Darkness Calls (30 page)

“How much time do we have?” whispered Cribari, his voice harsh and sibilant, and dripping with hate. “How much time until the end?”

I showed nothing. Just looked the priest in the eye, and said, “I have no idea what you mean.”

Grant limped to my side, impossibly grim. “No more, Antony. You can’t win this. Not in the way you think.”

“You’re no better,” whispered the priest. “Oh, God.”

“Enough,” Jack said. “You have
my
decree now.”

“No.” Cribari gave him a hateful look that he transferred immediately to me. “You and I. We are not done, no matter what the Wolf says. We will
never
be done. Even if you kill me, there are others. There will
always
be others.”

Behind us, in the cabin, Killy screamed.

I flinched, turning, and Cribari made a stabbing motion at Grant. Grant swung around on his good leg, dodging the flash of metal. A syringe. He opened his mouth to sing, but that one deep breath made him cough, blood instantly dot-ting his lips. Cribari lunged again.

I moved in front of Grant at the last moment, and the needle snapped against my breast. The priest snarled in frustration, reaching for my throat. His eyes were wild, crazed. I drew back my fist.

Cribari disappeared. Vanished into thin air.

I spun around, searching for him—found Grant doing the same, his hand snaring my wrist. I heard cries from the cabin, snarls. Father Lawrence was gone, and Jack stood perfectly still, his face turned up to the sky, as though listening.

“Jack,” I snapped.

“Behind you,” he whispered.

I whipped around just as Cribari popped into sight, staggering drunkenly, eyes bloodshot. He grabbed Grant’s arm. Grant reared backward, letting go of me as he slammed his cane into Cribari’s gut—

—and both of them vanished.

I stared, stricken—the world dropping out from under me in a moment of pure, surreal insanity, in which I felt as though my guts and heart and blood floated in a well of antigravity—and then everything came crashing down and it hurt to breathe, and my body felt leaden and cold and dead. It was agony trying to think past the boys howling against me.

I raised my right hand, finger armor glinting with unearthly light. Ready to kill the motherfucker.

Jack grabbed my wrist. “No.”

I snarled, and he yanked me hard against him. “Look,” he snapped, and pointed.

That old decrepit fishing vessel I had seen earlier was closer now. Jet Skis were in the ocean, roaring toward us. I saw weapons.

“Cribari was not supposed to take Grant away like that,” Jack murmured. “Even modified humans die after a handful of times, manipulating space. He won’t be able to control where they end up, not with the burden of an extra person.”

I pulled away, and this time he let me. “You killing yourself when you jump places?”

“No,” said the old man, eyes glinting. “I make adjustments.”

He backed away from me and pointed again, but this time at the enclosed bridge behind me. “Help them. I’ll find Grant. You find us.”

I hesitated wanting to say more to him—and then ducked as bullets chewed through the deck around my body. I got hit multiple times, but the slugs ricocheted, and the boys swarmed over my face, protecting me as pieces of the hull broke apart and hit my cheek.

When I looked again, Jack was gone.

CHAPTER 18

T
HE ocean roared with engines. I ran inside the bridge and dodged a man’s broken body. His throat had been shredded, and I smelled the piss and shit of voided bladder and bowels. I almost slipped in his blood. I saw another male corpse near the yacht’s controls.

Byron shouted, belowdecks.

I flew down the stairs into the narrow hall. Saw an unfamiliar sweatshirt-clad back in front of me and did not think. I slammed my fist into the base of the man’s spine, driving forward with all my strength, and broke the bone with a satisfying crunch that I felt all the way up my arm. The man screamed, collapsing—and vanished into thin air.

Cutting space,
I thought.
Creating the element of surprise.
Mr. King had waited a long time before pulling that particular trick out of his hat. I wondered why now, why not earlier.

I heard a crash in the master stateroom and slammed open the door. Glimpsed fur and long teeth—a spectral, glowing red eye—then a stranger crashed backward into me, holding his hands over a spectacularly large hole in his throat. I grabbed the back of his collar and shoved him out into the hall, where he fell hard on his knees, gurgling. Boots pounded down the stairs. I glimpsed the muzzle of an automatic rifle

I glanced over my shoulder. Byron and Killy were shoved tight in the bathroom. Mary stood on top of the bed, hair wild and a fierce, crazy smile on her face. Father Lawrence was crouched on the floor. Fur covered his cheeks and hands, and his nails were black and long. His features were human, if hairier—but fangs pushed over his lips, and his right eye glowed. He was covered in blood, and his chest was heaving. So much for Grant’s help—though at least Father Lawrence seemed able to determine friend from foe.

“Hey!” shouted a man at the end of the hall, approaching swiftly, rifle aimed at my head. “Hands up.
Now.
”

I balled my hands into fists. I walked into the hall and shut the door behind me. I did not stop moving. More men came down the stairs, piling up—staring at me with uncertainty as the first man shouted. I did not hear a word he said. Blood roared in my ears, and shadows were fluttering in my heart. The boys were howling. All I could see were the whites of that man’s eyes.

He shot me. He unloaded his gun into my body, and I felt nothing. Bullets ricocheted off my chest and face, briefly snapping back my head. I did not slow. Other men began shooting at me, aiming around the first man, who ducked low. Bullets rained. Zee stopped raging and began to laugh against my skin. I smiled with him, feeling death in the curve of my mouth.

Guns tried to smash into my face. I blocked them, staggering under the force of the blows. Hands grabbed at me, tearing the remains of my clothes. I used my fists to hammer skulls and break noses. I used my knees and toes. I was relentless, and the hall was narrow. I had the advantage. Men began retreating up the stairs, eyes wild and afraid.

