Turning back to the kitchen, he zeroed in on a wide wooden door and approached it. He grasped the doorknob, which didn’t turn, then slid the hunting knife back into its sheath and withdrew a lock-picking kit from his pocket. He selected a stainless-steel tool with a curved head that resembled a dental instrument and inserted it into the knob, gave it a few turns, and withdrew it when he heard a click.
As he returned the instrument to the kit and the kit to his pocket, he spotted eight black cats in a perfect half circle on the floor, watching him.
12
Jake did a double take. Did the felines expect him to feed them?
Or do they plan to eat me?
He hissed at the animals to drive them off, but they didn’t react. He hissed again, this time waving his hand.
The cats turned rigid, their tails puffing up as they pulled back their ears.
Jake lunged at them. “Go on. Get out of here,” he whispered.
One cat growled, a low sound that grew shrill. Another hissed at Jake. A third leapt at his masked face.
He batted the feline away with his stump, and even before it struck the floor a second leapt at him. He meant to knock it aside, but his fist connected with its head, and it flipped over in the air, its legs spread out.
Before he knew it, four of the felines launched at him at the same time. He punched one in the head, driving it to the floor, then threw his right arm back, flinging another into wooden cabinets. Almost at the same time, he swung his left arm away from his body, hurling another cat across the kitchen. The fourth cat landed on his chest and sank its claws into the nylon fabric of his running suit. He seized the animal by the nape of its neck and tried to pull it away, but its claws dug into his flesh.
Another cat flew through the air at him, and Jake jerked the one on his chest away, using it to smack the newcomer aside. Then he threw the cat at three others that hissed at him from the floor and sent them scurrying.
A cat sank its teeth into his left forearm, close to his stump, and he cracked its skull with his fist. Another buried its claws into his thighs. He drew the Thunder Ranch from its shoulder holster and clipped the cat across the side of its head with the barrel, which he then swung into the hindquarters of a cat sailing through the air in his direction, slamming it face-first into the wall behind him.
Three more cats ran into the kitchen, and Jake knew that if he didn’t make it into the basement right then he would have no choice but to start firing . . . and he would run out of ammunition fast. Spinning toward the door, he reached for its knob with his stump, which accomplished nothing.
Damn it all!
As a cat clawed the space between his shoulder blades, he jammed the Thunder Ranch into its holster and seized the doorknob, which he twisted and pulled. A second cat sank its claws into his buttocks as he opened the door, and as he retreated into cool darkness both creatures sank their teeth into him. A third cat bit into his left forearm.
Balancing on a step, Jake slammed the door on the shoulders of the cat clinging to his arm. The cat yowled, and Jake opened the door just enough for the animal to fall to the floor, where he kicked it out of the way and shut the door. Then he rammed his back against the wall behind him until the cat fastened there dropped to the stairs and scrambled away.
Jake took two steps down, then dropped into a sitting position on the stairs. The cat on his buttocks screamed and twisted free of him. Jake sprang to his feet and fumbled in the darkness for the light switch. The instant the overhead light came on he saw both cats running at him with their ears pinned back. He took one step below and kicked the closest animal with all his strength. The cat struck the wall above the stairway and dropped motionless to the stairs. A glowing sphere of golden light rose from the dead feline and faded.
Animals do have souls, Jake thought. But why hadn’t the killer cat’s soul darkened with negative energy? Because it had not attacked him of its own free will.
The second cat—running on only three of its legs—attacked his ankle so he couldn’t kick it. He grabbed behind its neck and lifted it a few feet away from his face.
The cat hissed and spat at him, twisting its body in a frenzied effort to reach his arm.
Jake tightened his grip on the animal and stared into its hateful green eyes. “Fuck you,” he said through clenched teeth. Then he turned back to the door, intending to open it and throw the cat into the kitchen. The only problem was he couldn’t open the door with his stump. On the other side of the door, the cats scratched at the wood. He stared at the door, listening and sweating, his heart pounding as the cat in his grip performed acrobatics in a desperate attempt to reach his flesh.
Jake pressed the cat between the door and its frame so hard the growling animal couldn’t move its limbs. Then he set one foot beneath the cat’s ass and in one fluid motion released his hold on the creature, twisted the doorknob, and kicked the cat so that it forced the door open and flew into the cats crouched for attack around the door, scattering them.
Even as Jake shut the door, black shapes sprang at him with their front limbs outstretched in attack mode. He flinched at the sounds of their bodies smashing against the door. The scratching on the wood grew frantic.
As he stepped over the still body of the cat he had kicked against the wall, he told himself the cats were not witches’ familiars.
Which means that’s exactly what they are.
He spoke into the headset as he descended the stairs. “I’m in the basement. Watch out for cats or any other animals for that matter. Where’s the maid now?”
“I have no idea,” Ripper said. “Any trouble?”
“Nothing a big dog couldn’t handle.”
Reaching the smooth concrete floor of the basement, he felt as if he had entered a bunker. The cinder-block walls were clean and smooth, and the floor lacked water stains. Perhaps as many as one hundred old wardrobe chests and wicker baskets filled the space.
