Interview With a Gargoyle (20 page)

Beyond the circle, Calypso cursed. She’d won her argument with Palmer and spilled his potion out on the cement floor amid oil stains and a smattering of sawdust. Now she turned her attention to the Fremling.

The creature trembled under her scrutiny in a way that Blake had never seen a demon of any size or shape do before.

The witch put her hands out, just over the salt barrier, and uttered an incantation that set the air within the warded space ablaze.

“No!” Mel sobbed and sagged in Blake’s arms. The conflagration lasted only seconds, but it left little more of the Fremling than a pile of fine gray ash.

Blake gaped, and Melodie cried for the death of a demon.

Calypso kicked the anchor stones away from the five points around the circle and swept her indigo gaze between Blake and Palmer. “I told you gentlemen I had spells.
Now
, are we going to straighten up and take care of this problem my way, or do I have to—”

Mel’s scream silenced her, and she and Palmer stared. Blake struggled to hold Mel up, but some tidal force doubled her over. A violent convulsion shook her free of his grasp, and clutching her stomach, she hobbled away from him.

“Melodie—” Blake grabbed for her, but she swiped at him.

“Don’t touch me. None of you touch me.” With her features pinched in agony, she stumbled away, and when she was just out of reach, she righted herself. A ring of yellow rimmed her eyes, and her now-crimson lips parted in a harsh laugh. “Did you think this would work? Did you really think I’d give up all this power so easily?”

Palmer groaned. “We’re too late.”

Mel whirled away and bolted for the open door of the warehouse. In half a dozen superhuman strides, she was gone.

Calypso turned on Palmer again. “Great work. Now we’ve lost her.”

“Hey, I didn’t kill her demon. You’re the one who made her mad.”

“Stop bickering, boys and girls. We’ve got to find her before one of the demon breeds really does elect her queen and takes her to their realm.” Blake headed for the door, but he never made it through.

A shadow, low and fluid, slithered into the warehouse and transformed into a wave of undulating gray bodies. Blake froze mid-step and stared as the tide of Fremlings washed in from outside.

A moment later, the three of them stood knee-deep in a sea of angry demons.

From the safety of the walnut grove, Mel watched the Fremlings swarm the warehouse. They scuttled by her in droves. Her betrayal of their unfortunate companion seemingly forgotten, they existed now only to protect her from the threat within.

Trembling and dizzy with power, she clutched her stomach where the heat of the Cabochon burned. With those who sought to harm her out of the way, she could go anywhere, do anything. The freedom to reach her greatest potential taunted her, though, and left her confused and directionless as she ran toward the edge of town with a small legion of loyal Fremlings in her wake.

She could do whatever she wanted now, except the one thing she should, and that was to free Blake DeWitt from the curse. With the Cabochon at full power within her, she knew she could live forever, and the witch hunter would never have another chance to see the light of day.

Consumed with guilt and grief and greed for more power, she ran.

Gnarled fingers tipped with ragged claws tore at Blake’s clothes and his hair. Using each other as ladders like army ants, the Fremlings made living chains that stretched up the two-story-high storage shelves. From those upper perches, they dove on their human adversaries, biting, scratching and shrieking like wild animals.

Chivalry drove Blake to rescue Calypso from their clutches first. He literally swam through the tide of dirty little bodies until he found her grappling with one demon while another worked at ripping a dangling earring from her lobe.

She threw one Fremling off her and struggled to reach for Blake’s hand. “I thought you had spells,” he muttered while tossing writhing, mop-headed beasts left and right.

“If I could breathe long enough to cast one. Get me with a wall at my back, and I’ll figure out the rest.”

“Where’s Van Houten?” Blake kept Calypso’s back while they edged toward the wall, fighting the undulating wave of demonic vermin as they went.

“He went down over there somewhere.” She pointed to a disturbingly violent knot of Fremlings not far off. A low moan came from beneath the crush, and Blake sighed. “Let me go help him,” he said once he’d led Calypso to the last row of shelves. He waded off, kicking demons aside as he moved.

Fortunately the Fremlings’ only strength was in their number. The individuals fell quickly enough to well-placed blows, but it seemed as if ten or twelve replaced every one Blake knocked out of his path.

