Bad Grace (Watcher Chronicles Book 1) (8 page)

Frank parked the Chevy in the parking area at the front of the Temple, which was half filled with other vehicles. The Temple attracted a lot of tourists, because of the stunning architecture and the scenes depicted in the stained glass windows, scenes depicting men slaying demons and other monsters mostly, with only a few traditional religious scenes. The Temple’s architects were mostly Watcher’s, so they built the place according to their own needs, adding in secret entrances and building in things that would keep the monster element at bay, like sigils carved into the heavy stone blocks from which the cathedral was built, and also certain things concealed inside the stones themselves. Some of the great corner stones were actually hollowed out so that certain magical items could be placed inside, again to ward off evil and enhance the power base of the building itself.

There were a number of ways to gain access to the Watcher HQ below the Temple, with doors leading to stairs and elevators. Frank walked into the Temple through the front doors, past a group of tourists who stood marveling at the exquisite architecture and design inside the main Temple itself. Frank took a side door and then went down various corridors until he came to an elevator that was hidden away at the end of a barely used corridor. Inside the elevator, he pressed the button marked B for basement. As he did so, he transferred a flash of grace into the button. The grace was his identification as a Nephilim—as a Watcher—insuring he wouldn’t end up in the basement, but in the Watcher Facility instead.

The Facility itself had three main functions. Firstly, it was meant as a training facility for young Nephilim to train as Watcher’s. Frank himself went through the system when he turned eighteen, spending a good two years down there training, learning how to fight, how to use various weapons—traditional and magical—and how to perform rituals and spells, with a lot of reading up on different types of supernatural beings, their strengths and weaknesses, how to kill them etc. In that sense, Watcher HQ was no different from any government facility. Even in appearance, most of it was all gray concrete, apart from the supporting walls that ran through the place, which were made from the same stone as the Temple above. Most of the place was bland and clinical though, industrial almost. It was all business down there with training rooms and classrooms filled with young kids and their older instructors. Frank was asked to become an instructor as well, in weapons and tactics, but he declined. He couldn’t wait to see the back of the place when he finished his initial training.

The second function of the facility was to act as a base for the High Council. There were exactly twelve people on the Council and the Facility is where they had their meetings and controlled Watcher policy. A bunch of politicians most of them, more interested in petty bureaucracy and power play than anything else. Frank never had any love for the Council and it was one of the main reasons why he ended up breaking away from them and going his own way, becoming an independent operator, so to speak.

The final function of the facility was to act as safe storage for the many magical items that Watcher’s came across in the field, items like the archangel feather Frank was there to see about. At the lowest levels, there was also a prison facility where supernaturals were sometimes kept for interrogation or for more extended stays if they were deemed too dangerous to be let loose again.

Frank walked down a long corridor with a concrete floor and gray walls either side, with strip lights on the low ceiling right along. He hated even being back in the place. It felt like a prison to him. He had excelled in his training when he was there, but he had hated having to spend so much time inside the place. It got claustrophobic after a while, made you stir crazy.

As Frank moved down the corridor, he heard noise further down and soon he came to a large opening on the left that lead into a massive open room. There were about twenty young Nephilim kids in the room, girls and boys, all training in hand to hand combat. Frank smiled over at the instructor who was yelling at his trainees to make more of an effort as they practiced their striking skills on heavy pads held by their fellow trainees. The instructor looked over at Frank in surprise. “Well hole-e shit,” the instructor—whose name was Jack Burnharte—said, as he smiled broadly over at Frank.

Frank smiled back as he walked into the room towards his old instructor, who didn’t look much different from how he was nearly fifteen years ago when he was training Frank and the others. He still wore the same black combats and T-shirt with matching boots, his hair still a gray crew cut, making him look every inch the Marine that he once was before he joined the Facility as a trainer twenty years ago. “Still giving these kids a hard time, I see,” Frank said as he shook Jack’s hand.

