Chapter 9
The car came to a stop next to the curb, idling just outside the playground on Miller Street. Haatim glanced out the window at all of the gathered children, running around and playing on the swings and climbing objects scattered throughout.
Along the western end of the park was a line of park benches filled with parents, chatting and watching their children play. They were laughing and amicable right now, but Haatim knew they could turn dangerous at a moment’s notice.
He tried to sink lower into his seat and become invisible, praying no one looked in his direction.
“I thought you were joking,” he said.
“About what?”
“About kidnapping kids.”
“I would never joke about that,” Abigail replied solemnly. “We only need one child. And we aren’t kidnapping her; I just need to talk to her for a few minutes without her mother noticing.”
“Is that why we are here?” Haatim asked.
Abigail ignored Haatim and pulled a picture out of her pocket. She studied it for a second, then flipped the car off and scanned the playground.
“There,” she said, pointing toward the swings.
“Don’t point,” he said, pulling her arm down and out of sight of the windows.
“What?”
“If you point, it looks like we’re picking a kid out,” Haatim said. “And that just seems creepy.”
Haatim looked over and saw a pack of children gathered around the swings. They were shouting and laughing; he watched one catapult himself off a swing from a modest height and land roughly on the ground.
“Which one?”
“That little girl, third swing from the left.”
Haatim squinted to get a better view. “The one with the blonde hair and a Band-Aid on her forehead?”
Abigail nodded. “She has a sore under that Band-Aid much like the one you had on your arm.”
“You mean the one that wouldn’t heal?” Haatim asked, rubbing his elbow where the torn skin had been. “You said it had something to do with the demon marking me.”
“Exactly.”
“But mine went away,” Haatim said.
“They fade after a few days,” Abigail replied. “A week at the most. Eventually, the bond wears thin and breaks, and the host is no longer vulnerable.”
“When did she get hers?”
“Six months ago.”
“And she still has it?”
Abigail nodded. “It never faded.”
“What claimed her then?” Haatim asked. “Something powerful to make it last so long?”
Abigail was silent for a long moment, watching the little girl play.
“My father.”
“What?”
Abigail looked at him. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It sure as hell does matter,” Haatim argued. “What do you mean your father claimed her?”
“He isn’t a demon.”
“Is that supposed to reassure me?”
“He also isn’t my real father.”
“Still not helping,” Haatim said. “I’m not getting out of this car until you tell me what’s going on.”
“His name was Arthur. He was a mentor of mine. He raised me from a little girl and trained me.”
“So he adopted you?”
“Never officially, but I always considered him family. He is the one who trained me to be a Hunter.”
“Hunter?”
“It’s exactly how it sounds,” she said. “Only, the things I hunt typically hunt me back.”
“So your father claimed this girl? How?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail said.
“I thought only demons could do that.”
“I thought so, too.”
“Do you think he might have—?”
“I don’t know what he did or how he did it. All I know is that he did, and because he did I am alive today.”
Haatim hesitated. “Is that why he isn’t here? You don’t trust him anymore?”
“No,” Abigail said. “He was taken.”
“Taken how?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where was he taken?”
“I don’t know,” Abigail repeated. She gestured her hand at the little blonde girl again. “That’s why I need to talk to her.”
“You think she knows?”
“In a sense.”
“Who is she?”
“Someone important,” she said. “And someone I need to speak to privately.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Haatim said. “You do realize we are parked outside of a playground full of kids, and we have no children of our own. We are the epitome of dangerous creeps right now.”
“Nevertheless,” Abigail said. “She’s the only one of the three who lives in Colorado.”
She pointed out the window toward a bench along the western edge of the park, a good eighty meters from the blonde girl. “That is her mother.”
Haatim sighed and looked where she was pointing. “Green blouse or blue?”
“Green.”
“OK.”
“I need you to distract her?”
“What?” Haatim asked.
“Only for a few minutes,” Abigail explained. “I just need to check the girl’s scar.”
“For what?”
“I need to see if the link is still active and if I can use it to find Arthur.”
“Why can’t we just ask her mom if we can talk to her for a few minutes?”
“It isn’t that simple.”
“Sure it is. I’ll just say: ‘Hey, you know that scar on your daughter’s forehead? My friend thinks she knows what it is, and she might be able to make it go away. Can we just talk to her for a few seconds?’”