He’d never seen anything like it. The chaos in the warehouse came close to making him long for the relative tranquility of a day encased in stone.

He reached the throbbing pile of demons and began casting small bodies off from the top. After a dozen, though, he realized the only things underneath the demons were more demons.

Van Houten was gone. Had they killed him? Eaten him? Blake paled at the thought. Maybe they’d just carried him away as a trophy.

If he’d had more time to think about it, he might have mustered some sympathy for the meddling demon hunter, even if he’d brought this carnage on himself. Falling prey to the lowest of the underworld denizens was certainly no way to die.

With no clear objective now, Blake turned his attention back to Calypso. She’d reached a set of shelves and was dumping boxes of hardware on the floor. Metal pipe fittings, screws and nails clattered down and spilled like liquid across the concrete. Fremlings swarmed over the debris, but the witch’s plan wasn’t to use the displaced inventory as an obstacle. She merely wanted to clear a space so she could climb the shelves and get to a safe haven above the layer of demons.

Clinging to the galvanized crossbars at the end of the shelving unit, the high heels of her black, lace-up boots hooked around the metal, she surveyed the roiling sea of evil and opened her mouth.

An earsplitting tone emerged that startled all the Fremlings and left Blake himself in stunned silence. Even Calypso looked astonished for a moment; then Blake realized the deafening sound hadn’t come from the witch.

Someone had set off the burglar alarm, and the shriek of the ceiling-mounted sirens had the demon horde scurrying away like the rats they were, as if abandoning a sinking ship.

In seconds, the warehouse was empty.

Calypso hung from the shelving, looking a little dazed. Blood from her injured ear stained the collar of her shirt, and a few vicious scratches marred the pale skin of her arms. Blake stood in the center of what remained of the salt circle. Crushed herbs and ground-up salt crystals crunched beneath his boots.

Looking like something even the cat wouldn’t bother dragging in, Palmer leaned against the wall near the door, next to the alarm control panel. Blake had never been happier to see Golden Boy. “I thought you were dead,” he offered and stopped short of adding, “Glad you’re not.”

“I’m hard to kill, remember?” Palmer sagged a bit. Not dead, maybe, but not in the best of health either.

Calypso leaped down from the shelves, and like a jaguar, she stalked toward Palmer. For a moment, Blake thought she might make good on her earlier threat to do the demon hunter some bodily harm, but rather than add to his collection of bruises and contusions, she draped one of his arms over her shoulders and helped him stand up straight. Surveying the carnage left behind by the Fremlings, she smirked. “The only reason I’m not killing you myself is because I’d hate for you to miss catching hell for this disaster. Your uncle owns this place, right?”

Palmer’s pale complexion greened beneath his injuries. “Yeah.”

“Well, Ace, I’d say you’re out of the will, and probably out of a job too. Let’s go get you cleaned up so you can face the music.”

Blake eyed the mess and decided Palmer probably would have been better off facing Calypso’s wrath. Unidentifiable stains covered the floor between puddles of nails and piles of pipes. Stacks of lumber had been knocked over, and paint cans lay dented, some oozing their contents into multicolored pools. Fremling footprints coated the walls in some places, and the whole place stank of unwashed evil. Later, he’d take the time to laugh about it, but right now he could only manage a hint of jaundiced gratitude that they’d all survived.

Or had they? Melodie and the Cabochon still beckoned him. He headed for the door. “I’ll meet up with you two later. I’ve got to find Mel.”

Calypso touched his arm as he passed her. “There’s not a lot of time before sunrise.”

“I know. I’ll find her before then. I have to.”

Chapter Twenty

Between the stench of Fremling and the inarguable lure of the Cabochon, stronger now than ever before, Blake had no trouble tracking Melodie. Her demonic entourage seemed to have beaten a path through every back alley in town with their ultimate objective being the little-used railroad yard on the west side.

Nothing more than an overgrown stretch of tracks that disappeared into a slab of concrete at one end and a hopper-car graveyard at the other, it offered a perfect venue for all manner of night prowlers.

Blake proceeded with caution into the deathly quiet yard. No crickets or tree frogs chirped here. No night birds fluttered. Even the eerie twin glow of feral cats’ eyes was missing. Nothing worldly lived here, and that meant the place was full of demons.