He moved to a brown chest with black trim, and when he lifted the lid a piece of it came away in his hand like brittle composite siding for a house. He set the broken piece inside the chest as a musty odor filled his nostrils. Clothing filled the chest two feet deep, and when he pinched a dark green article to inspect it, the fabric crumbled into dust. Setting his hand flat in the middle of the pile, he pushed down, and his hand went straight through the fabric, as if the clothing had been fashioned out of lint. A rising cloud of dust forced him to look away. Lilian Kane took the concept of vintage clothing to a new extreme.
Closing the chest, Jake surveyed the others behind it. They grew progressively darker, their metal components more corroded. Circling them, he stopped at one in the back. The dark shape almost resembled a piece of debris from a sunken ship resting on the ocean floor. He gave the chest a sharp kick, and his foot went right through the side. When he pulled his boot free, dust and sand poured out and the chest collapsed.
Jake drew in a deep breath and exhaled. Passing old-fashioned mannequins with Victorian dresses on them and stacks of large paintings with decorative frames, he faced the far wall, which seemed closer than it should have been. By his estimate, the basement occupied only one-third as much space as the house.
He stared straight ahead at a bookcase centered within the wall. There were five shelves, maybe fifty mason jars on them, all empty. Narrowing his eye, he followed the edges of the bookcase. Something about it troubled him.
Jake moved toward the bookcase, his footsteps echoing. As he stepped onto a rubber mat, he thought how strange it was to have a single mat on such a large concrete floor.
When he heard a sound not unlike a bowstring launching an arrow his muscles had already tensed. His mind told him to retreat from the mat, but his momentum made that impossible, so he leapt forward off the floor, swinging his hand at a copper pipe that ran along the ceiling. Before his fingers closed around the pipe he heard a loud whoosh as a gleaming metal blade—eight feet long and anchored to the center of the bookcase one foot off the floor—w
hipped beneath him like a giant straight razor and snapped into the wall on the opposite side.
That could have chopped off both my legs at the shins!
His body swung forward and back, and he wrestled with his next move. He had to believe that there was at least one more giant blade higher up, but if he dropped to the floor the first blade might swing back.
Jake released the pipe. An instant later a second blade swished over his head, so close he felt wind in his hair. His feet touched the mat, the second great blade crashed into the wall, and he sprang off the floor, diving sideways, just as the first blade swung out again. For a split second the blade passed beneath him, and he held his breath, praying not to lose his remaining hand.
He landed on the cement floor, his right shoulder taking the brunt of the impact, just as the first blade hit the wall. When he looked up, the bookcase appeared normal again.
I could have lost my head and my legs.
Jake rolled away from the bookcase until he bumped into a solid object. Turning his head, he gazed at a 1930s console radio with a chestnut body. He performed a one-armed push-up and stood, then studied the scratched surface of the radio, which had a gold-colored grill cloth. A metal plate identified the unit as a Philco Type 89 Lowboy.
The black plastic remote control on top of it was a Panasonic. As far as he knew, such devices didn’t operate antique radios. He picked the remote up. Then he pivoted on one foot, aimed it at the bookcase, and pressed the Power button.
Nothing happened.
He pressed the Power button again, then Play.
The entire bookcase receded into the wall with a gentle motorized hum. As the bookcase continued to move backwards, tracks on the floor behind the wall came into view, and an overhead fluorescent light flickered to life, revealing a passageway six feet deep. The two giant blades remained in position, crossing the threshold like barriers.
Sliding the remote control into a pocket, Jake pushed the radio to where he had stood when the blades had threatened to sever his limbs and decapitate him. The blades remained in place.
He pressed the control for his headset. “I found a secret passageway in the basement behind a bookcase. It’s possible I triggered an alarm so stay alert.”
“I’m not napping,” Ripper said with an edge in his voice.
He’s growing on me, Jake thought.
Then he moved to the wall, grasped one edge of the threshold, and stepped over the lower blade while ducking beneath the upper one. He stood before a set of wide concrete steps and debated whether to leave the bookcase in place or return it to its position in the wall. He left it alone and descended the steps to a landing, then descended a second set facing the way he had come.
At the bottom Jake faced another threshold, this one ten feet wide, which opened into a chamber large enough to account for the space missing from the basement. Candles flickered on the floor ahead of him, reminding him of Mambo Catoute’s chamber on Pavot Island.
Drawing the Thunder Ranch, he moved closer to the threshold. He estimated that twenty thick candles had been arranged in a perfect circle dead center on the floor, and he wondered if twenty corresponding zonbies lay in wait for him. The deep space was dark except for the glow provided by the candles, so he took out a Maglite with a magnet on it and attached it to the barrel of his gun, then passed its beam over round coffee tables covered with books, candles, and matches, and at least a dozen bookcases stocked with mason jars. Squinting at the jars, he noted they were filled with what appeared to be herbs, spices, and soil. Each jar bore a label.
