And Blue Skies From Pain (49 page)

Read And Blue Skies From Pain Online

Authors: Stina Leicht

BOOK: And Blue Skies From Pain
12.92Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“Get to the point.”
“You’ve never been one for patience,” Mickey said.
“What would you know of me?” Father Murray asked. “Except what you were able to observe all those years ago? Humans change over time. And can you be certain of what it was you saw then? You were young as I recall.”
“Young but hardly inexperienced.” Mickey got up and went to a folding table with an open steel box in the center. “Do you want to see what it is that I’ve brought for you?” An old madness played at the edges of its expression. “I’ve been dreaming of this moment for years.”
“Are you certain there’s time?” Father Murray asked, gambling yet again. His heart hammered at the underside of his breastbone.
Keep it talking.
“What of the IRA?”
“Oh, young Jack was easy. Sent him home to his girl. Séamus won’t be happy, not at all. But in the end, Jack will learn a valuable lesson. If he lives.” Mickey shrugged. “You and I have an hour together. Possibly two, before the others get back.” He selected a glass vial filled with an evil-looking liquid from the box and set it down on the folding table. “Ah, yes. First this.” It reached inside the box and brought out a black leather-sheathed knife. “And this, I think, second.” Last, it lifted up a jar for Father Murray to see. Inside, a shiny black beetle scurried for freedom. “And this. This… is for last.”
“What is that?”
“A pet brought over from the Other Side,” Mickey said. “I call it ‘Soul Eater.’ It likes to burrow, you see. Under the skin. Consumes the brain from inside the skull and then works its way out. Slowly. Once this is inside you, it won’t matter if they get you to hospital. Surgeon won’t know what’s wrong, and you won’t be able to tell them. On account of you’ll be too busy screaming.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Someone has to pay. Of all those I remember from that night, I found you first.”
“I didn’t have anything to do with what was done to you prior to that night,” Father Murray said. “I ended the suffering.”
“And I’ll end yours, priest. After a time. Provided you beg nicely, of course.” Mickey showed him jagged teeth again. “It’ll be a mercy.”
Father Murray blinked. Mickey knew him better than he wanted to admit, and the time for talking was at an end. He needed to get to the blade at the small of his back. Although his hands were cuffed together, the knife was just within reach of his good left hand if he twisted himself around, but with the cast on his right arm he couldn’t do so quickly nor without being obvious about it.
Mickey picked up the vial. “Do you know what this is?”
“I don’t.”
If I could get it to turn its back, even for a moment—
“A poison from the Other Side. Didn’t ask what’s in it. It doesn’t matter,” Mickey said, stepping closer. “It’s the result that counts.” It held up the vial. “One drop, and you’ll be for drowning in your own sorrow. Let’s do an experiment. Like was done on me. Let’s see how much of it you can take. Better yet, I wonder what will happen if I feed you the whole thing?”
Father Murray went for the knife, but it caught in the lining of his coat, and Mickey was on him before he could get it free. Father Murray was thrown backward onto the concrete floor. Knife and sheath jabbed into his back. A hot flash of pain opened his mouth wide, but the wind was knocked out of him and no sound came out. Before he could move, Mickey landed on him again. Abandoning the knife, Father Murray swung his right arm, plaster cast and all, into the side of Mickey’s face. But there wasn’t enough momentum behind the blow due to the healing wound in his shoulder. Mickey dodged the heavy cast. The full force of a head-butt slammed Father Murray in the cheek. Pain detonated inside his skull. He didn’t wait for it to fade, or thought he didn’t. He bucked his body in an attempt to get Mickey off of him and get the knife free.
A horrible stench filled the air as Mickey uncorked the vial.
“Open your mouth,” Mickey said, smashing a fist into Father Murray’s jaw.
Again, the pain was terrific. Father Murray was reminded that half demons were physically stronger than humans. Dazed, he watched as if from a distance as the vial came closer. He moved his head, and the contents of the open vial met his cheek. The awful liquid oozed onto his skin in gritty clumps.
