Houdini froze, gesturing for silence.
After a pause, the wailing rose again, sharper this time. And other voices joined the chorus, until the sky was filled with predatory squeals.
Houdini said a prayer as he lifted his eyes to the heavens, but nothing prepared him for the sight that greeted him.
They looked like vultures, stark against the moon, but only because they flew so high. As they drifted down over the cornfield in elegant circles, all doubts were erased as to their true nature. Broken, bloody wings beat, holding aloft hideous corpses. Eight sets of bloody wings unfurled from eight rotting backs. Eight sets of bone jaws fell open, and the demons squealed, a macabre choir of dead souls on the hour of their triumph, gem eyes set into their white skulls. Some flesh still stuck to the bodies in rotting patches like barnacles.
Somewhere deep in his memory, Houdini heard Lovecraft’s warning voice regarding creatures of the Mythos and the human psyche, so he tore his gaze away before the shock set in. But their cries were inescapable.
Houdini again pulled Abigail into his arms and sprinted for the forest.
Their pursuers swarmed and dove.
Though Houdini could not turn around, he could hear the thump of wings in the air growing louder by the second.
“Hang on,” Houdini shouted, then dove down as a sickle sliced over their heads, shearing the corn. A noisome body swooped past then peeled away, back into the sky.
Houdini swung Abigail up in his arms again and staggered toward the woods, the air around them thick with squeals and the beating of broken wings.
45
STUNNED PASSENGERS POURED off the Empire State Express and into a shallow ravine bordering lush pastures just a few miles outside of Poughkeepsie. Fire wagons and medical trucks were just arriving with first aid and blankets for the wounded, while local farmers hung lanterns on tree branches so the doctors could work, diagnosing injuries and separating the dead from the living.
Doyle guided Bess down a dirt road, away from the train. “We can’t be seen here.”
“What about Abigail?” she asked.
“She’s with Houdini. At least, that’s my hope.”
“He’s here?”
“He was on the roof of the train, trying to save Abigail.”
Bess held her gloved hand to her lips, unsure whether to be relieved or newly afraid. “Then where are they now?”
Doyle shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Bess had maintained admirable steadiness throughout the preceding ordeal, but now she was spent. She sagged visibly.
Then a roaring filled their ears, and the Silver Ghost soared out of the darkness, with Lovecraft at the wheel. He slammed the brakes and the car spun a 180-degree turn, uplifting a cloud of dust and severing saplings.
As the car braked before them, Doyle could hear the familiar sound of Lovecraft and Marie arguing.
“. . . almost run dem over!”
“Do you think it’s easy driving with you squawking at me, woman?”
“It’s by God’s will alone that we alive!”
“I’m a scientist, not a mechanic!”
Doyle opened the driver’s-side door. Marie slithered into the backseat while Lovecraft slid over to the passenger side. Bess climbed into the back with Marie, who was still slapping Lovecraft on the back of the head.
“Talk to me like I’m some whore?”
“Marie, please,” Doyle interjected.
Lovecraft spun around. “Put your hands on me once more and I’ll not be responsible!”
“Howard—” Doyle tried again.
“Don’t threaten me, demon child!” Marie wagged a finger.
“Hold!” Doyle shouted, quieting the car. He took Lovecraft’s satchel off the floor and pushed it into his stomach. “Find them!”
Doyle released the emergency hand-brake, shoved his left foot against the low-speed pedal, then turned the car around, facing away from the train. As he bumped his way down the rutted dirt road, he released his left foot and let the car into high gear. The Silver Ghost rumbled through an alley of trees.
AS THE CAR passed a particularly majestic maple, a match flared, illuminating the face of Detective Mullin, smoke pouring from his nostrils as he puffed a small cigar. Upon sighting the Arcanum, he slipped his finger through the loop of wire controlling the choke on his parked Model-T, and spun the hand crank affixed by the driver’s-side door. The engine roared to life. He climbed up onto the trembling running board and into the car, releasing the throttle before the engine stalled. The Model-T lurched onto the road after the Arcanum.
THE INTERIOR OF the Silver Ghost was illuminated with a greenish glow from the spectral, floating equations of the Eltdown Shard. Lovecraft turned the reel as the tiny pistons chugged, feeding energy to the magical bone. Numbers flickered in and out of existence, and Lovecraft struggled to comprehend the curious, contradictory messages.
“They’re close, I . . .” He trailed off, confused.
“Yes? What?” Doyle demanded.
The headlights illuminated farmers in groups of twos and threes, shotguns over their shoulders, still in their robes and pajamas, heading for the train. Word was spreading.
Lovecraft suddenly stiffened. “Left. Turn left.”
There was no road, so Doyle turned into a space between the trees, then accelerated up a slight dirt rise and across a pasture. The Silver Ghost jolted as the wheels ground over dirt toward another forest.
