This little shit was so vile—I didn’t want to accept the truth.
“You haven’t even out-grown your pimples,” I muttered.
“Oh, give it a rest,” he snapped. “You know how this works.”
“No wonder you stole my fucking motorcycle. Daddy wouldn’t give you the keys to the car.”
“I said shut up!”
“Come over here and make me.”
“No,” he spat. “You’re beat, bro. I wanted to just sit back and watch you tear your life apart, but you caught that little bit of magic and yanked it back out. My bad, but I’ll take this.” Shoving Tabitha’s fallen corpse disdainfully out of his way, he flipped over an old plastic milk crate and took a seat. He pulled a small ring of keys from his pocket, twirling them idly in one hand, then palmed them tauntingly. “All I got to do is wait. You dropped your gun. You dropped your blade. You can’t get at the other one, and the spell on that handcuff is sucking your strength. You’ve got zero access to the Shadowside, and if you try, it’ll drain you faster.”
Noisily, he scooted forward on the crate, an avid look of sadism twisting his youthful features. “You’ve still got a hand free. Want to try breaking your thumb? It won’t work, but I’ll fap to the sound.” He spread his knees and mimed the gesture at his crotch, keys jangling with the rhythm.
“You’re a sick little fuck,” I spat.
“That’s not what Tabby said last night,” he gloated. “I think she kind of liked it.” Reaching to where she lay behind him, he seized the corpse by the hair, turning her head so her eyes stared blindly into the circle. All the life animating her was gone, but I had no doubt her soul was still in there, forced to watch and helpless to do anything about it.
“Oh, your face, Zack, your face!” He slapped his knee, braying nastily. “Why the hell do you care so much? They’re fruit flies. Here and gone again.” He snapped his fingers inches from the corpse’s nose, then flicked her eyeball. “Like that.”
“Leave her alone,” I said.
“Or you’ll what?”
Wordless rage erupted from my throat. It ended in a thready wheeze. He wasn’t bluffing about the handcuff. A tunnel of narrowing lights chewed my vision. Gripping my trapped wrist, I put all my weight on the pipe above me. If I couldn’t get out of the cuff itself, maybe I could yank it from its mooring. For incentive, I envisioned closing my hands around Zuriel’s throat until his face turned purple. As I thrashed, vibrations ratcheted from one end of the basement to the other, shaking down a rain of plaster and cobwebs, some of which landed on my lashes.
The pipe barely budged.
“Fuck you,” I yelled, flinging the invective at the handcuff, the pipe, my brother Zuriel, and the whole damned situation. I thumped the metal uselessly with the stinging heel of my free hand. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“They don’t build ’em like they used to. Good thing this house is old as shit,” my captor said. “Ready to talk yet?”
In excruciating detail, I explained what he could do with his questions.
“And you act like I’m crude,” he laughed. “No skin off my back. You’ll pass out soon enough, and then the real fun can start.” He tented his fingers, tapping them lightly against his lips. I could almost see the shadow of wings rising behind him in the weak, jumping light of the candles. Or maybe it was just shadows. My head was spinning. “You can save yourself a lot of pain and tell me what you did with Tashiel. I know you must’ve killed him, but how’d you keep him from coming back?” For an instant, his arrogant mask slipped, and all I saw was a scared little boy. His voice shrilled with hate and hurt and longing. “Why won’t he come back like he promised?”
That was it, then. The reason for all of this. The kid felt abandoned and I was to blame.
If Tashiel was half as bad as Zuriel, the fucker deserved whatever I’d done.
Dryly, I cackled. “For a guy who seems to know me so well, there are some gaping holes in your recon,” I said. “I don’t remember Tashiel. Even if I wanted, I couldn’t help.”
“You don’t forget your brothers,” he hissed. “You can walk away because you’re a spineless shit, but you never forget.”
“Fine, whatever.” I groaned. My tongue felt like it didn’t fit in my mouth any more. “Torture me. Murder me. It won’t get you what you want.” My head dropped forward and I almost gave myself whiplash when I jerked it back up. My thoughts stumbled.
