Raven's Fall - Chapter 3: The Arrival

Abigail wore a track in the carpet of her makeshift prison cell, her stride tight and controlled, shoulders squared against walls that shrank a little more each day. She would have preferred it if they'd locked her in an actual prison, surrounded by concrete walls and metal bars, rather than the clean and monotonous place that she now occupied.

The hotel room completely lacked personality and style; the sort of place vacationing families stayed during long trips away from home. Though full of amenities, the sameness pressed inward. The room smelled of industrial cleaning fluid and recycled air—a chemical cleanliness that coated the back of the throat and sat there, day after day, until it became its own kind of torture. At odd hours the heating system clicked and ticked through the walls, and in the silence between those sounds the space pressed inward, the quiet of a building scrubbed free of every human trace. Twice a day, the ventilation carried something warmer from the floors below—cardamom and cumin from the communal kitchen, where the Council's rotating cooks prepared meals that shifted with whoever was stationed there. Tagine one week, soba the next, always accompanied by the strong, bitter Turkish coffee that the institution had adopted as its unofficial fuel three centuries ago and never relinquished.

She stopped at the window, pressed her forehead against the cold glass, and turned to pace again. She should be out doing her job rather than stuck in here. She should be hunting for the person she'd seen in the tunnels at Raven's Peak. She should not be trapped by the Council in a hotel in Lausanne, Switzerland.

The Council didn't have an official location or citadel anywhere in the world, preferring to relocate every few months to throw off their enemies. Right now, they rented an old hotel in the mountains, which they'd converted into a temporary hideout, from which they could conduct their business and hold Abigail's trial.

Built in a seventeenth-century style, it stood five stories tall with two wings—east and west—connected by a central lobby and main stairwell. The east wing kept its original Swiss timber framing, darkened with age, the ceilings vaulted in the Bernese manner. The west wing had a different character, though Abigail had only glimpsed it through open doors when the guards walked her to medical—corridors of colored tilework and heavy wooden beams that spoke of older alliances and longer memories than the Swiss exterior suggested. A small chapel on the ground floor sat alongside a prayer room facing east, and in four months of pacing these halls, she'd learned to read the building's age in its bones—the way each corridor carried a different smell, a different quality of silence, as though the centuries had left residue in the stone. The original structure had been extended over the centuries; a service basement built into the hillside behind the building housed the loading dock, boiler room, and storage areas, accessible from the rear. Due to the nearly impassable roads, while the snow fell, it had closed for the winter. Several kilometers of difficult terrain hid the hotel away from any nearby towns. Visitors would have to travel up and down switchback roads through the mountains to get here. All of this meant that they wouldn't have to worry about people stumbling into their hideout.

A converted and reinforced guest room on the first floor made Abigail's holding cell. They had barred shut the windows, and two armed guards stood outside at all times to keep an eye on her.

She'd tested the effectiveness of her prison during her first weeks in here and found it lacking. To break through the walls and slip free wouldn't have been difficult, given enough time, which meant that they assumed she wouldn't attempt any escape due to her morals.

Unfortunately for her, they had it right. Abigail had no intention of running away. If she left now, her guilt would solidify in the eyes of the Council, and they would most assuredly find her guilty.

But the logic that kept her here did nothing to quiet the rest of her. Three nights ago, she'd stood at the window with her hands flat against the bars, testing the weak points the way Arthur had taught her—the loosened screws on the left bracket, the hairline crack in the grout where the bolt met the sill. She could be through in under a minute. Her fingers had curled around the metal before she caught herself, pulse slamming in her throat, knuckles white. She'd stood there for a long time afterward, arms locked at her sides, breathing through her teeth while every instinct she possessed screamed that sitting still was the same as giving up. She had to remind herself, again, that patience was a weapon too—one of Arthur's favorite lessons, though he'd never had much talent for it himself.

Her patience wore thin. She'd been tucked away in this hotel room for four months now—much longer than she'd anticipated when they first arrested her. The Council hadn't even begun hearing her case. They were, allegedly, gathering evidence and giving Frieda and Aram time to build their cases for and against her defense. All that meant, in reality, was that the Council members sat on their hands and refused to do anything.

Business as usual.

