Tropic of Darkness (19 page)

He noticed that her smile had turned a little sour. Why was that?

The warm light faded from her gaze, those hazel irises becoming cold and distant. She peered up at him another moment.

Then, she disappeared.

The milky glow around him vanished too. The walls came back, as solid as they had been.

The wind was screeching around him again. The floor was just as distant as it had been when he had first looked.

And the cast-iron chandelier was back. He was suspended directly above it.

It hadn't been made for lightbulbs. It came from an earlier age. The curving arms had holders spaced along them, in the shapes of clumps of leaves.

Each one had an iron spike at its heart, to hold in place the candle that had used to sit there.

There were dozens of them.

Luis tried to turn in mid-air, snatching for the railings he had left behind. His fingers closed on nothing.

The landing was at least ten feet away from him. No way of getting back.

A wail was trying to rip out of his body when the wind stopped altogether, letting go.

CHAPTER

THIRTY-TWO

Back in the main room, one of the twins had disappeared for a short while. But now she had come back. The wind hadn't dropped for a moment, whatever might be happening outside. It was still howling with a savage, pure ferocity.

But in spite of that, Torres could make out Luis's final shriek, which rose in pitch, then stopped completely.

Sadness welled up in him, then he found himself wondering why he‘d been able to hear it at all, with this racket going on. He believed he understood. The twins were
letting
the sounds reach him, using the boy's dying moments to try to unnerve him.

He had more sense than to let that happen. He steeled himself.
But maybe the rest had heard it too?
He let his head tip to the side.

Yes, they'd been affected. Hague looked sickened, angry. He had still not sat down properly, and was teetering half-suspended on his crutches. Cruz and Gilliard looked mad with rage, the Yanqui
in particular. They stared at the doorway with their jaws set rigid.

Then, to Torres's abject horror, they both started scrambling to their feet.

This was precisely what the twins had wanted. He knew he couldn't stop them, so he made a choice.

He wrapped his elbows under Jack's shoulders, pinning him like a wrestler and dragging him back down again. He could only watch as Manuel stood the rest of the way up. The wind slammed at the short man with a renewed vigor. He teetered, trying to keep his balance, but was trapped by his own actions. He could not sit down again. And nor could he advance.

One of his feet slipped out from under him and he crashed over on his side. The wind continued dragging at him. He was being rolled across the circle's edge, during the course of which, he somehow managed to get tangled up with Doctor Hague.

*   *   *

This was like the worst dream in the world, one in which you could see awful things unfolding all around you but were unable to stop them. Torres glanced up at the sisters' outlines, and their eyes were laughing.

The very next moment, Manuel went across the white chalked line, dragging the bewildered doctor with him. The wind appeared to ease a little at that point, just enough for the fellow to get to his feet. But every time that he tried to step back inside, another blast of air shoved him away.

The twins' hands darted forward, their slim fingers spreading wide. The wind cracked like a whiplash, picking both men up and slamming them against a wall.

The high priest watched as Hague sank crookedly, all control leaving his mangled frame. The man's eyes rolled in their sockets, and then his eyelids fluttered shut.

But Manuel was still conscious. He looked hurt and concussed, goggling and blinking fiercely. His spine was against the wall, his legs splayed out in front of him, the force of the wind holding him in place.

Something else moved, glinting in the corner of Torres's vision. Gods, the ceremonial dagger he had used to sacrifice the birds. How could he have been so careless? It was lying just beyond the circle's edge.

The blade was rising into the air like some elongated bubble in a gloom-filled pond, candlelight flowing down its edges. Torres tried to think of a spell that might stop it, but could not. And Manuel hadn't noticed what was happening as yet.

The dagger rose to chest height, and then pivoted around until its tip was pointing at him. And Manuel finally caught sight of it and froze.

There was a sharp flash as it plunged forward.

Angled as it was, it should have killed him instantly. But at the very last moment, Manuel managed to pull his body over to one side. The blade slammed into his shoulder instead of his chest.