Entering the space, he saw no sign of Laurel, and he doubted there was room for another secret chamber. He stopped at the candles. The circle they formed reminded him of the summoning circle in which he had battled Kalfu. Pieces of clothing were strewn around the circle, and Jake recognized the dress he had seen Laurel wear. Spots of dried blood appeared on the ripped fabric.
Dear God, no.
Water stained this area of the floor, and half the tattered dress lay soaking up a puddle of discolored liquid. The odor of urine reached his nostrils.
“Jake?” The voice sounded weak. “Up here . . .”
Tilting his head back, Jake saw only darkness. Then he aimed the flashlight above him. The ceiling was three times as high as that of the basement he had just left, and he realized that it must have continued at the same level beneath the house. The flashlight revealed a giant white spider on the ceiling, its flesh glowing white.
Laurel!
She was spread-eagle, her back pressed against the ceiling and her hair hanging straight down, obscuring her features. She had been stripped nude, and as far as he could tell, no bonds or supports of any kind held her to the ceiling.
Jake peeled off his ski mask, then shined the flashlight on his face.
“Help me . . .”
13
Jake moved as close to the candles as he could without touching them. He didn’t notice any fire extinguishers. “What’s holding you up there?”
“Lilian.”
Jake swept his flashlight around the gloomy interior. Seeing no sign of Lilian, he returned his attention to Laurel. “These candles?”
He couldn’t tell if she nodded or not. The candles are used for different spells, not just for controlling zonbies.
Going down on one knee, he licked his forefinger and thumb and pinched the flickering yellow flame of the candle, extinguishing it. Smoke curled up from the candle, and Jake tilted his head back.
Laurel lurched to one side, her left arm moving in a frantic manner. “Careful.”
Standing, he went to the candle opposite the one he had extinguished. Kneeling, he licked his fingers and pinched the burning wick.
Above him, Laurel sucked in her breath, her right arm free.
If he extinguished all the candles, Laurel would crash to the concrete floor, and he doubted he could catch her with one hand.
Using the two extinguished candles as markers, he approximated two additional candles that divided the circle into imaginary quarters. Crossing to one, he kneeled and extinguished it, and Laurel’s left leg swung down, unencumbered. He moved to the fourth candle and put it out, and her right leg swung forward as well.
Jake rubbed his beard. Sixteen candles remained. “Any suggestions?”
“You’re doing fine. Just take your time and do one at a time. You’ll know when to stop.”
“Your head is still pressed against the ceiling. If you drop while it’s stuck there, won’t your neck break?”
Laurel drew several deep breaths. “Take two steps to your left.”
Jake followed her directions.
“Now kneel.”
Obeying, he raised his hand over one candle and held it there, feeling its warmth.
“Move your hand one candle to the right.”
He did.
“That’s the one.”
He extinguished the candle and watched Laurel rotate her head.
“My back, upper back, and ass are still being held.”
Jake looked at the candles. He had extinguished 25 percent of them. Rising, he waited for Laurel to direct him.
“Move five candles to your right.”
Jake shifted in the appropriate direction, kneeled, and held his hand over one candle.
“Yes.”
Licking his fingers, he extinguished the candle’s flame.
Laurel’s upper body bowed forward. She moved her limbs as if underwater, pushing them against some invisible resistance. Her buttocks anchored her to the ceiling.
Standing, Jake spread his arms. “What now?”
With her arms outstretched before her, Laurel appeared to be fighting for balance. “Walk opposite that candle.”
Gazing across the circle, Jake went over to the candle he believed was opposite. “This one?”
“Yes.”
He kneeled and extinguished the flame.
Laurel’s body dropped and she cried out. One foot into her descent the free
fall stopped, and her entire body wobbled as she tried to maintain a level position, her stomach muscles straining in the flashlight beam. “I’m loose. Bring me down one candle at a time.”
Jake extinguished a candle and Laurel descended by two feet.
Twelve candles left, he thought.
Laurel arched her neck and back with her arms at her sides like an airplane, her ankles together and her toes pointed. She resembled an Olympic gymnast or a diver.
With each candle he extinguished, her body lowered another two feet. Soon it quivered ten feet off the floor, and Jake noted dozens of scratches that covered her pale flesh.
Cat scratches, he thought.
Another candle, another two feet. Sweat beaded on her forehead, and Jake reached up to take her hand.
“No,” she said with a grimace. “You have to break the spell completely.”
He extinguished them one by one and watched her body draw closer to the floor, her buttocks taut. Even at this distance, she reeked of urine and filth. Dozens more scratches crisscrossed her backside.
Jake extinguished the final candle, and Laurel struck the concrete floor face-first, her palms making a simultaneous slapping sound. Grunting, she tried to push herself off the floor, but weakness had taken its toll.
“Is it safe for me to enter the circle?” Jake said.
Laurel nodded, her lips parted. “The spell’s broken.”
Jake put his latex glove on, stepped over the candles, and grabbed Laurel’s left bicep. He didn’t want her to touch his skin, which would have opened his mind up to her. As he pulled her upright, he balanced her with his stump.
She gaped at it. “Oh, my God. What the hell happened to you?”
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