I peered around the corner and saw that the space beyond broke off in three directions: left, right, and forward. The light came from the left. A stubby little hallway opened up into what appeared to be a larger room. I dodged across the little space and edged my way down to the doorless opening and peered around.
Low ceilings sagged over a spacious room. Or maybe they didn’t, and that was my claustrophobia talking. The walls seemed to press inward, too. All the furniture had been pushed back against the walls, which were covered in more of the hallway writing intermixed with paintings similar to the one in the kitchen, except the theme of these seemed to be fire and brimstone and the apocalypse. Angels with bloody wings chopped people apart with shining swords. Jesus stood on a mountain flinging lightning bolts from glowing hands. A lamb with sharp teeth and a bloody mouth attacked a bat-winged demon.
Ten people kneeled in a semicircle facing an altar. The seven hostages were easy to pick out. They look terrified and healthy. The other three—two men and a woman—had to be Arnow’s team. They had not fared as well. Their faces were mottled with cuts and bruises, and they slumped, their backs bowed as if under a tremendous weight. None of the ten were bound. Had they been drugged?
The altar was half-assed. It consisted of a wood table with a white sheet draped over it plus seven unlit fat white and red candles set around the edges, and last, but not least, Arnow splayed out on top.
Like the others, she wasn’t bound, and like the others, she didn’t move. I sucked in a tight breath. Crimson splotched her chest and smeared her hair, her chest rising and falling as she took a breath and spoke to her captor.
I couldn’t hear what she said. Matthew ignored her. He paced around the interior of the semicircle, mumbling and then shouting. He kept turning to look at thin air and talk to it. Was he schizophrenic? On drugs? Either way, that was an extra layer of trouble. Because I needed more.
Another scan of the space assured me that he didn’t have support staff. That took skill—keeping ten different people subdued—even if they were drugged. Plus he’d bested Arnow. He wasn’t going to be a pushover for me to deal with. I frowned. Arnow should have handled him easily. Unless he had a talent and had surprised her.
Physically, he was thin, with hanks of greasy black hair hanging to his shoulders. It was clearly dyed. His skin was vampire white except for dark smudges of five o’clock shadow. The front of his black shirt clung wetly to his body. I had a feeling the liquid was blood—either his or Arnow’s.
I was tempted to wait for Price to join me before I made a move. Together we’d have a good shot of taking this bastard down without hurting anybody else. But this guy was getting more agitated by the second. He started to shout at a point just beyond the end of the altar, stabbing the air with his fingers. He whirled and shouted at Arnow, then slammed his hands down on top of the altar table beside her head. The candles jumped, and two thumped to the floor.
Then all of a sudden he started speaking in a calm voice. I strained to hear his words over the jangle of the music. What I could make out didn’t make a lot of sense. Something about consecrating afflictions, affixing of punishments, the law of God, serpents rising, and a bunch of other stuff. The words came faster as he grew agitated. They rattled from his lips fast and hard.
Still jabbering nonstop, he raised Arnow’s bound arms up over her head and pushed them down as far as they’d go. She didn’t fight him. In fact, except for breathing and talking a little, she didn’t seem to move at all. That worried me.
Matthew the Ripper retrieved the fallen candles and set them in place, then pulled a lighter from his pocket and lit them and their five brothers. He stood very still, then, engrossed in looking down at Arnow. Time to make my move. With his back to me, I wouldn’t have a better chance.
I pocketed the flashlight and my baton and drew my gun. Holding it up at eye level, I stepped out into the room to square up my shot. I didn’t make a sound. I know it. Even if I had, the music should have covered it. Yet somehow Matthew knew I was there. He stiffened, tipping his head to the side, and then whirled to face me.
His eyes gleamed white in his thin face. His nose jutted narrow and sharp over thin lips. He strode toward me, the litany of nonsense he spoke never breaking.
“Don’t make me shoot,” I ordered. “Get down on the ground.”
