“How do we kill it?” I ask. “Have you figured that out?”
And then everything happens at once.
“Shut up!” The Medusa gathers itself together and lunges for Val. It hasn’t quite got the hang of Eve’s body and trips over its own feet, stumbling. Jake takes advantage of the instant’s reprieve to run in front of Val, shielding her with his body. He can’t shoot, because bullets would go right through the Medusa to thud into me or Sophronia.
The Medusa masters its new body enough to stagger toward Jake, hands outstretched. Slow at first, but gaining in speed and coordination. If I shoot it, I might slow it down, but I’ll hit Jake.
His eyes meet mine, and he dips his head in a nod of recognition. I’ll shoot him dead rather than watch him be consumed. I hesitate. Not yet, though. Not while there’s even the ghost of a chance.
“Phil!” I say. “How do we kill it?”
The tips of the creature’s fingers touch Jake’s cheek. Jake stands his ground. “Maureen…”
I aim at his heart. My finger tightens on the trigger. “Val. Step back.” I’m worried about the bullet going straight through the Medusa, traveling through Jake, and taking out Val. But she’s not in control of her own body at this point and Phil as a dead guy might be willing to sacrifice her for the cause.
She ducks and I take the opportunity.
The shot reverberates through the sanctuary.
I see the bullet tear a hole through the Medusa. Jake recoils as it slams into his chest. His face slackens, one hand comes up to touch the wetness welling out through the wound, and then he crumples. Blood vanishes as rapidly as it disappears, consumed by the Medusa who crouches down to lap at it with a human tongue.
This is more disturbing than watching blood vanish into thin air, as it used to do when the creature was invisible, before it had a body and a voice.
Val, on the floor, grabs a handful of Phil’s ashes and flings them at the Medusa’s eyes.
It stops feeding and shrieks. Its eyes melt and mix with the ashes, forming a gray sludge that drips down over its cheeks.
Val flings another handful.
The creature throws both arms up over its face. One of the arms is slim and tattooed in green vines. The other is muscular with a badly done anchor on the bicep.
Blood gushing from Jake’s chest makes a little stream through the heap of ash. Val mixes this into mud and flings handfuls at the Medusa.
The Medusa howls. Her features shift and morph. Alice’s mouth. Aline’s smooth forehead. Vince’s sharp nose, the eye sockets always empty.
I get down on the floor beside Jake. He’s still breathing, but it sounds wet and there’s a sucking sound from the hole in his chest. Blood stains his lips. He’s going to die, and I’m the one who will have killed him.
Filling both hands with the mud I turn to the Medusa and smear it over that monstrous face. Beneath my hands she feels like gelatin, rubbery and shapeless. The mud has the effect of hot water on jelly. The features melt into nothing.
Headless now, still bearing a vaguely human shape with parts from all of the people she has consumed, she attempts to retreat. Val and I both follow, our hands dripping with bloody ashes.
I’m aware, vaguely, of a voice behind me as I rub my handfuls of goo over the Medusa’s shoulders and chest.
“We need an ambulance. Officer down.” It’s Sophronia, calling for help.
When I turn around, she’s on her knees beside Jake, her hands pressed against the wound in his chest.
His eyes flicker open and look up into hers. “I trust you. Take me across.”
She shakes her head. “You’re not going anywhere. Hang on. Ambulance is coming.”
“Not. Going. To make. It.”
Sophronia reaches for her back pocket, pulls out a credit card case, and presses her ID over the sucking chest wound, stopping the air entry. It’s a first aid measure that might help if he wasn’t bleeding to death. Too little; too late.
He’s not going to die in vain.
A cold wind whips down the aisle, stirring the ashes, raising goose bumps on my skin. Damned ghosts again, I’m thinking, but I look up to see the church doors open and Matt standing there, the salt sprayer in one hand, a gun in the other. He looks lethal and I’m torn between relief that he showed up and a touch of dread that he’ll use his weapons against us.
