Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) (3 page)

What happened after that, well, is more than a little hazy. Things moved quickly from that point. I could have handled myself a little better, maybe even escaped, but I didn't truly sense the danger of the situation until it was far too late.

I went to grab the kid's raggedy collar, but when I threw him down to the ground, he suddenly disappeared into a cloud of black cockroaches.

I shit you not.

His skin, like the exterior of a pale balloon, was torn away the instant he met the grass and then a thousand cockroaches simply erupted from the space he'd occupied like he'd been some kind of infested pinata.

I didn't have a whole lot of time to process the colossal mass of writhing insects in the grass before me, because in the time it took me to loose a groan of disgust and turn around, I noticed that the entire group of women had stopped what they were doing and were now running straight for me.

Believe me when I say I'm a dick. To lick it in this line of work, you have to be a bit of an ass. Still, I'd never hit a woman. I was raised better than that, and the thought of doing so makes me cringe a little.

 
Those women-- those
things
-- that were running at me just then, though?

 
I had positively
zero
problem letting my fists marry their faces. I'd have let my fists write their own vows and everything, in fact, they were so damned hideous. In a split second, something had radically changed in their appearances. They were no longer young, gorgeous women, but hags. Crones. There is literally no word in the English language that can sufficiently encapsulate the distinctive mixture of antiquation and inhuman repulsion that these creatures possessed in spades. I wanted to give them the beat-down, defend myself as they bum-rushed me, but if we're being honest I also didn't want to touch them.

I got knocked around good and proper by the throng of women as they got within arm's reach. I say “women”, but I should really refer to them as what I now know them to be: witches. In film, witches tend to be represented as something silly; impotent foes that can be dispatched with a bucket of water.

There wasn't enough water in the whole of Flint to fuck their shit up, though. I felt confident of that. They took turns stomping the hell out of me, some of them still muttering in that deep, throaty language that's so grating to my ears even now, in reminisce. I fought to stand, seeking out the two-by-four I'd dropped, but couldn't even get to my knees. They were too strong; unnaturally, unbelievably strong for beings so undoubtedly old. Their shapes were frail, their frames were bereft of developed muscle, but they knew how to throw a punch. It was like getting whacked by Iron Mike from every angle. Just as the blows were becoming more and more intense and I found myself pinned to the ground, too weak and injured to stand, I realized what was happening.

 
These bitches are going to kill me. I'm about to get beat to death.

Someone in the group kicked me over onto my back with a technique that would've made Pele proud and then proceeded to show me the first example of bonafide magic I'd ever seen in my life. We're not talking rabbit-out-of-a-hat level stuff, either.

The rest of the group quit beating on me while this single crone, extending her bony white fist, uttered a few words. Before my eyes could even register the change, her hand had been completely
 
transformed into something I recognized all too well.

A long blade.

Dazed by the attack and seeing stars for all the blows to the head, I wasn't too stunned to know what that meant. My body squirmed in anticipation of the killing blow. I felt like a chicken with its neck stretched across the chopping block. There was nothing I could do. Rolling out of the way was impossible for the wall of sneering and apparently super-powered witches that surrounded me. The bitch scowled and then reared back, ready to plunge that blade into me.

I winced before the blow was even struck.

At that moment, or as close to it as I can reliably remember, there arose a commotion from around the other corner of the house. I only got a brief look at them right before the end, and wasn't sure who they were specifically, but the circle of witches took off at the sight of them, which was good enough for me. They wore all black, had gas masks of some kind on, and were holding guns that would've made Chris Kyle blush. I heard the deafening report of those selfsame guns as the masked men unloaded into the fleeing throng.

The witches were gone in the next instant.

But not before that bitch with the magical knife-hand buried her arm in the left side of my chest till her elbow was tickling the lawn, of course. She ran off shortly thereafter with the rest of them.

