Dead to Rites (30 page)

I wondered briefly if Fleischer was watchin’ from some hidden vantage or if he’d dusted out the moment the fireworks started. But then, even if for some whacky reason he’d
wanted
to call Shea off at this point, I doubt he coulda done it.

More of the Uptown Boys had converged from where they’d been standing guard at the warehouse’s other entrances. Every one of ’em was packin’ somethin’ heavy, and every one of ’em was angry enough to kill. It was gonna be tough as hell tryin’ to get to Pete and drag him to cover before they opened fire, or maybe I should just dive for it on my own, trust that their fury would keep ’em focused on me and they wouldn’t notice the other guy McCall had walked in with…

And then I saw Tsura, approaching the stage just behind the last of Shea’s goons. It was the strangest thing (and this is me talkin’), too. At random times, she’d just stop, breakin’ stride for a second or three before moving again. Or she’d suddenly stagger left, even though it took her off track. It was only after a good few seconds of this that I realized she was changin’ direction any time one of the trouble boys looked back or otherwise came near to spottin’ her. Except, she was doin’ it
before they looked
! Every move, every pause, kept her from comin’ outta the shadows or otherwise appearing where Shea’s guys
would
have seen her.

When her gift
did
decide to kick in, it didn’t mess around.

So even as Shea’s throat started working again and he was halfway through ordering his men to put so many holes in me I coulda been a fishing net, Tsura crept up on the gink farthest in back and whacked him over the noggin with what looked like a Colt semi-auto that I guessed someone’d dropped in the last minute or two. Even from here, my
aes sidhe
ears heard the crunch of bone, and I saw her flinch, her cheeks pale, but she didn’t let it slow her. Tough broad, that one. She dropped the pistol, reachin’ down to replace it with somethin’ bigger.

I dove for the flimsy cover of the chairs again, now completely abandoned, skiddin’ across the floor so fast my pants tore down the outside of one leg. The Uptown Boys started pluggin’ away at me, again filling the room with enough lead to sink a battleship. And Tsura opened up, too.

Not at the gangsters, but at the glyph-inscribed glass.

I was right. The glass was thick enough, sturdy enough, to take a few high-caliber slugs.

Then again, the drum of a Tommy holds a helluva lot more’n “a few.” And even though the recoil set her staggering, she held on long enough.

Nobody heard her, not at first. Hers was just another gun in the firing squad, a single instrument in the pounding, cacophonic symphony. It was only a piercing
crack
, shrill enough to be painful even over the roscoes, near high enough for the sound itself to have shattered small, that a few of the thugs took their fingers off the trigger long enough to look around.

When they did, it was just in time to see the case detonate in a blizzard of thick wedges of glass. They sounded like an avalanche as they fell to the platform, some of ’em sharp and heavy enough to gouge furrows in the concrete.

Everybody turned to stare, peepers gone wide, and again the guns went silent—but this time it didn’t matter. ’Cause the sound that followed? There ain’t a heater in the world, or any dozen heaters, that it wouldn’t have drowned out and blown away.

It was the bellow of an earthquake given voice. A tornado tearing down an empty, endless alley. The roar of the dead, echoing through the caverns of the world’s foundations.

The mummy awoke, and whatever rage wore that millennia-leathered flesh sure as hell wasn’t the Nessumontu we’d met earlier.

Lifeless hands lashed out, heavy and unyielding as stones, to shatter skulls. Ancient fingers clenched with immortal strength, crushing throats and various bones. His voice—booming, endless, never pausing for breath—shifted from wordless scream to chants that I didn’t have the chance to translate in my head. I recognized the names of Egyptian gods of several dynasties, though. Anhur. Osiris. Montu. Set.

With that last, his voice grew louder still, and with it came a great wind, blasting two of Shea’s boys from their feet. One tumbled off the platform, landing on one shoulder with a pained cry; the other cracked hard against the far wall and made no other sound at all.

I tore my gaze offa the mummy, dashed back toward where Pete was crawling across the floor, tryin’ to find cover while still keeping his peepers trained on the other scuffle, the one happenin’ up near the ceiling…

Tommy guns clattered and I glanced back, saw Nessumontu stagger as slugs tore chunks outta dead flesh. They couldn’t kill him easy—there wasn’t exactly anythin’ to kill—but it might be they could take him apart to where the pieces of his soul couldn’t stick around, or at least didn’t have a functional body to work with.

