He began to shift in response, then caught a blur of motion.
Pierce always had fast reactions. He slid his head away from the motion, but that was all he was able to do in defense.
Then he was engulfed in a tornado of rage.
Pierce had heard or sensed something and began to move sideways.
Mason was prepared. He swung hard and viciously with a short piece of wood, bouncing it off Pierce’s skull.
Mason expected Pierce to topple, but Pierce had managed to slide his head fractionally sideways, enough that the massive blow deflected instead of hitting square. Pierce had been rising. Didn’t get to his feet. Somehow stayed vertical, on his knees.
But Mason let his momentum carry him and with a spinning move, wrapped an arm around Pierce’s neck. Then pulled and lifted and arched backward so that Pierce’s full body weight sagged on the cartilage of his throat.
Then came the knife.
Mason reached around and slashed horizontally across Pierce’s forehead, cutting a line left to right about an inch above Pierce’s eyes. It wasn’t anything life threatening. All it would take was a cloth held in place to staunch the bleeding.
Mason knew, though, that a wound like this inflicted psychological terror that few of his victims could handle. More importantly, the forehead was a part of the anatomy rich with blood. A gash like this generated an instant fountain that streamed into the victim’s eyes, blinding the victim, allowing Mason the luxury of toying with his victim until the end of the massacre.
Billy and Theo had finally begun to react.
“Don’t move,” Mason commanded them, using Pierce as a shield. He placed the tip of his knife blade against Pierce’s temple. It would be a shame if he had to kill Pierce this way, this quickly. But Mason needed to immobilize all of three of them.
Billy and Theo obeyed instantly, freezing in awkward positions only a couple of feet apart.
In the decorative floodlights, the blood must have terrified them too. Mason yanked Pierce’s head back with his free hand. It briefly showed Pierce’s face. It was a red mask, dripping down his chin, onto Mason’s forearm in the chokehold position.
“Tie each other up,” Mason told them. “Use those extra plastic cuffs.”
“Don’t,” Pierce said. “Whoever it is, take him now, or he’ll kill both of you.”
The logic was impeccable. Another part of what made Mason a great hunter was the knowledge of his prey. Humans usually made emotional decisions, even when logical decisions were necessary.
Billy and Theo had ignored Pierce’s command.
“I’m dead anyway,” Pierce said. “Do what you need to do to save yourselves.”
“Billy,” Mason said. Billy and Theo were paralyzed by the conflicting orders. “On the ground now. On your bellies. Hands behind your back.”
He pushed the knife into Pierce’s temple hard enough to draw a gasp of pain. It was what he needed to topple them out of paralysis.
Billy fell forward, then onto his stomach.
“Theo,” Mason ordered. “Plastic cuffs. Billy’s wrists. Then Pierce’s ankles.”
It all fell into place for Mason. Once Billy’s hands were tied, Theo obeyed and cuffed Pierce’s ankles. Mason shoved Pierce forward and placed a knee on Pierce’s back, pinning him on the ground, keeping the knife in place until Theo had cuffed Pierce’s wrists.
“Now Billy’s ankles,” Mason said. “Then your own.”
Mason watched approvingly. Billy was bound, wrists and ankles. Same with Pierce. And now Theo’s ankles. The two major threats were neutralized, and Theo, not much of a threat, was hobbled.
Mason dropped Pierce and kicked Theo hard, knocking the skinny kid on the ground.
“Hands out,” Mason ordered Theo. Mason finished Theo’s wrists.
Excellent. All three of them on the ground.
Mason evaluated the other three, who had come screaming out of the house. Now conveniently cuffed by Pierce.
Mason decided the second agency guy might be a threat. Mason quickly and brutally kicked the bound man in the head. He didn’t bother to check if it had knocked him out. There was no doubt. Might have killed him. Mason didn’t care.
He didn’t care about the smaller man, dressed nicely but groaning badly. The woman, though, might have some use for him.
