Darkness Calls (19 page)

I did not see them move. Not even a muscle. But in seconds they crossed that slick red floor.

All I saw were three gaping mouths, brimming with impossible rows of sharp teeth—piranhas and chain saws—so close to my face I could smell the blood on their breath, see giblets of flesh dangling from their gums. I raised my knife.

They never touched me. Zee slammed against them—and then Raw and Aaz were there, plowing so hard into the men, their small bodies lodged headfirst. The twins chewed their way through two of them, straight past spines and out the other side. The men continued to writhe, thrashing wildly. Staring at me—only at me—with their teeth flashing. Raw and Aaz ripped spikes out of their spines and plunged them through their necks.

Zee was more elegant. He waited for the last man to attack him—headfirst, hands pressed to his sides like a torpedo with teeth—and the little demon slammed his fist into the man’s open mouth, breaking his jaw, catching him like a shark on a hook. Zee grinned, licking his lips, and opened his clawed hand inside the man’s mouth.

I looked away. Seconds later I heard the solid thump of a body hitting the floor. That was all. None of the men had screamed. Not one had shown fear, even as they were mauled to death. Just that same cold, mindless hunger—rage, even.

My ears rang. I stared at the devastated bodies, but my mind refused to register faces. Instead, I heard Grant’s voice in my head, telling me about Father Ross: how the real man had still been in there, trapped behind instinct.

Me or them,
I thought, and turned away, drawing a deep breath into my lungs. Raw and Aaz flanked me, their skin absorbing the gore that covered them. I looked at the remaining man, still sitting at the table with his back turned. He had not moved once. Not once to look.

I walked toward him. I had no choice but to step in blood. The metallic scent was powerful. Zee kept pace, trailing his claws against the wet red floor. Dek and Mal growled.

I walked around the table, and looked into a sagging face and piggish eyes, half-obscured by the dirty lenses of his glasses. Killy’s gaze ticked upward to glance at me, but the rest of her stayed perfectly still, and I did not look back. I stared at the man. I stared at him so long and hard my eyes began to burn.

“Mr. King,” I managed to say. “What brings you here?”

“Oh,” he said, stuffing some blood-covered pretzels in his mouth. “This and that. I wanted to stretch my legs.”

Such a game he played. “Seems you managed that.”

“Quite.” He looked at Zee. “So here we are, Hound, again at the crossroads. Still bound to the blood of your Lady.”

“Bound to kill you,” rumbled the demon. “No more, skinner. No more cuts.”

“You still think you can give me orders.” Mr. King lifted his gaze and smiled at me, tight-lipped, the corners of his mouth stained red. “You should discipline them.”

“They’re perfect,” I replied coldly. “Angels.”

His smile tightened even more. “I have Jack, you know. I was pleased to discover him going by that name again. He’s used it so often it must be his favorite. Old Jack. Jack in the Green. Jack the Giant Killer, Jack the Knave, Merlin Jack, Jack Rabbit, Jack Shit,
every man Jack of them
.”

He said the names faster and faster, his voice becoming rougher with each syllable he spilled, and bits of blood and pretzel sprayed from his mouth. It was terrifying to watch. I could feel his control slipping away, rushing, and behind him, behind him I saw movement, and it was Grant entering the bar, staring, seeing me first, then him, and the blood, the blood, and I flicked my fingers at Zee.

The demon attacked Mr. King. He hit the man in the chest, and Raw and Aaz joined him, raking his body with their claws. Flesh ripped. Jaws tore chunks from his bulging, suited body. I grabbed Killy by the arm and threw her away from the table. She fell on her ass in a puddle of blood, and scrambled backward toward the bar.

Mr. King laughed, and looked at her. “Don’t go yet. Don’t go, little girl. I got your scent in me now, and I like what I smell. Got some old-time magic in your blood.”

