Watcher of the Dark: A Jeremiah Hunt Supernatual Thriller (The Jeremiah Hunt Chronicle)

by Nassise, Joseph

  I had absolutely no intention of doing so, but I didn’t tell him that. I couldn’t; I was still coughing up half of the swimming pool.

  I heard hurried footsteps—two, maybe three people, I couldn’t be sure—and then the gun was pulled away from my forehead. The voice spoke again. “You two. Get him out of there!”

  Rough hands grabbed my arms and hauled me out of the pool. I was still weak from my near-asphyxiation and almost fell when they tried to make me stand; the hands grabbed me again and held on until my feet steadied under me.

  “Damn it! The bastard’s dripping all over my new shoes,” the one on my right said. My brain automatically cataloged what it could from the sound: male, thirty, maybe thirty-five years old, a bit shorter than I was given the way the sound rose to meet me. He was from somewhere back east, like I was. New York. Maybe South Jersey. I wasn’t sure. He was a smoker too; the nicotine practically wafted off of him.

  “Fuck your shoes; they’re ugly anyway.”

  On my left. A tall female who I guessed had to be built like an ox because she’d lifted me out of the water one-handed. Russian, or at least Eastern European, from the sound of her voice. Was she the one I’d kicked in the bathroom? Must not have hit her as hard as I thought.

  “Ugly? What the hell do you know about…”

  Jersey didn’t get any further.

  “Shut up,” said the guy with the gun, and both of them went silent immediately.

  Definitely no doubt about who the boss was.

  I was getting tired of standing around shivering in the light unable to see the people who’d just livened up my day so nicely. The dead girls were watching us from the middle of the pool, so I reached out and stole the sight from one of them.

  There was a moment of dizziness, sharp and intense, and then the taste of bitter ashes flooded my mouth as the world swam back into view in rich, vibrant colors, ten times brighter and more vivid than anything I remembered from the days before I lost my sight.

  Oh, the things the dead can see! They see everything, from the fallen angels that swoop over the narrow city streets on ash gray wings to the changelings that walk among us unseen, safe in their human guises. The glamourlike charms that supernatural entities use to conceal themselves from human sight are no match for the eyes of a ghost.

  But what has always struck me as the cruelest irony is that despite being unable to feel emotions of their own, ghosts can see them pouring off the living without any difficulty whatsoever. It’s like each emotion has its own wavelength, its own unique color, like a beam of light seen through a prism. And it isn’t just the living, either. Inanimate objects can give off emotions too. If the object was important enough to its owner, over time it would soak up whatever emotions the living attached to it. A child’s teddy bear might glow with the pure white light of unconditional love, while a secret gift from a clandestine lover might shine with scarlet eroticism. The rule of thumb, I’d discovered, was that the more important the object was to its owner, the brighter the glow.

  I didn’t want them to know I was capable of seeing anything, so I kept my eyes slightly unfocused as I moved my head from side to side, trying to make it look like I was just trying to hear them better. In the process, I got a decent look at all three of them.

  The guy on my right didn’t look like anything too out of the ordinary, just a wiry fellow of medium height with a crazy shock of orange hair atop his head going in every which direction and the quick, twitchy movements of somebody with a severe case of ADD. He was dressed in a wide-lapelled maroon suit with a perfectly folded pocket square and pair of now-wet leather shoes. The silvery gleam that surrounded him let me know he was one of the Gifted, those humans who have gained the ability to tap into the supernatural essence of the world and use it for their own means, but the weakness of the aura told me he wasn’t all that powerful.

  The same couldn’t be said for his two companions, however. Just one look at either of them was enough to tell me that I’d gone from the frying pan into the fire.

  The woman was not the weight-lifting Russian muscle-head I’d been expecting, but was instead a complete stunner who practically dripped sexual attraction: long legs wrapped in a pair of skintight leather pants, a beautifully curvaceous body peeking out of a silk blouse, and a head full of long dark hair that fell past her shoulders. There was a gleam in her eyes that promised delights beyond anything you could possibly imagine, and when she licked her lips just so, as she did when I glanced in her direction, the average red-blooded American male would have had more than a little trouble concentrating.

