Satan's Mirror (24 page)

She became aware of stares. The man and woman clutched one another as if afraid to move without permission. Emily was embarrassed to think they were in awe of her.

“Which way is the castle?” she asked.

The woman raised a trembling hand, pointing in the direction Emily had been traveling.

“You’re going there, aren’t you?” said the man. “You’ve come for Satan.”

“Are you a dark angel?” asked the woman.

Emily couldn’t think of a response. She’d never heard of a dark angel. Without a word, she walked away.

The haze soon swallowed all evidence of slaughtered harpies and felled trees. The silhouettes of the two people faded, but their words remained in Emily’s ears as disconcerting as if just spoken.

Dark angel. Who did they think she was? Were they cowed by her because she killed a few birds? They could have done that much themselves. After all, the man carried the bomb—and it was lucky he had, or all three of them would have been ripped to shreds.

Did the demons know one of their bombs detonated? Would they investigate, or would they send a caretaker to clean up the pieces during the night?

When
would
it be night? Emily ached as if she’d walked for days, perhaps weeks. The day never ended.

Be careful what you wish for, her inner voice warned. Chastity dreaded the night.

As Emily walked, the once-level plain attained a slight slope. The endless haze receded. Ahead, the yipping of dogs was accompanied by an odd clicking sound. She slowed, nerves on edge, trying to locate the source.

Two hellhounds frolicked in a black mud puddle—only it couldn’t be mud. The substance moved as if alive. Wherever the dogs pounced, it curled away as if loathe to touch the beasts.

The dogs appeared to take joy in this. They leapt and snapped at it. Emily moved nearer, trying to make out the black mass. It glistened as if it were liquid and rolled as if in waves, but it didn’t splash. She was convinced it was solid.

As it paused in play, a hellhound looked up at her. Emily froze, realizing with a start that she stood less than fifty feet away. It must see her. She braced for its charge. The dog watched for a moment, its upturned jaws in a perpetual leer. Then it gave an unmistakable shrug. Yipping and cavorting, it followed its partner and the clicking mud puddle down the hill.

Emily frowned. Why hadn’t it attacked? Was the hounds’ eyesight that bad? Perhaps they were like dinosaurs and could only see movement.

She remained motionless until they were well out of sight, and then she took the next hill at a trot. She berated herself for walking so near the black substance. Intriguing as it may be, it was most likely dangerous, and she was foolish to take risks.

A shriek ended her reverie. Eyes shaded, she spotted three harpies flying toward her. Emily squinted to see them, and then gave a strangled gasp.

One of them had an arrow impaling its neck.

THIRTY-FOUR

Emily froze mid-stride, her heart caught in her throat. “Maybe they won’t see me,” she whispered. “Maybe they’ll pass by.”

The three harpies lowered as if flying in formation, their clawed wingtips nearly touching. They circled overhead, screeching.

Quickly, Emily shot at the nearest bird, aiming for the chest and what she hoped was the heart—but its wing brushed the arrow away. The chest was too well protected. Switching strategies, she put two arrows in its belly. The bird jerked and fell, spinning. She leapt out of its way as it skidded on its back, creating a wake of bouncing pebbles.

Before she could pull a fresh arrow from the quiver, another bird was upon her. It was the bird with her arrow in its throat. It hovered, beak open, its foul breath in her face. Talons scrabbled upon the front of her coat. The huge wings cuffed her from side to side. Emily staggered, arms flailing, reaching, grasping for something to break her fall.

Her fingers closed over the arrow running through the creature’s neck. The harpy roared. Its wings stroked the air. Emily’s feet left the ground. She hung from the bird, dangling from the ends of the blood-slick arrow. The harpy rose twenty feet. Its stunted, vulture legs worked madly, trying to knock Emily free. She gasped with a kick to the stomach. Her face bobbed between the wrinkled breasts.

