Four and Twenty Blackbirds (25 page)

Again he spoke softly to Marcus and again I heard the word "poison."

I'm getting you ready,
the dream man had said.
I'm making you strong.
But what sort of strength was this, that now all the undead crowded me close, when before it was mostly the three sad women. I did not like this kind of strength, and I was not at all happy to have it. I was exhausted and angry, and I wanted only to close my eyes and leave them that way for a very long time.

I let Harry and Marcus lead me to the room where I would spend the remains of the night, and fell into bed without even washing my face. I lay staring at the ceiling, half gasping, half choking. I couldn't look anywhere without seeing
them
. Some of them were monks, and occasionally I would see a conquistador or an Indian, but they wandered the halls and the rooms as though they were yet alive. It was more than enough to keep me from sleeping.

All night long they passed my door, a strange cavalcade of brown hoods and copper-skinned locals. Sometimes there was prayer, and sometimes there were loud words, but more often I saw only the silent ones shambling past without a sound. They were so perfectly real at the edge of my vision that I could not say who was living and who was only an echo of the dead. Surely there could be no sleep with such company.

Besides, I was so worried about Lulu that it was making me even sicker to my stomach. I'd have an ulcer before this was all over, but I didn't dare call—I could only assume the news would not be good, but she was still hanging on. Of that much I had to keep faith.

There was no other option.

She could
not
die.

But to guarantee that, I'd have to find Gray's cultists, and quickly.

I must have dozed, though, for I did not hear the door open and the man come into my room. Just like the rest, when I rolled my head to see him, I could not tell if he was among the living or dead. He was dressed in a robe like the one Marcus wore, but his head was covered and his face concealed by shadow.

He ducked his head, bowing gently and folding his hands. "I understand you are not feeling well. Harold thought you might wish for something to aid your sleep." His voice was nearly a whisper, low and soft, and it invited confidence. It implied that he was alive, and that I was secure. Although I couldn't see him well, I got the impression that he must be a very old man beneath the cowl.

I didn't respond except with my stare, and he seemed embarrassed, or maybe he was only polite and reserved.

"I . . . I have a tonic here, if you'd like."

"Okay."

He fed it to me like I was a baby, propping me up with a pillow and spooning the drink into my mouth. I took it obediently, even willingly. I wanted nothing more than to sleep deeply enough to keep the ghosts away, and even though the tonic was bitter, I had the strangest feeling that it could only help.

By the time I'd taken the last spoon, I was already losing consciousness. I wanted to thank the monk, but the words were thick in my mouth.

He removed the extra pillow from behind my head and pulled the covers up under my chin with a grandfatherly tuck. Then he held his hands above me, in a blessing, I suppose, and murmured something I didn't understand—a Latin prayer, I thought. But the last words I heard were understandable enough that I suddenly remembered where I'd heard his voice before. But by then it was too late to cry out.

He took my hand in his.

You're on your way back to me.

Oh yes, soon you'll be home, child. And you'll be mine once again.

10
Gone South

We arrived at Highlands Hammock State Park in early mid-afternoon after another six-hour drive. While the map showed that the area of the park was quite large, the official entrance was barely more than an outbuilding, a sign, and a small parking lot. Though there were several other cars, we didn't see any people aside from the woman in the ranger's station who gave us our pass. She suggested that we register to camp, as the park closed at sundown each day, but after a quick consultation, Harry and I declined the invitation. Some cursory scouting was in order before we stormed the place, and besides, neither of us had any burning desire to camp in the middle of a swamp unless it was absolutely necessary.

If Harry was right, the main road ran fairly close to where the land in question must be, out on the south side of the preserve. According to the maps from the rangers' station, one of the catwalks extended far enough down to possibly come near it as well. We decided to hike the trail like ordinary tourists first, and then return later for a closer, less legal look.

I wasn't happy with the delay, but Lu's life—and likely my own—depended upon our success, so we forced ourselves to proceed with caution. I stalked along the path behind my companion, who stared into the surrounding water as if it were tea and he might read the leaves that floated on the murky surface.

A two-by-four boardwalk on stilts disappeared back through the trees, and we climbed up on it to follow.

