Savannah felt her skin part, opening to the monster on her chest.
The girl’s nails scraped against Savannah’s ribs, and then she began to pull.
Savannah’s hand found what she needed – her fingers slipped around the cold metal. Savannah stabbed the conjured girl’s arm, driving a broad push-dagger into her malleable flesh again and again. Blood splattered between them – Savannah’s, mingling with the girl’s, as they struggled to kill one another. Flesh parted and bones snapped, and then the girl was gone, swirling away from the Root Woman, clutching her ruined arm against the malformed flesh of her chest as she withdrew into the shadows bordering the pit.
Savannah struggled to her feet, crawling over the adherents until she could find clear ground. The first conjured girl stood behind the old man, whispering words that the old man repeated. The air writhed with their combined power. Savannah could feel it pressing down against her. Whatever they were doing down here, the ritual was almost complete.
The Root Woman limped toward the blood-filled vat, ignoring the conjured girl and the old man. She pulled a flask from her gris-gris bag then popped the top with her thumb. The smell of whiskey cut through the stench around her. Savannah took a swig of whiskey then poured a healthy amount into her mouth. She leaned over the vat then sprayed the whiskey into it, blowing the liquor out in a fine brown mist.
The conjured girl darted from the old man’s side to knock the flask out of Savannah’s hand. Savannah took advantage of the moment and sprinted away from the vat. The conjured girl caught up to her as she ran then locked her hand on the back of Savannah’s neck. But not before the Root Woman reached her goal.
Savannah threw her arm around Pigmeat’s throat then lifted him off his feet. She pulled him close then pressed the tip of the punch dagger’s blade to his throat. “Let me go,” Savannah said. She felt the conjured girl’s hand lift from her neck.
Pigmeat Porter was as light as Lashey. Savannah turned to face the conjured girls, still holding Pigmeat aloft. She jiggled the knife. A crimson bead burst from her hostage’s brittle skin. The old man never stopped chanting, even as his skin split and blood spilled.
“Back the hell up!” Savannah ordered.
She studied the conjured girls and the adherents, who were starting to figure out something had gone wrong. They rubbed muck from their eyes as they disentangled their sweaty bodies. There were twenty or thirty of them; too many for Savannah to deal with on her own.
She moved toward the steps, keeping her Pigmeat-shield in front of her. Savannah was willing to sacrifice herself, but if survival was an option, she would take it.
The conjured girls watched her go, hate burning in their eyes, but they seemed reluctant to follow her. They remained beside the vat as Savannah climbed the steps.
The old man did not struggle, but he kept right on chanting until Savannah squeezed his throat hard enough to stop the words. She was exhausted from the awkwardness of holding the old bastard, but she was almost home free. She topped the stairs then retraced her route through the house, heading down the hall, through the kitchen and the pantry, and, at last, she kicked open the back door.
She stood on the porch, steeling herself for what had to be done. She drew her arm back then leaned in close to Pigmeat’s ear. “You lose, bastard.”
Lights stabbed from the darkness, blinding her. She blinked against the glare, but by the time she could see what was happening it was too late. A stinging pain rifled through her head. She felt a cold metal circle press against the side of her skull and heard a familiar voice say, “Let him go, Savannah.”
Rough hands locked around her wrists.
She held tight to the old man, straining to swing the knife and finish the job. She could not let him walk away again.
They bent Savannah’s arms away from her, and Pigmeat slipped from her grasp.
Her captors wrenched Savannah’s arms back behind her, forcing her up onto her tiptoes.
“Don’t do this, Phil.” The lights still blazed in her eyes – car lights; truck lights; dozens of them encircling the house. “Something bad is going down here. It needs to be stopped.”
“Something bad went down earlier today, didn’t it?” Phil kept the gun pressed against Savannah’s head. “A bunch of people burned alive; a bunch of dead kids with them. A whole damned farm blown straight to hell. Ringing any bells?”
“I didn’t—”
“You did, though.” Phil leaned in close and whispered. “You did today, and yesterday, and the day before that, and how many other goddamned days did you decide what had to be done, no matter what it cost or who it hurt?”
“It’s my job. No one has to like it.”
“They don’t.” Phil’s voice stank of fear and whiskey. “They hate it.”
“Why now, Phil? All those other ‘goddamned days’ you mentioned; why today? Is it because this time, a bunch of white folks got killed? Those vermin from hell ain’t the only coons around here.”
“What?” Phil pressed the muzzle of his pistol into Savannah’s head, forcing her chin toward her chest.
“Why don’t you put that pea-shooter down and let me get back to work.”
“There’s no more work for you here,” Phil said, grinding the muzzle into the side of Savannah’s head to emphasize his point. “You’re done.”
Phil kicked Savannah’s legs out from under her. The Root Woman fell onto her knees; her arms wrenched in their sockets.
“Last chance, detective. Do what you know is right.”
Phil sighed.
Savannah felt the muzzle of the pistol mash tight against the back of her skull. “This is what they want. The whole goddamned SWATS is full of people who are more afraid of you than whatever the hell this old man is doing down in his cellar. They had a choice of monsters, and they didn’t pick you.”
