Four and Twenty Blackbirds (27 page)

"What are you talking about? That thing—that thing that talked to me at Pine Breeze? You sent it there?" Just stringing the words together was almost more than I could do. What was he doing to me? Was it magic, or hypnotism, or simply a very difficult truth that pressed so heavy on my sanity? "Did you send that monster after me, to chase me off?"

"Aw, don't talk about this boy's momma that way. It ain't right, or polite." He reached down and actually scratched Malachi's head, almost with affection. "And I didn't send her there after you, no way, no how. I raised her, that's a fact; but I only meant to ask her some questions. I only wanted to know about you—the rest of your kin—and she knew better than anyone. She seemed the one to ask, and I wasn't about to let her being dead stop me.

"I didn't know she'd take off like that, though. I didn't know she'd be so wild and strong! She just took straight off, she did, and I couldn't snatch her back no matter what I tried. So I just let her go on and get lost. I didn't know she'd go back to that hospital, and I
sure
didn't know that nutty old woman would still be hunting after your momma."

"You must be . . . you must be twenty . . . or thirty years . . . older than Eliza." My next question was so huge I could only ask it in one word. "How?" Even at his advanced age, Avery was half a head taller than me and I sensed no weakness about him. Except for his appearance, there was nothing in his demeanor, posture, or attitude to suggest he was any older than I was.

"Twenty-seven years older, at my best count. I was around your age or thereabouts when she came along. So I'm old. What does that mean against forever? Against what's going to happen tonight?Eliza's old too, but she's old 'cause I let her be. An' if she wants to cooperate some more, she can live to be older still."

I looked quickly at the woodburning stove. Several pots bubbled with different colored brews. "Her medicine," I said, and, glancing a bit to the left, I added, "And that damned book," almost wanting to laugh at all the effort we'd wasted searching three states off the mark.

"She wouldn't have lasted this long without me—without my formula. It ain't perfect, as you can see by my old bones and her bent little body, but it's been working well enough. Tonight, when John comes back, he'll show me how to fix it. And once it's fixed . . ." He waved one long hand and let my imagination fill in the rest.

"How many people need to die for you to live forever?" Malachi was looking pointedly back and forth between me and something on the floor. Trying to tell me something. What? Oh yes. Beside me. The gun. He was trying to remind me that I had a gun, but I couldn't hang on to the thought without concentrating, and it was hard to concentrate when Avery was talking.

"You won't stop me," he said, and with each word my confused focus wavered, then came together enough to remember the firearm again.

From the corner of my eye I saw it there, about two feet south of my right hand. Squat, grab, fire. How fast could I do it? Better be quick. The little ray of light that had fallen in through the curtains was fading and my aunt was dying.

"Like hell I won't."

"You won't," he said with enough of that intimidating confidence to frighten me. He stepped forward in two long strides. Where had he gotten
that
? Where had he been hiding that knife, that huge knife big enough to be a machete?

He smiled, and this time I saw his teeth, as jaundiced as his eyes. "You won't even
try
to stop me, my baby. In fact, you're going to give me . . . a hand."

A sudden understanding of the threat jolted me free of my stupor; I dropped to a crouch and grabbed the gun. Too late—he was too close. He stomped one huge foot down on my wrist before I could pull the trigger, and I no longer had any doubt that he was as strong as he sounded, and a hundred times stronger than he looked.

I shrieked and tried to yank myself out from under him. With a mighty heave I pulled away, and his balance faltered, but that move cost me the gun; I had to leave it beside his foot to extricate myself.

Avery ignored the gun and brought the knife down right where my arm had been. The blade stuck into the wood, but not so hard that he couldn't retrieve it. He held it aloft again, and we circled each other like fighting dogs. I was still on the floor, in a crablike backwards crawl trying to get away from him, but I had nowhere to go. He was now between me and the door, and the only window was beside it.

"I don't want to kill you," he insisted, knife securely poised in his grip, loudly contradicting his words.

"I don't believe you."

"All I need is your right hand—no, not even that if you'll hold still. I need your fourth finger—and that's all. That's all I need to use your power. And it's mine to take. I gave it to you."

"No part of my body is yours to take. You stay the hell away from me."

He lunged forward and I scrambled backwards, knocking into the wall and sliding along it until we opposed each other once more. "But I need your power, child. I can either take it from your hand, or I can kill you—it's up to you. To kill you would return it to me just as surely, but you've got to believe I'd rather see you alive."

"But I don't believe it. And I swear to God that if you touch me, I'll feed you your heart."

Avery laughed, and the knife turned in his fist. "No, my pretty one. You don't want my power. And if you kill me, you'll take it whether you want it or not. That's another reason you've got to let me have my way."

"Forget it. And I don't need your power. I just need you to leave us alone."

"Have it your way, then. I'll still have it my way too." He dove for me again.

I scrambled back to the left, towards the stove, and as he bore down on me I reached up, feeling madly about for anything I could use as a weapon. I seized on a handle, and without looking up to see what it was I flipped it forward. A small pot, filled with a smelly, boiling liquid, sailed over my head and caught Avery in the side of the face. He reeled away, catching himself against the far wall and wiping at the dark, hot liquid.

Something about the way he recovered himself, eyes narrowing and shoulders stiffening, made me cringe. Now I'd made him angry. I expected him to make some battle cry or villainous threat, but he did neither. Instead he charged forward again, and this time he caught me by the shoulder before I could dart a hasty evasion.

He raised the knife and drove it down hard—I caught his forearm but not soon enough. The knife went in just above my left breast, but not too deep. It tore skin and scraped against bone, but did little other damage. The sound of the metal inside me made my teeth ache as much as the split flesh stung, but that was all.
It could be worse,
or so I frantically assured myself.
I'm not bleeding bad. It could be a lot worse.