But Nessumontu raised his chant again. I recognized the name of Sekhmet, among others, and that dead skin began to bulge. Scorpions skittered outta the mummy’s open wounds, tuggin’ the injuries shut with their claws before piercing ’em with stingers and then going stiff, dying and hardening into horrible stitches.

I jumped one of the bloody Uptown Boy bodies—I could just hear enough of a faint gurgling in his chest to know he wasn’t quite dead yet, but it wasn’t gonna be long—and skidded to a halt next to Pete. He sure seemed out of it, dazed by everything that’d happened, but I still reached out with one hand to pin him tight to the floor by his shoulder. No tellin’ what orders McCall mighta given him before they got here, or just how complete her hold on him might be.

Tsura appeared outta nowhere beside me, leanin’ in to hold down his other arm. She was gasping for breath and looked more shocked at what she’d done than I was, but she jerked me a solid nod.

Tough broad. Think I said that already.

The guns still roared, but on both sides now. I dunno how he’d gotten hold of ’em, though “magic” seemed a pretty good bet, but Nessumontu clutched a chopper in each hand. No way most humans woulda had the strength to fire ’em that way and maintain any control, but the mummy wasn’t relying on human strength, and he’d picked up the principles
real
damn quick. He marched across the stage, ignoring the dust-flinging impacts that dug into him. Strips of wrapping trailing behind him, he returned bursts of fire in turn. And with every step he took, more Uptown Boys fell.

Gettin’ into Pete’s noodle shoulda been duck soup, given how well I know him. Between the distractions and the noise, though, along with the ambient magics and especially the shroud of outside emotion the succubus had wrapped him in, it took every speck of concentration I could muster, along with a boost from my wand. A couple times he tried to break free, though whether he was fightin’ my mojo or just throwing an ing-bing over everything going on, I couldn’t tell ya. Between the two of us, though, Tsura’n me managed to hold him pretty still. And eventually, I broke through. I couldn’t just yank McCall’s influence outta him. That woulda taken more time than I could spare right now. But I was able to bury it pretty deep, bringin’ the real Pete Staten back to the surface.

“Wha…? Mick? What the hell…?”

“No time. You… Hang on.”

I twisted around, aimed the L&G at a clump of Shea’s thugs and fired. Gats jammed, footing slipped, and basically they were sitting ducks for Nessumontu.

“Right. No time. You got your service piece on you?”

“I… What?”

“Your revolver, Pete. You got it?”

“Uh, yeah… Coat pocket…”

I reached in, grabbed it.

“Tsura, get him outta here.”

“But—”

“Kid, you done spectacular. Better’n I coulda hoped. I’m impressed, and I’m grateful. And I’ll be even more grateful if you get my friend outta here. Please.”

She ducked under his arm, took his weight on her shoulders to help him up, and they were off. Me, I took a few seconds I probably couldn’t spare to get a handle on everything.

Shea and his last few guys were putting up a good fight, and it was
possible
they might yet do enough damage to Nessumontu to put him down, but it didn’t look probable. If nothin’ else, he could wait a tiny bit longer while I took care of somethin’ a tad more immediate.

The battle overhead was furious as ever, but it’d slowed. Ramona and McCall were both coated in blood, spattering the walls in crimson with every flap of a wing, every slash of a talon, every spitting scream. Ribbons of flesh hung worse’n Nessumontu’s wrappings. Holes gaped in the membrane of their wings, showin’ the ceiling above, and in patches of torn clothing and flesh, revealing raw meat and glistening bone.

I felt sick. I knew the fight was gonna be brutal, and I’d felt no compunction about helpin’ Pete before Ramona—still didn’t—but I had no idea it was gonna get
that
nasty. That either of ’em was still aloft, was a testament to… I dunno—how strong succubi are? The fury and hate they felt for each other? Somethin’.

Whatever the case, though, I didn’t mean to let McCall win this. I was steamed at Ramona, but she wasn’t the one who’d taken Pete.

I crossed my wrists so I could level the L&G and Pete’s roscoe at the same target, carefully tracked the spinning, thrashing pair across the ceiling, cocked back the hammer while ignoring the twinge in my mitt that came from using the damn thing…

And stopped.

