by Pam Richter
He was playing with her like a toy, Michelle realized, after a while. It interested him, probably marginally, that she would have the guts to fight him. But he knew all along that he would win. Soon she would be too exhausted to go on.
"Where did you learn," Michelle asked, after ineffectively kicking him in the chest. Not hard enough.
"China." He was breathing hard. "Did you think becoming a Necromancer was easy? Did you think it took no discipline? This is just the physical mechanical part; the cerebral is much more taxing than any kind of bodily workout. I've studied all over the world. Care to try judo, tae kwon do, aikido, wing chung, American kick boxing, shinkendo ...?" Omar asked, stalking her in a circle around the fire. "You're a very talented amateur, but you will never win, Michelle."
She knew he was right. She was an excellent fighter, but her rage seemed to have withered as exhaustion caught up with her. Omar was stronger and had experience in many fighting disciplines. The thought crossed her mind that she could just walk into one of the lethal blows he was delivering and end it. It almost seemed like a satisfying conclusion. Omar wouldn't get his baby. Heather and Nakamura would be safe. Her family would be safe. If she died here on the beach. Even Vincent would probably get to a road eventually and manage to get help. Too late for her, but maybe Vincent did have enough evidence to put Omar in jail.
"Did you know the woman you fought with on the beach is dead," Omar asked.
Guilt suddenly washed over Michelle, making her weaker. "Which one?" She had punched Suzanne pretty hard in the stomach. Had she ruptured an internal organ?
"You're so transparent, Michelle," Omar said, gently tapping the side of his foot against her nose in another one of his perfectly controlled kicks. He had taken advantage of her momentary diversion. "It's Ginger. My sister."
"I only hurt her knee," Michelle said, getting a punch through his defenses and hitting him hard in the abdomen.
"She was my high priestess for years," Omar murmured softly.
That one obviously hurt him; it certainly had hurt her hand. She didn't want to go on with the fight and she didn't take the momentary advantage that might have been her only chance. He really was a dangerous, deadly man, but he was such a spectacularly evil, dark and brilliantly twisted figure also. She was furious with him but also felt grudging respect: he was the modern day equivalent of the Devil.
Omar was right when he said that the mental disciplines were more difficult than the physical. It was true in fighting also, and she suddenly realized she was letting Omar win. Or he was hypnotizing her with his eyes right now, which stared at her intently. She saw before her a beautiful man whom she did not want to harm. He was charming as a snake. He was as beautiful as a Greek statue, with the firelight on his body.
Michelle forced herself to conjured up pictures of her best friend, Heather, almost drowned in the waves; of herself, sliced open and bleeding in the hotel room in Las Vegas; of Suzanne, raped and tortured by Samson Stoker; of the poor woman who had lived above her, all alone, raped and killed in her own apartment. She thought of the confused victims dragged from their own unique and wonderful potential lives by drugs that Omar distributed; misleading them with poisons labeled as natural herbs so that he could make a fortune on their downfall.
She also felt sad for Omar. That one so gifted with beauty, physical prowess and intelligence should be marred by a mind filled with lurking blackness and greed.
"Why are you are crying, Michelle?" Omar asked.
Michelle frowned, she knew she didn't have tears in her eyes. He had read her thoughts. "I don't want to hurt you, Omar."
Michelle had been so concentrated on defending herself, that she hadn't noticed that Vincent had come back. He was running toward them, chubby body bobbing up and down, clutching a large branch, like a club, over his head.
* * *
Nakamura was driving slowly on a faint trail, at a steep angle of almost forty-five degrees. The path had started facing away from the ocean and then after about a mile, turned around and went back toward the coast. They all strained their eyes in the bushes on the side of the road, trying to see where Samson's truck was parked. Guy sighted it first. It was abandoned right in the middle of the road. Samson had probably figured no one would be going to the secluded beach in the middle of the night when he left it there.
