by Lincoln Cole
“Slow down,” Abigail said. “Start over. None of this makes sense. You’re Arthur’s brother?”
He took a deep breath, and then nodded. “I’m Arthur’s younger brother. I’m also a fixer for the Council. I help them acquire supplies and equipment; the sort of rare and illegal stuff you don’t find at your everyday supermarket, you know?”
“So, Arthur brought you in to the Council?” she asked.
Mitchell shook his head, a sad look on his face. “No,” he said. “I brought Arthur in. Worst decision of my life.”
“So that’s why Arthur had your phone number.”
Mitchell nodded. “We weren’t supposed to stay in contact, but he would talk to me once in a while, and I got things for him without the Council’s knowledge.”
Abigail held up the binder. “What’s this? I found it locked in a safe in his basement, and I can’t read it.”
When he saw the documents, Mitchell paled. “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t read Latin.”
“How’d you know it was Latin?” Abigail narrowed her eyes.
He grew even paler. “You’re bleeding,” he said. “Let me … uh … let me take a look at that.”
She hesitated. “Fine, but I’m not done asking questions.”
Abigail pulled up her shirt, exposing her bandaged side, and gently, he pulled the bandage loose. She turned her head away and winced, expecting it to hurt, but barely noticed when it came off.
A long moment passed. Still looking away, Abigail asked, “Is it bad?”
Mitchell didn’t answer. She turned her head, looking down at the bullet hole in her side, expecting to see a painful, seeping wound that needed stitches.
Instead, a short and thin scar looked like it had already healed months earlier.
“What the hell?” she muttered, confused and shocked.
Mitchell glanced up at her, a worried frown on his face. “It’s started already.”
***
“What do you mean?” Abigail asked. “What started?”
“We need to talk to Frieda.” Mitchell took the binder of papers from Abigail and flipped through it. He spoke quickly, nearly frantic, “We knew that once Arthur went this would happen, but it wasn’t supposed to happen this fast.”
“What are you talking about?” Abigail’s blood ran cold. “What’s happening to me?”
Mitchell ignored her question. “We need to get to Frieda. She’ll know what to do.”
“Tell me what the hell is going on!”
“Where is she? Do you know where Frieda’s at? Oh God, I don’t know what to do. We need to find her.”
Abigail slid the gun out again but held it at her side rather than aiming it at him. He froze, mouth hanging open.
“Are you calm now?”
He stared at the gun, and then gulped. “Yeah, I’m good.”
“Tell me what’s going on.”
“I can’t,” he said softly. “Frieda forbade me from telling you. We need to get to her so that she can explain it.”
“Frieda’s not here, and we can’t get to her right now. You’re going to tell me everything you know. Got it?”
Mitchell stayed quiet for a minute, chewing the idea over in his mind. His eyes looked bloodshot, and he seemed to have a hard time focusing.
“Don’t make me shoot you.”
“All right,” he said, finally. “All right … okay. … But would you put the gun down? Please?”
Abigail did, sliding it away once more. Mitchell let out an overly dramatic sigh, and then collapsed back into his beanbag chair. He gestured for Abigail to sit on a sofa opposite him, but she didn’t budge. Instead, she stood in the doorway and kept her face impassive.
“Start talking.”
He rubbed his face. “Where to begin? When you were about ten, Arthur started to notice it happening and—”
“What happening?”
Mitchell frowned. “You were changing.”
A chill ran down Abigail’s spine. “What do you mean?”
“I mean you were changing,” Mitchell said. “I can’t explain it any better.”
“I was turning into something else?”
“Not exactly,” he said. “But sort of … evolving might be a better word. I don’t know much about what happened, just what Arthur told me, but it scared him to death. He said he was terrified of you.”
“I don’t remember …”
The thing was, she did remember some things. Abigail remembered feeling angry with Arthur, and she remembered inflicting pain; on pets, mostly, but occasionally other children as well.
She enjoyed it but had never understood why. It remained a part of herself that she didn’t like to think about. After a while, she’d grown out of it and assumed it had just been a phase she had gone through.
“You were quick to anger,” Mitchell said, speaking quietly. “He did tell me that.”
“Arthur always told me to control my emotions,” Abigail said in a voice lost in recall. “He told me that good soldiers never give in to their anger.”
“It’s true,” Mitchell said. “But that wasn’t the case for you. No, for you, it was something else. This amazing healing was there, too. You would cut yourself playing, and the wounds would close in front of Arthur’s eyes. You took pleasure in it, intentionally hurting yourself just to watch it heal.”
“I broke my wrist a long time ago,” she said. “When Arthur died. I thought I would have the scars forever, and then, one day, they just went.”
Abigail held up her wrist to show him, which bore no sign that there had ever been a wound there at all.
“When was this?”
“A month or two ago,” she said. “I don’t know. I didn’t notice at the time. You’re saying this happened when I was little?”
“Yes,” Mitchell said. “It started around your tenth birthday.”
Abigail shook her head. “I don’t remember much from those years. What are you saying? What was it that was happening to me?”
