Moonheart (42 page)

Gannon's first thought when the lights died was: They've got the place booby-trapped. He didn't know how or why, but there was a very sophisticated security system in operation here. It had let them get in, but now it was going to play games with them... at least until a mop-up squad came to pick them up.

He paused just beyond the door of the room from which he'd heard voices, momentarily indecisive. Then he moved into the doorway and the first shock wave hit. He saw the room full of startled people and registered the fact that they were as surprised by the disturbances as he was, then turned to see a big man in a T-shirt and jeans coming at him from the far end of the hall. He got off one shot, saw Tucker appear behind the first man, and beat a hasty retreat. Tucker's shots ploughed into the walls on either side of him. This wasn't going well at all. What the hell was going on?

The sudden dark, the weird lighting, and the shocks rattling the House didn't make any kind of sense. He began to get the first inkling then of just what it was that Walters had gotten him into. He'd never believed in what Walters was so intent upon gaining, but for the first time he began to question whether or not such things might actually exist.

When he got to the far end of the hall, he chose a room at random and ducked into it. It gave him an excellent vantage point if Tucker or one of the others decided to follow him. It would also give him a chance to get hold of Morin, who should be retreating as well, and get them all the hell out of here.

He glanced at the room's windows and shook his head. It was so black out there. He couldn't see a thing. How had they opaqued the windows like that? And the lighting... It just didn't make sense. He braced himself as a new series of tremors threatened to spill him to the floor.

Outside the House, the being that the quin'on'a had named Mal'ek'a, the Dread-That-Walks-Nameless, watched its tragg'a storm the structure. Mal'ek'a was weak in the World Beyond, but Tamson House straddled more than one world. Here in a plane of the Otherworld, Mal'ek'a's powers were strong. Here, given time, it could peel the House's defense as though it were no more than a crayfish's shell and tear its enemy from within.

For the druid was here, the enemy. Hurt. Helpless. Mal'ek'a could taste his presence. He had escaped too often, but would not do so again.

The tragg'a, whose shape Mal'ek'a wore, clawed at the House, rocking its foundations as they swarmed about it. Watching, Mal'ek'a knew that force alone would not tear that protection from his enemy. At least not quickly enough. But there were other methods. Spells to counter spells. The House was here now, in the Otherworld, and here it would stay. There would be no escape for the beings trapped within it, no fleeing into the World Beyond where Mal'ek'a's powers were not strong yet.

Inside, amongst the druid's companions, there would be one whose mind Mal'ek'a could reach. One to control that would crack the shell of the House for it. It need only sift through the minds of those beings to find the one that would suit its purposes.

Bull was staring at the painting of a young woman when the House's lights died. He'd been fantasizing about her, rubbing the wart under his left eye as he imagined her smooth skin under his hands. The skin that would be crisscrossed with welts when he was done with her. He could feel the give in her body as he dug his nails into her, could hear the terror in her voice as she pleaded with him.

A drop of spittle eased out of the corner of his mouth, but then the lights gave out and he was sitting in utter darkness, the fantasy stopped dead as he stood clawing his .32 from its holster under his armpit. The faint luminescence that started up gave him a creepy feeling, but at least he could see. Then the House shook and he was knocked to the floor. Above the din, he heard pistol shots. Three of them.

Crouching on the floor, his revolver ready in his hand, he tried to figure out what was going on. The shots must be bright-ass Gannon running into someone— probably Tucker.

Bull wasn't sure what he should do. Gannon had told him to stay put, but what if Gannon was out of the picture? There was no way he was sticking around to shoot it out with a squad of horsemen. On the other hand... The House rocked again, but this time he was better prepared for it and kept his balance. What the hell was going on? He was about to start up the stairs when he thought he heard someone call his name.

He turned, looked all around. Nothing. No one. Then why did he have the creepy feeling that there was someone near? It was like there was someone in his head. "That you, Bob?"

He looked down the left corridor that Mercier had taken. There was no reply. Nothing there. Only that creepy feeling. He swung his gun slowly from left to right, straining his eyes in the dim lighting. "Stop screwing around!" he ordered. "Who's there?"

