Darkness Calls (35 page)

My hand tingled, but more: a jolt of electricity that rode down my arm, and that made the boys ripple in response. Killy’s eyes flew open, so wildly, with such strength, I flinched.

Nothing else happened, though. She stared past my face at the ceiling, without reaction or acknowledgment. No gasps for breath, no writhing around in discomfort. She showed no reaction. Not even a glimmer. Not even when, quite unexpectedly, she said: “Oh, that’s
so
wrong. Not the
chipmunks
.”

I frowned. “Killy?”

“Jesus Christ,” she muttered, a crease forming between her eyes. “Who the fuck is in this room with me? Perverts-R-Us?”

“Uh,” I said. “Can you hear me?”

“You’re the only one not screaming,” she said, and touched her brow with a wince. “What did you do to me?”

“Nothing,” I replied, wondering if that was a lie. “Can you stand?”

“I could pole-dance Mount Everest if it gets me away from these minds.” Killy sat up, moving almost as painfully as me—and then stopped as she looked around the room: at the ice, the men and women hanging, stored, laid out. Her face grew very pale and drawn.

“Oh,” she said. “I didn’t know.”

“You were part of the display,” I told her, trying not to make any frightening noises as I struggled to stand. I held out my hand, ready to help Killy to her feet, but she did not move. Just stared at me, too, but with a puzzled frown that was not scandalized—only, it seemed, confused.

I tried not to be embarrassed. Fought a lifetime of rabid self-preservation in less than three seconds. No one but Grant had ever seen me so naked. I would have preferred to keep it that way. I did not know this woman—not one thing about her—except that she was psychic (or a great con artist, in the same vein); she had stayed when she could have run, the boys had not treated her as a threat, and she was in love with a priest.

Actually, that was probably more than I knew about my own grandfather. And grandmother.

“You needed clothes,” I said tersely. “I don’t feel the cold.”

“Thanks,” she replied absently, rubbing her forehead. “I can hear your skin humming.”

“It does that.” I reached down, grabbed her hand, and tried not to black out from the pain as I yanked her up. She practically flew, but her eyes were squeezed shut the entire time, and she held her head with both hands when I let go.

“Everything’s turned up,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t be this strong.”

“Do you remember what happened, how you were brought here?”

She shook her head. “No. But they got everyone but the old man and the kid.”

Wild hope flared in my heart. I grabbed Killy’s elbow and pulled her along. I had noticed the possibility of a door while trying to wake her, and sure enough, there was an alcove between the wall units and the first table. No actual door, just an opening that led from the room into a hall. I glanced down as we passed one of the ice slabs, and saw a teenage girl laid out neatly, unconscious. Many young people, all around me.

Killy pressed her palm over her eye. “Snakes in her popcorn.”

I gave her a startled look. “Excuse me?”

“She’s dreaming about snakes in her popcorn.” Killy’s frown deepened as we passed the girl. “She volunteered for this. For what she thought it would be.”

“And?” Ice shelves lined the wall near the door, filled with thin white robes and white sweats and tees. In a small basket were white slippers packaged in plastic. I grabbed a set of everything but the slippers, shrugged off the shoulder holster, and began dressing.

“And nothing,” Killy sad quietly, looking at the girl—who seemed serene in sleep, despite her dreams. “She thought it would make her special. Special enough that people would love her.”

My chest still hurt like hell, but either I was getting used to the pain, or it just didn’t bother me as much. I was able to pull the shirt over my head without breaking into tears. I touched Killy’s elbow. “If we do this right, maybe she’ll be lucky enough to be proven wrong.”

We left the cold-storage room and entered a long ice-carved hall that curved away in both directions. Weird place. Reminded me of photos I had seen of ice mansions; or something from a James Bond film. I thought hard about Grant, sending a silent message to the boys. Raw tugged hard on my left hand—while at the same time Aaz tugged faintly on my right.

Huh.
I glanced at Killy, who was beginning to shiver. “What do you hear inside your head?”

She stared at me, rubbing her arms. “Not a lot of people nearby. There are clumps of minds where there isn’t much thought at all, not even dreams. Those are scattered. As for the rest . . .”