  Thankfully I didn’t, as my ghostsight allowed me to see past all of that to the true creature behind the disguise she wore. Don’t get me wrong, she was still beautiful, but the demonic blood that ran through her veins was easy enough to see when the Veil was stripped away. The sense of hunger, of sheer need, that rolled off of her had my body responding despite the fact that my head was screaming no. She would no doubt provide a night beyond your wildest dreams, but that might just end up being the last one you would enjoy. I didn’t need anything that badly, thank you very much.

  But as scary as the demon half-breed might have been, she was nothing compared to the leader of the group. If the cold hadn’t had me shaking, the sight of him would have done the trick. He was a tall Hispanic man in his midthirties, maybe six foot one or so, with a cleanly shaven head and an angular face that ended in a dark goatee. His eyes, as black as night, stared out from deep sockets that gave his face an almost skeletal appearance.

  He had a fur-lined men’s coat draped over his shoulders but was otherwise naked from the waist up, displaying the upper body tattoo he was sporting. That tattoo was a riot of shapes and colors and depicted a hellish landscape where demons and devils were tormenting humans in a hundred different ways. The figures in it, human and demon alike, appeared to writhe and move of their own accord if you stared at them for too long. From the waist down he wore black jeans held up by a belt with an oversized silver buckle, and he had leather motorcycle boots on his feet. In his right hand was the pistol that had been pressed against my forehead just moments before.

  The gun wasn’t what made him scary, though. Call me crazy, but I was much more frightened by the aura that surrounded him, an aura full of corruption and the shifting faces of the restless dead—each one representing some innocent soul that he’d taken during the practice of his dark arts—than I was by the blue-tinted piece of Detroit steel in his hand. This guy was a serious practitioner, far more powerful than my friend Denise Clearwater or even her former companion Simon Gallagher, the combat mage.

  That much power was scary in and of itself. In the hands of someone like this, it was terrifying.

  I didn’t know who the hell these people were or what they wanted with me, but it didn’t take a genius to realize that going anywhere with them was probably not a good idea, so I did the one thing no one ever expects the blind guy to do.

  I ran.

  I bolted to the right, wanting to get away from Demon Lady as quickly as I could while still staying out of Tattoo’s reach. That meant passing a bit closer to Jersey than I wanted, but I dealt with that by knocking him backward as I pushed past. There was a shout of surprise and a splash, which brought a smile to my face, but I was too busy racing for the iron fence surrounding the pool. If I could get over that and into the building beyond, I might stand a chance …

  I wasn’t worried about Tattoo’s gun, as strange as that may sound. After all, if they’d come to kill me they could have done it half a dozen times already. The fact that they hadn’t spoke volumes. The gun was meant to intimidate me, to force my compliance, and it only had as much power over me as I was willing to give it. Now that I’d shown I wasn’t going to be cowed, they’d be forced to try something else.

  The crack of the gunshot and the spang of the bullet ricocheting off the fence in front of me told me I had a lot more to be worried about than I’d thought.

  So
much for that theory.

  I caught the fence with both hands and vaulted over it, the perfect picture of grace in motion. Then my wet feet slipped out from under me as I landed on the flagstone walkway on the other side and I stumbled forward, staggering to and fro as I fought to keep my balance. My vision was starting to white out around the edges, the increasing distance between me and the ghost of the dead girl whose sight I borrowed weakening the link between us, and I knew I’d be blind again in another ten feet or so.

  Finally catching my balance, I looked up just in time to see the figure of a man looming on my right.

  I never even saw the punch coming.

  It caught me in the solar plexus, paralyzing my diaphragm and driving all the air from my lungs with one short, sharp blow.

  I went down like a side of beef.

  A face loomed over me as I lay there trying to suck air into lungs that were suddenly not cooperating.

