I walked without thought, without fear of discovery, with no intention but to be free of this subterranean hell and to feel fresh air upon my face. I suppose if I had the energy, I would have wondered who’d won, and whether I’d be greeted by a pissed-off Dumas or a legion of wrathful angels upon surfacing. I’d have wondered if it was day or night, or whether I’d been out an hour or twenty-four of them —the latter of which would leave me right screwed with regard to the bug-monster’s deadline.
But I didn’t wonder any of those things. I was too tired. Too sore. Too bruised and bloodied to even care. And God help me for saying so, but as much as my every movement hurt —as much as I wondered where I’d find the strength to even take another step —the momentary absolution from caring bestowed upon me by my pain was bliss.
For maybe the first time since I shuffled off the mortal coil, I felt free.
26.
You know the problem with self-delusion? It doesn’t matter if your escape-hatch from reality is drug or drink or —in my case —exhaustion born of repeated brutal ass-whuppings; whatever the method, the comedown is a bitch. It’s a lesson I’ve been privy to plenty in my life, but damn if this particular comedown didn’t blindside me all the same.
Maybe if I’d stuck with the plan —get topside, feel the wind in my face —it could’ve been avoided. Though looking back at how it all shook out, sticking to the plan would’ve likely led to nothing more than two days spent wandering in the desert before Big ’n’ Buggy came to get me. But speculating now’s irrelevant. My plan went out the window the moment I saw the soul.
It was the flicker I was aware of first: a pale graywhite playing across the right-hand limestone wall just up ahead, like moonlight reflected off of water. As I approached, I realized the light was coming from across the hall, spilling through the doorway left empty by dint of someone or something tearing the heavy iron door that once sat there clean off its hinges.
The doorway, I realized, led to Psoglav’s little machine shop —the withered, pitch-black heart of Dumas’s whole operation. And that light was someone’s soul, left forgotten by the so-called good guys and the bad guys both.
But not by me.
I suppose on some level I must’ve known it was foolish of me to care. That even if I could lay the soul inside to rest, it was doomed to an eternity of torment —and Danny’s failed Gio-for-Varela bait-and-switch sure as hell taught me the point was moot, since my Deliverants wouldn’t accept it anyways. Still, I couldn’t just leave it there. A damned soul is still a soul; it deserved better than to be cast aside like so much garbage.
Inside, the room was dark and quiet. The soul was still seated in the spindle of the massive lathe, and cast long shadows of the nightmare machinery on which it sat. The diesel engine that hung above the work surface was cold and quiet, and reeked of motor oil and overuse. Its scent did little to mask the pervasive stench of sulfur from the cistern in the corner, and from the copper pipes that snaked away from it, dripping rotten-egg water in plinks and plunks onto the lathe at random intervals.
As I approached the soul, I noticed its surface was crosshatched with scratches, and around it, the work surface was littered with tiny, glimmering shards. A fine layer of vaguely iridescent dust blanketed the lathe, glinting dully in the grime-caked nooks and crannies of the machine’s many knobs and gears. Too much dust to’ve been kicked up by this one soul. A shudder ran along my borrowed spine as I wondered how many tiny human moments had been reduced to dust at the hands of that fucking monster and his machine. I wondered if those souls could feel the pain of those moments’ absence as they whiled away forever in the depths of hell.
I felt a sudden urge to destroy the implement that wreaked this havoc. It wasn’t enough that Psoglav had been reduced to cinder; I needed to ensure his subtle blade never parted memory from soul again. But as I cast about for it, I realized it was nowhere to be found. Not atop the lathe. Not on the floor around it. Not in the many pockets and loops that graced Psoglav’s discarded apron.
It was then I realized I was not alone.
Just a subtle crunch of foot on gravel. Topside, I might never have heard it, but down here, where all was still as death and stone walls amplified even the faintest of noises, it may as well have been a gunshot. But like a gunshot, I couldn’t quite tell from which direction it had come. The room was so shrouded in shadow, there were hiding places enough for a half a dozen would-be attackers, and as the sound bounced off the walls, it seemed to come from all of them at once. And it was that moment’s hesitation as my brain sorted out the likeliest spot for someone to hide that did me in.
Don’t get me wrong; I got the answer right. The sound came from behind the squat bulk of the cistern. It’s where I would’ve hid. It’s where my assailant did. But the time I took to get to that conclusion was time enough for them to close the gap between us.
I wheeled, too late. Electric pain as a white-hot needle pierced my neck. For a half-second, I wondered if it was the pain of Psoglav’s subtle blade. Then all of the sudden, I was a little girl.
Yeah, I know how it sounds. But it’s the fucking truth. One minute, I’m getting ambushed in a demon’s lair, and the next, I’m on my belly underneath my bed —a darkened flashlight in my trembling hands, my heart racing beneath my favorite flannel nightgown.
A creak of hardwood floor, and then another. Stocking feet beside the bed. Familiar. Familial. Adrenaline prickled through my system, chemical fear steeling my tiny frame. Whatever minuscule part of me was still Sam reflected back to another girl, another time —this one locked inside a wooden trunk in Amsterdam. But who she was, or how I knew her, I couldn’t recall. Those thoughts were too far from reach. Those memories belonged to someone else.
The stocking feet shuffled away, my stalker leaving —or so I thought. I relaxed a little, my fear subsiding.
Prematurely, it seemed.
Rough hands, strong and calloused, grasped my ankles and dragged me from my hiding place. I let out a squeal of sheer terror as those same hands lifted me up off the floor and hurtled me toward the bed. For an endless second, I flew through the air as though gravity had no dominion over my tiny frame —my nightgown flapping, my pigtails trailing out behind me, the flashlight clattering to the floor. Then I hit the bed and bounced so hard it rattled on its frame, and sent stuffed animals flying in all directions.
Dad was on me in a flash, roaring like a cartoon monster and tickling my ribs until I roared too, with laughter. I clamped my hands over my mouth, determined not to give him the satisfaction, but mischief glinted in his eyes, and he grabbed both my ankles with the crook of his elbow like a headlock, and set to tickling my feet. It was too much for me to take. I thrashed and thrashed, but his grip was like iron, and I couldn’t break free. I guess I must’ve been shrieking something fierce, too, because before long, Mom poked her head in, her frown of mock-disapproval not quite hiding the amusement that crinkled her nose and the corners of her eyes.
“Raymond,” she said, her tone stern, “you were supposed to be putting Gabriella to bed.”