He didn’t waver. He stepped between two of the hostages—a young man—maybe Blaine’s son—and a silver-haired woman.
It’s not that easy to shoot at someone, even when you know they mean to kill you. You can practice with targets all you want, but shooting a person isn’t the same. I’d been girding myself up to make this shot ever since we left Diamond City. Not only to pull the trigger, but not to hesitate. I squeezed my finger, aiming center-mass high so I wouldn’t hit the hostages. The gun bucked in my hand, and Matthew grasped his chest, stumbling backward from the force of the impact. He bent over. The froth of words stopped.
Then he straightened and tossed aside my bullet. What the fuck? He had to be a tinker. One more powerful even than Maya. No wonder nobody had spoken or moved. He’d messed with their bodies.
He started walking toward me again. His dark gaze was piercing and utterly cold and blank. It was like looking into the pitiless eyes of a shark.
I squeezed off two more rounds, and again he clutched his chest and stumbled backward. Again he bent and held himself still. The two bullets bounced onto the floor. He straightened and charged toward me, leaping over the hostages.
A fucking tinker. He was a fucking tinker.
Change of plan. I ratcheted off another couple shots and launched myself at him. I kept pulling the trigger. I doubt he could have healed a head shot, but odds were against me making one of those with the way he was moving. I’d hit his heart at least once. He should have been dead.
I was only a few feet away, tensing myself for whatever he’d try, when something grabbed my foot and yanked it up from behind. I toppled. Training and muscle memory kicked in. I somersaulted over one shoulder as I connected with the floor, bowling myself at Matthew. He leaped up, launching off my back as I rolled under him.
I came to my feet and spun around. He was already coming back at me. He didn’t have a weapon, but then he didn’t need one. He just had to touch me, and he could shred apart my heart or blow an artery in my brain.
My gun was still in my hand. I raised it and took aim at his head. Before I could pull the trigger, the weapon twisted out of my hand and struck me in the jaw. Pain exploded. What the fuck? Was one of the hostages helping him somehow? Using telekinesis? Or maybe he had a partner in a corner I hadn’t seen. I didn’t have time to figure it out. I ducked and dodged under Matthew’s outstretched hands and jumped inside the altar circle.
He followed me. He’d gone silent, concentrating entirely on chasing me. I kept moving, jumping back out of the circle and running around to put Arnow and the altar between us.
I could hear her labored breathing.
“Riley? Kill him. Don’t mess around.”
“I’m doing my best.”
“Do better.”
What was I going to do? Maybe I should have waited for Price. Was he in the house yet? If so, I just had to delay until he could get here and then we could tag-team this bastard to death.
The Ripper wasn’t going to give me that kind of time.
Standing at the foot of the altar table, he grasped Arnow’s ankle.
“I’ll kill her.”
That was the whole threat. All the “surrender or else” stuff was implied. For a guy who’d been boiling over with words a few minutes ago, it seemed awfully terse.
I decided delay was my best tactic, at least until I could come up with something better.
“Why are you doing all this?” I waved at the altar and kneeling hostages without taking my eyes of
f him.
He didn’t take his eyes off me either, but neither did he answer.
“Get him.” Arnow’s voice was thin.
I risked a swift glance at her. Blood trickled from a dozen wounds on her face, running in thin rivulets into her hair. Not dire. Not life threatening. At least not yet, but it would be if I didn’t surrender. Her gaze on me was unwavering. She didn’t speak again. Matthew must have taken her voice.
I didn’t doubt he’d kill her if I didn’t do something—and quick.
“Cat got your tongue?” I asked, turning my attention back to Psycho-Boy. “Or did you use up all your words for the day?”
He made a menacing sound deep in his throat.
I nodded sympathetically. “I’ve had those days. Makes you want to crawl back into bed. I’m sorry about shooting you, by the way, but to be fair, you are a serial killer and you were about to do terrible harm to Arnow here, and while she’s not my favorite person on the planet, I do like her better than you, plus let’s face it, you’re too dangerous to just let run around, kinda like a rabid raccoon.”