He showed no pain. Not even a flinch. Just that tight-lipped smile. He reached around Zee, stroking his head, and the tips of his fingers sliced through the razor needles of the demon’s hair and tumbled to the tabletop like fat, fleshy dice. Zee snarled as blood splashed against his face.

“Nerve endings,” said Mr. King calmly, without a glance at his mutilated hand, “are the first thing any good grafter removes. Something Jack should have remembered. But then, he was always a bit . . . old-fashioned.”

Saying Jack’s name seemed to break his control again. Cold hate flickered through his eyes. I found myself taking a step closer, blade held loose in my hand. I heard the click of a cane, and Grant moved near, as well—staring at the man with such command and intensity he seemed more like a soldier in that moment; a warrior, as much a wolf as the boys. The bad leg, the cane—none of that mattered. He suddenly looked like a man who could kill an immortal, in his dark eyes, something primitive, more than human.

Mr. King turned his chair to look at him, and all that hate flickered into fear: primal, wild, like a buried instinct rearing.

Then it was gone, and he whispered, “Lightbringer. Imagine that, in the flesh.”

Grant showed nothing, except a perfect mask of stone-cold menace. “You’ve hurt people I care about. You don’t plan on stopping.”

“So stop me,” whispered Mr. King, as Zee jumped from his chest, slinking around to my side. “Or have you weakened yourself too much? Not strong enough to help even one friend?”

Grant snarled; guttural, formless words lashing from his mouth. Power whipped along my skin, and Mr. King threw back his head, choking.

Only for a moment, though. Grant’s voice broke into a cough, blood trickling from his mouth. He tried to take another deep breath and had to bend over, gasping like it was hard to breathe. Raw bounded close, peering up into his face with concern.

Mr. King shuddered. Veins had burst under his skin, lending him a mottled appearance. Saliva glistened at the corners of his lips. He stared at Grant with such hunger I could almost hear the cracking of bone between his teeth.

“So you
are
unbonded,” he whispered. “Untaught.”

“Shut up,” I hissed.

He ignored me. “Lightbringer. Last of your kind, I think. But then, we will have to be certain, won’t we? Before the Reapers break loose, we will have to tear this world to pieces to make sure you are alone.” He held up his hand, where blood still leaked from the ends of his fingers. “Old Jack could tell you about the hunts if he was here. Chasing the skins of your kind across the Labyrinth. Stealing babies into shackles from their cribs.”

I took a step, then another, and the world blurred until I found myself slamming into Mr. King, taking us both into the floor. He started laughing on the way down—and then stopped when I smashed my left palm into his forehead and began muttering words of exorcism. Zee and the others bounced from the shadows, landing on top of his arms and legs.

His mouth twisted. “Will you exorcise me? Will you drive me from this body?
Hunter.
It will be a shell. Nothing remains of the heart I stole.”

I grabbed his face and felt behind my ribs a tickle, a flutter: darkness, rising. Pinpricks of hunger, slow-burning in my heart. I had killed an Avatar with such hunger. Ruined Franco and his men. If I let go, I would do the same to Mr. King. I needed to. I
had
to.

Grant. He stood too close. I could touch him if I reached out. He would let me touch him, no matter what power raged inside me. If I were handling a nuclear bomb, he would take it from me. I tried to turn my head to look at him, to tell him to run, but my throat choked, and my right hand began to burn. Electricity raced up my arm. My vision shifted from eye to mind, until the room around me faded, and all I could feel was the spirit inside the body beneath mine. But it was wrong. I had exorcised demons, stripped the bastards from human souls—but this was different; there was no other soul left, nothing but a hollow shell. Whoever had owned the body before Mr. King was long gone. The skin beneath me had as much value as a good winter coat.

“You want me dead,” I managed to whisper.

“I want you out of the way,” he breathed, eyes glittering. “You were great once, Hunter. A treasure. But the Lightbringer is a better prize. As is the key you bear.”