“They don’t know,” Savannah started, but the click of the pistol’s hammer shut her mouth.
“This is your last chance, Savannah. Walk down the hill. Get in your vehicle and collect your family…”
The weight of the pistol pressed Savannah’s head down to the porch’s boards.
Phil’s voice was heavy with a bone-deep weariness that chilled Savannah. “And get your ass out of the SWATS!”
Phil kept the gun pressed to the back of Savannah’s head while his officers stripped away her weapons.
An officer patted Savannah down, slapping her sides, checking the waistband of her pants and tops of her boots, then squeezing her breasts. “She’s clean.”
Phil nudged Savannah with the pistol. “Get up. Easy.”
They released Savannah. Her arms flopped down, tingling from the strain placed on them and the lack of circulation. It took her a minute to stand. The whole time she could feel the ring of steel pressed against her head.
Phil pushed Savannah’s head to the side, steering her toward the porch’s steps. “That’s right. One foot after the other. Don’t do anything sudden, or the crows’ll be eating your brains out of the grass come morning.”
Savannah let herself be led across the hill. She looked away from the blazing lights, focusing on the blackness on the edges of the hill. The gun’s muzzle bit into the side of her head as Phil’s foot found an old gopher hole.
For one moment, Savannah was sure that her skull was about to be blown open. “You want to watch where you’re walking, fool?” she said.
Phil did not say a word. He pulled the gun a bit away from Savannah’s head then took a handful of deep, steadying breaths before he started walking again.
At the edge of the hill, away from the headlights and out of sight from the people behind them, Phil said, “All right. Get out of here.”
Savannah nodded. She felt her hair brush against the barrel of the pistol. “Hey, Phil?”
“Yeah?”
“You remember what I said at Hotlanta Wings?”
“I don’t—”
Savannah ducked under the pistol then spun around to face
Phil, driving her fist up into the detective’s solar plexus. Phil doubled over, gagging on the pain. His pistol flopped uselessly in his hand. Savannah yanked the weapon away.
Phil stared up at Savannah, eyes watering, wind rushing in and out of his nostrils as he struggled to breathe. His own pistol stared back at him, a black eye rimmed in steel. “Go ahead,” he rasped. “I know you want to.”
Savannah’s finger was heavy on the trigger. Phil had betrayed her; sold her out for promises of something better. For a moment, she stared over the detective’s head at the yellow glow of headlights up the hill. Those people thought they wanted her gone; thought they knew what they were getting into with those conjured girls and the crazy old man who called them. She should just kill the detective, get in her truck, gather up her family, and get the hell out of Dodge before another day could dawn on this cursed place. Just one little squeeze, and she would end one life and start another.
It would be so easy.
Savannah tapped the tip of Phil’s nose with the pistol, then raised the barrel toward the sky. “Guess we know who’s better.”
With practiced ease, she ejected the magazine from the pistol then pushed the bullets from it with quick flicks of her thumb.
Phil watched the bullets disappear into the darkness. “Why?”
Savannah whipped her arm away from Mitchell Manor, sending the empty clip flying down the hill. “You’re a fool, but I don’t think you’ve been dabbling in the There Road. Have you?”
“No.” Phil gulped a relieved breath. “Things have changed. You have to understand—”
Savannah hurled the pistol. It crashed into the middle of Phil’s face, then landed on the grass at his feet.
The detective slid backward on his knees. He held his bleeding nose with both hands. “Savannah, I—”
“Get your ass out of my sight, Phil… and send one of your cronies up here with my revolver and all my other shit!” Savannah watched Phil run, his fat feet tromping through the grass and underbrush.
An officer returned Savannah’s weapons and juju bag with shaky fingers, then sprinted back toward Mitchell Manor.
Savannah crept down the hill, contemplating her future as she went.
If they want the SWATS, they can have it, she thought. She was done. Let the mayor find another sucker to ride herd over addicts who could not smell danger if it was shitting on their foreheads.
She slipped behind the wheel of the SUV then cranked the engine to life. It was still hours to daylight. She would go home, gather up her family and whatever they could carry, then hit the highway. By dawn, the SWATS would be behind them all. It was someone else’s problem now. Savannah was too tired and too goddamned angry for this job.
The SUV lurched out onto the old road, heading for home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rashad followed the Mayor through the Briarcliff’s shadowed entry hall with Lashey draped over his shoulder. From the arched doorways on either side, Rashad could hear anguished whines, gristly popping noises, and sibilant murmurs. The noises tugged at his curiosity, urging him to look through the gaping arches, just to get a gander at all the eldritch delights that awaited him. Instead, he kept his eyes locked on the mayor’s heels and followed as closely behind him as he dared. Rashad did not know what lurked beyond the Briarcliff’s yawning doorways, but he recognized the touch of malignant spirits and refused to give them a foothold in his mind. Just being in this place put him perilously near the line he swore he would never cross.
