by Tim Waggoner
Joanne grabbed Ronnie’s wrist and forced his arm upward. She gritted her teeth in anticipation of the weapon accidentally discharging, but Ronnie was too well trained and the 9 mm didn’t go off.
“Let go, Jo-Jo. I have to do this.”
Jo-Jo? What the hell?
“You don’t know what he’s done to me,” Ronnie said, his voice quavering. “The things he made me see … made me do …”
She understood then that Marshall had used his mental powers on Ronnie and sent the deputy rocketing completely around the bend. She felt a wave of anger toward Marshall for manipulating Ronnie, but now wasn’t the time to deal with it. “He’s down, Ronnie, and he’s not going to get up anytime soon. He’s not a threat right now. But Lenora is. We have to stop her.”
She glanced at the Reliquary where Marshall’s daughter still stood, watching the chaos taking place around her and grinning with delight. Terry was walking toward her with a determined stride, and Joanne saw he held a small blade gripped tight in his hand. A scalpel, she realized. The hooded figured who’d attacked her last night had wielded a small blade too. Just like Terry’s.
Oh, shit. No …
• • •
Lenora’s eyes focused on Terry as he approached, but he could see nothing in that gaze of the woman he’d screwed so many times.
“To tell you the truth, I’m glad you’re here,” Lenora said in a too-masculine voice. “I’ve got something to show you.”
Terry smiled grimly as he raised his scalpel. “You better show me fast. Once you start bleeding, it’ll only take you a few moments to lose consciousness.”
“The Old One’s dreams are starting to leak out,” she said. “It won’t be long until they flood the county. But here’s a sneak peek of coming attractions.”
Old One? Dreams? What the hell was the crazy bitch ranting about?
A dark cast came over Lenora’s eyes and a deluge of obscene images assaulted Terry’s mind. Distorted, alien nightmares beyond human comprehension invaded his brain, tearing into the fabric of his essence and shredding his soul into bloody gobbets.
Lenora’s glossy black eyes glistened with satisfaction as Terry screamed the scream of the damned.
• • •
Jesus Christ, this bitch was a wildcat! Dale would’ve rather fought the Black Beast than Debbie Coulter. His face was bleeding from numerous scratches, and his balls ached from where she’d kneed him. Dale wasn’t a gentleman, not when it came to protecting his life — not to mention his balls — but he’d been too busy holding onto Debbie’s wrists in order to keep her harpy claws away from his eyes to lay a good right cross on her and put her down. He’d tried kneeing her in the gut, but she twisted and thrashed like a dervish, turning his blows aside. He’d never head-butted anyone before, but he’d seen the maneuver in the movies numerous times. He’d always figured that in real life a person would crack their own skull attempting the attack, but he’d run out of options and was just about to try it when Debbie glanced over her shoulder and saw Terry Birch — where had he come from? — standing in front of Lenora.
Terry started shrieking and slicing the air with his scalpel, as if he were trying to fight enemies only he could see. The slashes came awfully close to Lenora, though she seemed unconcerned. She stood still, smiling and watching Terry’s histrionics with eyes that, from this distance, seemed for some reason to be completely black.
“Carl!” Debbie shouted. “I’m coming, honey!” With a savage lunge, she pulled free from Dale’s grip and began running toward Terry. Dale stumbled and nearly fell, but he managed to remain on his feet. He saw Joanne talking to Ronnie, Marshall Cross lying on the floor next to them, his shirt stained with blood from where Ronnie had shot him. Marshall wasn’t moving, and Dale feared the man was dead.
Dale was trying to decide on his next move when Debbie grabbed hold of Terry’s shoulder. She shouted, “Don’t you hurt my baby, you son of a bitch!” and spun him around to face her.
Terry’s scalpel whipped through the air and Debbie let out a gurgling gasp as her blood sprayed forth.
“Oh shit,” Dale whispered.
• • •
Terry heard Lenora cry out in anguish, and the horrible images raping his mind vanished. His vision cleared in time for him to see Debbie Coulter slump to the ground, blood pumping from the gash in her throat. He had no memory of cutting her, but the blood dripping from the tip of his scalpel — not to mention the blood splashed on his face and clothes — told him that he had.
