“We won’t,” I assure him.
He draws a deep breath and finally gathers enough courage to get my badge out of my pocket. “Agent”—he looks from the badge to me—“Remington?”
I flash him a fake smile. “That’s me.”
He lowers his gun just slightly. Then faces Jesse. “And who are you?”
“May I?” my brother asks, pointing at his back pocket.
The deputy with the hooked nose nods. A second later, he has Jesse’s badge under his nose. “Agent”—he pulls his brows up—“Remington?” We get that a lot. The are-you-fucking-with-me-or-are-you-related look.
“We’re brothers,” I explain, knowing he’ll ask anyhow.
The deputy’s gaze darts to B. “And who is she?”
A mamba who could talk you into wearing lingerie while doing the damn Macarena. “A consultant.”
“I see.” He sighs. “And may I ask what you’re doing”—his gaze darts to the corpses—“here with two crucified bodies?”
Oh, you know. We’re tracking the First Knight of Hell and a super witch who happens to be the mother of my missing child. Yeah, and they’re about to end the damn world.
I have a feeling the truth wouldn’t go very well with Deputy—I glare at the name tag on his uniform—Ford. “We’re working a case.” I tilt my chin at Jesse and B. “The…” Shit, what was the name on the doorbell? Black? No. Bourne? No. Ah, yes. “The Blairs were witnesses. The front door was ajar, so we checked it out. And found”—I tilt my chin at the horrific scene—“this.”
Pretty lame excuse, but Ford holsters his gun. Guess he bought it. “What the hell happened here?”
“Someone nailed the Blairs to crosses,” my brother states the obvious.
Ford squints. “That I can see. But why?”
Because they performed a ritual from the First Grimoire? “We don’t know.”
Jesse straightens. “What are you doing here?” He can’t hide the suspicious undertone. Hey, I don’t blame him. We got abducted by college girls. Granted, they were possessed college girls, but nevertheless there’s a lesson somewhere there. One that taught my brother not to trust anyone when dealing with demons.
Deputy Ford eyeballs the corpses. The color drains from the poor dude’s face. I guess he doesn’t come across shit like this very often. “We”—he wipes some sweat off his forehead, focusing on Jesse—“got a call from the Blair’s neighbors. They reported a 415 a few hours ago. A 415 is—”
“Disturbance,” Jesse mutters, proving what a smart-ass he is. “And what took you so long to answer it?”
Ford’s jawline hardens. “All units had been dispatched to the lake.”
All units? Did I miss the president’s announcement to go swimming in Bayview? “Why? What happened at the lake?”
Ford glares at his shoes. “The water…it…well…”
B’s head snaps in Ford’s direction. “What about the water?” I’m glad to hear she’s still able to talk. I kinda feared she might have lost her voice after walking into this hell.
The deputy frowns. “We got calls from all over the county reporting bloody water.”
Awesome. So the landscaped creek isn’t the only water-to-blood attraction in Bayview. Shit just keeps getting better.
“When did the water turn to blood?” B inquires.
Ford narrows his eyes at her. “It’s not real blood. It can’t be.”
“When?” B barks, fists balled.
Deputy Ford pulls a Clint Eastwood—crossing his arms, acting all cool and shit. Too bad, he can’t cover up the slightly greenish tone of his skin. “The first call came in about the same time we got the 415 from the Blairs’ neighbors.”
B stalks toward me. “We have to find them, Alex.”
“Find who?” Ford inquires.
B ignores him, focusing solemnly on me. “I’m serious.” She looks to the inverted crosses. “This is as bad as it gets. Human sacrifices, one of the seven plagues…” She takes a deep breath. “I’m telling you, we have to find them. Now.”
Ford steps between us. “Human sacrifices? Are you saying this is the work of Satanists?”
The deputy clearly watches too many bad movies. Contrary to widespread beliefs, normal Satanists don’t sacrifice humans. According to their bible—a piece of brainwash par excellence—they follow the golden rule of “I do what I want, when I want, but harm no others.” Kind of like Manda.