Mayor Green swept his arm across an ornate coffee table, casting a stack of enormous books onto the floor in a jumble of torn pages and bent spines. He repositioned the table near the fire place then tapped its polished wooden surface. “Here,” he said. “Please.”
Rashad knelt next to the low table, easing Lashey from his shoulder. The girl convulsed as she touched the coffee table, jackknifing her head up to her knees. Inky vapors leaked from her nostrils and drooled from her mouth to form a slow-moving cloud in front of her face. Rashad reached to wave it away, but the mayor’s fingers closed around his wrist.
“That’s enough for now. Let me see what I can do.”
Rashad let the mayor help her up. He drifted away, shuffling in an aimless orbit around the room. He stopped at the bar against the far wall then caressed a decanter of cream liqueur. The memory of his wife’s fingers touched his hand, their smooth tips brushing against the rough surface of his palm. He envisioned Savannah lifting the bottle to her mouth and thought of taking a swig, if only to taste his wife’s lips against his own.
Rashad left the decanter then shuffled along the wall back toward the fireplace. Sometimes, he envied Savannah’s vices, her ability to smoke a spliff and blot out the memory of what she had done. He wished he could smoke or drink away his fears, but the risk was far too great. Rashad’s skeletons were unquiet things, lurking in the shadows, waiting for him to lose control so they could come clattering after him.
Jedediah Green stood. His shadow stretched out, blocking Rashad from the fire. “I believe we can save her.”
Rashad sagged against the wall; the mayor’s words were tinged with a hidden threat. He waited for the mayor to tell him the price of his daughter’s life.
“What do you need me to do?” Rashad asked.
“She’s infested,” Mayor Green replied. “There’s no other word for it. The spirits within her are… broken creatures, wounded by something they fear too much to articulate. They’re terrified to leave their host and seek an eternal place to rest.” The mayor reached onto the mantle and withdrew a small crystalline cube from a rack that held a dozen just like it. “Something drove them to your daughter, and they will not leave without a struggle.”
Something growled in the hallway, a guttural, choking sound that set Rashad’s hackles on end. The house was filled with presences – forces that threatened and cajoled Rashad with whispers he could only half hear. He shut them out, turning his eyes to the mayor. “Just tell me what I have to do.”
“I can extract these creatures from your daughter without harming her, but it will require all of my concentration.” Mayor Green licked his lips. “I will need you to bind them into these vessels for me.”
A cold stone settled on the hope in Rashad’s heart, trapping his breath in his throat. This was the magic he had left behind; the old powers he struggled so hard to bury and forget. A tear welled at the corner of his eye. Savannah would hate this. Binding spirits was what she had killed the Night Howler for. It was There Road sorcery of the wickedest sort. He had promised Savannah, swore to her, to never again draw on that forbidden power.
“Free them,” Rashad whispered. “Set them loose and let them do as they will.”
“They aren’t ghosts,” the mayor said. “They’re fragments; parasites. If we let them free, they’ll come back to Lashey at once. They’re bound to her, becoming part of her, even after such a short time.”
Rashad took slow steps back to the bar. He poured the cream liqueur into a shot glass, smelled it, felt it burn the back of his throat. “Savannah will kill me.”
“There’s no reason for her to know. Lashey’s mind is down deep in her own dreams. There’s only you and I in this room to know what you’ve done to save your daughter.” Jedediah Green flicked his fingers. The shot glass appeared in his hand. He threw the rest of the sweet liqueur down his throat. “Decide. The night is dwindling, and we have much work to do by dawn if we are to save Lashey’s life.”
Rashad’s mouth was dry. It was not as simple as the mayor said. Savannah would smell the There Road on him; the brimstone would cling to his skin and hair like another woman’s perfume. If he broke his promise, Savannah would know. If he did not break it, Lashey would die.
Rashad rolled his shoulders then stretched his neck, tilting his head from side-to-side. “She’ll hate us both for this.”
“How much more will she hate us if we let your daughter die?”
Rashad closed his eyes then let
a single tear fall.
The Night Howler’s son took the crystal cube from the mayor’s hand then gazed into its depths.
“You’re sure?” The mayor did not look at Rashad when he asked the question, but his voice seemed eager, hurried.
“Do your part.” Rashad’s fingers played over the cube’s edges, feeling cold surface, the way it settled into his palm. “I know how to do mine.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Savannah was already on her way across the porch before she realized the Ford Country Squire was missing from its usual parking spot. She looked at the stars and moon, figured it was well on toward morning, then wondered where the hell her husband had run off to. She peeked through the windows from the porch, but the gossamer curtains Rashad had strung up in the front room made it impossible to see inside. She pushed her key into the lock.
The door swung open before she could turn the key. The stench of raccoon piss slapped Savannah in the face. “Damn it!” she growled as she stepped into the front room.
A wheelbarrow load of raccoon and mole rat feces dominated the floor. Oily black stains led away from it, crawling up the walls to the ceiling. Savannah froze. She held her breath, listening for intruders. When she heard only silence, she reached out, flicking the light switch next to the door. No light came.
A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1) Page 20
