The Deception Dance (35 page)

Another shadow passes over me speeding for the pile-up.

It doesn’t make any sense. If these people, these boats, are
just blindly crashing into our boat hoping to be the one to
kick-my-bucket, how will the demons know which one did it? Demons are
obviously not omniscient; if they were, Andras would know I’m
not dead and we wouldn’t be in this whole mess.

The demons must have some way of knowing which soul-bound to give
their soul back to; demons can’t make promises that they won’t
keep. And if they know who to give the soul back to, or the
lack-there-of, they’ll know I’m not dead. But
how
do they know?

But then I realize: I know the answer. Demons don’t give souls
back, Andras told me that. There’s only one entity capable of
giving a soul back. There’s a master out there, pulling all our
strings, arranging the whole dance.

Satan.

He knows; he’s the omniscient one. He knows that I’m not
dead just as he knew that my soul was stuck in my body and never went
to purgatory. He’s the one offering the return of a soul in
exchange for my death. The demons are just his messengers and his
tools. This is all his game-plan, and I’m pitting myself
against him, against
the
great deceiver.

So, demons can lie, but only if they believe the lie as truth. That
demons said, “Raven Smith is lifeless.” She must have
been told that I’m dead and believed it. And they can break
promises, or at least Andras can if he doesn’t believe he’s
breaking it, since to him I’m dead and the promise is worth
nil.

As I near the lighted church, a small pier comes into view through
the water. I aim for the surface to get a better look at the scene
(and because I will eventually need to
breathe
), tilting the
underwater-scooter toward the light and slowing down to emerge as
inconspicuously as possible. The moment I surface, I am in desperate
need of air. I gasp in; a chill trickles to every part of my body
with each breath. My teeth chatter. I know I’m wasting time and
I’m visible to the shore; but the sudden return of the cold
stuns me for… too long.

Albert’s wide figure ducks behind a small dock. He’s
close.

I tell myself that I can make it; I can go under water again. One,
two, three… I dive.

I only have a hundred yards to travel, but the water in these yards
is the least forgiving, it bites my fingers and toes and nips at my
face. I force my eyes open just in time to push the red button and
stop abruptly next to Albert, making a small thud sound as I bump
into the pier.

Albert peers over the dock and doesn’t turn to acknowledge me.

There’s an earsplitting crack behind me. I whip my head around.
My jaw drops.

The wreckage we left behind is
catastrophic
. Another boat hits
the enormous pile-up of remains, sending debris and bodies flying
like giant birds. Parts of the crash site are on fire; other sections
of wreckage drift off or sink. But all of it, all, is pointless. And
more boats are blindly pursuing their gruesome demise.

I let go of the scooter to hug myself, keeping afloat by kicking. I
want to get out of the water; I want a warm bath or at least a fluffy
towel. But, watching the tempest of death sinking into the Oresund, I
know that running into St. Alban’s church would be just morally
wrong.

“We’ll swim around the pier, climb up onto the sidewalk
and run for those gates. There are maybe fifteen guards, make sure to
hold up both wrists as you run...”

I turn to Albert. “No,” I say, shivering. “Albert
this is wrong, we can’t go in there. Nicholas is right, if I go
into St. Alban’s that...” I gesture to the crash site,
“Will follow me.”

Albert grabs my scooter and stares over. He closes his eyes, “Raven
we do not have a choice...”

“We do.” My teeth threaten to shatter from their
chattering. “We can drive the scooters to Holmens Kirk, or
farther, and run from there. I saw the map; we can get close to City
Hall by water. You and I can finish this tonight. We don’t need
to involve Stephen, Nicholas, or the people in Kastellet, we can
finish this.”

He pauses to gaze away from me, but after a second he shakes his
head. With one thrust he pushes the scooters under the pier. “It’s
impossible. We can’t navigate through Copenhagen, at night,
unarmed...”

All further discussion is brought to a screeching halt as something
presses to the side of my head. Reacting on impulse I hit it away and
spin, only to find a long black gun barrel swing back to aim its
muzzle directly between my eyes.

