Her eyes darted around the bedroom. There wasn’t so much as a pair of scissors. Her mind raced through options. A leap out the first-story window wouldn’t even sprain an ankle. There might be razor blades in the attached bathroom. Kyler would let her pee herself before he left her alone in there. Electrical outlets along the wall. No power. And besides, she’d been shocked by those before and they barely made her heart flutter.
Heart flutter! She looked at the blue capsules on the floor, then sharply away so she didn’t telegraph her thoughts. She knew one of those was dangerous to take with a healthy heart. A handful ought to be damn near fatal. And that was the organ Oates needed. If she could get a few of those down, she’d be dead before the ceremony even began.
Kyler cocked his head, as if hearing something far away. He nodded. “Let’s go. Showtime.”
Dammit. Just when I had a plan… she thought.
He stepped aside and opened the bedroom door. He motioned her out with the rifle barrel.
One last chance came to her. She’d been nominated for a Daytime Emmy once. Time to see if she still had it. She blocked the scene in her head. She sketched her character, terrified bimbo actress. Action!
She stepped toward him, across the corpses on the floor. She dug the toe of her shoe under the woman’s wrist. She feigned alarm and fell forward, across the pills on the floor. One hand skated across the pool of dried blood. She shrieked like a little girl.
“Get the hell up!” Kyler said. “Now.”
She raised herself up with one hand and scooped up a handful of pills with her other. Kyler tugged at her shoulder and pushed her down the hallway.
He hadn’t noticed a thing. All those acting classes finally did something good.
She couldn’t just shove the pills in her mouth and swallow. Kyler struck her as the type who had tricks to get her vomiting in a hurry. She’d have to wait, find a time when no one was looking. She’d make sure the heart Oates prized so much became worthless.
Chapter Fifty-Five
Scott raced his truck through the deserted downtown streets. He blew through the stop sign on Main, spun the wheel and jerked his truck to a stop on the sidewalk right in front of his store. Out of the truck and halfway to the door, he realized he didn’t have the keys.
He whirled around and pulled the heavy, pagoda-like metal top off the town litter can by the curb, one of the civic projects he’d voted yea on what seemed like a century ago. He hauled back and launched it at the hardware store’s front door. It crashed through the glass and sailed into a display case, providing a little more collateral damage.
Scott dashed through the broken door. His feet slipped on the nuggets of broken glass that carpeted the polished wood floor. He skidded around to the back of the counter, and down to his knees. He slid the Summoner out from underneath, then fished around for the notes on satanic lore. He put both on the counter.
This is my father’s plan, he thought. I’m still following in his footsteps.
But his father had never thought Scott would track these particular footprints, since he’d never shared his supernatural knowledge with his son. Gary Tackett hoped his secret sin and all its aftermath would die with him. No such luck.
Scott ran down the paint aisle and returned shaking a clattering spray can of red. He grabbed the diagram of the demon’s trap and began to spray a copy of it onto the floor. The can kept clogging and Scott performed a mad combination of shaking and spraying to finish the circle and the collection of odd symbols around it. When he was done, he tossed the can down an aisle.
He turned to the counter and placed his hands in the handprint indentations. To his surprise, the disk stuck to his palms, and became feather-light. He stepped around so his back faced the shattered door and held the disk before him like a book. He read the inscription along the edge three times.
A swirling hologram appeared before him, just like the one Oates cast on the dock that night before. But this one had Oates center stage. Scott recognized the old Rogers farmhouse in the background and knew where Oates was. Oates looked confused at first. Then he looked straight at Scott through whatever wormhole this thing created.
“Looks like you found Daddy’s toy,” Oates said. “Gotta be careful. That’s for ages eight and up.”
Scott worked to tamp down the terror he felt. Even with Oates miles away, just talking with him made his skin crawl. “I’m doing okay so far.”
