Cool Hand (2 page)

I felt rather than saw Bian lunge between me and Julie, leap the moat and launch herself up the tiers of the pyramid. Her black blade wove a path around her; men and women fell away, leaving smaller, frightened figures cowering on the steps.

Smaller?

God. There were children here! The toru were children!

Heart in my mouth, I leaped across the moat and up two tiers, where another Matlal was holding a knife on two children, their faces pressed down. I vaulted over the children and killed him. Their screams shrilled in my ears. Another Matlal. Up a tier. Everything slowed as the bodies got closer together, and it was harder to keep the children safe. Another Matlal. Another.

Some of the Matlal ran for the side door. I let them. David and Paul would take care of them.

We had hit them like runaway trucks, throwing them back. Just like the manual said, we rode the shockwave, moving faster than they could organize. Bian had bolted up the steps of the pyramid like a startled horse.

And still we were too slow.

The apex of the pyramid was a gray stone slab the size of a small bed. It had dark streaks down its sides and fresh blood starting to trickle over the stains. A man stood there, big golden helmet and full face mask giving him an expression of cruel horror. Some kind of high priest. A sheen of sweat made him gleam like an oiled snake. A body—a child’s body—was lying on the stone in front of him. His hand was arcing down, the wicked blade in his fist flashing gold in the firelight. We were too late.

And then his severed arm was tumbling end over end down the steps, spraying blood.

His eyes widened with shock behind his mask, unable to comprehend the swift justice of the blade that Bian had thrown at him.

Tap.
I shot him right between those startled eyes and the bullet punched bits of his mask through his brain.

Then Bian was there, hurling his dead body away and bending over the child in frantic haste.

Julie and Tom shot one more each. As suddenly as it had started, it was over.

I stared around the barn in amazement and repulsion. The renegade Matlal had built an Aztec temple out of railroad ties, earth and massive stone slabs, with five great tiers sliced through by a flight of steps leading up to the top. The moat it sat in looked regular and concreted beneath a layer of the sort of liner used for pools. The tiers themselves were edged with the railroad ties and filled with concrete. The steps leading up the side were rough dressed stone.

All hidden on a ranch, out on the cold, high plains of Colorado.

I’d researched Luc Matlal, the former head of House Matlal. I knew there were radical political groups in Mexico who claimed he was part of them. Their common theme was the reestablishment of a Nahuatl state. It fit with the arrogance of the man I’d met.

It didn’t explain this.

Matlal hadn’t struck me as the type of military commander who’d use building projects to keep his troops occupied. The backhoe outside would have done the heavy digging, and they could have used some of the earth they’d dug out for the core of the pyramid, but they’d have needed rubble and supplies—stone, concrete, railroad ties. That meant trucks visiting. Dumps in the farmyard. Site vehicles going back and forth.

I guessed that this far out on the plains, no one was around to notice the activity. But at a minimum, it had to have taken them three solid weeks to build this thing.

Why do all this work? Just to indulge Matlal’s fetish for Nahuatl history?

Including sacrificing children?

My stomach twisted. I wanted to vomit. It was evil and insane, beyond even what the rest of Basilikos did. There was a cloud of malevolence clinging to the structure. Like the noonday desert sun on unprotected skin, it made me feel that my skin was getting drier—itching and stretching and burning.

It’d only been a few minutes since we’d cleared the building, and everyone had followed us inside. I would have had trouble organizing my thoughts enough to give instructions over the comms set, but Elizabetta and the other kin just swept in and took over. Frightened, panicking children were being given sedatives, wrapped up in emergency blankets and carried back to the house. Minor injuries were being dealt with. Elizabetta stopped in front of me long enough to check me for wounds, and then passed on to help Bian in her grim struggle on the altar.

The child had been sliced on her chest, but the priest—or whatever he called himself—hadn’t had time for the next cut.

I left Bian and Elizabetta to it. There was nothing I could contribute and I was scared the blood was going to set off my wolf.

David stood below, next to a huge drum made from an eighty-gallon rainwater butt. He looked as baffled as I was by the sight of the pyramid, but he gave me a nod. Everything had gone well outside.

