She was whole. She was unbloodied. She was alive.
Behind her stood a man dressed in black, in a coat I recognized from readings as a Victorian-era greatcoat, a long wool garment with a short cape and heavy cuffs, buttoned from throat to knees. These days it was considered steampunk style. He wore a black top hat. One gloved hand he rested on Kelly’s shoulder; in the other was a short-handled, narrow, long-bladed knife, one edge held against Kelly’s throat.
In place of his face was a mask. The white Guy Fawkes mask with thin upward-curved black moustache, trimmed goatee; eerie, compressed cat-got-the-canary smile; slits for eyes, and arched black brows. I’d seen it featured in the movie V for Vendetta. I’d always thought the mask downright creepy.
The dog sat, placed his head on my knee. I stroked his head, then leaned down, rested my forehead against his broad skull. I wasn’t one for talking to God—I’d been an agnostic throughout my adult life, though those foundations were now eroding—so I talked to the dog.
The screen door creaked open behind me. Remi said, “Another one.”
“Yup.” I sat up, handed him envelope and photo over my shoulder. “She’s alive and appears unharmed. The message does not threaten her, does not make promises about what he might do to her. It’s a warning about other potential victims.”
Remi’s posture was rigid as he viewed the photo.
I tried to offer some form of reassurance. “Demented as this sounds, I actually count it a good sign for Mary Jane. He has her, he’s made his point. We saw the photo of what he did to that other woman in Kelly’s place, but he hasn’t done it to Mary Jane. The impact was made with that other photo. There is no need for him to kill her, now.” At least, not in the same graphic manner, but I didn’t say that.
Remi disagreed vehemently. “Sure there is. Just to do it. You said these are chaos demons. They just do whatever they can to mess with us. Don’t matter what.”
“Yes, but this guy—this demon—doesn’t strike me as being like the others. The Molly-demon’s just teasing us. It’s annoying, but not dangerous. Not physically harmful.”
“So far.”
“So far. Now, we’re to assume Jack is also Legion, the demon in a woman’s form who damn near got into my pants our first night here. But she, he—whatever—didn’t try to hurt me.”
“She tried to stab you, then strangle you.”
True enough. “Well, there is something we need to do. We need to somehow make a buffer around this place, like we did with the Holy Dove chapel.”
“You want to consecrate a dancehall? Make it the High Holy Temple of Taxidermists, or some such fool thing? Besides, demons can’t come in.”
Patiently, I said, “I would just like to be able to enter or exit this place without worrying if demons are lying in wait right outside the door. They don’t have to be inside to attack us. But every time we walk out to your truck or my bike, we’re vulnerable. I mean, yeah, they can go at us elsewhere. But knowing we have one spot in the world where we can rest our heads without fear of attack would ease the mental load, you know?”
After a minute, he said he reckoned that was so. Then, “You look pitiful as a three-legged dog.”
I squinted up at him.
He translated. “You look like shit.”
“Truth in advertising.” I pushed myself to my feet, grabbed a post to keep myself there. “I think I am pretty much done for the day, and the day isn’t even started.”
Remi opened the screen door. As I stumped in past him, he invited the dog as well. “Come on, son. We’ve got to get you sorted out.”
By way of the bannister I practically hauled my body up the stairs, made it as far as the common room. Remi had folded the mattress frame back into the sofa bed. I took that as permission to collapse on it and put my head back to stare at the wood-beamed ceiling. The pittie got up beside me and dropped like a boat anchor onto the cushions.
I patted him. “Either you’re allowed up on the furniture at home, or you’re writing your own rules here hoping we won’t catch on.”
Remi returned to the computer, sat down with the photo. “Dog hair never hurt anyone.”
“Unless you’re allergic.”
“Are you?”
“Does it look like it?”
“You’re not. I’m not. ’Nuff said about that. Besides—” I was learning his pauses, so I waited for it, “—dog hair is a condiment.”