The trail of the person from Raven's Peak had long since grown cold: finding him should be the Council's priority, not deciding if Abigail had broken some of their stupid rules. Whatever artifact the thief had stolen from that cave had importance, and the culprit didn't plan on using it to slice vegetables. She had not stopped thinking about it. The details from those tunnels—the way the man had moved, the symbol on the artifact's casing, the direction he'd fled—she turned them over in the quiet hours when the guards changed shifts and the sounds in the corridor gave her something to track. Whatever he planned to do with what he'd taken, he was not done. And the moment they let her out of this room, neither was she.

Haatim crossed her mind in the gaps between obsession. The question nagged at her—where had Frieda taken him? Did he sleep through the night, or did he wake the way she did—gasping, hands reaching for a weapon that wasn't there? He'd been brave in Raven's Peak. Stupid-brave, the kind that got people killed, but the kind that couldn't be taught. She caught herself rehearsing arguments with him in her head—his earnest voice insisting there had to be a better way, her own voice countering that better ways were luxuries the dead couldn't afford. He would have told her to be patient. She would have told him patience was a fine virtue for people who weren't locked in a cage.

Months ago, she had tried explaining to the Council how dangerous the situation was, but they hadn't taken her seriously. The problem lay in the fact that Aram Malhotra provided her only point of contact outside this prison. He had charge of the Council's temporary mountain citadel, and so they'd assigned him to keep watch over her until the trial commenced. He hadn't even come to speak to her once during her imprisonment.

To be honest, that was probably for the best. After everything that had taken place with Haatim and The Ninth Circle, Abigail didn't trust Aram as far as she could throw him. As soon as they cleared her name, after this stupid trial, and let her back out into the world, she intended to look into all of Aram's shady dealings and find out exactly what was going on and the nature of his involvement.

She'd stopped pacing before the knock came, her body tensing without her permission, responding to footsteps in the hallway that she shouldn't have been able to hear through the thick door. A knock came a moment later, and she turned just as the door opened. Dominick stood there. In his late thirties with brown hair and brown eyes, he looked a handsome man. One of her few friends, he never treated her poorly or treated her like an outcast as many of the other members did.

"Don't take too long," one of the guards said from outside the room. She recognized the voice as Jim Fronson, one of her least favorite people and a Hunter who hated her. Dominick didn't respond, but instead, closed the door behind him and shook his head.

"What a jerk," he said.

He'd said it loud enough for Jim to hear through the door, which, knowing Dominick, was his exact intention. He walked across the room toward her, stopping a few feet away and sizing her up.

"You look terrible," he said, smirking at her. "Confinement doesn't suit you."

"Great to see you too, Dom," she said. "I thought you were in Germany?"

"I was," he said. "But I had enough schnitzel, so I asked for another assignment. Did you know they drink beer warm there? Tastes like piss when it isn't cold."

"Are you here to guard me?" she asked.

"Jim's got that covered," Dominick said. "Along with some mercenaries."

"We're hiring mercenaries now?" Abigail raised her eyebrows.

Dominick shrugged. "Dark times. Only twenty-three Hunters left and no recruitment to speak of."

"Twenty-three?" Abigail chewed her lip. "I thought we had twenty-five."

Dominick frowned. "You haven't heard? James Scott and Louis Lamoure got killed about a month ago."

"How?"

"No idea. Someone found them, and it wasn't pretty."

Her stomach hollowed. She'd liked James and Louis. It wasn't that common for one of their own to get killed.

"How long are you here?"

"Not sure yet," Dominick said. "Got back into town last night."

"Here to keep an eye on me? Make sure I don't try to escape?"

"I'm supposed to shoot you if you do," he said.

"You'd miss anyway. Never were much of a shot."

"Hey, I resemble that remark." He grinned. The smile disappeared almost as soon as it came, however, as he sobered up. Dominick hesitated, and then said, "I should have gotten here sooner. When I heard they had you locked up, I wanted to come, but things have been so busy, and I always found an excuse not to make the trip."

"It's fine."

"No, it isn't. I owe more than that to Arthur, and I definitely owe it to you. I should have reached out sooner, and I'm sorry."

A silence settled between them. "You're here now."

"Yeah," he said, nodding. "How are you holding up?"

"Not too bad. Everyone treats me like I'm some kind of animal, and no one will tell me a damn thing about what's going on, but at least I get fresh towels."

"That's rough."

"I don't even know when my trial is supposed to start."