Good. That was one last bitch he had to worry about. He turned around, intending to give Lenora a second crimson smile to match Debbie’s, but a pair of powerful hands clasped tight around his throat, choking off his air. Lenora’s eyes were black and ebon tears oozed from the corners, her face contorted into a mask of rage and grief. He still had hold of his scalpel, but she was pressed too close to his body for him to reach her throat. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t strike elsewhere.
He heard a roaring in his ears and his vision grayed as oxygen deprivation began to take its toll on his brain. But if he could stay conscious long enough to bury the scalpel in the bitch’s stomach….
A shadow passed across Lenora’s face, and her countenance blurred, shifted, and reformed into a monstrous apparition that was equal parts reptile and insect. She laughed, the sound like a hive full of angry hornets.
“It has begun,” she rasped.
• • •
Still holding onto Ronnie’s wrist to keep him from killing Marshall, Joanne watched Debbie fall to the cave floor, and though her first impulse was to run to the woman’s side and try to save her life, Joanne knew there was nothing anyone could do. And if she’d needed any further proof that Terry was the person responsible for the deaths of Ray Porter and Tyrone, she had it now. She had no idea what his motive might be, nor did she understand what connection he had to Lenora and Carl Coulter. But none of that mattered right now — just like her shock, grief, and feelings of deep betrayal at learning the truth about Terry didn’t matter. She had a duty to perform.
“Dale, get over here and put pressure on Marshall’s wound!” she shouted. As the reporter rushed over to help, she turned to Ronnie. “Give me your gun.”
The deputy looked at her and frowned.
“That’s an order,” she added. Her tone was calm, stern, and professional, and she could see that it was getting through to her second-in-command. But then something happened. A shadow moved through the cave and the lights flickered. Lenora changed from an attractive blonde woman to something out of nightmare, a bestial, demonic thing, and Joanne didn’t need her Feelings to know that the Reliquary was beginning to fail.
Lenora lashed out with a clawed hand, ebon talons slicing deep furrows into Terry’s cheek. He cried out and fell to his knees next to Debbie’s body, blood dripping from his wounds, pattering onto the stone floor, mixing with hers.
Ronnie shrieked in mad terror at the sight of Lenora’s hellish transformation. He pulled free of Joanne’s grip, aimed his 9 mm at Lenora, and fired. The demon-thing jerked as a bullet struck her high on the shoulder close to her neck, but her only reaction was to turn and glare at Ronnie with glittering obsidian eyes.
“No,” he whispered. “I won’t do it….”
But Ronnie jammed the muzzle of his weapon beneath his chin, and before Joanne could stop him, he squeezed the trigger. She saw a last look of apology in his eyes, and then all she saw was blood. She turned her head aside as spatter struck her face, hot and wet, and she heard Ronnie’s body hit the cave floor. She told herself not to look at him, not even to think of him. There would be time to mourn him later — after she sent that demonic bitch to hell and made sure she stayed there.
She knelt next to Ronnie’s body, not gazing upon the bloody ruin that had been his face, and grabbed his gun. Blood coated the weapon, and she grimaced as she pried it out of his hand. She rose to her feet in a single smooth motion, leveled the weapon at Lenora and pulled
the trigger. That is, she wanted to pull the trigger. But her finger refused to obey her command.
“If I can make your deputy blow his brains out,” Lenora said in a thick, inhuman voice, “I can certainly keep you from shooting me.”
Joanne gritted her teeth as she concentrated all her will on firing the pistol. Her hand shook and her muscles began to ache from the effort, but she could not make the trigger budge. She wished Ronnie had managed to hit Lenora in a vital area with the single shot he’d gotten off. Blood black and thick as tree sap ran from Lenora’s wound, but the girl — or whatever she was now — didn’t seem to notice, let alone care. The wound certainly didn’t seem to be slowing her down any.