Zuriel was standing. I’d missed him getting off the crate. Rapidly, I blinked my eyes, fighting to focus, but the room was smeared with patches of darkness. The rush of blood in my ears sounded like the flurry of soft wings.
“Oh, I’m not going to hurt you, bro,” he promised. “I’ve fought beside you long enough to know that you don’t care what happens to you.” Casually, he kicked at Tabitha’s corpse. “I’m going to hurt them. Rip them to pieces while you watch.” Nastily he grinned, and the anticipation of torture gleamed with sick light in his eyes. “The priest. The cop. Even that little black chick who drools on herself.”
The others were bad enough, but his mere mention of Halley threw me into a panicked frenzy. For her sake, I tried to suppress the reaction, but there was no containing the flood of rage at what this monster would likely do to the girl. Triumphant, Zuriel tapped both fists to his chest, following it up with a taunting gesture like some wannabe white gangster.
“How’s my recon now, bitch?” He looked ridiculous, but the naked bloodlust in his eyes was deadly serious. Straining against the short chain of the cuff, I surged forward in the circle, screaming my fury in a language older than Western Civilization. Zuriel basked in the reaction, so pleased with himself, he didn’t notice Tabitha’s hand twitch near the heel of his boot.
Her fingers curled, then went limp again.
That wasn’t right. Beyond the circle, nothing powered her broken flesh.
Just rigor mortis. Has to be.
Again she twitched. Zuriel caught the motion this time and glanced in her direction. His brows knit, but he shrugged to himself—dismissing it as I had—and turned his attention back to me. When he did, a shadow briefly darkened her features. My first thought was cacodaimon, then the fetid air of the cellar blossomed inexplicably with the scent of jasmine. My head filled with the muffled flight of downy wings.
That shadow came again, like a hawk in overhead passage.
Not a hawk, I thought. An owl.
The Lady of Shades fluttered on the edge of perception—it was her, or a hopeful delusion. I didn’t know what she could do to help. My thoughts spun drunkenly, consciousness circling like water down a drain. Even so, I shouted obscenities until my lungs ached, keeping my brother fixated on me. He seemed oblivious to her presence.
Maybe she wasn’t really there.
“Won’t be long now,” he chuckled. “You’re losing it, bro.” Dangling the keys from one finger, Zuriel softly applauded my failing swansong with his favorite mocking clap. Abruptly, his haughty assurance melted.
Tabitha jumped him from behind.
Lailah’s owl hovered like a standard behind her—visible outside of my dreams for the first time in months. Soot-gray wings outstretched, the strigiform avatar rained a benediction of power upon the dead woman. Not godly rays of light, but a surging stream of shadows, strong and subtle as silk. Tabitha didn’t need Zuriel’s spell or his circle. From beyond the grave, Lailah flooded her with a memory of life.
But how long could she sustain it?
The effort stole the air from the low-ceilinged basement. The pooling candles died away, until only one remained. In a welter of near-darkness, Zuriel danced and thrashed as the dead woman wrapped an arm around his throat. Power, cold as light through a glacier, shimmered at his fingers, casting wild shapes across both their faces as he clawed to get away.
Wherever he touched, sparks trailed, raising red welts along her skin. With the plodding persistence of the dead, she ignored the pain, prying the keys from his hand. Her other arm never left his neck.
Heaving air into her stagnant lungs, she whipped her hand backward and aimed for where I hung in the circle.
“Get yourself out of here!” Her voice rattled wetly.
The jangling ring of keys flew in a tall arc that brushed the rafters. Shouting incoherently, he tried to lurch after them, but she held him back, clinging with the same tenacity that had marked her struggle with me. He bucked like a mechanical bull cranked to its most dangerous setting, but she locked her ankles around him and hugged his throat. He tried to get his jaw under the crook of her elbow, but she shoved on the back of his head, keeping him firmly in a sleeper hold that robbed him of breath. The magic wreathing his fingers arced and hissed, scorching her skin, but nothing convinced her to slacken that grip.
Only dumb luck enabled me to catch the keys as they crashed into me. I missed them the first time and they smacked against my jacket, snagging on a zipper then sliding toward the floor. With a spastic movement borne of pure desperation, I slapped them against my stomach, stabbing the palm of my hand with one of the bristles of metal, but stalling their descent.