Then it came, echoing inside his head like a bad dream. He had a sudden wild feeling, like he was soaring high on coke, aware, but buzzing, He turned to the door and looked into the blackness beyond its windows. Something out there wanted in. The House shuddered as a series of concussions shook it. Regaining his balance, Bull started for the door.

"It's quiet," Tucker said.

There'd been nothing for five minutes now. Just the silence.

"Too quiet," he added, checking the window. It didn't feel like this was the end; more like a lull between attacks.

With Sally and Maggie's help, Traupman got Tom back onto the bed. Jamie was sitting in a chair, his features drawn and haggard, a cold pipe lying forgotten in his hand. Tucker stood by the door, his .38 in his hand; he'd replaced the two spent shells. Sticking his head out the door, he could just make out Blue at the far end of the hallway.

Take it slow, he thought. He looked back into the room. Since it was so quiet now, maybe he should go after the biker. But Jamie had said that there was more than one intruder. He didn't know how Tams knew that, but everything else had been happening like he'd said it would. Blue was doing okay on his own. No point in him going out there and confusing matters.

Just gotta wait, he told himself. But Christ, he hated waiting.

Before Blue turned the corner, he hunkered down against the wall and had a think. One of them was there. He could
feel
him. Not on the landing itself, but in one of the rooms that opened out onto it. The thing was, which room? And how did he plan to handle it? He was just pissed off enough to blow the intruder away, but knew there was no way he could get away with it. Not with the Inspector just down the hall. So how did he flush the guy out and get the drop on him?

The real trouble, Blue realized, was that he just wasn't cut out for this kind of thing anymore. Physically he could handle it. But his head just wasn't in that space anymore. Six, seven years ago, this would've been a game and he'd have no problem playing his hand. But now, after living with Jamie and Sara all these years...

His eyes went flat as he thought of Sara. What if these guys had something to do with her disappearance? In the space of a heartbeat, his whole headspace changed. Not cut out for this kind of thing, was he? He worked the bolt on his Weatherby and the first bullet snapped into place. Like hell he wasn't.

He came around the corner in a roll, caught a sense of motion behind the door where Gannon was hiding, and fired straight through it. High. The boom of the big rifle was loud in the hall. Before its echoes had died away, Blue worked the bolt again and had the muzzle leveled at the door.

"That was just to show you it was loaded," he called out. "Now are you gonna come easy, or in pieces?"

Well back from the door, Gannon regarded the hole that the Wembley's big 500-grain round-nose bullet had torn through the door. That wasn't Tucker out there, and whoever it was knew how to use his weapon. It'd only be a matter of moments before he got lucky with a shot. There was nothing in this room to stop one of those bullets. Placing his .44 on the floor, he kicked it through the partially open door.

"You've got three seconds to follow that thing," Blue warned. "Hands behind your head. Let's go. One..."

The man that came out of the room was a complete stranger to him. He was big and moved with a pantherlike grace. His eyes regarded Blue expressionlessly.

"That's far enough," Blue said. He used the muzzle of the Weatherby to indicate where he wanted Gannon to stop. "Now I want some answers and don't stop to think about them. Who are you and what the hell are you doing here?"

Gannon had no intention of telling the truth. He opened his mouth, the lie ready, when he caught a movement at the other end of the hall. Thinking back on it later, Blue wasn't sure if he heard something, or if it was the flicker in Gannon's eyes that warned him. All he knew was he had to move. Fast.

Something whispered through the air as he threw himself back, something small and deadly that hit the wall behind him with a slight chunking sound. He was turned around enough to see the man at the other side of the landing. The second stranger spat what looked like a cigar from his mouth and was drawing bead with a .22. There was no way Blue was going to get the Weatherby up in time, no way he could move that fast.

He heard Tucker's .38 fire right beside him, saw the man lift into the air a few inches, then smash against the wall, a red stain blossoming on his chest. Gannon dove for the stairs. Shaking his head to clear the thunder from it, Blue brought the Weatherby up from his hip, finger tightening on the trigger.