The narrow wooden path was raised above the water, but only by a few disconcerting inches. I could have dipped a toe into the scum without any trouble, but something about the smell of the place prohibited it. The air was heavy with the scent of rotting, soggy wood, and of other things decaying where the alligators had left them to soften and stink. Overhead the sky was almost blotted out by the interlacing branches of the tall cypress trees strung with fuzzy gray moss, and it was difficult to see deeper than twenty yards into the woods, so thickly did those black trees grow.

Just beneath the slime of the water, small and large things moved. Maybe snakes, maybe turtles. Maybe amphibians larger and more sinister. Across the top of the algae, mosquitoes and other light bugs zipped and buzzed.

The wet swamp world was alive with green, damp motion, and it was
hungry
.

Harry and I walked the path in silence until we'd gone more than a mile through the stifling, dank forest, each of us wishing we'd thought to bring a bottle of water. We were both sweating ourselves into dehydration by the time we reached the boardwalk's end. It simply stopped in a cul-de-sac turnabout, refusing to take us any deeper. We stood on the edge and shielded our eyes, smacking at bugs and hoping to see some sign of habitation.

There was none. The trail did not go far enough. We'd been quite miserably wasting our time.

"Let's go back," Harry proposed, as if we had some choice in the matter. "We could rent a canoe over near the rangers' station, and we could maybe use some wading boots too. And a couple of canteens. And if we have time, we can try our luck along the road before it gets too dark."

"Okay," I agreed, since there was no other action to take. I was frustrated because I knew we had to be close, but there was no practical way for us to safely navigate the oily, chest-high water. If the snakes didn't get us, the bugs would take us apart like winged piranhas.

Off to my right, closer to the walkway than I would have preferred, a pair of round yellow eyes revealed a larger danger. The gleaming pair lifted out of the muck, followed by a long snout and a protruding set of nostrils. I saw nothing else of the alligator, but from the size of its head it must have been at least eight or nine feet long, though this was admittedly just a guess. The end of his nose wasn't two feet away from the platform, and the platform wasn't six inches above the water. I didn't have to be any good at math to work out the danger. Were alligators good climbers at all? Could they jump? This one didn't deign to answer my questions; instead, he sank away into the darkness from which he'd come.

"Yes, let's go back." I took the lead, stepping lively but quietly.

Harry had seen the gator too. "Supposedly if you move in a zigzag motion, you can outrun them. It has something to do with their center of gravity, I think."

"That's very reassuring, Harry. Thank you so much for that bizarre piece of information that might or might not save my life in the frightfully near future."

"Anytime."

Harry and I beat a fast retreat back towards the park's entrance, accompanied by the clomping of our shoes on the boards and the incessant whines of the stinging insects. When we reached our starting point once more, we took turns swilling tepid water from a stainless steel fountain. The great state of Florida didn't see fit to refrigerate the drinking fountain, but the water was wet and we were thirsty. I tried to ignore the yellowy flavor of sulfur and dirt and swallow it without tasting, but this was not possible. I gave up and gulped, then stood upright and dragged my forearm across my chin to wipe the last drops away.

Along the side of the station was posted an enormous diagram of the entire park, complete with topographical markers and indications of where the ground was solid and where there was only water. A sign indicated that there might be more such source materials inside.

"Why don't you go on without me?" I suggested, picking up a couple of official park pamphlets. "You go get a canoe and some other things, like you said. I'll be here inside the station looking over this stuff."

"Hmm, yeah, that would be all right. I'm just heading back up the road, and I won't be gone long. So I guess that would be okay. But
don't leave,
" he admonished, wagging his finger at my nose.

"Where would I go?" I wasn't trying to dodge his command, as I had every intention of staying put. But Harry was unsatisfied, so I nodded and shrugged. "I won't go anywhere, I promise."

"Okay then. I'll be right back."

"Righty-o."

He left in my car, the Diabolical Death Nugget. I stayed, just like I told him I would, and I returned my attention to the information at hand.

If the government's park service could be believed, Avery's spot of land was somewhere in the gray area between swamp and forest. I guessed it would be just barely on the forest side; it's hard to stake a claim in four feet of water. I pressed a finger against the map and traced out the swamp, mentally noting the spot where it joined terra firm enough to be technically called land. It looked like Harry was right, and that point was within a mile of the two-lane road that runs alongside the park. The map featured tiny numbers along the road's green line—mile markers, according to the legend in the corner. There was one right next to the spot where I'd put my finger.

