Savannah stopped at the ring of cracked and blackened stones surrounding the well’s hungry mouth. Someone had laid out the welcome mat, driving thick iron spikes into the earth and hanging a crude rope ladder over the hole’s edge; like they were expecting her; waiting for her.
Savannah wondered how many were down there.
She crouched down near the well, listening to the autumn morning wind moan across its open mouth. There was a sound, just at the edge of her hearing – a scratching, digging clatter.
Savannah opened the backpack. She dug out her mother’s old holsters. She tossed the rig over her shoulder, then fastened it around her waist. One pistol went snug under her arm, the other strapped to her thigh.
She walked back to the well, then stared down into the blackness. Savannah wondered what Carter had felt down there. She wondered why she had been dumb enough to think some gasoline and explosives could have solved this problem. Sometimes, the only way to fix things is to get your hands dirty.
Savannah grabbed hold of the ladder, then climbed down into the dark.
“Ready or not,” Savannah whispered. “Here I come.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The station wagon idled outside the big old house where Rashad had grown up. The old home’s windows dripped with Spanish moss and kudzu, illuminated by the flashing of scores of lightning bugs.
He killed the Country Squire’s engine then shut off the headlights. Amorphous green spheres of light emerged from the early morning gloom, floating above the curdled ground fog. Rashad followed the lights around the bend behind the house, down to the edge of the creek from which his mother had taken her power.
An old oak, its black bark infested with creeping moss, leaned out over the water. Rashad ran his hands down the grimy trunk until his fingertips found a now-rusty nail he had driven into the tree. A thin chain ran into the water from the nail. Rashad hooked his fingers around it. It glistened in the early morning moonlight as he hauled it up out of the water.
The end of the chain was wrapped around an old Coke bottle. The glass was clotted with clusters of yellow algae. It was corked with a thick plug of wax to keep the creek waters at bay. Rashad shook it, then held it up to the light. He could just make out the gnarly chunks of yellowed bone through the bottom of the bottle. “Hey there, Mama.”
The plug came out of the bottle with a little coaxing from Rashad’s pocket knife. The teeth rattled out of the bottle into the palm of his hand. Rashad bit the inside of his lip until he tasted blood, then spat onto the teeth. He closed his fist around all that remained of the Night Howler then said the old words to call his mother from the other side.
The creek boiled, spewing yellow globs of gas that burst in the air with a rotten stench.
“What have ya done, son of mine?” The words bubbled up out of the creek with the foul and putrid gas. “Bindin’ ya own mama like some common haint?”
Rashad held tight to his mother’s teeth, though they pricked at his palm. “I need you to behave, Mama. I don’t have time for any foolishness.”
The creek fell still, then seethed like hot tar. Rashad stared at the water as his mother’s face appeared in it – a fluid vision of wickedness. “Boy-boy, where ya’ been?”
“Around the whole world, and back again,” Rashad replied, as he had done innumerable times since his childhood.
“I feel ya need, boy-boy, but ya too late. I cain’t help that woman of yours even if I wanted to; which you know, damn well, I don’t.”
His mother’s face twisted and deformed, revealing the injury Savannah dealt her at their last meeting. The gaping crater where her eye used to be, the grimy curds of her brain dripping from the wound.
“Hide her, Mama,” Rashad pleaded. “Hide her and the others from those damned girls.”
Laughter rose from the creek in slimy bubbles. “I cain’t hide her from what she’s part of, boy. The master of them girls done got his hooks into ya woman, deep.”
Rashad crouched down on the bank of the bog then trailed his fingers through the water. Despite all they had been through, he could not shake the love he held for his mother. Despite their differences, Rashad knew the Night Howler had tried to protect him; even at the end. “Tell me.”
The creek’s waters rippled and flowed up Rashad’s fingers, then coiled around his wrist. “That woman has two masters – that ol’ bastard up at the Briarcliff and some new terror that’s still crawling between worlds.”
Cold settled into Rashad, soaking down through his skin and into his bones. “No!”
“Think, boy. Goddamn… how you think them bitches knew where to find ya baby girl? Or that you was goin’ to that nasty ol’ trailer park? What happened to ya woman at that club, and how did they know she would be there?”
Rashad sank down on his haunches then snatched his hand out of the water. “Help her get free, then.”
Water rose in a geyser from the bottom of the creek, jetting high into the air. “No!”
Rashad clenched his hand around the teeth until they cut into his palm. He let the blood dribble off his fingers into the water. “I command you to help her.”
A shriek of raw anger splashed up out of the water, scattering yellow bubbles in all directions. “Never!”
Rashad’s heart ached. Savannah was heading into a fight where her enemy already knew her every move. He envisioned those girls, lying in wait, and his wife walking right into their trap.
Then he had another thought, and his breath caught in his lungs.
Rashad jammed the teeth back into the bottle, ignoring his mother’s screeching protest. He had held on to this connection to a dead woman for years, creeping down to the creek whenever he could to seek wisdom from his mother. It had always been a comfort for him, but now, it left him feeling cold and sick.
