The vampire shifted from foot to foot. “I want to go back to the car. I don’t want to go inside that place.” Her finger stabbed toward the church, little flakes of dried cockatrice viscera drifted down. “It’s almost dawn and I want to get back in the trunk of the car.”
Anger tipped over inside my chest. It trickled down, spilling into my bloodstream. “Get your undead ass in gear and get moving.”
She resisted, struggling with the command I sent down the line of our connection. The marks on her throat blared out with crimson light and began to bleed. Thin trickles of hot, bright red, living blood ran down her collarbones, soaking into the thin cotton of her T-shirt. Her jaw clamped tight as she forced words through clenched teeth. “I haven’t taken blood tonight. The thirst is driving me mad.”
The second she said it I became aware of it. My throat began to burn from tonsils to stomach like I had swallowed a mouthful of ground glass. The sides of my throat stuck together like Velcro. I tried to swallow and came up empty, but the effort ripped a burning pain from the top to the bottom of my esophagus. The thirst began to beat against the wall of my sanity. Chipping. It. Away. One. Tiny. Shard. At. A. Time.
Enough.
I reached down and grabbed my power, pulling it up from my core. It washed over the thirst like a rush of cool water, quenching the fire, soothing the shredded flesh of my throat. Twisting and pushing, I folded the thirst like origami, shoving it back at Blair through our connection and ramming it deep inside her. I buried it as far as I could inside the vampire in front of me.
She stumbled, falling on her ass in the blood-soaked dirt. My voice was hard, eyes cold as I looked down at her. I had almost forgotten what she truly was.
Bloodsucker.
Undead.
Creature of the night.
“There. Problem solved. Now get up.”
“Please don’t make me! I know what you have planned!” Crystal blue eyes filled with pink tears. They shimmered on the edge of thick fake lashes, threatening to break and run. “Deacon, I don’t want to die!”
I stepped up, looming over her. My voice was harsh through a tight throat. “You should have thought of that before you helped these assholes take two scared little boys.”
“I didn’t have a choice! I was under that warlock’s spell!”
“Don’t you dare sit there and act the innocent with me, bitch. You might not have done that on your own, but you have survived at the expense of others. You are a vampire, a heartless killer.”
Anger was the struck match, my power the gasoline. I shoved it through our connection, ramming my will against hers, overpowering it. “Now you will do exactly as I command and help us save those two boys.”
I mounted the steps, each footfall like thunder in my bones.
“Besides, you’re already dead, so what the hell does it matter?”
51
The wide wooden doors swung open with a short jerk of my arms. No locks, no chains, no way to secure them at all. Sometimes I’m amazed at the megalomania that monsters have. The more powerful they are, the more prone they are to it. It’s like their supernatural ability feeds directly into their psychotic narcissism. This is why the bad guys always tell you their plans. It’s like they can’t fucking help it. They get even the slightest edge and an audience, and all of a sudden they start blathering on about what they’re going to do.
Whatever, it helps me do my job. Pride goeth before a fall and all.
Stepping into the church was like taking a bath in bees. The air was swollen with magick, constricted like a throat under a strangler’s hands. The skin on the back of my skull tightened, burning hot and tingly with witchcraft. There was a spell going on, some kind of ritual that was building power. Spellcraft layered on spellcraft like concrete blocks in a wall.
The vestibule was just how I remembered it. Dark, gloomy, dank . . . pretty much one of the most depressing places I had ever been. Tatters of spider silk still hung to the walls and ceiling, wisping around like ghostly curtains. The walls still had satanic sigils painted on them, blasphemous symbols of arcane power. They looked wet, fresh, as if they had just been repainted. A deep sniff confirmed. I inhaled the chemical peel of paint with an undercurrent of blood. The symbols glistened in the low light, surrounding us with eldritch magick that pressed against my skin like buzzing, biting insects.
Tiff’s voice bounced around the empty room. “Welcome to Creepsville, population us.”
In front of us were wide double doors that led to the sanctuary of the church. Muffled voices carried through the wood. I couldn’t hear the words, but they were rhythmic, rising and falling in cadence.
A chant.
The bees buzzed against my skin.