“There are people involved who can’t know we were here,” she said.
“What people?”
“I can’t get into that right now,” she said. “We don’t have time.”
Haatim pursed his lips. Part of him believed her because he’d already seen so much that didn’t make any sense. But another part was curious and wanted to know everything. It was in his nature, and he hated the feeling of being left out of the loop.
“Fine,” he said. “I’ll help you. But you have to do something for me.”
“You don’t get to—”
“After we do this, you tell me everything,” he interrupted.
Abigail was silent for a long moment. “Everything?”
“Everything,” he reiterated. “Or I’ll go tell those cops by the hotdog stand what you’re planning.”
She frowned, looking out the window at the young girl playing on the swings. Finally, she nodded: “Deal. When we’re done, you can ask me anything, and I’ll tell you the truth.”
Haatim opened the car door. Halfway out, he paused and glanced back at Abigail.
“If I get arrested, you will bail me out, right?”
Abigail stared at him. “Possibly.”
With a resigned sigh, Haatim left the car and started walking toward the women on the park bench.
There is a severe limitation to this plan, Haatim decided as he walked: he was wearing the same clothes he’d had on since yesterday, the shorts and baggy t-shirt he’d thrown on. The clothes were dirty, and he looked disheveled; he also had a five o’clock shadow and bags under his eyes. Anyone who saw him might assume he was a bum begging for change.
Which could have been a worthwhile plan for distraction if it wasn’t for the fact that there were several policeman stationed at miscellaneous points throughout the park. They wouldn’t hesitate to grab him and cart him away if they thought he was a beggar disturbing the peace.
He wasn’t sure what else he could do to get their attention, though. Maybe he could pretend to be a salesman of some sort, except he had nothing to sell; if he happened to have had a copy of the Quran with him he could keep their attention by pretending to convert them. Never mind that he wasn’t Muslim; their own prejudices and assumptions would make the illusion reality.
Another angle he considered was pretending to be a street entertainer. He’d learned how to juggle—poorly—years ago and knew a few passable jokes. It might be enough to keep their attention for more than a few minutes, especially if he was able to entertain the children. If he caught the attention of the kids, then the parents would inevitably keep their eyes on him as well.
As he closed in on the group, he decided that street performer was his best option. He spotted an acorn tree nearby and scooped up a handful of them, testing their balance. They were light but heavy enough to keep in the air. He started juggling, missing his rhythm on the first few tries but finally managing to keep them in the air effectively.
A few children noticed and started pointing at him. They watched for a few seconds before coming closer. Haatim moved toward the women on the benches, pretending not to notice them, and kept juggling.
One of the curious kids moved shyly up to Haatim, a little girl with red hair and freckles.
“Would you like me to teach you how to do this?” Haatim asked, catching the acorns in his hands and holding a few out to the girl.
“Uh huh,” she said, walking a few steps closer. She gingerly came up to him and accepted the acorns, then scrambled back to a safe distance from Haatim. That was fine with him, he didn’t want anyone to think he was being aggressive.
He held one of his own up to show her and then tossed it in the air and caught it. “All you need to do is catch and release.”
The little girl threw it up and then missed it on the way down. It hit the ground and bounced and she giggled. She scooped it back up and tried again.
“Hey,” he said to another little boy who was nearby. “What do you call a fake noodle?”
The kid scrunched up his face to think and then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“An impasta!” he said. The kid burst out laughing, and a few more kids moved closer.
He looked at another kid, raising his voice to get more attention. “What did the pencil say to the other pencil? You’re looking sharp today!”
A few kids laughed. More kids came closer as they saw the little girl attempting to juggle. Curiosity got the better of them. Some picked up acorns of their own and tried to juggle, and others simply watched. Haatim knew he had their full attention.
Which meant he also had the attention of their mothers and fathers, who wore expressions ranging from mild amusement to worry and annoyance on their faces. They chatted amicably with one another but kept their eyes locked on him. He knew how he must look, disheveled and pitiful and invariably out-of-place. They stared at him like hawks, disinterested for now but ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
He also saw the woman in the green blouse watching him, which meant she wasn’t watching her own daughter, and Abigail would have a free moment. He smiled at the group of parents. “Why did the picture go to jail? Because it was framed!”