"Next week," Dominick said. "That's what I heard. Frieda is on her way, and then the trial will get underway."

"I thought Aram was overseeing things?" Abigail asked. "The trial is supposed to be remote."

"It is, and only Frieda is coming. She pulled some strings and got an exception. Aram is pretty pissed about it, but the Council already approved her coming to stay."

"What about security?"

Dominick shrugged. "More mercenaries, I guess."

"How do you know about that?" Abigail asked. "That kind of information is above our pay grade and doesn't trickle down to our level."

"I'm the one who flew Frieda in," Dominick said. "Her train came into Lausanne yesterday, and I brought her out here."

"Fly?"

"Snows started early this year, and we've had a rough couple of days. All of the roads have closed until they can get trucks out here. Should open by next week, but for now, we're just flying. I brought in her and Haatim."

"Haatim? He's with Frieda?"

"Yeah," Dominick said. "She's filled him in on the Council and Order."

"Not his father?"

Dominick shrugged. "Rumor has it they don't talk much anymore, but I guess that'll change while Haatim is living here. Only met him the once myself, when I flew them in. From everything I've heard, he's clueless."

Abigail chuckled softly. "You're telling me."

"Frieda asked me to come so I could train him."

"Is she training him to be a Hunter?"

"I don't think so. Just teaching him how to survive. I'm supposed to give him the basics and a couple of advanced lessons."

"Go easy on him," Abigail said. "He's sensitive."

Dominick burst out laughing. "I used to have a dog that was sensitive. Peed on the carpet all the time."

"I don't think you'll have to worry about that from Haatim," Abigail said.

"Don't worry, if there's any iron in that kid," Dominick said. "I'll find it."

Abigail nodded. If anyone could help Haatim get a crash course in the world he'd stumbled into, Dominick could. He could be brutal and harsh, and Haatim would be in for a rough couple of weeks, but by the time he'd done, Haatim would be a completely different person.

Dominick's expression grew pensive, and the air grew heavier around her. He folded his arms across his chest and looked away.

"This isn't good, Abi."

He'd shifted the conversation and talked about her trial now.

"I know," she said.

"Aram wants to charge you with treason. He wants to dismiss you from the Order and have you executed. This is serious."

"I know," she said. "But, after everything that happened in Raven's Peak, he won't be able to, will he?"

"No one is quite sure what happened out there. Reports are still coming in, but they're conflicting. Other things have come up, though, and it won't just be about Raven's Peak. These things won't help in your defense."

"Things like what?"

Dominick hesitated. "Did you speak with a demon without Council consent?"

"What do you mean?"

"We found Delaphene at Arthur's cabin. She'd been there for weeks and was rambling, but she remembered talking to you quite clearly."

The air left Abigail's lungs. "I …"

A frown crossed his face, and he shook his head. "Abi …"

"I needed to know …"

"Needed to know what?" Dominick narrowed his eyes. "What could possibly be so important that you would break the Council's laws to find out?"

"How to find Arthur." She hung her head. "I can't leave him there with those demons, Dom. It's my fault they have him in the first place. I can't just abandon him, can I?"

He sighed. "No, but it looks awful, Abigail. Frieda thinks she can make the charge go away. Delaphene isn't exactly a reliable witness, but they also have a lot of little things. You know you weren't supposed to go near Sara or any of the girls that Arthur rescued. It was a direct Council order."

"I didn't have a choice," Abigail said. "And, I helped Sara. Her scar is gone, and the link is closed. She's safe now."

"That doesn't matter," Dominick said. "The order came from the Council, not from Frieda. If they find out, then they won't take it lightly."

"What do you mean?" Abigail asked. "You said 'if they find out.'"

"A report came to me from Richard Abernathy about what you did at the park, and I passed it along to Frieda. Right now, it's need-to-know, and we haven't told anyone else."

"You mean they don't know?"

"I mean they don't know right now. Richard is loyal, but who knows if the Council could find out some other way. If they do, it'll look bad."

"I know," Abigail said. "But I had to discover the truth."

"They'll try to use it all as evidence that you've turned. A sort of roadmap for your fall from grace."

"What do you mean? They want to say I'm going to end up like Arthur?"

"Worse," he said. "Aram and some of his cronies want to blame you for what happened to Arthur."