Tom and Paul came back in.

“Ranch house is empty,” Tom said. “They were packed and ready to leave.”

The way he said it gave it away. “Not the children, though,” I said.

“No.” He wiped his hand against his shirt as if touching anything the Matlal had touched soiled him. “You okay?” he asked.

I nodded, my mind skittering around again, trying to grasp it all.

Killing the children before escaping made a sick kind of sense for the Matlal. They’d have planned to split up into smaller groups, each making its way south and trickling across the border back to the safety of Matlal’s domain in Mexico. Children might draw attention to them. And if they went across the desert, the children might not be able to keep up.

But why this elaborate setup? What on earth was the purpose of this?

I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that this was somehow an imperfect copy, maybe of another temple.

What had Luc Matlal been doing on his hidden estates down in Mexico? What had he found? When I first read the briefing notes on him, and had seen the Nahuatl political party affiliations, I’d dismissed that as opportunistic political maneuvering on his part. What if it was more?

Whatever it was, I’d
felt
it first; from outside the barn I’d sensed the shape of evil in my mind. And even though that feeling was less now the Matlal were dead, it persisted, like the after-image of a bright light when you shut your eyes. That image wasn’t just a still shape; the surface swam with pale electric movement as if fluorescent snakes were climbing the tiers.

I’d seen none of that when we’d come in, but reaching out a tentative hand to touch the steps, I somehow expected a shock.

Nothing.

My brain seemed slow from the smoke. I wondered if they’d put something mind-altering in those braziers.

I used a discarded gold helmet to scoop up some moat water, and doused the flames. The smell of paraffin began to cover the odor of whatever had been in the braziers. I left the floating lamps; there didn’t seem to be anything in them.

With the reduction in light, menacing shadows seemed to ooze out of the wooden walls and steal down them to pool at the bottom.

I shuddered. Too many lungsful of crazy smoke.

Tom ended a call on his cell, and with Bian busy, he reported directly to me.

“Nick Gray’s a couple of minutes away. We’ve got a few more kin coming,” he said. “I also put in a request to the Pack. Hope you don’t mind. A dozen of them will come out and help clean up.” He kicked the side of the pyramid. “Need to clear the whole site.”

Felix had been adamant about the pack not getting involved in fights between Athanate, but all the paranormals understood the need to destroy evidence of us.

I nodded. “There’ll be other bodies somewhere close. Find them. I guess they would have used the backhoe to dig a pit, so it shouldn’t be hard.” Saying it like that made it just business. Nothing to do with what those small bodies would look like, in the cold, dark embrace of the earth.

I took a breath, pushed all the visions away. “Once you’ve done that, clear out any evidence in the house as well, and finish up by burning the buildings down.”

Tom grunted, turning around to take in the pyramid and calculate the effort required to destroy it.

“Anyway,” he said, “I guess that’s all of the Matlal remnants accounted for now.”

I shook my head. I’d checked the bodies here, and there was still one missing. The silver-haired woman who’d been kicking my ass at Cheesman Park until the FBI showed up and saved me. I guess that confirmed she was the one who’d given Nick the information on how to find this place. He’d told me earlier in the week she was willing to provide insider intel—in return for joining House Farrell. Had that been part of the ‘anything’ I’d promised him? My head was still fuzzy, but no, I remembered Nick had asked for me to talk to her. I’d agreed that. Then he’d said she was looking to join House Farrell. I was sure I hadn’t agreed to that. How had we left it?

Crap.
I was getting into enough trouble as it was. If I couldn’t remember important stuff like this, things were only going to get worse.

Tom and Paul moved down a tier to talk with David.

“This is bad. It’s not just that they weren’t running—” Tom started.

“Hold it.” I stopped him.

As the smoke cleared from the barn through the gaping ruin of the door, my brain was clearing too. My wolfy nose was still in shock from the smells and the smoke, but my wolfy ears had recovered.

Over in the back corner of the barn were some tool cabinets, looking so ordinary they were out of place. Something had rattled over there.