“I can’t do it,” the little girl said, holding up her acorns. She was getting frustrated, tossing them up in the air and missing them on the way down.
“It takes a lot of practice,” Haatim said, juggling the remaining acorns once more. “You just have to catch and release.”
He realized that a few uniformed officers had also taken notice of his little charade. Harmless or not, he looked like a guy trying to distract young children without a clown costume on. Like the mothers on their benches, they were content to watch for now, but he knew their patience wouldn’t last forever.
“Catch and release,” he said, again, turning to show the other children what he was doing. Under his breath, he added: “I really hope all the cops do is catch and release. Whatever you are doing, Abigail, you’d better hurry.”
Abigail waited until Haatim had the full attention of the gathered children and parents before approaching the little blonde girl, Sara. She had been keeping an eye on Sara for the last several months, ever since she was returned to her family after the events at the Church. Abigail wanted to make sure the girl was safe with her family and no one came looking for her.
The Council had given her strict orders to stay away. They didn’t want her anywhere near Sara, so she’d kept her distance. But she wasn’t about to abandon the girl completely: after everything Arthur had done to keep the three girls safe from the demon, she was hell-bent and determined that nothing else would get to them.
Abigail hadn’t dreamed, however, that the girl would be able to help her find Arthur. The mark on her forehead had never faded, and she’d thought it was just a coincidence of circumstance. The Council theorized that when the demon took Arthur’s soul to hell, the mark had been left behind by the severed connection and would heal on its own eventually.
But now she knew that the bond was still open, something that linked Sara to whatever entity had stolen Arthur’s soul. The realization that Abigail might be able to use this to find Arthur made her giddy with excitement but also filled with nervous worry. During the last six months, she’d never come this close to finding Arthur.
After all this time, she’d finally be able to rescue him. And, if he didn’t want to come back with her to Earth, she could, at least, send him to the final rest he had earned in his time serving the Council and Order.
Abigail walked across the park, weaving around children and doing her best to look inconspicuous. She was wearing tight fitting black pants and a sweater several sizes too big for her that served to conceal her weapons, so she hoped she didn’t stick out too much.
She slipped a little crystal out of her pocket. It was dense and heavy, a lot heavier than would be expected for a gem its size. She knew if she stared into its depths she would immediately feel sleepy, and she would be inclined to answer any questions posed to her honestly. It was like taking a triple dose of Xanax.
She walked near the little girl and said: “Excuse me, are you Sara?”
Sara turned and looked at her. She saw the stone in Abigail’s hand and stared at it curiously. The effect was instantaneous, a glazed look in the little girl’s eyes and a drooping in her expression.
“Yes. I’m Sara.”
The girl moved closer, studying the little crystal with fascination.
“That’s good,” Abigail said. “I need to talk to you for just a minute, OK?”
“OK. What is that?”
“It’s a special crystal. Would you mind looking at it for a while longer?”
“Sure. What does it do?”
“It is something to protect you. It will keep you safe.”
“Keep me safe?” Sara asked sleepily. “From what?”
“From monsters,” Abigail said.
Sara looked up suddenly, a look of terror on her face and all of the fuzziness gone. “Monsters? Like the Mean One?”
Abigail nodded. She doubted Sara remembered much about that day when Arthur saved her, but remembering anything would be terrifying for her. “Like the Mean One. He’s the one who left the mark on your forehead, right?”
Sara absently touched the Band-Aid on her forehead, glancing back down at the crystal in her hand. Her expression became vacant and her tone monotone once again.
“Mommy says it’s an infection.”
“Do you want me to make it go away?”
Sara nodded.
“Take this,” Abigail said. She handed Sara the crystal. “And hold onto it very tight, OK?”
“OK,” Sara said. She continued staring at the little object, dazed.
Abigail reached up and gently removed the Band-Aid from Sara’s forehead, exposing the wound. It was still moist and about half a penny in size.
“I hope this works,” she muttered to herself, taking a deep breath.
Delaphene had said it would be uncomfortable to bridge a connection like this. Intelligent people didn’t do it. Abigail certainly had never done anything like it because it was anathema to the laws of the Council to mess with any demonic creations.
The ritual would allow Abigail to step into the bond connecting the girl and Arthur, only that connection belonged to the demon holding Arthur now. It would be awkward and disorienting at the very least because of how foreign it would be for Abigail. Or, at least, that was how Delaphene had described it.
