Morris backed up slowly until he felt the heels of his shoes touch Libby’s recumbent form. He didn’t figure a few more feet of distance was going to make any difference when the thing came for him, but he was hoping that the werewolf, in human form, watched a lot of TV melodrama. In the fantasy land that is television, when the hero and his girlfriend face the big, bad monster the guy always puts himself between the girl and his adversary, in a “You’ll have to go through me first” attitude. Sometimes, the idiot even says it out loud.
In real life, limiting your freedom of movement like that is a quick way to become Purina Monster Chow, with the girl to follow for dessert. But Morris hoped the werewolf would figure he was copying some TV hero, and was going to stand fast when the creature charged. In fact, Morris planned to hop backwards at the last instant, clearing Libby’s body with the jump and landing behind her. He wasn’t giving Libby to the werewolf – but if the creature found itself clawing empty air where Morris had just been standing, he might just have a chance to do something, with either the alcohol or the knife, or both.
Morris was no fool. Even with his little stratagem, he still put his and Libby’s chances of survival at about one in ten. But a second ago he’d seen no chance at all, so you could say that things were improving for him. A little.
The problem is, werewolves are really, really fast, and there was a good chance that its claws would catch Morris in mid-jump, disemboweling him and leaving Libby unprotected, as well. A small part of Morris’s mind concluded that he was going to die in the next few seconds, but he closed that operation down ruthlessly. The trouble with last thoughts is that they slow your reaction time.
The werewolf growled and began to move forward, taking its time with what it probably saw as easy prey. It may not have noticed that Morris’s knife blade was silver-coated – or maybe it figured he’d never get the chance to use it.
Morris dropped into a semi-crouch. That made it appear that he was ready to do battle, but it would also give spring to his legs when he made the jump back. He was getting ready to play his last card in a really crappy hand – then Adelson appeared, and stabbed the werewolf in the back.
Morris hadn’t seen the man’s approach, since the immense werewolf was blocking his view. The werewolf, on the other hand, may have been so focused on Morris that its normally sharp ears had failed to detect the sounds Adelson made as he ran up from the vault, where he’d been cowering and babbling incoherently. The white-haired man held what looked like a pen knife with a four-inch blade – the sort of thing that a man like Adelson would use to cut twine-bound bundles of books – and he plunged it into the werewolf, screaming, “Get out of my store, you ugly fuck!”
The werewolf howled in pain, although any wound inflicted on it without silver would heal very quickly. It turned on Adelson, who had just raised the knife to stab the werewolf again – a blow that never landed, since it moved in and tore Adelson’s knife arm clean off with its terrible jaws. The man’s scream of pain and horror didn’t last long, as the werewolf slashed one of its paws fiercely across Adelson’s throat, nearly decapitating him.
The werewolf dropped Adelson’s arm from its jaws and gave a howl of triumph. Then it seemed to remember Morris, who had made a quick adjustment to his strategy, in response to the changed circumstances. As the creature turned back around Morris jumped, all right – but forward. This brought him within three feet of an enraged werewolf, which should have brought his near-instantaneous death. Instead, Morris dashed the contents of Libby’s vial into the creature’s face, which meant that the better part of four ounces of pure alcohol went right into its eyes.
The werewolf howled again, this time in agony. It blindly swiped a paw in Morris’s direction, but he was prepared and ducked, letting the bloody claws pass a few inches over his head. Then he moved in with the knife.
Quincey Morris had once spent a couple of hours with a man named Nick Reynolds, who had served six years for armed robbery in San Quentin, one of California’s most notorious maximum security prisons. In the Q, as in most such places, the weapon of choice among prisoners is a handmade knife known as a shank. And that means some of the best knife men in the world can be found among the lifers at a maximum security penitentiary.
Reynolds claimed he had never shanked anyone himself, but had seen it done, more than once.
“Thing is, with a shank you’ve gotta be quick, but thorough. Can’t take more than a few seconds, or you might get caught by one of the hacks. But you don’t want the son of a bitch recovering in the hospital and coming after you later, or maybe sending a few of his friends. So you gotta make sure. You don’t just hit him once with the blade. Whether it’s his front or back, you gotta get him three, four times, real quick – bam, bam, bam. Then you drop the shank, which, unless you’re an idiot, has got the handle wrapped in tape, so there’s no prints, and you walk away. That’s how you use a knife, if you’re serious about it.”
Quincey Morris had never used a knife more seriously in his life. His arm moved like a piston – one, two, three stabs to the belly. He stepped back, to avoid the inevitable blind slash with the lethal claws. Then he moved in again, fast. The werewolf’s paws were over his bleeding belly now, in an automatic protective gesture. That meant the chest area was exposed. Again the piston – one, two three – all in the area of the heart.
The werewolf gave one last, agonized howl and dropped to its knees, which allowed Morris to bring the sharp edge of the switchblade quick and hard across the exposed throat. Then he stepped back and watched the creature die.
The werewolf writhed in agony for a few seconds, and then it was still. Wary of deception, Morris waited – and watched the immense, furry monster transform into a large, hairy, naked man. A dead naked man.
