Tortured: Book Three of the Jason and Azazel Trilogy (25 page)

Shiloh
.
Grandma Hoyt shook her head. "She didn't have a vision, Azazel. She put
the suggestion in your head. Then you put that suggestion in those men's heads.
You planted their insanity."
"I didn't hypnotize them," I said, confused.
"Yes," said Grandma Hoyt. "You did. And this is why I wanted you
here with me, Azazel. Neither of my daughters had my gifts. But you are
special. They are strong within you. You have dreams as well.
Dreams that suggest the future.
Dreams
that show you things.
And you can also exert your power over the minds
of others. You are stronger even than I am."
What she said made a certain amount of sense. But I wasn't sure that I actually
believed it.
 
"I can teach you how to control and hone your gifts," she said.
I glared at her.
"So that I can be like you?
No, thanks."
"
What does that mean?"
"Okay," I said, "I get that you're mad at Edgar Weem. He sounds
like a big jerk. I'd be mad at him too. So if you have these powers or
whatever, why not use them on him? Why didn't you just make him go take a big
jump off a building or something? Why this elaborate scheme? And why involve
Jason, who was an innocent, unborn child and had never done anything to hurt
you?"
"The power doesn't work like that," said Grandma Hoyt. "You
can't just go around messing with the minds of everyone you meet. Only
impressionable minds can be used. Edgar wasn't suitable."
"Jason was just a baby," I said. "You disgust me. You're a vile
woman." I threw her words about Edgar Weem back in her face.
"Azazel, you must wipe thoughts of Jason from your mind. He is gone. He
was a violent, terrible boy. He wasn't a good influence on you. And he would
only have hurt you in the end. My curse would have seen to that. The boy is
little more than a walking time bomb."
Oh. Screw her curses. Maybe they only worked on impressionable minds too. I
stood up from the bed, fuming. I couldn't believe this. My entire life,
everything that had gone wrong, was
all my
grandmother's fault. It was her fault that Michaela had tried to use the
Satanists to kill Jason. Sure Satanism was weird and a little gross, but beyond
the ritual killing of Jason, it didn't really hurt anybody. If it hadn't been
for that, maybe I could have simply dealt with my crazy Satanist family. They
might still be alive, too. Essentially, my grandmother's actions had caused
pretty much every bad thing that had ever happened to me.
I spun on my heels, staring at her. She sat so prim and proper on the bed, her
back as straight as if an ice pick had been rammed up her spine. And as I
stared at her, I hated her.
"Do you have any idea what you've done?" I said. "You set things
in motion. It's your fault that so many people are dead. And you just use
people like they're your pawns. You just move them around. Like Palomino.
Taking her away from Chance."
Grandma Hoyt got to her feet. "Palomino is in a facility in the Sons'
Headquarters. I assure you, she's quite safe. And it's for her own good."
 
"Her own good?" How could she be so self-righteous? Didn't she see
what a horrible hag of a woman she was?
"I'm sure I've given you a lot to think about," said Grandma Hoyt.
"I'll let you think." She swept out of my bedroom.
I stood, rooted to the spot, seething. All I could think about was what an
absolutely terrible person she was and how much I hated her. I tore out of my
room after her.
She was standing at the top of the staircase.
"Grandma!"
I screamed.
She started and lost her balance. She went tumbling down the steps, crying out.
 
Chance came out of his room. "What's wrong?" he said.
Grandma Hoyt's body came to a stop at the bottom of the steps. Her neck was
twisted in an unnatural way. She was crumpled into sickening position, her legs
and arms like a pretzel over each other. And her eyes were wide open, staring
up at me. But she wasn't moving.
I took a step back, my hand going to my open mouth. "Oh," I
whispered.
Chance clambered down the steps to Grandma Hoyt. He knelt by her, shaking her
shoulder. "Grandma?" he said.
I'd just
accidentally killed my grandmother.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Fourteen

To: Cornelius Agricola
From: Edgar Weem
Subject: Re: Jason
Cornelius, don't worry about anything! You did the right thing, letting them
go. The boy needs to follow the path I've set for him to truly achieve his full
potential. He is remarkable. You're right.
 
For this reason, I don't worry about him. There's not a situation on earth he can't
get himself out of. He's proved this over and over.
 
Edgar

The guards weren't at the doors. They were inside,
staring at Grandma Hoyt.
 
"It was an accident," Chance was saying. "She fell down the
steps."
I was still at the top of the steps, my hand at my mouth. I was shaking.
 
