“Like a balrog?” said Sky.
“Sure,” said Rex, his blank face showing he had no idea what Sky was talking about.
“Come,” said the voice, “and see.”
CHAPTER NINETY
“Everard,” said Carlisle, “I want you to know I don’t think this is your fault.”
Val looked across at her. “Thanks.”
“It’s because,” she said, “I know you’re a little bit stupid and a tiny bit on the heroic side, but you’re basically not an asshole.”
“Is that … what?” said Val.
Carlisle allowed herself a smile. “Tell me the plan.”
“Okay,” said Val. “What we’re going to do—”
Silence. Carlisle turned around in the stairwell. Val was gone. Snapped up into thin air, lost faster than a cab in New York City. Carlisle reached behind her, fingers resting on the familiar grip of the Eagle. She pulled it from its holster, the soft leather giving up its gift with an easy slip of sound.
“So,” said Carlisle to the empty stairwell. “How’s it going to be?”
“Come play,” said a voice — a woman’s voice, clear and strong. From the door on her right. Carlisle pushed it open into a luxury corridor just like all the rest. There was no lighting, and she played the beam of her flashlight across carpet, walls, and there — a sign. Fitness Center.
She pushed the door open, leading with her sidearm. Racks of fitness equipment stood in the gloom, elliptical trainers standing like skeletal soldiers in the gloom. Plenty of places to hide.
“You’re here,” said the voice. It didn’t come from a particular direction, like it was in the air around her, or the ground at her feet. “I’ve been so lonely.”
“I’m going to say it,” said Carlisle. “Someone’s got to. You’re creepy.”
“Creepy?” The voice sounded hurt. “Is that the way to talk to your only friend?”
“No,” said Carlisle. “But you’re not my only friend. Hell, I don’t even know your name.” She allowed the door to close behind her, edging her feet out into the room. The Eagle glinted in the gloom, as if it were eager to lead her further into the dark.
“Oh,” said the voice. “There’s no one else here. And it would be so bad to die alone. That’s what being friendless is, isn’t it?”
“Lady,” said Carlisle, “you crazy.” Like all crazy shit, it has an ounce of truth though doesn’t it, Carlisle?
A tinkle of laughter came from down an aisle of rowing machines, lying still and quiet. Carlisle turned to follow the noise, the beam of her flashlight playing out ahead of her. Nothing.
“I’m not crazy,” said the voice. “I’m L'inglesou.”
“Well, Lou,” said Carlisle, “good to know you.”
“Not ‘Lou,’” said L'inglesou. “L'inglesou.”
“You say po-tay-to, I say po-tah-to,” said Carlisle. “Tell me, Lou. Where are you hiding?”
There was a hiss from next to the squat rack, and a shadow slipped out almost faster than the eye could track. The Eagle barked twice, rounds snapping through the air, biting nothing. Carlisle saw the glint of something metal, pain in her shoulder blooming a heartbeat later. She sucked air in through her teeth and spared a look down. A red line, leaking blood — my blood — was cut through the leather arm of her jacket. Looked like it had been done with something sharp, like razor sharp. Lou’s not fucking around.
“Not good enough, my pretty girl,” said L'inglesou. “Isn’t that what he said, in the dark? Alone, like you are now. Frail. Small. Just a scared, little girl.”
Something sick and hollow grew in Carlisle’s gut. “What did you say?”
The shadow whispered between two treadmills, and Carlisle let the Eagle have its say, bright flashes in the gloom. The shots caught nothing but exercise equipment, fragments of metal and plastic falling in the dark.
“Come closer,” said L'inglesou. “Come and play. It can be our little secret.”
Carlisle felt a line of hot agony cross her spine and she cried out, turning around. The Eagle fired, a frantic cadence to the shots, and Carlisle wondered if here — right here, right now — was where it’d all catch up with her. She’d been faking it, all these years. Wearing the mask of a stronger girl, then a stronger woman, hiding the girl in the dark who cried herself all the way to the next dawn. Maybe the Eagle couldn’t save her.
