“Remember,” he intoned, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, and the circle of elect contracted to listen. “Tonight is an occasion for both celebration and mourning. The powers I will receive come at a cost—they come because my father gives up his life. Since we cannot honor his body in accordance with the ancient custom, we shall burn his surrogate instead. The pyre is ready?”
“Yes,” the elect chorused as one, and two of them stepped back so Seth could see the giant rectangle of oil-drenched wood laid out at the far side of the altar.
He had, of course, already noted it—just as he’d already said all this. There was value in repetition. It was how words hardened into laws. Deeds into sacraments.
“The Messenger’s daughter,” he prompted them. This was the only aspect of the ceremony they had not rehearsed for weeks—the matter so urgent that Cucuy had done the unthinkable and used a telephone in order to convey it. This, if Seth thought about it, lay at the bottom of his unease. It was unlike his father to spring such a surprise.
“She will stand at your right hand,” the elect replied.
Seth nodded, like a schoolteacher rewarding a correct answer, and wondered if any of them dared to wonder why this girl, at this late hour, should be awarded such an honor.
Cucuy had assuaged Seth’s curiosity in his own manner—which was to say, he had increased it.
When the moment comes, her purpose will be clear.
Seth chose to take it as a vote of confidence.
He closed his eyes, just as the engines of both cars fell silent. For a moment, the only sound was the crackling of fire, and Seth felt a great, ecstatic wave of energy suffuse him. As if he had already thrown off the mortal coil, was already rising to the long-awaited plane that was his destiny.
He reopened his eyes in time to see Knowles and another biker—the Natives were here after all, absent their usual means of transport—walk to the back of the van and open the rear doors.
I speak now as a god, Seth thought, staring into the darkness where the Messenger sat. He inhaled deeply, taking in the fullness of the moment, and unleashed the majesty of his voice.
“Righteous Messenger, come forth and be known. The glory of your journey shall never be forgotten. Deliver the sacred vessel unto me, and in the breadth of my munificence, I shall fulfill my father’s promise and deliver you into freedom.”
The man who stepped into the sacred circle of light, cupping the heart in the palm of his hand, looked like something out of a nightmare.
Disfigured. Rancid with hate. Grotesque with fear.
Seth spread his arms wide, leaching those poisons from him, replacing them with obedience and calm.
“I bid you welcome,” he proclaimed.
“Go suck a bag of dicks,” the Righteous Messenger replied.
CHAPTER 45
Such a vulnerable thing, the human heart. Stress burst it. Fat clogged it. Love made it skip beats. The seat of life, and yet so easily compromised.
This one, pinkish-red, no bigger than a child’s fist, weighed scarcely half a pound.
The terrified face of the girl from whom it had been taken flashed across his field of vision, and Galvan thought, This is for you.
The image faded, and a vision of the swarming undead girls replaced it.
That, too, dissipated, and the stunning, tragic visage of the woman in yellow floated before his eyes.
For all of you.
“Listen up,” he said, shaking his head clear. He held the lump of tissue out at arm’s length, as if it were a protective amulet, or a grenade. The circle of white robes fractured as he stepped inside, became a horseshoe.
“I know what this is. What it means to you.”
He raised the heart a few inches, from chest height to eye level, and thrust it at the nearest man.
Dude stepped back, in reverence or in fear, and Galvan spun on his heel, repeated the move with the next Ku Klux Klan–looking cocksucker in line. Watched him flinch, and then turned back to Seth.
Motherfucker was still standing with his arms at crucifixion height, as if he were only halfway through his opening remarks.
He cut a pretty unimpressive figure, for all his divine aspirations and high-flown rhetoric. Looked like a fuckin’ mailman.
Don’t be a fool, Jess. Lotta shit ain’t what it seems, in case you haven’t noticed.
“All your father’s power,” Galvan went on, low and even. “It’s right here, Seth. Everything you’ve been waiting for, your whole life. You lose this, what have you got?”
He let the question hang in the air, let it ripple out and do its work on all of them.
Seth wasn’t biting. The arms dropped, but the expression on his face stayed steady, floating somewhere between indulgent and serene. The moon loomed behind him, red and giant, looking as if it might swallow up the earth. Galvan sought out Seth’s eyes, poured his entire back catalog of fire and brimstone straight into them.
Seth absorbed it all. Hungrily. And waited.
A rush of footfalls filled the silence, and then—as planned, as promised—Nichols scrabbled out of the van and took his position, back-to-back with Galvan. The sheriff was weaponless, little more than a set of eyes and a pair of fists, but Galvan would take what he could get. The white-robed men were not the muscle; Buchanan and Knowles and the Natives were the dogs Aaron Seth could sic on him.
Better to see them coming, if they came.
Though unless Galvan missed his guess—and his shot, and his life, and his daughter’s—they would not come. This was not a battle Seth could win by force, or it would’ve been over already.
Galvan’s staring contest with the cult leader was still deadlocked.
Good. Try this on for size, pendejo.
He tossed the heart lightly into the air—
And Seth’s eyes jumped to follow, his mouth dropping open, the first syllable of a protest sounding before he could regain his composure—
—and Galvan caught it again, a meat-on-meat slap ringing through the warm night air.