But the guards weren't at the doors. It was my only chance.
I vaulted down the steps, carefully avoiding the body, and I shot through the
front door. Chance called after me, but I didn't stop. I just kept going.
When I was about five blocks away, approaching a bus station, I realized that I
should have stopped and gotten some money or a car or something. I walked to
the bus station, wondering what I should do. Should I go back to the house? But
no, I didn't think so. There would probably be police and ambulances. They
would ask questions. And I couldn't answer them. Besides, I could think of a
place that I could go to get money.
And a passport, which I
was going to need.
There were two people at the bus station. One was a man in a business suit,
carrying a briefcase. The other was an elderly lady with a scarf over her head.
She saw me immediately, taking me in. I was still wearing the nightgown my
grandmother had forced me to wear. I wasn't sure how I looked.
"Are you crying, sweetheart?" asked the woman.
Was I? I touched my face. Oh God. I was. I looked at the woman and blurted,
"My grandmother," I said. "She's dead. I just ran out of the
house, and I don't have money for bus fare, and I need to go into the
city."
"Oh my," said the lady.
"You poor dear."
She opened her purse and gave me a ten dollar bill. "That should get you
into the city. I'm so sorry about your grandmother."
"Thank you," I said, breaking out into fresh sobs.
As I settled into a seat on the bus, I mused that it wasn't true what people
said. There were kind people on earth still. Of course, if that woman had known
it was my fault that my grandmother had fallen down the steps to her death, she
might not have been as nice.
 
The bus deposited me at the train station, where I boarded a train bound for
New York City
. I spent
what seemed like hours studying the map of
New York City
in the train, trying to figure
out where I was supposed to get off. I finally decided that I would get off at
the

33rd Street

and

6th Avenue

stop because it looked close to Penn Station, and that was where Jason and I
had gotten off the bus the last time we'd been in
New York
, last fall.
Once off the train, I was overwhelmed by the city again. I hadn't been back
since our short visit back in November, and it seemed the same as ever.
Tall buildings, tons of people, movement everywhere.
It had
been a long time ago, and I hadn't paid a lot of attention to where Jason was
taking me, but I knew that we had walked from here. I found my way to Penn
Station and to the place where the bus had dropped us off. This looked
familiar.
 
What had we done after this?
Jason had gone to a payphone. I looked up at down the street until I located
it. I went to the phone.
Now.
Where had we gone from
here? Had we walked further up this street or had we turned and gone the other
way? I tried as best as I could to hone in on my memory of the situation.
To remember Jason's movements.
We'd walked up this street. I
was almost certain of it.
 
I walked up the street, to the edge of the block. Had we crossed the street?
 
I remembered that we'd walked for a long time, and that Jason had been walking
really fast. I remembered that I'd gotten out of breath. But I had no idea what
turns we'd taken. I'd paid no attention to the names of the streets. I hadn't
thought I'd ever need to retrace our steps. I sighed. I didn't think we'd
crossed the street here.
But I resolved to remember each of my paths, so that I could come back to Penn
Station and try each route, taking different turns, until I found the right
one. How many possible combinations could there be? I remembered there was a
formula for figuring that out. But I didn't remember the formula, and maybe it
was a blessing, because I didn't want to know how hopeless this was.
 
It was getting dark, and I wandered through the streets of
New York City
in my white lace nightgown.
(The only good thing was that no one gave me a second glance. There were tons
of weirdly dressed people on the streets of
New York City
.) Nothing looked familiar. I
tried walking straight for as far as I could. After about a half an hour, I
decided that I must have gone the wrong way, and I walked back to Penn Station.
I started off again, this time crossing the street.
 
I repeated this process about four times, taking different streets. I didn't
see anything familiar. My feet hurt from walking. I was only wearing a pair of
slippers which my grandmother had given me. I was exhausted. It had to be after
midnight, and I was freaked out about being in
New York City
this late at night. Was I going
to be robbed at gunpoint? I snorted. I only had a few bucks. No, I didn't think
that anyone would try to rob a chick in a nightgown. I didn't look like I had
any money.
 
This had been a really stupid idea. How was I supposed to find an apartment
when I remembered next to nothing about how I'd gotten there in the first
place? I really should have planned this whole excursion out a little better.
But I hadn't had much time to think about what I was doing or where I was
going. It only made it worse knowing that Jason was stuck in the Sons
headquarters and was probably going to be executed. I didn't know how much time
I had, but here I was wasting it wandering around in
New York City
. I needed money. I needed a passport.
I needed a plane ticket.
 
