by H. P. Bayne
“She said he’s dangerous.”
The smaller man snorted. “Does he look dangerous to you? Anyway, they said they want him alive. If he’s got a concussion, another blow to the head could be problematic.”
The guy from the window jumped a couple of feet to the side as a serving tray flew through the air and caught him in the shoulder. His head swivelled, wide eyes searching pointlessly for the source of the hurled object.
“Don’t bother,” Sully said. “You won’t find him.”
Wild eyes fixed on Sully’s, a nervous laugh fading before he asked the question. “Who?”
“I don’t know his name. He’s a ghost.”
A manic laugh, the one Sully had heard earlier, burst from the man’s throat. It disappeared just as quickly as it had erupted, out-of-place humour supplanted by a look of paranoia that strongly indicated the man was on meth or something similar. His head turned side to side as he paced the room, a caged animal in an experimental lab.
“Fuck this. Fuck this.”
One of the others grabbed at his arm but he shook him off. “Calm down.”
“Fuck you!”
The last pronouncement shouted, the man turned and fled the room. The sound of the front door opening suggested the man had escaped to the relative safety of the front garden.
“Fucking asshole,” one of the remaining large men said. “Told him to come straight.”
“What the hell is this?” Sully asked.
The smaller man met his eye a moment before pulling out a cellphone. “Shut up.”
“Who are you?”
“I said, shut up!” The man scrolled through something on his screen, presumably his phone’s contacts given he ended by tapping on something and lifting the phone to his ear. Sully decided against trespassing into the resulting silence, needing to know who it was the man was trying to reach.
A few seconds passed and the man had started to pull the phone away from his ear with a disgusted grimace when a sound from the handset had him lifting it back up.
“Where the hell have you been?” the man snapped into the handset. “I’ve been trying to reach you. We’ve got him. What are we supposed to do with him?” He paused, listening. “Yeah, okay.”
The man pulled the phone away as he approached, then aimed it toward Sully’s face. Realizing the man intended to take a photo, Sully turned his face away, using his long hair as a shield. One of the large men knelt beside him, grabbed his head and twisted painfully, forcing his face up. A click from the camera sounded, and the smaller man stood and tapped a few times on the screen before returning the device to his ear.
“Just sent it…. So what do you…? Yeah, he’s tied up. Not going anywhere…. Okay, but it’s a big place. It won’t burn easy.”
A vase narrowly missed the man’s head. “Son of a bitch,” he complained, before returning to his conversation. “Yeah, we’ve got it. I’ll call when it’s done.”
He disconnected and met the eyes of his two remaining companions. “We’re supposed to burn the place down with him inside. They want proof after, though, so we have to stick around.” He ducked as another object—it moved too fast for Sully to make out what it was—flew at his head. “Fucking ghosts.”
“I don’t know, man,” one of the other two said. “It won’t be easy. The place is made of stone. Gonna to be a bitch, if it’ll burn at all.”
“There’s enough wood and other material in here to catch. Let’s just get started, see what happens.”
Sully had been anxious before. Now he had reason to panic. He no longer needed an answer to what the men wanted. They’d been sent here by Lorinda and Rhona Dule to kill him; the fact their orders were to burn him alive was evidence enough.
Sully pulled hard at the ties, but the effort was futile. And the smaller man was right. Even if the stone was fire-retardant, plenty enough wood was inside the mansion to reduce it to a burned-out shell once a fire caught. The other problem was finding a way out. Once they set the blaze, they’d head outside, leaving Sully alone in here. He could probably find something to use to cut himself free, but it might take a while—quite possibly longer than he had time for. And he had little doubt the men would position themselves on various sides of the building to ensure he couldn’t escape. Even with Dez coming at full speed, he wouldn’t arrive in time.
Sully needed to act. Now.