Nakamura parked off the road, behind some huge and daintily beautiful ferns with large curling fronds. He got out and walked down the trail experimentally, but from twenty feet away he couldn't see the Jeep. As he walked back he saw Heather ineffectively trying to take the cap off of one of the truck's tires to let out the air. It was a good idea and Nakamura helped her, throwing the four caps into dense jungle.
They would have known that they were in the right place even without the evidence of the truck. Lucifer was screaming somewhere ahead.
Guy was standing by watching, not saying a word, shaking his head. He bent down by Nakamura and whispered, "You said you weren't going to do anything illegal."
"Delaying tactics," Nakamura said, smiling with satisfaction, rubbing his grimy hands together.
The path looked like it was made for mountain goats, wrong climate of course, but it was very steep. Going downhill put incredible pressure on Nakamura's sprained ankle and he felt like knives were stabbing him with each step. He knew Heather was having a hard time too, with her broken ribs that were merely taped, but he couldn't help her, he could hardly stand the pain he was in himself.
Nakamura whispered to Guy to help Heather. He explained about the broken ribs. Guy went immediately into the dense foliage and brought out a flexible root that she could use as a crutch to help stabilize her balance. When Nakamura asked, Guy found a heavy branch for him.
They were quiet, but it was unnecessary. The two witches ahead of them were talking and sometimes squealing when the terrain got rough. Lucifer never for a moment stopped protesting indignantly, with lots of volume.
Nakamura could almost believe the cat was some type of mythical animal that never ran out of spit.
They rounded a sharp curve and suddenly the ocean was right in front of them, heaving back and forth tumultuously. They could see a small beach below, with a fire burning right in the middle. They stopped suddenly at the sight, because the witches and Samson had stopped, but also because they saw a strange tableaux below.
The beach was lit up by white sand reflected in the moonlight, and also by a large bonfire, but what held them in stunned and enthralled were the two figures on the beach. They seemed to be in mortal combat, circling each other around the fire. Nakamura knew immediately it was Michelle. He couldn't miss the long black hair, which looked wild and wet, but he knew her form and even from a distance of about a fifty feet above, he could see her scar, the one Samson had made with a knife.
She was fighting Omar. It was unbelievably riveting, almost surreal to watch, like seeing the film of a primitive fight in a movie theater. There was something wrong with Michelle; Nakamura could sense it, but he didn't know if she was wounded or just absolutely exhausted.
Another man entered the picture. He was chubby and short, wearing only boxer briefs. The man stepped from the path below them onto the sand. He was holding a large stick on his shoulder and stalking slowly toward Michelle and Omar. When the man got to the fire he put down his club, picked up Omar's clothing and threw everything, including cape and shoes, into the fire. There was a sudden huge snapping of sparks from the bonfire. Then the short chubby man picked up the club once again and started running toward the two fighting figures.
Samson, on the path below them, evidently saw the short fat man also. He threw down the cat box and ran down the path toward the beach. Nakamura, ignoring his ankle, which he thought might actually be broken by now, took off after him.
Lucifer screamed.
Nakamura yelled, "Hey, shitface."
Samson didn't even flinch at the yell coming from somewhere behind him, seeing his master threatened by a small fa
t man with a big stick, now silently stalking around the fire toward the two fighting figures.
Nakamura put on speed, ignoring his ankle, wondering who the fat man was, but mostly intent on catching the monster who had hurt Michelle. He lurched quickly ahead, stumbling over rocks, crashing down on the damaged ankle, yelling obscenities at the pain and the giant in front of him.
Michelle and Omar were oblivious to onlookers and noises from above because the crashing sounds of the surf muffled everything else. They kept fighting.
Nakamura never could have caught the giant if the man hadn't stumbled and fallen on the path zigzagging down to the ocean. He passed one of the witches, who seemed so surprised she didn't even try to stop him. The other one had gone unto the undergrowth to retrieve the cat box. Now Lucifer was screaming like a banshee.
