Dark Kingdoms

by Richard Lee Byers

  Astarte rolled her eyes. "You get up and down the stairs fine. You have for the last four years."

  "You only think I do because you're never home, and when you are, I try not to be a burden. But never mind. I suppose I should1 let you go. I'm sure you feel that you've wasted enough time and money talking to me. And oneiof my stories is coming on."

  "Wait!" Astarte said. "Don't hang up."

  "What is it?" her mother said.

  Once again, Astarte's mind insisted on framing the words-she wouldn't say. I called because I don't know if we'll ever get another chance to talk. The Arcanists and I are going to try to beat the bad guys:, but deep down, I don't think it's going to work out. We don't even know how to protect ourselves, or where to turn next. We couldn't go to the cops even if Dunn weren't in the FBI. They wouldn't believe us. We can't go to Mr. Daimler and Miss Paris for more information. They've disappeared like they hinted they would. I'm afraid we're just going to flounder around like morons until the monsters find us and finish us off.

  She hesitated, then said, "I just wanted you to know that even though we've had some problems"—she swallowed—"I love you."

  "My god," Mom said. For once the whiny note was absent from her voice. "You're in some kind of real trouble, aren't you? What is it, baby?"

  Way to go, genius, Astarte thought. Now she's going to worry. "I'm fine, Mom. Take care of yourself, okay? Don't take any more pills than Dr. Wilson says." Blinking once again, she hung up the receiver.

  SIX

  As soon as the scene of the accident came into view, Karen Shaub sensed she had something more than a simple car crash on her hands. The yellow school bus with the text of John 3:16 painted on the side filled the middle of the intersection, its front fender crumpled and the tire beneath it flat. Its grille smashed, a sky-blue Buick sat adjacent to the bus, the fluid from its breached radiator staining the asphalt.

  What made the situation look peculiar was that no one was standing near the damaged vehicles. There were spectators, but they were gawking from a distance, peeking from the windows of Spaulding's Feed and Hardware Store, the post office, and the diner.

  Karen radioed the dispatcher, told him where she was and what was going on, then brought the patrol car to a stop a tew feet from the accident. As she swung her long legs out the door, Ben Spaulding, with his round pink face and dainty little Don Ameche mustache, beckoned her frantically from the front window of his business.

  She climbed out and gave him an inquiring look. Mouthing words she couldn't hear through the glass, he gestured as urgently as before. She decided she'd better go see what he wanted.

  The aluminum barrels of feed made the whole store smell like grain. Tack and a selection of tools—axes, hammers, saws, and wire cutters among them—hung from the walls, while boxes and bottles of wormer, nails, molly bolts, pet shampoo, and flea collars lined the shelves. Spaulding met Karen at the door. His plump hands fluttered before him as if he wanted to grab her and snatch her inside. He did shove the door closed the instant she was clear of it. "Thank God he didn't shoot you!" he exclaimed.

  "Who?" she demanded. "What are you talking about?" Was there a sniper taking potshots at people on the street? Was that why everyone was cowering indoors? The notion that she might have been wandering obliviously around with a gun trained on her made Karen's skin crawl.

  "Reverend Arnold!" Spaulding said.

  Karen frowned skeptically. "The pastor from First Baptist?"

  Spaulding nodded vigorously. "He was driving the bus. It was full of kids. I guess he was taking them on some kind of outing. He came flying down the street like a bat out of hell, ran a red light, and Helen Macmillan hit him. She got out of her car, but he didn't. He just popped open the door, screamed something about demons, and shot a pistol at her."

  Bizarre as the story sounded, given Spaulding's agitation, Karen had no choice but to believe it. "Did he hit her?" she asked.

  Spaulding shook his head. "He took a couple shots at other people who happened to be on the sidewalk, but he didn't hit them either. Everybody ran into one building or another, and then you drove up."

  "Where are the children?" Karen asked. "I didn't see anybody on the bus."

  "They're still there," Spaulding said. "He must have made them hunker down below the windows."

  "It's God's judgment," said a quavering voice with a kind of bitter relish.