"We want him alive!" Tucker shouted. "One of them at least!"

The Inspector pushed by him and raced for the stairs, Blue hard on his heels. They saw Gannon reach the bottom, saw another man there with his back to them, his hand on the doorknob.

"The door!" Blue bellowed.

Tucker skidded to a stop, tried to draw a bead, but he was too late. Bull opened the door and then all hell broke loose.

The first of the tragg'a tore Bull in two with a crisscross swipe of its taloned forepaws. Gannon froze. His mind went blank for precious seconds as he tried to assimilate what he saw. This. Just. Couldn't. Be. Real.

Then both Tucker and Blue opened fire. The first tragg'a smashed back into the two behind it, but the press of the creatures pushed the slain one aside and they came in with a rush. The stench of them clouded the air. They howled as the two men on the stairs rained bullets on them. Three of them were down, but there seemed to be no end to them. Four down. Tucker's .38 ran out of shells. He leaped down the last few stairs, swinging the useless gun into the face of the nearest monster. It broke all the creature's teeth. Dropping to one side, Tucker rolled out of the way of its talons, drove the gun into its side, his knee into its abdomen.

"The door!" Blue shouted, trying to get Gannon's attention. He couldn't shoot for fear of hitting Tucker. "Shut the door!"

He came down the stairs swinging his rifle like it was a club. At the sound of Blue's voice, Gannon's momentary paralysis dissolved. He moved forward like a tiger, hands moving in a blur. The first tragg'a he hit in the throat with a clawed blow that took out half the creature's windpipe. He broke the taloned paw that was coming for his own chest, sidestepped, dropkicked a second of the monsters, then had his back to the door. Muscles straining, he put everything he had into shutting it, but the press of the tragg'a was too great. There were just too many of the creatures.

For Chevier, who was the first of Gannon's surviving men to reach the foyer, it was like stepping into a scene from Dante's
Inferno.
He took it in, leveled his revolver and opened fire. Mercier, arriving on the further side a half second later, followed suit.

As the ranks of the tragg'a broke under the crossfire, Blue, reeling from a dozen lacerations, fought his way to Gannon's side. Together, they started to shut the door. When Tucker joined them a moment later, they managed to close it all the way. Blue shot the bolt home. Chevier stepped in closer and emptied his gun into one of the tragg'a that Gannon had only knocked down. Snapping out the spent clip, he dug into his pocket for another.

A sudden stillness settled over the foyer. Blue swayed and dropped to one knee. Gannon and his two men eyed the Inspector who was all too aware of his empty .38 lying there on the floor amongst the dead creatures. Then the House shook as though a giant had taken it up in his hand and rattled it.

Not one of them kept his feet. They were thrown against the corpses of the tragg'a, the stench making them gag. They bounced on the floor like rag dolls. The remaining furniture slid around or overturned; broken glass from framed prints and vases spattered against walls and crunched into corners. And then it was over. Silence, pregnant with danger, fell.

"Mary, Mother of God!" Mercier intoned in a dull voice, taking in the chaos about him.

Nobody moved. They waited for it to begin again. Waited for the door to burst open under the press of the creatures. The seconds dragged out and then the House's pale luminescence faded and electric lighting flickered into life.

"Thank Christ," Tucker said. He looked at Blue. "Is it over?"

Blue cocked his head, listening. "That's the reserve generator that's cut in," he said. "I put it on automatic."

"Which means?"

"The House's got its own generators in case of... well, power failure or something."

"It's starting to get light outside," Gannon said. He got up and looked distastefully at the mess on his clothes.

"I don't like this," Blue said.

Across from him, Chevier whispered: "Is that so?" His voice was heavy with irony.

Blue shook his head. This... this slaughter wasn't what he'd meant. When the door had been open, he'd sensed something outside, something so filled with evil that he'd felt his soul shriveling up inside him. That sensation, though lessened, was still with him. It settled as a deep terrifying dread as he fought his way to his feet. Stepping over one of the dead tragg'a, he looked out the window and went numb. Tucker, sensitive to every nuance at the moment, his whole body still charged with adrenaline, moved towards the biker.