As soon as I took one step toward the cabinets, a girl—maybe a year or so older than the other children—slithered out from the narrow gap between them and sprinted for the door, clearly terrified.

Tom held his hands up and moved to block her. Julie was at the door. They’d catch her as gently as they could.

I stayed focused on the cabinets, my nose twitching. Something drew me there.

There was no one hiding between them, or on top, or under them.

Still.

Away from the smell of the braziers, my wolfy nose told me they weren’t empty.

I put the HK down and knelt beside the right-hand cabinet. It was an old wooden cupboard that had been pressed into service to store tools. The right door hung a little ajar, and I slowly pulled it open.

He was jammed in what had been the bottom drawer space. It didn’t look possible, but he’d managed to squeeze himself in there and half turn so he was stuck. It looked like we’d have trouble getting him out.

His face was only a few inches from mine, partly obscured by an old wooden-handled screwdriver he was clutching like a knife. He was shaking with fear, his eyes staring, round as an owl’s.

The last thing I wanted to do was reach in and drag him out, or traumatize him any more.

I eased back a couple of paces, bending low so I was level with him and he couldn’t see the gun lying on the ground behind me. I watched him, ignoring all the stuff going on in the rest of the barn. This one little guy was my save.

“You’re safe now,” I said, talking slowly. “I’m here to help you, and we can walk out of here together just as soon as you’re ready. Everything will be fine.”

Had his terrified stare relaxed just a bit?

Did he understand what I was saying, or was it just the tone?

I said it again, in Spanish. Nothing.

“Hablo español como una gringa,” I said with a smile.

The tiniest nod.

Progress.

There was more noise, and his eyes looked fearfully over my shoulder.

“De nada,” I said. “Estás a salvo.”
It’s nothing. You’re safe.

He was trying to see what was happening on the altar. I could hear Elizabetta and Bian. Was there some triumph in their voices? Could they stitch the girl up and save her? How much blood had she lost?

When he stretched his neck, I could see the scars. Some old, some partly healed, looking red and sore. Some fresh.

My jaw clenched.

He whimpered and I realized my face had gone bleak as a rock. I screwed it up and tried blowing out a breath to relax my expression.

“Not you. The people who did that to you.” I pointed at him and then touched my neck. “Matlal. They’re dead. Todos muertos. They can’t hurt you now.”

He shook his head—a short, violent motion. He understood some of that.

So what did he mean, shaking his head? What would he be thinking?

I was going to get him out, but I wanted to do it without touching him. He’d been touched enough by the Matlal.

How to manage it?

His mouth worked, but the sound was too distorted.

“Say again?” I said, leaning closer.

“K…kill me,” he stuttered, his accent thick.

He was still frightened. I bit my lip. Maybe he thought we hadn’t gotten all the Matlal.

“They can’t kill you. They’re gone. You can come with us and we’ll protect you.” I looked at his thin body. “We’ll take you to get some food. You like burgers?” His eyes went round again. “Tacos? Milkshake?”

That
seemed to have registered. Maybe I was getting through to him. I had a moment of wondering whether he had ever tasted a milkshake or a burger. What had they fed him on? Did he remember anything from before Matlal? Where had he come from? Had he been stolen from his parents?

Too many questions, and none I could ask him yet.

At least I was getting some kind of response.

What else did eight-year-old kids like?

“We’ll take you to a place where they have toys and games. You know, like video games? You can play. Would you like to play video games?”

There was definitely a reaction to that. He knew what a video game was. Maybe House Matlal had let them play games in between feeding sessions.

There was shouting behind me and he flinched. If anything, he seemed to trying to squeeze himself deeper into the cramped space.

More shouting, louder now.

What the hell is going on?

I stood up and turned around.

“Hey guys,” I said. “Keep it down—I’ve got a scared kid here.”

“Amber!” David shouted as he rounded the base of the pyramid and ran towards me, one hand stretched out as if he were trying to warn me or stop me from doing something.

And that was the moment when the kid came out from the cabinet and stabbed me with his damn screwdriver.