Mickey roared curses in frustration.
A compact explosion jarred the building, sending a vibration that could be felt through the concrete floor. Mickey turned. Sensing an opportunity, Father Murray scrabbled for his knife, but the hilt wasn’t quite within reach and his torso ached too badly to allow him to twist. He grasped the weapon by the blade. The lining of his coat ripped as he wrenched the weapon free. He registered sharp pain as steel pierced the flesh of his palm and fingers, but there was no time to change his grip. Mickey smashed a hand down on his cheek, smearing the gritty sludge across his face. Father Murray plunged the blade between Mickey’s ribs. Scrabbling for the hilt, Father Murray then shoved the blade deeper. Mickey howled in pain and exasperation.
Shouts echoed in the empty warehouse somewhere on the other side of the glass. The door burst open.
“Stop right there!” It was a woman’s voice, and American, but it rang with authority.
Mickey punched again. Father Murray felt the blow knock his head back onto the concrete, and his mouth filled with blood and powerful bitterness, making him gag.
A gun went off. The sound was huge. Mickey’s forehead and half its face disintegrated in a splash of gore. The force of the bullet toppled the big demon. It fell face-first on top of Father Murray. The remains of Mickey’s head landed on the cement with a sickening smack. Eyes stinging, Father Murray shoved at Mickey’s body, but he couldn’t see or breathe. Strong, slim hands reached to help, and the dead weight shifted.
“Father Murray?”
Father Murray rolled away from the body and vomited. Warm fluid splashed on the icy concrete and splattered on his hands. The open cuts in his left palm and fingers stung something fierce. He jerked his wounded hand out of the muck. Balancing on his knees, he tried to clear his mouth and gagged again. It was almost impossible not to swallow. He didn’t dare open his eyes, lest whatever it was that Mickey had attempted to poison him with got into his mucus membranes through his tear ducts.
Hopeless. This is hopeless. It’s too late. Why am I bothering?
The thoughts felt foreign and heavy.
I’ve not much time.
“Water. I need water for my face.”
“Ginny! Bring some water.”
“Yes, Mother Superior.” The second female voice was American as well.
“Sister Catherine?” Father Murray asked.
“Yes?” Sister Catherine asked.
“What are you doing here?” he asked and spat again. He felt the saliva ooze from his lips, tickling his chin as it went. The stink of vomit threatened to make him sick all over again, but the bitter taste of poison and bile faded until he no longer felt the need to gag. Unfortunately, the room appeared to be shifting of its own accord and the hopelessness of the situation intensified.
Not a good sign, he thought. It’s too late. Much too late.
It occurred to him that he hadn’t been able to accept the sacraments in more than twenty-four hours. He attempted a quick inventory of possible sins but discovered it was too difficult to think.
Oh, Christ. I’m lost.
A strange lethargy set in. Suddenly, he didn’t have the energy to remain on his knees.
Nothing matters. I’m done.
He had an urge to lie on the ground and simply stop breathing, but the idea of pressing on the wound in his back seemed horrible.
A hand steadied him. “Don’t move. Are you hurt?”
“I’ve cut my hand. And I’ve another in my back, but I don’t know how bad it is.”
The poison. Tell her about the poison.
He opened his mouth to do so, but then he felt her tug up his coat and shirt. Winter air rushed against his bare skin, deepening the pain. He attempted to shove her away. “What are you doing?”
“Assessing the damage. I’m trained as a combat nurse,” she said. “Vietnam. Stand still.”
“It’s nothing.”
“Hardly. Three inches higher, a bit deeper, and you’d be short a kidney,” she said. “It isn’t too bad from what I can tell here. I’ll clean it, and get a field dressing on it. What’s on your face?”
“Don’t touch it. The demon tried to poison me with something infernal.”
“Have you swallowed any of it?”
“Indirectly, I think. I can’t be sure of how much. It’s on my face and in my eyes.” The burning sensation crawled down the back of his throat and into his nasal passages. He kept his breathing shallow and spat again. It was futile.