He’d last felt the draw of the darkest part of his soul back in October, when he’d faced down Dr. Roman Gerhardt at Lockwood Psychiatric Hospital. With no other name for the past life—one that remained, for some reason, conscious and aware inside him—Sully simply dubbed it the hangman; he was dark, spiteful and vengeful—and very, very strong.
Strong enough to take these guys down quickly if Sully could free himself. Given the use of zip ties and how tight they were, that could be a problem.
Sully felt the hangman fighting forward as the men busied themselves around the room. One was working at setting a curtain alight, but so far couldn’t persuade his lighter to cooperate.
In the past, Sully had drawn in the spirits he’d seen around him, using their energy to multiply his own. While the house contained several ghosts, none were homicide victims, meaning he could see none of them.
But maybe he didn’t have to see them. He closed his eyes, reaching out, struggling to see past his panic and grasp the energies around him. Only one seemed immediately obvious, and Sully suspected it would provide all the strength he needed if he could harness it: Noisy Ned, after all, contained the energy of a dozen ghosts combined.
Poltergeists weren’t like regular spirits, but they were energy all the same. Sully felt the kinetic, destructive force as he dragged it in. The energy tore through him, bouncing around as if seeking escape. He almost couldn’t corral it.
But the hangman could.
Sully surrendered, giving the executioner the control he needed.
A growl from deep inside sounded from his throat as the hangman wrestled Ned into submission, sucked in the poltergeist’s power and energy. No longer fighting for escape, it thrummed through Sully with the force of a hurricane about to reach land.
He opened his eyes. One of the curtains had caught fire. The men were working on two more.
Sully’s lips, in the control of the executioner, formed into a smug sneer.
“You should have listened to the old crone,” he said, voice emerging in a strong Cockney accent as two of the men turned to face him. “I am dangerous.”
The power and fury of the poltergeist burst from Sully, propelling his body backward a foot or two over the floor with the momentum. Combined as it was with the energy of his own ancient and dark soul, Ned’s power seemed to double as it hammered into the first of the men. The man’s body flew across the room, limbs flailing until he struck the wall with a sickening thud. As he slumped, unmoving, to the floor, Sully turned his attention to his next assailant. The first curtain was completely aflame, and the second large man’s body became a helpful tool as Ned’s energy lifted and tossed him against the window. He crashed through the remaining panes of glass, his body tearing the fiery curtain from its rod and taking it with him outside the mansion’s walls.
Just the smallest man remained, the one who had acted as leader. Regarding him, Sully’s lips curled.
“Still want to dance?” the hangman asked through the grin.
“What the hell are you?”
The hangman’s grin widened. “I’m your biggest mistake.”
The man hadn’t come empty-handed, evidenced by the handgun he whipped from his back waistband. He didn’t get the chance to take aim.
Ned’s energy slammed into him, shoved him hard against the wall and pinned him there. The man grunted, struggling uselessly in a way Ned no longer was. The ghost was now a willing passenger, an accomplice, settled in as if he’d found himself a new home. He’d go anywhere Sully—or, more accurately, the hangman—chose to lead.
At the moment, the hangman was lea
ding Ned toward murder.
Sully watched as the smaller man’s badly shaking gun hand lifted, taking the weapon higher and higher, inch by trembling inch, until its barrel dug into the soft nook between chin and throat.
“Stop!” the man yelled. “Don’t! Please!”
“You should have left well enough alone,” the hangman said.
The room’s only other occupant, the large man slumped against the wall, finally stirred, hand coming up to rub at his head. His eyes opened and fixed, staring, at his accomplice pinned to the wall.
“Help me!” the smaller man yelled. “Stop him!”
The large man’s gaze flitted to Sully, fixed onto his eyes just long enough. Whatever he saw there had him up and out, diving through the smashed window to join the others already outside.
“Get back here!” the smaller man screamed. “Carey! Carey, you bastard! Help!”
But Carey wasn’t coming back. Nor, Sully expected, were the other two.
The man’s trembling finger began to squeeze against the trigger. He let out a wail.