It went straight through, pinning him to the wall. He wailed and tried to struggle. He was sweating, grimacing with pain. Taking hold of the bloody hilt, Manuel attempted to pull it loose. It wouldn't budge. No amount of effort seemed to make it move. So he was trapped there like some bulbous moth.

The twins promptly forgot about him. Their
real
target was Jack Gilliard. And they'd succeed before much longer, Torres understood. Nothing he'd tried so far had come anywhere near to fending them off.

And so there was no choice. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this, but he could see no other options.

He needed to request help from the other side, from the world of spirits and
orishas
.

Gilliard had stopped moving altogether, stunned by everything he'd seen. The high priest felt confident enough to let him go. It was time to forget about his immediate surroundings, and focus his attention elsewhere.

So he pushed himself up on his knees. And—throwing his arms wide—began to chant the most powerful magic that he knew.

*   *   *

She was still hiding under the table in another room. But words—snatches of arcane phrasing—came floating to Dolores.

And for a while, the only thing that she'd been able to hear had been the shrieking of the fierce, unnatural wind the twins had summoned up, punctuated by sharp yells from the men.

But now, she could hear an actual voice. It was perfectly clear, like it was in the room beside her. The familiar tone and cadence of a Santería spell. But she had never come across this one before. It sounded weighty and obscure and very powerful.

She found the courage, at long last, to uncover her head and lift it. Every syllable was puncturing the darkness, sending tremors through the fabric of the night. The whole house seemed to fill up with the sound. Even her skin was resonating to it.

Dolores recognized it as the
Babaaláwo's
voice. And, when she figured out what he was chanting, a newborn fear began to grow inside her.

She'd half suspected this when he had first arrived. She'd somehow sensed how far the high priest was prepared to go. And now, her worst misgivings were taking form.

The exorcism having failed, the man was resorting to more desperate measures. Far more dangerous, their consequences totally impossible to predict. He was enlisting otherworldly help, trying to conjure up some spirit to assist him. Something stronger than the twins.

It was the only chance he had of beating them. But still, she couldn't think of a more reckless course of action. Those who dwelt on the far side could be—to put it very mildly—less than reliable allies. Fickle and irrational, drawn whichever way their whims might take them. They could just as easily turn against the man as rally to his side.

The truth was, there was no real telling
what
would answer his new prayer, or even what it might do once the fight was over. Part of her wanted this whole thing finished with, and sided with the twins.

Kill these fools! The priest especially, before he goes too far!

She would go back to the patterns of her normal life. Back to the way that it had always been. However much she hated her existence, it was something she had grown accustomed to. It was familiar.

But she touched her belly. And those thoughts died away.

Little girl child?

The bridge of her nose creased up. She felt dampness growing in the corners of her eyes again.

If you knew what the future held in store for you, what would you want me to do?

When Dolores really thought about it, all her doubts subsided.

If I'd been asked that, how would I've replied?

There was only one answer. It was plain, and swelled inside her head until the pressure almost hurt.

She was the first woman in her entire line who'd had the smallest glimmer of a chance like this. And what manner of hell awaited her in the next life, if she didn't take it?

So she slid out from beneath the table, her face burning with indignation. No stopping now. No going back. And if she died in the attempt, taking her unborn daughter with her, well then, that would be a freedom of a sort.

The
Babaaláwo
appeared to be barely halfway through the spell, and time was running out. The sisters would never allow him to finish it. She had to give him those additional few moments.

Her gaze flickered over to some candlesticks propped up on the sideboard, settling on the tallest one. It was long and narrow with a heavy base, a perfect weapon. So she took it, and went out.

The scene in the hallway made her falter again. She had not been expecting this. She recognized the young man. Now, his impaled corpse was dangling from the chandelier. His weight had made the whole structure tilt over to one side. She wasn't sure how it had happened, but he'd gone down on the upright spikes. One of his shoes had fallen off, was lying in a pool of blood. And he'd been no more than a young boy really, barely out of his teens.

Dolores sucked a breath in through her teeth. And then, she ran to the foot of the staircase. And hurried up.

*   *   *

He was
moving
.

