by DC Malone
“I can use my hands,” Luka grumbled, easing Carter down onto the table. “He will be treated with dignity, and it will be quick. There will be no pain.”
“Jesus, Luka!” I took a quick step forward and immediately regretted it when the whole room began to sway back and forth like a ship in rough waters. “We are not killing him!”
“You just said that we cannot know if or when the demon will relinquish control.” Luka noticed my discomfort and guided me into one of the chairs by the table. “He is a danger to Makayla as long as he draws breath,” Luka said calmly. “I know you see that too.”
“I do,” I replied. All of my vim and bluster was gone, and it was all I could do to keep from plopping my head down against the cool surface of the table and calling it a day. “That is why I want to secure him. Tie him up and keep him under lock and key until we know for sure. He won’t be able to hurt anyone, even himself, if he’s in our custody—my custody—until we have this thing figured out.”
“What if he escapes?” Luka asked. “What if the demon sends another of its minions to free him? There is a multitude of contingencies for which you cannot plan.”
“There are always a million what ifs, Luka.”
“Precisely my point. If there is even the slightest chance that Carter might regain his freedom, my niece is at risk. I will not allow that.”
I stiffened as Luka reached toward Carter’s prone body. “Don’t make me soul shock you into oblivion, big man. You’ve seen what I’m capable of.”
“My concern would be greater if I thought you could get out of that chair under your own power.”
He had a point.
“Listen, man, just don’t hurt him. It’s not his fault this happened.” If it was anyone’s fault, it was mine. Once I knew a little more about what I was up against, I shouldn’t have dragged Carter out to that church. Playing Mulder and Scully was one thing, but I put him square in the path of a demon. It was an invitation for something like this to happen.
“It is not anyone’s fault,” Luka said, seemingly reading something of my thoughts in my expression. “And Carter may not deserve any of this. But as a great man once said, deserve’s got nothing to do with it.”
“I don’t care—wait, hold up a sec, did you really just quote Clint Eastwood at me?” I searched Luka’s impassive face for a hint of a smile, but he wouldn’t give anything up.
“I did say it came from a great man.” Luka’s voice was still all business, which either meant he was in fact serious, or he had perfected the art of deadpan. “You see that there is no other way, right?”
I shook my head. Some of the edge had worn off from my extreme tiredness, but I certainly wasn’t firing on all cylinders.
“Why not take him to someone with the Congregation?” I asked. “They can hold him until we have things settled with the demon, and you won’t have to worry about Makayla. That’s a win-win in my book.”
Luka shook his head. “The Congregation will not intervene in this matter.”
“Why on God’s Earth not? Aren’t they always just itching to intervene when there’s even the slightest chance the Norms will catch wind of the supernatural? Last time I checked, a big, circle-headed demon going around and persuading people into becoming murderers is pretty darn supernatural.”
“There is a line,” Luka said. “Even with them. They do the things that they do to keep our kind—Gifted—from being common knowledge. Demons, and other beings that exist on their plane, are beyond the scope of that oversight. Some forces are universal, affecting both Norm and Gifted alike, and the Congregation does not interfere with them as a matter of policy. To do so could have far-reaching ramifications. Besides, a large portion of humans has known about demons for centuries. The Congregation could do little to change that, even if they wanted to.”
The one time the Congregation’s meddling might have actually helped me, they chose not to as a matter of policy. I couldn’t say I was surprised.
“Take her and protect her,” I said, scrambling for something, anything, that would save Carter’s life. “You can do that, can’t you? I’ll keep a lid on Carter, and you take Makayla with you. Take her far from here. Call it a vacation.”
“She will likely resist,” Luka said after a moment’s hesitation. “And there is still the matter of her friend.”
“Take him too.”
“I do not—”
“Luka, for God’s sake, man! You are all primed and ready to kill a police officer to protect your niece. Let’s not pretend that’s the easy way out of this situation. It’s not too much to ask for you to take them both somewhere out of the city until this thing blows over, right?”
“I suppose,” Luka muttered.
“Yeah, I suppose, too. And don’t forget, I am the one who has to kidnap a detective and hold him against his will. Which, now that you’ve clarified the Congregation’s stance on the issue, means that if things go south, I’m going to be completely on my own. Don’t think I wouldn’t trade places with you in a heartbeat.”
“Perhaps it would be simpler just to kill him.” There was the slightest trace of smugness in Luka’s usually flat tone.
I paused for a moment to consider.
Don’t judge me too much. It wasn’t a long moment.
Chapter 15
I was officially a kidnapper. Kidnaptress? Nah, probably should keep it as basic as possible—this wasn’t a field I planned to continue in, nor one for which I wanted a custom title.
For the better part of three days and three nights I had babysat my hostage, and high-ranking detective with the NAPD, in my apartment while I waited to see what Hiram might dig up with those monks of his and considered my next move. And after nearly seventy-two hours cooped up with an irritatingly reasonable man who claimed to no longer be under the influence of any outside forces, I knew precisely what my next move was going to be.