Day Fifty-Six
(continued)

The man must have slithered on his belly like a snake on the pier, to
sneak up to us. He leans over, one elbow on the edge the other hand
grasping the gun.
Gun
is a gross understatement, it’s
closer to a modern-looking, handheld cannon, sleek and black and I’m
sure it’ll do the job of killing me easily.

I could duck under the pier, but I doubt I can move faster than his
trigger finger. My teeth chattering ceases as I stare into the
barrel. I’ve never been at the end of a gun-barrel before,
never even seen a gun this close. It’s hard to stay still, I
can’t help bobbing up and down as I doggy-paddle.

The man hisses something in a language I can’t understand
(possibly English; my brain is not in receiving-mode).

Albert moves, raising his hands slowly. He whispers, “Show your
wrists.”

My upward movement is faster than I intend. The man tenses refocusing
his aim, not that it’s needed with his super-gun.

Albert responds in the same language with a hushed tone while
brushing away the blond hair plastered to his forehead.

The man immediately pulls the gun skyward and hops to a crouching
position. Three other men, who I had no idea were on the pier, pop up
with him. The man whispers furiously in another language, I don’t
understand anything except Albert’s name. So this guy knows who
Albert is, good news.

Albert grabs the top of the pier and pulls-up.

“Wait!” I hiss, “Albert, no.”

He doesn’t hear me, or doesn’t listen, he pulls his knees
onto the dock and in a second he’s in a mirror position of the
other commandos, only sopping wet.

“Albert!” I plead, “We could end this. Don’t
go.”

He doesn’t even acknowledge that I’m speaking. We might
have entered a temporary alliance, but we are clearly not friends.

Yeah, stupid
. The guy kidnapped me; did I really think he was
going to listen to my opinions. Fat chance.

The man, who had the gun pointed at my third-eye a couple of seconds
ago, offers a hand to me.

Albert and all the men (except the commando crouched in front of me)
stand and stride down the pier. I’m about to yell something at
Albert’s backside when he calls over his shoulder something
that sounds like, “Greppa hennes.”

The helping hand of the crouched commando becomes a vice around my
wrist.

I grab at his fingers trying to pull his hand off me, but he’s
unyielding. He must have done something with his gun because his
other hand wraps around my free wrist. He stands, pulls me out of the
water and throws me over his shoulder all with the same motion.

I’m too shocked to fight.

No. No. No. This is all wrong.
My entrance is about as obvious
as it possibly could be.

I don’t fight, that’ll just draw more attention. “Put
me down,” I whisper. “Please, I’ll go along with
you. I just don’t want...” I trail-off, too jostled to
speak. It’s no use; the man is not going to listen to me. I’m
thankful that at least he’s running, maybe I won’t be
noticed.

My wet clumps of hair hang down and bounce off the man’s
armored shirt sending droplets in every direction with each stride he
makes.

Somewhere to my right a woman gives out a high pitched giggle. My
head whips around.

The woman stands a dozen feet away from where Albert and the
commandos halted, just inside a large wrought-iron fence. The woman
isn’t just giggling now; she’s bent forward, clutching at
her middle, breathless with laughter.

I’m not sure if it’s the man’s shoulder colliding
with my stomach or the sight of Chauncey that knocks the wind out of
me, but suddenly, I have a hard time getting air.

Albert and the commandos are yelling and the man carrying me runs
even faster.

We skid inside the gate and I’m set down on the cobblestone
sidewalk. By the time I find my feet, the man who had carried me, his
earlier companions, and about twelve more soldiers have their weapons
aimed at demon-Chauncey’s head.

She swaggers toward us, head thrown back and eyes closed. Her
laughter is so loud it almost drowns out the distant screams and
sounds of smashing timber.

Why aren’t they shooting her?

She stops just outside the open gate covering her heart with a dainty
hand. The demon looks surprisingly well kempt, her blonde ringlets
are neatly pinned around her exquisite face; well, she would be well
kempt, if she wasn’t covered in blood. She’s wearing a
hideous flower dress that the real Chauncey would have never been
caught dead in, even sans blood.

“I thought...” She manages through her laughter, “…that
you were smashed into fish-bait over there.” She flings an arm
toward the wreckage. “You know what this means sugar-pop? It
means, all those soul-bound just died for nothing. It’s so,
so...” she clasps her hands around her cheeks, “…delightful.”

