by Lincoln Cole
“The evidence won’t be,” Frieda said. “I can promise you that.”
“Then, I pray for her sake that you are right,” Jun said. “I would greatly appreciate having a clean conscience at the end of this trial.”
“That’s all I ask,” Frieda said.
He nodded at her and said his goodbyes, and then he terminated the connection. His image flickered out of existence, leaving only an empty chair in the conference room.
Frieda turned to Deborah. “What do you say? Will you vote to absolve Abigail of these crimes and give her a second chance?”
Deborah stayed silent for a long minute, staring at Frieda and pursing her lips. By the time she spoke, Frieda already knew that she’d lost her vote. “I fear you all made a grave error all those years ago,” Deborah said. “In allowing Abigail to live. This would be considerably easier if you’d dealt with her as a child when the Council ordered it, and if I were a member the first time, things would have been handled considerably better.”
And then she, too, terminated the connection before Frieda had time to respond. Frieda let out a growl, alone in the conference room once more, and tossed the digital glasses onto the table. They skidded and bounced to the center. She pushed her chair back and climbed to her feet, wanting to hit something.
A moment later, the door opened. Martha padded silently into the room carrying a tray of tea. The assistant set the tray on the conference table and collected the glasses, sliding them into her pocket.
Frieda took a cup and poured a small amount of the hot liquid, hands trembling in frustration. She took a sip, and then set the cup back onto the tray.
“What am I supposed to do?” Frieda asked. “The Council is full of cowards and liars, and I’m supposed to convince them that Abigail proves no threat.”
“She did capture and make a deal with Delaphene,” Martha said in soft tones. “And torture, if you believe what the demon says.”
Frieda frowned. She felt furious with Abigail, not only for kidnapping a demon but doing it behind her back. She was forced to find out from the Hunters weeks later what Abigail had done when they found Delaphene raving in Arthur’s cabin in the woods.
Worse, if Delaphene was to be believed, then Abigail had treated and bargained with her—an executable offense on its own. Very few members of the Council, and certainly no Hunters, had permission to converse with demons.
Luckily, Frieda could dismiss those charges by pointing out the manipulative nature of demons. Delaphene wasn’t to be trusted, and no one would give her testimony any weight. It could even hurt Aram if he tried to push too hard because the Council stood firmly against ever dealing with demons, even in a case like this.
“Thirteen votes,” she said. “I need one more.”
“We will get it,” Martha said. “Do you think Jun or Deborah will side with us?”
“We have to convince Jun. Aram got to Deborah already, and I don’t like the idea of her having the swing vote. Are there any others we initially dismissed that I could reach out to?”
“You could entreat Victor,” Martha said.
Frieda hated the idea. She’d known Victor for a long time, and he was a strong advocate for revoking her command over the Hunters. He wanted to have them serve the Council directly, and didn’t like her having any autonomy with how she used her soldiers.
Still, he wasn’t a friend of Aram’s either. Maybe she could promise him some future favor to get him on her side. Frieda would even relinquish some control if it would win him to her side.
It had to be worth the attempt if nothing else.
“Try to contact him,” Frieda said. “And set up a meeting.”
“Of course.”
“Let’s just pray—” Frieda said. “—that nothing else comes up in the trial. Did you find anything else about what evidence Aram intends to use?”
“Only Delaphene and the disobeying of your orders,” Martha said. “He hasn’t given a notion about anything else.”
Frieda nodded. “Let’s just hope that’s all there is. With any luck, all of this will be behind us in a month or two.”
Chapter 5
“Did you find her?” Jim Fronson asked when Michael made it back to the Paris safe house. They’d rented a room in a two-story outdoor motel with a clear view of the street. It seemed a pleasant room with a lot of amenities and quick access to the city, though they didn’t expect to stay the night if everything went according to plan.
They’d landed earlier this morning, and it proved rainy and dreary in the city. Already, Jim looked forward to leaving: he’d always found Paris a dreary place, full of pretentious people trying too hard to impress outsiders.
He’d arrived at the motel a few hours earlier, after acquiring a pair of illegal pistols. Michael had gone out searching for their target at all of her known haunts. He’d expected it to take several more hours for his partner to return, and it surprised him to see him back so quickly.
She must have no idea she was being hunted.
And why should she? They were damn good at their jobs, keeping a low profile and maintaining distance until it came time to strike.
Luckily for Jim, that time had come.
“Yeah,” Michael said. “I found her. At a bookstore, browsing.”
“On her way out?”
“Settling in. She’ll probably be there a couple of hours.”
“Good.”
“Do you know who she is?”
Jim shook his head. “No clue,” he said. “And I don’t care. It isn’t our place to ask. You know that.”
Michael shrugged. “I know, just wondering. I like to know what I’m getting myself into.”
“Probably the Ninth Circle.”
“You think she’s a cultist? Too cute to be one if you ask me.”
“Aram told us that this job was need-to-know, and we sure as hell don’t need to know who she is. We’re just grabbing her and taking her back.”
Michael shrugged. “I don’t care that much.”
