Pockets of Darkness (19 page)

“Get me a piece of the fire sale before I’m heading out,” the tall one said, as he made a slashing gesture with the knife.

“Me too,” the shorter one said. He slipped the buckle into his pocket. “I want to do her too. Just leave her breathin’, Bo. I don’t do dead ho bagels.”

Like hell,
Bridget thought. These junior Insane Crips weren’t going to “do her” no matter what. Despite the lingering wooziness and the jackhammer of a headache, she lashed out. Grapping a seatback with both hands for support, she kicked as hard as she could, aiming for Bo’s hand, but nailing his arm instead. It was good enough, the knife went flying and Bo was momentarily surprised. She followed through with a roundhouse kick, high above the seats and catching him in the chest. He fell back against the one named Joey.

“Don’t let that scud bitch beat you up!” Joey pushed Bo toward Bridget and she kicked him again, aiming for his crotch and connecting solidly. He dropped with an “oooooooooh!” She slid past him and was on Joey, pounding him like she was trying to tenderize a tough hunk of meat.

He fought back, but he was slow and lacked skill, and had he been even a little sharper Bridget would’ve been in trouble. She was pretty certain she’d broken a few of his ribs—the “invincible” part of the demon curse hadn’t kicked in yet. She could still hurt him. He threw his hands up to defend himself and at the same time kicked at her; steel toe shoes from the feel of a blow landing against her calf. She heard the tall punk getting to his feet behind her, moaning and cursing softly. She jammed her elbow back, hitting him and keeping him off balance.

The train eased to a stop and the doors hissed open. Zin-Zin was good to his word and darted out. Joey looked over his shoulder and Bridget capitalized on that, delivering a solid punch to his chin, harder than she’d intended. His head snapped back and he dropped like a rock. She wheeled on Bo. He’d grabbed onto a pole, his dark eyes filled with hate and lip curled up.

“Filthy ho bagel,” he spat. “You’re gonna die, bitch. I’m gonna—”

As much as the confines of the car allowed, Bridget spun and kicked, her heel driving into his knee. She kicked again, and as he fell, she kept up the assault, fueled by ire. The doors slid closed and she grabbed a seatback to keep from joining the thugs on the filthy floor of the car as the train moved on.

“You feckin’ fool!” She kicked him until he stopped moving. Then she leaned over him; he was still breathing. So was the other one. Good, she didn’t need two more deaths on her head. She sat between the two, waiting to get off at the next stop … wherever that was. For the first time in her life she had no idea where her subway ride was taking her.

“You sad, sad fool,” she continued to rail. “Now whatever family you have, whatever friends … they’re all going to die because you can’t speak Sumerian.” She wiped at her nose, blood coming away on her fingers. “Shit.” She pinched her nostrils and tipped her head back, seeing a poster advertising a high school production of The Odd Couple taped to the ceiling. “Their hearts’ll be ripped out because you won’t know what the demon wants.” Good riddance to them, she thought. Fewer Insane Crips members in the city wouldn’t be a bad thing.

Bridget felt the train slow and she stood, the quick movement setting the jackhammers off in her head again. She’d had nothing but one headache after the next since stealing the briefcase from Elijah Stone. Well, thank God she was free of the curse. Thank God she’d gotten on this old subway car and that some clatty dirtballs decided to assault her.

The car stopped and the doors hissed open. She gave Joey one last kick, bent and reached into his front pocket and pulled out the buckle and palmed it.

“A stupid fecker, I am, stealing this again,” Bridget said. She made it out and onto the platform just as the doors hissed closed behind her and the train continued on.

***

Twenty Six

Two men were on the platform, bundled in parkas and carrying duffels, sailors she could tell from their pants and hats. They paid her little attention and she shuffled by them and to a restroom. Should’ve grabbed her cell phone back from the thug while she was at it, but she’d been in a rush. She could’ve called the brownstone, checked on Otter. Bet she couldn’t find a payphone anywhere nearby, not that she had a single coin to put in it. Payphones were practically obsolete.

What the hell had she done … taking back the buckle, and the demon? She’d been rid of the curse! That’s what she’d wanted, to be rid of it! What the bloody blue hell had she been thinking?

