So this is the end those runners met, I do not envy them, though I’m only a little better off. She doesn’t wait for our response; she’s advancing when I find my voice.
“If you spill one drop of my blood you will be nothing but ash sucked back into Hell!”
She doesn’t jump away as I had hoped, she leans in even closer. Her bulbous black eyes blink. I don’t get my hands over my ears in time and the hiss shoots through me like a spike. She says, “No, no, no little morsel. Only Raven Smithsies and Raven Smith is lifeless.”
I raise my arms, “I’m Raven Smith. Bite me and see!”
She laughs heartily and lunges forward. I close my eyes, cursing myself for telling her to bite me (stupid. Stupid. Stupid.). I squeeze my hands into fists, but no jaws clamp down, she doesn’t test me. When I open my eyes only her tail remains above the surface. It wheels around and smacks the back of our boat sending us spinning. Her fishy-tail submerges but only just, and we can see her path by the bubble of water that torpedoes toward shore as if shot out of a cannon.
As the boat rocks in her wake Albert stares after the sea-demon, “All those men...we did not know...”
“I think it’s time for us to go.”
He nods, “Yeah. So much for sneaking into Copenhagen unnoticed.”
The land mass in front of us looks nothing like a city. There are no twinkling lights, just flickering from sporadically placed fires. The night sky around it is masked by a layer of smoke.
Until now, I hadn’t really gotten a good look at the boat or the water around it; as, I was pretty busy at the beginning of my kidnapping. The open-air small speed boat has the characteristic Leijonskjöld color scheme: cream, white, and light wood, along with being sleek and impeccably maintained. The one incongruous thing about the interior is the black-velvet-lined open weapons case where a bench should probably be.
I settle onto a seat and let my aching head fall into my hands. Exhausted? Check. Incapacitating headache? Check, check.
“We’re almost to Kastellet,” Albert calls in the torrent of wind, “And many boats are coming for us!”
When I stand, I can see the boats too; all thirty of them, or more, taking formation as if they might zoom past us and go on migration. Yeah, I wish.
The land we’re heading for has the only artificial light I’ve seen, and what a lot of light it is. There must be searchlights illuminating every angle of that church, just like Madeline’s house. The view of the façade and spire are partly obstructed by other unlit-buildings, but St. Alban’s shines out like a beacon in the dark, literally.
If Stephen and Nicholas painted a target on St. Alban’s church, Albert and I are not only stringing the bow, we’re loosing the arrow. If we even get through that brigade we’ll be leading all those soul-bound directly into Copenhagen’s only remaining safe-haven.
I step up next to Albert and shout, “This is so wrong!”
He stares forward at the boats we’re on a collision course for. “What choice do we have now?” His giant hands are white-knuckled squeezing the steering wheel.
I look behind us at our route back. Boat lights, everywhere, they are on all sided of us.
“They’re closing in,” I say, “We’re surrounded.” My voice sounds so steady, maybe it’s because I’ve died once before, more than once.
Albert turns to me, “No, we’re getting through. Quick, see that chair, pull out its back.”
I rush to do as he says finding a sleek red contraption encased by the seat; it looks like the Jet Ski’s baby brother. It’s about the size of one of Chauncey’s suitcases, shaped like a bullet with two handles.
“There’s one in the other seat too!” Albert yells back, “Grab both, we’re going into the Oresund!”
“Are you serious? Do you have wet suits?” I ask.
He grabs a long metallic pole, uses it to brace the steering wheel and dashes back to me. “No time!” He kneels to rip the other seat-back off and shrugs off his weapon gear, but keeps the hammer.
The lights from the oncoming boats make the wind shield look like an illuminated screen. What, are they just going to all crash into us and hope that they’re the one to kill me?
I crouch to peer over the seat. Um, yeah, that’s exactly what they’re going to do, in about one minute. I drop back down and examine the little sea-scooter. I whip my gaze to Albert, “But, that demon-thing is still in there!”
Albert doesn’t respond, he takes both of his mitt-sized hands and simultaneously shoves me and the scooter into the Oresund.