Dale crouched next to Marshall. The reporter had taken off his suit jacket, wadded it up, and pressed it against Marshall’s chest to slow the bleeding. Joanne looked down at him, hoping to see him looking back at her with a cunning gleam in his eye that indicated he’d come up with a plan to save the county, and in the process, their asses. But he looked lost and filled with despair. She knew just how he felt.
Lenora turned back to the Reliquary and plucked two more icons from their places. She turned back around and held out the statuettes for them to see, as if she were a magician about to perform her grand finale.
“These two should do it,” she said. “I drop these, and all hell breaks loose.” She grinned, revealing a mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. “Literally.”
Joanne could feel power surging all around them in the cave, swirling like a vortex of wind on the verge of becoming a tornado. One last little push was all it needed….
Her Feelings were screaming at her to do something, anything, but she’d run out of ideas.
Marshall opened his eyes. “Terry,” he gasped. “He’s the key. He killed …”
Marshall’s eyes rolled back and his head lolled to the side. Joanne didn’t know if he was dead or just unconscious, but it didn’t matter right now. He’d struggled to deliver a message to them, and they had only seconds to figure out what it meant.
She looked at Terry. He’d dropped his scalpel when Lenora had raked his face, and he was now crawling on the floor, searching for it, his pants legs soaked with blood — some his, most Debbie’s. Had Marshall been trying to tell them that only Terry could kill Lenora now? Joanne didn’t see how. The woman had become too powerful to be taken out by a simple blade.
She looked to Dale, and this she saw a flicker of understanding in his gaze.
“What do you really want, Carl?” Dale asked.
The demon-thing’s glossy-black eyes focused on Dale. Its upper lip curled in a snarl but otherwise it didn’t reply. Dale did have its attention, however, and he kept talking.
“Do you want to destroy the Reliquary and unleash the Old One’s madness — or get revenge on the person who killed your mother?” Dale pointed to Debbie’s body. “And what about you, Lenora? Terry was your lover, and he tried to kill you a few moments ago.”
Lover? Joanne supposed she’d already guessed as much, though until now she hadn’t wanted to admit it to herself.
Terry, still on his hands and knees, turned to glare at Dale.
“Shut the hell up, old man! Once I slice open Lenora’s throat, I’ll do you.” His gaze flicked toward Joanne, and he grinned. “You too, lover.”
Lenora looked at Terry for a moment, the expression on her demonic features indecipherable.
Dale continued. “Carl, Lenora … the Crosses don’t need your help to destroy themselves. They’re committing slow suicide with their endless scheming against one another and their abuse of power. The two of you, along with this whole bloody mess, are proof of that. By destroying the Reliquary, you’ll just be putting the Crosses out of their misery. It’ll be a mercy killing — and is mercy what you truly feel for your family?”
The woman looked at Dale, and one corner of her mouth lifted in a half-smile, half-sneer. She nodded toward Joanne, and she felt her trigger finger become hers to command once more.
Terry cried out in triumph as he found his scalpel. He grabbed hold of it, stood, and managed to take two steps toward Lenora before Joanne fired, emptying the remains round in Ronnie’s gun into Terry’s body. Lenora watched impassively as Terry bucked and jerked like a spastic puppet on quivering strings before finally going limp and collapsing to the ground.
When the last echo of the final gunshot had died away, Dale looked at Lenora.
“You have what you wanted most. Now put those two icons back and leave this place in peace.”
Lenora continued gazing upon Terry’s prone form for a time, and Joanne knew two separate souls were looking out through those eyes. Then the air around her rippled and she became a young human woman once more, the black blood of her gunshot wound now a normal red. Joanne saw that the injury had bled a great deal more than she’d realized, and it looked like Ronnie’s shot had nicked an artery. Lenora was pale, and her body trembled weakly as she turned back to the Reliquary and returned the icons to their proper places. And then with a soft sigh, she fell to the ground.
Joanne ran to Lenora’s side and took her pulse. Her heartbeat was weak and fading fast. There was no way they’d be able to get medical help for her in time.
“Joanne?” Dale called gently.