  “Going somewhere, Princess?” he asked.

  Apparently I really did suck at math.

  There were four of them, not three.

  4

  I’d gotten a look at my latest assailant before my link with the dead girl dissolved permanently and, to my surprise, he was fully human. Not a trace of Giftedness about him. He had a lean face, hard eyes, and brown hair cropped close in a crew cut that would have done the Marines proud. He was dressed nondescriptly in a dark peacoat thick enough to conceal the weapon I was certain he was carrying, jeans, and hiking boots. He also stank of cigarette smoke.

  “All right, up you go.” He grabbed my arm in a steely grip and dragged me to my feet. I was still fighting for breath and didn’t have any strength left to protest; it was all I could do to stay up as my head spun from the lack of oxygen. By the time my lungs decided to listen to my brain and allow air back into my body again, we had been joined by the others and any chance I might have had to escape passed.

  “Lose something, Rivera?” my captor asked. It was said in jest, but there was just enough of a hint of derision in his tone to let me know there was a history between him and the guy he was talking to, who I guessed was Tattoo.

  My hunch was right.

  “I’d watch your mouth, Grady,” Rivera said. “You’re a lot more expendable than he is. It’s not that hard to replace a thief.”

  A hand grabbed my face and turned it a few degrees to the left. For a moment I was tempted to steal his sight, just to be a pain in the ass, but something, perhaps a long buried instinct for survival, stayed my hand.

  “I don’t know if you can see me or not, cabrón, but try that shit again I’ll put a bullet through the back of your head. No one makes a fool of me, comprende?”

  I nodded as much as his grip would allow for. I had no doubt that he’d do exactly what he said he would. Apparently Grady thought it was a mistake to fuck around with Rivera too much as well, for he didn’t say a word in his own defense.

  “Bring him.”

  Hands grabbed my arms on either side and I was practically lifted off my feet as they hustled me along. I thought about crying out for help but knew the chances of anyone getting involved were practically nonexistent. People didn’t take a room in a place like this to poke their noses in other people’s business. The exact opposite, in fact. There could be a couple dozen of them standing around watching right at this very moment, but were the cops to show up five minutes from now you could be damned sure that no one would have seen a thing.

  They dragged me, dripping wet and wearing only my boxer shorts, back up to my room and dropped me into the room’s only chair. I heard one of them going through the dresser drawers and then a set of fresh clothes, one of only three that I currently owned, hit me in the chest.

  “Get dressed,” Rivera told me. “We’ve got someone to go see.”

  All of my clothing was the same—black t-shirts and jeans bought with a clerk’s help at a local surplus store a few days after arriving in L.A.—and so I didn’t have to worry that they’d dressed me up to look the fool. Dry boxers and jeans were followed by a long-sleeved shirt to help hide all of my tattoos from prying eyes and then socks and a pair of sturdy, yet comfortable boots.

  I was finally getting my breath back, but I hobbled over to the dresser just the same, keeping up the pretense of being cowed by my captors’ presence. I could feel them watching me, but I knew they never would have let me get even that far if they hadn’t already gone through the dresser while going through my clothes, so I ignored them. I opened the top drawer, felt around until I found my wallet, a pair of sunglasses, and my harmonica, and stuffed them into the front pockets of my jeans. The wallet and sunglasses were just me being practical, but I didn’t go anywhere without my harmonica, not if I could help it at any rate.

  “You ready now, Princess?” Grady asked.

  I ignored him, turning instead to face toward where I thought Rivera was standing.

  “What’s this about?” I asked. “Where are we going?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Bring him.”

  Hands grabbed my arms. I tried to shake them off, having recovered enough to be able to walk on my own again, but they were having none of it. Their grip tightened and they pulled me along with them as they headed out the door.

  We went down the steps and out into the parking lot. I heard a car’s doors being unlocked and opened.

  “Get in.”