The words hit her like a truck. The floor shifted beneath her, and she locked her knees to stay upright. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's just Aram blowing smoke." Dominick put a hand up, palm outward. "But it's a hefty accusation. A lot of the Council respected Arthur, and they want an excuse for why he turned."

"I loved Arthur like a father. How the hell do they think I could have had something to do with—?"

"I know, Abi." Dominick reached out and squeezed her shoulder. "I know, and you know, and everyone who matters knows what's in your heart. They're just saying anything they can to try to discredit you. It's only a few people who support Aram, and the rest of the Council will see right through his lies."

Abigail exhaled through her teeth. "You're right."

"Frieda isn't having any of it. The Council keeps overreaching and overstepping. She's supposed to be in charge of the Hunters, yet they keep challenging her authority and trying to micromanage. She'll not rest until your name is cleared."

Abigail hesitated. "Or, until I'm dead."

Dominick frowned. "Don't think that way. Everything is going to work out. Have faith."

"I haven't had much of that these last months," she said. "But I'll try."

He checked his watch, and then glanced back up at her. "I have to go. I have a meeting with Aram in a couple of minutes, and then I'm going to check on some supplies in the city. Do you need me to bring you anything?"

"No," she said. "I'm fine."

"All right. Keep your chin up and stay positive. I'll come back as soon as I'm free and make sure you're okay. We'll take care of all of this, and you'll be back in business in a couple of weeks. You'll see."

Abigail nodded. She doubted either of them believed it. They had such devastating evidence against her, and so many Hunters and Council members disliked her.

Before leaving, he gave her a quick hug and flashed one last smile. The cell was hers again.

People blamed her for what happened to Arthur.

How could they possibly think she'd had anything to do with what he did? Only a child when he'd taken her in, an orphan with no one to turn to for help, he'd raised and trained her. Abigail hadn't even been with him when he had his breakdown. Hadn't seen him for months before that fateful day.

How could they possibly hold her responsible for something she had no control over?

She sank onto the edge of the bed. Her hands stilled in her lap, and for a moment the anger drained out of her and left something worse in its place.

Arthur.

Four months gone. Four months since she'd watched the light leave his eyes—not in death, but in something that looked more like surrender. The man who'd taught her to track a demon through three city blocks by the way the streetlights flickered in its wake. Who'd sat with her on the porch of his cabin in the summers and told her stories about the Council's early days until the fireflies came out. That man had looked at her at the end with a recognition so raw it had broken something in both of them.

She missed him beyond words and didn't try to find them. Not the Hunter. Not the legend the Council couldn't stop arguing about. She missed the specific sound of his boots on gravel when he came up the path. The way he cleared his throat before delivering bad news, as though the small ritual might soften it. She missed being known—completely, truly known—by someone who had chosen to care about her anyway.

The grief hit without warning, the way it always did. Not a wave but a trapdoor. One moment she stood on solid ground, the next she was falling through herself. Her throat closed. Her eyes burned.

She pressed her palms flat against the mattress and held still—the way you hold still when you sense something dangerous nearby—because if she let the grief move, it would move through everything, and she could not afford to fall apart. Not here. Not with the walls closing in and a death sentence waiting on the other side of the door.

After a long minute, she stood. Crossed to the window. Pressed her forehead against the cold glass.

The grief retreated. Not gone—never gone—but compressed and patient, pushed back down to wherever she kept it, waiting for the next unguarded moment.

The question had started as a stray thought during her first week in this room, easily dismissed. By the second month it returned nightly. Not whether the Council would execute her. Whether they should.

Below, the mountainside dropped into darkness. She stared at the wrist she'd broken when the demon possessed her--when she'd killed Arthur.

It didn't hurt anymore. The scars had vanished entirely, healed faster than any Hunter she'd ever known. Faster than should have been possible. And it wasn't just the healing. Conversations through walls. Footsteps through thick doors. Seeing in darkness as though it were twilight.

She'd mentioned the healing to Arthur once, years ago. The expression that crossed his face--grief tangled with something that looked almost like fear--had taught her never to bring it up again. He'd doubled down on teaching her control after that conversation, asked careful questions about her sleep, her appetite, her dreams.

Whatever Arthur had been trying to contain was stirring now that he was gone. The dark impulses when the anger came. The restless energy driving her to pace this cell at all hours.

She let her hand drop from the glass and turned away from the window.

Would these be her last weeks on Earth?