I pulled my legs up between us and pried him back enough to force him to retract the knife. I held him at bay like that, with my feet against his stomach, one of his bony arms in my fist, keeping that enormous blade clear. With the other arm we wrestled each other, his fingers reaching for my throat and mine clawing at his face, digging for eyes or other tender spots.

Everything I touched felt like thick, wadded parchment. He was made up of false parts, all stringy skin and wrinkled leather. I scraped at his cheek and neck, and where blood should have oozed there was nothing. It wasn't working.

Time to change my approach.

I closed my hand into a fist and started swinging. I didn't have enough room to get a lot of force behind it, so I aimed at what was close and possibly vulnerable. First I popped his nose, up from underneath. I heard something crack, maybe even break, but he was unimpressed. I hit it again, with no more effect, so I switched to his throat—his Adam's apple was bobbing right above my face so I punched it for all I was worth and he gagged. He sucked in a jagged breath and gave a tiny convulsion. The victory was a small one; I'd barely distracted him, but if nothing else, I knew now that he
could
be hurt. It would take a lot of doing, but all this effort might not be futile.

Mentally crossing my fingers, I let go of the hand that was going for my throat. In the split second before his fingers closed around my windpipe, I grabbed at the hand with the knife and bent it, aiming the tip of the blade at Avery's own throat and shoving with all my strength.

It went in.

Not much, not deep—no deeper than he'd cut me—but he let go of my neck and pulled himself off me. He pressed his fingers to the wound, and when he removed them I saw the gash I'd made oozing with dark, thick blood. It swelled thickly to the surface, not splashing or running but only making a small spot of heavy slime beneath his jawbone. It looked appallingly like the sort of fluid that might leak from a corpse.

While he stared at me, and then down at his dirty fingers, I climbed slowly to my feet, bracing myself against the stove and trying not to touch anything hot. There were two more pots bubbling away, and I'd use them both if I had to.

"All right," he finally said. "No more games. We'll do this
your
way, and see how you like it."

With that, his eyes rolled back in his head and he pulled in a great breath of air. I could hear his lungs expanding, and expanding, and expanding. I knew there was no way they could hold so much. Even the pressure in the room dropped, and my ears ached until I flexed a yawn and they popped. My sinuses swelled in my head, and my chest felt weak. Still Avery's mouth was gaping, pulling every molecule of oxygen into himself.

His hands clasped one another, and gradually he raised them up higher, past his elbows, past his shoulders, above his head. And when they could lift no farther, his eyeballs swung down into their proper position. He opened his palms. And a great shock wave, much like the one I'd felt by the side of the road, burst through the cabin.

Malachi, from his somewhat limited position hog-tied on the bed, merely curled into the corner. But I was standing there like a fool when it hit, and I was thrown against a wall—no, through a wall—no,
half
through the wall, and half out the window. My head blasted through the glass, and my neck and collarbones followed. When the last of the vibrations died away, I was hanging over the windowsill, glass shards peppering my hair and clothes.

I lifted my head, dazedly wiping my hair out of my eyes. Willa, Luanna, and Mae were still standing there, right where I'd left them in the yard. Willa and Luanna gazed dispassionately upon me, knowing the worst they had to fear was another member in their ghostly troop; but Mae's hands twisted in a mortal gesture of anguish, and her sunken eyes were strained.

You should have listened to me. I told you to get yourself gone. I was afraid of this.

"O ye . . . of little faith," I breathed.

I put my hand down on the ledge to push myself up, but jerked it back when I settled on fractured glass. Instantly my palm spurted blood, but it didn't much matter. My shirt was sloppy with it too. Warm blood also trickled down through my hair, dripping one trail south behind my ear and one down my forehead.

Afraid of touching more glass, I heaved myself backwards and up, returning to a standing position. I turned around and Avery was there.

Right there.

Nose to nose with me.

Before I had time to think myself a new plan, I did what every woman instinctively does when standing that close to a man who means her harm. I brought my knee up sharp and fast—and hit nothing.

He was gone.

To my side.

One of his huge, thin hands caught my head and slammed it down on the stove. By pure luck my face missed the flames, but a searing pain across my forehead announced that I'd not gotten away from the fire scot-free. I fell to the floor, and it was mercifully cool.

Then he was on top of me again, pinning my arms to the boards with his hands, which meant his knife was all but useless, except for the fact that its handle was bruising my wrist. I wriggled and struggled, refusing to give him enough slack to make use of that terrible knife. But I was pinned.

The teeny wound I'd made on Avery's neck was closing, sealing itself as I looked up from underneath him. He saw me staring at it and cackled, though he was a bit winded. I found hope in the breaks of his voice. "You could have had . . . this power too—and much more. I would have given it . . . to you."

"I'll take it yet, you son of a bitch."

"Oh, so you want it now?" He grinned. "Only if you kill me."

"Gimme a minute," I growled with more assurance than I felt. But, summoning my last drops of adrenaline, I put all my weight into my right side and heaved. Avery lost his balance and our fight began to roll. I found that if I fought my natural inclinations and pulled my body closer to his, he couldn't get enough leverage to stay on top.

It worked until we hit the bed. Avery's back collided with it, and he let go just enough—and my skin was just slick enough with my own blood—for me to jerk one arm free from his grasp.

In my flailing to get away, it was by simple accident that I elbowed him in the eye; but it worked so well I didn't complain. He let go of my other arm, and of his knife as well. It clattered to the floor and I reached for it, but he swiped it away first. It slid under the bed beyond either of our immediate reaches, so we both turned our attention to my gun.