  I did as I was told, finding the roof of the car with my hand to keep from banging my head on it as I slid into the backseat. I ended up sandwiched between Demon Lady and Grady, leaving Jersey and Rivera to take the front. The car’s engine started up and I cursed beneath my breath at the sound, recognizing the throaty roar.

  Rivera was not only kidnapping me, but he was using my own car to do it!

  All right, so it wasn’t really my car per se, as blind guys don’t usually have too much use for hot rods like the one we were riding in. The Charger actually belonged to my friend, Denise Clearwater. I’d taken it the night I’d fled New Orleans. Denise hadn’t been in any condition to object, as I’d just plunged a two-thousand-year-old dagger into her heart five minutes before stealing her car, but I’d been telling myself for weeks that she was okay with my taking it despite all that. I believed it too. I’d swapped the Massachusetts license plate for a California one at a truck stop just outside of Palm Springs and had only used the car a few times since arriving in L.A., but I knew it like the back of my hand at this point. This was definitely my car.

  Which meant that if, by some slim chance, someone did actually report my being forcibly removed from the premises against my will, the only clue to my kidnappers’ identity—the car they took me away in—would simply lead investigators away on a wild goose chase and ultimately get me into more hot water than I was in now.

  I had to hand it to Rivera, it was a brilliant move.

  I disliked this guy more with every passing minute.

  Jersey shot out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell, throwing me hard against Demon Lady beside me in the process. No soft curves for her; she was all sleek muscle under that outfit. Normally I might have enjoyed being so close to such a beautiful woman, but I had about as much interest in tangling with her as I did in jumping naked into a pool of starving piranha. At least with the piranha I had a chance of getting out alive.

  I settled into my seat and did my best to ignore Jersey’s driving—What the hell was his name anyway?—while trying to figure out what was going on.

  If Rivera wanted something for himself, if he had some personal interest in me or my abilities, he probably would have mentioned it by this point. Since he hadn’t, I had to assume that he was operating on behalf of a third party.

  The question was who?

  I ruled out the police or other law enforcement agencies pretty quickly. Rivera wasn’t the type to work with law enforcement, first of all, and second, if he was after the reward the authorities were offering he could have simply phoned in my location and let the U.S. Mar
shals break in my door instead of doing it himself. A million dollars was a pretty big incentive, I had to admit, and it was being offered simply for information leading to my arrest and capture; Rivera wouldn’t have even needed to get his hands dirty in order to collect it.

  After crossing off the authorities and Rivera himself, I was still left with a long list of potential people that might have sent someone after me, from the relatives of the victims Agent Doherty was convinced I had killed and who knew who I was thanks to an overzealous media, to Simon Gallagher and his followers from New Orleans, the very people I had escaped from with my friend Dmitri’s help just a few weeks ago. Truth was, it could be any of half a dozen different groups. And those were just the few I knew about!

  It was time to try to find some answers.

  “Where are you taking me?” I asked.

  No response.

  I tried again. “What do you want? Where are we going?”

  The foursome continued to ignore me, though Grady let out an amused little chuckle at my continued ignorance.

  It was the chuckle that tipped me over the edge.

  I was less than thrilled at what had happened so far that morning, and the continued silence in response to my questions was increasing my irritation by the minute, but that laugh told me that my apparent helplessness was amusing to Grady. That was simply unacceptable. I had come too far and endured too much to be laughed at by some thug who’d gotten the drop on me when I wasn’t looking.

  Without stopping to think about the consequences of what I was about to do, I reached out and stole the driver’s sight.

  5

  While we were holed up in the safe house outside of Atlantic City after fleeing Boston, Denise began teaching me how to better understand and control the strange talents I’d gained in the aftermath of the Preacher’s ritual to “see the unseen.” We worked on improving my ability to use my ghostsight to see into the spiritual realm and on refining my techniques for borrowing the sight from another individual, either living or dead. Where once I’d needed to not only personally know my target but also be in physical contact with them, now I could borrow from acquaintance or stranger alike, provided I was within twenty feet of them.