She smelled the beast, and then heard it, saw that it had appeared at her side. “Bridget unshackle—”

“Shut up. Shut up. Shut up.” She angled her head in the bowl of the sink and ran water on her face. She shivered, the water cold like ice, but she kept at it, scrubbing her cheeks and drinking and spitting until the taste of the fire was gone. Her mouth ached from where the thug had broken at least one of her teeth. She looked in the mirror. “A feckin’ double bagger,” she pronounced herself. Her jacket was torn, everything singed, her hair … Dear God, her once-beautiful red hair. One side was a riotous tangle crusted with blood and subway car crap, the other side practically non-existent, melted in the museum conflagration. It looked like she’d glued orange Brillo pads behind her left ear.

Bridget paced, her heels clicking against the hard floor, the demon watching her and growling that she needed to “unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti.”

“What in all the levels of hell was I thinking?” She was thinking that she wanted this nightmare to end—with her. That she didn’t want the demon to keep passing from one thief to the next to the next, the string of corpses with their hearts ripped out stretching on indefinitely. Who else could communicate with the damn thing? Who else could divine pieces of its language?

Probably no one.

No one
living
in any event.

“Bloody hell.” Bridget had put Otter and Michael and Dustin in jeopardy again—and to her their lives were worth more than the lives of whoever was related to the subway thugs. How bad would it have been for the demon to rip out the hearts of Insane Crips members?

She stormed out of the restroom and set her feet in time with the pounding in her head. She knew how to use the subways without money or tokens. Always there were places to get on and off. She took the next train and made two more switches before she emerged from the stairs two long blocks from her brownstone. It was snowing, a sleety mix that stung her face. Salt remained on the sidewalk from a previous application, but there was not enough of it, and so the pavement was slippery and she fell twice in her rush. By the second tumble she was so weary that she crawled to a streetpost and used it to pull herself up.

There wasn’t another soul out on the street in her block, though a late-model Buick cruised by, slowing when it came even with her, and then moving on. She heard something going through garbage piled up in a narrow gap between condo buildings.

A glance at her watch under the streetlight. The crystal was cracked, but she could read that it was 1:45 a.m. Her adventures in the museum and the subway had swallowed more time than she’d realized.

“Bridget unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti. Bridget unshackle, else Otter unshackled from life.”

“Shut up.”

It kept blathering.

She found them on the fourth floor in the theater room—Otter, Dustin, Michael, Marsh, Rob, Alvin, and Quin. They’d been watching one of the Lethal Weapon movies, but she stopped it with a flick of a switch at the back of the room. She brought the lights up.

“Mom! What the hell happened to you?” Otter stood and spun, spilling a bowl of popcorn he’d been balancing on his lap.

Dustin vaulted over his seat back and was at her side in a heartbeat. Behind him, the others stood slack-jawed. “An ambulance—”

“I don’t need a hospital. I’m not going to a hospital.”

Dustin gingerly touched the side of her face where her hair had burned off. “What—”

“It’s a long story, and not a good one. And we don’t have time for it.” Bridget looked around him. “Michael, Marsh, Alvin … grab a couple of duffle bags, suitcases, whatever, and go to the kitchen. Fill them with food … cans, bottles, boxes, soda—”

Michael straightened his collar. “See here, Miss O’Shea. It’s two in the morning and you’ll not order me—”

“—around like this?” Bridget bent and put her hands on her knees. Her sides ached, and she grabbed a deep breath. “Michael, I want you to live. I want all of you to live. Just … oh, hell, just shut up and do it.” A few more breaths and she straightened and talked fast. “Trust me. I’ll make it up to you. Just trust me and live. Dustin, Otter, Quin, grab some coats, the heaviest in the closets, and flashlights. Stay together. Meet up in the kitchen. Quin, you’ve a gun, right? Meet up in the kitchen. We have to—”

Dustin put an arm around her shoulders. “I care for you, Brie, but not enough to put up with—”

“Pissmires! I’m trying to keep you alive. Keep all of you alive. And I don’t have time to argue.” She flailed an arm behind her. “You can’t see it, but there’s a demon behind me.”