Only an instant for me to doubt, before he’s thundering up the aisle and spraying the twisted monstrosity at my feet with a mixture of salt and silver. It’s the final death knell. The Medusa dissolves into a puddle of slime. It quivers and ripples and shudders as the salt mixture continues to pelt it, but finally goes inert.
“Ambulance is on the way,” Matt says, turning his attention to Jake. “Hang on there, Sheriff.” His eyes meet Sophronia’s, and I brace myself for the dangerous words of caution or warning. But he just stands there, looking helpless now that he has nothing to do.
“You found us.” I lift my hand to push hair back from my forehead, catch a glimpse of the mess coating it, and change my mind.
Jake’s pulse is weak. He’s too pale. His hand, when I take it in mine, is icy. His eyelids flicker, but don’t open. I want to scream at him to stay here, not to leave me, but all my years of reserve don’t let me do more than kneel here, covered in his blood and Phil’s ashes, and think that I’m about to lose another strong man out of my life. I hear a siren and squeeze Jake’s hand, willing him to hang on a little longer.
The ambulance crew comes up the aisle at a run, leaving a deputy to bring the gurney. They’re the same two who responded when Jill fell and hit her head, and the look they give me is equal parts annoyance and suspicion. They are pros, though, and get down to work without asking questions.
The deputy is another story. She leaves the gurney in the aisle and comes to investigate. Her eyes rove over the group of us, blood smeared and ashen. Not much left to back up a story of the truth. Not a trace is left of Vince, or Eve. A bullet from my gun—a very specialized bullet—is lodged in Jake’s chest. Unless he survives to confirm my statement, no court in the world is going to believe that I shot him to save him from a monster I can’t prove ever existed.
Matt looks up at me and smiles, ever so slightly.
“I shot the sheriff,” he says, drawing my gun from its holster. “Borrowed Maureen’s gun. It was an accident.” He gets to his feet and holds out his hands to be cuffed.
Val walks over and wraps her hands around the gun, tugging gently. It’s loaded and the safety’s off. I hold my breath waiting for a shot to take out Val, too, but Matt relinquishes the weapon and she turns it in her hands. Sets her finger against the trigger. “But I did not shoot the deputy,” she says.
“My God, give me that weapon. Is it loaded? You’re going to shoot somebody else if you’re not careful.” Deputy Grace approaches Val as if she’s a cornered animal. “Drop that gun, or I’ll have to shoot you.”
“No!” I bark.
Out of my peripheral vision I watch the rescue team load Jake up onto the stretcher. They’re not doing CPR and there’s no sheet over his face, so he’s still hanging in there. My eyes follow their progress to the door, intently enough that I don’t realize what’s happening until the first of the cuffs snaps onto my wrist.
“You have a right—”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Skip it.”
Backup has arrived and a young male deputy is cuffing Matt. Our eyes meet and he shrugs. The most dangerous one of us all sits in a pew, alone. Tears slide down her cheeks and there’s a bloody smear where she wiped one of them away.
“Are you all right?” Deputy Grace asks, her voice gentle. “Want me to call your dad?”
“What?” Sophie looks up, startled out of thought. “Oh, no. Thank you. No. I’ll just—I’ll take Val home.”
“You can use my truck,” Matt says. “Keys are in the ignition.”
Sophie nods. “I’ll take care of it. And this. I’ll—clean up. Val will help me.” Her eyes con
nect with mine and I read a promise there.
Val crosses the room and takes one of Sophie’s hands in hers.
The girl flinches at her touch, and then relaxes. Val, much shorter, leans her head against the girl’s shoulder.
“Val needs to come with us,” Deputy Grace says, but her voice is hesitant.
Her companion glares at her. “Are you crazy? This old bird doesn’t belong in jail. Obviously she didn’t shoot Callahan. She was just copying the others with the gun. You’re going to put her in a cell?”
Sophie’s lips tighten, but Val pats her arm and she says nothing.
“You’re right,” Deputy Grace says. “Her prints will be on the gun, but we can explain that away. Maybe call Adult Protective Services and have them look at getting her in a more appropriate placement. That Shadow Valley Manor is off the rails.”
