Death's Hand (19 page)

“I thought you said it couldn’t come to Earth,” Elise interrupted. “There are no necromancers in Hell. There aren’t even any necromancers on Earth, come to think of it. Not in years.”

“It can’t actually
come up. With a dark object, yeah, it can
appear
up here. But with the help of a necromancer, Death’s Hand would have a heck of a lot easier time finding a witch to become a vessel.”

Elise slipped her hand into her pocket, wrapping her hand around the stone she had taken from the witch. It vibrated ever so slightly as though it knew they were talking about it. “What do you mean, a vessel?”

“Someone to possess. A strong enough witch with the right power could become the body of Death’s Hand. Like an ascension, you know, but without the centuries of building up its power first. ’Course, once Death’s Hand has a body, it won’t need a pet necromancer any more. It’ll destroy him and keep the bits it wants, like everything else it reanimates.”

“Destroy him,” she echoed. “Do you mean…”

“Death’s Hand destroys its legions once they’re used up. Clean-up, you know. Real easy and nice. It won’t need the necromancer to keep the power after awhile. Hypothetically, of course. That would violate the Treaty of Dis and bring down all kinds of hellfire, and nobody’s stupid enough to do that.”

“Good. Thanks.” Elise turned to leave.

“
Vedae som matis
,” he said. He said the words with a strange accent, almost choking on them, as though they were spoken in the throat rather than the mouth.

“What?”

“
Vedae som matis
. It’s the demon language, and that’s what they call it down there. Thought you might be interested.”

“What does
vedae som matis
mean?”

“Hand of Death.”

Shocking. Elise stuck her knife back in her belt. “Thanks for the information.”

“This is twice now you’ve made me had a bad day, cabbage,” David Nicholas called after her as she headed down the alley. “First one was free. Second one’s going to cost you.”

“Send a bill to my office,” she snapped. “The check bounced, by the way. I’m going to get that money from you in blood if I have to.”

“Go ahead and try,” he said. His eyes glowed.

Elise mulled over the information he had given her as she navigated the alleys behind the casino.
Vedae som matis
. Death’s Hand. Reanimation, not resurrection. That would explain why it had possessed Lucinde. She must not have been strong enough to become the vessel of Death’s Hand. James had enough power, but Death’s Hand needed a dead witch.

She wrapped her hand around the stone in her pocket, as though it might give her answers. The sense of demonic energy had grown in intensity, ringing throughout Elise’s senses.

Had the staff begun radiating more energy, or was it something… else?

Elise picked up the pace again and stretched out her senses. Yes, there were definitely demons around, and it wasn’t hard to guess what would be tracking her.

Fiends. And they were close.

She gripped her knife. Elise hurried down the sidewalk toward the parking garage. Dancing casino lights lit her path, casting flickering shadows on the street before her, turning the night into a tired carnival of once-great businesses harping their unwanted wares.

A chill crept up her spine, and the demonic sensations intensified.

Motion blurred at the corner of Elise’s vision.

She spun, cutting the dagger through the night air. A huge fist grabbed her before she could even see the attached face—the corpse from the hospital again—and slammed her hand into the wall. Concrete scraped her exposed fingers. Pain shocked up her arm. Her fingers lost their grip on the dagger, and it clattered to the concrete.

The possessed one twisted her around, jerking her into his body and wrapping a steel-clad arm around her. He threw himself backward into the shadow of a building, taking Elise with him.

She lost her footing, and the servant forced her against a wall. His hot hand clamped over her nose and mouth, cutting off her breath. The rag in his hand smelled faintly sweet, and slightly alcoholic. Elise had never smelled anything like it before, but she’d seen enough movies to recognize chloroform.

She held her breath, but her throat burned with the taste of chemicals, and it was too late.

XIII

Betty took the coffee pot out of the machine, grabbed a cozy, and set both on the table in front of Anthony. “Drink,” she said.

Anthony slumped forward on her table and dropped his chin on his folded arms. He wore a button-down shirt and clean jeans, and there wasn’t a spot of oil anywhere on his body. He was well-dressed for the crack of dawn. “I don’t want it.”

