Acheron walked slowly over to me, intent on righting the chair and starting the torture for real, since he had no choice. Claw the paint again. And again. And–
I felt something move over me and through the circle, where I must have scratched a tiny break in the paint's continuity. That sliver of a gap was all Acheron needed. The red-headed man, whose body the demon had been using, collapsed limply to the floor. A shrill cry of triumph echoed through the warehouse, although I couldn't see its source.
"Cease!" the wizard Malachi screamed. "Return to the circle! You must obey my commands!"
Then the shit really hit the fan. And what a bloody mess it made.
• • • •
I tried to follow Acheron's progress as best I could, lying on the floor with three of my limbs still shackled to the chair. His first stop was Malachi. Smart move. I could hear the wizard scream "Noooo!" as he felt the demon take over, but Acheron didn't linger – he stayed inside Malachi just long enough to force the wizard to pick up his wand and plunge it into – and through – his left eye. Malachi collapsed, blood spurting from the ruined socket.
There was chaos in the room now. Some of the men were yelling questions, others were trying to issue orders, and a few were running around to no particular purpose. I made a bet with myself about who Acheron's next victim would be – and I won.
The commando wannabe holding the automatic weapon jerked suddenly, as if touched by an electric current. I watched his face change from surprise to malice as the demon took over. Then he started firing.
I'll say this for Acheron – he had good fire discipline. He didn't expend all his ammo in five seconds, like an amateur, but instead fired controlled, three-shot bursts.
His first target was Bishop Navarra, who took three in his lower belly. Acheron really knew how to hurt a guy, but then he would.
The two commando camera operators then decided to rush their demon-possessed buddy. In my personal dictionary, there's a word for unarmed men who run toward an enemy who's holding a loaded automatic weapon – morons. Acheron cut them down like wheat at harvest time.
I looked around for Patton Wilson, who I assumed would be the next target, for either bullets or possession. But he was gone. The cagey bastard must've run for the door the instant that Acheron was free. Damn.
There were only three humans still alive in the warehouse. Acheron, gun still smoking, ignored Red and me and walked slowly over to Bishop Navarra, who lay moaning in a pool of his own blood. That's what's so bad about being gutshot – you take such a long, painful time to die.
Acheron put the gun down gently on the concrete floor and began going through his commando host's pockets. I saw a terrible smile on the boyish face as he produced a good-sized jackknife. Guess he forgot about all the torture implements on the table, or maybe he just liked to improvise.
I don't think I want to describe what happened next. I stopped watching after a few seconds, anyway – although there was nothing I could do to block out the screams, or the wet sounds that Acheron was making with his knife. After a while, I began to envy Red his unconscious state.
I don't know how long it went on. In real time, it probably lasted ten minutes, but to me it seemed a lot longer – although not nearly as long as it probably seemed to Bishop Navarra.
Finally, the screams and pleadings were silenced. I heard footsteps approaching, and looked up to see the bloodsplattered commando heading our way, the dripping knife still in his hand. He crossed the circle without difficulty – now that it had been broken, it was just so much red paint on a floor to him. He stood over the redhead's unconscious body for a moment, then bent over. One hand grabbed the red hair and pulled the guy's head back, while the other sliced his throat.
"Hey!" I cried, "You didn't–"
I'd been about to say, "You didn't have to do that!" But of course, he did. He was a demon, after all.
Once Red was well on his way to bleeding out, Acheron walked over to me. He stopped a few feet away from the chair I was tethered to and said, "Your turn, Markowski." He spoke English now – maybe because Demon had been the language of his tormenter.
"You said you'd spare me," I said, but I didn't say it very loudly. I'd never really thought he would.
He laughed – it wasn't a pleasant sound. "The One whom I serve is known as the Father of Lies," he said. "Did you think I would stint at one of my own, if it served my purpose?"
He weighed the bloody knife in his hand. "I will, however, spare you the kind of death just suffered by His Excellency the Bishop over there, as well as the far worse one you would have had at my hands, had I been forced to remain inside this circle – but do not expect similar mercy, should I encounter you in Hell. Now, lie still."
As he stepped toward me, there came a loud, insistent banging from behind him. He twisted his body to look, which allowed me to see past him.
Two figures were clinging impossibly to the big windows set high in the back wall – well, it would have been impossible for humans. Vampires do that kind of thing very well.
One of the vampires was Christine. The other one – I had to squint, to make sure my eyes weren't combining with wishful thinking to fool me – was Karl Renfer.
An instant later, I realized why they were still outside. I snatched in a breath and yelled, as loudly as I could, "Come on in!"
At once, the glass in both windows shattered. I saw a pair of blurred images moving in our direction, and then Christine and Karl were crouched between me and the demon-possessed commando, their fangs bared.
"Careful," I said. "He's got a demon inside him."
Acheron looked from Christine to Karl and took a couple of steps back. "You two seem to have some affection for that fool on the floor," he said. "Perhaps I should use one of your bodies to cut his heart out."
"Won't work, asshole," Karl growled.
"Yeah," Christine said. "We're already dead."