Circle of Enemies: A Twenty Palaces Novel

by Harry Connolly

  Summer tore free of my grip. “Fuck!” she shouted, letting herself become visible. “This is bullshit.”

  “Yeah,” Fidel said from just behind her. He became visible, too. “Let’s try shooting some more.”

  Summer moved her hand toward her lower back. I grabbed her and half lifted, half shoved her into Fidel. We were too far from the red circle for me to try to wrestle her inside, not if people were drawing guns.

  I sprinted toward the open door. The Hummer was right there, but there was no time to get in, start the engine, and pull away.

  A barrel beside the door suddenly toppled on its side, and a wash of dirty black oil flowed toward me. I jumped, clearing it before it spread too far, and landed in the doorway.

  I went through the doorway and turned the corner out of sight. A gunshot went off, but I didn’t feel any sudden, crippling pain, and I didn’t fall over dead.

  At the corner of the building, I crouched behind the digger. No one came out of the building—not that I could see, anyway—but if someone did, the machine would give me some cover.

  Who had tipped over that barrel? I hadn’t seen anyone, but Ty had been at the other end of the room, by the toolbench, and I’d just left Summer and Fidel behind me.

  It had to be Arne. If it wasn’t, there was another person running around with a drape, and I didn’t want to think about that. Had he turned off the radio, too?

  Was he helping me?

  I still couldn’t see anyone leaving the building, and I thought I would at least see a smear of oil or loose dirt stirred up by their footsteps, even if they were invisible.

  There. A smear of black appeared on the concrete lip of the building foundation, then a scuff of dirt.

  The footsteps headed toward the gate, away from me. I scrabbled toward the back of the building.

  The ground was packed hard with a fine layer of dirt on top. I sprinted across the open area in back of the building, my feet scraping through the faint tracks Francois’s Hummer had laid down. Would they be able to find me with those footprints? They looked pretty faint, but I didn’t like the idea of leaving a trail. Not that I had a choice.

  I scrambled over the top of the berm and slid down the other side. This dirt was loose, as though it had been moved recently, but it was the nearest cover. I left huge footprints, but the dirt would stop a bullet.

  There was a deep, broad hole in front of me. I hopped over it, but the dirt crumbled. I tipped into the hole, landing on my hands and knees.

  I heard flies buzzing, and that smell … The hole was just a bit over five feet long, and right beside me was someone stretched out, lying in wait.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  My throat was too tight to let me scream; instead I hissed like a leaky bicycle tire. I panicked for a moment, convinced that Ty or Summer had gotten here before me and was stretched out with a gun trained on me.

  But they weren’t. The figure beside me wasn’t moving at all. I leaned closer to it, to the smell and the flies, and I saw that it was Francois. He had been shot once in the head.

  “You’re lucky,” Arne said from somewhere nearby. I spun and saw him crouching in the open space above me. “Some of the older holes have rattlesnakes in them.”

  He extended his hand. I clasped it, letting him lift me out of the hole. He stood upright, visible above the top of the berm beside us. I stood upright, too.

  He slapped a .38 revolver into my hand. “Don’t get busted with this.”

  I opened the cylinder. One round had been fired—and I was pretty sure I knew where that bullet was—leaving five shots. For all the good it would do me.

  “I can’t use this.”

  “Oh no?” Arne gave me a look that was difficult to read. “I thought that was what you did now.”

  “It is,” I said, hating the words as they came out of my mouth. I had never admitted it aloud before. Arne was still giving me that look. “But I can’t kill them unless I can get them in the circle first. Otherwise—”

  “No need to explain. I know. I was in the building, too.” He scratched at his neck, then lowered his hand with a visible exertion of will. “I saw.”

  “You can see them when they’re invisible?” It was hard to believe he was really on my side. It seemed impossible that he’d help me, knowing that I would have to kill him, too.

  He broke eye contact, looking toward the building as though scanning for the others. “Yeah, if I really concentrate.” If he saw something, he didn’t say. “Well, I said I would help you with your thing when I was done with mine, didn’t I?” He waved toward Francois’s corpse. “I have one more problem to bury, but I guess I won’t have time for that.”