Samson in the middle of the path, was clumsily trying to get up. It was so steep that he had to be careful. One mistake would send him crashing down to the beach. Even the plight of his master could not cause him to act rashly in his precarious position, with a twenty foot drop to the beach in front of him, and loose volcanic rock and sand underfoot.
Nakamura had no such qualms. He cursed himself for letting go of the tree branch. He would have to use his fists against the Goliath. He thought better of it and just ran directly into Samson, who was struggling to a standing position. It felt like he hit a solid wall of stinking flesh.
Samson tottered on the edge, grabbing at Nakamura to keep himself from falling. Nakamura jumped out of range, then gave him one more push on an immense, monster arm. He sent the giant over the edge of the path to crash to the beach below. Nakamura looked down grimly. The man was not dead, he was moving, but he had landed briefly on both legs, which might be broken. Nakamura thought it was too bad that the sand was relatively soft. Samson might have been dead if he had fallen on a hard surface.
As he gazed down at Samson, the witch behind him screamed with anger. She ran at him, her hands hooked into claws.
Nakamura had no intention of fighting a women. He took off toward the beach, routed by a witch on his tail.
CHAPTER 32
Michelle spotted Vincent when Omar ducked under a strike she was throwing. Vincent was stalking toward them, club raised high over his head.
Her shift in attention and surprised expression caused Omar to turn slightly, to see the reason for her sudden lack of concentration. Michelle had almost walked right into his kick, which might have damaged the valuable mother of his child. Omar was off balance when he restrained the kick and was turning to look at the same time. He couldn't react fast enough.
Vincent bashed Omar in the side of his head with the heavy club. He swung it two-handed, like a baseball bat. Just before consciousness left Omar, as he was falling, he managed to kick out with one long leg, quick as a snake, connecting with Vincent's stout paunch. Both men collapsed into the sand at almost the same moment.
Michelle dropped to her knees, hands to her face, between them.
"I'm okay," Vincent said after a few moments, sucking breath carefully, as Michelle crawled over to him. He was doubled up and breathing hard, both hands over his burning belly. He coughed, took a few deep breaths and staggered to his feet. "Got the breath knocked out of me."
Michelle turned and put her hand on Omar's head, checking his wound. Her hand came away bloody.
"Get away from him," Vincent yelled.
Michelle looked at him, confused.
"Get away, get away. Hurry. Walk over to the fire. Just get the hell away from him," Vincent was saying, harshly.
Michelle stood up slowly, not understanding his urgent exhortations, shocked he would yell at her like that. Vincent went over to her and pulled her roughly away from Omar.
"He needs help," Michelle said. "He's bleeding."
"Let him bleed. He'll probably recover. We need to tie him up."
"But he's hurt. He can't do anything..."
"Michelle, if you touch him, you'll start healing him. He may not kill you, but he will kill me, and I don't want you to start healing until he's safely restrained."
"Vincent," Michelle said smiling. "I really can't heal."
They both jumped when they heard Omar's moan. He sounded like a wounded lion, more growl than groan.
"What will we use?" Michelle asked, gazing around the beach. She started looking for Omar's clothes. "Maybe his pants and shirt?"
"I burned them," Vincent said.
Michelle laughed aloud.
"I thought it would be harder for him to leave the beach, without clothes."
They looked at each other in consternation. Both were clad in the most minimal attire. Michelle was the first to start laughing. Then Vincent joined her. They had nothing to tie Omar up with and the situation seemed so silly that neither was able to stop.
"I won't take off my bra," Michelle said, doubling up.
"Well," Vincent said, trying for a humorous shred of dignity, "you can just forget it if you think I'm taking off one single item of my clothing."
"You only have a single item, Vincent," Michelle gasped.
They howled. They kept laughing hysterically, from sheer exhaustion and from relief that Omar was incapable of hurting either one of them for at least a few minutes.
Omar growled again and they both sobered up. Michelle was hiccuping. She was not laughing any more but she couldn't control the hiccups.
"We'll have to roll him up in the beach blanket," Vincent finally decided.