I grinned, stroked the pittie’s big head. He lifted that head, stared hard at me, and whined. Then he stood up, leaned close to sniff my ears and eyes, and whined. His brown eyes were telling me something, but I couldn’t translate.
He whined again, waited for something, then jumped down from the couch and went to Remi sitting in the task chair. Remi was busy on the computer and just patted the dog absently a couple of times, went back to the keyboard.
The pittie emitted a huge, deep bark, shoved hard at Remi, then came back to the couch. There he barked right into my face and damn near shattered my eardrums.
Remi rotated the chair toward me and frowned. “You gotta slow your roll, dog.”
I smiled, then stopped. My heart thumped hard. Oh shit. “Something’s wrong . . . Remi, something’s—”
And I was gone. Lost in a wash of red, rising like a tsunami.
“Gabe?”
Something’s wrong.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
—drowning—
—drowning—
Down.
Down.
Down.
And everywhere was red.
* * *
—
I take anyone. Any time. Anywhere.
I was aware of sound, but it was muffled, distorted. Pressure in my ears, in and out like someone breathing inside my skull. Breathing inside my brain.
Too much color. Too much sound. The hairs stood up on my arms. My skin ached. Muscles twisted on my bones.
I tried to speak, tried to make words. All were absent.
Every one. Every time. Every where.
My mouth moved, but no words, no words.
I opened my eyes, saw the rush of everything surging toward me. Upside down. Rightside up. Sideways and inside out. Taking me down, down. Down.
Every thing. Every one. Every where.
Shivering.
I smelled pine, I smelled food, I smelled aftershave, dog, mud, leather, alcohol. I smelled myself. Every molecule of myself.
Too much. Too much everything.
Voices.
The first voice, to another: Sharp and deeply concerned, underscored with a note of rising anger: “Is this what it is, his so-called gift? Gonna be like this for the rest of his life? Because Grandaddy never said anything about this. Not like this. Ambriel warned us. She did, not Grandaddy.”
Hands were on me, bending me down, bending me over.
The second voice, to me: Deep tones, slow and soothing, unperturbed, an African accent. “Let it go. Let it go. Rid yourself of it.” Large hand on my forehead, another on the back of my head, holding me in place, holding me up. I was bent over the broad hand on my chest. “I have you. You are in the hands of a god. Let it go.”
Involuntary tears ran from my eyes, dripped off my face. My belly heaved and heaved.
“Is that blood?” the other person asked.
“Purge it,” said the deep voice. A hand smoothed my hair. “This Orisha tends you.”
“Do I need to call 911?”
“This is not enough blood for hospitals. From the throat; the small vessels have broken.”
Little by slowly, the heaving of my belly settled. Residual quivers startled a blurt from me, but it seemed the worst was over. The palm of a very large hand smoothed hair over the crown of my head.
Of the other person, he asked for a damp towel and an icepack.
Ganji. That’s who it was. And Remi.
“Anything for him to drink?”
“Bring water, yes. We’ll see if he’s ready.”
I realized then that I had let it go all over the floor. The taste in my mouth was vile. I spat, spat again. Felt the tremor in my muscles. I reached up and tapped a hand. Tapped it a little harder when he didn’t let me sit up at once. Then he placed a big hand across my chest, lifted me upright. I fell back against the couch.
The interior of my head was banging like a bell clapper. My belly seized, and I thought I was on the verge of vomiting again. Happily, it was a non-starter.
Remi came in with water bottle, washcloth, something wrapped in a hand towel. Ganji limited me to two sips to swallow after spitting again. I managed to wipe my mouth and face with the damp washcloth, then was urged to put my legs up regardless of boots, stretch out with my head on the couch arm. Ganji arranged the wrapped icepack on my forehead. I closed my eyes, held the icepack in place with one hand. The other I let fall across my chest.
“You are well,” Ganji told me. If anything, it sounded more like a command than an observation. “You are clean of it.”