I’m too worried to raise a fuss about the comment. Who will take care of everything if I’m locked away? It occurs to me to resist, but I’m not in any shape to take out two deputies, not without shooting somebody else.
Val smiles at me, and in her dark eyes I read another promise. I incline my head to her, closest I can come to a salute, and let the deputy frog-march me down the aisle and out into the car. Just before the door slams shut, I think I feel a light touch on my face, a caress and a whisper that sounds very much like goodbye.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Sophie watches law enforcement traipse out of the church with Maureen and Matt, feeling lost and abandoned despite Val holding her hand. So much she needs to explain, and it’s going to be days now before she gets the chance.
It seems like years since she ran away, driven by fear of her powers and the temptation to use them to kill. She’s known about the underground tunnels since she was twelve. Her father’s bunker is part of it; there’s an access point behind the bookcase. He doesn’t know that she knows, despite the numerous times she’s slipped away to explore.
Maureen and Jake and Matt missed her, though, even tried to save her. That warms her a little. She didn’t trust them enough, didn’t trust herself.
What happened with Jill still scares her; every time she thinks about it she wants to puke. The only thing she could think of after Jill’s collapse was to lock herself away from people, maybe forever. Even after days of playing that scene over and over in her mind, she’s not sure what she would have done if the spirits hadn’t intervened. She’d wanted to take Jill across more than she’d ever wanted to do anything in her life.
The letters—from the researchers, from the creature claiming to be her father—are burned into her memory. She’s destroyed them, all except one, but she’ll never forget what they said. She’s so tired of being a misfit, tired of being alone. The lure of power, of companionship from other beings more like her, the idea that she might escape the conscience that holds her and be free—all of that had tempted her. And in that moment, with her hatred for Jill twisting into a hunger and a need, even as the spirit energy fed her strength and made her feel immortal, she might have acted on impulse and taken Jill’s soul for herself.
Now all of those spirits are here, in the church, lined up in rows and watching Sophie to see what she will do.
“‘The Walrus said.’” Val pats her arm with one hand and gestures at the waiting ghosts.
“What?” Sophie stops to think, sifting through songs and movies and finally hitting on the poem. “‘The time has come, the Walrus said.’ Is that it? They’re ready to cross?”
Val nods.
Sophie’s heart feels too big for her chest. There are so many of them. Over half are children. And the one that is Phil, Maureen’s old friend, stands in front of them all and smiles at her.
“You knew.” She turns to Val. “He knew all along. What the Medusa was doing. That it would try to get to me.”
Val inclines her head for yes. Phil does likewise.
“So if I’d made you cross—if I’d eliminated you somehow…”
Val’s brown eyes shine with sympathy. “Spilled milk,” she says.
Sophronia chokes back a laugh. “Don’t cry over spilled milk, you mean? We could all be dead. The spirits enslaved. That thing running free around the countryside gaining knowledge and power with every life it took.” She realizes she’s shaking with reaction, so hard that her teeth rattle in her head. It doesn’t help that she’s been living on survival rations all week.
Phil’s ghost floats across the room and stops just in front of her. It has a waiting, questioning expression.
“You want to cross now?” she asks.
He nods. All of the others drift toward him and form into a ragged line. Sophie sucks in a deep breath. She’s never taken more than one at a time. But she owes them this, whatever rest there is for the dead.
Reaching out she takes Phil’s hand. To her it feels solid, warm even, although she knows to anybody else there would be only a sensation of cold. Val must be freezing. Pushing thoughts of Val and all of the others out of her mind, she focuses on the veil that marks the crossing, holding it aside so that the dead can go through.
Phil goes first, without a backward look. The others follow, one by one. Toward the end of the line a girl about her own age pauses to look at her and she recognizes the face of Aline, the World Tree Girl.
Sophie feels herself smiling. “You do have a soul,” she says. “I’m glad.”
Aline’s spirit reaches out and traces a pattern on Sophie’s cheek with a fingertip. Then she turns and vanishes into the invisible beyond.
