Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) (8 page)

This last bit was evidently directed at yours truly, for the way Kubo appraised me, arching a bushy brow. He looked at me like I was a kid he had to babysit, a contemptible liability.

 
Oh, come on. What do you want from me?
I wanted to throw my hands up. The demon's heart had been in place for, what, a day? I wasn't exactly feeling like Superman in that conference room, wearing a tattered hospital gown and reeking of piss. It was true that I'd gotten into some trouble; I'd done some shit the night before, had jumped out of a window and had somehow made it all the way out to that abandoned house in Flint-- on foot, no less. But this demon's heart wasn't really living up to the hype. Were they expecting it to turn me into Bruce Lee? Did they want me to just wake up and know what to do? These three weren't exactly being patient with me.

“The coven is thought to be comprised of ten to twelve members, plus numerous familiars. They're running a tight operation, and this late in the game they're going to be extra careful. We're going to have to force them into conflict or hope they mess up and give themselves away. We have many feelers searching them out, but there's a lot of talent in their corner.” For my benefit, Kubo went on. “Normally, we hunt small-timers, or lone wolves. A coven of this age and strength is not at all a common target.”

“Ok,” I replied. “So, our talents compliment each other.” I looked at Joe. “I know what you do, with your little fire thing, but what about Isabella over there?”

 
Joe crossed his arms, his greased up hair quivering as he shook his head. “
Little fire thing
, he says. Maybe I'll ask the chief to let me take you out back to show you more of what I can do.”

 
Isabella stared at me blankly, and didn't seem in any hurry to respond. Thankfully, Kubo chimed in. “
She's
a magician.”

 
A magician? What the hell was that supposed to mean? I'd faced that coven of witches as a plain old human, and they'd torn me to shreds. Was I supposed to believe that card tricks and disappearing coins were enough to keep the savage witches at bay? Need I remind you that one of them turned her hand into a frigging sword and murdered me with it? “OK, cool. So, we've got, uh... a yakuza, a pyromaniac and David Blaine on our side.
Neat
.” Canvassing the room, I returned to Kubo and shrugged. “What's
my
power, then?”

“You're a smartass, for one,” blurted Joe, toying with something in his back pocket. It was the switchblade; I could tell by the way he was fidgeting that he was seeking a good way to pluck it out of his pocket and open it before plunging it into my ribs.

I leaned away from him a little, glancing up at Kubo. “Well?”

Kubo shut off the projector and chuckled. “Not sure, actually. For all I know, you might be a dud. Time will tell, but for now I can only guess that the top dogs have sent you along as a meat-shield.”

“Oh, fuck you,” I said, throwing up my hands. “When is this demon heart supposed to kick in? What do I have to do? Do I transform into a monster or something? Will it make me a great fighter? Can I vanquish souls to Hell with a magic spell?”

This time, Kubo grimaced, his massive frame bristling. “Actually, you can't. Because this isn't a goddamned cartoon. Your powers will take some time to develop. The demon heart will have to get accustomed to your body, but there's no way for us to know exactly how your powers will manifest because transplants like this one are seldom done. There's no step-by-step guide, no 'What to Expect' book I can refer you to. Shut up and take this.” He reached into a box at his feet, pulling out a large handgun and a black cell phone. “Both are for official use only,” he warned, adding a small cardboard box of bullets shortly thereafter.

I eyed the gun first. It was the biggest, meatiest thing I'd ever seen and looked like it might take my arm off if I dared to pull the trigger. Seriously, the giant silver piece probably had a great deal of kickback. I never carried a gun at my old job, didn't bother. Not that it would have been a bad idea, for my own protection, but my experience with firearms was practically nil, and to see this imposing piece on the table before me made me kind of nervous. I stood up and tried to tuck it into the waistband of my shorts, but the thing was too heavy and nearly fell out. I scrambled to grasp it and then set it back on the tabletop, lest I accidentally shoot myself in the groin.

The phone was really something else. It was made of a tough, black material that felt sort of like leather. It was an old model, a flip-phone, and a cursory look at its pixellated screen made me chuckle. The buttons were chunky, back-lit. A phone like this one might be useful in the field while running away from bloodthirsty witches and dialing for backup, but it looked like a joke. “You secret society guys sure are cutting edge,” I said giving the phone a shake. “You ever hear of smart phones? How the hell am I supposed to update social media on this dinosaur?”

