Raw Power: An Urban Fantasy Novel (Demon-Hearted Book 1) Read Free

a very simple retrieval. They intend to use it in some sort of ritual.”
    I laughed aloud. In retrospect, maybe I shouldn't have. “A ritual? Wait, like, voodoo? Devil-worship?”
    The client said nothing.
      I knew guys like him could be eccentric, but until today, I'd never known Mr. Amundsen to be into, well, that kind of thing. Years back, an interest in the occult could ruin one's reputation. These days, though, it was stunning to me just how many folks collected occult trinkets for the fun of it. I guess devilry was in vogue or something. Up to that point, I'd only known Amundsen's collections to contain cherished pieces of art, though it stood to reason that he'd have to fill that hulking house of his with other shit. Sure, why not occult collectibles?
    If there's one thing I learned early on in this gig, it's not to ask too many questions. You start poking and prodding around in aspects of the job that don't really concern you and you can piss off your clients. There was way too much money on the line for me to risk that, and besides, I liked Amundsen well enough not to pester him about the particulars. Some people had made off with his little pentagram box and were trying to summon Satan with it while beating tom-toms or something similarly ridiculous. OK, I can handle that.
    “All right,” I said, clearing my throat and tucking the paper into my pocket. “Where can I find it?”
    The smile returned to Amundsen's lips. “Like I said, I'll provide you with the address.”

TWO

    Amundsen had me going out to some shitty neighborhood in Flint. Flint was about an hour's drive away on the highway, though taking the back roads would likely be faster for me, since I could speed as much as I wanted without having to worry about a dickish highway patrolman writing me up. On the way, I stopped at the 7/11 for a coffee and went real heavy on the cream and sugar. I realized I hadn't eaten anything since that morning and picked up a few gas station cheeseburgers, too. What can I say? When I celebrate a big payday I like to pull out all of the stops.
    When I finally got to the place, though, a large, burnt-out shell of a house at the end of a winding, unoccupied street, it wasn't at all what I'd expected. Oh, sure, it looked like the kind of house where some emo kids might meet up to fuck around on the weekends, but the entire atmosphere was so eerie that I couldn't shake it, and I wondered what'd possessed them to bring Amundsen's little box out here. Then I started wondering about what was in it, and why it was so important to him anyway, but I caught myself before jumping into that rabbit hole.
      Don't ask questions. It isn't any of your business, remember?
    I parked the car a little ways away and shut off the headlights a while before that, so that I could approach the house without being heard or seen. I don't know if it was just a sudden change in weather or what, but the wind had grown considerably colder in the past hour, and I was suddenly regretting my choice of T-shirt and jeans. A jacket would've been nice.
    The curb was pretty busted but I followed it a while and sized up the exterior of the house. A fire had wreaked havoc on it if the scorch marks were any indicator, and a large part of the roof had caved in. All of the windows were broken and the lawn was so overgrown it might've been declared a metropark.
    There was no telling what I could expect. Amundsen had been entirely too vague. He wanted me to get the box back and was paying me a shitload to do it, but as I approached the house and the cool wind reached my arms, I began to feel nervous.
    Nerves in a job like mine aren't a good thing, least of all when you're standing outside the house where the action's about to go down. There's a place and time for butterflies in the stomach, for self-doubt, but mere moments before go-time ain't it. I balled my fists and ambled up to the edge of the building where I'd be able to peer into one of the burnt-out