Darkness uncoiled, rising up my throat, and I saw things in those moments—flashes of life—as though my mind could reach into the thoughts of the men around me. I saw wives and children, and girlfriends. I saw fast cars, and football games, and witnessed lines etched into stone. A labyrinth—
the one with the limp must not be harmed—
a cross—
but he’ll be ready for transport when you board the boat—
a statue carved from black marble—
there’s a boy, an old man; take them alive if you can, but the rest don’t matter
—showing a woman in robes, holding a baby—
watch out for the tattooed woman, watch out, watch out—
and I heard a sonorous voice blessing each man—
destroy the boat; blast it
—speaking of sin, and the power of righteousness to overcome fear.

I felt their fear. I ate their fear.

Like a demon would have.

Bodies fell in front of me. I walked over them. I heard footsteps running above my head—away, away—but I locked gazes with one more man, and watched him pull a small round object from inside the pouch hanging from his waist.

He pulled the pin and threw the grenade at me. Ran like hell before it hardly left his fingers. I did not follow. I caught the small bomb out of the air and fell to my knees—curling around it—holding on as tightly as I could.

The explosion knocked me into the wall, splintering wood and crunching steel. I lay stunned, listening to engines roar and fade. Smoke filled the air. Most of my clothes were gone, and the holster holding my knives hung limp off one shoulder.

Grant,
I told myself.
Jack. Get up now. Get up.

I struggled to stand. As I did, something else came to me: a memory, some whisper of warning from the darkness, receding into my heart, leaving in its wake a slow graze of terrible hunger.

Destroy the boat,
I had heard in the minds of the men.
Blast it.

I stumbled over the wreckage and bodies in the hall, and ran. I could almost hear the ticking beat of a countdown, and the boys rippled over me, straining to be free. Sunset. Sunset was coming.

I tried to open the master stateroom’s door. It was locked. Bullet holes had pierced the wood. I kicked at it, screaming names.

Byron opened the door. Pale, eyes huge. He looked at my half-naked body and flushed crimson. Behind him, Killy knelt beside Father Lawrence, who was on his hands and knees, vomiting up chunks of what looked like meat. Sure as hell wasn’t beef; I knew that. The priest was human again—no fur, fingers and teeth normal.

“Up,” I snapped, but my voice hardly worked, and I had to say it a second time, emphasizing my point by grabbing Killy by the upper arm and hauling her away from the man. Mary, who had been leaning against the wall with her eyes closed, glided close and wrapped her arms around Byron.

“Grant,” she said, staring into my eyes.

“Gone,” I told her, and grabbed her hand. “Come with me if you want to find him.”

I yanked Father Lawrence to his feet and hooked my left hand into the waist of his pants. “Byron, Killy, hold on to me.”

The teen did as I asked, but awkwardly, like he didn’t know where it was safe to touch me. Killy wrapped her fingers around my upper arm and grabbed Father Lawrence’s collar with the other hand. Dried tears stained her cheeks, and a bruise was forming.

“You should have left when you had the chance,” I told her roughly, and squeezed Mary’s hand as the old woman threw back her head and closed her eyes. My armor began to burn, flaring hot white—

—and an immense roar swept through the room, sweeping back my hair. Explosive heat pummeled our bodies, making the others cry out. I saw fire. I saw the walls flying toward us.

Then, nothing. The abyss folded us away.

I had no destination. I asked for nothing except Grant. And Jack. I asked for their safety, and that was all I could think of inside the void, which seemed this one time to be full of movement—as though, if I touched it just so, I would skim free of the abyss and see the universe in passing.

We tumbled free against rock and grass. I fell hard on my knees, and loosened my iron grip around clothing and hands. I stumbled, running, as fast as I could. I did not look back. I did not listen as my name was called. I was too afraid of being seen. It was night. Time for the boys to wake.

I did not make it far before they exploded from my skin, but I kept running blind through the pain, slipping against loose rock and falling on my hands. I did not stop. I pushed forward as Zee ripped free of my ribs, trailing behind me in a gasp of smoke that solidified into flesh. Raw and Aaz followed him, rising from me like ghosts—and Dek, Mal, my crowns of fire and bone.

I glimpsed Zee racing through the darkness, using every slick patch of night as a gateway into another world, weaving in and out of sight so quickly that he left ripples in the wet air. Raw and Aaz joined him. They chased me like wolves in some forest of swords, and I wanted to let go and never stop.

But I did, finally. I leaned over, hands braced on my thighs, fighting for breath. Heart hammering so hard, I could taste each pulse in the back of my throat. I looked around. Found mountain cliffs rising behind me, towering with snow and sharp edges cut like blades. Some trees, but not many. No snow on the ground, but it was cold enough. I was suddenly freezing. And feeling foolish for being so frightened of witnesses in my transformation. There was little point to hiding the boys from Byron and the others. They had seen too much already. I had probably frightened them more by running away.

Zee and the others crowded close. I gestured to Raw. “Go protect Byron and the others. Bring them jackets, food. Do your best not to be seen, but
keep them safe.
”

The little demon nodded, and disappeared into the shadows. Dek and Mal began singing the melody to U2’s “I Still Haven’t Found What I’m Looking For.”

“Grant,” I said to Zee, still breathless.

Zee laid his claws against my knee. “Rest, Maxine. We look.”

Aaz, however, returned with clothes. Jeans and a lightweight black crewneck. A warm coat. No underwear. I dressed quickly, with impatience, securing the remains of my shoulder holster as best I could. Nearby, I heard the distinct scuff of shoes on stone and thought of Byron. He might have tried to follow. I had abandoned the boy on a mountainside with a crazy woman, a psychic, and a sort-of-kind-of werewolf. Great person I was.

I followed the sound, wondering how I had managed to run so far and fast. Navigating the forested mountainside at a more sedate speed was harrowing enough. I kept losing my footing on rocks and roots.