Leaning back, I planted my foot against the doors, smashing them open. They banged against the walls on either side revealing a scene straight from Hell.
The pews of the church had been smashed and tossed aside. They piled in heaps of kindling and splinters against the long walls of the sanctuary. The wood plank floor had been swept clean of debris and painted with a giant pentagram. The lines of it were wide and black and solid, smeared on the floor in what looked like tar. At each point stood a child-sized candle, flame guttering at their wicks, tallow running and pooling at their base. Sooted black smoke rose from each of them, curling toward the high-pitched ceiling. The smell of burnt hair and bacon frying slapped my nostrils.
My mind glitched back to the sensory memory I had gotten touching Ahriman’s pendant. Human fat and braided hair wicks. My stomach lurched, trying to crawl up my throat.
In the center of the pentagram stood Selene. Her arms were healed from earlier, whole and chubby again. Her dress had been switched for a long dark robe with a silver hem. Silver stitching formed more sigils on the cloth. She held a dagger long enough to be a short sword. It cut the air in her plump hand, wavy blade gleaming on both edges in the sputtering candlelight.
Both of Sophia’s sons were bound and gagged in front of her on an altar made of rough-hewn granite. For a split second I wondered where they had gotten all the stuff needed to set this ritual up but shoved it to the side of my mind. I didn’t know how long they had been setting this up before making their first move at the restaurant, and right now it didn’t fucking matter.
I had work to do.
She was shouting, words tainting the air inside the pentagram. In the space above her the spell boiled, roiling and shimmering, turning the color of a ripening bruise.
Athame and George stood on the edge of the circle. The Were-gorilla had Ahriman’s pentagram hung around his neck and his arms were up in supplication as his monkey mouth spat out the guttural incantation. With the bang of the doors he stopped chanting.
Head jerking toward us, his eyes opened. They were rolled back in his head, gleaming out of his monkey face in a dull worm white. The Keeper was still driving that train.
Athame was also draped in a dark robe, the edges of her hood trimmed in red cloth. More twisty symbols writhed around the trim in silver thread. Her hands were up and she continued chanting as the Keeper began to lumber our way.
He dropped down, swinging bowed legs and using leathery knuckles to drag him along. The planks of the floor shook under my feet, vibrating into my shinbones as he picked up speed.
I shoved the gun back in its holster, hand closing on the grip of the stun baton. Flicking my thumb over the switch jolted the baton to life. The possessed Were-gorilla roared, stinky breath washing hot over my face. My foot slipped back, bracing. I leaned in, hunkering down as he closed in.
A foot away I rammed out with the baton and spun. The device jabbed into George’s chest, just below his nipple; 1.5 million volts stuttered into his pectoral muscle, twisting it like a used napkin in a fist. The impact drove me back, pain flaring from my shoulder as my arm was jammed backward.
The Keeper roared and swung George’s big gorilla fist at my head. I fell to the side as it grazed my cheek, big monkey knuckle skinning a
way the top layer of flesh. It felt like I had been hit with a piledriver. The floor came up in a rush. I tried to get out of its way, but it ran into me before I could. The stun baton clattered away from my fingers.
Special Agent Heck stepped up. The jar rose up over his head and he smashed it down on George’s skull. Blessed salt crystals spilled down, scattering through wiry gorilla fur. Immediately it began to smoke and crackle. The Keeper lashed out. George’s fist drove into Special Agent Heck’s chest, sending him flying through the air. He bounced off the floor, rolling away out of sight.
Tiff stepped up, twisting from her hips. She swung the machete at George’s face. The flat piece of steel smashed into his wide nose, drawing blood.
“Blair!” I screamed, pushing my power at her. “Grab him!” Blair zoomed over, moving at vampire speed, knocking Tiff down as she flashed past her. I scrambled to my feet. The blond vampire wrapped slender arms around the possessed Were-gorilla. Her hands didn’t touch across his chest. Blood welled in dark fur as she dug taloned fingers into his skin to keep her grip. She screamed as the grains of holy salt burned her arms, but she hung on. The Keeper jerked around, trying to get his arms free from the vampire on his back.