Killy frowned, closing her eyes—head tilted as though listening. I waited impatiently, twitching backward, wanting to follow Raw’s lead—and then stiffened as Killy’s face jerked suddenly sideways as though slapped. I reached out, but she shied away with absolute, mind-crushing anguish in her eyes, and started running down the hall—away from me, toward the right. I stared after her, torn—my left hand tugging harder—but I swore silently, dug my bare toes into the icy floor, and chased after her.

She was fast. I was in pain. I tried my best, but she pulled ahead, and I was loath to shout after her. Instead, I practiced throwing rude and unflattering thoughts in her direction. Killy glanced over her shoulder at me, and her pace slowed to a very fast walk. I caught up, wondering how long we could move through this strange ice palace without running into another person.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“Frank,” she whispered, and winced. “Oh, God.”

I thought of Grant—and Mary—and gritted my teeth. One at a time. Whoever came first. I glanced down at the finger armor, hesitant to use it again to cut space. A faint glow rolled through the metal, and Zee rumbled in his dreams. Raw, sleeping on the same hand as the armor, also fidgeted, sending a faint pulse through my thumb and fingers, which I felt despite the metal surrounding my skin.

My hand flexed, reflexively, as though holding something, and the armor tingled—the boys shifting in response,
again
—until suddenly I felt as though I was eavesdropping on a very peculiar conversation.

Mind of its own,
Mr. King had said.

So tell me,
I asked the armor silently.
What do you think I need?

Killy pulled ahead of me, just slightly. I hung back as the armor began shimmering with a liquid light that resembled moonbeams captured in a bottle: brighter, colder, filling me with a thrill I could not fight, which chased my heart into my stomach as I closed my eyes against the brilliant light.

Heat filled my palm. When I looked again, I held a sword.

I knew the weapon. I had summoned it from the armor once before, three months past. Delicate and slender, glowing brighter than the ice with a light that seemed cast from within: the moon’s reflection caught in its forging. The engraved silver hilt fit to my hand, and from its pommel ran a chain that bound the sword to the iron armor surrounding my wrist. Runes covered the blade, and I ran my palm hard against the razor edge. Sparks danced. Heat soared through my tattooed fingers as I gripped the hilt. Felt good holding the sword. Natural, an extension of myself: a biting silver needle beneath my skin. The weapon weighed nothing, but holding it made me feel ten feet taller.

I looked up. Killy had stopped, and was staring at the sword.

“What did I just see?” she asked sharply.

“Don’t ask me,” I said. “I just take what I’m given.”

She made a small, ugly noise. “Dangerous people should not be so fucking clueless.”

“Aw,” I said. “Compliments.”

Killy shook her head, looking at me like I was shit—and then turned, sprinting ahead on light feet, leading me to another open doorway. The place seemed to be made of nothing but halls and doors and ice—a polar temple; a cold nightmare. I heard strange sounds inside—hissing, crunching—but peering through the carved archway revealed nothing except a hall. I ran, sword humming in my hand, and felt the boys tug sharply, once.

I smelled blood. Listened to more crunching—bones grinding between teeth—wet, fierce smacks. I knew those sounds.

Killy said, again: “Frank.”

I rounded a corner in the hall and found myself inside a cavern that looked hacked from stone and ice; a hollow gray shell filled with jutting edges that resembled ax blades glued together at random angles. A large pit had been dug in the center of the room—an incongruous, unexpected vision—like finding a football field inside a closet. It was at least twenty feet deep; a gladiatorial crater, or medieval prison. Men were in the pit. Hunched figures in black robes, chained to ice walls that could not have held them had they been agitated. Which they were. But not because anyone wanted to escape.

They were eating. Gorging themselves like animals, on all fours. The bottom of the pit was several different shades of bloodred: old, really old, and brand-new. I saw the remains of an entire cow and several pigs, intestines spilled in steaming piles, mashed together under knees and feet as sharp-toothed men snapped at one another, and bent face-first into the guts and flesh of the dead animals. Humanity, burned out of their minds. Professionals, students, husbands, fathers—now killers covered in blood. Bile rose up my throat.