“Cheer up,” she said. “Caffeine’s a mood booster.”

“I hate coffee.”

She dropped into the chair beside him, moved the vase so it wasn’t between them, and poured herself a cup. “Of course you like coffee. Everyone likes coffee. It’s just a matter of how much sugar and creamer you need.” She punctuated her statement by emptying the cream bottle into her half-full mug and sprinkling sugar atop it, stirring with a swizzle stick topped by a hula dancer. “Did you even change out of your clothes after last night?”

“No. I slept like this,” he said. “I just don’t get it. If she didn’t want to go on another date with me, why would she agree to go out in the first place?”

“Isn’t that just another delightful part of the enigma that is Elise?”

“It’s fucked up, that’s what it is.” He glanced at the coffee pot. “What kind is that?”

“Komodo blend,” she said, wafting the cup in the air. “Also known as percolated heaven. Sound good yet?”

“No.”

Betty took a large slurp of the coffee and set it down again. “I’m going to give it to you straight, baby cousin of mine: Elise would not be afraid of refusing dates. If she thought your first date sucked, she would get that look that says in her not-so-sneaky way that if you speak to her again she’ll break your nose. That’s about as subtle as she gets. Agreeing to a date and then ditching you—that isn’t her
modus operandi
.”

He grunted. “I guess.”

“Do you know how many boyfriends she’s had in the time I’ve known her?”

“I don’t think I want to know.”

“None,” Betty said. “Not one. And do you know how many guys have asked her out?” Anthony shook his head. “None. She scares everyone off. I think she was impressed that you asked her at all.”

“Well, I’m not scared of some girl,” Anthony said.

She smacked him. “Don’t be an ass. Elise is terrifying.”

“Fine, whatever, she’s terrifying. I still really like her.” He scoffed. “I
did
like her.”

“Cut her some slack.”

“She ditched me without a phone call. Her only text said that she got caught up doing something with James,” Anthony said.

“Then that’s probably true.”

He leaned against the back of the chair, cupping his hands behind his neck. He rolled his thoughts around for a moment before speaking. “Do you think Elise and James…?”

She took a long, slow drink of her coffee, setting it down with a satisfied sigh. “No.”

“But—”

“
No
. That dance studio is a monastery. I promise.”

“Then she just doesn’t like me,” he concluded stubbornly. Betty ignored him. “I’m not going to wait around for her to notice me and I’m not going to give her another chance.”

“Sure,” she said. “Did I remember to mention that she joined that pole dance class at that rival studio? They’re doing an exhibition next week and she’s going to be dancing in a bikini. Gyrating. Sweaty.”

His eyes lit up. “Really? When?”

“I’m lying, Elise didn’t join the class. She doesn’t even know where her hips are.” Betty laughed. “‘Giving up on her.’ You’re so full of shit.”

He couldn’t help but laugh too. “You’re nuts, Betty. You know—” Anthony suddenly went rigid. His eyes widened. “Wait. Did you hear that?”

The window exploded.

Glass showered into the kitchen. Betty shrieked, throwing herself under the table, and Anthony followed, sliding to the floor for cover.

Something heavy—not large, but insanely
dense—
crashed through the broken window. It rolled on the glass shards, knocking the appliances from the counters to the floor, and hit the linoleum with the
thud
of a cannonball hitting concrete.

It stopped moving for an instant. Only an instant. It was gray, hulking, covered in twisted red scars. Eyes like soft balls stuck out on either side of its head.

And it was screaming.

Its eyelids flashed open and then shut again. It clawed at its own face, its screech the mix of a sob and a wail, and Betty slapped her hands over her ears to block out the noise. Blood trailed from the corners of its eyes and the gash of its mouth.

Icy terror smashed into Anthony’s chest, and for an instant, he couldn’t breathe.

His focus narrowed on the monster.
Fight
.

He knocked the table over, putting it between himself and the monster. It smashed into the tabletop. Wood squealed against the floor, and Betty cried out.

“Move,” Anthony said, “move! Hide!”

It barreled into the table again and then fell back, still tearing at its eyes and screaming. Betty hurried to her feet, and he pushed her toward the hallway. She knocked over one of the chairs in her haste.