When Ford catches my amused expression, he explains his conclusion. “I read this article once. An interview of some lady who works for the Institute of the Research of Organized and Ritual Violence. She said ritualistic killings happen more often than serial killings. And they’re always accompanied by mutilation and symbols.” He points to the crosses dangling from the ceiling. “Inverted crosses are as Satanist as it gets, right?”
I’m not sure what to say to be honest. Thankfully, I have my little brother. “We can’t talk about our case, but we can tell you we’re hunting some extremely dangerous individuals.”
It’s not what the deputy wanted, but better than nothing. “And you think these individuals are in Bayview?”
“They were,” I say.
“They might still be,” B adds, giving me the impression it’s more than just a hunch.
He reaches for his radio. “I’m going to call for back—”
“No!” I stop him.
He casts me a WTF look. “But you said—”
“I know what we said,” I go on. “But those people can’t know we’re here. They have connections to the local police. It’s why our boss sent us without notifying the sheriff.” Damn, I’ve spent too much time around Manda. Lying has become too damn easy for me.
“A-are you for real?”
“Wouldn’t lie about it,” I promise him.
“Is there anything I can do?” he asks, paler than a ghost.
Jesse approaches him. “Actually, there is.”
“Anything,” he assures my little brother.
“Check with your colleagues. See if anything suspicious happened.”
He cocks a brow. “Like?”
“Fireballs dropping from the sky, folks killing each other—anything that’s not normal around here,” B explains.
He smiles, until he realizes no one smiles back. “You’re serious?”
“Do I look like I’m joking?” B hisses, hands on her hips.
Ford swallows hard. “I’ll be right back.” He grabs his radio and moves out of the bloody living room.
I pick up my Beretta. “I’m going to check out the rest of the house.” If we’re lucky, they left some clues as to where they’re headed.
“We’ll take the basement,” he says, hauling B along. She doesn’t put up a fight or protest. Probably because she’d rather be anywhere than in a living room with two dead folks, hanging head down on crosses.
“Be careful,” I say, heading upstairs.
The second floor of the Blair mansion is equally impressive. The ceilings are high, the walls painted a nice shade of beige, and the furniture made of solid ebony. I guess it’s the perfect home to raise a bunch of kids and grow old in. Then again, what do I know of growing old and kids? My life expectancy doesn’t exceed thirty and if it wasn’t for the demons I would have no idea I have a son.
Moving down the long hallway armed with my Beretta, I catch a glimpse of the Blairs’ love for Jesus. No kidding. There’s not a single wall not plastered with the Savior’s face. Being watched by God’s son creeps me out. It’s like his eyes are everywhere.
The first door on the left leads me right into the master bedroom, sending me Back to the Future. The Blairs’ bedroom is one big, high-tech gadget—electronic shutters, a Dolby Surround system most folks don’t have in their living rooms, a spacey-looking radio alarm with iPhone docking station—it’s every nerd’s paradise.
I proceed to the bathroom. It features LEDs in the step-in shower, a water-resistant speaker for music, an automatic toilet lid, and…wait
for it…a fucking towel warmer. Who the hell needs heated towels for Christ’s sake? Sometimes, I think the more money folks have the weirder they are.
Chills run down my spine as I move toward the large window front. They’re locked from the inside. And when I say locked, I mean locked with a key. Seems like the Blairs took safety real serious. Not that it did them any good—they were murdered nevertheless—but at least they tried.
The ever-growing black hole in my belly expands continuously. Something is incredibly wrong. I examine the carpet closer. There are no traces of sulfur, no scent of rotten eggs. Quite the opposite. It smells like roses and lemon in here.
I keep searching, but find no hint of any supernatural activity. What I do find are more religious paintings of Mother Mary and infant Jesus as well as two Bibles on each nightstand. Call me crazy, but I don’t believe it’s a coincidence they sacrificed the Blairs. Those people gave god-fearing a new meaning. I’d bet my life that’s why the First Knight picked them.
Frustrated, I search the other rooms. Mr. Blair’s large office, stacked with all sorts of religious books, is right next to the master bedroom. Turns out the man was the local pastor; at least that’s what the paperwork on his desk suggests. It certainly explains the paintings and the arsenal of Bibles I found.
