Child of Fire (34 page)

Annalise kicked the front door down. She entered the darkness of the house.

While we waited, Arlene laid the flat side of the letter opener against her wrist. I could see that the edge was pretty dull, but that wasn’t surprising. Silver was not a metal for weapons. The tip seemed sharp enough, though.

Arlene lifted the blade from her arm. Welts had begun to form. She looked at me. “Are you going to tell her?”

“I have to,” I said.

“Good.” She held up the opener and stared at it. “I can’t do it myself, you understand. That’s a terrible sin.”

“Under the circumstances—”

“It’s a sin,” she said with finality. “I won’t let my last act in this world be a sin.”

“If you could choose, how would you want it?” I asked. I knew Annalise could take Arlene’s life quickly and simply.

Arlene stared at the silver blade. “Fighting. I want to go down fighting.” Then she knelt on the dirty floor of the van and began to pray.

A few minutes later, Annalise emerged from the house. She walked down the front path and climbed back into the van. “They weren’t there, but we already knew that.”

“Then why did you go in?” Arlene asked.

I glanced at the house and saw orange firelight flickering
in one of the windows. If there was a spell or spell book hidden there, it would soon be ashes. I started the engine and pulled away. “The police station, then.”

“Don’t you think they would want to find a doctor for Sugar?” Arlene asked.

“They were already at a hospital,” I said. “They could have charged into the emergency room with their guns drawn and gotten what ever they wanted. I don’t think they want doctors or drugs or stitches. I think they want their magic.”

We drove the remaining two blocks in silence. All three pickup trucks were parked in front of the station, along with the Bentley and two police cars. One of the patrol cars was parked at an angle, as though it had skidded to a halt. The blinds on all the windows were closed.

I drove around the corner and parked a full block away. “What’s the plan?”

Annalise glanced at Arlene, then turned to me. Her expression was unreadable. “You’re my wooden man. I’ll go around the back and wait for you to draw their attention. When you have, I go in through the back door and start doing my work. If you survive, that’s nice, too.”

“You know what would be nice?” I said. “Some gloves. I’d like some latex gloves or something. My fingerprints are already on file with the police. If I do survive, I don’t want to spend the rest—”

“If you needed gloves, I’d have given them to you already,” she said.

“What about me?” Arlene asked.

Annalise glanced down at the welts on Arlene’s forearm. “I’ll take care of you later.” She got out of the van.

Arlene gripped my shoulder. “I’m coming with you. Is that okay?”

It wasn’t, but I couldn’t find it in myself to tell her so.

“Come on,” I told her. Guess I wasn’t going to die alone today.

We climbed out of the van and walked down the block, passing the diner Annalise and I had eaten in that first night. The windows were still covered with cardboard, but the waitress spotted us anyway and came outside. “Aunt Arlene, what’s going on? I heard there was a gun-fight at the hospital, and Emmett and the boys just screeched into the station like they were starring in an action movie. Do you know what’s going on?”

Arlene turned to her. “Emmett Dubois killed me,” she said.

The waitress stepped back in surprise. “What? What do you mean?”

“He’s killed a lot of people,” Arlene said. Her voice was flat. I looked at her gray hair and wrinkled skin—she had looked about sixty when I first met her, but she seemed much older at the moment. I wondered if she’d led a good life, and if I would be ready to end my life at her age, or at any age. “He’s been bleeding this town dry. Someone has to end it. And end him.”

“What do you mean he’s killed you?” the waitress asked. “Has he poisoned you?”

“Yes,” Arlene said. “That’s it exactly.”

The waitress stepped forward. “Aunt Arlene—”

“Don’t.” Arlene waved her niece away. “I have something I need to do.”

She and I walked the rest of the way toward the station. I told her to stand at the corner of the wall, beside the stairs, then I circled around behind the trucks. The red one was full of garbage and fast-food wrappers, so I broke into the black one.

With the ghost knife, I cracked the ignition lock and started the truck. I raced the engine loudly, threw it into reverse, and backed out of the spot.

The blinds rippled, and I stood on the brakes, making the tires chirp.

The front door flew open, and Luke lunged out, his face twisted with anger. Obviously, this was his truck. He lifted his revolver and aimed it at me.

