Even though the demon is a useful tool, you don't want it calling the shots one-hundred percent of the time. And if you keep invoking it, letting it take control, that's where you're headed.”

I hadn't really considered that before. I looked inward, trying to suss out the demon's presence within me. There was something stirring in the darkest recesses of my mind, but at a time like this, when my heart was calm and there was no threat present, I couldn't sense it. “Yeah, OK. That makes sense,” I replied. “So... you said you could do something to protect me from those witches? Do something to my apartment to keep them away?”

Kubo nodded. He unpacked a large stack of paper slips with writing on them and stole a roll of tape from the battered remnants of my desk.

“What are those for?” I asked. I'd seen him use them before, but had never gotten around to asking about how they worked.

“They're seals,” he said simply. Then, noting my confusion, continued. “Imagine if you could distill a spell to its very essence. Like that stuff Isabella did, making the car disappear, whatever. What if you could carry spells like those around in your pocket and use them at a moment's notice, without having to consciously cast them? Well, that's what these are. They're pre-prepared spells. All you have to add is a little will and the seal is activated. I prepare seals for all sorts of different applications. These are simply seals of warding. I'll post them around this place and they'll keep supernatural beings out-- unless they have your permission to enter.”

I grinned. “Yeah, but, I've got this demon in me. Is it going to keep me out of my own apartment?”

He arched a brow. “You know, it just might.”

Kubo went from room to room, taping up sigils on each wall and window. Finally, he set one on my front door and tucked the remaining stack into one of his pockets.

“That should do it,” he said. “You should be able to sleep a little easier, this way. It won't keep the witches from knowing where you are, but it'll keep them from messing with you while you're at home.” He cleared his throat, adjusting his jacket and pointing to the door. “Now, do me a favor and get ready. We're leaving.”

“Huh? Where to?” I asked, running a finger against one of the seals on the wall. It was made of a fine, coarse paper, and the ink on it was extremely thick, like it'd been laid down by a brush. The symbols were probably Japanese, and I admired them from across the room as I slowly slipped my shoes on.

“We're going to see a friend of mine,” replied the chief, standing by the door.

 
I scoffed, looking for my keys and wallet. “Wait a minute, a surly dude like you has
friends
? When did that happen?”

He ignored me, continuing, “Those witches seem to have cast a spell on you. I can't lift it, not here, but my friend can probably clear it up for you. It's a trace spell.” He narrowed his gaze, looking at me as though he could see some sort of invisible filth emanating from me. “The witches are able to keep tabs on you. Their energies are concentrated on you, subduing your power and inciting terror. We need to clear it at once, unless you want to risk another episode in the hallway, Lucy.”

I didn't need to be told a second time.

Walking over to the door, I locked up and followed Kubo down the hall.

TWENTY-SIX

On the car ride to the lot outside of Yao's, I'd tried to ask Kubo a few questions. As usual, he wasn't in a talking mood. He declined to expound upon what the witches were up to, and our odds of tracking them down in time to make a difference. He also refused to tell me his favorite flavor of ice cream.

What he did explain, in brief, was how magic worked.

 
My whole life I'd been ignorant of real magic. The stuff on TV, the kind of magic you might see on a Vegas stage, was nothing like the real thing.
Real
magic, Kubo explained, was a harnessing of raw, vital energy that existed all around us. There were two worlds, the world of the living and the world of the dead, each of them self-contained. Between them, however, acting as a sort of medium, existed an energy, what we called magic, and sometimes a sensitive individual can tap into this energy that lurks between two worlds and do things with it. There were more types of magic than one could count, with worldly-- and unworldly-- traditions being further augmented by the strengths and personalities of spell casters. Those attuned to the ways of the craft could even interact directly with the world of the Beyond, accessing spheres of entity that should have been closed off to their kind.

“Of course,” he added, as he parked the SUV, “types of magic that test the limits in that way are dangerous, and there are groups, like the Veiled Order, who hunt down anyone who dares practice such arts.” Unbuckling his seatbelt, he summed it up perfectly before stepping out. “One bad apple can spoil the whole bunch. If the balance is upset, it can negatively affect everyone.”