My fingers trembled as I reached for the encircling cuff, and half expected to drop the whole ring before I even got to the damned lock.
“Get the fuck off me, you crazy bitch!” Zuriel shrieked. Half the words were a garbled slur. His face was purpling, eyes bulging as he choked. A thread of spittle ran from lips to chin.
Tabitha never faltered, and I didn’t feel so bad that she had handed me my ass. She was all joint locks and tricky holds—not big, but agile and tenacious. His more-than-human strength didn’t count for much when she robbed him of leverage at every turn.
The sleeper hold was working. He had one of his blades out, a short, wicked punch-dagger alive with magnesium flame, but he hadn’t brain enough to use it. Blindly, he stabbed upward instead of sawing at her legs or the arm still choking him. She dodged him easily, face buried safely between his shoulders.
In the light of the solitary candle, I could barely see the keyhole. Metal rattled against metal as I fumbled to hit it, but repeatedly missed the mark. Finally, I got it, but for a sick instant I feared the key wouldn’t get the job done. The cuff would open, but the binding would remain, snaring me in a web of will and power until all of my consciousness drained to black.
A muffled click, and the cuff came loose.
Glinting sigils flared needle-sharp and white as winter. Power bit one last time into my arm, and the sigils faded—then the whole thing swung loose and my dead limb dropped nerveless against my side.
Nearly pitching forward, I bent to scoop my fallen dagger from the sticky floor. With one arm flopping, I had to work the blade’s point into my concealed holster. Otherwise I might accidentally gut myself. It hung awkwardly inside of my jacket. The pistol I tucked at the small of my back. With all my ammo spent, it was useless.
Unsteadily, I turned toward the fight.
I had to do something.
“Don’t tarry, majnun,” Tabitha cried.
Before I could wonder at her use of that word, Zuriel fumbled something pale and small from one of his pockets. Even in the magic-saturated pall of the stinking basement, I could taste the item’s thrumming power. It was a relic—one of a rare few objects that acted as a portable Crossing to the Shadowside. With the final reserves of his strength, Zuriel used it. There was a sound like ripping canvas and the air around them distorted. Then, in a hiss of shadows, both angel and corpse vanished.
Lailah’s owl was nowhere to be found.
33
As the final candle sizzled to an ember, darkness choked all direction from the room. I lurched in the vicinity of the stairs only to crash noisily over a tumble of boxes. The meaty thump of my boot told me I’d found the dead realtor. At least he hadn’t gone anywhere.
I toed him again, just to be sure. The thready giggle that erupted from my throat seemed worrisome, but I didn’t have enough brain left to process the reason. Too many of my overtaxed synapses were flailing around the problem of Tabitha.
She shouldn’t have gone with Zuriel. Not that it was strictly impossible for an Anakim to carry another person into the Shadowside—it was just damned difficult. But the confluence of abilities and the effort involved… I couldn’t grok it. Not with those two. She should have sloughed off when he made the transition.
Maybe because she was dead already, that somehow changed the rules. Or maybe Lailah changed the rules for everyone. But the owl was gone. I couldn’t ask her.
“Worry about it later and move,” I muttered, less concerned about talking to myself than the breathless wheeze my voice had become. The searing numbness running from shoulder to fingers reminded me that nothing was fine right now, and I’d be royally fucked if Zuriel popped back to attack again.
Orienting off the murdered realtor, I staggered for the exit. Climbing the stairs was a little better—the choking miasma of death grew distant, along with the brain-numbing buzz of sacrificial magic. My head began to clear, though the rest of me still felt like shit. Once out into the night, I took heaving lungfuls of the cool September air, trading the stink of corpses and clotted blood for damp grass and the subtle burn of turning leaves.
I stared at my parked motorcycle, slow to process the problem it created. Its very presence was incriminating. Despite the gunfire, no sirens shrilled in the distance, but that wasn’t going to last. Police would find this mess eventually, and the less evidence I left of myself, the better. Bullets and casings peppered the basement. That was bad enough. I needed to get the Vulcan out of sight and put another call to Bobby. Remy, too—especially if Bobby didn’t have the traction necessary to make my presence disappear.