Desperation of his own filled Sully. Whatever else he was, whatever twisted, dark thing, he was no murderer.
He felt the hangman’s fury as he was pulled back, Sully overtaking him and regaining control. He towed Ned back, too, drawing in his energy and forcing it still. The power was almost too much, leaving Sully’s body shaking as he fought to contain it.
“Get out of here!” he yelled at the man, in his own voice rather than the hangman’s. “Get out! Now!”
Released from the wall, the man’s gun hand rose. One growl from Sully changed his intentions. Firearm still in hand, he turned and fled, footsteps pounding against the floor until he disappeared out the front door. Voices raised in panic sounded from outside, drifting into the distance as their makers fled the grounds.
Struggling to control his racing heart, Sully released Ned. The loss of the spirit’s intense energy left him slumped and exhausted on the floor, with the feeling of having just fought twelve rounds. Unlike other spirits Sully had used like this, Ned didn’t flee. He had a sense of the ghost hovering above him, as if wanting back in.
It was tempting. Too tempting, given how drained he felt. But the poltergeist wasn’t just fuel for Sully; it fuelled the hangman too. It was the last thing Sully wanted with Dez on the way. He’d managed to pull it back a few moments ago; exhausted as he felt, what if he couldn’t do it again?
He lay there, minutes ticking past. The house was silent, as if his actions had sent every other entity scurrying for shelter. But Ned remained ever-present, even when the sound of movement, of a person attempting to move stealthily through the house, cut through the stillness.
Sully managed one word. “Dez?”
“Sully?”
Sully didn’t call out again, simply waited until Dez found him.
Moments later, rapidly approaching footsteps sounded behind him. “Shit, Sully, are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
He turned his head to see Dez kneeling at his back. “Your head’s bleeding.”
“I’m okay.”
“They’re gone?”
“Yeah. They ran off.”
“I’m sure there’s a story there somewhere.” Dez patted Sully down until he found his pocketknife in one of his coat pockets. His fingers grasped Sully’s uppermost arm, still locked behind his back. “Hold still.”
Sully felt his wrists, then his ankles cut loose of the ties. He allowed Dez to help him to sitting, but he stayed where he was for the moment, rubbing the sensation back into his partially numb extremities.
Dez left his side to move around the room. “Bloody hell, it looks like a hurricane went through here.”
“It kind of did.”
Dez approached one of the windows, the one Ned had propelled a man through. There, he glanced out and stilled.
The way he stopped cold, his posture rigid with one hand grasping the window’s edge, had Sully struggling to his feet. He’d almost gained Dez’s side when his brother spun on him. His hands gripped his shoulders, holding him back.
“No, Sull. Stay back.”
“Why? What is it?”
“Trust me. What happened here, exactly?”
Sully provided a quick explanation, one that resulted in the anticipated widening of Dez’s eyes.
“So these guys,” Dez said. “It wasn’t exactly you throwing them around, then.”
“Not exactly. But I wasn’t stopping it either. Not until the end, anyway. I didn’t want to play a role in killing someone.”
Dez lost a shade of colour. “Okay. Come on. Let’s go. The ice on the river is solid. I found your bag and your phone by the riverbank. We can go pick them up and—”
Sully cut in, dread seizing him as he recognized Dez’s attempt at distraction. “What is it?”
“What’s what? Come on.”
Dez took his arm and started to tug him farther into the house, but Sully pulled away. Before Dez had a chance to stop him, he took two quick steps toward the window.
What he saw turned his blood cold.
In the snow and frozen weeds lay the man he’d allowed to be thrown through the window—bits of glass and wood scattered around him. In his neck, buried deep and surrounded by more blood than Sully had ever seen at one time, was a large shard of glass.
The man’s eyes stared, fixed and lifeless, at the skies above.
Sully’s head spun, blood rushing for his toes. “Oh, God.”
He felt Dez’s hands on him again, turning and tugging him away from the gory sight, propelling him forward through the house. “Come on.”
