“You are a pathetic fool. You cannot stand in the way of fate.”
“You don’t think so? I’ve exterminated more strigoi mortii than you can count on the fingers of three hands, my friend, and now it’s your turn.”
He stepped forward, with his left hand held out. “I will give you the chance to return my possession. If you refuse, then I will take it anyway, and I will unravel your viscera all the way along this corridor.”
“How do you know I have it? This possession of yours?”
Duca looked at me with derision. “Because it is mine, and it sings out to me, like all of my possessions, animate or inanimate.”
It held its hand to its chest, and of course it was right. I was wearing the wheel around my neck.
“If you want it, Duca, you’ll have to come get it.”
“You think I won’t?” Without hesitation, Duca stepped through the doorway into the darkroom. I shouted, “Now, Terence!” and Terence held up the silver mirror and pointed it directly at Duca’s face. Duca turned toward Terence with obvious irritation. Terence was shaking with fright but he managed to hold the mirror still enough for Duca to see its own reflection.
From where I was standing, I couldn’t see what Duca could see in the mirror — its own face, as it should have appeared, if it hadn’t been transformed into a strigoi mort. Corrupt, centuries-dead, and heaving with grave-worms. Duca seemed to be confused at first — not understanding what it was looking at. But it slowly raised its hand toward the mirror like somebody recognizing a long-forgotten acquaintance and as it did so it realized what Terence was showing it, and it was shaken to the very core of its self-belief. It bunched up its shoulders and let out a harsh roaring scream, and shook its head wildly from side to side.
It was almost a mythological moment: when the beast catches sight of its own reflection and realizes what it really looks like. That was my moment, too. I looped my silver whip right over its head, and pulled it down to its waist. Then I lifted its coat and crunched the claw right through its vest and its shirt, into the muscle of its back, just below its rib cage. Duca screamed even more furiously as I wound the whip around its waist, trying to pinion its arms.
“Lights, Terence!” and Terence switched off the lights, so that the darkroom was swallowed in black. Duca ducked and thrashed and struggled, and even though I had managed to lash both of its elbows against its sides, it was incredibly strong, and it was pulling at the whip so furiously that I wasn’t sure that I would be able to restrain it.
“Hammer and nails! Quick as you can!”
Without warning, Duca dropped to the floor, so that I had to drop down beside it to keep my grip on my whip. My eyes were becoming accustomed to the darkness now. The faint glow from the flashlight on the workbench was just enough for me to be able to make out Duca’s glittering eyes. Duca itself would have been totally blind. But its blindness didn’t prevent it from twisting and wrestling and trying to bite me.
The only sound in the darkroom was scuffling and grunting and cursing, and the clatter of our shoes as we kicked against the cupboards.
Terence held out my hammer and two nails. I dropped my whip and tried to reach out for them, but Duca abruptly rolled over on to its side, trying to unwind itself.
“Hit it!” I shouted.
Terence pushed his way past me and flailed at Duca with my hammer. The first blow hit the floor, but the second struck Duca on the shoulder, and the third caught it just above its left ear, with a hollow knocking sound. Its head abruptly fell backward, and it stopped struggling, although it kept twitching and jerking as if it were suffering an epileptic fit.
Terence gave me one of the crucifixion nails. I positioned it over Duca’s right eye and held out my hand for my hammer. Duca’s eye was closed but I had no qualms about driving the nail through its eyelid. I had seen what Duca had done — how many innocent people he had killed. This was for Ann De Wouters, and everybody else that Duca had murdered during World War Two. This was for my mother.
“Oh, God almighty,” said Terence.
I lifted the hammer high, trying to keep the nail steady. As I did so, however, Duca suddenly rolled over again, and then again, until he reached the opposite wall. I made a desperate grab for my whip, but it snaked out of my hands, and Duca began to stalk up the wall, completely horizontal, until it reached the ceiling. Then it turned itself around and faced us, although it was still virtually blind. The light was too dim even for us to see it clearly, but there was no mistaking the contempt in its voice.
“I have escaped such people as you so many times before, and I will escape you, too.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I told him, and took hold of my whip, which was still embedded in Duca’s back. I yanked it with both hands, as hard as I could, hoping that I could drag Duca down from the ceiling. But I heard a sharp tearing noise, and the claw came free. As I later found out, all I had pulled out was a bloody lump of muscle and a triangular piece of silk from the back of its vest.
“Terence!” I said. “Mirror! We have to start this over!”
But at that moment, Duca reached into his coat pocket and took out something cylindrical. As Terence reached for the mirror, Duca tugged the end of the cylinder and the darkroom was suddenly filled with intense white light — so bright that Terence and I could see nothing at all. I took three steps backward, shielding my eyes. Although I was blinded, I could tell by the magnesium smell and the sharp fizzing noise that Duca had set off a handheld marine flare — ten thousand candle-power, at least. It dazzled us totally, but it gave Duca the extra light he needed to see.
I hauled out my gun but the light was so intense that all I could see in front of my eyes were dancing scarlet amoebas, and Duca was so quick that I didn’t stand a hope in hell of hitting it. I heard it leap from the ceiling, and the next thing I knew it pushed me squarely in the chest, so that I stumbled backward over my Kit. It twisted the gun out of my hand and threw it aside. Then it tore open the front of my shirt, and pulled the wheel from around my neck, breaking the chain.
“Thank you for my property,” it breathed, and its breath was actually chilly, like an open icebox. “Now you will get what you deserve for stealing from me.”
Through the glare, I saw Duca take out a broad-bladed knife. I had never let a Screecher get the jump on me before, ever, but I suddenly realized that I could die here, with my heart cut out, and my guts lying all over the floor. I felt like a skydiver on his thousandth jump, who discovers that his chute won’t open.
“You think you’re going to live forever?” I asked it. “Whatever you do to me, you’re not going to see another winter.”
Duca pointed his knife at my throat. “There is a war here. There is always a war. On one side, the living. On the other side, the eternals. You can never win, for all of your religion, for all of your so-called morality. For all of your piety.”
It pulled my shirt open even wider. “Maybe now we can see what you are made of.”
It prodded my navel with the point of its knife, and the pain made me jump with shock. But as its drew back its elbow to stab me, it tilted backward. I heard struggling and swearing. Although I was still half-blinded, I managed to roll over and pick myself up. The flare had almost burned out now, but in its last flickering moments I could see that Terence had thrown himself on Duca and dragged it to the floor. They were hitting each other and grunting with effort.
I stood up, and hauled out my gun. “Right there!” I shouted. “Hold it right there!”