“I have no idea,” Mitchell said. “And neither did Arthur. I think Frieda knew, but she never told us. She was the one that fixed it.”
“What do you mean? She stopped me from … changing?”
“She came to me when you were twelve and gave me a list of ingredients and items to get a hold of. Some of them crazy expensive, and most would have gotten me killed if the Council knew what I’d done.”
“You mean Frieda didn’t tell the Council about it?”
Mitchell nodded. “What we did goes against, basically, every rule and law they have. Once I gathered the stuff, she and Arthur performed some ritual on you. It’s written out in that binder. I wasn’t there, but when it was over, Arthur slept for a week straight. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck.”
“What was the ritual?”
“A binding,” Mitchell said. “I think.”
“For what?”
“You,” Mitchell said. “And Arthur. Frieda bound your souls together.”
“Why?” Abigail felt fairly certain that she didn’t want to know the answer.
Mitchell sat in silence for a long moment, staring at her. Finally, he spoke, “So that whatever evil had corrupted you went into him instead.”
***
The words hit Abigail like a ton of bricks. She stood in the doorway, trying to breathe, and slowly shook her head. She wanted to deny it and scream at Mitchell for even suggesting something like this, but couldn’t. Part of her knew it as true, and had known all along.
Part of her had known all along that she held evil.
Abigail knew that that part existed, and no matter how hard she tried to dismiss it or pretend it didn’t exist, it always seemed ready to rear its ugly head at her.
Another thought wormed its way into her mind, bringing with it a sickening clarity. The gun shook in wobbly fingers, and Abigail dropped it to the floor. Her knees gave out, and Abigail dropped onto the sofa.
“You mean—” She rubbed her han
ds on her jeans. “—that everything Arthur went through—his fall, killing those people, going to jail, and dying—it all happened because of me?”
Mitchell hesitated for a long time, staring at Abigail with a look of such guilt and sadness that she thought he might cry. When he spoke, the single word filled her entire existence.
“Yes.”
***
“Arthur never wanted you to know this,” Mitchell said a few minutes later. “He wanted to keep it from you. This burden, he took on willingly and never regretted it.”
“Even when I killed him,” Abigail said with bitterness.
“You didn’t have control.”
“Apparently, I never had control.” She stared at the ground.
Abigail had known that Arthur gave up a lot to protect her, but never something like this. No, this felt too much, an unfathomable burden that she had placed on the man who had rescued her and given her a chance at life.
“Why?” she asked. “Why would he do this?”
“He loved you,” Mitchell said. “And, it wasn’t your fault. Whatever the cult did to you manifested, and Arthur wanted to spare you from it. He thought he could control it, and he did for many years. He only wanted you to have a normal life.”
“A normal life?” she asked.
“If he hadn’t done what he did, they would have executed you a lot sooner.”
“All the good that did,” Abigail said. “They’re still going to kill me, and the only difference is that I killed Arthur too.”
“Arthur’s death isn’t on your hands.”
“It is,” Abigail said. “It would have been better if he’d just let me die.”
“Self-pity won’t help anything.”
“You think this is self-pity?” she asked, angry. “It’s pragmatism. You said yourself, it’s starting again. Whatever evil lives inside me, it’s still here, and it’s coming back. Arthur knew he wouldn’t live forever, so why the hell would he do this?”
“He wanted to give you a chance at a life.”
“He only staved off the inevitable, and it cost him his life. Now, I have to carry that burden.”
“He loved you.”
“Then, why didn’t he tell me about this?” she asked. “Why am I only finding out about it now?”
Mitchell stared at her helplessly, not having an answer.
“Arthur has gone, and now I’m turning evil, what I was always meant to be, apparently.”
“You can learn to control it,” Mitchell said. “It doesn’t have to control you.”
“Arthur couldn’t control it,” Abigail said. “What chance do I possibly have?”
“I’m sorry,” Mitchell said. “I wish I had a better answer for you.”
“Me too.”
He held up the binder. “I have no clue what any of this means, but Frieda left it with Arthur. It could be important, and it might have clues as to something we can do to stop this change from happening.”
“I don’t know Latin,” Abigail said.
“I only know a bit,” Mitchell said. “Look, Abigail, I know you’re confused and upset, but Arthur loved you. He was willing to give up anything to protect you.”
“He lost his life because of me.”
“A sacrifice he was willing to make.”
Abigail didn’t know what to say. She’d cost Arthur so much.
“I’ll need time alone with this,” Mitchell said. “If you want, you can stay in here, and I’ll go out to the lobby.”
“No,” she said. “I’m off for a walk. I need to clear my head.”
Chapter 12
“Do you think Abigail’s all right?” Haatim asked.
They sat resting in the lobby of the Council Hotel, out of the cold. Haatim felt exhausted and drained after the last several weeks of training with Dominick and wished he could go back to training with Frieda.
Dominick was a lunatic; he’d decided.
