better shut up.
They wouldn’t listen to him after that, clearly figured he wasn’t lucid due to a head injury. They trussed him up rather thoroughly, and with his head and neck in some sort of brace one of them said, “Ok, let’s roll him, check for exit wounds.”
They rolled him onto his side, prodded him a bit, and there was general agreement he hadn’t been shot. They bundled him into an ambulance and Paul lay back as the lights of the city rushed past, the horn blaring, the ambulance jerking and swerving about.
At the ER someone asked, “Call said GSW?”
“Looks like maybe not,” one of the paramedics said, “but you should check him anyway. And he’s not lucid. Probably head trauma.”
The ER staff poked and prodded at him, asked him to count fingers and other tests for lucidity. By the time the cops arrived they’d given him a sedative and the pain began to ebb.
“Ya,” one of the cops said. “We got the call earlier. You should see his place. Looks like a navy seal team took it apart.”
“He said something about Russians.”
“Fucking Russian Mafia,” the cop said. “Ass holes must be going into home invasions now.”
The cop leaned into Paul’s field of view. “Sorry, buddy, but we’ll probably never find the bastards. But you are one lucky stiff. Those fuckers are stone-cold killers.”
He was too stoned to really feel anything as they plucked all the splinters and stitched him up. A doctor told him he didn’t have a concussion, but they still wanted to keep him overnight for observation. They finished bandaging him up, wheeled him through a maze of halls and up an elevator, then parked his bed in a large ward. He drifted off into a hazy, drug-induced slumber.
Baalthelmass had learned much this night. As expected Its two minions had failed to devour this Lord. But It had learned this Lord was weak, even weaker than It had believed. He hadn’t demonstrated any defensive powers, even against such weak underlings, had instead fled into the night while his mortal companions disposed of the emergents. And, in fact, they’d only annihilated one with the usual methods, while something unknown had sent the other back to the Netherworld. It was that unknown that gave It pause.
Another test was called for. Another minion, but this time not the wasted, half-living, ravenous creatures with no experience on the Mortal Plane. No, this time It would send Its protégé, one much stronger than the others, one capable of casting a powerful glamour, of using caution and finesse, one perhaps even capable of devouring this Lord-of-the-Unliving, if it was resourceful. It would be a shame if Baalthelmass missed out on such a sumptuous feast, but if this Lord proved more resourceful than anticipated, better to let something else suffer annihilation, if it came to that.
Katherine got the call around 4:00 AM. Paul Conklin had apparently been the victim of a home invasion, had suffered some nasty injuries but nothing life threatening. He’d been brought in by paramedics and was resting comfortably.
She called her father, but only got his voice mail so she left a message with the details. This young man was apparently quite important to her father, and she couldn’t confirm that he’d gotten her message, so she decided to start the day early and check on the fellow herself. She took a quick shower, put on her makeup and a not-too-conservative Donna Karan business suit with the skirt cut just above the knees. She finished it off with some Prada four-inch heels; she knew she looked good in heels. She could check in on this Conklin fellow, probably run into her father at the hospital, get a bite to eat somewhere and be in her office long before her first appointment.
She loved driving the Jaguar. It was an extravagance, but she didn’t care, and after she parked it in the reserved parking at the hospital, she patted it on the hood like a pet and said, “Don’t miss me too much, darling.”
The night
They wouldn’t listen to him after that, clearly figured he wasn’t lucid due to a head injury. They trussed him up rather thoroughly, and with his head and neck in some sort of brace one of them said, “Ok, let’s roll him, check for exit wounds.”
They rolled him onto his side, prodded him a bit, and there was general agreement he hadn’t been shot. They bundled him into an ambulance and Paul lay back as the lights of the city rushed past, the horn blaring, the ambulance jerking and swerving about.
At the ER someone asked, “Call said GSW?”
“Looks like maybe not,” one of the paramedics said, “but you should check him anyway. And he’s not lucid. Probably head trauma.”
The ER staff poked and prodded at him, asked him to count fingers and other tests for lucidity. By the time the cops arrived they’d given him a sedative and the pain began to ebb.
“Ya,” one of the cops said. “We got the call earlier. You should see his place. Looks like a navy seal team took it apart.”
“He said something about Russians.”
“Fucking Russian Mafia,” the cop said. “Ass holes must be going into home invasions now.”
The cop leaned into Paul’s field of view. “Sorry, buddy, but we’ll probably never find the bastards. But you are one lucky stiff. Those fuckers are stone-cold killers.”
He was too stoned to really feel anything as they plucked all the splinters and stitched him up. A doctor told him he didn’t have a concussion, but they still wanted to keep him overnight for observation. They finished bandaging him up, wheeled him through a maze of halls and up an elevator, then parked his bed in a large ward. He drifted off into a hazy, drug-induced slumber.
Baalthelmass had learned much this night. As expected Its two minions had failed to devour this Lord. But It had learned this Lord was weak, even weaker than It had believed. He hadn’t demonstrated any defensive powers, even against such weak underlings, had instead fled into the night while his mortal companions disposed of the emergents. And, in fact, they’d only annihilated one with the usual methods, while something unknown had sent the other back to the Netherworld. It was that unknown that gave It pause.
Another test was called for. Another minion, but this time not the wasted, half-living, ravenous creatures with no experience on the Mortal Plane. No, this time It would send Its protégé, one much stronger than the others, one capable of casting a powerful glamour, of using caution and finesse, one perhaps even capable of devouring this Lord-of-the-Unliving, if it was resourceful. It would be a shame if Baalthelmass missed out on such a sumptuous feast, but if this Lord proved more resourceful than anticipated, better to let something else suffer annihilation, if it came to that.
Katherine got the call around 4:00 AM. Paul Conklin had apparently been the victim of a home invasion, had suffered some nasty injuries but nothing life threatening. He’d been brought in by paramedics and was resting comfortably.
She called her father, but only got his voice mail so she left a message with the details. This young man was apparently quite important to her father, and she couldn’t confirm that he’d gotten her message, so she decided to start the day early and check on the fellow herself. She took a quick shower, put on her makeup and a not-too-conservative Donna Karan business suit with the skirt cut just above the knees. She finished it off with some Prada four-inch heels; she knew she looked good in heels. She could check in on this Conklin fellow, probably run into her father at the hospital, get a bite to eat somewhere and be in her office long before her first appointment.
She loved driving the Jaguar. It was an extravagance, but she didn’t care, and after she parked it in the reserved parking at the hospital, she patted it on the hood like a pet and said, “Don’t miss me too much, darling.”
The night
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