  Karen turned to meet Gertie Jackson's rheumy eyes, huge and wavering behind the lenses of the glasses she'd worn since her cataract surgery. The stooped old woman was clutching a bag of kitty treats in her shriveled hand.

  "I beg your pardon?" Karen said.

  "These modem preachers are all corrupt," Gertie said. "They steal and worship the devil and molest little children. You see it on television all the time. Well, the Lord's not going to put up with it. Some of them, He's killing. Others, He's driving crazy, so their wickedness will be plain for all to see."

  Karen reflected that lately it was easy to understand how even a devout old woman in a little Southern town like Mayersville, Mississippi, could lose faith in the church, if not in God Himself.

  But she had to get to work. "That's very interesting, Mrs. Jackson," she said, turning back toward Spaulding. "No one's called 911. If you had, the dispatcher would have told me what was going on here."

  "No," Spaulding said, gesturing helplessly. "Everything happened so fast. I didn't think."

  Karen put her hand on his forearm and gave the doughy flesh a reassuring squeeze. "It's okay. But I need to call now. I'm going to need back-up." She took a step toward the counter at the rear of the store, and then a gun barked. Spaulding yelped and jumped.

  Karen turned and cracked open the door. As far as she could tell from her vantage point, no one had ventured out onto the street to give Reverend Arnold a target. Which might well mean he'd shot one of the children.

  I can't wait for back-up, she realized. I have to deal with this right now.

  "You make that call for me," she said. "Then everyone stay inside. Keep away from the windows." She drew her Smith and Wesson Model 659 from its holster and looked outside again, studying the bus. Still no one visible inside, but she had the unpleasant feeling that somehow Arnold was watching her, even though she couldn't see him.

  I'll be okay, she told herself. I've actually met the man, and I'm pretty sure he liked me. Once I caught him peeking at my chest. He won't shoot me if I don't make any threatening moves.

  It was a comforting notion. She wished she were certain it was valid. But if Arnold had gone as murderously crazy as those other preachers run amok, as opposed to suffering a garden-variety nervous breakdown, then no one was safe.

  Karen took a deep breath, then stepped back out into the afternoon sunlight.

  The doors were on the opposite side of the bus. She realized that she hadn't noticed whether either of them was still open when she was driving up. If not, would she be able to force her way in? How securely did a bus door latch, anyway?

  Still scanning the windows of the vehicle for any flicker of movement, her mouth dry and her heart pounding, she began to edge around the nose of the church vehicle, sidling between it and Helen Macmillan's beached whale of a sedan.

  It abruptly occurred to her that Arnold might have turned his gun on himself. But no. If the children were no longer being held prisoner, surely one of them would have shown himself by now.

  Lucky me, Karen thought sourly. After all, I did become a cop for the excitement, and I'm just about peeing adrenaline now.

  The bus doors came into sight. They were closed.

  "Police officer!" Karen called, fleetingly gratified that, no matter how shaky she felt inside, her soprano voice rang out strong and steady. "It's Karen Shaub, Reverend. We met a few months ago, at the high school. Please, let me in. I'm here to help you. Whatever's wrong, I'm sure we can work it out."

  "Go away!" shouted Arnold from somewhere in the bus. Karen couldn't pinpoint his exact location. The pas
tor's voice was too shrill. He sounded panicky.

  "I can't do that," Karen said, grateful that at least he hadn't threatened to hurt the kids if she didn't back off. "But I just want to talk."

  She pushed on the folding panels of the door. It didn't give, and if there was some easy way to pop it open from the outside, she couldn't see what it was.

  With her fine bones and slender frame, Karen lacked the brawn of her male counterparts. Several of them had been kind enough to explain to her that that was one reason among many that women had no business being cops. But she'd learned to use what muscle nature had given her to good effect. Largely it was a matter of releasing her strength in one explosive burst, without flinching from the possibility of getting hurt. She flung herself at the door, ramming it with her shoulder.

  It made a snapping sound and buckled. She yanked it aside, clearing herself a path, and smelled the tang of gun smoke. Keeping low, using the square steel divider in front of the first passenger seat for cover, she scrambled up the steps and peered down the aisle.