I thrashed, felt a sharp pain, and then began seizing. The breath was gone from my lungs and I noticed a distinct popping in my chest where my heart should have been. A warmth surged suddenly from the wound and I felt the most intense panic of my life in those few moments before the darkness came.

As I was grasping at the final straws of life, I saw a pair of dudes towering over me. They pulled away their masks, looked down at me with something of pity in their eyes, and tried not to step on my face with their size 14 combat boots. “Shit,” said one to the other, “poor guy's had it.”

THREE

I guess that that should have been the end of the story. This part, the part that follows, really shouldn't exist.

I should've died on that lawn, been carted off to a morgue and properly mourned with a memorial service far too expensive for any of my relatives to afford, while dressed in a suit that would have made my beaten-up corpse look nifty.

But that isn't what happened.

Sometimes in life, we roll the dice. We take chances, or are preyed upon by the forces of fate, over whose whims we haven't even the remotest shred of control. Well, a dice roll like this one gave me a result that should have been damn near impossible, mathematically. It was like rolling a pair of dice a million times and getting snake-eyes every time. And then, on that millionth roll, doing it another million times and getting snake-eyes for all of those, too. Things like this just don't happen, or aren't supposed to happen, but I guess you could call me living proof that they sometimes do.

 
When I opened my eyes and took in the bright, blinding light, it wasn't Saint Peter or Buddha looking me in the face, but rather some dude wearing a surgical mask. I couldn't feel my body, wasn't even sure that it was still there, but I could see. The lights were uncomfortably strong and a slight heat radiated off of them.
Who the fuck is this guy and why's he shining a light in my face?
was my first thought upon waking.

Nope, it wasn't “Thank goodness I'm alive!” or “Now that I have a second chance, I'm going to be a good person and donate all of my earnings to charity!”

I was alive, and I was pissed off.

This is probably what a newborn baby feels like.

Perhaps catching a bit of annoyance in my expression, the masked fellow, a surgeon, I presumed, began to speak. I couldn't see his mouth because he was wearing that white mask, and I have to admit that it put a hell of a scare in me, hearing his gentle voice emanating from god-knew-where and not having a mouth I could attribute it to. It was like a bad acid trip.

“You're awake,” he said in a soothing tone of voice well-suited to narrating children's television programs for the pre-K demographic. “You're very seriously injured, Mr. Colt. Your life is at stake at this very moment, but we have managed to restore consciousness long enough to have you answer one crucial question.”

 
If he asks me whether or not I'd like to become an organ donor I'm going to rage
, thought I.

“We've only one hope if we wish to save your life. It is a rather controversial procedure, virtually unknown in Western medicine. The risks are great, and--”

If I'd been able to speak right then, I'd have cut him off. I didn't even listen to the rest, which, upon reflection, might've been a mistake. I wanted his miracle procedure, silver bullet, whatever you want to call it, and I wanted it in the worst way.

The surgeon finished his spiel with, “Despite these risks, would you still like to go through with the operation? I need some indication of yes or no from you. Nod your head if you can, or blink twice for yes.”

Tears poured from my eyes. My vision was cloudy. I wanted to live more than anything, goddammit. “You don't know what you've got till it's gone”-- it's a cliché for a reason. And standing this close to the brink, watching my future fall away, I got to thinking about how awful it would be if I never got to experience the finer things in life again. I'd never get to see what my future kids would look like, or my grandkids. I'd never know the satisfaction of securing proper employment, or the pleasure of a good meal with friends. I'd never have shower sex again.

 
I
needed
this damn procedure done.

I don't know where it came from, but I gave the guy as firm a nod as my banged-up shell of a body could muster. Evidently that was sufficient, because he motioned to someone else in the room and the corners of his eyes wrinkled in a smile. “Don't worry,” he told me. “We're going to get you fixed up. You'll be with us again before you know it.”

“Sure,” I wanted to say. “I just hope your people are willing to be flexible with the payments, because I've got more than a hundred thousand bucks in student loans, bud.”

