Wicked Prayer (22 page)

Dan’s hands tightened around the steering wheel. He stared at the Crow, flying low above moonlight-scalded blacktop.

“What do
you
want?” Dan asked. “What is it that drives
you?”

 
No answer from the bird.

“Is it revenge?”

No
. The word was like the whisper of a wing.
Not revenge.
“What, then?”

No answer came.

Not one that Dan Cody could understand, anyway.

For the Crow’s only answer was a tortured caw.

To the dead man, it almost sounded like a scream.

Wikieup flashed past in a scream of violins. Kyra closed her new blue eyes and listened to the music wailing from the stereo. The Merc echoed with its plaintive cries, and so did Kyra’s thoughts . . . carrying her to the stars.

She wondered where the constellation—and her new eyes— would lead them. Kingman was just ahead, but she couldn’t imagine a vision mundane enough to culminate in a visit to that particular Arizona shitsplat.

But if they continued west out of Kingman, there were several more interesting possibilities—the Mojave Desert, or Death Valley, or Las Vegas. Maybe even Los Angeles or San Francisco, or some point farther north.

But if they went east once they hit Highway 40 . . . well, Kyra doubted they’d do that. If the stars wanted to take them east, they would have taken Highway 17 out of Phoenix.

Unless, of course, the stars preferred the scenic route. If that were the case, maybe they were headed for the Grand Canyon. Maybe they’d circle back to the Painted Desert, or the Petrified Forest, or Canyon de Chelly . . .

No. The very idea was ridiculous. They were heading west out of Kingman. Kyra was sure of it.

West. . . and north . . . and . . .

The strings wailed, and Kyra clenched her eyelids tightly. The pain—ever transformative—was returning, dull slice by dull slice.

It
was
coming, unbidden, the same way it had descended upon
her in the mausoleum. Of that she was sure. But she wasn’t sure of its source. Not this time. Kyra sensed that there was more to this pain than darkness. This time, it bore the cold sting of vengeance—

Roses bloomed in her skull, and blood welled in her brainpan like a million unshed teardrops, and Leticia Hardin’s scorpions returned, scrabbling behind Kyra’s eyeballs, pinchers closing around her optic nerves.

Scorpion stingers slashed her with each violin stroke, but she did not cry out. Soon another sound smothered the violins, a sound that was inside Kyra’s head. A pounding as strong as her father’s fist, and every percussive blow of it hammered her deeper into darkness.

She held her breath and listened to the beat.

The sound of a Crow elder’s hand on a drum made of stretched animal hide.

The sound of the black bird’s heartbeat.

Kyra’s breath burned in her lungs, but she couldn’t manage to exhale. The vision that burned in her brainpan was too strong, eclipsing even the most basic demands of human biology.

She saw them clearly, locked in her head:
A woman and a man. Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin and Dan Cody. Leticia in traditional Crow ceremonial dress, her hair in dark black braids, her face glowing with happiness. Cody in Johnny Cash black and a string tie, his expression as solemn as his clothes . . . but his fingers trembling with joy he had never felt before in life.

He’s dead,
Kyra told herself.
 
The cowboy is dead. . . and so is his bitch. They’re buried in a dump, and this isn’t real.

A voice—small but sure—in tempo with the drumbeat.

"With this ring
...”
the voice said.

No!
Kyra cried, the word trapped in her head.

“With this ring, which is made of summer’s heat and winter's snow, which is made of tears and laughter and dreams and sorrows and happiness
...”

No!

"Dan. . . Leticia. . . this token of your undying love joins you together in strength that can never be challenged. With this ring I thee
—”

“NO!” Kyra cried as her eyes flashed open. She exhaled sharply. Then she gasped, filling her lungs, chest heaving.

The CD was over. It was quiet in the car.

It was quiet in her head, as well.

Quiet as death.

“Kyra,” Johnny said. “Hey, did you have a bad dream or something?”

Kyra didn’t answer. She stared through the windshield. The sky was no longer black. It was purple as an innocent child’s bruise, but still the stars waited just ahead on the horizon, drawing her forward.

A sign flashed by on the right:

LAS VEGAS
54
MI.

Kyra jammed her hand into her coat pocket. She found Dan and Leticia’s wedding ring there, waiting for her touch.

“Kyra?” Johnny’s voice again. “Hey, darlin’, don’t mess with my head. Are you okay?”

The ring was hot to the touch. It seemed to burn Kyra’s black- nailed fingers, and it spoke to her the same way her vision had, and she couldn’t get it out of her pocket fast enough.

“Kyra?”

“Shut up, Johnny!” she said, her voice as sharp as a knife.

In the dull first light of another desert morning, Kyra Damon stared at the ring. The tiny diamonds glimmered clean and white before her eyes, and she nearly laughed at the idea that such pauper stones could have any power at all.

But they did. She remembered the words, like the drumbeat.
Undying love . . . strength that can never he challenged . . .

The tiny stones sparkled before Kyra’s eyes.

And then the diamonds turned black.

Kyra’s equally black heart thudded in her chest, pounding like a renegade drumbeat. She closed her eyes and slipped the ring onto her finger, just to see how it would feel.

It was, of course, a perfect fit.

Just like the blue eyes in her skull.

When Kyra opened her eyes, the Crow constellation was growing dimmer in the coming morning light. But that was okay with her. She knew where she was going now—the same place any woman of Kyra’s disposition went with a wedding ring and a man.

Her destination was less than fifty-four miles away. Las Vegas, Nevada. The quick ’n’ nasty wedding capital of America.

She was sure of it.

Kyra clutched the ring. She glanced over at Johnny. He glanced back, a worried look on his face. Besides his expression, he didn’t look any different. Not at all.