Albert, opens his mouth to say something but demon-Chauncey
interrupts. Her tone snaps from joyous to deadly serious, “Hold
it.” Her eyes blaze crimson as she stares at Albert, “They
shoot me and Hayvee dies,
slowly
, along with your little bun.
So, why don’t you just tell your men to aim at something else?”

Albert barks out an order and the commandos do just that.

She smiles, bearing sharp teeth, “It’s time to make a
deal,
Albert. I’ll trade you your beautiful pregnant
wife’s life for...” She drums her hands on her lap,
“Raven Smith, tied up, gagged, and thrown outside this gate.”

I check for Albert’s reaction, ready to make a run for it, but
he’s not moving.

He takes a step toward Chauncey, “If Hayvee dies...”

“Oh, save it.” She swipes her hand through the air.
Chauncey taps her fingernails on the bars while pacing the length of
the gate. “I’ve been trying to get my soul-bound to
desecrate St. Alban’s for weeks.” She grins. “You
might be surprised how resistant they are to opening up Kastellet to
us demons.” Chauncey sighs. “And now, you’ve handed
me all the incentive they need. So maybe I should thank you, Raven
Smith.” Her heavily mascara sticks together as she winks at me.
A shark like smile starts to spread across her face.

“Thank Albert,” I say. But I know that I have no choice
now, I have to either go into St. Alban’s church or Chauncey’s
open arms.

“There are guards on every side; how do you expect your
soul-bound to infiltrate?” Albert shouts, even though Chauncey
is only a yard away.

She leans toward the gate, her nose stopping a hair-width away from
the space between bars, “Many motivated murderers.” She
wiggles her fingers at me, “Ta-ta, see you soon.”

I spin on my heel and don’t stop running until I’m at the
stairs leading to the pointed arch portal of St. Alban’s
Anglican Church. Even though I’m still not at my best from the
whole death thing, I left Albert far behind; which is just fine by
me, it would be just fine if Albert disappeared all-together.

I don’t take the time to catch my breath; I hop up the few
stairs and bang on the rounded wood door. Albert catches up before
anyone answers. He might be slower than me, but his breathing is
measured and even.

I touch the stone portal around the door. It’s funny, this was
exactly the kind of monument I wanted to visit; this church is
probably considered ‘gothic revival.’ How different my
trip turned out from what had been on my original itinerary.

The door swings open and the flood lights shine in exposing only a
crack of the interior. The white robed man who sticks his beard out
immediately brings the word ‘priest’ to mind. I don’t
know if it’s the flood lights but he looks washed out and
exhausted. The bright directed light makes him blink furiously. His
voice sounds exhausted as well, “Your wrists, child?”

I bring both my wrists up and, from the corner of my eye, see Albert
do the same. I wipe my wet hair from my forehead. Glancing down at my
outfit, I remember I’m not exactly wearing the appropriate
attire for a church (bare feet, a sopping wet white tank-top and
track shorts). Water drips off me to pool below where I stand.

The priest steps back behind the door, letting us pass. I rush in,
but when I see the cluster of men gathered half-way up the aisle
between pews, I slow to a walk.

The groups of priests don’t even look up; but, before I know
whether to call to Stephen and Nicholas or duck behind a pew, two
pairs of blue eyes find me. I’m caught in the crossfire of
their gazes. Both Nicholas and Stephen’s jaws drop open. While
Stephen closes his eyes and gives a slow shake of his head Nicholas
clenches his jaw and… charges.

I step out of the way and Nicholas barrels past me heading for
Albert, who’s positioned (with both hands raised) at the end of
the aisle. I don’t watch the fight that breaks out between the
brothers; I try to tune them out as I run up the aisle toward
Stephen.

He opens his eyes and spreads his arms and I run into them.

I didn’t even know I needed a hug but Stephen arms wrap
protectively around me and it feels right. If he’s bothered by
the fact I’m soaking wet, he doesn’t say anything. I
breathe into his shoulder as his hand caresses the back of my hair.
He has several guns in holsters under each arm. I blink; he also has
a sword at his belt.