The surgeon started giving orders in what sounded like German and the air around me was filled with commotion. I heard squeaky carts being wheeled by, heard the clatter of metallic instruments, the oddly comforting din of medical equipment as it powered up. There was something else that I noticed just as the anesthesia hit, a voice amidst the melange of ambient noise that I recognized.

It was Mr. Amundsen's.

FOUR

Let me tell you something.

Getting raised from the dead sucks ass.

It took me a while to realize that awareness had stolen over me. I was thrust into cognizance in the space of an instant, and it was like coming out of the worst kind of booze-induced blackout. Before I even opened my eyes I could feel a profound throbbing in my limbs and torso.

Ah, yeah.

I'd gotten the crap beaten out of me by a coven of hateful witches.

 
Wait, what?

I opened my eyes. Blinking till the blurriness went, I took a long, hard look at the room I was now in. It was a hospital room, a nice one, outfitted with an expensive-looking flat-screen TV, and an impressive array of machines. The place was crammed with HGTV-worthy fixtures and flourishes, and done up in a carefully coordinated color palate comprised of soothing blues and eggshell. An interior designer's wet dream.

The first thing I noticed when I found my neck capable of sustained movement was the fellow smiling at me from the plush recliner across the room.

Amundsen.

I was never happier to see a familiar face and would have hopped out of bed to kiss his feet if only my body would have cooperated. The drugs, or something else they'd given me, hadn't completely worn off yet, though. I felt weighed down, sluggish. Parts of my body were waking up while others were still in a deep sleep. I returned his smile as best I could and laid my head back.

This was a kick-ass hospital. Even the pillows were comfy.

“So glad to see you awake,” said Amundsen with a faint titter. The noise was uncharacteristic of him, but hey, the guy was excited to see me pulling through. At least, that's what I figured. “First off, I want to sincerely apologize.” He came over and I felt him lay his hand on mine. My arms were still pins and needles in their entirety, but I could more or less process the sensation. “I want to apologize for sending you on a mission that was very clearly out of the norm. It was far too dangerous and you didn't have the proper training to deal with something like that. I thought for sure that the place would be abandoned and that you would meet no resistance, but it seems my intel was wrong. And I gave you precious little information before setting off, too. Rest assured that I accept all of the blame, and that everything will be taken care of.”

This came as a huge relief. I sighed, smiling afresh, and turned to him. “Can't believe I'm still around,” I managed to mutter. My mouth felt like it'd been stuffed full of cotton and I couldn't speak loudly, but the words still crept out. I was out of it, not really putting a whole lot of thought into the maniac scene that'd laid me up to begin with. “So, what, you pay for a heart transplant or something? Get me to the top of a transplant list with your connections?” I snickered dreamily.

Amundsen's smile intensified, if anything, and with this sharpening came an added degree of what my dizzy brain could only guess was amusement. “Something like that.” He patted the back of my hand condescendingly, but under the circumstances it didn't bother me very much. I noticed he was still wearing that weird, gaudy pendant of his. My vision was a little blurry, so I couldn't get a great look, but it was shaped like a many-pointed star, covered in writing. There was something in the middle of it, too. Looked like a rough, dark streak across the center of the piece.

Ah, there it was. My memory and cognition were marching back into service now. I gulped, but there wasn't any spit there. After spending a few moments wrestling with a dry boulder of air in my throat, I finally choked out, “So, what exactly happened back there? Were those, like, legitimate witches? I mean, they must've been, right? Since...” I lowered my chin so that it was pointing down at my heart. “Hell of a night.”

The hand-patting continued. “Oh, Lucian, I wouldn't worry about that. It'll all be clear soon enough. You'll have all the answers you require, and perhaps more, very soon now.”

 
Huh, more answers than I require?
That seemed unlikely, since I had a metric ton of questions I wanted answers to.

“Well anyhow, thanks for saving me,” I said, raising my head and sporting a sleepy grin.