She laughed, thinking,
You don’t realize just how worried you should he, Johnny
C.

“You okay?” Johnny asked again. “I mean, you about scared me half to death. It was like you were having some kind of seizure or something, and then you yelled
No!
like some nightmare was trying to eat you alive—”

“It wasn’t a seizure, Johnny. And it wasn’t a nightmare.”

“Then what was it?”

“Pull over,” Kyra said. “And I’ll tell you.”

Dan slammed on the brakes, and the Durango seized up like a gut-shot horse.

A thunderstorm churned in his skull. His eyes were closed, but lightning flashed behind them, striking to the root of his cerebral cortex, and a memory of a day that never was caught fire in his soul.

The Crow elder's drumbeat bringing a crowd of people together at the mouth of Cuervo Canyon ... a crowd who have come to see only two . . .

Emily Carlisle at Dan's side, whispering in his ear, telling him that everything will be okay if he'd just be smart enough to take a couple steps and say a couple words . . .

Dan knowing he can do it, knowing that with all his heart and soul as he walks toward Leticia. He travels a gauntlet of Leticia’s family
and friends . . . near-strangers who frighten him, but Leticia has promised that these people will be his friends, too, and he believes her promises, they are the only promises he has ever believed in his entire misguided life . . .

And then there she is, waiting for him, a smile on her beautiful face, a smile glowing like the first sunrise that kills winter and brings spring. . . and Dan is alive now because he knows her smile is for him . . . Leticia has given it to him, and it is the greatest gift he has ever received, and no one can take it from him and that smile is all he wants, all he has ever wanted.

The ring is in his pocket.

He’s sure it is, but he is so nervous . . . he has to check.

He reaches down, hoping no one will notice

Fingers brush black denim.

No ring in his pocket. . . nothing there at
all..
. and suddenly the friends he never had are gone and the desert sky is darkening and the Crow drumbeat in his head quickens and his heart beats a tortured rhythm along with
it..
. and he looks up to find Leticia’s blue eyes one more time . . .

He finds the eyes, but they are set in the wrong face.

The face of a woman who wears a black wedding dress.

Kyra Damon smiles at Dan. "I see by your outfit that you are a cowboy,” she says, paraphrasing the old song. ‘And you see by my eyes that you're way too late.”

“No,” Dan says. “It's a trick. It’s not possible. Not today
-"

Kyra looks up at the sky. The Crow circles there, high above. When Kyra’s eyes find the bird, it shrieks as if shot and its wings beat a rhythm that is nothing compared to the beating of the drum and Dan blinks one time and when he opens his eyes the bird is gone.

“The Crow lied to you,” Kyra says. “It tried to use you. I won’t do that.”

“I don’t believe you,” Dan says.

“Believe what you want, cowboy. I’m telling you the truth. A man should know the truth before he dies. And that bird is a damn liar.”

Kyra points to the heavens, to the patch of sky where the Crow had soared just moments before. The last flicker of daylight evaporates like water on a hot skillet, and the sky is as black as cast iron.

A handful of stars gleam there. A constellation Dan has never seen from his part of the world. A constellation that can’t be seen from the desert where he has lingered too long. But he has read about this group of stars, always hoped that he would see it one day.

Still, he can’t remember the constellation’s name.

Until Kyra reminds him. "Those stars are named for the Crow: Alchiba. Kraz. Giengh Ghurab. Algorab. Minkar
..."
She raises a slim-fingered hand, and the stars dance in the sky. “I own them now,” she says. “The same way I own your bitch’s eyes. The same way I’m going to own the black bird. That’s the only truth you need to understand, cowboy. Now you’re ready to die.”

A heavy hand falls on Dan’s shoulder, roughly spinning him around before he can protest.

Johnny Church stands there in a suit the color of an electric eel. “Sorry, Tex,” he says. “The lady’s telling the truth—the bird
did
lie to you, and it
is
time to die. Besides, you ain’t near cool enough to rate an invitation to this party. To tell the truth, Tex, you’re about as square as a Kraft single.”

Johnny smiles, raises his white tarantula hands.

He holds Dan’s ring in one.

In his other he holds a .357 Magnum.

Not that there’s an element of choice involved . .
.
this certainly isn’t that kind of situation.

Johnny uses the gun . . .

At least there wasn’t an argument about what song was most appropriate for the moment.

“Can’t Help Falling in Love.” Elvis. Uh-huh-huh.

Of course, Johnny didn’t own any Elvis CDs. He had to find a pay phone, call an oldies station in Vegas and request the tune. But hey ... it wasn’t like it was the first time some love-struck couple had done that on their way to Vegas.

They waited for the song, out there in the middle of nowhere, and it was worth the wait. The King’s voice drifted from the
speaker set in the Mercury’s passenger door, filling the quiet desert the way no other voice could.

Where they were was no place special. Just sand and scrub and nothing much under a steely sky. Dawn was coming on, but it was taking its own sweet time and the stars were lingering and—

“The song won’t last forever, Johnny,” Kyra said. “If we’re going to do this thing right, you’d better get moving.”

“Sure, Ky.” Johnny dropped down on one knee. Yeah. That was the way you did
it...
if you were going to do it right.

Johnny reached out and took Kyra’s delicate hand between his callused fingers. Then he looked up at her. Man, she was beautiful. Those sexy lips, painted black. Her hair, a wild fiery tangle cascading over her shoulders. Those eyes . . .

It was weird, seeing those blue eyes set in Kyra’s face. They were blue and clear as a summer sky but they were Kyra’s eyes now. Johnny was almost certain about that, yet it seemed that the Crow woman was looking through them, seeing Johnny down there on his knees. . . .