“You said that before, Mom, a demon, and—”

“—and it’s still behind me. We don’t have time to argue this, Otter.”

“Okay.” Otter nodded. “Okay. C’mon, Dustin, Alvin, let’s—”

“No. Sorry, Brie.” Dustin brushed his lips against her cheek, wriggling his nose at the scorched scent of her hair. He gently tipped her face up. “Call me when—if—you come to your senses.”

Then he was gone.

“Mmmmmmmmmm,” the demon said.

Bridget spun and put her face down to the beast. “Listen you feckin’ monster. Leave him alone. You want your Aldî-nîfaeti unshackled?”

“Unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti,” it said.

“Who’s she talking to?” This came from Alvin.

“I assume a demon,” Michael said. “An invisible one.”

“Otter, Quin, coats. Spare blankets if you’re fast. We’re going camping.” Bridget turned back and pointed to the exit. “Michael, Marsh—”

“Yes, Miss O’Shea,” Michael said. “Duffels filled with food for your camping trip.”

“
Our
camping trip. Rob, you and me will—”

“Boss … what do you want me to do with this?” He held a package the size of a breadbox. It was wrapped in brown paper and tied with a string. The stamp on the side was smeared. “I think he ripped me off, but—”

“Bowls.”

“Two, boss, I told you—”

“Move. Move. Move.” Bridget waved at the others. “Coats, food. Move. Meet in the kitchen.”

A moment later she and Rob were alone.

“The antique guy, boss. He brought over two bowls. Eleven hundred bucks. Bet he ripped us off.” Sweat had beaded up on Rob’s forehead. Bridget could tell he was nervous, probably the one person in the house who really believed they were in the midst of something very bad.

“Bring them with us. We’ve got to—”

“Hurry. Yeah, I get that.” Rob headed toward the doorway. “Boss, you look like hell.”

“Yeah,” she agreed. “And hell is surely where I’m going.” Then she raced to her bedroom and tugged off her singed clothes and boots, seeing that the sole of the right one was partially melted. She listened to the demon babble the entire time. She struggled into tight leggings, put loose sweatpants over them, and found her heaviest sweater and most comfortable shoes. Last, she grabbed her wallet and Swiss Army knife off her dresser and jammed them in a pocket; she’d not taken her wallet to the museum, not wanting any identification on her. She flipped up a false bottom in a drawer and pulled out a stack of hundreds that she wedged into another pocket—just in case she needed some ready cash. She filled a tote with items from the bathroom: a few bars of the milled soap Dustin had given her, a razor, bottle of shampoo, two hand towels, a package of unopened toothbrushes, all for the “camping trip.” A glance in the mirror as she rushed from the room: Rob was right. She looked like hell, barely human.

They weren’t waiting in the kitchen; they were sitting in the adjacent dining room, two stuffed backpacks, a bulging duffle bag, and the wrapped package from the antique store. Coats were draped on the backs of chairs, and all of them were red-faced from rushing.

Rob had been talking, something about the package with bowls in it, but he shut up when she hurried in.

Michael stood. “I have worked for you, Miss O’Shea, for—”

“Can it,” Bridget was purposefully terse. “Oh, the hairy word! I said I’m trying to keep you alive. There’s a feckin’—”

“Demon. Yes, Miss O’Shea. You already—”

In a fast, fluid movement that belied his age, Alvin rose from his seat, pulled a Walther from his pocket and fired two shots at something behind Bridget. In that same moment, Otter jumped up so fast he tipped his chair over.

“Mommmmm!” Otter hollered.

They could see her demon? Bridget whirled and jumped back so quick she ran into Marsh and knocked him down. She saw her demon, but she also saw something else—the tall, tentacled thing she’d released in the art museum.

Lava flowed from the demon’s tentacles, spreading across the floor and scenting the air with something foul and acrid.

Bridget stared, incredulous. She hadn’t thought the beast would come here. How could it know where she lived? “Christ on a tricycle! Run! Otter, run! Grab everything all of you and run!”

Otter acted first, snatching his coat and a backpack and dashing out of the dining room, knocking a serving tray over and sending china flying. The others shouted and grabbed for the bags and coats, save Alvin, who kept firing.