Rashad filled the bottle with the creek water that tied him to that place. He melted the wax back into the bottle’s neck with his lighter, then let it cool in place. He reeled the silver chain in, wrapped it around the bottle, then he snapped the last link free of the tree. He weighed the bottle and all it represented in his palm, then slipped it into his little work bag. He would need it sooner rather than later.
Savannah was not the only one in danger. The nightmares knew all their plans. He raced toward the cave, pushing the station wagon to its limits, praying he still had time.
CHAPTER FORTY
The smell of ammonia wafted up the well’s shaft, bringing with it a moist heat that left Savannah dripping with sweat after a few minutes of climbing. Upon reaching the well’s bottom, Savannah released the ladder then waited, letting her eyes adjust to the dim-purple glow of phosphorescent fungus that clung to the walls around her. She could make out what looked like the mouth of a tunnel leading away from the bottom of the well, but little else.
When her vision did come into focus, Savannah could see what she smelled: a nasty mound of mole rat and raccoon waste that spread out around her for ten feet in every direction. Seeing their dung made Savannah wonder where the vermin were and how soon they would be back. She eased the safety off the pistol on her left thigh then let her palm rest on the weapon’s grip. She slid her other hand to the revolver on her right thigh.
Savannah knew there was more to worry about down here than just a swarm of vermin with a taste for human flesh.
The walls at the bottom of the well were covered with graffiti, glyphs and sigils scattered among rough sketches of dripping and gaping reproductive organs. The whole mess hurt Savannah’s head and made her spine throb.
What bothered her most was the frantic, terrified scribbling. There was fear here; fear of the order Savannah had spent her adult life creating. Fear of the world beyond the SWATS’ supernatural borders. Fear of a world that cared little for the weak and not at all for the poor. This was a burst of blind panic; a screamed prayer to any god that would listen.
Worse than the prayers was the sense of community Savannah felt within them. The words wove in and
out, forming sentences from scraps written in different hands, tying everything together into a single cry for help. She did not want to read those prayers, written to a god she had come to kill, but Savannah could not stop herself. She felt comfort there, too, a sense of belonging. While she read the words, Savannah’s forehead did not hurt.
“You gonna write on our welcome wall, Savannah?”
The Root Woman turned from the mass of words and symbols to a shadowy mob of figures standing in the mouth of the tunnel leading away from the bottom of the well. She could see four or five heads in the vague light, but there might have been three times that many behind them for all Savannah could tell.
She recognized the voice – one of Phil’s officers – but she could not put a name to it. She had probably never bothered to learn the name. “Is that what you call this chicken-scratch?”
The officer’s teeth shone bright in the mushroom’s light as he grinned. “Nobody tells us what we can or can’t write on that wall. You hear the call, you come on down and write whatever moves you. That’s freedom.”
“You call living in these tunnels full of rat shit freedom?”
“Better than living under the sun and worrying about some bitch gunning down your granny because she used a birthing spell.”
Murmurs rose from the rest of the crowd. Savannah wanted to believe that she had only killed when it was called for; when it could not be avoided. She did not remember kicking in the doors of people who did not have it coming. But after all the years of getting high, she had to admit there were a lot of things she did not remember so clearly these days. These people were scared of something, maybe it was her.
“Not like I had a lot of choice in what went on, you know.” Savannah said. “I had my job, just like you had yours.”
The officer laughed at that. Savannah had given them hell on many occasions for their lackadaisical approach to law enforcement. “Sure, Savannah. You always stayed on your side of the line. Lying bitch!”
“Water under the bridge.” Savannah’s palms felt warm against the grips of her guns. She took a step toward the tunnel. She did not have time to sit around and chat with these fools all day. Very soon, her people would be starting in on their own business, and she needed to get her distraction going if she did not want their whole plan to end in blood and tears. “Why don’t you get the hell out of my way so I can get my little girl and go home? We can have ourselves a nice chat over a cup of coffee once I’m done.”
The cops did not take a step, but Savannah could see the barrel of an assault rifle swing down off a shoulder. Savannah hoped they all had rifles. It might make this next part easier.
“I don’t think that’s gonna happen. Why don’t you scribble your piece on the wall there and get on the right side of history before it’s too late?”
Savannah could see the officers’ tics and fidgets. “I’m already on the right side. The side that doesn’t take little kids down into the dark to sacrifice to their wicked-ass god.”
“You bitch,” the deputy started, but Savannah cut his sentence off by exploding forward and slamming her pistol up under the man’s chin.
Her forehead itched like crazy, and she could feel a black rage roaring inside her. It was time to get down to business, to put her doubts aside and get her baby girl back from those monsters. Whatever might have happened before, however heavy her hand, these people had done wrong. They had this coming.
The officer’s AR-15 swung toward Savannah, but the rifle was too awkward for close quarters fighting. Savannah pulled the pistol’s trigger and painted the ceiling with the inside of the officer’s head.
