But it had been warm outside?
‘Welcome, my friends, to a very sacred occasion,’ said Bumstead, nodding respectfully to Honeycutt and Renfrow. ‘Tonight, Hubert Humbolt will be acting as our medium.’
Despite the chill, sweat was rolling down Humbolt’s flushed brow.
‘And our Guild secretary, Cedrick Bleaker …’ Bumstead gestured to the tall thin man, ‘will be taking notes of any wisdom our beloved founder may wish to impart.’
Bleaker was too agitated to acknowledge the rest of us. Bumstead glowered at his ungracious behaviour, but refrained from reprimanding him.
Instead, Bumstead forced a smile back on his face. ‘But before we attempt to contact Merlin Jones, we will carry out one other contact first. Mr Renfrow has been a great benefactor of the Psychics’ Guild and we wish to repay him tonight by enabling him to speak with his dead mother, Miriam.’
Renfrow cut in, his voice edged with menace. ‘What I have to say tonight is very private.’ The threat was not implicit. ‘I know each and every one of your names and if anyone even whispers to themselves what I say, then …’
He patted his breast pocket.
There was a solid outline of a gun there. No one could possibly mistake what Renfrow was promising.
‘Er …’ Bumstead’s eyes bulged. He said reassuringly, ‘Don’t worry, Mr Renfrow, this will be like the confessional. I promise you.’
Before Renfrow could issue any more ultimatums, Bumstead crooned soothingly, ‘It’s not long to midnight so we must get started. Hubert, could you please contact Mrs Miriam Renfrow for us.’
Humbolt sank back on his stool and closed his eyes. He muttered a series of Latin-sounding words under his breath then launched into a complicated chant that sounded like Sanskrit.
Honeycutt nudged my arm. His eyes went down to the floor.
A white mist was seeping out from under the sarcophagus. It looked like dry ice.
I glanced back at Honeycutt and he winked reassuringly.
I nodded.
Good. If Bumstead stuck to the usual daggy party tricks we’d all come out of this okay.
As soon as Humbolt finished his chant his chubby face spasmed and then re-formed into the visage of a sharper-featured older female. A soft pink spotlight suddenly illuminated his face.
I wanted to check the ceiling for the source but tried hard to focus on Bumstead’s touching melodrama instead.
Yes, if Bumstead would just stay with the cheesy sideshow tricks, I’d get my answers and we’d be out of here with a minimum of effort.
A feminine accent, a combination of Italian and New Jerseyese, streamed out of Humbolt’s fuller mouth. ‘Lewie, my brave boy. Are you there?’
‘Mama?’ Renfrow had immediately responded to the voice, eyes alight and body crouched forward as if to touch the medium. ‘Mama, is that you?’ He was shocked.
Honeycutt rolled a cynical eye at me. I replied with an infinitesimal shrug.
Well, we were in Hollywood — Humbolt must’ve practised his accents.
‘My brave Lewie … it’s been so long since I left you.’
Renfrow’s face hardened. ‘Mama, I need to check that it’s really you. Remember the question we agreed I’d ask?’
The medium’s face quivered uncontrollably, then an instant later stabilised back into the old woman. ‘Yes, Lewie … ask me.’
I glanced at Bumstead. He was biting his nails. The hand was trembling.
I studied Renfrow. What would he do if Humbolt didn’t get his answer right?
‘Mama, when I was ten years old you told me why that bastard left us,’ said Renfrow, his tone promising deadly repercussions for disappointment. ‘You told me about his real love.’ He glared around the table, daring anyone to even breathe. ‘What was the name of my father’s real love?’
The medium’s face went from pink to mauve. Sweat circles were forming under each arm.
Bleaker was leaning as far away from Renfrow as he possibly could and still stay on the stool.
The dry ice mist was getting thicker; now it covered the tomb floor.
A drop of Bumstead’s blood hit one of Merlin’s marble eyes. He’d bitten his nails down to the quick.
The medium softly replied, ‘The Thistledown Queen, Lewie.’
‘Mama …’ Renfrow sat back, surprised and pleased.
