Cold Spectrum

by Craig Schaefer

  A man hung in the circle of stone. He dangled from a crude rack of splintered wood, suspended by rusted hooks driven through his arms, his shoulder blades, the bottom of his chin. He’d been skinned, his own flesh drooping and crudely sewn back on his body, rents dangling loose here and there. His face was melted wax, with one eyelid stretched and dangling like a curtain of meat. His scream gave out. He stared with one mad and awestruck eye at the gathering before him.

  He wasn’t entirely flesh, wasn’t entirely spirit. Translucent, he faded in and out as the glowing stone pulsed under his feet.

  “How long was I in hell?” Benjamin Crohn panted, his voice a cracked-leather whisper. “What . . . what year is it?”

  Roman threw his hands in the air and headed for the door.

  “That’s it,” he said. “This shit just got way too weird. I’m out.”

  A second generator, concealed in the dark, hummed awake. A projector mounted in the rafters flickered on, and projected a shaft of hot light across the cinder-block wall. The window of light became a television screen. And on the screen, a grinning face waved to the room.

  “Hey, folks,” he said, “Bobby Diehl here. Don’t touch that dial! Or that doorknob, at least—not if you want to get rich.”

  Roman turned toward the screen. “Bobby? You still owe me money from the Red Knight job. And from what I hear, your company isn’t doing so good these days.”

  Victoria glanced his way. “You two know each other?”

  “Temporary setbacks.” Bobby waved his hand. “Water under the bridge. I’ve got a new and exciting proposition, and I guarantee you’re all going to want to get in on the ground floor.”

  Althea raised her chin, staring up at Bobby’s image. “Sounds like an infomercial. You’ve got my attention for the next ninety seconds. Then I walk.”

  “I won’t even need half. See, you folks may be strangers, but you all have something very special in common. Each and every one of you has had an unfortunate run-in with some mutual enemies.”

  New windows popped up around Bobby’s face. Photographs, surveillance stills, a few moving frames from a security-camera feed. Victoria bared her teeth and let out a feral hiss at the screen, her burned face twitching. Althea’s eyes smoldered in the shadows.

  “Harmony Black,” Bobby said, “Jessie Temple, Kevin Finn, and Dr. April Cassidy. To say they’ve caused a little trouble for all of us is an understatement.”

  “I want Harmony’s face,” Victoria said with a snarl.

  “Kevin,” Roman muttered. “I owe that little twerp some payback. Hard-core payback.”

  “Do whatever you want to the rest,” Althea said, “but Jessie? Jessie is mine.”

  Roman looked between her and the screen. “You’ve got the same eyes.”

  “She’s my kid,” Althea said. “My blood. She just needs reminding of that fact.”

  Gleeful, Bobby twirled his hand. The photographs whirled across the screen, lining up on his left. He sat behind his desk and gestured to them one at a time like a newscaster giving a weather report.

  “Let’s see what they’ve got. Quite a mixed bag of talents! There’s the witch, the wolf, the hacker, and the profiler. Now what do we have here, in this fine assembly of upstanding citizens?” Bobby put his hand to his mouth, as if just realizing something. “Well, would you look at that. The witch, the wolf, the hacker, and the profiler.”

  Roman put his hands on his hips. “Where are you going with this, Bobby?”

  “I’m just struck by the fact that the four of you can do everything the four of them can, but unhindered by pesky little things like morality or ethics.” Bobby grinned. “Let me lay it on the line for you: I’m starting a team of my own. And you four are my first-round draft picks. My MVPs.”

  “And what’s in it for us?” Roman asked.

  “For you? Money, revenge, and access to tech you can’t even dream of. Diehl Innovations has next-next-generation electronics, and I’ll equip you with the best of the best. For Dr. Carnes, money, revenge, and access to a cutting-edge surgical facility, pun fully intended. Your own staff, your own supply of body parts. Please don’t harvest the staff for body parts—it’s hard to find good help these days. For the lovely Ms. Temple-Sinclair—”

  She slammed her fist into her open palm. “Money, revenge, and my kid. That’s the deal. Nonnegotiable.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of haggling. There’s a private island where the two of you can spend some valuable mother-daughter bonding time. It’s equipped with a spacious estate, a gourmet kitchen, and a very sturdy cage. Now, as for former director Crohn . . .”

  Bobby held up a remote control, smirking.

  “Sorry, pal. You cost me a lot of money and caused a lot of headaches, so for you it’s more of a ‘Do what I tell you, when I tell you, until I decide you’ve paid your debt to me’ kind of situation. Oh, and if I hit this button, the containment pentacle goes off-line, and your little playmates drag you back to hell for all eternity. Which would be hilarious for me, but really suck for you.”

  Crohn’s glimmering shade stared up at the screen with his one good eye, silent.

  “We’ll need resources,” Althea said. “Reliable transport, air and ground—”

  “The Concierge will see to your needs on that end,” Bobby said. “Think of him—or her, not really sure, to be honest—as the fifth member of the team.”

  He spread his hands wide. “So. For the three of you who actually have a choice, what do you say? Are you in?”

  “In,” Victoria hissed, her gaze riveted on the image of Harmony’s face.

  Roman shrugged. “Sure, why not? Sounds like fun.”

  “It’s almost unanimous,” Bobby said, putting his hand to his ear. “So, what say you? What’s the final verdict?”

  Althea stepped forward. Front and center, squaring her shoulders as she stared up at the screen. The projector light flickered in her predator’s eyes. Behind her, Roman, Victoria, and Crohn looked on.

  “I’m in,” Althea told him. “We’re all in. Let’s get to work.”

  AFTERWORD

  For Jessie and her team, a new day is about to begin. And a new chapter in a very old war. Vigilant may have won its independence, but with everyone from the courts of hell to Bobby’s new team lining up to take a shot at them, the good guys are going to have their hands full.

  But they have a plane now. That might help a little.

  In any case, the adventure will continue—and thank you so much for joining us! Couldn’t do what I do without you. I also couldn’t do it without Andrea Hurst, my developmental editor; Sara Brady, my copyeditor; and Adrienne Procaccini at 47North. Thanks also go out to Christina Traister, our audiobook narrator, and to Susannah Jones for lending a hand with my location research in NYC. As always, any good stuff is because of my team; any mistakes are entirely mine.

  Want a heads-up when new books are coming out? Head over to www.craigschaeferbooks.com/mailing-list/. Once-a-month newsletters, no spam. You can also find me at www.facebook.com/CraigSchaeferBooks, as @craig_schaefer on Twitter, or just drop me an e-mail at craig@craigschaeferbooks.com.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo © 2014 Karen Forsythe

  Craig Schaefer’s books have taken readers to the seamy edge of a criminal underworld drenched in shadow through The Daniel Faust Series; to a world torn by war, poison, and witchcraft by way of The Revanche Cycle series; and across a modern America mired in occult mysteries and a conspiracy of lies in The Harmony Black Series. Despite this, people say he’s strangely normal. He currently lives in Illinois, where he can be found haunting museums, libraries, abandoned crossroads, and other places where dark fantasy authors tend to congregate. He also practices sleight of hand in his spare time, although he’s not very good at it.

 

 

  From.Net