“What does it feel like,” said L'inglesou, “to know that you’ll feel his weight on you again? He waits for you at the Cliffs of the Damned. Waits, and hungers. He remembers the taste of your … everything.”
Her flashlight. It had fallen to the ground, and she scrambled after it. Carlisle held it up in front of her like a beacon, playing it around the room. The beam was shaky, light darting across the equipment, pushing back the gloom there, and then there. Nothing, until … a patch of red. The smallest drop, no more than a paper cut’s worth, but blood nonetheless. Carlisle looked down at the Eagle, gripping it tighter. “What does it feel like,” she said, hating the scared little girl that was causing her words to tremble in fear, “to know that you’re going to get pistol-whipped by a scared little girl?” Not your best line, Carlisle. Keep talking. Push it back. He’s not here. “You want to play? Come fucking get some.”
She was starting to get a feel for what to look for, the hint of raven’s wings moving in the gloom. There, something skittered in the dark towards her, and the Eagle roared, pushing strength into her hand with each shot. She couldn’t be sure of having hit anything, but felt new pain in the arm that held the flashlight, causing her to drop it to the ground. Carlisle pulled her arm close to her body, feeling the hot welling of blood pulsing against her chest with every beat of her heart. Nicked something important there, Carlisle. You don’t have much time.
Something hissed in the gloom before L'inglesou spoke again. “That hurt.”
“Yeah?” said Carlisle. She ejected her magazine, the empty red cartridge clattering and dancing through the beam of her light on the ground. She pushed a fresh magazine into the weapon. “Plenty more where that came from.”
“It’s not very sportsmanlike,” said L'inglesou. “Didn’t anyone tell you to play fair? You can’t be telling anyone about us. You can’t tell anyone at all.”
“Sportsmanlike?” said Carlisle. “You sound like that clown Miles.”
“Do you like John Miles?” L'inglesou’s voice came from behind her now, and Carlisle spun about. Nothing.
“I think he’s a degenerate,” said Carlisle.
“You shouldn’t talk about people behind their backs,” said L'inglesou. “Daddy will know if you tell.”
“Thing is,” said Carlisle, “I told him he was a degenerate. This morning, I think. Tell you what, Lou—” and here, Carlisle leaned against an elliptical trainer as a wave of dizziness hit her “—why don’t we play a game?”
“A game?”
“Yeah, a game,” said Carlisle, swallowing. She thought of John, and what he’d do. Something dumb and stupid and heroic, probably. She looked at the Eagle in her hand, thumb tracing a line against the worn grip. John wouldn’t use a gun — hell, the man couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn with a firearm if you put it three feet in front of his face. He’d close up his fists and go in swinging.
He’d die. Probably.
“See,” said Carlisle, “since we’re such good friends, Lou, I think we should finish this. Just you and me. With a game. You get one shot. I’ll put my gun away. You give a good run at me, take your swing. You kill me, we’re done. But if you miss … well.”
“And then?” There was something like glee in L'inglesou’s voice.
“Well, then it’ll be my turn,” said Carlisle. “What do you say, Lou?”
“I like your games,” said L'inglesou.
“I’ll take that as a yes,” said Carlisle. She stepped away from the elliptical trainer, a little unsteady on her feet, and put the Eagle away. The weapon caught on the holster, like it didn’t want to be sil
enced, but Carlisle gave it another push — not this time, you can’t help me with this fight old friend — and slipped it home. She stood on an exercise mat, empty space at least two paces in every direction, and breathed deep.
For no good reason she thought of Elliot, of his sense of duty, of his steady partnership. She allowed a small smile to land on her face as she remembered his “gut sense” — not once right in all the years they’d worked together. It felt like he was here, now, somewhere in this room. Even though she knew it was wrong, even though she knew she’d got him killed.
What was it that Elliot had told her? Praise no day until it's ended, that’s what I always say. Okay, Elliot. Okay. She closed her eyes, then said, “Today isn’t over.”
