He did relax, lying back on the bed. The memories flooded back, along with the realization that he wasn’t dead. Somehow he’d survived the trip out of the manor to a hospital. He remembered his wounds—he could feel those wounds—and they should have been enough to end him.
And yet, here he was.
He couldn’t decide if that was a good thing or a bad one. Slowly, he forced his eyes open and saw that he was in a hospital room. Frieda sat on the chair next to him, exhausted and with bags under her eyes.
“Where am I?” he asked.
“Mount Calden Hospital,” she said. “A private room. What the hell were you thinking?”
Arthur ignored her question. “How long was I out?”
“A week,” she said. “We cleaned up all of your wounds. The doctors didn’t think you would make it, but I had faith.”
Arthur laughed. “Faith? If God was real, She would have allowed me to die.”
“Maybe you’re still alive for a purpose.”
He nodded. “Punishment.”
“Arthur…”
“Did any get away?” he asked, changing the subject.
“A handful,” she said. “But no one important. You killed all of the demons except two.”
“What about the girl?”
Frieda didn’t respond. Arthur turned to face her.
“The girl,” Arthur said. “The one on the table. Is she safe?”
“She is,” Frieda said. “For now.”
“What do you mean?”
“We have her in observation until the Council makes a decision.”
“A decision about what?”
Frieda hesitated. “Whether or not to kill her,” she relented finally.
Arthur leaned forward, his entire body aching. “What?”
“She is a risk,” Frieda said. “No one knows what they were doing to her. We found documents, but we can’t make sense of them. All we know is, it was bad and she could be dangerous.”
“She’s a little girl.”
“And she could be dangerous,” Frieda reiterated. “The Council will make a decision about whether we are going to kill her or study her in the next few days.”
Arthur swung his legs over the bed, agony pouring through his body. He half-climbed and half-fell off the bed, and only Frieda catching him kept him from landing face first on the floor.
“What are you doing?” Frieda asked. Machines started beeping angrily.
“Where is she?”
“Arthur, get back in bed.”
“Where is she?” he repeated, staring at Frieda. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words came out.
“The room next door,” she said finally. “To the left.”
The door to his room burst open and a doctor and several hospital personnel came rushing in. “Sir, I’m going to need you to get back into bed—”
“Move,” Arthur said, shambling toward the door and pushing past them. A cord in his arm stopped him, and he yanked out the IV and dropped it onto the floor before continuing.
“Sir!”
Arthur ignored the doctor and went into the hall. He stumbled down to the next room. A guard stood out front, another of Frieda’s hunters that Arthur had known for a long time: Charles Greathouse. Charles moved to block the way, but a look from Arthur stopped him cold.
“Let me in,” he said.
Charles hesitated and then nodded. He opened the door and let Arthur through. Behind him in his room he heard Frieda speaking with the doctor, but Arthur couldn’t tell what was being said.
He didn’t much care either. He walked slowly into the room, limping. The girl was tiny in the enormous hospital bed, fast asleep. She was clean now, just a beautiful girl with no trace of what had happened to her etched on her face.
It was hard to believe what she must have gone through in that manor, surrounded on all sides by evil. Arthur walked over to the bed and stood beside it. Charles slid a padded chair over to him and helped him sit down in it.
He heard Frieda walk into the room, her heels clipping on the hard floor. “If anyone wants to touch a single hair on this girl’s head,” he said, “then they will have to go through me.”
“Arthur…”
“I won’t let the Council harm her,” he said. “Relay that message to them, and if they have any questions they can bring them to me directly.”
“You can’t—”
“You said I was still here for a purpose,” he interrupted, his voice steady. “Right now, my purpose is to kill anyone who tries to harm this child.”
Frieda was silent for a long moment. “Very well.”
He heard her shoes clipping as she left the room. A few minutes later, his bed was wheeled in and placed alongside the girl’s. Arthur was helped back in and the IV reattached.
Charles Greathouse took the chair Arthur had been sitting in and wheeled it next to Arthur. They sat in silence, listening to the machines beep and enjoying the company.
One of the nurses brought in a syringe and went to his IV. Arthur grabbed the IV line and looked suspiciously at the woman.
“What is that?”
“Pain medicine,” the woman said. “Mixed with Phenergan.”
“No,” he said, looking at the girl. “No pain medicine. Nothing to make me sleepy.”
“It’s all right,” Charles said, gently extricating the line from Arthur’s weak grip. “No one will touch her while you rest. I swear to it on my life.”
Arthur hesitated for a second longer and then nodded. He’d known Charles for a long time, and he was as honorable as they came.
Besides, even alert and ready Arthur wouldn’t be able to put up much resistance. Right now, more than anything, he needed to recover.
The drugs were cold as they entered his system, and he instantly felt his body relax. The nurse pushed the dose, told him to call if he needed anything, and then left.
Arthur lay in the bed, swimming in the sensations and trying to come to terms with everything that had happened to him.
“Her name is Abigail,” Charles said after a few moments of silence.
“Abigail,” Arthur echoed. The perfect name, he decided, for a perfect little girl.
“Did you really go in alone?” Charles asked.
“Yeah,” Arthur said.
“Bodies were everywhere,” Charles said. “When we got there we thought an army had attacked them. I heard…but I mean, I didn’t think anyone could do something like that alone. Why even risk it?”
“I was planning to die,” Arthur said. The words just slipped out. “I didn’t have anything left to live for.”
A moment passed. “I’m sorry about your family,” Charles said. “I can’t imagine losing my wife or children. I suppose that without them it would feel like there’s no reason to go on.”
Arthur glanced over at the girl lying in the bed next to him. The drugs were taking hold, and he knew it would only be seconds before he was completely unconscious.
“There is now.”