  There seemed to be about twenty-five kids crouching on the floor. Some were merely white-faced and trembling, while others were weeping. If Arnold had shot one of them, Karen couldn't see the victim, but that didn't necessarily mean anything, not with the seats obstructing her view.

  The pastor himself was sitting on the floor at the end of the bus with his back against the emergency exit. A thin, thirtyish man wearing spectacles with plastic clip-on tinted sun guards, the kind that swiveled up and down, a green Bible-camp polo shirt, and tan Dockers, he was clutching a .357 Desert Eagle in one unsteady hand and holding a blond little girl on his lap with the other. Karen couldn't tell if he was deliberately using the child as a human shield, but in any case, that was the effect.

  "Go away!" Arnold repeated.

  "I'm not allowed to," Karen said, "not until I'm sure everything's all right. I heard a shot just a minute ago. Are any of the children hurt?"

  Arnold glared at her. "Of course not! Do you think I want to harm them? I'm trying to save them. This thing"—he gave the Magnum a distrustful look—"just went off of its own accord."

  "That's an awful lot of gun," said Karen, "particularly if you aren't used to it. Maybe it would be a good idea to put it down before it goes off again."

  Arnold sneered. "Right. Leave us all defenseless. You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

  Karen suspected that, hiding behind the low metal wall, she must seem like a potential threat. If she wanted to win Arnold's trust, she needed to show herself. She put her pistol back in its holster. Then, trying not to imagine the hole the .357 could punch in her body, wishing she were wearing a Kevlar vest, she slowly rose and stepped up into the aisle.

  "I'm not here to make you do anything you don't want to do," she said. "It's just that I don't get it. What do you need to be defended from? If you tell me, maybe I can help you. Protecting people is my job."

  Arnold stared into her face for what seemed like a long time. At last he said, "I get the feeling you really aren't part of it. But I can't be sure!"

  "I promise I'm not," Karen said.

  "All right," Arnold said, grimacing. "I'll give you a chance. I have to try something. The bus won't start, and we can't just sit here. We have to get away."

  "I can take care of that," Karen said. "I can get you transportation. But first I have to understand."

  "Okay," Arnold said. "You know about the ministers going insane and killing people?"

  A chill oozed up Karen's spine. "Yes."

  "Well, they didn't want to do it. They were possessed. I know because for the past few days I've felt a demon trying to take control of me. Sometimes I can hear its thoughts, and I know that when it has me in its power, it's going to turn me into a murderer, too. It wants to make me hurt the children. That's why we all have to get away to somewhere the spirits can't find us."

  Karen told herself that Arnold probably wasn't really suffering from whatever malady had afflicted his murderous colleagues. He only thought he was. Because the killers hadn't tried to explain their motives to anyone. They'd just done their damnedest to slaughter everyone within reach. Or, if he did have the same illness, he must have a milder case of it. Either way, it looked as if she might actually be able to talk him down, if she could exploit his twisted logic to her own advantage.

  "Thank you," she said. "Now I see the problem. But if there's a chance a devil will take control of you, then you shouldn't be with the children, should you? It would be better to get you off somewhere by yourself."

  Arnold shook his head. "Mayersville is full of demons. If I went away alone, they'd just possess other people. I think they've started already. I have to get the children out of town and away from the river."

  Karen wondered fleetingly what the river had to do with it. "Okay," she said, "then that's what we're going to do." In the distance, sirens wailed. "Hear that? We've got more cops coming. Enough to drive you and the kids to safety. But for the time being, I'd feel better if you put down your pistol and got off the bus. Just in case. I can stand guard at the door."

  Arnold stared at her. She couldn't read his expression. She wondered if she'd said something wrong. If he was psyching himself up to kill her.

  "It's the only way," she told him. "I know cops. They won't listen to you as long as you're waving a gun around at a hunch of frightened kids. It'll keep you in town that much longer."

  The minister gave her a jerky nod and set the Desert Eagle down. The pistol clinked against the metal floor. Karen shivered as some of the tension bled out of her muscles.