She turned to look and saw that Marshall’s eyes were open again. He held out an icon toward her, the one that he’d taken to the morgue to harvest Tyrone’s spirit. She understood what he wanted her to do.
She walked over to get the icon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Two hours later, the survivors were gathered in Sanctity’s library. Althea had joined them, and servants had brought everyone refreshments or medical supplies as needed. The doctor Marshall had summoned to care for Debbie had finally arrived and, though his intended patient no longer required his services, he tended to Marshall’s wound, then examined Joanne and Dale. Satisfied they’d all survive and that his services were no longer required, he departed, secure in the knowledge that he’d bettered his position in the family.
Joanne and Dale sat on the same couch they’d used during Lenora’s questioning. Joanne sipped hot tea from a fine china cup, while Dale drank what he’d assured her was an extremely fine, not to mention expensive, single-malt scotch.
Marshall had taken the same seat he’d used before, and Althea now occupied the leather chair that had once been Lenora’s.
“I’ll examine the Reliquary more closely after you’ve gone,” Althea said. “But it appears you were successful in preventing its complete collapse.”
“But the damned thing was bleeding power like a hemophiliac with a severed artery,” Dale said, “and we didn’t do anything to patch it up.”
“Carl and Lenora were purposely drawing on the Old One’s power,” Althea said, “leading to a greater spillage than what would have occurred naturally. In addition, their efforts prevented the wound from clotting, I suppose you could say. But don’t worry. The Reliquary will be safe enough for the time being, until it has a chance to heal more fully.”
Althea then turned to Joanne and smiled. “My dear, you performed splendidly. It’s comforting to know that my family’s faith in you wasn’t misplaced.”
“I’m glad you’re reassured,” Joanne said. “That’s all that matters, right? Your power and position are secure, and if a few people had to die to make it happen — including your own grandchild — well, that’s just the cost of doing business in Cross County, isn’t it?”
Marshall started to protest, but Althea silenced him with an offhand gesture. Though Joanne knew his chest was swathed in bandages beneath the neatly pressed shirt he’d donned, the male head of the Cross family looked as hale and hearty as ever. She wondered if swift recuperative powers were another of the Old One’s blessings and decided they probably were.
“I understand how you must feel, Joanne,” Althea said, her tone a study in sympathy. “You’ve not only gone through a trying experience physically, but you’ve
had your sense of identity shaken to its very foundation.”
That’s putting it mildly, she thought.
“You all knew the truth about what happened to me during my disappearance, and about what I’d become. Why didn’t any of you ever say anything?” She turned to Dale. “Why didn’t you?”
Dale looked down at the dregs of his scotch. “It was part of the deal I made with the Old One. You weren’t to know the truth until you were ready. And even then you had to discover it on your own, through the natural — or in this case unnatural — course of events. Why, I don’t know. But I kept my promise, I … was afraid of what might happen if I didn’t.”
Joanne understood that Dale hadn’t feared for himself but rather for her. She reached out and squeezed his free hand.
“When Dale told us of his encounter with the Old One, we agreed to guard the secret as long as necessary,” Althea said. “My family has always obeyed the Old One’s commands.”
“Speaking of old,” Joanne said, “Dale told me that story of how the Cross family first discovered the Old One. A young girl fell into the mound, just as I did. Only she emerged to become something of a speaker for the Old One — a sort of high priestess, I guess you could say. You wouldn’t happen to know what became of her, would you?”
Althea only smiled.
Among all the other abilities the Old One had bestowed upon its chosen people, was increased longevity among them? Joanne wouldn’t have been surprised to learn the answer was yes.
Joanne had used the icon Marshall had given her to absorb Lenora’s spirit. After they’d returned to Sanctity, Marshall sent a lower-ranking member of the family back with a pair of fresh icons — one to gather Debbie’s spirit, one for Ronnie’s. Both now resided in an honored place in the Reliquary. Marshall had made arrangements to dispose of the bodies they’d left behind and establish stories to explain their disappearance — arrangements that he seemed a little too accustomed to making. There had been no discussion of harvesting Terry’s soul, which was just fine with Joanne.