Oates stepped closer. His face filled the hologram, which made his head about five feet tall. His eyes flickered red. “Put that down before you hurt someone. Or someone hurts you.”
“Am I interrupting something? You look upset.”
“You haven’t seen me upset. Yet. Put that thing away.”
“Why don’t you make me?”
That little barb slipped out before he knew it. Oates’ eyes narrowed. He’d just seriously poked the caged tiger with a stick. Scott bit the inside of his cheek to keep from looking terrified.
Oates disappeared.
The air suddenly felt supercharged with electricity. Scott’s stomach fell. It was about to hit the fan.
Oates appeared in front of him. Evil oozed from him like weeping pus. Scott fought the rising fright within him. He held the Summoner in front of him like a shield, though he was certain it had no such function.
“You wanted a conversation?” Oates demanded.
Scott checked the floor. Oates stood dead center of the demon’s trap. He breathed a sigh of relief and managed a tiny smile.
“We’ll have plenty of time for one now,” Scott said.
Oates raised an eyebrow, then looked around the floor at the fuzzy red circle and runes that surrounded him. The fury in his face turned to fear.
“A demon’s trap?”
“Just for you. Get comfy.”
“Where’d you come up with this idea so quick?”
“Thank my father. He liked to plan ahead.”
“So he was plotting a double cross all along. What a world when the Devil can’t trust a murderer.”
The descriptor rankled Scott. “The two of us still managed to ruin your ceremony. You’re not leaving here.”
Oates raised his palms to his cheeks. His look shifted to mock terror. “Trapped forever. What ever will I do?” He took two sidesteps to his left, and out of the red painted circle. “Hmm, maybe I’ll do that.”
Scott’s jaw fell open as he went from supreme to screwed in a split second.
“Demon’s trap,” Oates said. “Little disinformation campaign I dreamed up. Why would you think some squiggly lines would best the power of Lucifer?”
Oates reached for the Summoner. Sparks flew around his fingertips. He recoiled in pain.
“My father added a little something to your design,” Scott said. “It’s off-limits to you.” Desperate, Scott bet the long shot, and raised the Summoner. “I’ll still use this to keep you here, all day and night. I made no deal with you. You can’t do anything to stop me.”
“Well, you’re right there,” Oates said. He pointed behind Scott. “But he can.”
Scott turned in time to see a mottled gray dog, white teeth bared, in mid-leap for his throat. He raised the Summoner in defense, but too late. It only deflected the dog. The bite that targeted Scott’s neck hit his shoulder. Teeth sank into his flesh like a set of steel spikes. He howled. The Summoner rolled away as he whirled under the dog’s impact. He grabbed the dog by the neck with one hand and squeezed. Its jaws released. The dog dropped to the ground on its side.
Blood poured from his shoulder. He pressed a hand against it to stanch the flow.
The dog rolled to its feet and sprang at him again, this time lower. Head lowered, it rammed Scott in the stomach. He wheezed, fell backward, and slammed onto the floor. The back of his head hit the sales counter. He saw stars. The dog snarled and pounced on his chest
to deliver the killing bite it had intended from the start.
“No, no,” Oates said.
The dog paused. It rumbled a low, frustrated growl.
“Now he’s earned something special,” Oates said. “He gets to live and watch the world go up in flames.” He pointed at the Summoner. “Throw that thing in the harbor.”
The dog looked genuinely disappointed. It jumped off Scott’s chest, grabbed the Summoner between its teeth, and trotted out through the front door’s empty frame.
“I’ll find another way to stop you,” Scott said.
“Little Scottie,” Oates said, laughing. “You don’t even know what you don’t know. You got no cards in this game. I’ve had a full house all along, while you got a pair of twos. Your team is really my team. Your supposed-saintly father’s soul was mine, and you never knew it. So’s dear Allison’s, and she’s waiting to help me open the Portal wide.”
Scott’s blood chilled at the thought of Allie being enslaved to Oates. It couldn’t be. Not his Allie Cat.