Jack’s ice blue eyes looked into Frank’s, making Frank feel instantly like a trainee again. Jack had a way of instilling fear into even the most rebellious of trainees, as Frank once was. “They wouldn’t do anything otherwise,” Jack said in his gravelly voice. “You of all people should know that.”

Frank did. When he first joined the program at eighteen, he was lazy and unmotivated, still caught up in the party mode he’d been in since he was a young teenager. He dragged his feet, refused to fully engage with the training. Then Jack came along one day and dragged Frank down to the prison level, showed him a rabid werewolf that was locked up down there. The werewolf launched itself against the steel bars of its cage while Jack pressed Frank’s face against it, causing Frank to scream in fear as the werewolf snapped its jaws only an inch from his face. “You see that boy?” Jack had bellowed over the noise of the snarling werewolf. “That fucking beast there will eat you alive and shit you out again if you don’t know how to stop it. To stop it, you have to
train
to stop it!” He pressed Franks face harder against the bars. “You hear me, boy? Train! That’s all you have to do and ugly motherfuckers like this won’t be able to eat you. You got it?”

Of course, Frank had screamed, yes, yes he got it. After that, he made sure he fully engaged with the training. Jack had been right. The training did end up saving his life on many occasions.

“So what brings you down here?” Jack asked after he’d finished yelling at some kid for not using proper body mechanics while punching.

“Need to see a man about a feather,” Frank said. “Cunningham about do you know?”

“What do you want to see that asshole about?” Jack had no love for the Council members either. According to Jack, if the Council members had their way, all Watcher’s would have to kiss the council members asses every time they met. Fortunately for Jack, he and some of the other long time instructors and teachers still had influence so they could stop things like that happening.

“Just a case I’m working on. Speaking of which, you do much field work these days?”

“Field work?” Jack laughed. “I’m not even sure what that is anymore. Hell, I can barely remember what the outside world looks like I spend so much time in this concrete box.”

“I may need some help if you’re available.”

“Say no more, Swanson. Just let me know when and where.”

“Tonight,” Frank said. “The Southside.”

Jack laughed again. “Jesus, give a guy a chance to prepare.”

“Come on, Jack. A good Watcher is always prepared for anything.”

“Ah, throwing my own words back at me.” Jack nodded. “Alright. Give me a call later if you still have my number.”

“Thanks, Jack.”

They shook hands again, Jack’s grip still as crushing as it was all those years ago, then Frank left the training room and walked along the corridor again to another elevator that brought him down three levels to the main Council floor. In contrast to the other floors, the one Frank found himself in was like a corporate heaven, all swish offices with big windows and mahogany frames, polished wood floors everywhere, oil paintings in expensive frames hanging from the walls.

Frank stood in the reception area, which was manned by a beautiful looking blonde woman dressed in a dark power suit as she sat behind a big curved mahogany reception desk. “Can I help you?” the blonde woman asked, looking out over her horn rimmed glasses at Frank like he was a piece of trash just wondered in off the street.

Ignoring the looks he was getting from the woman, who seemed to be in her late twenties, Frank walked to the reception desk. “I’m here to see the boss,” he said, drumming his hands on the polished wooden surface of the reception desk.

The blonde secretary, if that’s what she was, just stared at Frank. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“My names Frank Swanson. I’m here to speak with Leland Cunningham. And no, I don’t have an appointment. Just tell him I’m here. He’ll see me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Swanson,” the woman said, smiling politely. “Mr. Cunningham doesn’t see anyone without an appointment.”

Frank nodded, looked into the face of the blonde woman. She wasn’t just a secretary, she was also security. He noticed the slight bulge inside her jacket. She also had a look in her eye that told him she had come through the system, was probably better trained than he was. “Look, this is important. It’s about the soulless maniacs running around up there killing people. You might want to call your boss and tell him I have information about that.”

“That won’t be necessary, Michelle.”

Frank turned to see Leland Cunningham walking down the corridor, dressed impeccably as always in a pinstripe gray suit. For a man nearly into his seventies, he still looked well, at least ten years younger. But then sitting around in plush environments all day wasn’t exactly hard on the looks. “Leland,” Frank said. “Nothing gets past you, does it?”