“Well, drop the curiosity and get your game face on. It’s time to get to work. Did she spot you?”
“No,” his partner said. “She’s completely unaware that we’re following her.”
“Good,” Jim said. “This’ll be easy.”
“She’s small too,” Michael said. “Won’t put up much of a fight.”
“You ready?” Jim handed one of the pistols to his friend.
Michael checked the clip, made sure a bullet sat in the chamber, and then nodded. “Definitely.”
***
Jim Fronson and Michael Epplinger strode through Paris on opposite sides of the street, keeping an eye on their prey, as she walked down the right-hand sidewalk. She didn’t seem to have any clue that they tailed her, but they kept their distance anyway. They didn’t want to take any chances.
Michael had it right, she did look cute; at least as much of her face as Jim could see. She had a wide-brimmed hat pulled low over her face and never seemed to glance in his direction.
That suited him fine, though. Only her body interested him, anyhow, and he could see how nice that was. She wore loose-fitting clothes and had a long coat over her shoulders to avoid the rain, but just the way she moved gave him enough to know her to be well-built and athletic: his kind of woman.
The rain sprinkled, but not enough to worry about an umbrella. She’d been in that bookshop for almost two hours while they kept watch, waiting for an opportunity to grab her. They couldn’t risk coming in guns blazing and causing a scene because they couldn’t risk her getting injured. It was important that they capture her alive and get her back to Aram in one piece: he wouldn’t accept anything less.
She turned a corner into an alleyway shortcut behind a few buildings. Off the beaten path. They’d found their opening. He signaled for Michael, and then he followed her in, picking up his pace. The woman walked at a leisurely rate, carrying her stack of books and with her head down to avoid the wind and rain.
; Jim slipped a bottle of chloroform out of his pocket and a rag, soaking the chemicals into the cloth. He didn’t know why Aram wanted this particular girl—and to be honest, he was a little curious—but it wouldn’t be difficult getting her back to the motel once he’d knocked her out. From there they could get her onto the private jet and fly her to Switzerland.
He glanced back, making sure Michael remained behind him. His partner strolled casually into the alley. Most people stayed inside this late in the day, avoiding the rough weather, and so they didn’t have to worry about anyone noticing them while they captured the young woman.
They moved deeper into the alley, completely out of sight of any bystanders. Mike walked backward and made sure that no one followed them. Jim had his opening.
But when he turned back to look for the girl, she had gone.
“What the hell?” he muttered, stopping. A chill ran up his spine, but he brushed the concern away. He looked around and tried to figure out where she might have hidden.
No doors broke the wall near where she’d been walking, and the only access points into the shops would be closed and locked this late. Even if one wasn’t locked, he hadn’t heard a door open or close, so she hadn’t taken that route.
A large dumpster sat up ahead, the huge monstrosities that apartment and industrial complexes used. That’s where she would be. She must have realized she had someone following her and ducked behind it to try and hide. It was the only place she could have gotten to while he hadn’t actually stood looking at her.
Still … it looked far up ahead, and he, probably, would have heard her running if she made it all the way up there.
The realization that he felt unsure what had happened left him unnerved. He’d only looked away for a few seconds. Jim liked to be in control of the situation, and he had the terrible feeling that something wasn’t quite right.
No reason to panic, though. Maybe he hadn’t heard her running because of the rain, and he had no doubt he would find her cowering behind the huge dumpster. No sense adding in monsters where there weren’t any.
He moved forward, toward the huge green box, drawing his nine-millimeter just in case. Aram didn’t want him to injure the girl, but he wouldn’t risk his life without good reason. He crept slowly, controlling his breathing, and stepped around the side to where the girl should be hiding.
Nothing.
Empty.
“What the hell?” he muttered again, shaking his head. He looked further down the alley to anywhere else the girl might have hidden, but could see nowhere else that she could have reached in the few seconds he’d looked away. “Mike, are you seeing this?”
No response.
“Mike?” He turned around.
His breath caught in his throat.
Mike hung from a noose in the alley, maybe ten meters behind him, swinging to and fro. Someone had tied the rope to a balcony a few levels down from the roof.
His stomach cut open, entrails flopped down, but he hadn’t died yet. He clutched at the rope around his throat with one hand and tried to hold his stomach in with the other. His legs kicked in the air, trying unsuccessfully to find something to stand on.
A chill ran down Jim’s spine when he saw his friend dangling there; something had gone terribly, horribly wrong. He’d seen Mike maybe thirty seconds ago, and his friend was fine. He’d heard nothing …
None of this made sense.
Mike just dangled there, slowly dying before his eyes. Jim stood, watching with his mouth hanging open and trying to get his body to move. He felt frozen. He had no idea what was going on but he knew they’d come drastically unprepared for this situation.
“Hang on,” he mumbled, looking for some way to get his friend down.
Mike swung five meters up in the air, too high to cut loose. He could try shooting the rope down like they did in the movies, but it was way harder to shoot a swinging line than Hollywood made it seem. Most likely, Mike would die before he managed to hit his target and free him.