Yeah. That’s right, motherfucker. That ain’t Kool-Aid running through your veins. You’re shook. I got your number. We play this my way. Word to Frank Sinatra.
Time to bring it home.
He opened his palm, jiggled the heart ever so slightly. “Lemme be real clear here. I’ve got no problem ripping this fucking thing apart right now.”
Seth’s lips bowed into a smile, as if he were enjoying the show.
Nice try, asshole. Consider your bluff called.
“Unless what, Righteous Mess—”
“Don’t fuckin’ call me that. My daughter and her friend leave. Alone, in a car. Now. That’s for starters.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that. My business with Dr. Cantwell is unfinished.”
Seth folded his hands in front of him and lifted his chin.
“And dear Sherry is of great importance to me.”
A bead of sweat rolled down the inside of Galvan’s arm like liquid dread.
Just hearing his daughter’s name roll off this man’s tongue would have been unsettling. The notion that he had plans for her was beyond terrifying.
The heart pulsed faster in Galvan’s hand, as if sensing the danger it was in, or matching the beat of his own.
“That’s too fuckin’ bad,” he fired back. “You let them walk, or this ends now.”
He gritted his teeth and tightened his grip.
Seth looked past him, flicked a finger at something outside the halo of light. “Bring Sherry to me, Mr. Buchanan.”
Galvan spun in time to see the hulking thug step from the shadows, bend into the cage, grab Sherry just above the elbow.
He hauled her out, a jumble of flailing arms and legs, hair loose and falling into her face.
“Easy now, young lady,” Seth called in a hideou
s, mild-voiced parody of paternal concern. “It’s all right. Come visit with me a spell.”
Every cell in Galvan’s body cried out with desire as he watched his daughter stumble into the moonlight, try to jerk her arm free, fail.
Rush him. Break his neck. Go now.
He tamped it down, stood rooted to his spot as Buchanan half-dragged her toward Seth, Sherry refusing to walk and then realizing it was pointless and giving in, her long legs landing awkwardly with each step as Buchanan applied the pressure.
You can’t win that fight, Galvan told himself, swallowing the violence rising in his throat like bile. But you don’t need to.
It’s all a ruse. Seth needs you to panic. His only plan for Sherry is to leverage you. Force some kind of fuckup.
Seth’s fate is in your hands. Literally.
Hand.
Let him stand her wherever he wants—he can’t do shit to her, ’cause he can’t do shit to you.
So calm the fuck down. Stick to the plan. Seth puts Sherry and Cantwell in a car, or you destroy the heart. When he does, you destroy it anyway. Chaos ensues, Nichols grabs a gun, the both of you fight your way free—in the event that anybody even tries to stop you, what with their whole goddamn universe collapsing.
He felt the bile recede.
Thataboy, Jess. Nice and steady. High card’s yours.
Nichols’s impulse control was less refined.
He ran at the big man with a savage yell and leapt, arms outstretched, legs akimbo, like a defensive back vaulting the linemen to sack the QB.
Big dumb bastard never made it.
Two Natives brought Nichols down in midair—the landing hard, the ground ungiving. Buchanan half-turned, smirked, and went on with his errand. Sherry twisted at the waist and cringed at Nichols’s motionless form, then raised her eyes to Jess, frightened and full of questions.
It’s okay, he answered with his eyes, trying to compress all the safety he’d ever made her feel into the look. Don’t be scared. I’ll get us—
Buchanan jerked her arm, made her turn her head and march. A moment later, he had delivered Sherry into Aaron Seth’s custody and taken up position in the darkness behind.
An invisible sentry.
Seth took Sherry’s hand in both of his, gave it a reassuring pat.
“Hello, dear,” he drawled.
Sherry recoiled, tried to pull away. But Seth’s grip was like iron; Galvan could see that from where he stood.
Steady . . .
The cult leader smiled as she struggled. Smiled bigger when she stopped.
“Here is my counteroffer, Righteous Messenger. Complete your duties now, or watch every man here take his turn with your precious little girl, and then complete your duties.”
The words were like a kick in the gut, and for a moment Galvan thought the agonized grunt that followed had been his own.
But no. Nichols was actually getting kicked in the gut. Repeatedly.
Galvan turned to glance at him and almost missed the part where Sherry—trembling with fear and florid with rage, and Jesus Horatio Christ, did she look like Melinda at that age; not the most opportune time to notice, but what in the clear blue fuck could you do—leaned forward and spit right in Aaron Seth’s pale, pitted husk of a face.
Thatagirl.
Seth blinked long, and Galvan tensed, knowing that if this man raised a hand to his daughter, all bets were off, all plans forgotten.
Some things, a man just couldn’t stand idly by and watch.
That’d make a pretty fair inscription for his gravestone, come to think of it.
But Seth offered no retribution. The tight smile returned to his thin, cruel lips; he didn’t even bother to wipe away the saliva dripping down his cheek.
“Return the sheriff to the van,” he said. “Lock it, this time.”