‘Your father left us for a life at sea,’ said the medium. ‘He stole all my money and bought a fishing boat. Then he took her up to Canada.’
Bumstead smothered a triumphant leer with his now red raw fingers.
I was betting that MGM scriptwriter, Jimmy Bergman, had had a chat about his childhood buddy with Bumstead, as well as with Honeycutt.
Bumstead tapped his watch. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Renfrow, but it’s nearly midnight. We have to —’
Renfrow cut over the top of Bumstead. ‘Mama, I need your advice. I don’t know who to trust.’ He looked around suspiciously, then decided to risk it. ‘Bugsy Siegel has just come back from New York. I think he’s made a deal with Lansky to rub me out … Has he, Mama?’
Was that who Renfrow thought was betraying him? Bugsy Siegel, not Ruby Renfrow?
Damn! I exchanged a bitter look with Honeycutt. All this time and effort and I still had no certain leads.
The medium warbled, ‘Lewie, Lewie. I told you never to trust that goddamn son of a bitch.’
Bumstead’s eyes bulged in alarm at the profane outburst and he stuck his bleeding fingernails straight back in his mouth.
Humbolt must be improvising beyond their prearranged script.
‘What should I do, Mama? Should I pop him now? Get in before he strikes?’
Humbolt’s face seemed to shimmer for a moment then resettled. ‘Be ready, Lewie, but don’t make the first move.’ He was warming to the dramatic role.
‘I’ll be ready, Mama!’ said Renfrow. ‘I’ll be waiting for him.’
‘Yes, my brave Lewie, and when the time comes for you to kill the son of a bitch —’
Bumstead firmly rode over Humbolt’s rising histrionics. ‘I’m afraid, Mr Renfrow, that’s all the time you have.’ Then he sent a warning glower at Humbolt.
The medium clicked back on script, saying, ‘Goodbye, Lewie … and remember I’m always watching over you.’
Humbolt crumpled a little, then shook his face free of the old woman. His suit coat was soaked with sweat. The pink light faded, which meant he must have the control switch within reach, possibly under one foot.
Renfrow slumped, lost in his own thoughts of triumph and vengeance.
‘That’s it?’ I whispered to Honeycutt. ‘So Renfrow doesn’t know about Earl.’
‘If Renfrow believed that little performance then he’ll never find out,’ returned Honeycutt sarcastically. ‘But the dry ice was a nice effect. Almost made it worth the trip.’
If it wasn’t Renfrow, who was it? I was reluctant to let him slip away.
‘Well maybe Renfrow doesn’t know now, but Earl could still do something stupid and public with Ruby over the next twenty-four hours.’
‘Now, my friends,’ said Bumstead, very pleased with the way the séance was going. ‘It’s time for us to meet our beloved founder, Merlin Jones. I know he has a special message for us about the future of the Guild, so, Hubert, could you please …?’
Humbolt composed himself once more and shut his eyes as though diving deep into the cosmic ether.
Outside, the crowd gave an excited shout.
Bumstead’s cronies must’ve started his light and magic show.
There was another loud gasp and then applause and cheering.
‘What is that?’ said Secretary Bleaker, shocked.
‘Shut up,’ hissed Bumstead. ‘Hurry up, Hubert, it’s nearly midnight!’
Startled into forgoing the preliminary Latin and chanting, Humbolt’s rubbery face twitched once and suddenly a much older man sat there.
Not exactly the same as the marble face on the sarcophagus but close enough …<
br />
Humbolt opened his eyes as if waking from a deep sleep. This time a soft cream light illuminated the medium’s altered features.
I sighed. I could only hope this would be over quickly so I get out of here and find Earl. And whatever new trouble he had got himself into …
‘I’m here, my Guild brothers.’ Humbolt’s voice had slipped into a melodic Welsh accent. ‘I have come … as I promised, tonight on my anniversary.’
Bumstead beamed. ‘Merlin, we’re so happy to have you back. You’ve been sorely missed.’ He gestured impatiently at Secretary Bleaker. ‘Make sure you get everything down.’
