The two-faced man looked up, his eyes closed, ecstasy lifting the corners of his flabby lips. And then a third eye opened on his forehead—a large, emerald-green eye that darkened at the same rate at which the dead man’s soul lightened.Coincidence? I don’t think so.
I’d had enough.
I stepped forward, skirted the bumper of an Eldorado Coupe, and trained my gun on the monster’s face.
“Dinner’s over, pissant.”
The two-faced man opened his regular eyes, which were blue, took one long look at me, and growled.
“Give me a break,” I drawled, sounding oh-so-bored though my stomach spun like a roulette wheel. “I know special-effects guys who can produce scarier roars than that.” Okay, I don’t reallyknow any, but I’ve watchedResident Evil , haven’t I?
This time he bellowed, and I admit, it gave me something of a chill. But it didn’t freeze me like it was intended to. I was ready when he charged, leaping over the body like some meat-hoarding gorilla, his hands stretched wide, a full set of lethal-looking claws appearing and disappearing as he moved. If he raked those vein-poppers across my throat while they were just fingernails, would they still leave stitch-worthy gashes?
Not something I wanted to find out. I fired five shots in quick succession. They staggered him, though I could see the black outline had worked as a shield, preventing them from delivering any fatal wounds. Five more shots backed him up, almost to the body. Thanks to Bergman’s modifications I still had five left. And I intended to make them count.
As he moved on me again, I concentrated on the breaks in his shield. They came and went in rapid succession, but I noticed a pattern based on his movements. It helped that he approached more warily this time. Apparently it still hurt to be shot. I should be thankful, but small favors sometimes suck.
I watched his face, waiting for the blur and the accompanying break in his shield. There!
I fired once, but the shield had already closed. I would have to anticipate the breaks, rather than wait for them to reveal themselves. Four rounds left. I took careful aim and fired. One. Two. Three. Four. Damn! The timing just missed with every shot. And now I’d used the last of my ammunition. If Grief didn’t work in gun mode I didn’t anticipate much success from it as a crossbow. I holstered my weapon.
But I was still armed.
Unlike Vayl, I don’t use blades as a rule. Generally if I have to get that close to a target, something’s gone terribly wrong. Same deal defensively speaking. Still, I keep one on me. My nod to the wisdom of weapons redundancy.
My backup plan started life as a bolo. It had been issued to the first of my military ancestors, Samuel Parks, before he marched off to war in 1917. Handed down father to son since that time, the ugly old knife had lost its appeal for David after Mom threw it at Dad upon finding him on top of her best pal. Since it had sailed clear through the bedroom window on that occasion, I’d discovered it on the lawn the next morning. Thus, it came to me.
I carry the knife, sheath and all, in a special pocket designed for near invisibility by my seamstress, Mistress Kiss My Ass. I call her this because it’s the response she gives me every time I call and say, “Sherry Lynn, guess what. I just got a new pair of pants!”
Reaching into my pocket, I grabbed the artfully disguised hilt and pulled. A blade the length of my shin slid out. Originally meant more as an all-purpose tool, the bolo had been refined to my needs thanks to Bergman. Now it was sharp enough to cut metal or, better yet, defend my life.
The creature circled me, looking a lot less intimidated by Great-Great-Grandpa’s knife than I would’ve liked.Well, screw it . I ran straight at him, yelling like a pissed-off soccer mom, waving my blade like a samurai warrior. I faked left, right, left, watching as his shield opened wider and wider. It couldn’t keep up with his bobbing head as he tried to avoid getting his throat cut. One more feint and I jumped forward, burying my blade in the shield gap his movements had caused.
He died instantly.
I pulled my weapon free and cleaned it on his stolen uniform. Glad the bolo had saved me. Sorry the same family had subjected it to nearly one hundred years of blood and guts. We seem to spawn killers, no doubt about that. I found myself hoping hard that E.J. could break that chain. Maybe when I got a free second I’d give her a call and make that suggestion. Never mind that she was less than a month old and would spend the entire time trying to eat the receiver. It’s never too early to start brainwashing your young.
CHAPTERFIVE
As I leaned over the body, trying to figure out what I’d just killed, Vayl stepped from the shadows, our crew dogging his heels. I looked up, surprised to see them. “I had a feeling you might need some assistance,” Vayl said.
“You did?”Oh. “Of course you did.” Ever since he’d taken my blood, Vayl could sense strong feelings in me, apparently at some distance. I thought he was referring to that until he nodded at the ring on my finger.
“Cirilai gave me the impression you were fighting.”
“He rushed us all over here; then he wouldn’t let us help,” Cole told me apologetically. “Said we might distract you at the wrong time. But we had your back!”
I nodded my gratitude.
Bergman crouched beside me, prodded the two-faced corpse’s third eye open with the clicky end of one of the pens he usually kept stuck in the pocket of his shirt. “What the heck is this?” he wondered aloud.
“I don’t know, but keep that eye open,” I told him. The color leeched out of it even as the murdered guard’s soul brightened. Soon it was the forest green that had caught my attention to start with. It shivered for another tense moment, then split into hundreds of tiny pieces that whizzed off into the night.
“Cool,” I whispered.
“I don’t know,” said Cassandra. “I’m thinking more along the lines of stomach churning.” She stared at Bergman, who’d dug out another pen and used it to roll the spiked tongue out of the monster’s mouth.
“What does theEnkyklios say about that?” he asked, his eyes shifting to the multileveled collection of bluish gold orbs in Cassandra’s hand.
“Nothing yet,” she answered defensively, “but it will.Propheneum ,” she said sharply. A single orb rolled to the top of the marble plateau. She began reciting the battle as she’d witnessed it, asking me for details here and there. When she’d finished, Cassandra said, “Daya ango le che le, Enkyklios occsallio terat.”The marbles rearranged themselves, always touching, never falling, until a new globe sat on top of the plateau with the one we’d just recorded my story into.
“What did you just do?” Bergman asked, his eyes darting from theEnkyklios to Cassandra as if one or both of them might suddenly explode.
“Cross-referencing,” she said shortly. “Now we will see what is already on record.” She touched the new orb, pressing hard enough to make a temporary indent, and said, “Dayavatem.” Then she held the magical library at arm’s length while the home movies began.
At first, all we saw was a blinking light, as if the orb’s eyelids were just fluttering open. Then,voila , full color and sound poured from it, the images so detailed it didn’t seem like she should be able to hold them in her hands.
Dark gray clouds scudded across the sky. A wild wind tossed the green-leafed trees, making them look as grim as the elderly couple who bumped along the rutted road in their fancy carriage. Had they just come from a funeral? Their black clothing led me to think so, though for all I knew they’d dressed for the opera. Suddenly the gentleman reigned in the horses and both he and the wife looked to their left, a dawning horror stretching their faces.