I head to several guestrooms, equally as well equipped as the master bedroom. Whoever said high-tech and religion doesn’t go together never met the Blairs.
After coming up empty handed, I move on to the last room on the floor, finding myself in the midst of teen idols, creeping down at me from pinkish walls. I’m not nearly Entertainment Weekly enough to recognize them all, but I do know the blue-eyed bloodsucker every teenage girl seems to be crazy about. Damn, what was his name again? Damon something, I think. Anyway, I don’t get the hype about this dude. He’s a ruthless vamp who digs his little brother’s girlfriend. How is that worship worthy?
Anyway, I come to the conclusion the Blairs must have had a teenage daughter. I don’t think grown-ups would plaster their walls with Selena Gomez and Taylor Swift. And dudes? They’d go for cars or pin-up girls. Like Jesse and I did.
On a white dressing table in the corner, I spot perfumes, makeup, lipsticks, hairbrushes, curlers, a hair straightener—the Blair kid could host one of those damn beauty pageants.
Soaking it all in, I come to the conclusion my little sister, Natasha, would have loved this room. She’d be seventeen now. My gaze darts to the bloodsucker. Something tells me he’d smile down from her wall, too. Natasha had always been a hopeless-cases magnet. The girl believed she could reform the bad boy of her class with cookies and sandwiches. The weird part? She succeeded. Phoenix Ashton was as rotten as a first grader could be. The boy constantly got into trouble for fighting and being a mean-ass in general. I warned Natasha to stay away from him, told her guys like Phoenix were no good. But my little sister didn’t give two shits about her big brother’s opinion. She simply turned to me and said, “Stop judging him, Alex. You have people who love you. Phoenix doesn’t.” I call that moment: life lessons from a first grader.
I still hated the idea of them together, but I knew better than to argue with a Remington girl. Natasha had made it her life’s mission to save the brat and I knew nothing could change her mind. I gotta admit, she did a bang of a job, too. The more time she spent with Phoenix, the better he got. Until—
I shake the memories off. This isn’t the time nor the place to open that can of worms. To take my mind off Natasha, I go through the kid’s desk. A college application for the University of Idaho is scattered all over it. It’s filled out and ready to send off. I find more application forms in her drawer, hidden beneath lots of loose papers. Stanford, Harvard, NYU—I get the kid wanted nothing more than to see Idaho in her rearview mirror. Her parents weren’t on board. Or why else would she have hidden the forms?
Flinging myself in the desk chair, I lean back and ogle the pink dream. The room is neat and clean just like the rest of the house. Yet something in here is odd. There are no bibles, crosses, or religious paintings for starters. And the longer I drink it all in the higher the hair on the back of my neck stands. That tingling feeling creeps into my system, the one that says, look closer, Alex.
I check the windows for sulfur. There’s none. Then, I move to the bed. An iPod lies on a purple pillow. Don’t ask why, but I pick it up and check out the playlists. Adele, Ed Sheeran, Taylor Swift—typical sucky teenage pop. By the time I get to the recently played songs, I’m certain the girl suffered from severe heartache. She listened to “Someone like you” by Adele on repeat. How fucking depressing is that?
I almost put the iPod back when I spot a playlist called “Freedom.” Excitement rushes through my veins. The hunter in me senses something. I scroll through the songs. Imagine my surprise when I find Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven”—the same song that played when we got here.
What the hell is going on here?
“There ain’t no such thing as a coincidence, jerk-face,” the witch’s words echo through my subconscious.
But if this isn’t a coincidence then what the hell is it? Better question: where the fuck is the kid? She wasn’t crucified like her parents and I have a hard time believing the knight spared her. So where is she and how is she connected to all of this?
I open the girl’s nightstand. Inside a pair of socks, I discover birth control pills, along with pics of a pretty, brown-haired girl about sixteen—I assume that’s Mrs. Blair junior—and some blond dude, sticking his tongue down her throat. They were taken in a photo booth. I start to think blondie is the reason for the girl’s Adele obsession.
