Page 35 of Demon Hunter

“How else am I supposed to look at the report for an ongoing investigation?” I ask absently, scrolling through notes. “Here we are… Okay, so somebody admitted to being there earlier that night. The guy—Chad, oh my god, why would you call your kid that when youknowit’s a stereotype—he said his girlfriend’s curfew is ten, so they left about fifteen minutes before.”

“What time was I found?”

“The 911 call was logged at 11:27.” I chew on my lip, trying to do the math, and scroll back to the interview notes for the couple who found him. “Let’s say the kids got there at eleven fifteen-ish. Your car was parked around the back, so they wouldn’t have seen it, and they say the flag wasn’t up to show the place was occupied. The detective says that was mentioned more three times, that they never would have gone in if the flag was up.”

“So either they didn’t know about the flag, which seems unlikely given the amount of detail they’d already covered, or they had time to put it down before they left,” Matt concludes. “Which I guess means they weren’t interrupted, and they planned to leave the electronics all along.”

“More questions. No answers.” Fuck.

Chapter 15

Matt

For the thirdtime this week, I wake sweaty and anxious from a dream of my attack. At least, I think that’s what it is. For all I know, it could be my brain trying to freak me out—some kind of PTSD. It could be making up something completely fictional just because I’m so desperate to remember anything.

Beside me, Dylan’s deep, even breathing is a soothing reminder that I’m okay. Maybe I can’t remember exactly what happened, but I’m alive, and some flashes of memory have come back. That’s when the dreams started—after I remembered the drive to the apartment building where there was supposedly demonic activity. Which I guess is even more of an indication that the dreams are just my subconscious responding to the situation, rather than actual memories.

Lying in the dark, I run back through what I’ve remembered. Being annoyed that the motel I stayed at was so far away from where I needed to be—damn the Collective and their rule about only staying at approved places. I got even more annoyed when I saw a perfectly good motel only five minutes from my destination.

I was still muttering to myself about that when I arrived at the building. I remember double-checking the address, becausefoetidum demons usually leave a residue hunters can sense, even before we’re close enough to smell the evidence. And if this one had been around long enough for the tenant and management company to investigate and find no source for the smell, there should have been residue everywhere.

Even more annoyed, and thinking it was likely a false alarm because a dodgy plumber did a half-assed job checking the pipes, I’d gotten out of the car and decided to do a circuit of the building from the outside, see if I’d missed anything. Since this assignment originated from the online team, nobody at the site was expecting me, and I’d need to talk my way inside.

I walked down the side of the building, turned the corner to the back… and that’s all I remember until the hospital.

Nothing new.

Nothing useful.

Since I had no head trauma, the prevailing theory is that they knocked me out with a drug of some kind, though by the time they thought to test for anything, it was long gone from my system. I don’t even remember seeing or hearing anyone, never mind someone getting that close to me. I’m not exactly helpless—even if they’d jumped me from behind, I’m highly trained in martial arts and self-defense. To inject me with something, they’d need their hands on me for at least a few seconds, and I… hate that idea.

It'spossible, especially if there was a group of them. But I’m trained to fightdemons, damn it. The first rule is not to let them get close. My situational awareness is peak. How did two or three people get close enough to me to keep me from fighting them off while they dosed me with a drug? And prevent me from activating the SOS signal on my smartwatch? Dylan designed that app—it takes literally one second and never fails. Real life isn’t like the movies; drugs don’t instantly knock you unconscious. Don’t even get me started on all the unrealisticdepictions of chloroform. How could I not have had even theone secondneeded to activate the SOS?

Not that the SOS would have changed anything. There weren’t any other hunters in Reno—why would there be, when I was there? Even if the Collective sent someone immediately, they wouldn’t have gotten to me fast enough to stop what happened. But there are nearly six hours between me getting out of the car and being found at the warehouse, and it didn’t take them that long to beat me up and drive me there.

I take a deep breath and try to put my thoughts in order. This isn’t my strong point—I’m not an analytical thinker. But Dyl is, and Ian’s pretty good at mapping this shit out, too, and I have everything they’ve already thought of to start from. We know from the police report that I was beaten up at the warehouse. We know I was taken there sometime between nine forty-five and eleven fifteen. We know my car was as clean as a whistle, which… okay, I try to clean it out regularly, but it’s possible there was still a water bottle or two left in it from the drive to Reno. I didn’t bother to bring them out at the motel, because the rooms never have recycling bins, only trash. For whatever reason—maybe they touched them by accident and didn’t want to leave fingerprints?—the attackers cleaned those out of my car, along with my kit.

I’m still salty about that, even though Ian’s promised to bring me one from the armory when he and Marc come up this weekend. I’ve had that sword for thirteen years, and those fuckers stole it. Now I have to get used to a new one.

That’s not the worst thing they did, though, so I try to let it go and focus. In those six hours, they somehow knocked me out, took me and my car somewhere, took every weapon and demon-hunting tool I had with me, kept me there for a while, drove me to the warehouse and beat the crap out of me, then made sure my car was completely clean before leaving.

Or maybe they mostly cleaned the car before they beat me. Orrrr… maybe they didn’t grab me from the apartment building. Maybe I just haven’t regained the part of my memory where I left there of my own accord and went somewhere else. Who knows?

Dylan and I talked to my brothers and Marc about his theory, and we all agree that killing me was supposed to be a message of some kind. We just don’t know from who, or why. Or even what exactly the message is supposed to be.

It makes sense that they were watching for me at the apartment building, seeing as they went to all the trouble of luring me there, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t have followed me from there to somewhere else.

Sighing, I try to remember the details of my dreams. Maybe they’re just a result of my traumatized subconscious, but in case any parts are actual memories, I can’t ignore them. Too bad I’m not one of those people who dreams in vivid technicolor and remembers every second once I’ve woken up.

It was… shadowy. Dark. Or maybe that’s just my vision? Everything seemed hazy. Is that the dream-world element, or the drug they gave me?

Pain, I remember that. Even in the dream, it hurt like a motherfucker. There were boots kicking me, and something else, something hard and solid that made me wish I was dead. The police report says a lead pipe was found near me, so I guess it could have been that? But again, am I just dreaming about it because I know a pipe was there, or was I actually hit with a pipe?

And why did they leave my head alone? We all agree the goal was to kill me, use my death to send a message, and a couple of solid blows to the head would have achieved that. Or a stabbing—they could even have used one of my blades. Why beat me to death?

One thing I do know: if my dreams aren’t just dreams, these assholes meant business. The only sounds they made while they pounded on me were occasional grunts from the effort. None of them spoke, not even to swear. I’m not even sure how many there were.

My dreams definitely aren’t helpful. Not only are theynotabout Dylan sucking me off or me being in the front row of a Taylor Swift concert—because yes, that would be a dream come true—they also wake me up and leave my brain so full of thinkies that I can’t go back to sleep. Sure, it’s probably nearly my usual wakeup time—it can’t be too far off if Dyl’s already come to bed—but I probably could have gotten?—

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