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

by Ambrose Ibsen

  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.”

  That
reminded me of the other thing I'd wanted clarification on. Glancing between Joe and Amundsen, I licked my lips pensively. “Yeah, so... what happens if they win? Kubo told me they were working to, uh... raise some kind of god? Or something? What, exactly, do we stand to lose here?”

  At this, Joe craned his neck around me and looked to Amundsen, guffawing incredulously. Then, he glanced up at me, the cluelessness showing through in my wide-eyed expression, and laughed even harder. Settling down, he pointed at me with his thumb and nodded to Amundsen. “Wait a minute... wait a minute, you mean to tell me that he doesn't know yet?”

  TWENTY-TWO

  Amundsen had had enough of our little chat and broke it up immediately with a clap of his hands. As if the preceding conversation hadn't taken place at all, he walked up and took me lightly by the shoulders, hoping to maneuver me out of the infirmary. “Well, Joe, we need to let you rest. Get some sleep. Mona's treatment should fully heal your arm within a day.” With a nod, he started for the door.

  Not that I budged.

  “Wait a minute,” I said, raising my voice. “What, specifically, do I not know yet?” They were keeping me in the dark about everything, but this tidbit of Joe's sounded more than a little important.

  Joe demurred, chuckling to himself and closing his eyes, feigning sleep. “Never mind, tex. They like keeping us in the dark about shit. We're like government employees around here-- we only get told things on an as-needed basis. Forget I said anything, Lucy.”

  Nostrils flared, it took everything in me not to reach out and punch him across the chin. “Whatever, man,” I said, turning and storming out of the room behind Amundsen. The secrecy was getting to be too much. It was damn insulting, in fact. If they didn't want to spill their deepest, darkest secrets, well, that was one thing. No one was asking Amundsen about his sexual fetishes or bathroom habits. Stuff that actually concerned me, though? They had zero excuse to keep such information from me, and I was getting mighty tired of their tight-lipped policies. If they wanted to keep me on board, they'd have to spill it. And soon.

  Amundsen smoothed out the front of his jacket and led me back into the small elevator. We rode down to the first floor lobby. Laughing to himself, he extended a hand to shake. “It's been good seeing you, Lucian. Let me know if you need anything. Chief Kubo will be in touch soon, I'm sure. Thank you for your hard work today, also.”

  I didn't accept his hand, though. I looked at him like he'd just shot my dog, instead.

  “You guys have some explaining to do.” My voice echoed in the lobby. “I like you, Mr. Amundsen. I worked for you a while before all of this and never asked you any damn questions. But now I have some serious misgivings about this little arrangement of ours, and all I'm asking for is a bit of transparency. If you want me to stay onboard, you're going to have to give me more to work with. What was Joe talking about up there? What don't I know? What are the witches working towards?” I was red in the face, pleading.

  Amundsen smiled politely and withdrew his hand, placing them both behind his back and pacing towards the front door. “Joe was not mistaken when he said that information within our organization is dispensed on an as-needed basis, Lucian. Ours is not an organization that places value in transparency. I hope you'll forgive me but that's all the time I have tonight for fielding your questions.” He motioned to the sleepy doorman and the front door opened. “Have a good night.” Amundsen turned and walked away, disappearing around the corner.

  I stood there, in front of the door, seething. Shooting the guard a dirty look, I slowly exited, marching into the cool night with more questions than I'd arrived with. They were going to keep me in the dark. No matter who I asked or how much I pressed, they weren't going to tell me anything I didn't absolutely need to know.

  Spitting on the stone steps of the entryway, I sprinted across the parking lot and made a running jump over the black metal gates.

  ***

  I walked the streets for a while during those last hours before the morning sun reared its head. I was feeling like shit, agitated and lonely. These Veiled Order guys were keeping me clueless, completely, and almost seemed to enjoy doing it. I wasn't valuable enough to them to warrant real politeness or even a proper answer to my straightforward questions. I was chopped liver, disposable.

  Wheeling around downtown on my way back home and feeling awfully lonesome, I had half a mind to find a little company, a girl to take home with me. It occurred to me that all of the bars were closed, though, with all of the cute young things having wandered back to their places in a drunken stupor. There would be no getting lucky tonight, unfortunately. Realizing this, I set my sights on the next best thing.