I followed him out of the car, asking him a few questions about how it was he'd gotten into magic in the first place, however Kubo didn't seem much in the mood to talk anymore, and clammed up, walking towards Yao's.

Yao's was a Chinese restaurant, situated just off of Decatur road, in a large strip mall. The other businesses in the vicinity were legal offices and payday loan outfits, and the buildings were separated by narrow passages that the homeless sometimes squatted in during inclement weather. I'd eaten at Yao's several times in the past, had even been something of a regular customer, except that I'd once found a few fingernails in my sweet and sour chicken and had sworn the place off as a result.

A damn shame, too. It was hard as hell to find someone in this city who could fry up a perfect pork dumpling like the dudes at Yao's.

“So, we getting some lunch first or something?” I asked as he mounted the curb and started towards the front door.

As if to answer my question, Kubo altered his trajectory and quietly strode to the short alley between Yao's and a stuffy-looking lawyer's office.

I knew this spot pretty well, so when Kubo began to lead me through the alley, I was more than a little confused. “Hey,” I said, nodding to the opening ahead, “this doesn't go anywhere. Just leads to another parking lot. Where we going?”

The alley couldn't have been more than twenty feet long, and it stood between the two buildings, joined at the top and forming a kind of tunnel. The ground was soiled concrete, and I noticed the low-hanging ceiling to be marked with a bunch of spent gum and stickers for local bands. There was a solitary light fixture about half-way through the tunnel, but the bulb was busted and I couldn't remember a time when it actually worked.

We were almost to the other end when Kubo stopped and slowly pointed to his right. Then, turning, he started down a new tunnel.

A tunnel that shouldn't have been there.

Like I said, I knew this spot. Had patronized this restaurant numerous times in the past, walked this very alley more times than I cared to count. There was no way in hell I'd missed this connecting tunnel whose length Kubo now walked. Where had it come from? It looked every bit as soiled and faded as the rest of the joint, but lacked the gum, stickers and cigarette butts of the former passage.

I was freaked out, but I followed behind him, mumbling to myself. “Where the fuck did this come from? No way this path has always been here.” In fact, the further we went, going deeper and deeper down this tunnel that shouldn't have even existed, I realized something was wrong. We'd been walking more than a minute, should have completely walked the length of the entire strip mall.

But still we were walking.

Either this was some hidden, magical space or I was losing it.

I tapped Kubo's shoulder and felt it tense beneath my finger. “Chief, where the hell are we?” I marveled at the dim, unlit space. It was growing darker and darker as we went on, leaving the faint light of the previous tunnel at our backs. The way forward promised of no more light, either.

“Tell me,” said Kubo, “do you know anything about physics?”

I shook my head. I knew as much about physics and complex math as I did about underwater basket-weaving.

“Well, consider this a space in the in-between realm I talked about. It's invisible to outsiders, but exists alongside the world you know.” With that, he redoubled his speed, marching down the passage into a darkness pregnant with uncertainty.

There wasn't enough light to see by, and I was getting terribly nervous as I followed along. So, this was some kind of metaphysical phenomenon between our world and the world of the dead? Some little pocket that could only be accessed by people in-tune with magic? I gulped. What if we couldn't get back out again, and were permanently stuck in this in-between world, like coins wedged between the cushions of a filthy sofa?

Kubo halted, rummaging around in his pocket for one of those magical seals he carried. Squinting at it, he dropped it on the ground and then pressed his hands together.

From nearby, a handful of small fireballs materialized, hovering in the air like balloons. These gave Kubo all the light he needed, and he knelt down, gripping what appeared to be a door handle in the concrete floor.

“So, that spell was, like, your version of a flashlight?” I asked, poking at one of the fireballs with my finger.

Bad idea.

My finger went numb first, and then my whole right arm. Cursing, I shook my limb around in circles till the feeling returned.

Kubo was standing beside what appeared to be a wooden door. It was made of a thick, faded wood, and looked like it would have fit in perfectly with the décor of a viking stronghold. The door handle was even a metal ring, and it bore the primitive cast of a lion on its outermost edge in clumsy relief. “Actually,” he said, wrenching the door open and revealing a dark abyss on the other side, “those are Will-o-the-wisps.” He pointed at one of the fiery orbs. “Don't touch.”