Except I knew firsthand the part that was likely to kill with impunity—and without regret. I struggled with it daily.
Shoving away those thoughts, I skimmed the lingering impressions. Sal and the others clustered at my back, distractingly close. They might have been speaking. I didn’t hear. All my focus went to blocking them from awareness so I could better read the dirty psychic stain on the bike and pavement.
Finally, I caught the break I needed. The distance helped, and maybe my own anger, so I could parse the lines more clearly between my feelings and those coming from what the struggle had left behind. No further memories whirled to suck me into their vortex, and I saw the faintest trail of Zuriel’s bitter, white energy. Pale and fading, it led from the bike to the garage, then further, to the sagging slats of a weathered backyard fence. A smear of what could have been blood—black in this poor lighting—arced across one freshly broken slat.
Beyond the fence stretched another yard and, beyond that, a different street. The properties here were stitched together closely, separated only by a thin line of trees.
How incapacitated was Remy that Zuriel could drag the vampire back to that tree line, ducking with his burden through the gap in the fence? And once he got there, how far could the little bastard get? I could carry Remy without too much effort. Anakim strength wasn’t on par with Superman, but it was impressive, nevertheless. Still, the kid was tall, but coltish and lanky. He hadn’t finished filling out. Did physics matter? How far could we push past our mortal limitations?
I had no clue.
Suspicion gnawed at me. Bundling Remy into the nearby house would have been easier and made more sense. No trail led that way, no convenient drops of telltale blood, but maybe that was intentional. A gambit to throw me off. The kid was adept at expunging his presence. Except he’d practically gift-wrapped the psychic spillage on the Vulcan. The only thing it needed was a shiny red bow.
Either he’d had too much on his hands with wrangling the vampire, or he’d left the layers of psychic garbage expressly to distract me. I didn’t want to set foot in that house where he’d murdered Tabitha—didn’t have the stomach to enter that stinking basement again—but I had to know—at least to rule the place out.
“Zaquiel!” Sal snapped. She closed her hand on my shoulder and gave a harsh shake. I smacked her wrist before even thinking about it, whirling to stab a finger into the plates at her chest.
“Don’t fucking touch me,” I snarled. She didn’t even blink when I leaned into her. “I don’t want what’s in your head inside my head. Not when I’m doing shit like that. You could’ve messed everything up.”
Not remotely chastened, she glowered at me from the stratosphere. Belatedly, I noticed the cold metal eyes of Ava and Tanisha’s pistols, both aimed directly at my head. Javier lingered behind Sal’s ferocious women, keeping watch.
“I think he went at least one street over, but we need to check this house first,” I said. My voice was tight and I held myself stiffly. “I’m checking my phone now,” I added, waiting to dredge it from my pocket. Ava’s weapon relaxed, though Tanisha still kept me in her sights. Not sure why she even bothered—at this range, even a crappy shot wasn’t going to miss.
The glow of the screen ripped away my night vision and I hissed an unhappy curse. The countdown was still running.
Seventeen minutes.
Time enough to give the place a quick check, then, hopefully, still find Remy before Zuriel decided to shove my brother screaming into his next life.
44
Tanisha insisted on doing the whole sweep-and-clear thing again, creeping with her flashlight through the dark. After the first room, I shouldered her out of my way. We didn’t have time for that kind of caution, and I knew where I needed to look.
Only a few hours had passed since I’d been down in that abattoir, but the approach to the basement was rank. The door was closed—I couldn’t remember clearly if I’d been the one to shut it on my way out—and when I pulled it open, I gagged on the stink. Tanisha caught up, choking, the whites of her eyes reflecting pale backwash from her LED light.
“That’s a body,” she said. “Maybe more than one.” She took small sips of air, breathing through her mouth.
“No shit,” I replied. “Get your light on these stairs.”
“You’re not my boss, hotshot,” she snapped.