About the Author
Lincoln Cole is a Columbus-based author who enjoys traveling and has visited many different parts of the world, including Australia and Cambodia, but always returns home to his pugamonster puppy, Luther, and family. His love for writing was kindled at an early age through the works of Isaac Asimov and Stephen King and he enjoys telling stories to anyone who will listen.
All Works by Lincoln Cole
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A Sample From Raven’s Peak
Prologue – The Reverend
“Reverend, you have a visitor.”
He couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.
“Open D4.”
A buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The aching need was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each time the lash licked his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched skin fulfilled him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm summer’s day.
“Some woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is Frieda.”
A pause, the lash hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog through knee-deep mud to reclaim those memories.
It was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he managed to cling to was the name. Frieda. It was the name of an angel, he knew… or perhaps a devil.
One and the same when all was said and done.
She belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were nothing compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his flesh.
The lash struck down on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood against the wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months, he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral grin as the whip landed with a sickening, wet slapping sound.
“Jesus,” a new voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every morning.”
“You’ll cuff him?”
“Why? Are you scared?”
The Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man, you said he was crazy…but this…”
The lash came down, lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let out a groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren’t worth his time.
“I think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month in the hospital.”
“Regulation says we have to.”
“Then you do it.”
The guards fell silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More blood. More agony. More pleasure.
“I don’t think we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good idea. Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts himself. Right, Reverend?”
The air tasted of copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he would kill himself.
How ironic was that?
“Right, Reverend?”
Mirrors were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend? Can you hear me?”
The guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The lash hung in the air, ready to strike at its new prey.
The Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized him as one of the first guardsmen he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but well-intentioned.
Most of him didn’t want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone; the sound as it snapped would be …
A symphony rivaling Tchaikovsky.
The second guard—the younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to draw his gun.
“No! No, don’t!”
That from the first, on his knees as if praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his family before heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make it home safely from work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip his throat out or gouge out his eyes. Right now, he was waving his free hand at his partner to get his attention, to stop him.
The younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t shoot, Ed!”
“Let him go!”
The older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
The look that crossed his young partner’s face in that moment was precious: primal fear. It was an expression the Reverend had seen many times in his life, and he understood the thoughts going through the man’s mind: he couldn’t imagine how he might die in this cell, but he believed he could. That belief stemmed from something deeper than what his eyes could see. A terror so profound it beggared reality.
An immutable silence hung in the air. Both guards twitched and shifted, one in pain and the other in terror. The Reverend was immovable, a statue in his sanctuary, eyes boring into the man’s soul.
“Don’t shoot,” the guard on his knees murmured. “You’ll miss, and we’ll be dead.”
“I have a clear shot. I can’t miss.”
This time, the response was weaker. “We’ll still be dead.”
A hesitation. The guard lowered his gun in confused fear, pointing it at the floor. The Reverend curled his lips and released, freeing the kneeling guard.
The man rubbed his shoulder and climbed shakily to his feet. He backed away from the Reverend and stood beside the other, red-faced and panting.
“I heard you,” the Reverend said. The words were hard to come by; he’d rarely spoken these last five years.
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” the guard replied meekly. “My mistake.”
“Bring me to Frieda,” he whispered.
“You don’t—” the younger guard began. A sharp look from his companion silenced him.
“Right away, sir.”
“Steve, we should cuff…”
Steve ignored him, turning and stepping outside the cell. The Reverend looked longingly at the lash in his hand before dropping it onto his hard bed. His cultivated pain had faded to a dull ache. He would need to begin anew when he returned, restart the cleansing.
There was always more to cleanse.
They traveled through the black-site prison deep below the earth’s surface, past neglected cells and through rough cut stone. A few of the rusty cages held prisoners, but most stood empty and silent. These prisoners were relics of a forgotten time, most of whom couldn�
�t even remember the misdeed that had brought them here.
The Reverend remembered his misdeeds. Every day he thought of the pain and terror he had inflicted, and every day he prayed it would wash away.
They were deep within the earth, but not enough to benefit from the world’s core heat. It was kept unnaturally cold as well to keep the prisoners docile. That meant there were only a few lights and frigid temperatures. Last winter he thought he might lose a finger to frostbite. He’d cherished the idea, but it wasn’t to be. He had looked forward to cutting it off.
There were only a handful of guards in this section of the prison, maybe one every twenty meters. The actual security system relied on a single exit shaft as the only means of escape. Sure, he could fight his way free, but locking the elevator meant he would never reach the surface.
And pumping out the oxygen meant the situation would be contained.
The Council didn’t want to bring civilians in on the secretive depths of their hellhole prison. The fewer guards they needed to hire, the fewer people knew of their existence, and any guards who were brought in were fed half-truths and lies about their true purpose. How many such men and women, he’d always wondered, knew who he was or why he was here?
Probably none. That was for the best. If they knew, they never would have been able to do their jobs.
As they walked, the Reverend felt the ritual wash away and he became himself once more. Just a man getting on in years: broken, pathetic, and alone as he paid for his mistakes.
Finally, they arrived at the entrance of the prison: an enclosed set of rooms cut into the stone walls backing up to a shaft. A solitary elevator bridged the prison to the world above, guarded by six men, but that wasn’t where they took him.
They guided him to one of the side rooms, opening the door but waiting outside. Inside were a plain brown table and one-way mirror, similar to a police station, but nothing else.
A woman sat at the table facing away from the door. She had brown hair and a white business suit with matching heels. Very pristine; Frieda was always so well-dressed.
“Here we are,” the guard said. The Reverend didn’t acknowledge the man, but he did walk into the chamber. He strode past the table and sat in the chair facing Frieda.
The Ninth Circle (World on Fire - Side Jobs Book 1) Page 3