L'inglesou came at her, a shadow bound with fury. Good God damn but she’s fast. L'inglesou’s first pass left Carlisle with a red streak below her right eye, years of training — sweat on the mat, bruises on her flesh — giving her the reflexes to pull her head back in time to not lose an eye. Carlisle swayed in place after L'inglesou’s pass, the steady drip, drip, drip of her own blood falling on the floor around her.
“Close,” said Carlisle. “It’s almost like you meant it. But Lou? You’ve got to want it. You’ve got to really want it.” Carlisle flexed her fingers. “Do you know what I mean? Do you want it, Lou?”
A hiss came from her right, something in the air hinting at danger, and Carlisle let it come. This shadow that called itself L'inglesou was just another of the fallen, one of the ones that this damn world had pushed on too hard until they cracked. Carlisle had been in a hundred fights — no, more, be honest with yourself, you like it, this is where you feel really alive, you look for trouble in every corner, welcome it home like something lost — and knew the way a body would lean forward with a rush. She knew where the knife was going to be held, how the angle of it would come in to her throat, or under her ribs, or a handful of other ways to try and drink her life away. She could sense that Lou was a pro, not some burned out coke camel with a blade and not a lot of common sense. Could feel it, if she was being honest, like she felt Elliot watching her, feel that here she’d finally met her match.
The faintest hint of Elliot’s aftershave came to her — cheap, Brut or something, his ex-wife had given it to him and he’d worn it like it was Dolce & Gabbana, if you could believe that — and she smiled again. I’ll see you soon, old friend. “Carlisle,” he said, and there he was — Elliot! — standing in front of her plain as day. He took her elbow. “Carlisle, I’m real sorry about this.” He wound back his hand and slapped her clean across the face.
The shock of it made her suck in a lungful of air, Elliot’s face gone like smoke on wind, replaced with L'inglesou’s charge, all soft darkness coming to swallow her up. Carlisle screamed, her arms coming up — too late to do anything about that knife, just make her pay for it — to accept L'inglesou’s charge. Carlisle wrapped her hands around the back of L'inglesou’s head, arms bringing the other woman into a clinch as the knife entered her chest. The pain was bright and clear, shaking the edges of her fugue away. Carlisle brought her knee up once, twice, three times into L'inglesou’s face. Christ, it’s like trying to hold water. The other woman raged, but Carlisle pulled her arms together harder, putting the last of her strength into it. Her elbows locked, pressure on L'inglesou’s carotid arteries, and Carlisle brought her knee up again, and again, and again, until L'inglesou stopped moving. Carlisle dropped her opponent to the ground, then pulled the knife out of her chest. She let it tumble to the ground beside L'inglesou’s body, then drew in a shuddering breath.
“Elliot?” The name came out of Carlisle half a whisper, half a plea. “Elliot? Are you there?”
Nothing. Silence and stillness all around, not even a hint of that nasty aftershave. “Elliot? I … I don’t want you to see. Do you understand? If you’re there, don’t look.” Another wave of dizziness hit her, and she almost dropped to one knee. No. Not yet. “I’ve had to do things … I couldn’t carry the badge anymore, Elliot. I’m too dirty for it.” Carlisle slipped the Eagle free.
Whips of smoke seeped out of L'inglesou’s body, pooling on the ground around her. Carlisle stood over her opponent, leveled the weapon, and fired. She kept pulling the trigger until the Eagle clicked empty, spitting its magazine to the ground at her feet.
Carlisle ran a trembling hand through her hair, then looked back at the door. Walked towards it, steps uneven, found the stairs — God knows if they were the same stairs she’d come in through, she was too tired to think about it — and began to climb, the steady drip, drip, drip of her own blood keeping her company.
Elliot stood in the darkness over L'inglesou’s body, and watched his old friend go. “Carlisle,” he said, “you’re the only one who’s ever been good enough to carry the badge. You know what it really means.” He reached down to touch one of the red magazines lying on the ground. “Praise no day until it's ended, Carlisle. Praise no road until you’ve crossed it. Praise no wife until they’re buried. And praise no Shield until you’ve stood behind it.” He flickered out, leaving silence behind him.