My foot lashed out, heel driving under the Were-gorilla’s sternum. Air blasted out of George’s lungs, driving him to his knees. The Keeper continued to struggle, but the body he inhabited had been weakened. Blair pulled out her fingers with a squelching sound. She hooked her arms under the Were-gorilla’s, leveraging them up to hold him down.
I was impressed that she knew the hold. It showed that somewhere Blair had some kind of training in combat. Vampires are wicked strong, in that hold she could have torn George’s arms off.
I stepped up. The Keeper was sucking air into George’s lungs, working them like a pair of bellows. Fish-belly eyes turned to look at me. The voice of the demon grated in my ears. “I’m not going to give him up. You will have to kill him to free him from me.”
I said nothing. My fingers were numb as I pulled my St. Benedict medal out of my shirt. Holy white light flared, making both the demon-possessed Were-gorilla and the vampire holding him flinch. I pulled the medal over my head, holding it in my hand.
The Keeper began to fight, jerking George’s shoulders back and forth trying to get free. Blair snarled, yanking up on the Were-gorilla’s arms. His left arm slipped out of the socket with a loud, wet pop of bone separating from gristle. The demon riding him kept fighting, not caring about the damage done to George’s body. The dislocated arm slid farther down Blair’s grip as the Keeper lunged, snapping George’s teeth at me.
“He’s going to get free!”
My fist crashed into George’s skull, the thick bone ridge over his eye splitting like rotten fruit. Monkey skull snapped to the side and I tossed the saint medal over it. The blessed object fell, bouncing off the chest once before settling into place. The Keeper began to scream as holy light blazed. My fingers swiped my cheek, the skin raw and wet where George’s knuckles had torn it open. They came away red and sticky slick with my blood.
Blood that had been mixed with Angel blood long ago.
My hand snaked out, smearing that Angelic blood over the thrice-blessed holy relic of a medal that pressed against demon-possessed flesh.
The effect was instantaneous.
Holy light exploded in a lightning crack of power. It washed over me like a tidal wave, crashing against me, breaking, and washing past. I was ready for it, eyes shut tight. The world still went bright orange as the light blasted into my lids. It lasted less than a blink and the light was gone.
I opened my eyes. Blair was airborne. She sailed across the room, blond hair streaming as she did. Etheric energy crackled as she struck the edge of the pentagram on the floor. She bounced away like she had struck a force field, slamming to the floor face-first.
She didn’t get up.
George’s head was thrown back, mouth open. Yellow smoke poured out of his open maw in a boil of sulfur stench. The Keeper being evicted. The last of the smoke wisped out and George slumped. Shoulders bowed, head slung down to his chest, he began to shudder and shake. Thick slabs of monkey muscle spasmed, charley-horsing all over his body. His bones pulled, changing shape, not far off human. Black fur thinned into a pelt of human body hair, still thick, but not all-encompassing. He fell over at my feet.
George had turned human.
Brown eyes blinked up at me. “Deacon, what happened? Why do I hurt all over?”
“Demon. You were possessed. You’re better now.” My eyes began to cast around, looking for Tiff. “Tell you later.”
I found her.
Tiff was across the room, swinging the machete in an arc to block Athame’s soulsword. The witch was in her devil form, robe tattered from her transformation. The two blades clanged together. Tiff was driven back by the impact.
I stepped over George, my hand closing around the handle of the sword that hung on my side. I didn’t look down as I spoke, just kept moving. “Get up and fight if you can. If not, stay out of the way and whatever you do keep that medal on.”
He didn’t get up and I didn’t stop. The holy sword sang free from the scabbard as I stalked toward where my girlfriend was fighting a devil-witch.
Tiff was on the floor, right leg twisted out to the side painfully. Athame loomed over her, soulsword raised to strike. Durendal swung back, its weight pulling against my shoulder. Pain stretched as the blade pulled. Twisting, I swung it at Athame’s head. The edge sliced the air, singing as it arced.
The devil-witch leaped out of the way, the tip of my sword just catching the spaded end of her tail. It flew away in a spray of black gore, skittering on the floor where it flopped and twitched like a fish out of water.
Athame spun on hooved feet, hissing at me through triple-rowed teeth. Her wings flapped, keeping her upright. Lashing out, her soulsword licked toward me like a serpent. I drew up on my toes, swinging the greatsword in a downward arc. It kerranged against her unholy blade with a shower of sparks.