The monster rushed her, a blur of shrieking rage and agony.

Anthony threw himself into its side, knocking them both down. Its three-fingered hands clamped onto his arms like a steel vice.

He was airborne. The wall became huge in his vision.

Pain rang through his body, and his face hit the floor.

It went for Betty again. Anthony pushed himself to all fours and shook his head to clear his vision. His cousin threw herself into the closet and tried to pull it shut, but it had gotten a hand in the way and she was screaming and Anthony couldn’t revel in his pain. He had to focus.

“Where’s your dad’s shotgun?” he yelled.

Betty’s panicked eyes met his. “My bedroom closet—it’s not loaded—”

He slid into the kitchen, scooping up the first sharp thing he saw. The monster tore open the closet door and reached for Betty.

“Hey,” Anthony said, “hey! Over here!”

He flung the knife at the monster, missing by at least two feet. It turned its bulging eyes on him. Eyelids cracked, he could just make out a sliver of massive pupil staring at him. Betty jerked her foot into the closet and shut the door.

Its jaw dropped wide and it roared, shrill and berserk. Sputum slapped against its chin.

Anthony made a break for the bedroom. The monster dodged into his path. He leapt over its head, dashing for the bedroom, and slammed the door. The lock clicked.

It crashed into the door with a wail.

Anthony paused for an instant, sucking in a hard breath of air, watching Betty’s door. The monster hit again, but it held.

He went to the closet and began to search.

Tío
Jacob didn’t like the idea of his little girl living alone without protection, even with her cousin next door, so he had gifted her with a combat assault shotgun as a housewarming gift. At the time, Betty had teased her dad for being so paranoid, but it didn’t seem nearly so paranoid now.

Anthony found the gun, unzipping the sleeve to withdraw it. The monster smashed into the other side of the door. It began to buckle.

He tore through Betty’s shelves, knocking her collection of records to the floor and shuffling through a pile of stuffed animals to find where she kept the ammo. A stack of boxes were clustered in the back corner of her closet, dusty and unopened since the day Anthony had given them to her. He had bought her two kinds of rounds: one for target shooting, and double ought for making sure a live target would never get up again.

He grabbed the double ought.

Another hit. The door splintered.

Anthony slammed his shoulder into the crack to keep it from breaking entirely. His hands shook as he tried to get a round out of the box. He dropped it. Ammunition spilled across the carpet.

Swearing, he dropped to the floor and held the door shut with a foot, back pressed against the foot of Betty’s bed. He slid open the loading port on the bottom of the shotgun.

Anthony counted out the shells he could reach as he loaded it—no time to panic—and pumped once. The chamber wasn’t full, but if he needed more rounds to kill that thing, he probably wouldn’t live to do it anyway. He kept the number of rounds hovering in his head—five—and let go of the door.

He had only an instant to get on one knee, shotgun braced against his shoulder, before the monster broke through. It rushed at him on all fours, its nails tearing into the carpet.

He angled down and squeezed the trigger.

BLAM
.

The recoil knocked the butt of the shotgun into the pad of his shoulder and he rocked backward. The monster’s arm disappeared in a spray of blood and pellets smacked into the floor.

He pumped the action and an empty casing went flying.
Four
.

It screamed a terrible scream that made his eardrums throb, rearing back on its stubby legs. Anthony braced properly this time and squeezed the trigger again.

BLAM.

Suddenly, the monster didn’t have a face.

Three rounds.

With no flesh, Anthony could see all too well the pellets that had buried into its skull. There was blood everywhere, tassels of skin, the dribbling remnants of its left eyeball. Some of the pellets had implanted in the drywall behind its head and Anthony’s ears were ringing.

It raised onto its remaining forearm and dragged its carcass toward him.

He stood, pointing the muzzle of the shotgun straight down at its head, and pulled the trigger once more.

BLAM.

The monster flattened without the back of its skull.

Two
.

Was it dead? Anthony didn’t care to find out. He pumped again.

BLAM.
Pump. The casing hit the carpet.
BLAM.