“This?” I held up my right hand, which still gripped my small blade. Quicksilver glinted along my ring finger and wrist. “You want this? You goddamn try to take it, you fuck.”

And I slammed the knife into his forehead.

Bone cracked. Mr. King jerked, eyes widening, and when I wrenched the blade free, brain matter and blood seeped through the jagged hole. He still breathed, though—nostrils flaring as if scenting the air around me. Something wild and startled passed through his face.

“Your blood,” he whispered weakly. “Jack. What have you—”

Zee reached out and snapped his neck before he could finish. Mr. King went limp. How that was a better killing blow than a stab wound to the head, I did not know—nor did I care. I felt the Avatar leave its body. In my gut, I felt it go. I could taste the damn thing: bitter, twisted, like seawater mixed with sewage.

I leaned back, heart pounding. My right hand was sticky with blood, and warm, rough tongues licked my fingers and palm. Raw and Aaz rumbled with purrs. I felt cold. So cold. The knife slipped from my grip, and Zee caught it.

Strong hands gripped my shoulders, pulling me away from Mr. King. Grant knelt beside me, breath rasping like there was a razor caught in his throat.

“Maxine,” he said hoarsely, pressing his lips to my brow. “Maxine, are you okay?”

“Dandy,” I breathed, and leaned over and vomited.

CHAPTER 12

W
HEN I was sixteen, a man in Mexico threatened to kill me. He put cold steel to my neck and asked my mother for money. I could still remember the acrid scent of his sweat, the nervous quiver in his voice. Not a bad man, just a coward looking for an easy way out. He let me go as soon as he saw the cash.

My mother never let go of anything.

She sliced open the major artery near his groin. His blood sprayed everywhere; in the dust and cobblestones, on my shoes. His screams were terrible. He begged us for help. He told us he had children.

My mother left him to die and forced me to do the same. I hated her for that. Not because she saved me, but because she had no mercy. She had turned me into a murderer simply by my own inaction, and it sickened my heart. I did not want to kill. Not even in self-defense. I did not want to be like her.

I told my mother that. I told her, and all she did was smile sadly, and brush back my hair, and dab at my bleeding throat with small, careful fingers.

Trouble follows us,
she said.
No way to stop it, baby. You just deal with the hand, and play the cards, good and bad.

Took me years to figure out what that had to do with letting a mugger bleed to death. Sometimes I still wasn’t certain. But the best I could figure, after all this time, was that she had known my self-righteousness would be worth shit after she died. That even if I didn’t end up like her, I was going to be a close approximation. I would kill. I would be ruthless. It was inevitable, given our destiny, what we had been born to do.

And she was telling me, even then, in her own way, that it was all right. Trouble would follow me, but however I dealt with it, whoever I turned out to be . . . it was okay.
I
was okay.

Only, that was wrong. Nothing was okay.

And I never would be.

WE threw tablecloths and towels over the bodies. I covered Mr. King by myself, studying that lifeless face, pale in death, and empty.

Worse than the demons,
I thought. Demons I understood. Demonic parasites inhabited bodies because they fed off the distinctive energy of pain. But this possession had been for nothing except pleasure. Just a skin to take a ride in. A long, hard murder: first, of the person; and then, the flesh.

My jeans were ruined, soaked in blood. I could feel it on my thighs. Killy had been wearing less, and was worse off after having scrambled across the floor. Both of us, red and stinking.

Zee brought me a new pair out of the shadows, denim stiff and dark. Tags still attached. He did so while the other woman was upstairs, changing, washing. She had witnessed the boys in action—no way around it—but I did not see any reason to continue pushing their existence in her face.

Raw and Aaz prowled the bar, sniffing the floor and dead bodies, taking long drags from the whiskey bottles they carried. Dek and Mal were uncharacteristically silent—as was Zee, though I saw him confer with the twins. Heads bowed, making scratches in the floor. The spikes embedded in their spines flexed in agitation.