“You’re lying,” Scott said.
“You know by now, I never lie.” Oates laughed. “You still think she’s some innocent high school girl? She spent years in Hollywood. I own that town. She got into dirt that never made the news, dirt you’d never forgive. My kind of dirt. Between her and your father, you got a knack for loving the damned. That’s why before this day ends, you’ll become one as well.”
Oates disappeared.
At the mention of Allie, Scott’s adrenaline had surged. He grabbed the edge of the counter and pulled himself up. His plan had been a colossal failure, and Oates had somehow dragged Allie deeper into this nightmare.
Could what he had said be true? Could Allie have somehow made a deal with the Devil? He couldn’t imagine it. Then, he couldn’t imagine his father doing it, either, and every bit of evidence said he had. And he sure didn’t like Oates’ certainty that Scott would do the same thing himself.
He didn’t have time to sort all that out. In the image he’d seen through the Summoner, he did confirm that the Portal was near the Rogers farmhouse, which made sense since that was where the 1720 witches had tried to open it before. Milo was dead, and that left no one else in the know about the situation, no one else to help shut it down, and if Oates wasn’t lying, no one to get Allie out of harm’s way. No one but Scott.
He rose and went to the first aid kit he kept behind the counter. He slapped a big bandage over the dog bite to slow the bleeding. The pain added another voice to the chorus that already sang from the punctures in his back.
He staggered down the tools aisle. At the garden section, he tucked a bush machete into his belt and picked up a hatchet. He’d literally be taking a knife to a gunfight going up there. Maybe if he could catch Oates’ men off guard….
He knew he was kidding himself. He felt like some foolish Rambo-wannabe with his semi-deadly lawn tools. He didn’t stand a chance.
He also didn’t have a choice.
He looked out the front window. The street was empty. Even the dog was gone. Scott made his way to his truck, fired it up, and headed for the Rogers’ farmhouse.
Chapter Fifty-Six
To Camille’s relief, Oates reappeared in the backyard. His odd discussion with someone in a hologram, and then his abrupt departure, had made her very nervous. Their window for success was so narrow. If the witches didn’t get started soon…but she certainly wasn’t about to question Oates about his planning.
Oates entered the house and returned with a thin dark-haired woman in tow by the elbow. The woman reminded her of one of the characters from the Malibu Beach TV show. Blood coated both arms, but she did not appear to be injured. She looked like she’d been through the wringer, and much worse for the wear. Oates yanked her to a stop a few yards from the inverted cross and forced her down on her knees.
Kyler stepped out of the house and stood beside Camille.
“What is she here for?” Camille whispered.
“Another part of the ceremony,” Kyler said.
“What other part?” A sense of unease seeped into her.
“Kyler,” Oates called. “Tackett’s a busted-up mess over in the hardware store. Get him. Bring him here to watch the show.”
Kyler nodded and left.
“Begin,” Oates said to Camille.
She’d expected something a bit more dramatic to start the ceremony she’d awaited for almost a decade. Camille took a deep breath and set out alone for the inverted cross. She carried the goat’s head walking stick in one hand. The rest of the coven stayed back. Once there, she paced out six and a half feet into the backyard’s scorched grass, the distance she’d practiced for the last eight years. With the cross as a center point, she scraped a circle into the ground with the walking stick. Half of it traced across the burned house’s charred concrete pad. Only with the Greenes’ house leveled could the circle be completed. She added the familiar twin triangles inside the circle.
Oates joined her at the inverted cross. Camille picked up the Portal. When it touched her hands, the inlaid gold acquired a soft glow, as if backlit by a bright light. The carvings of each creature in the corner gained detail. Oates extended a hand and the inverted cross began to hum. Camille hoisted up the Portal and placed it on the vertical tip of the inverted cross. It defied physics and balanced perfectly. Oates retreated well outside the circle and watched the coven proceed.