With an ear-rending shriek, the third bird slashed her coat with its talons. Emily’s quiver tore from her back. The sight of her weapons dropping away made her burn with rage. She pulled up on the arrow she clung to, chinning herself, rising face-to-face with the horrific creature. Buffeted by flapping, foul-smelling feathers, she hooked her leg over a wing. With strength waning, she climbed onto the bird’s back and sat on its neck.

The harpy reared as if to shake off its newfound load. It spun its head around like an owl. Emily yelped, punching the bulbous eyes, trying to dodge the snapping beak. She shoved her armguard into its mouth, widening it, and then grasped the top of the beak with her gloved hand and ripped it off. Blood streamed upward with the wind, splashing her.

The other harpy dove, its thick body smashing into Emily. It banked in a circle, returning for another strike. Holding tight with her knees, Emily lifted to meet it, plunging the jagged bird beak like a dagger into its breast. The harpy shrieked and veered off.

Emily took hold of the arrow skewering the bird she rode, yanking it with both hands. “I’ll. Have. That. Back. Now.”

The arrow tore free, taking out most of the throat. Blood gushed like oil. The great wings collapsed, sending the creature spiraling. Emily screamed as she rode the bird to impact. The ground knocked the air from her lungs. Skidding and tumbling, the dead harpy dragged her several feet. They came to rest in a cloud of dust.

She tried to wriggle from beneath it. The damned thing was too heavy. Her legs were pinned. She squirmed and shoved, grabbing handfuls of feathers for leverage, but could not work free.

Above, the remaining harpy gave a shrill cry, circling lower. Blood trickled from the broken beak still stabbed in its breast. Emily struggled to pull out her knife. The bird hovered above her, wings beating, clawed feet flashing in the air. She slashed back, waving her knife in desperate, roundhouse swings, not connecting.

“Come on!” she yelled with false bravado.

In her heart, she knew her journey ended here. She would never save her little girl. She had failed. Tears filled her eyes, hot and sticky, blurring the sight of the harpy as it touched upon the ground. “April. I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”

A distant voice rose in answer. “Caw, caw! Ieee!”

The harpy spun about, flapping its mighty wings. Airborne stones and pebbles stung Emily’s skin. From beneath the carcass, she saw the man and the woman running toward her, waving their arms. With them was a third person—a man wearing a hellhound hide and carrying a pitchfork. He menaced the bird, jabbing with the fork.

Feathers on end so it looked twice its size, the bird stabbed at him. He knocked its beak aside and plunged the sharp tines into its chest. The bird screamed, throwing back its head and trying to take flight.

Its sudden movement nearly ripped the fork from the man’s hands. But the other man leapt forward, grabbing the handle and twisting. Together, they ran the harpy to the ground where it lay motionless.

New tears sprang to Emily’s eyes, but she smiled as the men knelt beside her. She wanted to thank them, yet knew if she tried to speak, she would only sob. They rolled the carcass off her and helped her to her feet. Emily felt shaky. She stank like a harpy and dripped with blood.

The woman approached timidly, holding out Emily’s torn quiver and a few arrows.

Emily took the quiver, hugging it. “I’m surprised to see you all.”

“I told you,” said the man wearing the hide. “I will follow. I will do your bidding.”

The other man placed his arm about the woman, nodding. “Like he said.”

THIRTY-FIVE

“Look at this mess,” Joey muttered. “It looks like a bomb went off.”

He stepped away from his hellhound companions, staring at the field of mangled harpies. His nose burned with the stench.

“This is no accident. It’s slaughter. Her work. Has to be. There are no human body parts.” He looked at the two dogs that lay side-by-side watching him. He despised the beasts—for the normal reasons, of course, but also because he knew they were there to spy on him. He felt he had to keep explaining himself.

“You can’t expect me to go through with this. You’re sending me unarmed against a crazy woman. She blew up harpies, for God’s sake.”

A flash of light stabbed his eyes. He had the impression that a Mirror quickly opened and closed. Dazzled, he stared at the ground a few feet away and saw a gleaming, silver sword.

He took a step back. “Are you watching me?”