Rummaging through the drawer, I find—
Holy Mother of Christ. Is that—
Shit. It’s a pink fucking vibrator.
How old is this girl again?
I glare at the photo. She’s Natasha’s age.
Oh, hell to the no. I’m not going down this road. I will not think of my sister in connection with a damn vibrator. Never.
“Alex?” Jesse yells from down the stairs.
Thank God. I slam the drawer shut. “Coming.”
“Alex.” B’s halfway up the stairs, face pale.
My heart races like a mother. “What’s up?”
“We gotta go,” she says, seizing hold of my jacket and dragging me down the remaining stairs.
“Go where?” I ask, trying not to break my damn neck.
Jesse and Deputy Ford wait on us by the front door. “We have a situation.” Jesse sounds like the world’s already going up in flames.
I narrow my eyes at them. “What situation?”
“A hostage situation,” Ford replies, voice edgy.
I’m about to question how a hostage situation is connected to us when B slams her hands against my back, shoving me outside. “We need to go.”
Chapter 31
“A woman and several men hold hostages at the Light Haus B&B,” Ford explained when I refused to go anywhere unless they told me what the hell was going on. “All units have been dispatched.”
B thinks the woman is Manda. Me? I’m not so sure. Why would the First Knight draw so much attention? Why hold hostages? Why didn’t they pack their bags and leave? They knew we were coming.
“Fucking awesome,” Jesse murmurs, pulling the car to the side.
Looking up, I spot the reason for his discontent. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.” The place is crawling with reporters. Media vans from six different stations, including CNN, block the driveway of the B&B.
We get out of the car. Deputy Ford is right behind us, slamming his car door shut. “Jesus,” he says, eyeballing the vultures also known as journalists.
“How the hell did they get here so fast?” Bayview is in the middle of nowhere for Christ’s sake.
Ford wipes his sweaty forehead. It’s December, but the weather is as fucked up as the world. Eighty-four degrees and rising. “They’re probably here for the bloody-lake story.” The deputy sighs. “Looks
like they’re more interested in hostages, though.”
Thanks, Randy. You just made our already fucked up lives a whole lot harder. There’s a reason the PAU stays away from high-profile cases. Imagine the riots and chaos arising should people learn the truth about the existence of the supernatural. They’d build zombie bunkers, at best. Reestablish the Salem Witch Trials, at worst. But when the world’s about to go up in flames, risking exposure seems a little less than a black stain on a white sheet.
Deputy Ford straightens his uniform. “I’m going to find the sheriff and let him know you’re here.”
“Don’t tell him about the Blairs just yet,” I remind him. “We still don’t know who we can trust.”
Ford hates the fact I’m accusing his boss and colleagues of corruption; I can tell by the wrinkles on his forehead. Yet he doesn’t argue with me. Instead, he heads toward the yellow crime tape separating the cops from the media.
Jesse flexes his muscles. “I guess we’ll just have to deal with them, huh?”
“Or”—B’s lips curve into a wicked half-smile—“I could send them all to Hawaii.”
I squint. “You can do that?”
She shrugs.
“No.” Jesse faces her. “You can’t manipulate them all. Remember what happened when you talked the two cops in Salem into leaving? Your nose bled and you blacked out.”
Okay, so we can’t send them to Hawaii. “How about we arrest them?” Don’t get me wrong. I’m a fierce defender of the first amendment. Yet I hate reporters. They’re obtrusive little mothers. All they care about is the next big headline. Never mind who gets hurt in the process.
Jesse sighs. “We still live in a democracy, dude.”
I’m damn glad we do, but I still think they should grow a conscience.
“Agents!” Deputy Ford waves us over.
“Ready?” my little brother asks.
Would it make a difference if I said no?
The sun beats down on us. Sweat rolls down my spine, gluing the fabric of my sweater to my skin. It really shouldn’t be this hot in December. I’d blame global warming, but I have a feeling the real culprit is the First Knight and his apocalyptic horror show.
Fate Page 21