Each of the other witches took their practiced places on the diagram and faced the inverted cross. Camille took her position and completed the circle. They all closed their eyes and extended their hands out to their sides. The width of the circle left a foot-wide gap between their fingertips.
Camille watched the always-impassive Oates transform into a man consumed by emotion. A maniacal grin stretched across his round face and his eyes danced like twin wildfires. Camille had waited eight long years for today. Oates had waited three hundred and, even to an immortal, that had to be a long time. Camille swelled with pride, ready to unlock the door for the rest of his followers.
Camille began the memorized incantation. In a deep bass Latin, she called on the powers of darkness to work through her and deliver the Earth to its rightful ruler, the angel Lucifer.
On cue, all four others joined in her chant. With each repetition their voices grew louder, stronger. The Portal glowed brighter. The carvings of the demons in each corner, the guardians that would rise to protect the open portal, began to move, swinging heads and tails in time with the rhythmic incantation. Storm clouds blossomed in the blue sky, black roses that spread until they grew together into a cobalt and charcoal mass. Sunlight died, and dusk enveloped the island. The clouds began to spin counterclockwise, like a windless hurricane, with the eye centered over the chanting witches.
Camille writhed in ecstasy, consumed with an electric joy. Her black hair swayed across her back. Her visions of a future ruling the underworld with Lucifer were coming true. She would finally be complete. She would love and be loved as never before with a penitent world at her feet to serve her. She began the second spell.
Her second invocation described her pure, inviolate body as a worthy vessel of the true offering, her soul. That soul that could power the conduit between the worlds that God had so wrongly separated.
The other four began to repeat the new incantation. Wisps of swirling light emanated from each witch. From fingertip to fingertip, the light stretched out until it joined the five in a complete circle of power and flesh.
A swaying strand of light emerged from each witch’s chest like a charmed snake. It slithered out through the air toward the inverted cross at the circle’s center. In sync, all five beams reached the glowing Portal. The women’s heads jerked back hard, widened eyes trained up at the churning charcoal sky, but their chanting continued uninterrupted. Camille felt her mind float free while her body continued the ritual.
&n
bsp; The Portal flared brighter, and lit the witches’ faces like a spotlight. The heads of each demon rose out of the Portal’s face, now three-dimensional and in full color. Each grew as it swayed in beat with the rhythmic prayers. The heads grew closer to full size as the beasts readied to cross over into the mortal world.
Blood gushed from between the witches’ legs, five torrents that soaked the ground around their feet. But the puddles retracted into the design Camille had etched on the ground, lines that absorbed the blood and turned cardinal red, a red that then crept out around the circle and across the triangles, until the entire symbol glowed.
The witches’ skin went gray and shriveled tight to their bones. Camille felt no pain and did not despair over the withering husk. Joined with her master, Lucifer, she’d need no such thing in their new kingdom.
A sudden, disorienting ripple passed through Camille’s consciousness. Then followed a crushing wave of weakness. Her dying body continued the ritual, but her soul was draining away like an unclogged sink, swirling down into the Portal.
Confusion rose within her. This wasn’t what Oates had promised. He’d pledged that they would be together forever, that opening the Portal would join them as one. But she and the other girls weren’t opening the Portal at all. The Portal was drawing their souls from them, and opening itself. They were not the Portal’s masters. They were its slaves. When the process was complete, her body would be dust, her soul consumed. There’d be nothing left of her at all.
Camille went blind with rage. Oates had used and deceived her, no different from all the others before him, another lying foster parent. She struggled to stay in this world, to hold on to all that moments ago she was so eager to abandon.
But the Portal’s riptide was too strong. The rest of her was pulled away in the slipstream of her departing soul. The Portal pulled Camille farther and farther away from the shore of consciousness. The Portal drew her deeper into its abyss, and the light of the rest of existence shrank to a dimming sliver on the retreating horizon.
The Portal Page 24