Bleaker sneered at the Guild president’s demand, but put pen to paper anyway. He was disgusted at Humbolt’s antics but was probably too afraid to question anything in front of Renfrow.
‘It is good to see that life has sprung from my death,’ replied the medium, his voice liltingly sweet.
I curled my lip in open revulsion. I was positive Merlin, the pugnacious rabble-rouser, didn’t really sound like the Tooth Fairy. Humbolt must’ve sacrificed historical accuracy to concentrate on getting the accent right.
‘Merlin, as it’s nearly midnight I want to —’ started Bumstead.
There was another burst of wild cheering coming from the crowd outside.
‘And I have remembered my promise too,’ replied the medium. ‘I will give you all proof of life after —’
Bumstead butted in, impatient with his dupe wandering off script. ‘Yes, yes, Merlin, but before you do that I must ask you about the land we own in Glendale, where the old Guild commune used to be. There’s oil there and I need your permission to drill —’
Bumstead’s last words were damped down by a rumbling noise.
It sounded like thunder, only it was coming from inside the tomb …
The ground lurched up, then dropped.
Everyone instinctively grabbed the sarcophagus for support.
Bleaker missed and fell sideways off his seat.
At first I thought it was one of Bumstead’s tricks, then I caught a glimpse of his expression — bewilderment tinged by fear.
Outside, the crowd let out an anguished howl. It rolled over us like a wave. It turned into terror-filled screams.
‘What the fuck is going on here?’ said Renfrow, half standing.
Boom.
The ground shook again … but sideways this time.
Suddenly an unbearable pressure crushed down on me. My spine was folding as though under some massive weight.
I fought the compulsion to collapse onto the floor … my hands were nailed to Merlin’s marble leg.
Bleaker tried to stand but couldn’t.
Renfrow slid from a crouch to his knees.
An ear-splitting humming filled the tomb …
The clamour was excruciating. I tried to lift my hands to protect my eardrums but failed.
Outside, the audience’s screams were reaching a fevered crescendo.
Honeycutt fought to get to his feet, using the sarcophagus as leverage.
He failed.
A high-pitched screech erupted from Hubert Humbolt’s lips, then white foam bubbled out and down his chin. There was the sound of a light globe exploding in the ceiling. The cream spotlight over Humbolt cut out.
Bumstead and Bleaker exchanged terrified glances.
Humbolt’s eyes rolled back in his head and the whites began to glow.
Then his eyelids slammed shut and he pitched forward to crunch face-first into Merlin’s cold marble feet.
Bumstead began to keen in terror.
‘I warned you there’d be strife to pay,’ yelled Bleaker with grim satisfaction.
‘Shut up! Shut up!’ Bumstead yelled back.
Humbolt whip-lashed bolt upright again … transformed.
I gasped.
He glowed an incandescent green.
As one, the candles flickered and went out.
It was now pitch black inside the tomb except for the green light emanating from the thing.
Humbolt was no longer human.
The thing sitting next to me had full lips, red as fresh blood, and hair black as space, down to the floor. Its face was bleached-bone white. Sleek white fur erupted from the neckline and slithered down Humbolt’s body like a snake easing through water.
The slanted eyelids flicked back to reveal gleaming viridian irises with jet black pupils.
It smelt of the jungle. Pungent, fecund.
Someone screamed, but I couldn’t take my eyes off it to see who.
The thing focused its terrible gaze on the cringing Guild president at the opposite end of the sarcophagus.
A predator watching its prey.
Bumstead tried to stand but couldn’t.
Just by the force of its gaze it lifted him off his stool and up, until his head touched the ceiling. He hung there, twitching in terror.
The thing opened its full lips and a sound like giant boulders grinding together issued forth. ‘One of your tribe dared to summon me from my realm.’ It bared dagger-like canines at the hanging captive. ‘You will pay the price for that intrusion.’
Bumstead grabbed at his throat, choking, fighting for air.
‘From tonight your tribe will leave these hills … they will remain empty until the Long Count turns once more. You have played with powers far greater than your tiny minds can understand.’