  I looked away, determined not to think about patches of disturbed dirt behind me. “I didn’t know,” I said.

  “I didn’t want you to know. There are some problems that can only be solved by a grave in the desert, but I couldn’t trust you with that. Don’t take that hard; I couldn’t trust anyone.”

  Graves. And I had thought that disturbed dirt had come from digging for treasure.

  We heard the sound of an engine, a low-horsepower motorbike approaching. I grabbed Arne’s elbow and pulled him low, so we were just peeking over the berm. The bike came into view and passed through the gate. It was a small thing, baby blue, with the minimum cc’s necessary for highway travel.

  Wally was riding it. His green sweats had been replaced by a pair of huge purple M. C. Hammer pants and a gigantic dashiki. His left hand was encased in a mitten, and he had a pair of expensive mountain-climbing shades on.

  I pulled Arne all the way down out of sight. He resisted at first, then turned invisible. I caught his elbow and looked at him, shaking my head at where I hoped his face was. I can see with more than just light.

  I sat with my back against the dirt, silently cursing at myself. I’d known Wally wasn’t dead—yeah, his injuries would have killed most people, including me, but I had learned to expect a certain toughness from the people the society went after.

  But I didn’t want him here. I still didn’t know what I was going to do about Fidel and Summer—putting Wally on the to-do list just made me feel tired.

  The scooter engine idled. Was Wally coming over the berm at me? I took my ghost knife from my pocket and held it in my right hand. Arne’s gun was in my left. I was as ready for him as I’d ever be, and that wasn’t ready enough.

  Then the engine started again, and I heard the bike putter away. The sound became muffled as it moved to the other side of the building, then shut off.

  I turned to Arne, who had become visible again. “Shall we?” We stood.

  “Ray, two things.” Arne took a deep breath and scratched furiously at his neck for a second or two. The drape must have been getting to him. “First, I saw the way you did those five guys in there. I want you to make it quick for me, too. Humane. Okay?” I nodded. He looked out over the desert. “Second thing, about Jasmin …”

  Damn. Was he going to apologize, finally, for stealing my girlfriend while I was in prison? It didn’t seem like the time, but part of me was hungry for it.

  “She’s relying on you to stop these things.” He wouldn’t look at me. “You’re the guy who handles this stuff, right? That’s what Wally said, anyway. Jasmin—my daughter—needs you to clean this mess up, okay?”

  I almost laughed at myself. Had I really expected him to apologize? Shame washed over me like a wave. Arne didn’t give a damn about my hurt feelings; he had more important things to think about.

  So did I. “Okay,” I answered. He vanished.

  And so did I, in a way. My fears, my guilt over the crimes I committed in Washaway, my desire to do the right thing, whatever that was, all seemed to shrink down so small that I couldn’t even tell they were there.

  Arne’s clarity had copied itself onto me. Wally was here, along with all my remaining friends, and best of all, they’d brought their predators with them. It was as if they’d gathered together in one place as
a gift, to give me another chance to murder them all.

  There was a scuff of dirt to my left; Arne was circling the building.

  I crept toward the back corner. The radio and workbench should have been just on the other side of that wall, along with the line of stolen cars.

  I took out my ghost knife and cut a horizontal stroke across the sheet metal an inch above the ground and again two feet higher. Then I sliced two vertical lines and caught the panel gently as it fell to me.

  I ducked low and eased myself inside, nearly hitting my head on the rear bumper of a black Lexus LX 570. I stayed low, creeping along the bumper toward the bench. The red circle was a few feet from the front fender, just ahead on my left.

  People were talking. I raised my head to peer through the Lexus’s windshield. The driver’s-side window was busted, and I caught the faint, nasty stink of old cigarette smoke.

  Wally stood in the center of the room, facing away from me. The red circle was several yards to his left. Fidel, Summer, and Ty all faced him. Any of them could have seen my silhouette just by glancing over at me, but they were too focused on Wally.

