J.L. Doty - Dead Among Us 01 - When Dead Ain’t Dead Enough (6 page)

The monster atop him flinched, looked momentarily toward the kitchen, then turned back to Paul and they locked eyes.

It was as if he was a little child terrified of the dark of his bedroom, and suddenly one of his parents walked in and flicked on the lights. At that moment all fear and terror fled. He looked into the creature’s eyes and felt it pulling on him, not pulling physically, but pulling on something through the contact between its clawed hand and his throat. It felt as if the creature were reaching deep into his heart, into his soul, pulling on the core of his being. And Paul wanted to give it everything it desired, for suddenly he loved and trusted it as he’d never loved anything before. But a small spark within him knew he must resist that
pull
.

As if his mind had split into two separate beings Paul yielded to the
pull
and embraced the desire he saw in the monster’s eyes, while that spark within him found the letter opener and gripped its handle. But it and his right hand were now pinned beneath his back. He tried to look away from the monster’s blood-red, goat-slitted eyes but couldn’t. The monster continued to pull through the physical contact with his throat and he was beginning to see sparkling motes of unconsciousness as he threw everything into resisting that
pull
. The monster snarled, cried out and reared its head back.

Paul got the letter opener free, swung it out in a roundhouse arc just as the monster’s claws tightened with crushing force about his throat, slammed the letter opener into the side of its head and buried it there.

The monster screamed, rolled off him in a snarling frenzy, its jaws snapping at empty air, hissing and spinning about like a maddened animal. Where the letter opener protruded from the side of its head the wound sputtered a greasy smoke as if the letter opener were a red-hot brand.

Paul staggered to his feet looking for another weapon, and then the door to his apartment exploded. The blast peppered Paul’s left side with splinters and knocked him to the floor. It blew the monster across the room and slammed it against the wall in a shower of splinters where it slumped to the floor.

Paul’s head reeled from the concussion of the explosion. He rolled onto his back, thinking he had to get to his feet no matter how much the room swayed. He got to his elbows but could go no further until the dizziness subsided. He was surprised to see the older fellow who’d knocked on his door last week stride purposefully across the room to the monster, a young version of Joseph Stalin a few steps behind him. The old fellow leaned over the monster, pulled a shiny, needle-shaped spike from his coat, plunged it into the monster’s chest, and held it there as the monster struggled and kicked. The old guy began chanting something in a language Paul didn’t recognize. Two more strangers, another old man and an ugly fellow with long, greasy blond hair, rushed past the old fellow into the kitchen.

Joe Stalin looked up from whatever the old man was doing to the monster, looked at Paul and frowned angrily, then reached into his coat and pulled out a revolver the size of a howitzer. He crossed the room to Paul and stood over him, carefully aimed the muzzle of the cannon between Paul’s eyes, grinned menacingly and slowly pulled the pistol’s hammer back with his thumb.

Just as it clicked into place, in a flash, the mere blink of an eye, Suzanna and Cloe appeared in the doorway to the kitchen. Paul blinked again, and now Cloe straddled Joe Stalin’s back, her arms wrapped around his throat as she pulled with all her might, her face twisted with anger and fear. A real child, even such a small one, should’ve had more effect on Joe Stalin, should’ve at least made him stagger. As it was all he did was hesitate, frown and reach up with his left hand to touch his throat for just an instant, apparently completely unaware of the spectral child riding his back. But the instant ended in a blink and he lowered the gun back toward Paul’s face.

Suzanna wrapped her hands around Joe’s wrist, tugged at it and tried to pull the gun to one side. Again, a real grown woman should’ve had more effect. But Joe seemed no more aware of her than Cloe, though the gun did waver for a moment and shifted a few inches to one side just as he pulled the trigger.

The gun roared in Paul’s face with a deafening explosion that sent Paul’s senses reeling. He cringed, laid there for an instant with his ears ringing, blood pounding in his head, and it took him a second to realize his brains weren’t splattered all over the room.

Joe Stalin lowered the gun again toward Paul’s face, with Cloe still riding his back and Suzanna tugging on his wrist. He pulled the hammer back just as a middle-aged hippie-woman shot across the room and touched him with a lightning bolt of electricity. Joe staggered and Paul rolled to one side as the gun roared again, the muzzle flash only inches from his face. Paul tried to sit up, looked up at the hippie woman who stood over him in a dress that looked like she’d hung a bunch of scarves of all colors from her torso, covering her from neck to floor. She wore her bright red hair in a wild tangle, tussled and curly in that way of the classic redhead. In it were about a dozen, thin, braided strands into which had been woven small, silver trinkets.