One in particular would be easy to find. The Melodie-demon lurked among the abandoned rail cars. Blake knew this because every time he turned in that direction, his body tingled. The gem attracted him like a moth to a deadly flame. He’d hover around that energy until he died. Doomed to follow his only salvation anywhere, he ignored the knowledge that, as he moved deeper into the overgrown lot, a phalanx of demons closed ranks behind him.

He’d learned all his demon-hunting skills from Percival—a man driven, as he was, to find the Cabochon at all costs. Over and over he’d followed his ancestor into the deepest, darkest holes in Europe to ferret out demons of every imaginable description, searching for the one that might have held the key to his freedom.

Those memories, shared with a dead man, guided him now to move silently and keep to the least shadowed pathways that wound between the rusted and disintegrating boxcars.

What would he do when he found her? He couldn’t hurt her. Both the curse and his conscience made that impossible. For the first time since this sordid adventure began, Blake regretted not insisting Palmer come along. Two demon hunters would have better odds than one, at least in this case.

“Melodie? Lass, where are you?” Like he had to ask. The cold surge of the Cabochon’s power emanated from a spot no more than a hundred feet straight ahead. A broken boxcar, its sliding door hanging from a corroded hinge, nestled in knee-deep grass. Shuffling sounds came from within and joined the array of disconcerting demon noises closing in on Blake from all directions. His instincts told him hundreds of Fremlings hovered in the shadows, but he couldn’t have pointed out a single one.

“Melodie? Is this what you want? Do you want to give up the daylight completely and spend your nights huddled in a nest of stinking demons?” The only response was more shuffling from inside the boxcar, coupled with a low moan that cut off abruptly.

Was she in pain? What would the Cabochon, tainted by two-hundred-plus years of demon blood and depravity, do to a delicate human body like hers? Could it be any worse than turning to stone?

Anger at life’s inequity flared in Blake, fueling his determination to beat the unjust curse and take back his existence. He could be sympathetic only so long. Now he had to act, and damn the consequences. He braced for a sprint toward the open boxcar. “I’m coming in there, lass. I’m coming to get you and take you home.”

The creature’s hairless skull sported a trio of black-tipped horns, around which sprouted rings of tiny but deadly looking spikes. Its teeth protruded in a wicked overbite beyond blood-red lips that glistened with spittle.

Misshapen wings beat against its hunched back, and its cloven feet stamped impatiently on the rotting boards of the boxcar’s floor.

Buoyed by the sharp flavor of her own growing power, Melodie held the demon’s rheumy gaze. Some queen. The thing looked like a reject from the last
Star Wars
movie. She could have taken it easily, would have torn those pathetic wings right off its knobby carapace if she could have moved a muscle. The weight of a dozen Fremlings, three on each limb, held her prostrate amid the remains of broken crates that had, judging from the stale smell and abundance of feathers, likely once held chickens or some other type of fowl.

Mel cursed the beastly little demons for their betrayal. Here she’d imagined they’d been swarming to protect her and had lured her off to this dark place to worship her and the power she carried. Turned out all they really wanted was to bring her to their true leader.

Never trust a demon. She’d learned that lesson well.

“You can’t hurt me,” she’d told her captor. “I’ve got—” A Fremling reached up and slapped a filthy hand over her mouth. The violent movement left the taste of blood on her lips, and she’d moaned while gingerly testing her teeth with her tongue.

Then Blake’s voice floated in from outside the boxcar, offering assistance and freedom from this terrible nightmare.

She’d have answered him except the nearest Fremling gave her a warning glare. Silently, she promised revenge, though she remained still, waiting to see if DeWitt would make good on his promise to come after her.

The demon queen advanced, dragging her hooves—
its
hooves…was it really female? Nothing about the twisted, inhuman visage or the bony appendages appeared the least bit feminine.

Mel made a disparaging face and tensed for an attack. Her own demonic confidence faded. Maybe DeWitt couldn’t harm her, but this thing with its razor claws and abundance of teeth wasn’t actually bound by the Witch Hunter’s curse. For all Mel knew, she was staring into the jaundiced eyes of the Cabochon’s rightful owner.