“Fuck it,” I said. “I got my own.” She tensed as I went for my phone. I held the device where she could see it. Letting the countdown run in the background—fourteen minutes—I opened the flashlight app and aimed the beam into the pitchy dark. There was a Crossing down here. I could feel it. That and… something else. Probably residual stuff from the circle. Maybe. Beside me, Tanisha twitched as the light caught all the photos messily tacked to the right-hand wall. I’d forgotten them entirely.
“What the hell’s all that?”
Grimly, I realized exactly what it was. Photos of Tabitha, Marjory… and me as a teenager. The three of us as a group or in pairs. One seemed to be my college graduation photo. There was a picture of Marjory and Remy, smiling together. The last time I’d come down these stairs, I’d been following a trail of blood with only distant candles to light my path. I’d noticed something on the walls, but I hadn’t bothered to really look. Now, in the glare of Tanisha’s flashlight, there was no missing Zuriel’s punishing taunt.
“My brother’s sick version of This is Your Life,” I spat, and I started downward.
“What?” She lingered on the lip of the topmost stair, coughing as the stench rose up.
“Never mind,” I called back. “You’re probably too young.”
“White boy, don’t you talk down to me like that,” she said. “You don’t got that right.”
I shook my head, refusing to respond. With determined effort, I shoved the photos from my mind. I could ask Remy about them once we’d saved him from Zuriel.
If we saved him. I counted off another minute before I reached the bottom. Thirteen. The beam from my phone’s flashlight app found the outermost edge of the jellied blood. The wax from the spent candles spread through the slick pool of black like some kind of creeping fungus, lumpy and pale and wrong.
Tanisha’s light bobbed on the wall behind me as she descended the stairs. One step, third from the last, creaked beneath her weight, but otherwise her movements were soundless. I wondered again where she’d worked before signing on with Sal.
Doesn’t matter, I reminded myself.
Lifting my own light, I faltered as I finally saw why Zuriel had opted not to bring Remy down to this particular basement.
The place was already full.
“Uh, Tanisha,” I said. My voice strained to be quiet, but a part of me was screaming. Quickly, I aimed my light at the floor, hoping I hadn’t woken anything up. Backing toward the bottom of the stairs, I forced myself to move slowly. Very slowly. Instinct told me swift motion would be bad. Already on the last step, Tanisha shoved into me—or I stepped back on her. It didn’t really matter. We collided.
She cursed and dropped her flashlight. It hit the ground and rolled in a wide and lazy arc, finally coming to rest against a lumpy bit of wax. The thing was durable—nothing shattered and its light never wavered.
The pale beam shone cold against a pair of blood-spattered tennis shoes.
“What the hell is that?” she choked.
I didn’t answer immediately, just continued pressing until I drove her against the wall.
“Get back up the stairs,” I hissed, hoping the sound wouldn’t carry. We’d already been making too much noise. “Now.”
A tremor rocked the nearest sneaker as the foot inside it twitched. Four people of various ages stood together in the dark. The LED’s pale upwash painted them in hazy black and white so they seemed like living shadows milling within the circle.
Zuriel had been busy meeting neighbors and making friends—into zombies.
Three men and a woman—none of them Tabitha, I noted with q
ueasy relief—had flickering sigils scored into their chests. Their empty eyes were open, and grisly smiles slashed their throats. Blood drenched each of them, adding considerably to the mess that pooled around their feet. Like silent, lurching hounds, they clustered around the Crossing forged by Tabitha’s grueling death.
Guard dogs. I felt sick. He killed four more people, just to have guard dogs.
But he couldn’t have bound so many people in the time it took me to leave Parma and come back, not while also abducting and restraining Remy. This took planning and preparation. A lot of preparation. The oppressive emptiness of Marjory’s neighborhood took on ominous significance. Grimly, I wondered how many of its residents he’d murdered in their homes.
As I slowly digested the depth of my brother’s sickness, the first figure stumbled forward with ponderous, jerky motions. A middle-aged woman, she was dressed in sweats—the kind that almost certainly said PINK across the butt. She’d probably been out jogging when Zuriel caught her. I could almost hear her screaming from the prison of her flesh. I’d have to help her—help all of them. To consider any other option was beyond cruel. But only later, once Remy was safe.