  Arnold gently lifted the little girl off his lap and began to stand up. Karen's vision momentarily blurred, and numbness tingled through her body.

  Arnold gaped at her. "My god," he whispered, "you are one!" Spinning, he made a dive for the Desert Eagle.

  Fast and sure as a gunfighter in a Western movie, heedless of the children clustered all around the pastor, Karen whipped out her gun and shot him in the head. Arnold collapsed, convulsing in his death throes.

  For a second the police officer thought she'd killed him reflexively but of her own volition. Then her body pivoted and she began to shoot the hostages.

  At first she literally couldn't believe it was happening. Something this horrible could only be a nightmare. But no matter how awful it got, she couldn't wake up. Her hand just kept squeezing the trigger. The Smith and Wesson thundered, deafening in the close confines of the bus. Spent brass flew from the breech, and the smoke stung her eyes. Blood splashed, and her victims shrieked.

  Finally she could deny the truth no longer. This was real. Arnold had been right, even if his insights had driven him a little nuts. There were spirits in Mayersville, intent on fomenting a massacre, and one of them had chosen to possess her.

  Somehow she had to push the demon out. Regain control. Go away! she screamed. Not audibly—she could no more use her voice than she could direct the movements of her hands and feet—but inside her head.

  When she did, she somehow established a murky contact with the alien mind inhabiting her flesh. Her silent cry gave it a pang of contemptuous amusement. It shot a little boy wearing a mustard-stained Power Rangers T-shirt in the stomach.

  God damn you, get out! Karen bellowed. Concentrating fiercely, she willed the numbness away. Commanded her body to feel as if it belonged to her again. Suddenly the deadness gave way to flashes of heat and jabs of pain. She felt the devil's disdain change into surprise.

  When she tried to throw the automatic down, she realized she hadn't regained complete control. The clash between her will and the demon's made her muscles spastic. Still, she managed to swing her arm and open her fingers. The weapon tumbled through the air and clanked down on the floor.

  "Run!" she croaked. The kids hesitated for a moment. Then most of them scrambled toward the front of the bus, squirming past her and nearly knocking her down.

  Karen felt the demon exerting its own willpower, fighting her for dominance
. She struggled against it, but to no avail. And what else, she thought despairingly, could she expect? Her opponent was an evil spirit and she was just a human being. Until a few moments ago, she hadn't even comprehended that an atrocity like this was possible. It would have been a miracle if she'd stumbled on a truly effective way to resist.

  The numbness flowed back into her limbs. The demon retrieved her Smith and Wesson, exchanged clips, then picked up Arnold's gun as well. It killed the three children who'd been too paralyzed with terror to flee when they'd had the chance, then headed for the door.

  As the creature started down the steps, Karen caught a glimpse of her reflection in the chrome on the dashboard. Except for the spatters of gore on her dun-colored uniform, her trim body looked the same as ever. But the head on her shoulders was a scaly, misshapen horror, with two reptilian sets of jaws and pairs of blank amber eyes. The countenance of the monster who'd enslaved her, though she suspected no one else would be able to see it.

  Siren keening and chase lights flashing, a second prowl car hurtled down the street. It came to a stop at the edge of the intersection, tires screeching. Ed Morse, a rangy black officer, and Charlie Frink, the watch commander, his coppery crewcut glinting in the afternoon sunlight, jumped out.

  Karen tried to shout, Watch out! But of course her mouth refused to form the words.

  Frink stared at her. "Shaub. God almighty, are you all right?" Then, evidently, something about her—or rather, the demon's—demeanor must have tipped him off that she was about as far from all right as a person could get. His eyes narrowing, he made a grab for his gun.

  Inwardly, Karen cringed, expecting the spirit to shoot him. Instead, Morse, still standing on the far side of the car, whipped out his gun and fired across the roof. The bullets punched through Frink's skull and blasted chunks out of his face. The redheaded officer dropped.

  The devil inhabiting Morse's flesh and the one inside Karen grinned at each other. Then Morse turned and headed for the diner, while Karen's body started toward the feed store.