Junior InquisitorLincoln S. Farish
Brother Sebastian is halfway up a mountain in Vermont, hell-bent on interrogating an old woman in ashack, when he gets the order to abandon his quest for personal vengeance. He has to find a missing Inquisitor, or, more likely, his remains. He’s reluctant, to say the least. Not only will he have to stop chasing the best potential lead he’s had in years, this job—his first solo mission—will mean setting foot in the grubby black hole of Providence, Rhode Island. And, somehow, it only gets worse…
If he’d known he would end up ass deep in witches, werewolves, and ogres, and that this mission would jeopardize not only his sanity but also his immortal soul, he never would’ve answered the damn phone.
With deliberate movements, I again went from shadow to shadow, creeping away from my car and the shop. Even moving with care, I was sweating from fear and excitement, my heart still pumping rapidly. My brain was screaming, Run away, and I really wanted to listen to it. I wanted to just start running as fast as I could down the street. It would feel good for a few minutes, until I was caught.
I wiped my face before the stinging sweat blinded me. Last thing I needed was to twist my ankle on a pothole or unseen brick. I made it several more blocks in a generally south and east direction before I heard a car coming down the street toward me. I could just make it out—a panel van, the kind the cable company uses. This late at night, a vehicle like that was not going to be good for me. I ducked into a little stand of trees growing between two twelve-foot industrial fences and started running.
Maybe they didn’t see me, or maybe it was just some burglars looking for a house to rob.
The van’s engine revved, headed to where I’d been before my dash into the trees. Brakes, old and tired, squealed behind me. I tried to go faster, but the trees were thick, the light bad, and there was a lot of undergrowth and litter on the ground. At a full run, I would faceplant into a tree or step in a hole. The best I could manage was a slow trot. The hollow metallic bang of a vehicle door being thrown open crashed into the night. The howling came next.