She isn’t field trained. She isn’t going to know what to do. I’m lost. And time is running out.
“Mary, please get the holy water and anointing oil from the car. And the Eucharist too. He’ll need the full kit as a caution. Hurry. Thank you,” Sister Catherine said, the hardness in her voice unrelenting.
She’s aware of the procedures at least,
Father Murray thought with relief. “I’m so tired.”
“You’re safe for now,” Sister Catherine said. “But we haven’t finished securing the warehouse. Do you know how many Fallen are present?”
“I know only of the one,” Father Murray said. Speaking was becoming an effort. He felt terrible. Everything hurt. “It’s neutralized now. There may be more. I spent most of my time in this room, blindfolded.”
He heard movement, and the dead body beside him shifted.
“Here,” she said. “I’ve the handcuff key. It was in its pocket.”
“You shot that thing in the head.” He felt her remove the cuffs.
“Yes.”
“It doesn’t upset you?” His hands freed, he massaged feeling back into his wrists.
“Why? I’ve killed demons before.”
He found her bored tone somewhat unsettling. “Has the Archbishop changed his mind about your Order’s relationship with Milites Dei?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Sister Catherine said, although it was quite clear she did. “The Order of St. Ursula serves in an administrative capacity. Nothing more.”
The Order functions as such, as opposed to individual members?
“Then what are you doing here?”
“I received a message from a friend stating that you might be found here and that you were in dire need of assistance.”
“You informed Bishop Avery? Where are the others?”
“The Order of Milites Dei is currently operating under a truce with the Fey. Since we have no means of making a distinction between the proposed Fey and the Fallen, all active field units have been ordered to cease operations in the area until further notice,” she said. “Father, the Bishop doesn’t know you’re here. Nor is he aware of what we’re doing to assist you.”
How can that be? We were taken from a café.
Then it occurred to him that the RUC had probably been infiltrated by the Fallen. “You’re here alone?”
He heard her stifle a derisive laugh. “I’m with two of my sisters and a very good friend who has helped us before. I’d hardly call that alone.”
“Have you found Liam?” Kneeling had become too much to bear. He sat on the ice-cold floor.
Lie down. If only I could lie down and not move forever. So tired. What’s the use?
His hand and back hurt but that was nothing compared to the ache in his chest. He hadn’t understood that emotions could carry so much physical pain. It was hard to breathe.
End it. It has to stop. I could take the gun from her. Put it to my temple and—
“Our information indicated that Kelly was here. He isn’t?”
A door opened and closed. “Mother Superior, I’ve the water you wanted. I thought he might need a towel as well.” The new voice was American and female like the others but much younger.
“Thank you, Ginny. Please check the perimeter and report back.”
“Yes, Mother—”
“Call me Catherine when we’re outside the Facility. Please. I’ve told you before.”
“Yes, Mother-ma’am.”
He used the water to rinse his face, and not long after Sister Mary arrived with soap and water and the rest of the supplies. He used the soap and then washed his face a second time with holy water. With that finished, he finally opened his eyes. To his surprise, he saw that Sister Catherine was dressed in military fatigues.
“Is there a problem?” Sister Catherine asked.
“You’re wearing—”
“Trousers? Army surplus? You were expecting us to perform a covert operation dressed in wimples and skirts? Would you?”
“I suppose not.”
Father Murray returned to performing the remaining emergency rituals under Sister Catherine’s watchful gaze. It was a struggle to work against the crush of despair, and once or twice Sister Catherine reminded him of a missed line. After reciting the appropriate blessings in Latin, he swallowed the Eucharist and a measure of the pain, sadness and lethargy weighing on him faded—although not all of it.
“We should go,” he said. “We must ring for more help.”
“Weren’t you listening?” Sister Catherine asked. “There isn’t any help to get. We’re it.”

Other books

Fallen Souls by Linda Foster
Growing Up In a War by Bryan Magee
Hollow City by Ransom Riggs
Cut by Hibo Wardere
Outlander by Diana Gabaldon
End Games - 11 by Michael Dibdin