I didn’t expect it; my eyes are open when they hit the water and they sting through several blinks. The boat’s wake sends the scooter one way and pulls me beneath the surface
So. Cold.
All the oxygen sucks out of my lungs.
I struggle to the surface. I hear Albert splashing into the water; it’s barely audible over the water sloshing against my ears. The scooter bobs like a buoy just beyond the boats wake. I struggle to it (getting a couple salty mouthfuls) and grab onto the handles.
Albert zooms up to me like a huge blond dolphin, “Green is go. Dive. Now!” He whips around, heading in the direction of the soon to be many-boat-pile-up, and disappears beneath the surface.
Green is go. I examine the handles, press the green button and shoot forward. Water splashes my face; my shorts threaten to slip off. And I know I’m going in the wrong direction. I see boats, so many boats...
I inhale, hold my breath, and dive. So cold. My face literally hurts from the water temperature. I can’t see anything, but I know I’m still going the wrong way.
I veer around; the little sea motor obeys my slightest move. Now, I see more… nothing.
My eyes sting but I know I need to keep them open. I chant to myself in my head: one, two, three, open. Errrr. This time for real, I’ll keep them open, now. Ignore the sensation of water blasting into my eyesballs, ignore it.
Even though I want to get used to the temperature, when suddenly I can’t feel the cold on my legs anymore, it terrifies me. It probably means my lower body is hypothermic, or something equally awful.
Then, I see something, a light, and shadows passing it. There’s a big white light. And I know I must be going the right way, and that’s St. Alban’s.
Through the light, black shapes speed toward each other and then merge, like a silent gathering shadow. The shadows are...boats. Oh, god. They are crashing right above me.
Suddenly, I need air. I tell myself: I can hold it. But I know that I can’t. I swallow the last of the air in my mouth. My entire body clenches. Hold it. Hold it. Too many boats.
I have to go up.
I aim for the far side of the largest shadow; the darkness above is moving, shifting, and sections of it sink into the water around me. I don’t think I can make it, I need air.
Something bumps me and I shoot off course.
Oh. My. God. What was that?
The last of my breath bubbles up to the darkness above. My motor abruptly stops. And I’m bumped again.
Without my permission, my eyes close. Something slippery locks over my lips, and air, cool sweet honey-suckle tasting air fills my mouth. I gasp in more, and more. I try to open my eyes but my lids can not, will not, unfasten.
I inhale this otherworldly kiss. I’m locked in a moment of stillness, as if the boats aren’t crashing above me, as if I’m not drowning. Maybe I am drowning; maybe this is the kiss of death...
No, I’ve tasted death’s kiss, and it didn’t taste like honey. And, somehow I know this is something… someone… sublime.
The slippery thing, whatever it is, releases its hold on my mouth. As if I never took my finger from the green button, the motor speeds forward; I only just manage to grasp the handles.
With some effort I peel my eyes open just as I pass from under the cloud of wreckage that pours boat fragments all around me.
I’m not cold anymore. Either my whole body is too numb to feel anything, or whatever just (blessed? saved
?) helped me, took the cold with it. Clearly demons are not the only beings swimming around the Oresund.
Another shadow passes over me speeding for the pile-up.
It doesn’t make any sense. If these people, these boats, are just blindly crashing into our boat hoping to be the one to kick-my-bucket, how will the demons know which one did it? Demons are obviously not omniscient; if they were, Andras would know I’m not dead and we wouldn’t be in this whole mess.
The demons must have some way of knowing which soul-bound to give their soul back to; demons can’t make promises that they won’t keep. And if they know who to give the soul back to, or the lack-there-of, they’ll know I’m not dead. But how do they know?
But then I realize: I know the answer. Demons don’t give souls back, Andras told me that. There’s only one entity capable of giving a soul back. There’s a master out there, pulling all our strings, arranging the whole dance.
Satan.
He knows; he’s the omniscient one. He knows that I’m not dead just as he knew that my soul was stuck in my body and never went to purgatory. He’s the one offering the return of a soul in exchange for my death. The demons are just his messengers and his tools. This is all his game-plan, and I’m pitting myself against him, against the great deceiver.