  A ham and cheese omelette at Waffle House.

  I sauntered up towards the brightly-lit, yellow building through an alley that reeked of fresh vomit and the urine of bar-hoppers.

  Not exactly the kind of smells that rouse the appetite.

  I was within forty or so feet of the entrance when I sensed something behind me. It was a weird kind of feeling, like a single finger had brushed up against the hairs on the back of my neck. Glancing over my shoulder, I noticed someone following me through the alley.

  A black cat.

  It was by itself, a small, thin little thing with matted fur. It mewed softly, its paws touching down on the moist concrete very quietly, its tail raised and yellow eyes fixed on me. I paused, watching it for a time, and found that it stopped, too, when it noticed me looking at it.

  “Scram,” I said. “I haven't got any handouts for ya, cat.”

  The cat's gaze narrowed and I almost thought, with an inward chuckle, that it seemed to understand me.

  Taking a step back and throwing out my arms suddenly, I made a barking noise and tried to scare it off.

  The cat didn't budge, didn't seem in the least bit concerned with me. “Man,” I muttered. “The strays are getting pretty ballsy these days.”

  I turned and started again towards Waffle House, but not before glimpsing another new arrival in the alleyway before me. Standing about twenty feet away, near the back of the restaurant, I spotted a little girl. She stood in the center of the alley, her white dress in tatters and her face paler than the moonlight that drifted down from above. I squinted and got a better look at her face, noticing that her eyes were wholly blank, like white billiard balls, and almost as large.

  A persistent black cat and a kid with huge, fucked-up eyes corner some guy in an alley outside a Waffle House.

  It was like the start of a bad joke.

  And it sure as hell wasn't just a coincidence.

  Carefully I placed my hands in my pockets, wanting to look relaxed and casual. If these things were familiars like I thought they were, then I didn't want to rush into a fight and provoke their masters. These two might've been following me for a while, letting members of the coven know my exact position. How many witches were trailing me? Were they nearby? Would the witches attack me in public, gang up on me?

  Noting my surroundings, I realized that a back alley near a Detroit Waffle House at almost five in the morning hardly constitutes a “public” space. Lots of shady shit went down in such alleys at all hours of the day; if I got attacked by witches here, the only ones who'd see it would be the shambling drunks or prostitutes that haunted the back streets. People that no one would ever believe.

  Not liking my odds, I doubled back towards the cat.

  The way I saw it, I'd rather drop-kick a little cat and get away than end up punching another one of those roach-infested meat puppets.

  The cat gave up only a bit of ground, backing towards the other side of the alley as I approached it. Its eyes never lingered, the yellow spheres glowing in the low light and dissecting me with a furtive interest. From behind me I could hear the pitter-patter of bare, child-sized feet against the wet cement.

  The kid was coming up on my six.

  I was hoping to jump over the cat and make a break for it around the corner, wh
en suddenly I was stopped in my tracks. My legs went numb, then refused to move as something fixed me into place. I was like a screw wedged into the cement, my legs held close together and incapable of movement.

  Stuck. Pinned. Held fast.

  I gulped, recalling vividly what'd happened to me the last time I'd been frozen in place by something unseen. It'd been an enchantment outside the warehouse, hours ago. It'd been a hell of a spell, a trap that'd run my body through all over with black spikes like some hateful cactus. The present feeling of immobilization was very much the same, though no spikes materialized. As I waited nervously in this spot, the black cat and ghostly girl scurrying out of the alley and vanishing from sight, I heard a series of heavier footfalls approaching me.

  At my feet, I noticed that the concrete had been stained with black ash. I was standing in a circle, hastily-scrawled, and its outer reaches had been inscribed with rough, angular symbols. Like an idiot, I'd been too focused on the two familiars to see it on the ground before me and had walked right into it. I tried to move my feet, to scuff up the markings, but they were clamped down against the ground with unbelievable force.

  I wasn't going anywhere.

  Whoever it was walking down that alley had me right where they wanted me.

  And I didn't have anyone to help me this time.

  No Joe, to light everything on fire.

  No Isabella, to contort her fingers and make me invisible.

  No Kubo, to throw around his fancy, magical slips of paper.

  I braced myself as a dark shape lumbered into the alley before me.

  TWENTY-THREE