Tempting to kill Billy and Theo. But this was more than business. Each of the three of them had done something to Mason to demand special vengeance.
Killing Billy and Theo wouldn’t be good enough. Let them live with Mason in their nightmares, let them live knowing they were responsible for what was going to happen next to Pierce.
Mason stepped on Pierce’s elbow. Grabbed the lower part of Pierce’s arm. Pulled upward, like he was breaking a dry sapling. The crack of bone was the same.
Theo screamed.
“Enjoy that?” Mason said to Theo. “You’re next, for dropping that rock on my head in Appalachia. But first, something for you to think about for a long, long time. Understand? I’m going to snap each of your arms like I did his. But there’s something I need to do first.”
Mason rolled Pierce over. He wiped away the blood off Pierce’s forehead so that Pierce could see again.
Mason grinned. The low floodlights gave enough illumination. Let Pierce have that grin in his memory for the next half hour as his life slowly bled away.
“Breaking my arm in the restaurant in Appalachia,” Mason said, “was a stupid, stupid thing to do. Understand? I’ve broken your arm, but that’s not enough. Not close to enough. Gut wound is one of the worst ways to die. I’ve been waiting awhile to tell you that.”
Mason smiled again. Then plunged his knife into Pierce’s belly, twisting the blade as he pulled it loose.
EIGHTY-FIVE
Mason entered the house through the front doors that had been left wide open, carrying the woman limp over his shoulders, ready to drop her at the first sign of danger.
Mason needed to hurt people. It was his nature, simple as that. The need would ebb and swell. He knew his own moods, and if the woman couldn’t or wouldn’t lead him to Caitlyn, he still had her to give him temporary relief to quell the urge.
Lights were on in the house. Insects had swarmed through the open door from the night air, and moth shadows flickered behind lampshades.
There were photos on the wall at the entry, and Mason saw the face of the woman he was carrying.
Good. She lived here.
“Where is she?” Mason asked. “The bird girl.”
No answer. But the woman had shifted several times, and Mason knew she was conscious. She was on the shoulder above his good arm, so he was able to reach opposite with his recently healed arm, holding his knife. He pushed the tip into the skin just below one of her eyeballs.
She gasped.
“The bird girl,” Mason repeated. “Tell me. It’s you or her.”
It was going to get worse for this woman, Mason thought, swallowing down the beginnings of excitement, but no point in telling her.
“I’ll tell you,” the woman said. “She’s at the other end of the house. Down some stairs. In a hidden place in the basement. Please, please don’t hurt me.”
She used the exact tone of voice that Mason had learned to cherish. He decided he would wait until she had guided him as far as he needed, then Taser her into unconsciousness and leave her in a convenient heap for later use.
Halfway down a hallway, Mason heard a mewling sound behind him. From around the corner where he’d just dumped the woman’s body.
He shifted, hand on his Taser. Cautiously, he returned and peeked around the corner.
Then he blinked his good eye, hardly able to believe what he was seeing coming down the hallway. There were two of them. Some kind of naked, dark, hairy creatures with short legs, stump arms, and monstrous faces.
They were bent over the unconscious woman, making pitiful crying sounds.
Both straightened and turned their heads toward Mason. One balan
ced awkwardly as it tried to make its way toward Mason on half-formed feet.
What kind of zoo is this house? Mason wondered. A girl with wings. And these things?
Mason backed up to where the hallway opened into another room. If these monsters were going to attack, Mason wanted space to maneuver.
There was something strange about the way the closer of the monsters was focused on Mason. As if it was listening instead of watching.
Mason bumped into a table, and the extra sound turned the monster’s head sharply. One hand on the Taser, Mason felt behind him on the table. His fingers closed on a flower vase. He tossed it toward the monster.
It didn’t react. Not until the vase crashed, then the monster grunted and flinched.
How easy could this be? A blind and handless cripple thing.