She came up, ebony blade a swirl of death. I stumbled back, keeping Durendal between me and the edge of her soulsword. She screamed, howling in satanic glee as she pressed toward me. Each strike I blocked jarred pain up my arm, burning my nerves. She was stronger than a normal woman, stronger than me and better with a sword. She beat me back, step by step.
“You will die tonight!”
I didn’t argue, just kept shoving the sword between us. My arm was a hunk of lead, and her blade kept driving closer and closer to me. She lunged, soulsword slipping over my blade. Time shrank around us and I watched it stab forward. Twisting, I tried to get out of its way, but the blade ripped through the skin on my side, bouncing as it grated along ribs.
Athame’s yellow eyes narrowed as she leaned in, pressing against me, holding the magickal blade in my side. Every muscle I had was locked, spasmed into immobility. She was so close I could see every pore on her boiled red skin, every drop of oily sweat that coated it, every strand of blood-red hair that stuck to it. Blackened and chapped lips curled away, sliding wetly over razor-sharpened enamel. Breath that smelled like a bloated corpse misted out, filling my nose as she spat one word in my face.
“Etacoffus.”
Fire blasted through my chest, burning away every drop of oxygen in my lungs. I was drowning, lungs shriveled and empty. I gasped silently, trying to draw air into my clotted throat. Everything went gray and buzzy, static scattering across my vision. Panic clawed at my mind, frantically chewing at my sanity like a starving rabid dog on a bone.
The world disconnected with a wet pop and began to fade. Strength drained from me, running down my legs, spilling onto the floor.
My eyelids weighed a hundred pounds, dragging down over my eyes. My bones threatened to haul me under the darkness. They tried to pull through my skin.
Darkness swept over me.
52
“Get the hell off my boyfriend, you bitch!”
Air rushed into m
e bringing the world with it. My lungs inflated like dry-rotted wineskins being filled for the first time in forever. The pain was a firestorm in my chest. Oxygen a cold burn on the inside lining of my lungs, ice crackling with each gasp.
I was on my knees, the edge of the stage creasing across my kidneys. A sharp pain punched deep in my side with each breath. Reaching, my hand touched it. The skin was whole but felt soft, mushy like a bruised apple. It was fever hot under my fingers. Strength flowed back into me in fits and starts each time I drew air.
Tiff was on Athame’s back. She had the machete across the devil-witch’s throat, edge in. Her other arm was hooked around it, trying to cut the bitch’s head off. One leg wrapped around Athame’s waist, the other flopped limply as the witch thrashed around.
Athame’s taloned hands were locked under the machete, holding it away from her neck. Brackish blood ran down her arms. The goat-headed medallion sat on her chest, eyes glowing with satanic power as it protected Athame from harm.
I pushed off the stage. Athame forced the machete away from her throat. It swung out and away, loosening Tiff ’s hold on her.
I snatched up the holy sword I had dropped as Athame reached back and took hold of Tiff’s hair. With a wrench of unnatural strength, the devil-witch drug Tiff up and over her shoulder, flipping her over to thud against the floor. Tiff lay there, sprawling boneless and limp.
Athame raised both hands above her head. The talons lengthened, becoming razor-sharp daggers long enough to go straight through Tiff from one side to the other. Wings spread, she shouted down at Tiff. “I am going to flay you alive and devour your skin while you watch! I will eat you raw strip by bloodystrip.”
No! Not Tiff!
I batted her wings away. My fingers snarled deep in a tangle of blood-red hair, pulling hard. Durendal slipped into her back and burst out of her chest in a shower of black gore. The goat-headed medallion fell to the floor with a hollow sound.
I held her there, pinned by the sword while she convulsed, ghuk ghuk noises coming from her throat. There was the sound of wet paper tearing as wings and horns sheared away, tumbling off of her to wither on the floor. The red of her skin boiled back to the pale white tone of human. A tremor ran from her heel to her head, ending with her slouching, folded around the holy blade. My arm was shaking from the effort of holding her up. I let it drop and the witch slid off the sword to lay dead in a widening pool of her own blood.
Blood and Magick Page 23