Morris flicked blood off his blade, folded the knife, and put it away. A glance at Adelson showed that the man was beyond help – his head was attached to his body only by a partially torn spinal cord. Then Morris heard a soft moan from behind him followed by Libby Chastain’s voice saying, “What... the fuck... hit me?”
Thirty-Three
“HOW MANY FINGERS?”
“Three.”
“Close your eyes. Now open. How many fingers this time?”
“Still three.”
“Keeping your head still, follow my fingers with your eyes.”
“Yes, Quincey.”
“Good. What’s today’s date?”
“Um – March 3rd.”
“Who’s Carnacki?
“A fictional ghostbuster, created by... William Hope Hodgson. It’s also the name of your hamster. How’s the little guy doing, by the way?”
“He’s fine.”
Morris leaned back and looked at Libby, who was seated on the bottom step of the staircase that connected the bookstore’s basement with the sales floor.
“Well, I don’t think you’re concussed,” he said. “Although we should get you to the ER and let professionals make that judgment.”
She shook her head – slowly. “I’ll be fine. But you know, it’s funny.”
“What is?”
“I never read War and Peace in college. I’ve always figured I’d get around to it someday – but this wasn’t quite what I had in mind.”
Morris gave her a quick grin. “Bad jokes means you’re probably okay. But stay here for a few minutes, will you? I want to check the upstairs.”
“Me and my throbbing head will be right here.”
Several minutes later, she heard footsteps descending the stairs.
“Scoot over,” Morris said. When she did, he sat down beside her.
“The old guy upstairs, Mister Schwartz – he’s dead. Throat torn out. And it looks like our werewolf friend took a few precautions – whether before or after he transformed, I don’t know.”
“What kind of precautions?”
“He put the ‘Closed’ sign on the door, and locked it. He also turned off about half the lights up there.”
&nb
sp; “No wonder there haven’t been any customers barging in – and good thing, too. That... thing killed enough people, as it is.”
“And did you notice the surveillance cameras upstairs when we came in?”
“No, I didn’t – but I’m not surprised. It seems like everybody’s got them now.”
“The system feeds into a digital recorder that was behind Mister Schwartz’s desk. Somebody pulled out the hard drive, and smashed it.”
“Clever little werewolf – well, not so little. So, there’s no video of anything that happened upstairs. Are there any cameras down here?”
“No, I checked.”
Libby sat there rubbing her head for a little while before she said, “Poor Adelson. What must have possessed him, to take on a werewolf with a fucking penknife? Mind you, I’m glad he did, from what you’ve said.”
“Maybe fear made him crazy,” Morris said. “I know he was terrified by the thing. So was I, but at least I understood what it was. Adelson must’ve had trouble believing his own eyes. Maybe that led to some kind of psychotic break.”
“And what you’re being too nice to say is that my spell might have contributed to that, somehow.”
“No way to be sure, is there?” Morris said. “I don’t imagine the spell textbook, or whatever it is you learned magic from, has much to say about the effects of combining a rapidly fading compliance spell with sheer terror.”
“No,” Libby said soberly, “I don’t suppose it does. So I’ll never know whether I played a role in the poor man’s death.”
“No, I don’t reckon you will,” Morris said. “But you might keep in mind that what Adelson did, whatever his motivation, saved our lives – and also represented some payback for what happened to Mister Schwartz.”
“My head hurts too much to consider complex theological issues right now,” Libby said. After a moment she added, “I suppose calling 911 is out of the question.”
“Not unless you fancy explaining to the Cambridge P.D. that of the three dead guys in here, two were killed by a werewolf. And the third fella – well, he was killed by me, but it’s okay, officer, because he was a werewolf.”
“Well, when you put it that way...”
“The cops would probably figure it was the most original insanity defense they’d ever heard.”
“Then we’d better get out of here, before somebody from Adelson’s family, or maybe Mister Schwartz’s, comes down here looking for him.”
Morris stood up. “Sounds like a good idea. But there’s something I want to pick up before we leave.”
“What’s that?”
“Those first four volumes of the Corpus Hermeticum.”
Thirty-Four
THE METROPOLITAN AREA (such as it was) of Sheridan, Wyoming, boasts about thirty thousand souls. Quite a few of them must belong to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, since there are three Mormon centers of worship within the metropolitan area.
The night was clear and cold, so they had the heat going in the stolen Ford Explorer. The street where they were parked was in an affluent, well-lit neighborhood. But Ware had still found a patch of shadow for them to wait in.
“I thought all the Mormons was in, like, Utah,” Mark said, from the back seat.
“Utah is their home ground,” Ware said. “But they’ve spread out quite a bit since things got started in the 19th Century – not surprising, since their ‘faith’ encourages big families.”
“They breed like fuckin’ bunnies, is what you mean,” Elektra said from the front seat.
“Inelegantly but accurately put, my dear,” Ware said. “They’re all over the world now – but the closer you get to Utah, of course, the greater the concentration.”
Jeremy squinted at the big white house with green trim that was halfway down the block from where they sat. “Doesn’t look like much, if a fuckin’ bishop lives there.”