A second joined the first, his red-billed baseball cap askew on a balding head. Greasy wisps of yellow hair hung like webbing across his face. The LED beam traced his sleepwalk shuffle, and his sagging features became visible in the upwash of my own light.
Tanisha’s throat clenched around a scream, reducing the sound to such a high-pitched whistle, I was amazed her vocal chords could sustain it. Rooted in place, she hunched miserably behind me. Whatever she’d signed on for, fighting zombies hadn’t been in the job description. Pivoting so I could move around her without exposing my back, I shoved her roughly toward the first step.
“I don’t think they can leave the circle,” I whispered, “but let’s not wait to find out.”
Tanisha didn’t respond, so I shoved harder. Her whole body twitched. For a minute, I thought she was going to whack me with the butt of her pistol, but then she started moving—slowly at first, then taking the steps three at a time. I was right behind her.
We made it to the top quickly.
From the deep shadows below, the wood of the third step creaked.
“Oh, hell no,” Tanisha cried, slamming the door. It shut with the thunder of a rifle shot. Slapping wildly at both door and frame, she felt around for any kind of lock mechanism, driving it home with a click.
“Zaquiel?” Saliriel called. She was elsewhere in the house, but her voice carried, so I couldn’t pinpoint her exact location. Maybe the living room. I didn’t feel like giving her the guided tour, so I kept my mouth shut. Instead, I hustled for the back door. My mental count had faltered—thanks to zombies. Hoping not to blow my sight too badly, I squinted at the phone.
Ten minutes.
Fuck.
“There’s dead in the cellar,” I called. “Four, I think. They might be coming up the stairs. Don’t care. None of them are Remy. I’m going to the next street over.”
Wood splintered loudly. Tanisha yelled and a gun went off. Someone with a surprisingly high and reedy voice—it had to be Javier—shouted in response. I kept running, bursting through the back door, and doubled my speed, pelting across the yard.
Nine minutes.
Through the fence I went. The smear on the wood was definitely blood. In my pocket, the phone buzzed once—a text. I couldn’t bring myself to stop and check it. It wouldn’t be anything good.
45
The faint trace left by Zuriel picked up on the other side of the fence. Feeling like the psychic equivalent of a bloodhound, I extended my senses in the widest possible net, doing my best to follow where the patchy trail led. I had no doubt it would eventually disappear, but for the moment, it offered at least a hint of direction.
The houses were as eerily silent as on Parmenter, all of them locked up for the night. Here and there, the spectral lights of a television flickered behind thick curtains shut against the late September chill, but otherwise the homes might as well have been abandoned. There were no streetlights to stand as beacons against the dark, although a few of the houses had porch or garden lights that still burned.
Halfway to the first intersection, spattered blood on the pavement told me I was on the right track. Crouching before the irregular pattern, I touched my fingers lightly to the drops. Long dried, though I still felt a hint of Remy’s energy, edged with bright notes of panic, fear, and pain.
Senses still wide open, I peered at each of the houses within easy walking distance. Even assuming Remiel didn’t struggle, I couldn’t imagine his abductor getting far. That meant Zuriel picked a location of opportunity, killing the occupants, or he’d selected a destination ahead of time.
Six minutes.
The dwindling count ran inexorably through the back of my thoughts. As if force could milk their secrets, I pressed my fingers harder against the flaking drops of blood. An irrational urge rose up—to taste the cast-off, press it directly to my tongue and better read the information it contained.
That had to be the Eye talking. Shocked and queasy, I shoved the thought from my head. I would find Remy on my own terms.
All the houses to my right showed signs of occupation, their dreaming inhabitants blissfully oblivious to the troubles of the night. Cars in the driveways. Curtains sighing in the open window of an upstairs room. Faint strains of music, too soft to make anything out. The steady gleam of a porch lamp, surrounded by a frenzy of late season moths.