I ducked beneath the dashboard, but I didn’t hear any shots. Maybe he loved his truck too much to shoot at it.

Emmett yelled at him, and although his voice was faint, I distinctly heard him say, “… your own brother.” I peeked over the dash and saw him go back into the building.

Obviously, I needed to do more to catch their attention. I threw the truck into drive.

The door flew open again, and Luke shoved Shireen into the daylight. She looked terrified. He pointed a revolver at her head, and she cringed and sank to the ground.

And began to change. Shireen seemed to recede from me, while a strange, hairy
thing
became visible. It was long and ungainly, with spindly, crooked legs and clawed fingers and toes. Its head was round and bristling with fur, and it had a short snout filled with brutally long teeth.

It stepped forward into the daylight, its gaze locked on me. It had its orders, and it was pretty clear who it was supposed to kill.

It moved toward the steps. It was clumsy on its spindly legs, but those teeth looked vicious. It went down on all fours, but that appeared to be even more awkward than walking upright, so it grabbed the railing instead.

Poor Shireen.

I revved the engine and shot forward. On her crooked legs, Shireen stumbled at the bottom of the stairs. The pickup slammed into her with its full force.

The air bag went off in my face, and I felt the truck bounce backward. The air bag deflated, and I threw open the door.

Shireen’s arm and legs were shattered, and her rib cage
was crushed. Before my eyes, her broken bones righted themselves with loud pops and cracks. She moaned and whimpered.

Maybe I could get into that red truck after all and park it on her.

Shireen growled at me. Her transformed legs weren’t built for standing or walking upright, and she stood awkwardly. Steadying herself on the crumpled, hissing hood of Luke’s truck, she lunged for me.

I ran around the back of the truck. Shireen followed me, growling and snarling. I held my ghost knife close to my chest and crossed my left forearm across my throat. The tattoos on my arm didn’t cover enough flesh to truly protect me, but I had nothing else. I didn’t know if her bite would carry the same curse as the Dubois brothers’, and I didn’t want to find out.

She lunged at me again. I leaped to my left. She tried to change direction and follow, but stumbled. Her flailing right arm tore through my sleeve. I backed away and circled her, and she turned to follow me.

I glanced up at the police station. No one was watching us. So far, I wasn’t much of a distraction for Annalise’s attack. I wondered if Luke and Emmett were trying to save Sugar’s life in there.

Shireen snapped at me, then faked a little lunge. I jumped straight back, just to keep her honest. I looked over her shoulder and saw Arlene charging silently at Shireen’s back, her silver letter opener high over her head. She wasn’t moving quickly, but she was putting everything she had into the charge.

Arlene’s foot scraped against the asphalt. Shireen hopped away and turned toward the sound. Arlene, still ten yards away, didn’t slow her charge.

Shireen bent low, letting her hands touch the ground, then leaped forward, snapping her jaws on Arlene’s wrist. The old woman screamed. The opener fell from
her hand and bounced down Shireen’s back. Shireen flinched when it touched her, then wrenched her whole body to the side. Blood spurted from Arlene’s arm. She lost her footing and went down. Shireen caught hold of Arlene’s hair with one spindly claw and released her wrist, then turned her fangs to the old woman’s throat.

I heard screams from somewhere nearby. Someone was watching.

I forced myself to look away from Arlene’s bloody murder and searched for the silver blade. It couldn’t have fallen far, but I didn’t see it anywhere. I dropped to my hands and knees and spotted it under Luke’s truck. I scrambled between the back wheels. The truck was tricked out to have a high clearance, but I still had to scrape my belly through oil and antifreeze to reach the opener. I crawled to it, trying to be as quiet as I could. Arlene was dead already, I knew. Wooden man or not, I didn’t want to be next.

I closed my hand on it, feeling the slipperiness of the antifreeze and oil on the wooden handle. At the same moment, Shireen stuck her head under the carriage of the truck and snarled at me.

I felt something grab at my jacket and begin to pull me out from under the car. Shireen had caught the gun in my pocket, which I had forgotten about again.

I slashed and felt the opener strike bone. Shireen yelped and let go of me. I slid away from her, not that it would do me much good. She could be on the far side of the truck before I could. She could even grab hold of my feet and drag me into the daylight. Then the best I could do would be to kill her just as she was killing me.