I remembered him speaking so soothingly to Shemyazaz as the broken angel stood atop the bar weeping for his lost beauty.
I was cold, I was hot, I was utterly enervated. “What—?” I took a breath and tried again. “What was that? What the hell?”
Remi squatted as he dropped a big towel over the splashes of vomit, cleaned it up. “I got no idea,” he said, “but you were spoutin’ off about red again, and red rum, red death. I don’t know what the hell it means, but you clearly have a fixation with the color.”
I had to start twice to get my voice working. “It’s what I’m seeing. Usually it’s more colors . . . not just one.” I hitched myself up on one elbow, asked for more water. This time Ganji let me have three slugs of it. So generous. I lay down again. “Color symbology is complicated.” I barely recognized my voice. It was hoarse and cracking, and my throat felt bruised. “In folklore, in various cultures, every color represents multiple aspects.”
“That is so,” Ganji agreed. “I have my colors, special to me, and patterns. Nine beads in two of brown, one of red, one of yellow, one of blue, one again of yellow, one again of red, and two again of brown, you see.”
I swallowed painfully. “In the white man’s culture, red can be hearts on Valentine’s Day. Or anger. Rage. Negativity. To me, in my head, the colors are actually tangible. Remember you grabbing up soil and grass and pressing it into my hand? Telling me it was green and therefore good?”
Remi nodded. “I wasn’t sure you heard me.”
“I did. And it was the right thing to do. But remember—Lucifer is often depicted as a red creature.” I cleared my throat, winced. “And red is also blood. We say ‘bad blood’ about a feud, people disliking one another. ‘Seeing red’ is anger. But blood saves lives. Red is Christmas. Red is Santa.” I smiled. “Red is sexy lipstick.”
“And the red death?”
“Sure.” I waved a hand, dropped it back. Closed my eyes. “Edgar Allen Poe’s story, ‘The Masque of the Red Death.’ The Red Death was plague. It walked through rooms killing people with a touch.”
“Red rum?”
I cracked an eye. “You ever see The Shining, with Nicholson?”
“Sure—oh! REDRUM. Murder spelled backward. The kid writes it on the door.”
I took the ice pack off my forehead, tucked it beneath my neck. “Obviously my associations are with the bad aspects right now. And for some bizarre reason, movies and literature.”
“So, you think this is tied in with your abilities getting stronger?”
I looked at Ganji to see if he had any ideas.
He shrugged. “It is not my world.” He tapped his chest. “Not my heart, but yours.”
I sighed and scratched an eyebrow. “If it is my abilities getting stronger, I wish my subconscious would pick a neutral color. A happy color. Like yellow!” I eased my way into a sitting position, nodded my thanks at Ganji. He smiled back, said he would return with a special thing for me, something that pleased him as a god and would set me to rights. Perhaps the beads, in his specific pattern.
Remi stepped out with the soiled towel, then returned. I rubbed my forehead. Sweat was drying. I actually felt semi-human again. “Thanks for that.” Still croaky. I looked around. “What happened to the dog?”
“He’s locked in the bathroom.”
“Why is the dog locked in the bathroom?”
“Apparently he felt that dog slobber would fix you right up. He wanted to lick you in the midst of—everything. He kept interrupting and getting in the way.”
Ah. Good decision. “Well, I sure hope he hasn’t eaten the toilet.”
“I checked on him. He was lying in the bathtub.”
“He’s in the bathtub?” I waved a limp, dismissive hand. “Never mind. He’s going to have to vacate, though, because I want a shower. When I can maybe walk again. Holy crap. That was something I don’t ever want to experience again.” I drew in a deep breath, blew it out on a gust, which I regretted because my throat was really sore. “Add this to the list of topics we gotta bring up with Grandaddy. Because we need to know what you’ll be going through.”
Remi looked taken aback. “Here’s hoping it’s not like this!”
Ganji came back in. He handed me a bottle of beer. “Drink up!”