The lightning bolt she’d hit Joe with had had considerable effect. He staggered about like a drunkard as she charged at him. The hippy struggled with him for a moment but he slapped her to the floor. He lifted the gun unsteadily, aimed it at Paul, the barrel waving about wildly as Joe continued to stagger and Suzanna continued to pull on his wrist. Paul rolled to one side as the cannon roared again. The bullet plowed into the floor where he’d been a moment ago, digging a furrow in the carpet and slapping his face and shoulders with an explosion of splinters. It was pure luck he didn’t lose an eye.

Paul got to his feet and staggered toward the shattered front door of his apartment, looked over his shoulder just as he reached it. Joe Stalin still tottered drunkenly, but the ugly, blond fellow appeared in the entrance to the kitchen carrying another howitzer. He aimed it at Paul, but the hippie-woman hit him with one of those lightning bolts just as he fired and the shot took out part of the doorjamb only inches from Paul’s head. Paul staggered out into the hall as Joe Stalin fired another shot, punching a hole through the apartment wall behind him.

Paul stumbled and half-rolled down the first flight of stairs, but a surge of adrenaline cleared his head and he managed to stagger down the next flight without falling. After that he took the stairs three at a time, was grateful he didn’t break his neck before he slammed out the front door of his building and tumbled into the street.

Chapter 3: No Time to Heal

McGowan didn’t dare turn away from the demon until he finished destroying it, knew Colleen could handle the Russians. He continued releasing the spell he’d locked into the silver spike, and wisps of smoke began swirling up from the monster’s eyes and ears and mouth. It thrashed wildly, struggling, kicking, screaming out an ungodly, high-pitched cry, but McGowan refused to waver and held it pinned to the floor with the spike. And then suddenly the monster slumped back and lay motionless. Still, McGowan didn’t waver, held it pinned and continued the chant, relentlessly bringing the spell to its conclusion. Slowly the monster’s skin grew translucent, the beast shrank, and then it dissipated completely in a cloud of smoke and ash that dissolved in the air of the room

McGowan stood and turned to find Colleen blocking the door to the hallway, Karpov facing her angrily, no sign of his two thugs. “Enough,” McGowan shouted.

Karpov turned to face him.

“What did you think you were doing?” McGowan demanded. “We’re going to have half the city down on us any minute.”

Karpov opened his mouth to say something. A moment ago, with McGowan occupied by the emergent, he’d been willing to take on Colleen alone. But now that McGowan was free to back her, the Russian thought better of it. He raised his hands in a placating gesture, shrugged and said, “Valter, my two colleagues are young and inexperienced. Sometimes they act with a bit too much  . . . enthusiasm. You will forgive them, of course.”

McGowan wanted to strangle the Russian bastard. “Call them back, now.”

Karpov frowned and shook his head. “They’re doing what needs to be done.”

McGowan took a step toward him. “Do you really want those two morons out there unsupervised? They’ll shoot up half the city.”

Karpov grimaced. “You do have a point, Valter.” He pulled out a cell phone, flipped it open and dialed a number, waited for a few seconds then said something in Russian. He closed the cell phone and said, “They’ll be here shortly.”

Paul stumbled as he hit the street, fell to the tarmac in a tumble, tearing his shirt and pants and badly scraping his hands and knees and elbows. He figured he had only seconds before the Joe Stalin and his friend followed him and blew his brains out. At least a light mist had blanketed the street, which might help him hide.

“Come on, ye daft idiot,” someone snarled in his ear in a thick Irish accent. “You’ve no time to be a lying here enjoying the scenery.”

With his ears still ringing from the thunder of the gunshots Paul was surprised he could hear anything. He rolled over, struggled to his hands and knees and found himself nose to nose with a midget. The little fellow wore green leggings, a brown doublet over a purple shirt, with bright orange-red hair spilling out from a floppy, red-felt hat perched jauntily on his head. He was shorter than any midget Paul had ever seen, not even knee high. He sported large, mutton-chop whiskers, with a nose shaped like a ski jump that separated green eyes filled with disapproval.

He grabbed Paul’s arm, and with surprising strength, pushed and cajoled him to his feet. “Come on, ye fool,” he said as he turned and ran up the sidewalk. “This way, hurry.”