When the last of them is through, Sophie sighs and closes the door. Feeling as if she’s waking from dream, she turns to look for Val. The little woman is lugging a mop and bucket up the aisle, unearthed from a cleaning closet somewhere. Sophronia goes to take the bucket from her.
“This is empty,” she says.
Val points at the baptistery. Sophronia hesitates. She’s not Catholic, herself, but her father is. She came to this very church as a small child and watched the holy water administered in a sacred rite. It seems wrong to use it for something mundane like washing up a floor.
But then she takes another look at what’s left of the Medusa and decides maybe holy water is best for what needs to be done.
“Sorry about all this,” she says to the Virgin and anybody else who is listening. Val has thought of everything, including a smaller container for scooping up water. Between the two of them they drain the baptistery dry and then mop up the floor as best they can. Wherever the water touches the Medusa jelly, it melts away into nothing.
“Sure hope this thing stays dead,” Sophronia says, when there is no trace of jelly left. They scoop up whatever they can of Phil’s ashes and empty them out in the churchyard. It doesn’t matter now. He’s crossed. She’s surprised to find she misses him.
Outside, the world has moved into velvety night. Sophronia pauses to breathe in the clear, cold air. It smells of snow, and also of hope.
“Hey,” a voice says, heavy with irritation. “How come nobody called me?”
A girl stands there on the steps, bundled into a jacket, a knitted hat pulled over her ears.
“Why would we?”
“Maureen promised. So I don’t tell. About the spirits and all.”
“Pretty sure that story is blown wide open,” Sophronia says. “Who might you be?”
“You can call me G. Why is Val here? What happened? Is the sheriff okay? What are we doing next?”
“The sheriff will be okay,” Sophronia says. It’s true. She can feel it, knew it before the ambulance took him away. His spirit isn’t going anywhere for a while yet, at least not today.
Sophie looks from the girl to Val and something warm blossoms inside of her. It’s unfamiliar, and she’s not sure what to do with it at first, but then it comes to her. She smiles. “Anybody else in the mood for pizza?”
Acknowledgments
My first debt of gratitude goes to Maureen Keslyn herself, for showing up in my head and giving me the
green light to write this tale.
I’d also like to thank my resident Viking—first, for putting up with the way my brain vanishes into an alternate dimension when I’m writing, and second, for providing the all-important Viking Read for issues of continuity and quality control.
Susan Spann, thank you for being my friend, my cheerleader, and my critique partner, and also for supplying me with penguins and chocolate. Chuck Harrelson, thank you for jumping on board and giving valuable feedback—remind me to buy you a drink (or two) next time we meet.
Much love to Patty Briggs and her truly awesome assistant, Ann Peters, for taking the time to read my little book.
Patti Hancock, thank you so much for explaining the ins and outs of the life of a rural coroner to me. This was invaluable information and I hope I’ve kept it straight.
I must not forget to mention all the active, creative people of my acquaintance who have taught me that life doesn’t suddenly end when you reach a certain age. Specifically, to my mother who is continually exploring new areas of art. To my mother’s friend Shirley, who is one of the most creative and fascinating women I have ever met. To my great-aunt Harriet who was still teaching school at seventy. And to my irascible grandfather, who wanted to go deer farming in Bolivia when he was eighty, and who started taking piano lessons at that age so he could learn “before I get too old.” All of you have been an inspiration to me and have found your way into this book, in one way or another.
Last, my thanks to you, the reader, for sharing your time with Maureen and company. Without readers, books would have no purpose.
About the Author
KERRY SCHAFER writes fantasy with its teeth sunk into reality, mystery that delves into the paranormal, and women’s fiction that embraces the dark and twisty realms of humanity. She lives in Colville, Washington, with her Viking, three cats, and a dog, in a little house surrounded by trees. She spins her tales at five-of-dark in the morning, before heading out to her day job as a clinic RN. Kerry also writes women’s fiction under the pen name Kerry Anne King. You can find her on Facebook as Kerry Schafer Books, or become part of her Monsters, Mystery, and Magic community by going to http://bit.ly/MonstersMysteryMagic.
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