Remy. Remington.
Sensation was returning to my dead arm, but not fast enough. I couldn’t ride the motorcycle one-handed. Maybe if I stashed it in Marjory’s garage… Awkwardly, I slipped the bike into neutral and tried walking it to the street. I nearly dropped it before I got to the bottom of the drive. With the bum arm, this wasn’t happening.
“Fuck it,” I muttered, and left it where it was. Angled sideways across the drive, it was even more obvious, and there was nothing I could do about it. Digging my knuckles into the meat of my tingling arm, I continued drunkenly down the lane, finally making it to the Hellcat.
Dropping behind the wheel, I tugged the phone off its charger and called Bobby. His personal line went straight to voicemail. I hung up without leaving a message. This wasn’t the kind of thing I wanted in the Cloud, and while I hated putting this through on his work phone, he needed to know what had happened out here—especially if I got myself arrested.
The work phone went to voicemail, as well.
Still ignoring me. Yeah, that was it.
It wasn’t because someone had gotten to him already.
Not because he was trapped somewhere.
Or dead.
“Fucking stop,” I told myself. My hands were shaking. My head wasn’t working right—it felt like it had been shoved through a Vitamix. Belatedly, I stuck the keys in the ignition. Not that I should be driving, but I couldn’t stay here.
Hastily, I tapped the number for Remy, switching the device to speaker and balancing it on the dash. He, at least, picked up. The instant he did, a flood of electronica pulsed from the phone, loud enough that I could have been standing right next to him at Club Heaven.
I didn’t bother with a greeting.
“There’s a problem with a house here at the end of the block,” I said. “Basement’s a horror show. Human sacrifice, circle, blood. I left bullets everywhere—”
Remy cut in sharply, raising his voice to be heard over the music. “Zaquiel, slow down. It’s loud in here.” The acoustics shifted as he cupped a hand over the phone. “I can’t hear you clearly.”
“Shut up,” I said. I smacked the steering wheel with the flat of my bad hand. Jagged scissors of nerve pain cut all the way to the bone. “Just listen and shut up.”
“Zaquiel, what on earth—”
I took the turn onto Westminster in a squealing arc, practically shouting over his objections. “That fucker killed her, and then he killed her daughter. Strung her up. All for bait.” My voice was high and reedy. “Bait for me.”
Muttering a comment I didn’t catch, Remy traded the thudding bass of Club Heaven’s main dance floor for something quieter—probably one of the soundproofed back rooms.
“Where are you?” he demanded.
“Parma,” I said, like he should have known that.
“What on earth are you doing in Parma?” In the background, a door opened and closed, briefly filling the quiet with more dance music. A low voice, maybe one of Heaven’s no-neck bouncers, asked him something. Remy was on the clock. He covered the mic completely, muffling all but a hint of his terse response. I bashed the steering wheel again in frustration. The car swerved, and I over-corrected, crossing fully into the oncoming lane.
“I went to Marjory’s,” I snapped. “That bastard killed her. Ripped her fingers off. I…” My air ran out. Sucking a heaving breath, I tried to remember what I’d been saying. At random, I took a turn in the rabbit warren of back streets nestling Marjory’s neighborhood. None of the signs looked right.
“Marjory,” Remy repeated. “Fuck.” The word, from his lips, felt foreign. I had never heard him swear like that before. “Do you mean little Jory—Karl Kazinsky’s daughter?”
“Jory?” I echoed. A NO OUTLET sign flashed lazy yellow blinkers. I sped past, barely registering the words. “Karl? Did he write a bunch of love-letters? Guy was kind of kinky.”
It was like he didn’t hear me. “Explain what’s going on, Zaquiel. Start from the top,” he demanded. His accent thickened the more annoyed he got—and the more worried. “Who killed Jory? And why?”
“That bastard Zuriel,” I said. “He threatened all of them. Every single one.”
“You’re still breaking up. Did you say Zuriel? Are you absolutely sure? Does he know about Karl’s connection to Sal?”
The Resurrection Game Page 20
