Chapter 11 — Arthur | The Contact.
990 Words
The address in the journal leads to a house on the edge of a town nobody seems to have heard of.
No sign. No mailbox. Just a dirt path winding between trees, and at the end of it — a grey wooden house. A light in one window. An old pickup parked on the side.
Dad recognizes the place. He says nothing, but I can tell by the way he looks at the house. He's been here before.
We get out of the pickup.
"Sal Mercer," says Dad. "Thirty years of hunting. He retired six years ago." He looks at the front door — ajar. "He never leaves his door open."
We draw our weapons. Because it was really strange.
We approach slowly.
The door creaks when I push it open.
The inside is a disaster.
Not the kind of disaster of a man living alone who doesn't clean. The kind of disaster of a search — furniture overturned, drawers ripped out, papers all over the floor. An entire bookshelf emptied, books scattered like dead leaves. I tell myself someone was here and they turned the room upside down.
"They got here before us," says Elidja quietly.
I raise my hand. A sound. From the back of the house.
We move room by room. Kitchen destroyed. Dark hallway. And in the last bedroom —
An old man on the floor.
In his sixties. White hair. A flannel shirt stained with blood on the right side. He's breathing — short, labored — but breathing.
Dad is on his knees beside him before I even have time to react.
"Sal," he says.
The man opens his eyes. It takes him a second to focus. Then he recognizes Dad and something in his face lets go.
"Marcus." His voice is barely a breath. "I knew you'd come." A pause. "I wish you'd come sooner."
"Who did this?" Dad asks.
"Two men. Last night." He winces as he shifts. "Black eyes. They were looking for the journal." He looks at Dad. "They know you have it, Sal."
Dad places his hand on the old man's shoulder.
"We're taking you to the hospital, Sal—"
"No." His voice is firm despite everything. "No, there's not enough time for that and we both know it." He coughs. "Listen to me, Marcus. They're eliminating everyone. Every hunter with enough experience to stand against them." He looks at all three of us. "They're clearing the field before they open the seal."
"How many?" asks Elidja.
"How many what?"
"How many hunters have they already eliminated?"
The old man closes his eyes for a second.
"Many. More than we can imagine, Sal."
Silence falls in the room. Outside, the wind makes the trees creak.
"The Elder," says Dad. "Raziel. Do you know where he is?"
Sal opens his eyes. A small bitter smile crosses his face.
"That's why you came to see me." Not an accusation. Just a statement. "Raziel." He says the name differently from us — with a kind of careful respect. "He's in Montana. In the mountains north of Missoula." He winces again. "But Marcus, listen to me carefully." He grabs Dad's arm. "Raziel hasn't received anyone in twenty years. He's... different. What he's seen, what he's been through — it leaves marks." He looks at all three of us. "He won't receive you easily. And if you go in numbers, he won't receive you at all," he says.
"We won't go in numbers," says Dad.
"You need to go alone, Marcus." The old man's gaze is serious. "Or almost."
Dad nods slowly.
Sal releases his arm. His eyes close. His breathing slows.
"Sal—"
"Let it be." His voice is barely audible. "I'm tired, Marcus. Thirty years is a long time." A pause. "You're going to win. I don't know how. But you're going to win."
We stay until his breathing stops.
Dad stands up. He says nothing. He tucks the journal back inside his jacket. He walks out of the room.
Elidja and I look at each other.
We follow him out.
---
We've been driving forty minutes when I notice the car.
A black sedan. Three cars behind us since we left Sal's house. I'd thought it was a coincidence at first — same road, same direction.
But it took the same turn as us. Twice.
"Elidja."
He checks his rearview mirror. The pickup is ahead — Dad and Arthur inside. Me in the old Ford behind.
"I see it," he says over the radio. We've been on the same frequency since the start. "How long?"
"Since Sal's, maybe. Maybe the motel."
Silence.
"Human or something else?" asks Arthur.
"Impossible to tell from this distance."
Dad speaks for the first time since we left the house.
"We don't stop," he says. "We don't change route. We keep going toward Montana." A pause. "If they wanted to stop us, they would have."
"So they're following us," says Elidja.
"They're following us."
I look in the rearview mirror. The black sedan holds its distance. Not too close, not too far.
Professional.
"Azazel knows where we're going," I say.
No one answers.
No one needs to.
The road stretches ahead of us into the dark. Toward Montana. Toward Raziel.
And behind us — exactly three cars back — someone else is heading the same way. They're following us.
"I know," says Dad.
"Let's pretend we didn't see anything." I kept driving.
Sometimes I glanced behind me, and there was always that sedan following us.
"It's always following us," Dad asked.
"Yes, yes."
I'm really stressed behind the wheel, but I think it's worth it. Because the world is in danger.
——
The first one lunged toward...
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