My mind raced as I spoke. He wasn’t going to give up. Rabid seemed a pretty accurate description. I couldn’t see anything human in his eyes.
“What’s that business with the stacked diamonds? You sign your kills and your pictures with it.”
I nearly jumped out of my skin when he answered. “My initials. My name is Matthew Morrell.” He spat the words.
I blinked, my mouth dropping open. Morrell. As in Savannah Morrell. He was her son. I could see the resemblance now that I was looking for it. And then I understood that the stack diamond symbol was really two Ms turned sideways, belly-to-belly.
“Your mother’s dead.”
Wrong thing to say. Or maybe really right. He sucked in a breath and leaped at me.
I snatched a candle and threw it at him. He swung a hand to bat it away, but it never got close to him. It rebounded at me like a bullet, smashing against my chest like a missile. I went ass over teakettle. The air exploded from my lungs as I landed. I used my momentum and swung my legs over my head, rolling over backward and shoving up with my hands. I landed back on my feet, my chest aching.
He was nearly on top of me. I lifted my baton, but it wrenched from my hand and went flying through the air. It clanged against something and the music shut off. That left hand-to-hand. So as long as I stuck with kicking and elbow blows, I wouldn’t make skin on skin contact and open myself up to his tinkering. Right. Because he wouldn’t be doing his damnedest to touch me. Plus the whole telekinetic thing someone was using on me meant my clothes could get ripped open at a really unfortunate moment. I was surprised they hadn’t stripped me already.
I didn’t have time to think it out. I decided to go for surprise. I made to dodge aside, waiting until he began to shift to block me. Once he was committed, I lunged back on one leg and whip-kicked around, nailing him in the meaty part of his thigh. That move hurt a lot. I knew from hard experience.
He grunted and staggered away. I whirled, getting both feet on the ground and driving at him. I rammed his shoulder with mine, but before I could finish the move by sweeping his feet out from under him, my shoelaces knotted together, and I fell like a tree.
I bounced, knocking my chin hard into the floor before rolling away. I didn’t get far. A couch lifted up and landed in my path. I fought to get my boots off, but they clamped my feet like hungry mouths. My coat sleeves swallowed my hands so I couldn’t get at the laces to unknot them.
Invisible hands looped my ankles and dragged me upside down in the air. Shit. I twisted at the waist to see where Matthew was. At the same time, I belatedly evoked the null tattooed on my stomach. I dropped to the floor like a sack of hamburger. I attempted another somersault roll, but I ended up crashing onto my back in a reverse belly flop. For a second, all I could do was lie there and gasp like a beached whale.
In the meantime, Matthew had climbed to his feet. The right side of his face was starting to swell, and he was going to have a serious black eye and fat lip. For a moment I thought I was winning. That I’d freaked him out enough that he’d forgotten to tinker himself back into good shape. Then I realized he barely glanced at me, and instead he stared off into thin air just over my left shoulder.
“I don’t need your fucking help,” he snarled. “The Lord that is Risen will aid me and if I fail, then it is God’s will.”
A moment of silence. Confused silence on my part, but I think I was the only one.
“What do you mean the helicopter rescue joke?” Matthew asked, scowling confusion.
I knew that one. A man in a flood climbs on top of his roof. A guy in a boat comes by and offers him a ride. The man says, “No thanks, God will save me.” Then a guy on a Jet Ski comes by followed by a helicopter, both offering to help. He gives them the same reply. The man ends up drowning and at the Pearly Gates, he asks why God didn’t save him. God says, “I sent you a boat, a Jet Ski, and a helicopter. What else did you want?”
I stood up, wincing at the way my body throbbed. “It means whatever alien space rabbit you’re talking to right now was sent by God to help you, or so he seems to be claiming. Personally, I’m thinking both you and Space Harvey have Satan to thank.”
His gaze fell on me again. Looking into his eyes was nothing like looking at Maya or Price when they went all white eyed. Looking at Matthew was like looking into the basement of hell where all the really scary monsters live.