Mason set his Taser on full charge, warily closed the distance between himself and the monster, and before it could react, Tasered it.
It didn’t utter a sound as it collapsed. The other one tried to charge, but the half-formed feet and its lack of visual context made it an easy target for a second Taser shot. It too fell.
For satisfaction, he slashed both deeply and repeatedly with his knife, making sure both were totally beyond ever getting up.
Mason left Jessica behind. He knew where Caitlyn was. In the basement.
Seconds later, as promised by the woman who lived in the house, he found the top of the stairs.
Caitlyn’s return to awareness was pain, bands of fire around her wrists and ankles.
She was blind and was bewildered by it. Until she remembered the hood that had been put over her head. Pulling the events together in her memory seemed as though she was assembling shards of glass by sweeping them into a pile with her bare hands.
It slowly came together. The vision of Charmaine’s cold, certain smile. The lashing out of rage. Her struggle against the gag around her mouth and the shackles that held her in place for what Charmaine had explained would happen. Then the unreasoning terror just after the hood had been placed over her head, taking away all rational thought.
She could not guess how much time had passed.
Now there was a residue of dread, like a taste in her mouth. Uneasiness that should have rationally been explained by circumstances but felt deeper and more instinctive.
And except for her own breathing beneath the hood—shallow and dry, hot against her face—there was silence.
She tried an experimental tug with her arms, exacerbating the band of fire against her wrist.
More of the shards of memory; how, in the first few seconds beneath the blindfold, she’d flailed in panic far out of proportion to any reaction she should have had to Charmaine’s threats.
This was the pain then. Where she’d cut her skin against the bonds in the horror and dread that screamed at her to flee in any way possible.
Silence.
This was frightening too. Not like before, in a way that defied reason and washed her away like a giant wave crashing her against rocks. Her fear now was based on understanding.
She couldn’t see. She was helplessly bound. And the silence told her she was alone.
Why? What had happened to Charmaine? to Dawkins? Had they left her here? Why? When would they return?
To call out, though, would be a sign of weakness. She was weak and would admit that to herself. Pride and anger—which outweighed her weakness—would not allow her to speak out into the silence.
She waited.
And listened, forcing herself beneath the hood to draw air in and out of her lungs so slowly that the sound of her breath did not fill her ears.
She heard her own pulse, faintly. She could imagine the flow of blood, constricted by a vein, pushing against her skin in the soft of her throat, like an animal struggling to escape.
Then came a scrape of footsteps. The first scrape might have been her imagination. But not the second or third.
She was no longer alone in the room.
Now she stopped breathing, her entire focus on the direction of sound. Totally motionless, it seemed like the pulse in her throat would give her away.
But that was ridiculous.
She could not see, but it didn’t mean she was hidden. She felt like a rabbit in a hawk’s dark shadow. But the instinct to freeze would not protect her. Whoever had just entered the room had total control of her destiny. She couldn’t even fight against a palm placed over her mouth and nose to suffocate her.
Then the slightest of touches, almost like a caress against the fabric of the hood.
She almost screamed into the gag, but drew upon her anger and rage. She would not give satisfaction to whoever it was above her, the person who had begun to peel back her mask.
The first of the room’s soft light reached her eyes.
She closed her eyes. Then commanded herself to face her fear. Whatever happened next, she would not give up her dignity.
The hood continued to peel back. After blinking a few times, she recognized the person above her. His appearance had been altered subtly. Cheeks padded. Eye color changed. Hair dyed.
“Told you,” Razor said, his skin now clear of tattoos. He was dressed in a way she hadn’t seen before. As an Influential. “Fast. Sharp. Dangerous.”
“Told you. Fast. Sharp. Dangerous.”
Mason chuckled softly as he took his first steps into the basement room with shattered glass on the floor. The reunion he’d just witnessed from the doorway was ever so touching, the words he’d just heard ever so ridiculous.