Killy grabbed my arm and pointed. Nearby on our right were two men, one of whom was being pulled toward the edge of the pit, hauled along by a second man shrouded head to toe in black, including a hood that covered his head.

The man being dragged was Father Lawrence. Trussed in chains, he was spitting and snarling—his single red eye glowing, face covered in fur.

Killy started running before I could stop her. I pursued, dimly aware of many eyes zeroing in on us from the bottom of the pit—like frenzied sharks in a pool already red with chum. My skin crawled. My chest hurt. It was hard to breathe, but I sucked up the pain and lunged past Killy, sword swinging. The blade slashed down through the man’s shoulder and chest like his muscles and bones were made of water. I did not expect so little resistance, and careened into him. He smelled like blood, raw meat—and he uttered one small grunt just before toppling backward, into the pit. In two pieces.

“Crap,” I said, as his body landed on top of several creatures in the pit, all of whom had stopped eating and were standing very still, watching us. Silence descended. No one attacked the corpse, but several of those nearest bent to sniff carefully at it. Snarls rumbled from them. Howls. Chains strained against the wall.

I turned quickly. Killy was trying to drag Father Lawrence back to the door, which looked a little like Thum belina wrestling with a grizzly bear. He was not fighting her, but there was a wild look in both eyes that made me want to warn her off. Instead, I took two long strides and set the sword tip against Father Lawrence’s chains. The links split. He shrugged free and rolled to his feet in one blindingly quick movement.

Below, in the pit, the ice walls cracked.

“Run,” I snapped.

Father Lawrence lunged toward Killy—with such aggression that for one moment I thought he might hurt her. Instead, he threw the small woman over his shoulder and ran—hunched over, almost on all fours—her small body flopping awkwardly. No way I could keep pace. I glanced over my shoulder and found dark-robed bodies scrambling up a coiled path that had been carved into the side of the pit. More men than I could count, an overkill of bodies, arms pressed to their sides so that their odd, leaning posture and raging mouths reminded me again of torpedoes and piranhas, or sharks on two feet.

I did not run. I braced myself, digging in my heels, the sword burning with light.
Men with stolen lives,
I told myself.
Have mercy.

Have mercy and kill them fast,
my mother would have said, and I swung the blade like a baseball bat at the first wave of snarling men who rushed me. Bone cracked, blood spraying across my face as the sword sliced straight through flesh with a sweet, humming hiss. Howls vibrated in my ears, sharp teeth flashing. I smelled raw meat.

All I wanted was to give Father Lawrence and Killy time. All I needed was to clean up some of the mess Mr. King had created. There were too many, though—and their momentum was crushing. I staggered, slashing at anything that moved, blind to individual faces and bodies; just mouths, wet and red, and impossibly large. The boys screamed inside my mind. Teeth broke on my neck. I punched and clawed with my free hand, raking flesh to bone under my black nails. Breathing hurt. I could not breathe.

Until, suddenly, a space opened in front of me—and one of the sharp-toothed men barreled sideways into the others, snarling. A shadow clung to his shoulders, an aura like the ghost of a thunderstorm, concentrated into a flickering wisp. It was not alone, either. I saw other shadows appear inside the ice cavern, falling with inexorable promise upon the heads of those raging men. I watched demonic parasites take possession.

And I was glad of it.

Only a handful had come, but that was enough to confuse and push back the others. Bodies slammed, raging, and for a moment it was like watching sharks turn on one another, mouths spilling over with flesh and blood. One of the possessed broke free of the others, striding toward me—standing tall like a man, and not one of those speeding human torpedoes. His aura flickered wildly, and his eyes—I knew those eyes.

“Hunter,” he rasped, voice muffled by teeth, low and growling.

“Rex?” I muttered. “Why are you here?”

“Old skinner Jack. He told us about Grant.” He spat blood on the ice floor. “So we came to help, enemy of my enemy. Wrap your mind around that.”

I could not and backed away, watching as the zombies tore into the remaining men. “These are strong hosts. Who’s to say you won’t keep the bodies?”

Rex smiled mirthlessly, which looked ghastly given the unending rows of sharp teeth in his mouth. “We gave our word. So go, find Grant. We’ll take care of the rest.”