They’d continued their daily hikes through the mountains, but those treks had become shorter and on much more treacherous trails. Though bitterly cold, Dominick insisted on always taking the most dangerous routes, climbing up and down cliff faces. Which meant it took less time, but Haatim felt just as sore, as he used more muscles. On top of that, the extra time they gained from shorter hikes meant more time sparring.
What sparring meant, basically, was that Dominick beat the crap out of Haatim while he tried to defend himself. Both mentally and physically draining, constantly he had to recover from one bruise or another.
It had some benefits to it, though; Haatim had never felt this strong in his entire life. The exercise had honed his physical prowess and coordination. He’d spent years playing Cricket and other agile sports, so he had a decent foundation of physical aptitude, but never anything on this scale.
“Abigail is fine.” Dominick took a sip of water.
Haatim stared through the lobby windows at the world beyond. It had snowed heavily for quite some time, but the wind had died down and the day had become serene and beautiful. A patrol group of six mercenaries passed about thirty meters away from the fence, each carrying assault rifles.
“Do you think they will find her?”
“Yes,” Dominick said. “Eventually. They won’t stop looking, and the longer she’s out there, the more people they’ll send after her.”
“Like you?”
He shrugged. “Aram knows we have history. He doesn’t trust me. But, if the manhunt goes on long enough, he won’t have a choice but to send me out as well.”
“If you found her, would you bring her in?”
Dominick fell silent for a long time. “I don’t know,” he said. “My job description doesn’t include disobeying the Council.”
“You know she’s innocent.”
“You saw her eyes,” Dominick said. “I’ve never seen anything like it, but you saw it too.”
Haatim hesitated. He had seen it, and the look of anger on her face had paralyzed him with fear. She had seemed like a completely different person, and not one he wanted to get on the bad side of.
“I did,” he said. “But we don’t know what’s going on. I shan’t condemn her until I have the whole truth. In either case, they’re trying to execute her for a crime she didn’t commit.”
“A lot of people have paid for crimes they didn’t commit,” Dominick said. “But, if I help her, I’ll end up paying for a crime I did commit.”
“The Council is wrong about her.”
“They make tough decisions every day,” Dominick said. “And they had compelling reasons to want Abigail dead.” After a brief hesitation, he said, “But, I also know they have this wrong. I’ve known Abigail for a long time, and the only thing she’s guilty of is being way too stubborn for her own good. When Aram sends me out after her, I won’t look too hard.”
Dominick’s phone buzzed. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen, reading a text message.
“Hey,” he said. “Good news. They cleared us to fly.”
“Fly?”
“Yeah,” Dominick said. “The weather has cleared, and we have clearance to take the chopper out over the next couple of days. Ready to go up?”
“Up where? Why?”
Dominick only smiled in response. Then he said, “Come on, we need to take advantage of this.”
Haatim groaned as he stood and followed Dominick out of the lobby and into the snow. The early afternoon sunshine made it bright outside, but the cold had Haatim shivering in only seconds.
The exterior of the hotel had changed completely since he’d first arrived. After Abigail had left, they’d hired dozens of armed guards to patrol the exterior fences and make sure that no one came in or out without permission. It looked like a prison now, though most of the additions were temporary and prefabricated.
“Why all the extra guards?” Haatim asked.
“All of the Council is gathering here,” Dominick said. “At the same time.”
“That doesn’t happen often?”
“Almost never,” Dominick said. “Definitely not in my lifetime. They only gather for vitally important issues.”
“Like Frieda’s trial.”
“Exactly.”
“Will they execute her?”
“Not likely,” Dominick said. “A lot of members would never vote to kill her because her family is one of the originals. But they could enact other punishments instead that would be just as bad.”
“Like what?”
“Take the Hunters away, for starters. Revoke her position on the Council. They might not take her life, but they could take everything else that matters.”
They climbed into Dominick’s sedan and headed for the gate.
“What happens if they catch Abigail?”
“It depends,” Dominick said. “They might just drop the charges against Frieda or give her less of a sentence. Especially if she cooperates in bringing Abigail back.”
“She’ll never do that.”
“Nope,” Dominick said.
He pulled up to the gate. Two men bundled in winter clothing and carrying assault rifles walked up to his car door and tapped on the glass. Dominick rolled down his window and held out his credentials. One of the guards took them and scanned them with a small handheld device.
“Where are you guys headed?”
“The airport,” Dominick said. “We have clearance to fly today.”
The man typed onto his little device. “Reason?”
“Training.”
The man nodded. “If you return after seven, we won’t allow you admittance until the morning.”
“Understood,” Dominick said.
The man waved for another guard to open the gate and handed the credentials back to Dominick, who rolled up the window and drove slowly out of the complex.
“A little crazy if you ask me,” Haatim said. “Are the rifles necessary?”
“Not really,” Dominick said. “Not unless an army attacks us. Paranoia has always been one of the Council’s strongest traits. Still, if I had as many enemies as they do, I would have security like this all the time just for me.”
They drove in silence toward town, weaving along tight roads up and down the mountains. Haatim couldn’t help but feel somewhat nervous while the car drove along sheer cliffs hundreds of meters high.