The other side of the street held more promise. Two of the houses had no visible vehicles and were completely dark. Another had only a watery light trickling from the basement through thick panels of glass. A minivan sat in the middle of that driveway, its nose almost kissing the garage. Decals arced across its back window, starkly white against the darkened expanse. Sighing trees surrendered dead foliage to a sudden gust of wind and something creaked from the center of the yard. I tensed, instantly ready for a fight.
It was nothing but a weathered FOR SALE sign, bent over so far it nearly disappeared in the rustling grass.
Leaving the blood, I bolted across the empty street, a heady rush of adrenaline kicking my heart. Tugging the wilted sign upright, I angled its face toward a weak spill of light. It was the same company as on Parmenter, right down to the dead realtor’s face.
This had to be the place.
Five minutes.
46
As I approached the front door, I got my confirmation. Pale sigils flickered in a rough line across the threshold, continuing up either side of the frame. Same story with the front windows. The symbols looked rushed but lethally effective. I recognized a few of the nastier combinations. Zuriel had the place warded to the teeth.
Little shit works fast.
Cautiously, I passed my hand across the door frame—close enough to study the energy of the inscription but not so close to trigger a response. The crackling burn against my fingers told me what I needed to know. I wasn’t getting in that way.
Checking the windows, I made my way to the back. Zuriel had tagged everything. The light from the basement shone through narrow strips of glass block, and, while they lacked wards, there was no getting through. Stymied, I threw one leg over the fence that separated the front yard from the back.
From one street over, a swift series of three shots echoed through the night. Nearby, a dog barked wildly in protest. No further sounds followed, but for the first time since separating from the rest of the group, I worried that Sal and her thugs might not be all right.
Four minutes.
As gracefully as possible, I dropped to the grass on the other side, landing solidly on my feet. As soon as I hit, my smartphone vibrated. After those gunshots, I couldn’t ignore it. I pressed my thumb on the main button, tapping the passcode, and shielded the glow against my body as the screen came to life.
Two messages. The most recent was from a number not programmed into my contacts. It had arrived afte
r the sounds of gunfire.
Where are you?
One digit off from Remiel’s cell, it had to belong to Sal, so at least the decimus was fine. She had my cellphone number, too, though I’d never shared it with her.
Before tapping a response, I checked the other message. Remy’s phone. Two words.
Come alone.
The threat was implied, and it was an empty one. Zuriel didn’t plan to let him go, even if I made it in time. So it was time to change the game. I pushed the talk-to-text function, whispering quickly into my phone. The message appeared on the screen.
I’m at the house. He says to come alone.
Wards all over first floor. I’m going in from back.
Sal’s response buzzed almost immediately thereafter.
You’re a fool.
How she typed so quickly with those freakish nails, I had no clue. Again, I whispered into my phone.
Probably. 103 Whitehaven.
After that text went through, I shut the phone off, shoving it deep into the inner pocket opposite the SIG Legion. The hard case of the smartphone jostled for a moment against the wooden puzzlebox that hid the Stylus, so I tugged that part of my jacket until the two items settled into a more comfortable—and silent—arrangement.
Then I ran for a little terrace stretching above a narrow patio. It wasn’t a porch itself, so it didn’t have any stairs, but I thought I could jump high enough to drag myself over, and there was a window on the second story within reach of its flat expanse. He couldn’t have warded all of the windows—not on the second floor. It was an issue of economy. He wouldn’t have had the time.
Two minutes.
Neither did I—assuming the thirty-minute countdown meant anything at all. At top speed, I barreled for the back patio, leaping with all my might at the last possible second. The jump carried me high—high enough to get a solid grip on the edge of the overhang, plus enough momentum to help hoist my weight to the top. It was quick, but it wasn’t quiet—the whole structure rattled and creaked in protest underneath my hundred and eighty pounds. I ignored it, hurrying across warped asphalt shingles toward the window.
The Resurrection Game Page 27