Maybe it was somethin’ in the succubi’s own mojo throwin’ mine off. Maybe it was that same sporadic bad luck I’d been suffering for weeks now. But I could just
feel
that my aim was off, that even all the luck I’d sucked outta the thugs and stored in the wand wasn’t gonna be enough for me to make this shot with any level of certainty.

I hadda get closer. A
lot
closer.

Dammit.

I ran. I put everything I had into it, building up a head of steam only your best Olympic sprinters mighta come close to matching. I blasted past most of the rows of chairs, used the last as a stairstep, and I was up onto the platform, still goin’ flat out. I kept my head down, hunched tight as I could without slowing, as I passed behind Nessumontu. Wound a bit of luck around me to avoid gettin’ clipped by any of the Uptowners still standing…

Wasn’t enough, not with the specter of bad fortune doggin’ my steps.

I felt the slug pass through my thigh, takin’ skin and muscle—to say nothin’ of a chunk of ragged pants leg—with it. I let myself scream, just once, with the shock and pain, and I couldn’t help but stagger a pace or two, but I’d be damned if I was gonna let it slow me. Took everything I had, every ounce of will and another surge of magic into my own aura to strengthen the limb and dull the burning, but my drumstick was gonna hold up because I frickin’ well
needed
it to hold up.

For just a few more steps…

A few more tough, agonizing steps, as I hit the slab Nessumontu’d been lyin’ on, almost slipping on the shattered glass. One foot on the stone, then the next, chargin’ uphill now, the makeshift bier rockin’ under me, threatening to send me toppling, until I finally reached the top on my good leg and leapt.

Bullets flashed past under me, ricocheting off the stone; a couple chips embedded themselves in the heels of my Oxfords. I stretched out with my empty hand, reaching for the heavy light fixture hangin’ overhead. Fingers clenched around the metal rim, started to slide, tightened, gripped, slipped again…

From my other hand, wrapped around pistol and wand both, I poured every last bit of luck still stored in the wand—to help me catch myself and to make sure the fixture’s brackets, already startin’ to creak and whine, held my weight.

It held. Unbelievably—and, I was horrifyingly aware,
briefly
—it all held.

Meant I had time for one shot. Since I’d just drained the L&G, a single
unaugmented
shot.

I don’t use guns much. It’d been a long time since I’d pulled a trigger. And the two succubi were still spinning and thrashing around each other like cannibal cats, making for one helluva tough target.

On the other hand, I been around a
long
time, and I fought in a lotta different eras, a lotta different wars. I don’t carry because I don’t like to, not because I can’t.

I hung there like a tranquilized monkey, gently rockin’ back and forth, sighting down the barrel of the revolver, watchin’ as wings and arms and bloody backs flashed past me…

Bang.

McCall shrieked, arching backwards as the round tore through a shoulder blade right at the joint of a wing. Wasn’t iron or enchanted or anything, so it wouldn’ta been a crippling wound under most circumstances, but… these circumstances were a damn sight far from “most.”

I saw her bend back, saw Ramona lunge, bloody teeth bared, and then the luck I’d pumped into the fixture ran out. Brackets snapped, my grip slipped, and
wham
!

I was lyin flat on the floor, new agony tearin’ through me as several heavy shards of glass punched through my coat and into my back—agony that only got worse as the heavy round fixture landed on top of me. I felt my ribs bruise, and the bulb, which shattered on impact, gouged another semicircle into my skin. Groaning, I shoved it off and rolled over, wincing as every motion tugged at the wounds.

McCall hit the platform a few feet away, hard enough to shake the concrete. Her whole face was a mess of lacerations, her throat open to the air. She choked on spurting blood. Ramona landed beside her, staggering a little but upright. Carefully she knelt down beside her “sister.”

I knew I wanted to turn away from what was about to happen, but I couldn’t make my body move fast enough.

Ramona slowly drove the talons of her pointer and middle fingers through McCall’s eyes, digging deep but curving downward, driving into the bone above the mouth rather than through into the brain. McCall screamed like I’d never heard, thrashin’ and flailing to get away, to grab Ramona’s arm and make her stop, but she couldn’t find the control or the strength.

Then she couldn’t even scream as Ramona slid the claws on her
other
hand up under McCall’s chin, until she had a good, solid grip inside the muscle and bone.