But she didn’t do that. She came right back at me the same way, and this time she led with her face. Her mouth was open, and I could see blood smeared into her fur.

She was moving slowly. I held the letter opener tightly
but didn’t attack. She was presenting such an easy target, I figured there had to be some sort of trick.

But she didn’t lash out at me. She kept creeping forward, getting closer and closer. It was almost as if she was daring me to strike—or she wanted me to. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass. I stabbed her, plunging the silver blade deep into her eye.

She shuddered. I pushed the blade in as far as it would go. She collapsed and fell still.

I slid away from her. I wanted that letter opener, but I didn’t want to take it out of her just yet. She became indistinct and Shireen’s human face returned.

I rolled out from under the truck as slapping footsteps grew louder. Three townspeople had rushed over to us and stood around the bodies of the two women, gaping. I ran around the back of the truck and shouldered a man out of the way. It took me a moment to realize that he was the cook from the diner.

“Everyone get out of here,” I said. I tried to sound commanding, but fear and adrenaline make my voice squeak.

“She changed,” the cook said. Shireen still lay half under the truck, her torn clothes partly covering her wrinkled flesh. She looked very human and frail. I tried not to think about that. “Did I really see that? Did I really see her change?”

“Nope,” I said. The two young women standing beside the cook stared aghast at the ruined bodies at their feet. “Now get away.”

I pulled Shireen out from under the car. Her head bobbled as it dragged across the ground. The handle of the letter opener scraped the asphalt. I felt a powerful urge to retch.

“You shouldn’t do that,” the cook said. I took the letter opener from the body and forced myself to stare into the bloody ruin that used to be her eye. It didn’t
seem to be healing the way her broken limbs had. She was dead.

I moved away and knelt beside Arlene. She lay still and cooling on the asphalt, but the ragged tears in her throat and arm were slowly joining together. She was dead but healing.

It seemed unfair that she had wanted to go out fighting but now wouldn’t be able to. In just a minute more, she would be awake, and talking about how she wanted to die rather than become a second Shireen.

I slid the blade of the letter opener between her ribs. Her wounds stopped knitting closed, but she didn’t groan or sigh.

Behind me, I heard a door open. I turned to see Wiley Dubois step out of the police station, a shotgun in his hand.

No time for squeamishness. I ripped the letter opener out of Arlene, then threw my shoulder into the nearest of the two women. They both stumbled away from me. I ducked toward the back of the truck. “RUN!” I shouted.

The shotgun boomed as I hit the ground. The cook called out to Jesus, then beat a quick retreat. The two young women were already way ahead of him.

I scrambled to my feet and raced toward the other side of the truck. I heard the terrible clicks of the shotgun being pumped and dove behind the truck bed. Then came another boom, and I felt fire scrape along the back of my left calf.

I hit the ground and rolled. For a moment I was sure that the bottom half of my leg was gone, but that was just my imagination running wild. I had caught a couple of pieces of buckshot in my calf muscle.

I immediately peeked over the back of the truck and saw Wiley huffing down the front steps, heading for the narrow space between Luke’s wrecked truck and the damaged station wall. He pumped the shotgun again.

I held the ghost knife in one hand and the letter opener in the other. The gun in my pocket was useless. Damn. I didn’t have many choices left. I could run away and be shot in my unprotected back. I could backpedal and get shot in the legs or the face. I certainly couldn’t hide.

All I could do was charge him. Charge at a man with a shotgun, and hope I could get close enough to stab him before he killed or crippled me.

I took a deep breath. This is what a wooden man does. He plays decoy and he dies.

I stood. Wiley lifted the shotgun to his shoulder.

From inside the station came the sound of gunshots and a scream. Wiley turned toward the sound, and so did I. It was a man’s voice, high-pitched with panic. The scream was cut off with a strangled sound, and Emmett shouted Luke’s name. The gunshots continued, a dozen over the course of a few seconds.

The window shattered, and something the size of a soccer ball flew through it. It smashed into the windshield of Luke’s car. Wiley gaped at it for a second, then hustled up the stairs toward the front door. He had bigger problems than me.