Paul ran after the little fellow in an uneven, limping gait, gained a little distance but each step was an excruciating exercise in futility. As he hobbled down the sidewalk he ran a hand down his thigh, could feel large wooden splinters protruding from his jeans. “Stop,” Paul cried after the midget. “I’m hurt. I can’t run.”

The midget dug in its heels, spun and raced back to Paul, took one look at his bloodied thigh and said, “Aye. Sure, I should’ve seen that.”

The midget grabbed his hand, tugged him off the sidewalk into the shadows of some shrubs. “Lay down, ye daft fool, and be still.”

Paul obeyed the little fellow. In his present condition hiding and hoping for the best was his only chance. He and the midget laid down side-by-side and watched the front of his building as Joe and his ugly, blond friend spilled onto the street, guns in hand. The Russians looked up and down the street, spoke hurriedly and gestured for a few seconds. Then the ugly blond started down the street away from Paul while Joe Stalin ran up the street toward him.

Paul knew his situation was hopeless. The shrubs weren’t that large and the shadows weren’t that deep, and the mist helped a little, but not enough. The midget apparently agreed with Paul’s assessment. He said, “This just won’t do. We’ll have to go someplace else.” He reached out and grabbed Paul’s hand and said, “Come with me, young fella.”

Paul wanted to protest, was about to say something about splinters in his leg and that he was in no shape to go anywhere. But before he could say anything the mist began to dissipate, and the night sky lightened toward a soft orange, as if the sun was rising prematurely. Little by little the horizon turned a dark pinkish-purple, a strange false dawn that was just plain wrong. He looked over his shoulder hoping to find a normal sun, hoping brush fires in the distant hills had laid down a cloud of smoke that filtered the sun’s light into this strange off-colored dawn.

The midget hissed, “Hold still, ye daft fool.”

The street in front of Paul’s apartment had grown indistinct, had become almost transparent, as if an image of it had been overlaid onto the more solid image of a strange, rolling countryside, though the midget was still solid and well defined. “Where are we?” Paul whispered.

The midget smiled knowingly. “Well now, we’re a little bit here, and a little bit there, and a little bit nowhere. And you should be still and quiet. Don’t move and don’t make a sound.”

Joe Stalin trotted up the street, and like everything else he was almost transparent, defined more by his edges than his substance. He carried the howitzer openly and looked to right and left as he ran right past Paul’s hiding place. He stopped at the corner, looked both ways and stood there for a moment of indecision.

Paul heard the refrains of some heavy-metal band, thought for a moment he might be hallucinating. He had splinters embedded in the side of his face, along his left arm and ribs, down his hip and leg, and they produced enough pain to make anyone hallucinate. But then Joe Stalin reached into his coat, pulled out a cell phone, and when he flipped it open the heavy-metal tune ended. He spoke some hurried words in what sounded like Russian, stuffed the phone back into his coat and ran back to Paul’s building.

“What happened to the other emergent?” McGowan demanded. “I sensed two cross over.”

Karpov gave him a smarmy smile. “We searched the apartment carefully. There was only the one. And you took care of it with admirable dispatch.”

The shadow that was Colleen left the doorway, drifted over to the ashes that remained of the demon, squatted down and nudged at the scorched and blackened letter opener. “Cheap letter opener,” she said. “But some silver plating, otherwise it would’ve had little effect on an emergent.”

Alexei appeared in the destroyed doorway breathing heavily, Vladimir behind him. He grumbled in a thick Russian accent. “We should get out of here. The cops are on their way. We can hear the sirens.”

Karpov turned to McGowan. “We will find this rogue, Valter. My men and I will find him and eliminate him.” He and his thugs made a quick exit.

Colleen had arrived in a cab so she joined McGowan in his car. Neither of them said anything until they’d put several blocks behind them, then Colleen broke the silence. “You were right. There were two emergents.”

“I know,” he said. “But what happened to the second one?”

He’d meant it as a rhetorical question, but she answered anyway. “I think something pushed it back into the Netherworld.”

“And that’s another thing,” McGowan continued. “How did two emergents cross over? Conklin’s summons wasn’t that strong, strong enough to attract a minor demon like that succubus, but for emergents to physically cross over—Conklin wasn’t using that kind of power and he didn’t even come close to a full summoning. This just doesn’t add up.”

“No,” Colleen said, her voice almost a dreamy, absent-minded sigh. “It doesn’t. And let’s not forget they were undoubtedly Tertius caste, new emergents, and yet they exercised restraint, didn’t feed blindly, didn’t simply go on a killing spree. That young man should’ve been dead within seconds of their emergence, unless something else helped them, controlled them. And it clearly was not that young man.”