Jack was frozen rigid, hadn't shifted so much as a muscle since the high priest had let go of him. But, glancing to the side, he saw that he was closer to edge of the circle than he'd been. He could feel the floorboards sliding underneath his palms. He was being edged along, implacably.

He tried to keep himself in place, his fingers clenching, but did not slow down.

Even in agony, pinned against the wall, Manuel Cruz had noticed what was going on. He was staring across and shaking his head. But Doctor Torres seemed to be oblivious.

Jack felt panic start to overtake him.

“For God's sake!” he bellowed at the kneeling man. “Whatever you're doing, do it
now
!”

But then a movement from the doorway captured his attention. Something had shifted in the dimness of the corridor.

*   *   *

Dolores slipped inside the room, moving rapidly in the direction of the shelves. The sisters hadn't noticed her as yet, and this only ought to take a bare few seconds.

She drew up closer to the glow of the black candles, which were unaffected by the wind. Her teeth were set with grim determination and the candlestick was still clasped between her fists.

She was staring fiercely at the ranks of covered jars, trying to forget about the twins. She reached the first, and drew herself up as high as she could. Raised the candlestick above her head.

Then brought it crashing down.

*   *   *

As the first one shattered, Jack heard the most peculiar noise. A sucking sound, like an implosion, but with a harsh, almost electric crackle to it.

Something flashed out from between the shards, moving so fast that his eyes could not keep track of it. The only thing he got was a fleeting impression. Something like a ball of glowing mist. Except that it seemed to have other shapes buried within it. Human ones.

It shot up to the ceiling and then faded from view.

Dolores had turned her attention to the next jar. But now the sisters had noticed. They wheeled around. And she froze, just short of letting rip a second time.

She stared at them defiantly. That didn't seem to please them. They lifted their palms in her direction. Made a shoving motion.

And the woman was lifted clean off her feet. She traveled ten feet through the air before she hit the floor again. Jack watched her gray face crumple.

The candlestick had gone clattering off, coming to a halt against a skirting board. Dolores was lying in a ragged bundle, absolutely still. But then her head lifted a touch. Her eyes opened a slit. She was hurt for sure, but not out of the fight yet.

The wind had lessened. Jack could make out a faint scuffling noise. He glanced across, to see that Doctor Hague had returned to the living and was watching what was going on.

The man raised one of his crutches. He flung it to the housekeeper, yelling out, “
Use this!”

Before the twins could react, Dolores was up on her knees and swinging the crutch around in a wide arc. She took down a whole row of jars this time. The released spirits soared up to the ceiling. But none of them disappeared.

Jack could see the gloom above him fill with swiftly moving brightness.

Then some of them swooped back down. He could only stare, frozen, as they rushed at the DeFlores twins.

Jack could see more than faces in those softly glowing clouds. There were arms and legs and hands as well. They were in no particular order, a bizarre jumble of body parts. And they made seething noises as they came. The twins reared back. And then the lambent clouds were on them, hurtling around them, pushing through.

The sisters were both snatching at them madly, their features transformed with shock. Jack watched a phantom go through Isadora's open mouth, then appear on the other side.

And a chilling realization took hold of him. These spirits seemed incapable of doing any harm. Their presence and the way they were attacking, though . . . it seemed to infuriate the twins beyond measure. Both of them were bellowing, letting out high-pitched, brittle shrieks, and they flailed at the spirits in an almost palsied fashion.

Several of the wraiths passed by the edges of the circle. Jack could see the features in their depths. Limpid and misshapen faces gawped out at him briefly.

One in particular caught his attention. He spotted it several times. A great glutton's face, with a huge bushy beard.

“Pierre?” he heard himself gasp as it flickered by.

The sisters were using their long fingernails to rip the shapes to shreds by this point. But the clouds simply reformed themselves, and then swung back around.

Dolores was staggering to her feet. Bringing the crutch with her, moving farther along the shelving. She managed to bring down another row of jars.

Except her next swing never came.

The twins finally figured out the lack of danger they were in.

This time, Dolores hit the wall so violently the whole room shuddered.

Jack watched helplessly as she slid down, leaving a trail of blood behind her on the plaster, the back of her skull crushed.