CHAPTER NINETY-ONE
The truck rumbled and bounced up to the front of Trump Tower, the engine shaking the cabin. Adalia turned to Just James, saw the wideness of his eyes, and then turned to Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Thank you for the ride.”
“That’s okay,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. He patted the big steering wheel in front of him. “I think the truck is due for a refit now. Boys in the garage, well, I can’t see them thinking this is ‘wear and tear.’”
“Tell them,” said Adalia, “that you were saving the world.”
“Tell them,” said Just James, “that you had to ride out of a zombie apocalypse. It’ll sit better with your target audience.”
“I like the kid,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “He gets it.”
“He spends all his time playing video games,” said Adalia, smiling. She looked outside the cabin, the smile dying on her lips. Gabriel stood in the cold Chicago air, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. “Anyway,” she said, trailing off. “I think we should go.”
“Let’s kick some butt,” said Just James. “Hey, you go first though, okay?”
“Hey,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “That’s not very manly.”
“I’ll give you my Man Card right now,” said Just James. “In case you didn’t notice, she’s a … she’s a sorceress.”
“You’re just a tall glass of water, ain’t you?” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, looking around Adalia at Just James.
“You coming in?” said Just James.
“Hell no,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “The devil’s in there.”
“At least I’m going in,” said Just James, pushing open the door of the cabin with his foot. He had to give it a kick to unstick it, the frame jammed up from the journey to get here. “Your door needs fixing.”
“Your mouth needs fixing,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky.
Adalia put a gentle hand on Marcellus Samuel Kentucky’s arm. “Thank you,” she said.
“Ain’t no thing,” he said. “Just a little ride across the city, you know?”
“Not that,” said Adalia, rolling her eyes at Just James.
“Right,” he said, giving her that easy, gentle smile. “I’m coming in anyway, you know.”
“No,” she said.
“It’s not like you can stop me,” he said. “You’re a slip of a girl.”
Adalia lowered her eyes, then looked back at Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, do you hear me?”
“I hear you,” he said, something soft in his voice.
“I name your daughters for you. They are Candice, named after your aunt, who was always gentle with you when you were small. She gave you lemonade when the weather turned hot and the sun was merciless. And Betty, sweet Betty, who is shy and quiet and loves you with all of her heart. She watches you with big eyes as you move around the home you’ve
made. She waits for her father — her real father — to come home, so she can grow up and build the good memories of you. I give you these names, so you will never forget them. Candice and Betty. Do you hear me?” Adalia ran out of breath, shaking with the effort of holding — something — heavy inside her.
“I hear you,” he said. “But … I can … I can help. I owe you.”
“We made a trade,” she said, following Just James out into the cold air. “You don’t owe me anything.” She looked over at Gabriel, who had his arms crossed, expression closed. “Marcellus Samuel Kentucky? If you go home to Candice and Betty, you are helping. Do you understand?”
“No,” he said.
“That’s okay,” said Adalia. “Tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after, you might. If you make it home. If you don’t step into this building where the devil lives.”
“Hey,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky. “Donald Trump’s a lot of things, but…” The joke died as he was telling it, and he gripped the steering wheel. “It doesn’t feel right leaving you here.”
“It’s cool,” said Just James. “I’m here.”
“God save us all,” said Marcellus Samuel Kentucky, and reached over the cab to pull the door shut. The Kenworth roared, then shuddered as it pulled away, jouncing back onto the street. There was a sound of crumpling metal as the machine slammed through another car, and then it was free, picking up speed as it roared away.
“You realize,” said Just James, his shoulders sagging as if he’d just realized something, “that he was our heavy hitter.”
“My Mom’s a heavy hitter,” said Adalia, “and she’s inside.”
“Good point,” said Just James. His face softened a little as he watched her hug her elbows to her side. He looked around. “Where is he?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing at Gabriel with her chin.
“Can he hear me?”
“How can I not,” said Gabriel, “when you are so very loud?”
“Yes,” said Adalia. “He can hear you.”
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