So, demons can lie, but only if they believe the lie as truth. That demons said, “Raven Smith is lifeless.” She must have been told that I’m dead and believed it. And they can break promises, or at least Andras can if he doesn’t believe he’s breaking it, since to him I’m dead and the promise is worth nil.
As I near the lighted church, a small pier comes into view through the water. I aim for the surface to get a better look at the scene (and because I will eventually need to breathe), tilting the underwater-scooter toward the light and slowing down to emerge as inconspicuously as possible. The moment I surface, I am in desperate need of air. I gasp in; a chill trickles to every part of my body with each breath. My teeth chatter. I know I’m wasting time and I’m visible to the shore; but the sudden return of the cold stuns me for… too long.
Albert’s wide figure ducks behind a small dock. He’s close.
I tell myself that I can make it; I can go under water again. One, two, three… I dive.
I only have a hundred yards to travel, but the water in these yards is the least forgiving, it bites my fingers and toes and nips at my face. I force my eyes open just in time to push the red button and stop abruptly next to Albert, making a small thud sound as I bump into the pier.
Albert peers over the dock and doesn’t turn to acknowledge me.
There’s an earsplitting crack behind me. I whip my head around. My jaw drops.
The wreckage we left behind is catastrophic. Another boat hits the enormous pile-up of remains, sending debris and bodies flying like giant birds. Parts of the crash site are on fire; other sections of wreckage drift off or sink. But all of it, all, is pointless. And more boats are blindly pursuing their gruesome demise.
I let go of the scooter to hug myself, keeping afloat by kicking. I want to get out of the water; I want a warm bath or at least a fluffy towel. But, watching the tempest of death sinking into the Oresund, I know that running into St. Alban’s church would be just morally wrong.
“We’ll swim around the pier, climb up onto the sidewalk and run for those gates. There are maybe fifteen guards, make sure to hold up both wrists as you run...”
I turn to Albert. “No,” I say, shivering. “Albert this is wrong, we can’t go in there. Nicholas is right, if I go into St. Alban’s that...” I gesture to the crash site, “Will follow me.”
Albert grabs my scooter and stares over. He closes his eyes, “Raven we do not have a choice...”
“We do.” My teeth threaten to shatter from their chattering. “We can drive the scooters to Holmens Kirk, or farther, and run from there. I saw the map; we can get close to City Hall by water. You and I can finish this tonight. We don’t need to involve Stephen, Nicholas, or the people in Kastellet, we can finish this.”
He pauses to gaze away from me, but after a second he shakes his head. With one thrust he pushes the scooters under the pier. “It’s impossible. We can’t navigate through Copenhagen, at night, unarmed...”
All further discussion is brought to a screeching halt as something presses to the side of my head. Reacting on impulse I hit it away and spin, only to find a long black gun barrel swing back to aim its muzzle directly between my eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day Fifty-Six (continued)
The man must have slithered on his belly like a snake on the pier, to sneak up to us. He leans over, one elbow on the edge the other hand grasping the gun. Gun is a gross understatement, it’s closer to a modern-looking, handheld cannon, sleek and black and I’m sure it’ll do the job of killing me easily.
I could duck under the pier, but I doubt I can move faster than his trigger finger. My teeth chattering ceases as I stare into the barrel. I’ve never been at the end of a gun-barrel before, never even seen a gun this close. It’s hard to stay still, I can’t help bobbing up and down as I doggy-paddle.
The man hisses something in a language I can’t understand (possibly English; my brain is not in receiving-mode).
Albert moves, raising his hands slowly. He whispers, “Show your wrists.”
My upward movement is faster than I intend. The man tenses refocusing his aim, not that it’s needed with his super-gun.
Albert responds in the same language with a hushed tone while brushing away the blond hair plastered to his forehead.
The man immediately pulls the gun skyward and hops to a crouching position. Three other men, who I had no idea were on the pier, pop up with him. The man whispers furiously in another language, I don’t understand anything except Albert’s name. So this guy knows who Albert is, good news.
Albert grabs the top of the pier and pulls-up.
“Wait!” I hiss, “Albert, no.”
He doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t listen, he pulls his knees onto the dock and in a second he’s in a mirror position of the other commandos, only sopping wet.
“Albert!” I plead, “We could end this. Don’t go.”
He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m speaking. We might have entered a temporary alliance, but we are clearly not friends.
Yeah, stupid. The guy kidnapped me; did I really think he was going to listen to my opinions. Fat chance.
The man, who had the gun pointed at my third-eye a couple of seconds ago, offers a hand to me.
Albert and all the men (except the commando crouched in front of me) stand and stride down the pier. I’m about to yell something at Albert’s backside when he calls over his shoulder something that sounds like, “Greppa hennes.”
The helping hand of the crouched commando becomes a vice around my wrist.
I grab at his fingers trying to pull his hand off me, but he’s unyielding. He must have done something with his gun because his other hand wraps around my free wrist. He stands, pulls me out of the water and throws me over his shoulder all with the same motion.
I’m too shocked to fight.
No. No. No. This is all wrong. My entrance is about as obvious as it possibly could be.
I don’t fight, that’ll just draw more attention. “Put me down,” I whisper. “Please, I’ll go along with you. I just don’t want...” I trail-off, too jostled to speak. It’s no use; the man is not going to listen to me. I’m thankful that at least he’s running, maybe I won’t be noticed.
My wet clumps of hair hang down and bounce off the man’s armored shirt sending droplets in every direction with each stride he makes.
Somewhere to my right a woman gives out a high pitched giggle. My head whips around.
The woman stands a dozen feet away from where Albert and the commandos halted, just inside a large wrought-iron fence. The woman isn’t just giggling now; she’s bent forward, clutching at her middle, breathless with laughter.
I’m not
sure if it’s the man’s shoulder colliding with my stomach or the sight of Chauncey that knocks the wind out of me, but suddenly, I have a hard time getting air.
Albert and the commandos are yelling and the man carrying me runs even faster.
We skid inside the gate and I’m set down on the cobblestone sidewalk. By the time I find my feet, the man who had carried me, his earlier companions, and about twelve more soldiers have their weapons aimed at demon-Chauncey’s head.
She swaggers toward us, head thrown back and eyes closed. Her laughter is so loud it almost drowns out the distant screams and sounds of smashing timber.
Why aren’t they shooting her?
She stops just outside the open gate covering her heart with a dainty hand. The demon looks surprisingly well kempt, her blonde ringlets are neatly pinned around her exquisite face; well, she would be well kempt, if she wasn’t covered in blood. She’s wearing a hideous flower dress that the real Chauncey would have never been caught dead in, even sans blood.
“I thought...” She manages through her laughter, “…that you were smashed into fish-bait over there.” She flings an arm toward the wreckage. “You know what this means sugar-pop? It means, all those soul-bound just died for nothing. It’s so, so...” she clasps her hands around her cheeks, “…delightful.”
Albert, opens his mouth to say something but demon-Chauncey interrupts. Her tone snaps from joyous to deadly serious, “Hold it.” Her eyes blaze crimson as she stares at Albert, “They shoot me and Hayvee dies, slowly, along with your little bun. So, why don’t you just tell your men to aim at something else?”
Albert barks out an order and the commandos do just that.
She smiles, bearing sharp teeth, “It’s time to make a deal, Albert. I’ll trade you your beautiful pregnant wife’s life for...” She drums her hands on her lap, “Raven Smith, tied up, gagged, and thrown outside this gate.”
I check for Albert’s reaction, ready to make a run for it, but he’s not moving.
He takes a step toward Chauncey, “If Hayvee dies...”
“Oh, save it.” She swipes her hand through the air. Chauncey taps her fingernails on the bars while pacing the length of the gate. “I’ve been trying to get my soul-bound to desecrate St. Alban’s for weeks.” She grins. “You might be surprised how resistant they are to opening up Kastellet to us demons.” Chauncey sighs. “And now, you’ve handed me all the incentive they need. So maybe I should thank you, Raven Smith.” Her heavily mascara sticks together as she winks at me. A shark like smile starts to spread across her face.
The Deception Dance Page 26