Abigail chanted out the harsh words the demon had taught her back in the cabin. They were in one of the Deep languages, known only to a handful of Council members and forbidden from ever being spoken aloud. But Abigail was in the midst of breaking far worse rules, so that didn’t concern her: desperate times called for desperate measures.
As soon as she was done chanting, she felt her fingers tingling with energy. Like electricity, waiting to be discharged. She steeled herself, ready for the pain or discomfort that would come as she released the energy.
With a reassuring smile at Sara, she pressed her thumb against the open wound on the little girl’s forehead. She’d dealt with pain before; she could handle this.
She was wrong.
It started with a warm sensation in her chest, a sort of awareness as she entered the connection. It was huge, like someone hovering over her shoulder, but she knew there was no one actually there in the park with her. The presence was filled with amusement, as though more surprised than concerned that she was there.
Then it attacked.
It was like a hot iron was stabbed into her gut. It burned so bad it took her breath away; she felt like she was suffocating; like the pressure would rupture and collapse her lungs.
Then the heat spread like wildfire across her skin, triggering every pain receptor she had. It was as if she were suddenly standing in a bonfire and she could feel it torching her skin. But the pain didn’t diminish as her pain receptors were destroyed, but rather it intensified, overwhelming her. She tried to cry out, but she couldn’t breathe.
Yet the worst part of all: she understood that whatever was on the other end of the connection was holding back. It was toying with her, swatting at her like she was only an insect. It didn’t take her seriously but rather was simply hurting her for the pleasure of it.
She fought back, all hope of winning this encounter gone. She gave up her plan of using this connection to save Arthur, or even find out where he was being held.
Now all she wanted to do was escape. She had always thought that she would be an apt competitor in a battle of wills, but this was a fight for her life. She had never experienced anything this powerful, and she knew this creature was beyond anything she’d ever faced…
Except…
There was a familiarity to it, as if a drape had been pulled aside in her own mind. She remembered this demon possessing her, how it had used her body, broken her will and dominated her. She remembered how pathetic and weak it thought she was.
She remembered…
The demeanor of the demon changed in a flash, and she felt a spark of worry emanate from it. She sensed that it didn’t want her to remember.
After the events in the Church, all of her memories were gone. The demon had stripped them away, replacing them and overwriting them in her mind. The Council therapists couldn’t recover the memories, and they all assumed the demon had destroyed them.
But it hadn’t.
She had a startling realization that she had known the demon’s name; when she first confronted it in the forest six months ago, before it had taken her body, she had known its true name. The demon hid the memory from her…
Inside her own mind…
Suddenly, the demon was gone, the connection severed. She fell to the ground, gasping. It felt like she’d been trapped there for an eternity, but it had only been seconds. She sucked in ragged breaths of air, her skin tingling and burning but physically unharmed. The demon couldn’t do real damage to her while she was here, only mental, but that had been enough.
She grasped in her mind for the name, but now that she was alone the memories were fuzzy. She felt them receding and dissipating. She nearly started crying in frustration that she’d come so close to unlocking her memories, yet they were still buried and hidden from her.
Sara was looking at her, a concerned expression on her young face.
“Are you OK?”
Abigail nodded slowly. She was anything but OK, but she said: “Yeah, I’m fine.”
Sara frowned. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah,” Abigail said. She pushed the pain and weakness away. “Look, your scrape is gone.”
Sara touched her forehead and started grinning. The skin was smooth, the seeping wound closed.
“It is,” she said excitedly. “I need to go show my mommy!”
Then Sara took off, running across the park to her mother. She dropped the little crystal behind her, unnoticed, and it bounced on the paved walkway. Abigail scooped it up and slid it back into her pocket, still kneeling on the ground.
It took her a long minute before she was able to climb to her feet. The pain was fading, and she was covered in a sheen of sweat. Everything hurt. She headed back to the car, staggering a little as she went.
By the time she got there, Haatim had returned from distracting the mothers and was waiting for her. He glanced her over, a concerned expression on his face:
“You OK?”
“No,” she said. “But I will be.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
Abigail shook her head. “No, but I know where I can find it now.”
“Where?”
“Inside my head. Come on, we need to get moving. We’re already late.”
“All right, then,” Haatim said. “But I’m driving.”
Lincoln Cole