McGowan looked at her sharply and was surprised to see she’d dropped her shadows. “You said
something
, not
someone
. You don’t mean to imply a nether-being summoned them?”

She shook her head. “No. We all know that’s not possible. But I sensed something else at work here, and I don’t know what that something was.”

“And let’s not forget the succubus,” he said, returning his attention to the street in front of his car. “Before the emergents showed up I sensed one, I’m certain of it.”

He could hear her breathing as she considered his words for a long moment. “Yes, there was something. For a few seconds it was right there in the room with us. I’m almost certain it tried to protect the young man from those Russian thugs. But it wasn’t a succubus. In fact, I don’t think it was a demon of any kind.”

“Then what was it?”

“I don’t know,” she said, “and that bothers me no end.”

This whole situation bothered McGowan. “We have to find young Conklin. And fast.”

“So you can kill him?” she asked, and he could hear the disapproval in her voice.

He’d known her too long to be anything but honest with her. “Maybe. I don’t know. We can’t allow him to summon demons without the proper protections. You know as well as I that one demon loose in this city could kill hundreds before we put it down. And if it was healthy, really healthy—unlike that wasted emergent I put down tonight—it could hide among us and feed off the population for years.”

She spoke hesitantly. “I felt no summons, just yearning. The young man was filled with pain and sorrow, and a lot of love and a deep longing. But he performed no summons.”

McGowan looked at her again, but she’d recalled her shadows so he looked back to the street ahead. When Colleen spoke her Irish accent had thickened considerably. “Old Wizard, do you think you could find it in your kind heart to offer an old woman a shot of good whiskey? Just a wee dram, purely for medicinal purposes, of course.”

He looked at her with a glint in his eyes. “Your place or mine, sweetheart?”

She breathed a deep, exasperated sigh. “Well now, old man, my place is six thousand miles from here, so it’ll have to be yours. But all I want from you is good whiskey and something to eat, and a good night’s sleep  . . . by myself, you old pervert.”

“Sorry, my dear,” he said. “I can offer you the whiskey and food, but no sleep tonight. Karpov is resourceful, so we have to get to Conklin before he does.”

She nodded and asked, “Did you catch the background scent in the young man’s apartment?”

“Ya, Sidhe. Faint, but there, almost like a Sidhe nest.”

She continued nodding. “Yes, a Sidhe nest, vacated for some time now, but still a nest, and unquestionably Unseelie, Winter Court.”

After Joe Stalin ran back into Paul’s building the night sky lost its dark pinkish-purple hue, the otherworldly feeling that had overlaid Paul’s neighborhood dissipated and the street returned to normal, as if anything about this night could be normal. He and the midget picked themselves up and the midget led Paul up the street, staying in the shadows as much as possible. Paul moved slowly, limping and shuffling painfully. He felt guilty for abandoning Suzanna and Cloe, but he knew he was bug-fuck nuts, and they were just figments of his imagination. Come to think of it, the man-sized bat-thing that climbed out of his mirror had to be another hallucination. That meant his delusions were getting worse. And then there was the hippie woman throwing around lightning bolts. A police shrink would have a field day with him.

Paul managed to put three blocks between him and his building when a police car turned the corner two blocks up, sirens screaming and lights flashing. It came his way and he tried to flag it down but it roared past him, came to a stop in front of his apartment. Moments later two more squad cars joined it, all three parked at odd angles in front of the building, lights flashing and sirens now silent.

Paul considered turning back now that help was at hand, but if the cops were going to shoot it out with those thugs he didn’t want to end up in the middle of that. But walking hurt like hell and he could barely stay on his feet so he couldn’t go on. And as the sidewalk beneath his feet swayed like the deck of a ship he staggered to the steps leading up to someone’s front door, sat down clumsily on the lowest step and buried his face in his hands.

“Come on, ye fool,” the midget said. “You can’t stay here.”

The little fellow was right. Paul struggled to his feet and swayed drunkenly. “Lead the way.”

The midget ran ahead.

“Young man,” a deep male voice said. “Are you ill?”

Paul turned to find a tall stranger with unusually black skin standing next to him. “You’ve been hurt!” the man said, his voice filled with concern. “You’re bleeding. What happened?”

“Crazy people,” Paul said, unable to get the words out without slurring them. “Broke into my apartment and tried to kill me.”