With one tiny shift of its feline orbs Bumstead’s neck twisted too far to the right and snapped. He dropped to the floor like a broken puppet.
My God … This was no sideshow trick.
Someone from Bumstead’s tribe had summoned it?
A summoning? Where had I heard that word tonight?
Could it possibly mean Simon Renfrow?
Was it going to pick us off one by one? We had to get out of here! Our only hope was to break its concentration so we could escape.
Its nostrils flared and it sucked in a deep breath, as though tracking an intriguing scent.
The thing snapped its head around to stare at Honeycutt. ‘You …?’
In that instant I could see that whatever else this being was, it was definitely female. The slanted glowing green eyes, the shining black tresses, the full sensuous mouth … But it was the expression that gave it away.
She was gloating over Honeycutt with a menacingly female avarice. As she watched him her face became …
Seductive.
‘You …’ she purred with arousal.
The luminous feline eyes sucked Honeycutt forward, past me and slithering over the sarcophagus towards her. He struggled with hands and feet to resist the traction but couldn’t.
Honeycutt ended up lying along the marble casement with his face inches from hers.
‘I know you, little human,’ she said, stroking his cheek with razor claws. ‘Your blood calls to me.’
Honeycutt managed to say, ‘What are you?’
‘Your blood knows me. I came for your ancestor after he sacrificed himself on the field of battle … But he chose your Desert God instead.’ She sneered at the poor judgement. ‘But your chance will come too, my pet.’ Her musky desire oozed over him like spilt oil. ‘And sooner than you think.’
She bared her canines in his face. ‘Choose more wisely.’
I groaned.
‘My greeting gift to you, my little soldier, is this … I will tell you a secret. Your secret.’ She patted his cheek affectionately, leaving tiny puncture wounds that bled. ‘You have been betrayed, my little one. You believe your younger brother’s death was an accident.’
I gasped.
My God! How could she know about Kyle?
She pushed even closer into Honeycutt’s face, her pink feline tongue darting out to lick the drops of blood off his jaw. ‘But it is a lie. He died because he witnessed something he was never meant to see … Your brother was murdered.’
In a towering rage Honeycutt found the strength to haul himself back and away from her mouth.
She laughed
with delight, deeply pleased at his display of spirit.
‘How could you know about Kyle?’ spat Honeycutt. He crouched, reaching for the sword at his side … ready to attack her.
I had to stop him …
I shouted, ‘Who are you?’
Her jaguar eyes cut into mine. ‘He knows.’ She turned back to Honeycutt. ‘Don’t you, my lovely one?’
‘Kyle was shot while we were in military school,’ he whispered. ‘During war games.’
Kyle died playing soldier, a warrior in training.
I stared across at Matz, the Mayan goddess of soldiers. She wanted to take Honeycutt … To make him her consort … a Te-Matz.
Honeycutt had lost all sense of reason and was getting ready to fight her. And from her gleeful expression she wanted him to.
‘Your brother expired surrounded by enemies, my little one. He was trying to find you when they ambushed him,’ she purred. ‘He died calling your name.’
Matz was provoking Honeycutt into attacking her so she could kill him and carry off his soul.
Somehow I found the strength to beat him to it. Simon said only Matz’s own symbols were powerful enough to check her.
I ripped off my necklace, wound the silver double-barred cross around my right fist and punched her straight in the eye.
Matz screeched in agony …
41
DEAD ENDS
Matz zapped out of the medium, discarding him like an empty husk.
Humbolt pitched face-first onto the marble sarcophagus.
Abruptly the immense weight pinning me to the stool cut out. Everyone that could get up pelted for the door.
It was wedged shut.
We were trapped in a lead coffin.
Honeycutt ripped a knife out of his pocket and jiggled the lock free. Together we wrenched the door partially open, just enough to squeeze through.
We burst out of the vault and past the wrought-iron fence at a dead run … only to land right in the middle of chaos.
Hysterical people were fleeing every which way.
One of the grandstands had collapsed backwards; another three had fallen like a row of dominoes, one on top of the other.
As far as the eye could see, black snow lay across the cemetery.
The people running past me were covered in swollen red blotches …
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