The rest of the pack screamed, unsure of who had fired or who was dead.
Savannah drew the revolver, then aimed it at the ear of the man next to her. She pulled the trigger.
The tunnel lit up with a pure green light that jumped out of the side of the man’s skull and blasted into the neck of another officer. A mist of blood and smoke filled the tunnel.
Savannah caught a hard punch to the ribs.
She swung her elbow up to where she hoped her attacker’s face would be.
A loud crunch followed. A moment later, someone collapsed with a dull thud.
Blows rained down on Savannah’s shoulders and the back of her head, but the pack was crammed in too tightly to get full force behind their blows.
A cop made the mistake of trying to worm his rifle into Savannah’s gut, but he was too slow and too clumsy to get the job done.
Savannah felt the sight scrape along her navel. She punched her pistol into the man’s ribs then fired, blasting a hole through his heart. The bullet plowed out of the officer’s back on a fountain of scorched blood and silver fire.
A knife flashed through the purple light. Its tip gouged the skin of Savannah’s bicep. Her blood ran black in the dim light, and the knife came around for a second slash that opened a six-inch groove along the outside edge of her forearm.
The wild punches wore Savannah down. She could not get her bearings, or catch her breath.
She fired her guns. Someone yelped in pain, but it was not enough to drive her attackers off. Someone grabbed Savannah’s hand then pried her fingers off the pistol. Someone else kicked at the backs of her knees until they buckled and Savannah crumpled to the cold stone.
But the Root Woman was far from done fighting. Savannah drove a punch into the groin of a man next to her.
The cop crouched in pain.
Savannah grabbed the man’s belt then used it to haul herself onto her feet.
More punches battered her ribs. A lucky shot snapped Savannah’s head backward. Her balance was failing; her thoughts were too scrambled to keep herself upright.
She was tired; ready to quit. But her little girl was down there, somewhere. The thought of Lashey being taken by these animals filled Savannah with a righteous rage; a furious strength that kept her from going down. She lashed out with her fingers, raking a man’s eyes out of his head.
She drove her heavy boot down onto a kneecap. The man fell, screaming.
Savannah raised the revolver in her free hand.
A deputy lunged for her, his hand outstretched toward the rising weapon.
The gun roared. A gaping wound opened in the center of the attacker’s palm. Eldritch fire spread up through the man’s forearm, snapping bones.
The revolver barked again. A bullet punched through a cheek, blowing a fist-sized crater through the back of a man’s head.
His attackers fell back, screaming and stumbling over one another in the cramped tunnel. Savannah took advantage of her enemies’ retreat to scoop her dropped pistol from the limestone floor. She raised both weapons and kept firing, punching smoking holes through heads and backs, dropping foes with every shot.
When the gun-smoke cleared, Savannah was alone, surrounded by bodies. She threw her head back and drew in deep, ragged breaths. Her brain was wreathed in fog but she thought about the encounter she had just had. The violence, the slaughter, felt right. It felt just.
Savannah knew that meant something was wrong, but she could not deny the way it made her feel. Like this was what she was really born to do; that laying waste to those who stepped over the line was all she should do.
She headed down the tunnel, deeper into the earth. She had a little girl to rescue. And a whole lot of bastards to kill.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Lashey raised her head when she saw Phil enter her cell. He was one of the police; one of the pigs, and her mama always said the pigs were the bad guys. But Lashey had seen television shows and movies where the police were not so bad. She hoped Phil was one of those pigs. She hoped the detective was here to chase off the nasty woman who had done such terrible things to her.
Phil knew her mama pretty well. Maybe her mama had sent the detective to get her out of this mess.
“Detective Phil,” Lashey croaked, her voice raw from all the screaming she had done during the past few hours. She wanted the detectiv
e to know that the woman in her cell was a monster. But the detective did not look at her. Maybe he had not heard. “Detective.”
The monster pressed one blood-stained fingertip to Lashey’s lips. Lashey whimpered as the conjured girl’s finger pressed down hard, grinding Lashey’s lips against her teeth.
The conjured girl’s tongue lashed the air as she spoke words that seemed to come from above her head. “Is she here?”
Phil nodded. “She’s comin’, all right. I hope your boss has a better plan than just lettin’ her kill all my officers.”
The woman vanished.
Lashey cried out in warning.
The conjured girl appeared next to the detective then struck him with the back of one misshapen hand so hard the skin over his cheek split wide open. “Do not question your betters,” the conjured girl hissed. The air popped and crackled with the force of her words.
Blood spilled down the side of Phil’s face, soaking into the collar of his shirt. The detective did not seem to notice.
Lashey met the detective’s eyes. There was a strange flicker of darkness inside him. All hopes of being rescued by the detective drained out of her. He was one of the bad pigs; one of the monsters. Bitter tears coursed down Lashey’s cheek.
A Haunting in the SWATS (The Savannah Swan Files Book 1) Page 27