Still, he didn’t see any better options. He raised his gun and aimed up above his friend’s head. “Hang on,” he said. Maybe he would get lucky.
“Convenient, isn’t it?” a voice said from behind him.
He spun, panicking, and saw the girl they’d followed standing in the center of the alley behind him. She looked calm, her hat pulled low over her face so that he would only see her lips.
“I don’t need to go hunting for you when you come to me. Isn’t this just a stroke of good luck?”
“Who are you?” Jim asked.
“I’m the person who is going to kill you,” she said. “But not just yet. Take a moment to say goodbye to your friend if you like. He has a few moments left.”
Jim raised the pistol to fire at her, but she moved even faster than he could have imagined. She spun, flinging her overcoat into the air between them. It billowed in the wind, spreading out and obscuring his sight. Jim pulled the trigger over and over, spreading his shots in a wide pattern and hoping that one of the bullets would hit her. He aimed low, figuring she would stay close to the ground, and kept firing.
The gunshots barked in the alley, echoing back at him. He emptied half the clip as the coat settled to the ground.
She wasn’t there.
A scuffling sound came from his left, and he looked up to see her crawling across the wall toward him. Her body contorted unnaturally, and she moved at an incredible speed. He turned to fire at her, but she leaped out from the wall before he could pull the trigger.
She kicked the gun, and when he fired, the bullet went wide. She landed on his chest, staggering him and knocking him to the ground. He landed with a thud, the back of his head bouncing on the pavement. It dazed and disoriented him, and he couldn’t quite get his bearings.
She ripped the gun from his grasp, and her other hand grabbed his hair. Then she slammed his head against the pavement again.
“Wha …?” he muttered, struggling to stay conscious.
“Are you asking what I am?” she asked, climbing to her feet. “Or why I’m doing this?”
He tried to stand, and she kicked him in the stomach, knocking him back down. He had to find a way to stand and fight back, or he would end up dead.
“I am exactly what I was made to be. I was fine resting away, but you and your kind had to bring me back. As for why I am doing this? That’s simple. It’s the job I was given. I am nothing if not efficient in taking care of my responsibilities.”
The woman drew a knife from her boot. An ornate and beautiful dagger, curved and covered in gems and rubies. Jim moaned and crawled away, trying to make it back to the street to maybe find help.
A heel pressed into his lower back, digging painfully into the bone and tender muscle there.
“But I sincerely mean it when I say thank you. Thank you so much for coming to me and making my job a lot easier. I mean, the more of you I kill now, the easier my job will become.”
She dug the heel in deeper, and her breath came warm on his neck when she leaned down to whisper in his ear.
“Enjoy hell.”
And then he felt a knife press against his throat and slice across the soft skin, opening his jugular. Blood spilled out, hot and sticky, as he tried to hold his throat closed. The wound went deep, and he grew weaker each time his heart pumped.
“Ah,” she said, walking away down the alley. “I love the smell of fresh blood in the evening.”
And then he knew nothing more.
Chapter 6
By the time Haatim finished speaking, his throat felt dry and exhaustion drained him. He’d talked for almost four hours, recounting the events that had taken place in Raven’s Peak, leading up to the showdown with Belphegor.
The Council members sat around the conference table, staring at him and listening to his story. Occasionally, one of them chimed in with a question or asked for clarification on a point, but for the most part, they allowed him to speak uninterrupted.
He had, originally
, planned to tell the entire series of events from when Abigail had found him, hoping it would serve in her favor to have the Council know how she’d rescued him.
Frieda had counseled him against it, however, because those events included the kidnap and meeting with Delaphene, as well as meeting with Sara. Neither of which would help Abigail at all. Haatim didn’t feel comfortable lying about that or trying to dance around the truth, so he’d elected to start with them arriving at the city.
So, he answered things as well as he could, telling the truth about everything. The showdown with Belphegor the only part he did modify slightly. The last few moments of the fight when he’d entered the factory. Instead, he said that he’d stood in the doorway and watched while Abigail took down the demon, and that fear had paralyzed him.
Not so far from the truth.
Silence enveloped the room once he had stopped talking. The other thirteen people stared at him, expressions ranging from annoyed to pensive. A long few minutes passed, and then one of his father’s supporters spoke up.
“Is any of your account verifiable by another source?” Ferris Kollam asked.
Frieda had warned him about Ferris. The old man had brown skin and an owl-like face. He always looked angry about something, and during Haatim’s story, he had asked the most pointed and least useful questions, trying to discredit everything Abigail did and cast a negative light on her actions.
“No one else who would be allowed to give testimony at this trial was present,” Frieda said. “Haatim is our best and only eyewitness.”
“So, we don’t know if any of this is true?”
“We know that it was recounted as faithfully as possible by our only eyewitness,” Frieda said. “The son of a Council member.”
“Eyewitnesses are notoriously bad evidence in a trial,” Ferris said. “And, he himself claims that he felt afraid much of the time. Does not fear sour memories?”
“Yet, when there is no alternative method for acquiring evidence, we would be wise to take the word of an actual witness to the events that transpired rather than mere speculation.”