The mercenaries complied, Galvan’s negotiation on pause as he and Seth listened to the body thump against the floor and the doors slam shut.
So much for backup.
Seth shrugged his shoulders and extended a hand. “There are no more choices, Mr. Galvan. You are out of threats, and I am out of patience. Bring it here, or your friends start to suffer and they do not stop.”
Galvan shook his head. “Uh-uh. You’re not calling the shots here. You need me.”
He opened his palm, pointed his fingers at the ground.
They all watched as the heart slid slowly from his grip.
Gasped, as it landed on the hard-packed ground with a sickening plop and sat there, quivering.
Galvan raised his arms and spread his legs. “The hands of the wicked cannot keep it alive.”
He pivoted left, then right. “So. Who wants to come and get it? Volunteers?”
Nope.
“Come on, what is it, fifteen feet? Nobody?”
A moment passed, and then one of Seth’s robed assholes stepped forward, a look of determination playing on the hard lines of his face.
“Be still!” Seth barked, and the man froze.
Galvan nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
He bent at the knees, plucked up the heart, and straightened.
“You don’t have a fucking choice.”
Seth regarded him in stony silence.
Galvan waited, something like hope pumping through his system, the feeling so unfamiliar he barely recognized it.
Can it be possible? Can I be winning?
“Here is my final offer, Messenger. Your friends can go. Complete your task, and so can you. My word, my bond.” He brushed one palm against the other. “New beginnings. I wash my hands.”
“And what about—”
“On my father’s divine orders, your daughter stays.”
Galvan’s hope curdled into fury. “The fact that you’d even call that an offer—”
He shook his head. There were no words.
“Fuck you,” Galvan spat. “You had your chance.”
He dropped to his knees, pinned the heart to the ground with his bad arm, and wrapped his killing hand around the supple flesh.
CHAPTER 46
Galvan tore at the heart with all his might, knowing he had to make quick work of it. Seth’s goons and brainwashed followers might not have been able to take his place, but they sure as hell could take his life and figure the rest out later.
The organ was slippery, hard to grip. Finally, Galvan managed to get a solid hold, cram a forefinger into a ventricle, and rip.
Or try to.
The heart would not give.
He tried again, raking his fingernails across the soft surface until he found purchase. Rending with all the strength he possessed, plus some on loan from the universe.
Nothing doing.
He dropped an elbow onto the thing, tried to flatten and squeeze, scrabble and scratch.
Resilient. Impervious.
Impossible.
Galvan looked up, realizing all at once that the bum-rush was not on, that Seth’s men had been given no order to attack.
The cult leader’s voice, pitched razor sharp, sliced through the air.
“My father is no fool, Messenger. The sacred vessel cannot be destroyed. Only consumed. Come to your senses. There is but one path.”
“Go fuck yourself.”
Galvan snatched up the heart and rose, wild-eyed. He reared back his arm.
It wasn’t a plan. It was an impulse. Fling the unassailable, accursed thing as far as he could. Consign it to the desert, deny them a Messenger, hope some marauding undead virgin sniffed it out before Seth did.
Die on his feet, with a prayer for Sherry on his lips.
A single drop of blood changed all that.
It was the sum total of Galvan’s attempts to damage the heart—all that he could choke, wrest, mangle from it.
Or perhaps the crimson speck was a gift. Delivered to Galvan through some dim, lingering sentience, or from some plane of being of which he could not conceive.
It whipped through the air, landing on Galvan’s lower lip just as his arm reached its fully cocked position and Aaron Seth’s minions realized his next move and came alive, rushing toward him in a churling blur of white.
Reflexively, Galvan’s tongue darted from his mouth and licked the drop away.
He tasted it and crumpled to the ground, a man yanked loose from time and space.
Galvan’s brain dilated wildly as vast, strange quantities of knowledge pumped through it. He bucked and spasmed, the information turning suddenly imagistic, written on his inner eyelids in pure electricity.
Cucuy. A triumphant gleam in his cold eyes as he threw back his head in exultation.
Cucuy, shedding his body like a chrysalis. The age-crisped skin shriveling, peeling back to expose—
Aaron Seth.
The father, reborn as the son.
God does not die for man. Man dies for god.
His body glowing with unearthly power, brighter and brighter—
A blinding light cleaved that image from the next. For the briefest of instants, a radiant vision of the woman in yellow bloomed across his consciousness, then exploded into ash.
Another starburst of light, and then Galvan was staring at Seth again, animal pleasure slathered across the newly born god’s face as he stood behind a bent female form, hips thrusting maniacally.
He raised an arm to the heavens, and then four knifelike fingernails swooped down, like hawks descending on a field mouse, and tore straight through the flesh of the girl’s back, seeking her heart.
She howled, and twisted to look at her killer, as the life drained from her.
It was Sherry.
Galvan howled, and the universe went black.
The next thing he knew, he was back on his feet, back on the clock, the pocket-world of horror he’d just inhabited a popped soap bubble.
The white-robed cultists were precisely where he’d left them—two steps into their mad rush.
He’d been out about a second, then. Two, at most.
The Dead Run Page 28