And then once I was in
England
,
I didn't even know where I was going to go.
 
Wait. I'd written down a number for Father Gerald and put it in my pocket. I
dug in my pocket. Yes. It was still there.
 
Maybe if I could get in touch with Hallam, as I'd been thinking, I could get
some kind of help. Maybe Hallam could . .
.
I was back at Penn Station after my last failed attempt to find the apartment.
I trudged over the payphone that Jason had used all those months ago. Sliding
some coins into it, I dialed Father Gerald's number. It rang and rang. I
realized it was late, and he was probably asleep. I waited for the answering
machine to pick up.
But then there was a sleepy, "Hello?"
"Father Gerald?" I said.
"Yes. Who is this?"
"It's Azazel Jones. You might remember me from—"
"I remember you. What is it now?"
He sounded a little annoyed. I guess he knew if I was calling, it meant
trouble. "Do you have a number for Hallam?" I asked.
"Of course," Father Gerald sighed. He gave me the number. Of course,
I didn't have a pen or pencil, so I had to memorize it.
I hung up, put more money in the phone and dialed the number Father Gerald had
given me. It too, rang and rang and rang.
Then went to
voicemail.
Dammit! The voicemail identified the number as Hallam's cell
phone. It beeped. I took a deep breath. "Hallam,
it's
Azazel. I-I'm in trouble. Jason's in trouble. The Sons have him. I think
they're going to kill him. I need . . . Oh, it doesn't matter. I don't have a
phone. You can't call me back. But if there's anything you can do to help him .
. .
" Jason
had told Hallam that if he saw Hallam
again, he would kill him. I hung up the phone. I didn't even remember the
number anymore.
 
I slumped against the phone. What was I going to do? There wasn't anyone else I
could think of who might know any of these locations. Wait. I dialed Father
Gerald again.
"Didn't the number work?" Father Gerald wanted to know.
"It went to voicemail," I said. "I wonder if you have another
number. Sutherland?"
"You want the phone number for Liam Sutherland?" Father Gerald said,
like he didn't believe me.
"I'm desperate," I said.
"Where are you?"
"
New York City
."
Father Gerald sighed. He gave me another number. I memorized it again. And I
used the last of my change to dial the number for Sutherland. Just the thought
of him gave me shivers. He wasn't a very nice person. He was a rapist and
murderer, but he had also helped Jason and I get to
Rome
.
 
The phone only rang once. "Sutherland," said the voice on the other
end, brisk, British, and alert.
"It's Azazel Jones," I said.
"Azazel!"
Sutherland sounded delighted to
hear from me. "What can I do for you?"
"I want to know the location of the Sons headquarters in
England
,"
I said.
"Can't help you.
I don't know. I've never been
able to figure that out," he said.
Fuck. Why was this so, so hard? I wanted to cry. I considered hanging up the
phone.
 
"You used to follow Jason around, didn't you?" I said. "When you
were trying to find out information on him?"
"
Occasionally."
"
So, do you happen to know where his ID
contact
Marlena lives?"
"Actually, there I
 
can
 
help
you," said Sutherland. "But I'll want to trade."
"I don't know anything!" I said.
"Perhaps we can trade for something else, then," he said, sounding
eager. Oh. Gross. Sutherland was so disgusting. "Where are you?
In
New York
?"
"
Wait," I said. "Maybe I do have some information."
And I began blurting out everything I'd learned over the past few weeks, from
the fact that Edgar Weem was descended from King Arthur to Cornelius Agricola
training Brothers, to my grandmother's story. In the middle, a recording
interrupted me to tell me I needed to put in more coins. I didn't have anymore.
"Call me back collect," said Sutherland, giving me his number again.
I did. I picked up where I left off, telling Sutherland everything. He might be
able to do all kinds of terrible things with this information. After all, he
sold it to the highest bidder. But I didn't care. I just cared about Jason.
 
When I'd finished, Sutherland was extremely happy. "This is wonderful,
Azazel," he said. "There's so much I can do with this, especially to
the Hoyts." Then regretfully, he added, "I'm afraid you've given me
more information than the location of Marlena Cross is worth. I could tell you
something else, though, in addition. I do know where Edgar Weem is holing up.
He's in
Kildare
,
Ireland
. I'm sure if you went to
him, he could tell you the location of the Sons' headquarters."
"Deal," I said wearily.