I did what I could to keep her at bay, keep the damage minimal, but I had only one hand, and I was focused on holding on to the book.
I caught the motion of the Barber in the corner of one eye.
I moved the book to intercept. It slammed against one shelf, and I braced it there, as the shears slammed right through it, handle-deep. Even with the bracing, I was spun around, and nearly fell on the blades of the shears.
The Barber was reflected in the blade.
I felt him starting to emerge.
Underhand, practically trampling the child, very nearly falling into the flames, I hurled the book underhand, down the long staircase the Barber had emerged from.
Wing extended, one hand catching a bookcase, I kicked the mirror-child loose, into the fire.
She screamed with pain and rage and madness, and I turned, running, taking stairs three at a time.
From a narrow staircase to a sprawl. Bookcases six stories high, pillars with nothing but books and balconies and bridges extending from them.
The bell was louder here. Others practically crawled on every surface.
We had a number of skilled practitioners, a priest, we had several Others. We could do this, if we could just keep moving.
But we’d stalled. Somehow.
I saw Rose with a gun to Kathryn’s head.
Kathryn wept, lying on the ground, propped up with her one good arm.
“Move!” Rose said.
But Kathryn didn’t budge an inch.
“Rose,” Alexis said, “It’s not going to work. You can’t force her.”
“We can’t leave her behind,” Rose said.
“Leave me behind,” Kathryn said. Her voice was a croak. “Please. Just leave me.”
I looked back over my shoulder.
Stepping closer, trying to see what had happened.
Kathryn lay across a sprawl of books.
Children’s books. More square than rectangular. The scrawled figure on the covers and the open pages bore a striking resemblance to her. My eldest cousin.
I picked one up. Saw Kathryn flinch.
It was open to the last two pages.
But, Big Bad Kathy told herself, even if my son doesn’t love me, and even if my husband hates me so, I love myself. I do, I do!
I glanced at Kathy. I looked down at the last page.
I do, Big Bad Kathy lied to herself. I do, I do, I do.
Kathy had met my eyes. They weren’t eyes anymore, but scrawls. Crayon scribbles. A tear leaked from the corner of one.
I looked down, at the stairway where the Barber was no doubt making headway. I looked up, and I saw how far we still had to go.
“She’s gone,” I said, wincing at the noise in my head. “Do like she wants. Leave her.”
There was reluctance, the token hesitation, but there was no protest.
Kathy only hung her head.
“I’m sorry. I wish I could help, but can you just…” I hesitated, reaching. “Not be here, when the demon comes?”
Kathy didn’t respond, but moving slowly, she did pick up her books, and she hurried off in another direction.
“Don’t read the damn books!” Rose warned the others, as we moved onward and upward.
15.02
The tolling of the bell picked up, and with it came the monsters. Floorboards creaked and shifted, as if they weren’t all nailed down or supported, but we weren’t standing on rope bridges anymore. Things were solid, and sounds in the walls suggested that they were still being built, moment by moment. Deeper constructions, beyond the surface level.
Gunshots punctuated the chaos. With each shot, it felt like the bell was rocking, as if the recoil of the guns was jarring the bell, moving it harder and faster.
I saw Nick toward the lead, patting pockets, reaching into his jeans. “Need ammo!”
One of his companions pushed ammunition into his hand.
I could see dark shapes moving toward him, and sprinted forward, a little too rushed. My hard wooden feet slipped on hard wooden floor, and I nearly fell. I used my wing to brace myself, touched my hand to the floor, and covered the distance.
If I’d been a half-step later, I might have been too late. He was only just finishing reloading now, as the attackers reached him.
I tackled the nearest one, driving him into his companion. Evan flew away, to the far side of Nick, to push at a lost soul that was approaching with a makeshift spear in hand.
Ink black, because he was ink. He hit ground, and the ink splattered in lines and loops, spelling out words, drawing images.
The images covered his companion, who wound up beneath him. Not an Other, not quite, simply a lost soul. The script spiraled out as if drawn by invisible pens, and there was a delay.
The lost soul moved, trying to crawl away, and where the lines had been drawn, skin split, blood gushing out as if by as many knife slashes.
The group was running, and in getting to my feet, hurrying to put myself between these two strangers and the tail end of the group, I was left behind.
The ink man grinned, and I could see ink-stained teeth and a black tongue in the lower half of his face. His eyes were black pools of ink unto themselves.