We both winced and I slammed down the receiver. "Out through this way," I shouted, already reaching for the door. "We'll hide in the forest—they'll never find us there."
"No, Mike. We're safer inside Gramarye."
I stared at her incredulously. "Are you kidding? Can't you see what's happening to this place? This is condemned property we're standing in."
"I don't think we'll be harmed here."
"Flora Chaldean probably felt the same. Look, I don't know what Mycroft and his loonies have in mind, but I think club membership is now out as far as we're concerned. And Mycroft let us come here because that's where he wants us. God knows why, but I'm sure he's got his reasons. So let's get, come on!"
I opened the door, and dislodged bats beat against my head and raised arms before skittering off into the gloom. In the chill of the moment I'd forgotten about them. I waited for a mass launch. None came, but my relief was only momentary.
Lights were emerging from the woods.
I was back inside and locking the door in a flash. "They followed us through the forest too."
Midge was wearing a stupefied expression.
"He split his forces, sent some by road, the others through the forest after us. Seems I was right—he wants us trapped inside the cottage."
Understanding appeared to sink in slowly; then she nodded her head and was suddenly very calm, no longer trembling.
"Christ, the front door! We didn't lock it!" I lost my footing at the bend of the stairs in my haste to get down to the kitchen and only managed to control my tumble by sticking my flattened hands against either wall. I slid some of the way, but was up and running by the time I reached the bottom. I shot both door bolts, top and bottom, and rested my forehead against the wood, catching my breath.
It was several moments before I plucked up the nerve to peek out of the window. The car lights had been doused and I could just make out moonlight bouncing off the metal tops beyond the fence. No people out there, no Synergists. As far as I could tell.
"Midge!" I called back up the stairs. "Find Sixsmythe's number and call him—we might get lucky this time."
I drew the kitchen curtains, not wanting them to see in if they were out there. As I passed the table on my way to the stairs, I couldn't help touching the furry heap lying there. It wasn't a conscious gesture, and certainly not dwelt upon; a passing contact, no more than that. Could be it was a token of affection, a regret that Rumbo was gone. Maybe a private "so long, buddy."
Then I was pounding stairs, expecting to find Midge dialing or at least leafing through the local directory. The hallway was empty.
She was in the round room, silhouetted by the half-moon brightness, and she was watching the gathering outside.
"Midge, why didn't you call—"
"He can't help us, Mike."
"Sixsmythe? He's the only contact we've got around here."
"He wouldn't know how to help. It's too late anyway."
I followed her gaze and didn't like what I saw. No, I didn't like it at all.
Mycroft and his motley mob were in the open, their shapes distinct and black against the moon-drenched grass. They stood apart, separate entities, spread like stone menhirs and just as still. Those who had arrived from the forest had switched off their flashlights and although each was isolated, occupying his or her own space, they were a pack, united with their Synergist leader in some mysterious cause that terrified me.
They watched the cottage as we watched them.
I stood closer to Midge and she said quietly, "They want us to die."
That's how she put it. Not "They want to kill us," but "They want us to die," as if they'd have no part in the act, they wouldn't bloody their own hands.
"That's a bit drastic." If my scorn was reassuring to her it didn't ease my own concern. "They can't go around murdering people just because they like the look of a house. There's laws against that kind of gazumping."
"They wanted Flora to die and she did."
So much for humor.
"She had a heart attack, Okay, so maybe they frightened her enough to cause it, but she was an old lady; how they gonna scare us that much?"
"Weren't you frightened inside their Temple, inside that terrible room? Weren't you scared in the forest?"
"Sure. But we're on home base now—let's see what Mycroft can do here."
You know, sometimes bravado is the worst thing for tempting fate. What could he do? Plenty, and we were about to find out.
It didn't happen immediately. Seconds ticked by and nobody and nothing seemed to be moving—there wasn't even a drifting cloud in the sky. And it was quiet, so graveyard quiet. Even the floorboards had stopped groaning. The loudest thing was the stench in the air.
I wanted to step away from the window—we weren't too close, not near enough for the Synergists to see us—but somehow I was rooted to the spot. Fascinated, you see, morbidly curious as to what (or was not) going on outside. Even breathing was a bit of a chore, my skin feeling too tightly wrapped around my chest. We stared out and they stared in.
Then the nearest figure raised an arm, in his hand a long cane.
That's when hell let loose.
The first sound was a muffled roar like an underwater explosion, a sort of deep whoosh which disintegrated into an agitated irregular drumming. For a moment the moon was lost and I assumed a cloud had passed over; but light patterns returned quickly when the blackness above broke up.
The bats had risen as a whole and were swarming over the cottage, a mass of dark, erratic motion.
They flew higher, over the moon, as if heading for the stars, the frantic beat of their wings growing distant. We moved closer to the windows, craning our heads upward, because the spectacle was incredible, subjugating even dread.
We lost sight of them. We lost sound of them. But for no more than a few seconds.
The drumming returned, a devil's tattoo, increasing in volume, becoming so loud that the building seemed to judder with its approach. We turned from the windows and looked toward the ceiling, neither of us breathing, neither of us capable of speaking.
The rushing noise centralized, descended to a low rumbling, and our gaze shifted across the room toward the chimney breast.
They swooped out of the fireplace like Hitchcock's birds, storming into the room, filling the air with their screeches and terrible fluttering wings. Midge's scream (God knows, it could have been mine) was cut short as glass exploded inward from behind.
We went down in sheer reaction, and it was just as welclass="underline" bats erupted through with the glass, bursting in to join the others cycloning around the curved walls.
I felt something land on my back, tiny claws digging in for purchase. As I reached to dislodge the bat, another settled against my neck and stung me with its teeth.
I rolled, grabbing the one at my neck and squashing the other. The feel of small bones crunching beneath me was repugnant, but holding on to the wriggling thing that was opening an account at the blood bank of my throat was even worse. Above me was a turmoil of flapping wings, its draft ruffling my hair; movement in the darkened room was so fast that everything had become a crazy blur. Through it all I could hear Midge screaming.
Two more bats landed on my chest and I beat at them furiously with one hand while the other clenched to crush the bat still nibbling at my neck. Because it was close to my ears I heard the squeals as my grip tightened. I tore the bloodsucker away without experiencing any pain as my own flesh broke, then tossed the feebly struggling body into the mass of others. With both hands I wrenched off the two bats at my chest, their claws and teeth making a mess of my shirt. Even as I threw these into the air, still more landed on my arms and legs.