I squinted.

On the Plexiglas that covered the wall map, there were scratches and fuzz that made it opaque in places. I stared harder, sadly failing to focus on the tiny notes beneath. Was it mile marker 11? Or was that a 17? I couldn't quite make it out. I brought my face closer, until my nose was almost touching it. I could smell the plastic, and something tart, like bug spray.

Eleven. I was almost sure of it. I cocked my head. Yes, it was definitely an eleven.

A flicker of color flashed, a reflection in the shinier bits of the mostly clear covering.

I almost had time to turn my head before he hit me.

Something hard slammed into my skull, and my skull slammed against the shield, sending broad spiderweb cracks across the board. I ducked, or rather I conveniently fell to the ground, missing the next blow. I was stunned, but not unconscious yet. My ears were ringing and silver-white static flared before my eyes, but I could still see Malachi rearing above me.

I held out my hands to push him away but it wasn't enough. He was using a nightstick again, or a flashlight, or something else black and extremely hard. He brought it down on my forearm and pain blasted up to my shoulder. I struggled to uncross my eyes and defend myself, but the bell chorus in my ears and distracting bolts of pain forbade it.

He swung again.

I tried to catch it, but I was too dazed to do more than deflect his next strike. I kicked at his legs, and missed the worst of his next wild plunge. It clocked me between my shoulder and neck, hurting me, but not putting me out.

It took one more solid swing to do that.

It thwacked my head, just past my temple. I ricocheted off the wall and flopped onto my back, staring up at the white, white sky, watching a large bird with gangly legs fly up towards the sun. Then my brother-cousin's face loomed into my vision, and there was nothing else.

I awoke to darkness, and there was a humming, rumbling noise all around. I was cramped, my arms ached, and my head was throbbing, but I was awake. It was more than I'd had any right to expect. I shifted my weight and realized why my arms were sore; they were tied haphazardly, but tightly, in front of me. My ankles were bound as well, but not so snugly.

I winced and stretched out.

No, I could not stretch out. My back and feet had already reached the limits of my confines. Hmm . . . I was lying on something hard, but with enough give to bounce a bit. All was black, but as my eyes adjusted I could see pale threads of light here and there.

Despite the ache in my cranium, my cognitive powers crept slowly back to me.

I was in the trunk of a car. The lump beneath me was a spare tire. The surrounding noise was an engine—a big engine from the sound of it, maybe a V8. The trunk was pretty roomy for a trunk, though that was a weak guess on my part, not having seen the inside of enough trunks to make a fair comparison. Perhaps I was in Eliza's vehicle, the one Harry used to drive. That was as good an answer as any as to how Malachi had scared up transportation. No way of knowing from inside. No sense in dwelling or wondering yet.

First things first.

My hands. I wrestled with the bindings for a few seconds, not feeling enough slack to work with. My feet, then. Luckily I was wearing black sneakers I'd removed from my own trunk before we'd gotten to the park; I could have never popped off my boots so easily. But one after the other I pried my shoes free, then without too much trouble I slid my feet loose. I lifted one knee up to my chest and put my heel against my wrist restraints. My toes are almost prehensile, but in socks they weren't much good. I put my leg back down again and began to feel around, reaching for my shoes and wrenching them back on, shoving my foot against the wall to jam my heel into place. I might have to run through the swamp, and I didn't want to do it barefoot. It would be bad enough to do it with tied hands.

Okay,
think,
I ordered myself.

But this is easier said than done when your head is marked with swelling goose eggs and your arms have patches of sprawling bruise that you don't have to see to believe.

I was in a trunk. There might be tools. Something metal I could use to cut the ropes. I searched unsuccessfully for a bit, then discovered that the lining of the trunk had been lifted out at some point and the raw metal of the car's frame was exposed beneath. In lieu of any better ideas, I began to rub my wrists against it, and I was satisfied to hear the gentle, slow sawing sound of fraying fibers. I held my arms to my chin and felt the groove I'd worn through the rope. It would work, provided I had enough time. I had no way of gauging how fast the car was going, but it seemed to be making steady progress down a well-paved road.

Nothing to do but try.

After a minute or two the top wind of rope snapped and the knots slacked. I writhed myself clear and lay there, triumphant but fuming. Great. Now what? He was taking me somewhere, but God knew where, to do God knew what.