  The high, metal ceiling created muffling echoes; I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it sounded as though Fidel and Ty were trying to convince Wally that they could be useful to him. Wally’s answers were mild, and the others seemed to find them frustrating.

  I backed away from the window and bumped against the bench. Jars behind me rattled like wind chimes, and I dropped to the concrete floor.

  The Lexus had a high clearance, but the car beside it was a Dodge Viper. A pair of black sneakers—Summer’s, I was sure—moved toward me, then stopped. If she took a few paces to her right, she would see me.

  After five long seconds, Fidel spat out a string of curses, and she went back to the others.

  I eased into a crouch and turned around. A disordered row of mason jars stood on the long, pressure-board table. I took two of them, choosing ones that were empty and had lids. Then I set them carefully on the concrete.

  I edged a little higher, peeking into the Lexus. There, in the cup holder behind the gearshift, was a Bic lighter.

  I wanted it, but there was no way to open the door and get it without everyone hearing. And although the window was already broken, the lighter was out of reach. I was going to have to lean in with my whole head and shoulders.

  Summer and Ty were focused on Wally, but I could see their faces. If I made too big a movement, I’d catch their attention, and I wasn’t ready for that. I crouched down, unsure what to do.

  “You’re being ridiculous!” Wally suddenly said in a loud, clear voice. “I can see you, you know.”

  My hands immediately went to Arne’s gun in my waistband and my ghost knife. But it was Arne who spoke next. “So you can. So what? You’re still an asshole.”

  I peeked through the SUV’s windshield again. Arne was standing by the doorway, and everyone had turned their backs to me to face him.

  I lunged through the open window, grabbed the lighter, and ducked out of sight again. No one yelled out my name or shouted “What was that!” I snatched a rag off the floor, grabbed both jars, and scurried behind the Lexus.

  Arne stood in the sunlight, talking shit at Wally. The urge to stop what I was doing and listen was strong. It was stupid, too, so I ignored it.

  The underside of the Lexus had skid plates on it, for reasons known only to the idiot who’d bought them, and I couldn’t remember where the gas tank was. Beside it, the Viper was too low to the ground to fit the large jars beneath it comfortably. The third vehicle was a silver Audi A8. I unscrewed the lids and set them aside, then crawled under it. At the other end of the building, Arne talked a fast patter of insult and abuse at Wally, who only laughed in response.

  With my ghost knife, I cut the corner of the Audi’s tank. Gas streamed into a jar. The noise seemed unbearably loud to me, but Arne raised his voice, seemingly in anger.

  Damn. He was holding their attention. He was acting as my wooden man.

  It didn’t take long for the first jar to fill. I swapped it for the second, then used my ghost knife to cut a small gap in the metal lids. I slashed the rag in half and began stuffing the pieces into the gap.

  The gasoline slowed to a trickle and ran out when the second jar was two-thirds full. The tank had less than half a gallon in it. Arne must have drained the tanks after stashing the vehicles here. I screwed on the lids.

  I was still afraid. I hated to admit it, but I was. But Arne was running out of time, too, and I couldn’t let Wally kill him, not outside the circle. I set jars beside one another so the rags would touch, then I lit them.

  “For God’s sake!” Arne yelled, his tirade getting louder. “You should have gone and gotten yourself laid, you stupid shit!”

  I stood and threw the ghost knife.

  It zipped across the room silently. Wally, Fidel, Ty, and Summer had no idea it was coming, but Arne saw it and, not knowing what it was, jumped aside at the last moment.

  The spell struck Wally in the back of his neck. His skin split open, and from the other side of him where the exit wound would be, a huge splatter of thick green gushed out of him.

  I reached for the spell. It passed through Wally’s chest, causing another splash of nasty green liquid. He started choking, then collapsed onto his knees.

  The ghost knife returned to my hand all slimy. I stuffed it into my pocket, knowing I’d be burning these pants soon.

  “No!” Fidel yelled. “We need him!”

  Fidel ran at me, reaching into his waistband.

  I bent down and reached around the flaming wick. The fire was scorching, but I wouldn’t be holding it long. I straightened and threw the jar across the room.