Leland smiled, the smile of a man who was used to being one step ahead of everyone all of the time. “You didn’t really think you’d make all the way down here without me knowing, did you, Frank? I was wired of your presence the moment you entered the Temple. I assume you’re here about the debacle up top?”

“And which debacle would that be? There are many.”

Leland never missed a beat. “Let’s go to my suite. We can talk there.” He turned and started walking before Frank could even reply. Arrogant son of a bitch, Frank thought. He deserves to be head of the High Council.

“Don’t worry,” Frank said to the blonde secretary with the gun under her jacket. “I’ll make an appointment next time. And by the way, nice Glock.” Frank smiled when he saw the tiniest of drops in her face. At least she didn’t go to pat her jacket.

Leland’s suite was at the very end of the corridor. The ornate double doors were already open by the time Frank got there. Frank closed the doors behind him and ambled into the suite, which resembled a luxury hotel room with no windows, except with more art on the walls and priceless artifacts artfully placed around the massive room. Frank was glad to see Leland already pouring drinks. “Still whiskey?” he asked Frank, even though he was half way through pouring the second glass.

“Are there any other drinks?” Frank said as he looked around the room. “Good to see you’ve gotten used to all this discomfort. It must be hard.”

“You still living in that wooden shack on a mountain side?” Leland walked over, handed Frank his drink. Frank dreaded to think how much the whiskey in the glass cost.

“It’s a cabin, not a shack. And I like the fresh air. Year’s spent in this place does that to you.”

Leland shook his head, went and sat on the designer red couch, next to an ornately carved coffee table that Frank knew wasn’t a coffee table at all, but an ancient altar of sorts that the Celtic Druids used to sacrifice children on. “I prefer the filtered air in here myself. No toxins.”

“Not in the air anyway.”

Leland gave Frank a tight smile. “Tell me again why you’re here, Frank? I thought you were an independent operator these days.”

“I am.” He tasted the whiskey. Damn. Pure nectar. If he could think of no reason to be head of the High Council before, he could definitely think of one now.

“I thought you made yourself clear the last time you were here. You wanted us to leave you alone. We did.”

“I know,” Frank said nodding. “I was just wondering why the Council hasn’t taken an interest in what’s happening in the city. There’s a demon gang stealing souls, turning people into one man murder shows.”

“We’re already aware of that. We’re looking into it now.”

“Really? Just looking into it?”

“What do you want us to do, Frank? We only just found out about the whole thing. Rest assured, the demons responsible will be dealt with.”

Frank began walking around the room, mainly because he knew Leland hated people doing that. It made it harder for him to brow beat them when they weren’t standing in front of him. “Are you aware, Leland, of the ritual used to steal the souls?”

“Yes, I’m aware of it. It isn’t one that’s used often.”

Frank turned to face him. “And why is that, Leland?”

Leland’s knowing gray eyes narrowed at Frank for a moment. “You obviously have something to say, Frank. So say it.” He placed the whiskey on the coffee table altar, without having drank a drop.

“You must know about the feather, Leland. The archangel feather needed to do the ritual.”

“What about it?”

Frank smiled, shook his head, and wagged his finger at Leland. “Nice try,” he said. “You’re forgetting I know you, Leland. You make sure you know every last thing that goes inside this place. It’s how you rose to the top, after all.”

A look of anger came over Leland’s face, then he paused while he got back his icy demeanor again. “What are you getting at, Frank? This is getting tiresome and I don’t have time for games.”

“I wouldn’t call a traitor in the ranks, a game.”

“A traitor?”

“Come on, Leland. We both know there is only one way a bunch of low level demons can get their hands on an archangel feather. There’s only one that I know of, and it’s locked away here in the vaults.” Frank slammed his glass on the sacrifice table, enjoying the look of annoyance on Leland’s face as he did so. “Someone in here gave that feather to the demons.”