I gazed at the bottle a moment, blinking, then assumed a neutral expression as I looked at him. “This is the ‘special thing’?”
“Beer and beef!” he said. “Vastly satisfying. Superb offerings for a god. I will cook you steak tomorrow, prepared my way.” He patted me firmly on the shoulder. “Have the beer. Always do the drinking of the beer.” And then he departed the room.
Remi and I exchanged blank looks. Abruptly, he went to the computer and sat down, typing. After a moment I heard a blurt of surprise. He swung around, grinning widely. “Aganju the Orisha is said to prefer beer and beef . . . and often he eats the bottle afterward.”
“He eats the glass bottle?”
“That’s what it says.”
I examined the beer. “The eating of the glass bottle is not going to happen. But I will do the drinking of the beer.”
* * *
—
I showered. Hung on to the curtain rod the whole time, too. No way it would hold me if my balance decamped, but the psychology of knowing it was right there, that I could touch it—well, just no accounting for the brain. The dog, whom I’d allowed in because he scratched at the door incessantly, kept pushing his head into the shower curtain trying to move it out of the way. I would squirt water at him, yank the curtain closed, and then we did it all over again.
Went to bed. Was too tired to insist the dog stay on the floor, so he grabbed half the bed. I woke up a few times, registered that it was daytime, which confused me. My brain was convinced it was the middle of the night. I was cold, I was hot. I shivered, I sweated. The dog licked my face intermittently, stuffed his blunt muzzle into my armpit, or nibbled on my chin.
Then someone tapped on my door. Remi opened it, put his head in.
One look at his face, and I knew the news was bad. “Picture?”
He nodded. The color was out of his face.
I had to ask it. “Is she dead?”
For a wonder, he shook his head. As I shifted into a sitting position with my back against the headboard, one hand blocking the dog, Remi stepped in and handed me the photo. “Leastaways, she was alive when he took the photo. Can’t swear to it now.”
The photo was of her head only. Her hair had been hacked off, presumably with that nasty knife in the prior photo. It was all tufts and streamers. Deep circles underlay her eyes. She was conscious, but clearly in shock.
Remi’s phone rang. He fr
owned at the screen, stepped away from me as he answered. He listened, said ‘Yes’ a couple of times in a puzzled tone of voice, followed by astonishment. He swung around sharply and looked at me, even though his mind was clearly still on the telephone conversation.
When he disconnected, he said, “She’s at the hospital! My name and number’s in her phone. They couldn’t reach anyone else. Said I could see her.”
“Okay.” I peeled bedclothes back, swung my legs over.
Remi was startled. “You don’t have to come.”
“Yeah I do.” I pushed myself up, suppressed the winces and grunts I wished to make. Flapped hands to urge him out of the room so I could get dressed. “What’s to say he won’t try for you next?”
“All his victims have been female.”
“That could change,” I pointed out.
Remi scowled at me. “And you’ll do what, exactly, if he does come after you? Throw up on him?”
Had to admit, the image was—colorful. She was alive, she was safe, and on the crest of extreme relief there was room now for irony. “Heavenly spit works, and heavenly breath. Maybe heavenly barf will eat up all the roach bits so he can’t reconstitute.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Clean clothes, huzzah and hallelujah. Shoulder holster, KA-BAR knife, Bowie, extra warded rounds tucked into a pocket; revolvers don’t have clips, so it’s loose ammo unless you go with a speed strip or loader. Possibly a good idea when wearing a jacket, but bulkier than semi-auto magazines if you want to stuff them in jeans pockets. I threw on my jacket because of the holster harness.
The dog followed me out of the room. The dog followed me everywhere. I met up with Remi in the common room where he was once again on the computer.
It was 8:30 p.m. My brain swore it was 8:30 in the morning. I wasn’t sure I’d ever get the space/time continuum straightened out again. I felt like I’d been shot through a wormhole.
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