FOLLOWING WITH HIS headlights off, Mullin attempted the same maneuver with terrible results. The top-heavy Model-T rolled up the small rise, then teetered on its left side, the wheels leaving the ground. Mullin slammed the gas, but it was too late. He dove out of the car as it rolled over onto its side, then, finally, back onto the road, completely upside down. Mullin cursed and flung his cigar at the Model-T as its engine sputtered and died. He turned and jogged after the Silver Ghost, whose lights were fading in the distance.
THE ROLLS HAD reached the edge of the woods. They couldn’t drive farther, but Lovecraft had caught the scent. “Everybody out, quickly!”
Doyle assisted Bess as Lovecraft, holding out his gauntleted forearm, plunged along the edge of the woods. “They’re close!” he said, then wheeled around and stopped. Doyle and Marie joined him. All was quiet save for their combined breathing as the demonologist studied the glowing numbers flashing in the air.
“Howard?”
Lovecraft motioned Doyle to silence. “They’re here.” He peered into the gloom of the woods. “I don’t understand. They should be right here.”
Doyle frowned. “Then the readings are wrong.”
“They’re not wrong.”
Marie touched both their arms and pointed up.
All eyes turned skyward to the shadows blotting the stars, soaring in a circle over the trees.
HOUDINI CARRIED ABIGAIL into the shelter of the woods. But it was hard to navigate in the patchy moonlight, and soon a root caught his foot and he flopped forward, pitching Abigail onto the ground. Houdini tried to rise, grunting, but suddenly Abigail froze against him and clapped an urgent hand over his mouth.
You could drown in the silence. Houdini could hear the blood rushing in his temples, could hear the thump of his heart in his chest.
Then branches over their heads snapped, and leaves rustled, startling a flock of birds into motion. Shadows plunged into the trees from above, and debris showered down. Gurgles and squeals wailed through the woods, and those cries were answered by more, until the combined effect was like a symphony of disharmonic dread.
Suddenly, branches snapped at their left—lower down this time—and bodies burst through the darkness. Houdini launched at them from the forest floor, only to find himself nose to nose with Doyle.
“Arthur!”
Doyle threw his arms around Houdini, but Houdini was more intent on reaching Bess. He flung his arms around his wife and showered her damp face with kisses.
In the meantime, Lovecraft and Marie went to Abigail, wrapping protective arms around her and helping her walk.
The reunion was brief, however, as large bodies scrambled down through the trees, driving the Arcanum into the center of a small clearing. The starry sky formed a sparkling bowl over their heads. The treetops shook. Autumn leaves spiraled away as the demons descended into the thicket, and the air, which was normally alive with the chirp of crickets, was now quiet as a graveyard.
“You are resilient; I’ll grant you that,” said a voice from the border of the woods.
Houdini and Doyle whirled around. It was a voice both recognized.
Paul Caleb stepped into the light of the sliver moon. He was dressed in a gray suit, an enigmatic smile on his lips, “My compliments on a contest well fought.”
“Caleb?” Houdini managed.
“Houdini. Shouldn’t you be in jail?”
Houdini turned to Doyle. “What the hell is going on?”
“Something tells me Darian DeMarcus served another master, whether he knew it or not,” Doyle said. “The single entity who desired the Book more than any man ever could.”
“Remember me, Marie?” Caleb asked as he unbuttoned his collar, loosened his tie, and showed off a pink scar on his throat. “My little love bite.” The D.A. then let his tongue hang out, imitating a panting dog.
Marie breathed in, “The silver fox?”
“Mon Dieu, aidez-moi, Marie, aidez-moi, s’il-vous-plait.”
Caleb’s voice was that of an old Creole woman.
Marie’s dagger flashed, but Lovecraft held her back.
“We made good use of her, I assure you.” Caleb winked at Marie.
“Don’t listen, any of you,” Doyle warned. “He’s the Lord of Lies.”
From a pocket in the folds of her skirt, Marie retrieved one half of a clamshell. She tilted it in her hand like a bowl. Then, without attracting Caleb’s notice, she took Houdini’s hand and pricked his thumb with her dagger.
Houdini stood impassive as Marie squeezed his thumb, catching the blood in the shell.
“AM I ? ” CALEB asked Doyle. “That is convenient. Or is the truth so searing that we turn away from it? Marie Laveau Glampion has danced with demons all her days, made herself powerful on their backs, knowing full well the consequences of such a bargain. We cannot lie,” Caleb said, his face losing some of its expressiveness, as if controlled remotely by some hidden puppeteer. His voice took on a grating edge, like steel scraping steel. “We know the desires and instincts that rule men’s souls, Arthur, for we
are
those desires and instincts. Think of us not as an entity, but as an idea whose time has come.” Caleb’s smile faded as he held out a hand. “Come now, Abigail.”