Leaning on the table, both fists pressed into it, Kubo glared at me. “I thought I told you, it's for official use only. That's the phone we're going to use to get ahold of you when we need you. Sorry it doesn't have enough frills for you, princess.”

Joe burst out laughing, relaxing somewhat and crossing his arms once more. “You're pretty high maintenance, you know that, Lucy?”

With that out of the way, Kubo opened the floor to questions.

Oh, sure, I had questions. Lots of them. But I wasn't really sure where to start, or if I actually needed them answered badly enough to subject myself to more of the team's bullshit. The mission was pretty clear; I'd be doing whatever Kubo told me to do and we'd be looking for witches. Whenever we found them, we'd kill them. Simple, clear-cut.

Now, don't misunderstand. I wanted those witches dead. They'd done a number on me, after all. I wasn't exactly a part of this Mater Agatha's fan-club. And yet, the stubborn part of me, the part that hated being pushed around and left out of the loop, detested this arrangement. No one had told me that this heart transplant had strings attached. There hadn't been any advertisement detailing “One Free Secret Society Membership When You Buy One Demon Heart!” And yet, here I was. Had the circumstances been different, or had the team been a little more understanding and welcoming, maybe I'd have been more cooperative. As things were however, I still wasn't sold. Wanting the witches dead wasn't enough of a motivator; I needed them to sweeten the pot if I was going to work alongside them and field their shitty attitudes all day.

 
“So,” I began. “What's in it for me? I tag along, your
talented
Demon Heart, and... what do I get for my trouble?”

Evidently, Kubo had been waiting for me to ask that question, because with a big smirk I wanted to punch off of his face he drew a folded piece of white paper from one of his pockets and slid it across the table to me.

I opened it, recognizing it in an instant for what it was.

It was one of my student loan bills. “H-hold on a second, where did you get this?” I asked. In retrospect, that was a stupid question. These guys hunted witches and other paranormal crap for a living. Getting ahold of someone's bills was child's play for the likes of the Veiled Order.

 
“Working for the Order is lucrative, Lucy. You stand to make a good wage, but beyond that, my bosses have offered to pay off your loan balances
in full
should we manage to strike down the coven. Think of it as a little bonus.” Kubo looked satisfied, and it was because he knew he'd just won me over. There wasn't a flat-broke, debt-ridden graduate I knew who would possibly turn down such an offer.

 
“Y-yeah, OK. Sounds good,” I said. And then I shut my damn mouth, lest the terms of the deal change. A decent payday
and
all of my loans paid off? I couldn't start looking for that coven fast enough.

Walking over to the door, Kubo prepared to release us. “I'll be in contact when I have my orders. Keep that phone handy,” he said, pointing to me in particular. “I may call you at any hour, and you'll be expected to join me in a timely fashion at any given destination. Understood?”

Still numb, I nodded. This must be what lottery winners feel like. It was a staggering sort of peacefulness that washed over me, sufficient to ward off all of the stress and terror I'd faced in the past twenty-four hours. One completed mission would make me a free man, squash all of that debt I'd been carrying around for years. It was an incredible relief.

There was one problem, however.

“Chief,” I said, standing up. “There's one thing I need to ask you, though. It's important.”

Kubo looked at me expectantly.

I peered down at my rags. “Can you hook me up with some clean clothes? And, you know, if you have my personal effects just laying around, those would be great, too.”

TWELVE

Kubo was able to give me my stuff back without too much trouble. I was given a clean gown to wear in place of a shirt, since the one I'd come in with was torn up and covered in blood. My jeans were more or less OK, save for a few stains here and there. Gave them more character, I figured. My keys and wallet were returned, too, and I was surprised that the latter hadn't been messed with. The fat stack I'd lifted from those two art thieves on my hunt for the Dali, along with the money Amundsen had given me, was still inside. My car had been towed to the facility a day ago, and was waiting in the parking lot as I left the lobby. Joe and Isabella had long disappeared by the time I'd cleaned myself up. Kubo had walked off into the complex after handing over my things and hadn't said so much as goodbye.