“I am a warrior against Satan,” he said, his back straightening and his chin lifting with obvious pride.
“Sure you are. That’s why you get your rocks off torturing and killing people. God’s well-known for that.”
“You joke, but the Lord on High sent Abraham to kill his own son. He destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah. He sent plagues to destroy Egypt and flooded the world, killing all but Noah and the chosen of the ark. He sent the Crusades to cleanse the earth of idolatry. He wiped witchcraft out of Europe with the Inquisition. He is all-knowing and all-powerful. He is just to those who serve him, and merciless against evil. He called me to serve in his divine army. I will die before I fail him.”
“Feel free,” I said. “Anytime. Now would be good.”
He didn’t seem to hear. He’d looked away again, his gaze falling on Arnow and the makeshift altar. He walked back toward her, seeming to forget about me completely.
“What are you doing?” I blocked his path, forcing him to stop.
“Freeing Sandra’s soul so that it may be cleansed of its taint.”
Sandra. He’d recognized her, then. He knew her. Except he didn’t. Not really. Nobody did, because she’d been raised to wear so many masks that she probably didn’t even know who she was. “Sandra’s not her name.”
That took him aback. “What is her name?”
“Hell if I know. Personally I think it’s either Esmerelda or Bertha. Or possibly Agnes.”
He considered, and then shrugged. “Sandra’s true name doesn’t matter. Only her soul.”
“Bullshit.”
He cocked his head at me. “What use are names?”
“You’re the one that leaves your initials everywhere. You tell me. And what about Jesus? God? Satan? Solomon? Mary? Are you going to tell me those names aren’t meaningful? It’s not like you’re going to start calling God ‘Larry’ or ‘Lance.’ That would be blasphemous, wouldn’t it?”
I had his full attention now. “What’s yours? Why are you here?”
I smiled ever so sweetly. “How about you call me God? I’m here to send you to hell where you belong.”
I barely saw his hand move. It shot out, and he snatched my jaw in a powerful grip. He twisted me around, wrapping his other arm around my neck.
“You are Lucifer’s handmaiden. You must die. Now.”
I’m pret
ty sure he did something tinkery then. I didn’t wait for him to realize it hadn’t worked, thanks to my belly null. I slammed my head backward into his face while simultaneously jamming my elbow into his ribs. He made a huffing sound, and his grip on my neck tightened. He punched the side of my head with his free hand. Pain clapped my skull and pierced my eardrum. Everything on that side sounded watery and distant.
I reached back and raked my nails over his face, then grabbed his head and tried to gouge his eyes with my thumbs. He thrust me away, shoving me to the floor and then jumped on top of me, straddling my hips and snatching at my neck.
I grabbed his wrists and pulled them apart as I sat up and head-butted his mouth. Blood spattered my forehead. I let go of his wrists and smashed my palms over his ears at the same time. He gave a sharp scream as blood ran out his ears. I put both hands together and gave a powerful jab into his throat. He made a whistling wheezing sound. I shoved him off me and lurched to my feet. I kicked him in the ribs three times until he curled up in the fetal position.
“Nice work.”
I looked up to see Price standing just a few feet away. His eyes were white, but the air around us was perfectly still. Too still for comfort. He was volcanic, but managing to keep himself under iron control. I wasn’t sure how long he could hold it. I felt the pressure building and thickening, making it hard to breathe. Normally I’d have asked what took him so long, but this was probably a bad time for jokes. Anyway, it couldn’t have been more than five or ten minutes since I got down here. He hadn’t taken all that long, especially given the shitstorm he was dealing with.
“Got anything to tie him up with?” I swiped at the blood dribbling down my nose from a cut in my forehead. From Matthew’s teeth, I supposed. My cheek and jaw ached from where he’d hit me. I might have had a loose tooth or two as well.
Price dug a pair of riot cuffs out of his pockets.
Shades of Memory Page 38