I'd find out soon enough.

The car backfired, and smoky carbon monoxide filled my nostrils. The humming engine coughed, and more noxious fumes flooded the trunk. I covered my nose with my sleeve, but it wasn't enough to keep the burn away from my eyes.

We were slowing down.

The car lurched and heaved, and the pavement subsided to a slurping crunch as we pulled off the road. I floundered for something heavy to use as a weapon but found nothing. The car came to a complete stop and the engine was cut off. My time was running out.

I reached for the ropes that had held my feet and wound them loosely back into place, then did likewise to my hands—not actually restraining myself, but giving the appearance that I was still tied.

The driver's door opened, then closed. Squishy footsteps worked their way alongside the car. They paused. Another vehicle was coming. I heard the distant roar and rush as it approached and slowed down.

"Do you need any help there, buddy?"

"No, no, I'm okay. I just pulled off to make a phone call."

"Oh—all right. Have a good day."

"You too."

The other car drove away. Malachi did not move for a moment. His heart must have been beating as hard as mine, but I had little sympathy for him. In a moment he was going to open the trunk and then . . . and then what?

The key clicked and twitched in the lock. The trunk lifted. I held as still as I could, facedown with my hair spilled across my shoulders, trying to look as helpless and unconscious as I possibly could. My hands were tucked beneath me, so he might not notice they were not tied with his original handiwork.

He must have been staring down at me, for he did not touch me for a minute. Then he worked one arm underneath me, and I heard him grunting, breathing shallowly. Oh yes. I'd hurt him badly a couple of days before. I don't weigh that much, but it must have nearly killed him to hoist me inside the trunk to begin with. Even Harry had complained about it. Heavier than I look. Ha.

Malachi hesitated, and withdrew. He was thinking hard, watching me. I kept my breath faint and resisted the temptation to groan. He made another try with the other arm, and he achieved similarly lackluster results. He grunted again, whimpered slightly, and pulled away.

Ah, I understood.

He was holding something in one hand. Something he didn't want to put down in order to pick me up. I fought the urge to peer out through my hair. There was really no need. I knew it must be a gun. All the more reason for me to be as cumbersome as I could. If I could make him put it down, I could overpower him without too much trouble.

Clunk.

He did it. He set it down—on the bumper, I'd bet. Keep it close at hand.

Just to make sure, I waited until I felt both of his arms worming their way beneath me. He was pulling me up, lifting me slowly, laboriously, from the trunk; he was holding me pressed awkwardly against his chest. His face was close enough to kiss.

Where was it I'd stabbed him? Which side of his chest? Or was it more his shoulder? I must not have gotten him as good as I'd thought. Still, he was bound to be sore. My left arm is weaker than my right, but it was the one that was dangling free. My right one was pinned between our chests, and although I could have wiggled it loose it would have taken too much time. I needed to surprise him.

He'd hoisted me out nearly to my hips when I swung.

His groin was not my first pick of targets at such an angle, but anything else would have gone wild. As it was, I didn't come up from underneath—it was more of a flat punch—but I must say, he
was
surprised when my fist nailed his crotch. He was so surprised, in fact, that he dropped me and jerked his head up, smacking himself on the raised lid of the trunk. I couldn't have planned it any better even if I'd had time and the foresight to try.

I fell halfway out and down, catching myself on my hands before I could do a face-plant in the dirt. I flipped forward, landing in a crouch behind the car. Meanwhile, Malachi instinctively brought a hand to the back of his head and one to his balls.

We recovered at about the same time, and we both went for the gun.

Neither of us found it; he must have knocked it off the bumper when he slid me out of the trunk. Yes, there it was—under the car beside the back tire. Since I was closest to the ground, I saw it first. I ducked beneath the car in its pursuit.

Malachi grabbed my foot and began to tug. I started to kick out with the other leg, but he caught that one in his free hand. I let him have it. I even let him drag me out from under the wheels, feeling the dirt and rocks crawl up my shirt and scrape my stomach. No, no more struggling from me.

I let him extract me because
I
had the gun.

I pivoted in his grasp. He held on to my feet, but his arms were now crossed, elbows bent at uncomfortable angles. Malachi had pulled me into the sunlight only to stare down the barrel of his own pistol.