“Told you. Fast. Sharp. Dangerous.”
The kid, whoever he was, was about to learn who truly was fast, sharp, and dangerous.
EIGHTY-SIX
Caitlyn had moved into a sitting position on the operating table, rubbing her wrists where the shackles had bit into the skin. Razor was bent over. He’d already freed one of her ankles and had begun on the other.
Caitlyn saw movement over Razor’s shoulder.
Fast movement.
For a split second, as she recognized the man rushing into the room, Caitlyn couldn’t reconcile reality. She’d always dismissed her gnawing fear of Mason as the material of nightmares, part of her horror based on how she’d left him to die.
As the synapses of her neurons raced to match his face to her memories, there was an extra nanobeat of hesitation because of his eye patch. So when she finally reacted, all she could blurt out was a half scream.
“Razor! Behind you!”
Mason was in full stride, arm fully extended with a gunlike object.
Still, Razor lived up to his name. His reactions were so fast that with only two strides left before his attacker reached him, Razor was beginning to fling his arm forward to drop a flashball.
But Mason was too fast.
There was a horrible crackle and an arc of blue light as Mason jolted Razor with a full Taser charge. Razor fell backward, landing hard, and the flashball rolled harmlessly away without enough impact to generate the instant chemical reaction of exploding magnesium. The ball stopped among the shattered pieces of glass where the dividing wall had stood until the hybrids crashed through.
Razor moaned as his body shuddered.
The sound snapped Caitlyn out of paralysis. Frantically, she tried to release the final shackle, leaning forward and scrambling to get the strap’s end in her fingers.
“Let me help you with that,” Mason said. His leer was far worse than anything she’d seen in her nightmares. “More fun for me if you have a fighting chance.”
He slipped his Taser into his back pocket. Then he pushed aside her hand and used his own fingers until the strap fell away.
“Here I am. One good eye. It’s all I’m going to need.” He leered again. “Nice that you’re not wearing much.”
Caitlyn tried to punch him in the face. He swatted her hand away.
“I like that,” he said. “Keep going. Makes all this fun.”
The roof of Caitlyn’s mouth was dry copper. She tried to sw
allow, to add moisture. But she didn’t punch again.
“There’s a man out in the city,” Mason said. “Everett’s his name. You might remember him. From a rooftop where you put a knife in his belly. He’s got something he wants to finish with you. He made a promise that I could watch if I brought you back to him. But there’s nothing that says I have to bring you back right away, if you catch my drift.”
Mason reached into his shirt and pulled out a dead rat.
Caitlyn gagged.
“Don’t be like that,” Mason said. “Thanks to you, I learned to get a taste for this.”
He lifted the rat to his mouth.
Caitlyn was still facing the doorway, and more movement caught her attention. This time, the movement was slower. This time, her recognition wasn’t delayed. This time, she didn’t shout a warning.
She brought her eyes back to Mason.
“You eat rats?” she asked, trying to keep her voice steady. If she could hold Mason’s attention for the next few seconds, maybe there would be enough of a distraction to escape.
In the doorway was one of the hybrids.
But Mason had caught her slight shift in attention. He grabbed her hair with his good hand and spun behind her to face whatever she’d seen, using her as a screen.
Then he laughed.
“Another one of them,” he said. “How many they got in this house? Slower and stupider than a half-dead monkey. Blind too. And no arms. It’s hardly a fair fight, but then, I like it that way.”
The hybrid mewled as it moved into the room, sniffing and casting its head as if trying to get the scent of Mason.
Mason yanked Caitlyn’s hair, pulling her off the table, then threw her against the far wall. He glanced at her, satisfied that she was immobilized, then turned his attention on the hybrid.
“I’m right here, stupid,” Mason called to the hybrid. He brandished his knife and advanced on the hybrid. “I’m the one that got your brother.”
The hybrid mewled once again, in a higher pitch.
Flight of Shadows: A Novel Page 29