“Outside!” she shouted after them. “Rob, the package! I’ll meet you on the sidewalk!” Marsh hesitated only a moment and she waved him away. “Look after Otter. Stay together! Alvin, get out of here. Bullets won’t work.”

Alvin turned and ran, replying, but she couldn’t hear him. The lava had caught the drapes on fire and flames crackled and danced toward the ceiling. The sprinklers kicked on, but they weren’t enough to put out the flames. The entire room was becoming engulfed, and she watched in horror as part of the floor gave way, taking chairs and the table with it.

Amid the flames, her personal demon squatted, regarding her with all five of its eyes. It was talking too, but she couldn’t hear it over the fire.

Bridget felt her blood boiling. The lava reached the tips of her shoes, more of the floor fell away, and she jumped back just in time. The lava and flames had spread toward the hallway, leaving only one way out of the dining room now, and that was into the kitchen. She wheeled around and dashed through the doorway, past the stainless steel counter, and hit the intercom. Her tote bag fell from her shoulder. “Fire! Everyone out of the house now!” Bridget didn’t think anyone else was inside, but she gave the warning nevertheless. “Everyone out!” The sprinkler kicked on in the kitchen as she grabbed up the tote again. The marble floor was as slick as an icy sidewalk, and her feet shot out from under her and she went sliding. She crawled to the far door and grabbed onto the jamb and pulled herself up.

Another “whoosh!” and everything wood in the kitchen was blazing. She took the steps two at a time. She was going to lose the brownstone, all the treasures inside it. An image flashed into her mind as she raced down to the next floor and then the next. She saw a little Turkish boy hug the weaver of her prized oushak. “
Seni seviyorum babaanne
.”

“
Seni seviyorum
,” the weaver had returned.

It had been many years since Otter had told Bridget he loved her.

Out the back and slipping through the narrow alley to get to the street out front, the icy snow spat at her, providing a sharp contrast to the heat that blasted out in waves from the brownstone. The others were gathered in the middle of the street, their faces glowing orange in the light from the fire. Neighbors were up and out, too, coats thrown over pajamas, several of them on cell phones, a few taking pictures. Bridget heard sirens: someone had called the fire department. She knew the building couldn’t be saved.

“Move!” she called to Otter, rushing toward him, falling on an icy patch and landing hard, tote bag flying lose. Rob was closest and picked her up, cradling the package with one arm. She grabbed it from him and nodded to her tote bag. He retrieved it and turned his attention to the fire. “Move,” she said breathlessly. “We got to move!”

Through a high window she saw a column move amid the flames, the tentacle beast. Her own demon hadn’t come out of the house; maybe it was reveling in the fire. Maybe it reminded the demon of hell and it was having a grand time.

“Move,” she said again, no power in her voice. “This way. Move. Move. Move.”

She ignored the neighbors, their voices swirling with the ashes and the snow.

“There’s Bridget O’Shea. Get a look at her.”

“Like a bomb went off there. I knew she and all those men were up to no good.”

“Looks like she’s hurt. Did someone call an ambulance?”

“Look at her hair!”

“Bridget! Bridget!” This from one of the neighbors she was friendly with. Bridget waved the woman away and shouldered through the growing crowd, keeping her head down.

“My condo! It better not get my condo!”

“Gotta be arson. Nothing goes up that quick otherwise.”

“Hey, where’s O’Shea going?”

“Mom, where
are
we going? With all this stuff? Shouldn’t we wait for the fire trucks? The police?”

“No cops,” Bridget said, steering her group toward a side street.

“The demon,” Otter continued, walking backward in front of her. “That … that … octopus-monster. Won’t the police—”

“I don’t think the demon will let the cops—” living cops, Bridget mentally amended, “—see it. I don’t think it likes witnesses.”

“My stuff,” Otter said, turning around and falling in step at her side. Behind them Marsh, Rob, Alvin, and Quin walked double-file. She noticed Michael was in the rear, reluctant, but keeping with them. “My stuff, mom. It’s toast. My books, clothes, all of it. My school—”