"Hey there, Sunshine." I smiled.

He let go of my legs and his body sagged forward a little. A dark spot was spreading below his right collarbone; he must have split a few stitches. He backed a step or two away, out of my personal space. I kept the gun trained on him with one hand and used the other to pull myself up against the vehicle.

Above us, the sky was blue, going on gray. I could swear it was about to rain, or perhaps it was getting dark. The day could not be as late as it looked unless I'd been out of it longer than I thought. I heard a rumble somewhere distant—an oncoming car, I hoped, but it was more likely thunder.

I wiped a stray tangle of hair out of my face.

"I'm not who you think I am," I said, just for the record. My voice was only barely quaking, so it came off well. "You've never understood—not even for a second."

He didn't reply. He stood there patiently, waiting for me to shoot him. Making peace with his God, or something like that. Bleeding profusely, at any rate. If there was one thing Malachi knew how to do besides pray, it was bleed.

"What do I have to do, Malachi?" I think it was the first time I'd ever called him by his name. "Do I honestly have to kill you?"

"Yes, Avery—"

"I'm not Avery!"
I yelled, and the coming thunder gave me an echo. "I'm not Avery, you insane son of a bitch! I'm your sister!"

"That can't matter. You're
here,
" he retorted. I couldn't tell if I'd told him anything new or not. Had he known all along that we shared a father? Had he cared?

"What? What's that got to do with anything?"

"You're here to start the summoning. You're here to bring Gray back." His lower lip was set in a stubborn line. I found the expression distractingly familiar, but then I remembered it was one I'd seen in the mirror. That realization enraged me all the more.

"I'm here to
stop
the . . . the summoning! Don't you get it? If I don't stop it, my aunt Lu is going to die—and then I'm going to die—and I don't particularly
want
to die, dammit, so I'm here to put an end to this whole thing!"

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care!" My voice had climbed to a higher, frustrated pitch. "It's God's own truth! And if I have to shoot you in order to see this out, you can bet your sweet ass I
will
."

"Don't
you
swear before God."

"Why not?
He
knows I'm not lying, and if you two were really on such magnificent speaking terms, He'd tell you that!" More thunder, closer now. Or was it thunder at all? It wasn't rolling in crashing peals, rather it seemed to come in one rushing wave.

Closer. Definitely closer.

But what to do with Malachi? The weight of the gun was deeply tempting, but I knew myself better than he did, and I knew that I wasn't going to fire it. I did want to put it down, though, because the thought of standing in a thunderstorm while holding a raised hunk of metal didn't much appeal to me.

"Forget it." I waved the gun at the car. "Just forget it, and get in the trunk."

"What?"

"I'm not going to kill you—even though I bloody well should. But since I can't have you following me, either, get in the trunk before I start using your less vital body parts for target practice.
Do it!
"

His internal debate was written all over his face, but I never had time to learn whether or not he would have eventually obeyed, for it was then that the thunder hit us. The wave struck us both, shaking the swamp and leaving the air smelling of sizzled ozone, so there might have been some lightning too. Then, after it had run us over, it was gone, except for a residual rumble and the ringing in our ears.

At least
my
ears were ringing again when I picked myself back up.

No part of Malachi was doing much of anything, except lying in a loose pile, the whites of his eyes peeking out as pale as boiled eggs. His tongue lolled past his teeth at the corner of his mouth. A trickle of blood dampened the base of his nose.

If he wasn't really unconscious, he was
way
better at faking it than I was.

Funny, I almost wished he was awake. I needed to ask someone—even just to hear the question aloud—
what was that?
I needed to hear that it wasn't just me, and that someone else was confused and frightened too.

But no, it was definitely better this way, better to have him lying there beside the road where someone might find him. I thought about tossing him in the trunk anyway, just to be on the safe side, but it seemed like overkill. He needed medical attention too badly to pose any real threat, and furthermore, I had his gun. Let someone find him and take him to the hospital, or better yet, call the cops.

I checked the safety, then stuffed the gun down the back of my jeans, wincing when the cool metal touched my warm back. I didn't really think that a gun would be any use against whatever energy had bowled us over, but I may as well hang on to it all the same.

You never know. Someone human was doing this, and someone human might need to get shot at.

And then I heard the voice, calling from the trees.

He's coming. He's coming, baby. You get yourself gone.