Doyle stepped in front of her, and Lovecraft pulled her back. The demons chattered in the trees.
LOVECRAFT GLANCED OVER and saw what Marie was doing, and he, too, secretly offered his hand. She pricked his thumb, and let her shell catch the blood.
CALEB FOLDED HIS hands behind his back, annoyed. “What is it you think you’re protecting? A little girl? A downy angel? No, you’re protecting a system that has failed, a symbol of power run amok. You have been programmed to hate yourselves since the dawn of time, all of you. And why? Because you were told to distrust your most natural and basic instincts, the urges awakened at the birth of every child. To survive. To thrive. To seek. To fight. Yet these primordial elements of self were twisted into sins. And why? To answer that question we must consider who is threatened by such virtues.” Caleb pointed a finger to the heavens. “The answer is simple: God. For if mankind were to cast off its shackles and realize its true destiny, God would cease to exist. And then
we
would be God. All of us, ruling together. History is written by the winners, don’t you see? We have been maligned as the Lord of Lies, when we are the champion of men!”
“Within that logic one might conclude that war is in fact peace,” Doyle retorted.
“The bloody, tearing, ripping struggle of birth? The child’s scalded hand at its first touch of fire? The frightening fears and transformations of adolescence? The rending and defilement of virginity? The slow, devouring pull of old age? Without violence, Arthur, there is no transformation. The peace you imagine is paralysis. It’s death.”
At that moment, Doyle felt a sharp pain in his thumb, as Marie surreptitiously took her blood offering.
“Perhaps,” Doyle answered, “but it’s a sort of death we’re willing to sacrifice for.”
Caleb shrugged. “So be it.”
The demons burst from the trees and swooped into the clearing, sickles slicing the air.
Doyle and Houdini whirled around, forcing the others down onto their knees.
The demons hovered over the circle, creating a terrible wind with the beating of their stolen wings.
In the circle, Marie put the shell on the ground, then cut her own palm and made a fist, spilling yet more blood. She scattered ground herbs into the mixture with her other hand. “I need more time,” she whispered to Doyle.
Houdini freed Mullin’s stolen Enfield .38 from his pocket and checked to see that it was loaded.
Lovecraft fished the Book of Enoch from his satchel and threw it on the ground.
“What are you doing?” Houdini hissed.
Lovecraft opened the codex and studied a bookmarked page. “This isn’t just a piece of the Bible, it’s a tome of formidable magic. If I translate correctly, I may be able to bind these things,” Lovecraft answered.
“So that leaves us,” Houdini said to Doyle.
Doyle grinned fiercely back.
Together, they burst from the circle, taking the demons by storm. Doyle drew the sword from his cane, slashing at one creature after another. Houdini, in turn, squeezed off three rounds, which found their mark in a burst of bones and wings.
Lovecraft stood and turned to the demons, thrusting his right hand to the sky.
“La mayyitan ma qadirun yatabaqa sarmadi fa
itha yaji ash-shuthath al-mautu qad yantahi!”
One of the demons wailed and broke off from the others, hands clawing at its gem eyes. It flew into a tree, then dropped, broken, to the ground.
Houdini fired three more rounds into the largest grouping of demons. However, one of the demons surged around, away from the others, then circled back, slashing at Houdini from behind and knocking him violently to the ground.
“Houdini!” Doyle yelled as he fought his way backwards, away from the sickles of two hovering demons.
But as the demon attacking Houdini tried to fly back to safety, Houdini lunged upward and grabbed its leg, dragging it kicking and screaming back to earth, where he laid into it with his fists. There was a wide cut across his back, but Houdini clearly didn’t notice. The demon squealed beneath the flurry of blows. Houdini felt knuckles pop as his fists met more skeleton than flesh, but his fury overmatched the demon, which wiggled helplessly like a broken bird.
Hoo-hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoo.
At first, the sound was swallowed in the squeals and grunts of combat.
Hoo-hoo-hoo. Hoo-hoo.
Marie pressed the clamshell into the dirt and knelt before it. She raised her arms and began to chant, willing a slender thread of the immaterial from the brownish, gritty mixture.
His foe temporarily vanquished, Houdini staggered away from the stunned demon and put his back to Doyle’s. There was a temporary respite as the demons circled above them.
All the while, Paul Caleb waited, watching, hands in his pockets. His head tilted at the new sounds.
The demons seemed curious, too, halting their attack as they tried to determine the source of this new distraction.
“What is that?” Houdini asked Doyle in a whisper.
“Owls,” Doyle responded with a grin.
Marie’s hands danced above the shell, molding an inexplicable smoke that rose up from the vessel.
A demon’s arms flew up in defense as a thick, feathered body plunged out of the trees and soared past its head, then darted back into the high canopy, screeching.