Page 32 of Avenger of Sins

A mortal—female?—slumps against the wall, her hands behind her. Blood drips from her nose, smelling of rotting roses and rancid flesh thanks to the demon inside her. His stomach cramps with hunger, but he pushes it aside.

He switches places with Caleb, who says, “Hello?”

She shrinks back against the wall, her demon no doubt scenting the two predators so near. Even so, she manages to say, “Please. I don’t want to be here! They grabbed me, forced a demon in me. I tried to fight back, so they locked me in here. I don’t feel good—they hit me a lot.”

“Fuck. Okay.” Caleb holds up his hands and crosses into the room. Night follows. “Don’t be scared—we’re here to help you.”

Her eyes dart from him to Night, then back to them. She swallows, throat working, but forces herself to sit straighter.

“Thank you,” she says. “But you should worry about yourselves instead of me.”

The hum of electronics suddenly fills the room. Lights switch on, glowing brightly. The blank panels above become translucent, revealing people sitting on the other side, each in their own small cubicle. Strange bands encircle their heads, wires trailing into what appear to be consoles in front of them.

Night snarls and turns toward the open door, ready to run. But the shadows fail her; she stumbles, then goes to her knees, then collapses limp to the floor.

A great weight seems to press down on Gray. He tries to move, but their body is far away and getting farther. The lights grow smaller and dimmer with each passing second.

Somewhere, far above, Caleb shouts for him. He tries to reach back, but even as he does so, he is swallowed up by blackness.

John’s blood froze in his veins. This man, this plain, unassuming guy who looked like he spent his days golfing with other rich men, was the architect of Operation Mephisto. The one who’d ordered Ryan to be locked away in a lab. The reason John barely knew the truth about his own life.

Then the rest of what Harlow said hit him. Looking forward to working with them again. As if they’d been co-workers in an office, or at least willing participants.

Nausea clawed the back of his throat, but he forced it down. Gray and Night would get them out of here soon. They’d find a way around the blast door—there had to be more than one route through these underground tunnels in case of emergency, right?

In the meantime, he needed to think. Harlow was possessed, he could feel the etheric energy, though it was strangely muted. And he wasn’t the only one.

Not the guards—they seemed clean. But behind them, he caught a glimpse of two people dressed in business-casual rather than flak jackets. Each wore a metal headband of some sort, and all their attention seemed focused on Harlow.

What the fuck was going on?

In case Harlow had some lingering loyalty to SPECTR, he said, “I’m Special Agent John Starkweather, SPECTR. One of your men has my badge.”

One of the guards hurried to pull it out and hand it to Harlow. Harlow didn’t so much as glance at it before tossing it in John’s general direction. It hit the floor and skittered to the center of the room. “I know exactly who you are. I also know you’re officially not here.”

Not good. There was a leak somewhere; there had to be.

“What do you want from us?” he asked, hoping to keep Harlow talking.

“Your cooperation, nothing more.” Harlow folded his hands behind his back, his brown eyes studying first John, then Ryan. “Obviously you’re a valuable asset, Fifteen, and we really do need to get new designations for you.”

Ryan showed his teeth. “You can call me ‘Mr. Starkweather.’”

“Cute.” Harlow turned back to John. “As for you, I have plenty of exorcists already in my employ.” He nodded toward the two possessed women in headbands. “What I don’t have, until tonight at least, is someone whose mind has been altered by a telepath. The data we can get from you could prove invaluable to national security. And don’t worry—it will only be a few interviews with our psychologists, filling out some questionnaires, maybe a scan or two of your brain function. Afew days of your time, and then you’ll be free to go—with a hefty payment to a secure bank account.”

John didn’t need to be a telepath to know it was a lie. He wasn’t leaving here alive; once Harlow had what he needed, he’d wind up on an autopsy table having his brain dissected. Harlow had been a ruthless bastard before; if he had a demon urging him to violence, it would be even worse.

He needed to stall until the drakul arrived. “I might be interested—if I knew more about what you’re doing here.”

Harlow looked pleased, apparently believing John could be talked around into cooperating. If he’d been smart enough to have an empath with him, it would never have worked, but he struck John as the sort of man who thought highly of his own opinion. Maybe not enough people had told him he was wrong.

“I know you can sense the NHE in me,” he said. “Do you know the legend of King Solomon and the demons?”

“Vaguely,” John said. He’d delved through too many medieval grimoires not to have at least passing familiarity. “He was supposed to have a ring that allowed him to command Non-Human Entities, correct?”

“Very good.” Harlow smiled approvingly. “It allowed him to place a seal—presumably some kind of spirit ward—on them. The seal allowed the possessed to access the strength of their NHE, while subduing its growing impulses toward violence. A myth—but perhaps one with some truth behind it.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” John allowed.

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