Michelle felt like the laughter had taken almost as much from her as the fight or even the swim to shore. She was weak as a kitten when she pulled the blanket over to Vincent.
"I thought you were going to find a road. Get help, Vincent," Michelle said.
"I saw you two fighting. I couldn't just leave."
Michelle smiled at the little man, who had straightened Omar's limbs and was quickly rolling him up like a cocoon. She tried to help but he shook his head, not wanting her to even touch Omar. He was seriously overreacting to her dubious healing powers. "He could have killed me within seconds, if he had wanted to."
"Well, he had all the advantages. You were already exhausted. He had been hypnotizing you from the moment you arrived on the beach. Then those lights..."
"You saw them?"
"As I was coming in."
"He said they were dead spirits."
"Right," Vincent said cynically, staring down at Omar now wrapped up in the blanket, sighing at his inadequate handiwork. "I think this will hold him, if we're lucky, for about five seconds. After he wakes up. I don't want to hit him again."
"No, don't," Michelle said, shuddering and shaking her head. The urge to at least wipe the blood off of Omar was almost overwhelming. It was running from his scalp down over one side of his face.
"I said I would kill him," Vincent began, "but I just can't..."
"I was planning to do it myself," Michelle said, sighing. "I couldn't either."
"Maybe there are some tough vines, to tie him up with, if we go up the path. Or we could make a run for it, right now," Vincent said. "Hope he won't catch us."
They both stood still, studying Omar.
"Vincent, I know what to do," Michelle said, smiling suddenly in relief. "Let's dig a hole!"
"Brilliant!"
They started scooping out a large depression in the sand. It went pretty fast, even though they were both tired. They had to dig one which would be deep enough to tip him into and that would hold his arms pinned to his sides. With the blanket to restrain his movement it would be almost impossible for Omar to get free.
* * *
After watching the chubby man hit Omar over the head, and having discerned that Michelle would be all right for a while, Nakamura plopped down at the back of the beach near the path. He was incapable of moving on that ankle even one inch further. He wasn't crying, he told himself harshly, but the water just kept dripping. He squinted his eyes and willed the flow to stop, for Christ's sake.
Th
e witch who had been running after him was evidently in a hurry. She stopped momentarily, delivering some obscene and colorful language and deliberately spat at him, hitting him squarely in the face. Then she hurried off to help Samson, who appeared unconscious now and was about forty yards from Nakamura. Nakamura could just imagine what the witch would do when she saw Omar, lying wounded on the other side of the fire, as he scrubbed the disgusting glob away with some sand. He had to get moving.
As he stood up on his one good leg, he could hear Lucifer screaming. Then there was Heather's voice from somewhere near, asking if he was all right. Everything went grey for a minute, and when things cleared up, Nakamura found himself sitting in the sand again.
"I'm fine," Nakamura said, willing the stupid water away from his eyes. He was trying to stand up but it was almost impossible in the lumpy sand, which seemed to continuously shift under his good leg. He almost screamed when his bad foot hit the ground, trying to balance himself.
Guy stood next to him and took his arm. Heather propped the root she was using under his other arm and he managed to start hopping between them slowly to the fire.
Lucifer was still screaming, but the sound seemed uncannily loud. Then he noticed through a sickening haze of pain that Heather was carrying the cat box. She told him the witch had left the cat-box in the middle of the path, before she had run away into the undergrowth.
Nakamura was wondering if the witch meant to cause them some trouble, but the thought was suddenly and completely gone. Michelle had looked up and saw them trudging toward her. Even the pain in his ankle was worth that one expression on Michelle's face.
Michelle knew she was having delusions and wondered if Omar really was unconscious. He might be giving her visions or weird hallucinations. She thought she saw Nakamura and Heather over the flames on the other side of the fire. Michelle stooped and lowered her own face directly into Omar's, at sand level. His eyes were closed and he was breathing deeply, like he was asleep. One side of his face was a bloody mask. Vincent was still piling sand into the hole around the limp body. She had been packing it into place.