I needed to get my boots back out onto the pavement. I needed to do anything other than stare at Carter and his passively bemused face for even one more hour. If good ol’ Lechbaalmet showed up and invited me for a night out on the town, followed by a rousing time of bowling in the underworld, I’d have been hard-pressed to turn the fella down.
Thankfully, I didn’t need a good-times-seeking demon to get me out of my apartment-cum-prison. All I needed was a willing and able babysitter. And I had a perfectly able friend who would be completely up to the task. The willing part of the equation was a little iffy, but I’d cross that bridge when she was already fully caught in my snare.
“Almost food time,” I said, startling Carter awake.
It was just after seven in the evening, and I’d spent the entire day up to that point watching Carter watch a marathon of true crime stories on television. I didn’t watch much television myself, and I hadn’t even had one hooked up before Carter’s stay. But I did own a tiny set that I had previously kept on the floor of my closet, just in case the couch potato bug ever bit me. I was able to get the thing to spew out a wealth of news and reality shows just from its built-in antenna. Oh, the wonders of technology.
It was that set that Carter now watched, and periodically dozed in front of, from his perch on my futon. His hands were cuffed—using his very own handcuffs that I found in his car—and the cuffs were connected to the radiator that sat along the wall beside the futon. The setup allowed Carter enough leeway to travel from the futon to the bathroom, which saved me from any embarrassing handholding, and allowed Carter some measure of dignity. Though, to my mind, some of his bathroom tasks seemed like they would be rather difficult in his bound state. But I didn’t ask, and Carter didn’t complain.
“Oh goodie, my favorite part of the day,” Carter said with a yawn. “Are you treating me to Sason’s again?”
He tried to sound cheerful about the prospect, but I could hear a hint of gastronomical fatigue in his voice. It wasn’t that the Middle Eastern food prepared one floor below us in my landlord’s restaurant was bad, quite the co
ntrary, but after seven straight meals from the same place, anyone would have been burned out. There wasn’t anything in the apartment to eat unless you counted a jar of coffee and half a roll of mints that came with the apartment when I moved in. I had never been a shopper, and even if I had been, I’d never been much of a cook. I didn’t even have a microwave.
So, that had left Sason’s to fill the void. After the first day with Carter, I had seriously considered ordering out, but a delivery person at my doorstep was an invitation to trouble that I wasn’t prepared to make. Better to dart downstairs a couple of times a day and put up with the lack of variety.
Not tonight, though. Tonight was going to be different. The food delivery girl on her way to me would not raise a stink if she caught sight of a chained man on my couch. And if I played my cards right, she’d spend the evening with said chained man and give me a break from my stir-crazy existence.
I smiled at the thought.
“Nope, no Sason’s tonight, my friend. You’re getting a full spread from Fiorello’s.”
“Italian food?” Carter said it like it was a foreign concept. “So, this is it, then? My last meal? Is it going to be poison in my lasagna, or are you going to smother me when I lapse into my inevitable food coma?”
“You’ll not die by my hand, but I can’t promise anything as to Fiorello’s hygiene standards. His food is tasty as sin, but I don’t think he’s ever encountered a health inspector he couldn’t buy off.”
I paced over to my front door, listening for the tell-tale taps of dainty little feet.
Nothing yet.
“What’s the special occasion, then?” Carter asked. “It hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been avoiding deliveries and anything else that might bring someone to our cozy little prison.”
“Well, you’re not just getting variety in your food,” I replied. “You’re also going to get some variety in your companionship. That is, if everything goes according to plan.”
Carter perked up at that, his dark eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “Oh, so it really is a special occasion. Does this mean you’re finally starting to believe me, Meredith? I’m not a danger to anyone. I can promise you that.”
I folded my arms across my chest. “No, Carter, it absolutely does not mean that in the least. We’ve been over this.” At least ten times a day. “I can’t be sure you’re you until the demon has been dealt with. You understand that, right?”
“Of course,” he answered, not at all deflated. “It’s perfectly reasonable after, uh, what I did.”
He always said the same thing. And he would continue to say the same thing until I broke the demon’s hold on him. It was so subtle, so insidious, that I almost believed him. I wanted to believe he was back to his old self. But no matter how polite, how exceedingly patient he was, I knew he was still affected.
It was simple, really. Carter, the real Carter, wouldn’t act that way. No sane person would. They would either freak out, get angry, and blow up about the whole thing after a day—or two, or three—or, if they were far more reasonable than someone like me, they’d simply give it up until the matter with the demon was finally resolved.
What they wouldn’t do is broach the subject a dozen or more times a day with complete and utter calmness. Borderline emotionlessness. His attempts were robotic in their sameness each time he tried to convince me. He didn’t get impatient, he didn’t become discouraged, he simply stated his case in a supernaturally calm tone and accepted the answer I gave.
It was kind of creepy.
If it turned out I was wrong, and it really was an uninfluenced Carter I was dealing with, then the man needed to speak with a shrink. No one should be that patient.
A soft knock at my door startled away my thoughts of a pod person Carter.
“Quick! Get in the bathroom!”
“Bathroom? I don’t need—”
“I don’t want her to see you,” I hissed. “Not yet at least.”