Coming up to the car, I climbed in and took a deep breath. Sitting behind the wheel again was surreal; when last I'd driven the old girl, I'd been a completely different person. Ignorant, naïve, blind to the world of the Beyond.

Oh, and I guess I'd been one-hundred percent human then, too. I wasn't sure I could say that anymore, not with this new heart beating in my chest.

I stuck the key in the ignition and sped out of the lot as soon as the mammoth gates parted and allowed me onto the main drag.

I needed a drink.

***

The day was young, but I didn't much care. When you're in a business like mine, people don't think twice when they see you drinking hard liquor at ten in the morning. I stopped by my place long enough to take a shower and throw on a proper shirt, and then paid a long visit to a local restaurant that specializes in kegs n' eggs. Sucking down several beers, a few omelets and some sides of greasy hash browns, I realized I wasn't full yet. The hunger that came over me then felt insatiable, and before I left, my gut sticking out a few more inches than usual, I ordered a couple of shots, along with a bacon cheeseburger, fries and sundae.

With an ass-load of money in my wallet and nothing but time to kill until Kubo deigned to call me, I started down the street for Sam The Record Man, eager to pick up some new vinyl. I had a pretty decent audio setup at home and collected records when my finances allowed. Some jazz or classical on the turntable, a long bath and some good booze-- not the cheap stuff-- sounded like a damn fine way to spend the day. Maybe I'd be able to forget everything I'd just been through. I even considered stopping by at the cigar shop across the street as I pulled open the front door of Sam's and walked in.

My appreciation of art extends far beyond pictures. Music is the air I breathe; I listen to it while driving, while doing the dishes, while going for walks. Not a day goes by that I don't listen to at least a few tunes, and my tastes are pretty eclectic. My favorite genres have always been jazz and classical, but I have a soft spot in my heart for alternative rock styles like shoegaze and poppier stuff, like twee. Sam's was the best damn record store in town, and they always brought the goods. I knew the owner to be a guy with excellent taste, and whenever he worked the two of us would often spend an hour or more just hanging out at the counter, talking about Bill Evans, Art Blakey and others. At Sam's, I knew everyone who worked there by name, was comfortable with every face behind the counter and almost felt like the store was a home away from home. It was anyone's guess how many hours I'd spent in the place over the years.

Stepping inside, I was hit immediately by that somewhat stuffy, papery smell you get when you cram thousands of records and CDs into a confined space. It wasn't a large building; the main room was devoted to CDs, and a smaller room beyond it, accessed by a narrow doorway, housed rows upon rows of records. Virtually every surface was crammed with goods; if not for my love of music, I might've been disgusted by the place. Once, I'd taken a girl there on a date and she'd hated it, called it a hoarder's nest. Looking over the dense stacks bathed in the dim lighting, I could see what she meant.

Wheeling over towards the desk, I saw it was Scott working there. He was a cool guy, a few years younger than me, and his interest was mainly in old new wave bands like Talking Heads and Devo. I'd been hoping to find Jessie working the counter today. She was a real treat for the eyes; barely eighteen and covered from head to toe in awesome tattoos. Her sleeve tattoos were done up like trees, crowded with green leaves and peppered with small forest animals. She had this other one, too, on her lower back, which I'd admired one night after a party when she decided to come over to my place and--

Anyway, it occurs to me that that's a story for another time. More important things were happening in Sam's than my boner-inducing reverie.

 
Scott was standing behind the counter, looking at me with wide eyes, his mouth half-open like he'd just gotten the wind knocked out of him. No, actually, he was
crouching
, grabbing at the edge of the counter with one hand and furtively searching with the other for the Louisville Slugger I knew the staff to keep behind the counter. At the sight of me, the guy looked poised to shit himself, and I couldn't for the life of me say why.

I turned around quickly to make sure I hadn't been followed in by a ghost, and then looked back at him, giving a quick nod. “Hey, Scott. What's up, man?” I took a couple of steps towards the counter, but he urged me off in a hurry, throwing his hands out like an enthusiastic mime building a wall.