  It landed just short of Wally’s foot. Flaming liquid splashed up onto his back and sloshed around his leg. I grabbed the second jar—not so carefully this time, because Fidel was getting close—and threw it on instinct.

  This time my throw was perfect. The jar shattered between his calves, and the fire roared under his crotch and belly. Wally went up like a bonfire.

  I couldn’t see Fidel, but I could hear his scuffling shoes nearby. A tiny black hole appeared in front of me, and just as I realized I was looking at a gun barrel, it went off.

  I didn’t feel the bullet strike. Fidel did, though. He turned visible, not three feet away. There was blood on the front of his shirt, and his mouth fell open. His bullet had hit me over my heart, then ricocheted back through his breastbone.

  He dropped the gun and collapsed onto the floor. I shouted his name and grabbed his shirt, hoisting him up again. His eyes grew dim, but he had enough life in him to look at me hopefully, as though I could save him somehow.

  I lifted him as high as I could, his drape eating at the skin of my hands, then bum-rushed him between the cars toward the red circle. I bumped against something I couldn’t see, but it only took a moment to regain my balance and momentum.

  Fidel sighed and his eyes closed just as I crossed the line with him. I dumped him onto the concrete—not gently, but he was already dead—and leaped back across the red line.

  The drape carried him away and brought another huge swarm into our world. The red circle held them until they fled.

  God, I was tired. I was drenched in sweat and had no energy left.

  Ty stood by the grill of the Viper, Fidel’s gun in his hand. He bared his teeth at me. “I didn’t want this, Ray.”

  “I know you didn’t.”

  He walked across the front of the car toward the Lexus, circling me and scowling. He could lift that gun in a moment, but my ghost knife was in my pocket and Arne’s gun was back in my waistband. We weren’t going to have a quick draw.

  I glanced at the others. Arne had turned invisible again—or he’d run. Wally was rolling in green slime, trying to extinguish the flames. It was working, too, a little. Summer stood in the middle of the room, a look of blank shock on her face. She’d gone as far as she could go. She
was done.

  I turned back to Ty just as he stepped across the edge of the red circle. I reached for my waistband, hungry for the chance to kill my friend.

  Ty pointed Fidel’s gun at his head.

  “I didn’t want this,” he said. “I had plans, Ray! I had plans!”

  “We all give up our—” The gunshot cut me off. He didn’t hear me. He’d already pulled the trigger. I watched his drape carry him away.

  I turned to the others. Wally was on his feet. A long black tentacle stretched across the room and pulled the watercooler tank off its base, then held it over his head. Stale water gushed over him, extinguishing most of the flames. His left hand burned like a torch at the end of his arm. He slapped at his shoulder with it, trying to put it out. He looked smaller.

  Wally’s face was a horror of blackened flesh. “Dammit, Ray,” he said, his voice as clear as ever. “You really are a pain in the ass.”

  I had no idea how he was talking with that scorched and ruined throat. Maybe his voice was a hallucination and had been since we met at the Sugar Shaker.

  “Well, your ass is such a big target—”

  “Shut up, dude. Seriously. I had to eat a whole family to heal the injuries your boss gave me. Now I’m going to have to do it again, and that’s on you.”

  A tentacle suddenly shot out of his belly and wrapped around Summer’s neck. She squawked as Wally yanked her off her feet. Wally’s belly split open like a huge mouth, the roasted flesh tearing, and a green, puckered funnel that looked like a large flower petal pushed toward Summer. She tried to scream as the tentacle stuffed her into the funnel, but her neck snapped. More bones broke as Wally crammed her inside.

  I backed away, goose bumps running over my whole body. It didn’t seem imaginable that Wally could stuff a hundred and thirty pounds of human being into himself, but I had just seen it. His flesh seemed to fill out, and some of the blackened skin began flaking off. No portal opened beneath him. It wasn’t just Summer he had killed and eaten; he’d gotten her drape, too.

  “Better,” he said. He rolled his neck around once to loosen it up. More black flakes fell. “Better, but not enough.”