“Your mind is still stuck in the Catholic model, Jeremy.” Ware told him. “No palaces or fancy hats for the Mormons – at least, not at this level. Although their hierarchy in Salt Lake City is as grandiose as anything you’ll find in the Vatican.”
“Jeremy used to be an altar boy,” Elektra said. “Until some priest started fucking his little bunghole. Although I kinda think he liked it, at least a little bit.”
Jeremy muttered something in the back seat, but Elektra had sharp ears. “Did you just call me a cunt, Jeremy? Did you? Last night, you seemed to think my cunt was the finest–”
“I think it’s about time for your counseling appointment, my dear,” Ware said firmly. “You wouldn’t want to keep Bishop Hayes waiting.”
The young woman was silent at once.
“Go on, now,” Ware said. “You know the signal once you’ve got him unconscious.”
“Blink the porch light twice.”
“Exactly.”
As Elektra crossed the street, Jeremy said, “I thought you said that bitch was no good for this part of the work.” His voice was petulant.
“Ordinarily she isn’t – but I’ve given her a cover story that suits her persona very well,” Ware said. “The fallen woman, a former prostitute, seeking redemption through the True Faith. It’s a story as old as Mary Magdalene – although that lady’s tawdry reputation is undeserved.”
Mark took a few moments to parse Ware’s last sentence. “You mean she wasn’t a whore? That’s what I always heard.”
“No, Mary never traded sex for money. She was more of what today we’d call a star fucker, enamored of the so-called Messiah.”
“How come you know stuff like this, Theron?” Mark asked.
“I read a lot.”
Mark and Jeremy silently pondered the notion that someone would actually read a great deal – voluntarily. After a while, Jeremy asked, “What about those people who you said was looking for us – that Texan guy and the witch? You said you were gonna take care of them.”
“Oh, I have,” Ware said. “I hired the services of a most reliable subcontractor. He said the problem would be taken care of very soon. Sort of a ‘final solution,’ if you will.”
He chuckled at that, and the other two joined him, although they had no idea what Ware had said that was so funny. Then it was silent inside the vehicle until Ware said, “The porch light – see it?”
“Blinked twice,” Jeremy said. “Guess she’s got him.”
“Then it’s time for us to go get him,” Ware said, and put the vehicle into gear. “The Bishop has a date with my knife.”
Thirty-Five
PETERS AND ASHLEY lay among the tangle of sheets, the sweat slowly drying on their bodies. Peters closed his eyes and entertained the two contradictory thoughts that usually occurred to him after sex with Ashley: My God, that was fantastic, and One of these days, she’s gonna kill me.
Even though Ashley had been given human form before being sent over from Hell, Peters thought that the creature he sometimes thought of as his “pet demon” had managed to retain sexual appetites and capacities that few mortal women could match – or might want to.
Peters had no way of knowing that Ashley sometimes thought of him as her “pet human.”
They lay quietly, Ashley apparently feeling no need for conversation and Peters lacking the ability, at least until he got his breath back. He had just decided he was capable of speech again when he heard a two-tone “ping,’’ the sound clearly audible in the silence of the bedroom. Peters listened more carefully, and when the sound came again he said, “That sounds like it’s coming from your purse. Is that your phone?”
“No, mine doesn’t sound like that,” she said. “I thought it was yours.”
“Uh-uh.”
The sound came again, and Ashley got up, frowning. Just as she reached the chair where she’d left her purse, the “ping” came once more.
Ashley rummaged in her voluminous Dior bag and pulled out a new-looking iPhone in a pink travel case.
“Cute,” Peters said. “When did you get it?”
“Who’d do that? You don’t exactly know a lot of people, this side of Perdition.”
“Let’s find out,” she said, and pressed an icon.
Whatever came up on the screen, Ashley stared at it far longer than it should have taken to read a brief message. When she looked at Peters again, she didn’t appear puzzled – she looked scared.
“It’s Astaroth. He wants me to text him back.”
Astaroth was the demon, very high in the councils of Hell, who had sent Ashley and Peters to the human plane a year ago. Since he had the power to recall them to the Place of Eternal Torment at any time, they had both hoped never to hear from him again.
Peters got very quiet, but after a few seconds he shook himself, like someone trying to pull his mind out of a bad dream. “Wait a second,” he said. “A text – from Hell?”
“I know,” she said. “It transcends the physical laws of nature – but then, so do we, babe. So do we.”
Peters nodded slowly. “All right, okay. But that doesn’t mean it’s all over for us. Can you imagine Astaroth being polite enough to send a text: ‘Please return to Hell immediately?’ That’s not his style, and you know it. He’d just yank us back there. One second we’d be here in bed making the springs creak, and the next we’d be among the flames again, listening to the screams of the damned. He’d do it that way just to see the expressions on our faces.”
Ashley gently tapped the phone she was holding. “Maybe you’re right. But why would he go through the trouble to get in touch at all, then?”
Peters took in a long breath and let it out slowly. “There’s only one way to find out, babe. Do what the man said. Text him back.”
Play With Fire Page 13