Carter smiled and shook his head, rising from the futon. His chains clattered brightly against the wooden floor. “So, that’s your game. You’re trying to palm me off on some poor, unsuspecting soul. Shame on you, Meredith Bale.” He chuckled to himself as he untangled his bindings and shambled off into the bathroom. He pushed the door closed as far as it would go, but the chain wouldn’t allow it to close completely.
I turned and yanked my front door open. Francie stood on the other side holding three large paper bags. The mouthwatering smell of tomato sauce and cheese hit me like a fist.
She was dressed simply in a gray, formfitting sweater and light-colored jeans. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy ponytail. It was her basic I’m-not-working-today outfit.
“Are you just going to stand there and let me crumple under the weight of all this food?”
“Sorry,” I said, taking two of the bags and leading the way into my apartment. “You’re just a sight for sore eyes is all.”
“I’m glad to see you, too, weirdo. But it’s not been that long. Although, I do think this is the longest you’ve been away from the bar in, well, since you started coming to the bar. How’s that liver treating you?”
“It’s purring like a newborn baby.” I plopped the food bags down onto my small dining table, and Francie added the one she held to the mix.
“I don’t think newborn babies purr, Mer. And speaking of the bar.” She pulled a white sheet of paper out of the back pocket of her jeans and handed it to me. “You’ve had a few drop-ins while you’ve been away. One of the more interesting cases involves an older woman who is convinced her husband is haunting her through one of her television sets. The fact that her husband is still alive makes the prospect seem unlikely, but that’s just my opinion.”
“Thanks for keeping track,” I said, “but those will probably have to wait for a bit.”
“Don’t mention it, it’s what I do—tend bar and take messages for you, apparently. What’s had you so wrapped up lately anyway? Still the case you’re working with the cop?”
“Yeah…” I darted an involuntary glance toward the bathroom door. “It’s gotten a little complicated this time.”
“When is it not complicated, Mer? Alright, lay it on me, then. That’s what this is, right? A venting session? I mean, you don’t typically call me up out of the blue and ask me to bring over more food than the two of us could possibly eat in three days.”
“Yeah, okay, it might be that. A little. But I did want to see you, too. What’s been going on with you while I’ve been persona non grata?” I did want to catch up with Francie, but more than that, I felt bad about duping her over here with ulterior motives. Not bad enough to change my mind, but still. When things settled down—if they ever did—I was going to have to focus on being a better friend to her. The kind of friend who didn’t just call a person up when I needed them to watch a kidnapped and demon-infested cop.
“Well, first of all, it’s really sweet of you to ask. And second, persona non grata does not mean what you think it does.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure, sweetie. I’m also pretty sure that nearly half of what you say doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
I think she may have had a point.
“And as for the wonderous adventures of Francie the Magnificent, they have been many and wildly varied. I have not only tended the bar, but I have also bartended quite a good deal. Oh, and our good buddy Nic has decided to move in with his latest conquest.”
“Cassio? Casso? That one guy he’s known for all of half a minute?”
“The very same. Which means he’s needed extra time off to get things squared away. Which, in turn, means I’ve tended bar… even more.”
“Can’t believe he’s already moving in with that guy,” I replied. “I’ve had a much longer, and probably more meaningful, relationship with the last tube of toothpaste I bought.”
“Who am I to question young love or your dental hygiene?” Francie tore open one of the bags fro
m Fiorello’s and began pulling out the tin trays. “The sad thing is, when he breaks it off in a month and decides to move back out, you know he’s going to want more time off.”
“I could always help out a little on the side,” I said. “When things are a little less hectic, I mean. You’re already acting like my secretary. The least I could do is return the favor.”
Francie froze with one of the food containers in her hand and turned her gaze on me instead. She narrowed her eyes. “That’s sweet of you to offer. Uncharacteristically sweet, actually.” She dropped the food tin to the table and spun slowly in place, looking around my apartment.
Great, two minutes in and I had already overplayed my hand. What was I thinking offering to tend bar for her? That didn’t sound like me. Actually, that did sound like me. It sounded just like me when I wanted a favor.
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Mer.” Francie continued eyeballing her surroundings suspiciously, letting her gaze linger in the direction of the futon and the quietly flickering TV. “But you offering to tend bar is like a prisoner offering to take over as warden for the day. One night of that and I’d be out of gin, and you, well, you’d likely be dead.”
“You’re probably right about that,” I said, trying to brush the subject aside.
My plan to butter her up was failing miserably. I was going to have to just spit it out before things went more off the rails than they already were.
“Francie—”
Something loud popped from the direction of my bathroom, causing both of us to jump.
I tried to move around the table and insinuate myself into Francie’s field of view, but she was faster and closer to the bathroom. She took a couple of steps in that direction, ignoring my attempts to block her.
“Meredith, are we not alone in here?”
“Well, that’s a funny story. And it’s only one part—a very small part—of the reason I asked you over here.”
I watched as Francie’s dark eyes latched onto the chain that was wrapped around the bars of the radiator, tracing the links to where they disappeared behind the bathroom door.