“Dez—”
“You didn’t do this, okay? Let’s go.”
“But I—”
“No, Sull! You didn’t do it!” Dez shouted, as if increased volume provided a better chance at persuasion.
“I didn’t stop it either.”
Dez paused just beyond the threshold of the next room, taking advantage of the nearest wall by slamming Sully into it and holding him there by the front of his coat.
“You listen to me, goddammit! You didn’t do anything wrong. Those bastards were going to kill you! If you played any sort of a role in what happened to that guy, it’s only because you were defending yourself, you hear me?”
Sully heard him. With Dez yelling like that, he couldn’t help but hear him.
But Sully heard something else, too, something left unspoken between the pronouncements of absolution.
Dez wasn’t just trying to convince Sully.
He was trying to convince himself.
3
Dez tossed the last of Sully’s belongings into the hatch of his SUV and slammed it shut.
They’d cleared Ravenwood of his things—no way could Sully go back there now. The Dules, it seemed, knew where he was, and once they learned what had just happened, they’d be even more determined to end him.
Ravenwood wasn’t safe for him anymore, nor could Dez put his brother back in the apartment.
Sully would argue, but as far as Dez was concerned, his family—his entire family—was staying together until they could sort this out once and for all.
Sully, hunched in the passenger seat, was a silent presence behind his hood and hair as Dez got in and started the vehicle. Before putting it into drive, Dez paused long enough to tug Sully’s hood down and yank his face toward him. Sully’s eyes carried the sheen of unshed tears.
“Don’t,” Dez said. “Just don’t. You did the only thing you could.”
“I killed someone.”
“It wasn’t you.”
“Stop saying that! It was me! I wasn’t controlling it, exactly, but I could have. I could have taken over.”
“But you didn’t, because what the hangman and Ned were doing was saving your life. I’ll tell you one thing, little brother: If I’d gotten there earlier, it would have been me putting that asshole through the window. You did nothing wrong, even if you did play any sort of a r
ole in what happened. Killing in self-defence is justifiable by law and by moral code. You or them, man. That’s what it came down to. Anyway, killing him wasn’t intentional. It was a freak accident.”
“He went through glass. Chances of something like that happening were pretty good.”
“A lot of the window panes were broken out to start with. Him hitting glass at all, and in a way to end his life, was an act of God as far as I’m concerned.” Dez eyed Sully, searching for signs he’d made a dent. He couldn’t tell, but he was relieved to see no more indication of tears. “You’re a good person, Sull. And you can bet your ass those bastards weren’t going to lose any sleep over killing you. They don’t deserve your regret. You did what you had to do because they agreed to take on a hit job for the Dules. Those men started this, and they left you no choice but to defend yourself. What happened after was all on them.”
Sully heaved a heavy sigh full of exhaustion and grief. “I hear what you’re saying, okay? And I appreciate it, but I still feel like shit.”
“You feel like shit because you’re exactly the opposite of what the Dules are trying to make you out to be.”
Sully shook his head. “They’re making me out to be exactly what I am: a man who carries something dark and murderous inside. What happened today only proves their beliefs about me, about this Dule curse. It gives them even more reason to want me dead.”
Dez put the SUV into drive and turned around, headed toward the freeway that would take them east, toward his home in the Gladstone neighbourhood. “All the more reason for us to stick together from here on out.”
“No.”
“Not up for debate, Sull. Not after today.”
“Exactly. It isn’t up for debate. I said no. I’m not putting anyone else at risk. They know I’m still alive, Dez, and they won’t stop until I’m dead. I can’t take a chance someone I love will end up caught in the crossfire.”
“Tough,” Dez snapped. “That’s what family’s about, man. I’m done arguing with you, and I’m done ducking enemies. We’re going somewhere safe—all of us—and we’re going to figure out a way to deal with the Dules and with Lowell for good. And we’re going to do it in time for us to have a nice family Christmas.”