The answer came like a tap on his shoulder, a sound not heard but felt. “Yes.”

With increasing dread, Joey raised his hand and touched the back of his neck where the big guy’s claw cut him. He felt a lump. What was it—a transmitter, a tracking device? A telepathic control? Intense revulsion swept over him, causing his knees to weaken and his bowels to turn to jelly.

Keeping his face a mask, he picked up the sword. It was lightweight and well balanced in spite of its length, made of a shiny metal he didn’t recognize. He swished it through the air, and then looked again at the dogs.

“I was right though, wasn’t I? Told you I was right. She’s moving in a straight line.” Crouched before them, he said in a low voice, “I know her plan. She wants to storm the castle and take back her kid. My question is, if she walks into your hands before I have a chance to nab her, do I still win my freedom?”

The dogs considered him with their tongues lolling. Then in the back of his mind, Joey heard the word, “No.”

“What?” He leapt up, swinging the sword in a wide arc, wading through the worst of the carnage. He hacked and kicked the putrefying carcasses while he imagined his blows raining upon Satan’s head, imagined the devil’s severed limbs flying. “Why did you send me here? You don’t need me to find her. She’s headed straight for you.”

His arms ached and his shoulders burned. He was covered in blood and brains. From the corner of his eye, he saw the hellhounds get to their feet and approach. He spun toward them, sword overhead, hoping to see them jump, to see them cower. They did not. They stood as calm as if he were swinging a daisy.

“This is all a game to you,” he shouted. “You’re setting me up to fail. Well, I’m not going to fail. I’m going to find that bitch and shove her down your throat.”

He swung the blade again, cleaving the head of a harpy in two. As he stood with his chest heaving, it occurred to him he wouldn’t want to be on the devil’s bad side. He stared at the dogs, and they grinned.

“Finished?” said the voice in his mind.

Joey lowered his gaze, moaning, “What do you need me for?”

A mental picture formed. He saw himself leading Goodman into the castle. She was naked and bloody, her hands bound by her own bowstring—and he caught a fleeting sense of triumph. The image dissolved, replaced by one of Goodman sneaking into the castle alone, wounding or maybe even murdering another patron before being taken down.

There was a difference, Joey realized. He could make that difference. In return, freedom would be his.

A dog sidled up, and Joey startled.

“Ride,” the voice said.

Balls shriveling with aversion, Joey climbed onto its back. His feet hung down on either side, barely clearing the ground. The beast took off immediately, its loping gait threatening to unseat him. Balanced upon the hound’s wide shoulders, he searched the horizon for Emily Goodman.

THIRTY-SIX

The others insisted Emily rest while they hunted for her fallen arrows. She watched their silhouettes circle through the smog, feeling uncomfortable. If not for their intervention, she would be having her bones picked clean by the harpy right now. It was clear she could not reach the castle alone. On the other hand, she didn’t want to feel responsible for anyone. She hated the reverence the three people showed her. They deferred to her as if she were someone special.

Still musing, Emily scrubbed her face with gravel, hoping to scrape off some of the stink. She examined the broken beak she’d used to stab the harpy. The serrated edge was as sharp as a steak knife. She used it to cut out the beaks of all three birds, yielding six weapons.

By the time the others returned, she’d mended the strap of her torn quiver. They found all but one of the arrows. Emily handed them the bird beaks, which they accepted with the gravity of a death mark. The woman especially struck Emily with her somberness as she hefted a knife in each hand. Her expression held at once a resignation to violence and a desire for retaliation.

Side by side, the band of four walked away from the slaughtered harpies. The terrain sloped in gentle swells. Emily could make out the red smudge on the horizon marking the lake of fire, which she found encouraging. At least they were going in the right direction.

“If we’re going to be traveling together,” she said, “I suppose we should know each other’s names. I’m Emily Goodman.”

“My name is Gun,” said the naked man. “I’m from California.”

“Beautiful country.”

“Yeah,” he said wistfully. “I used to take my bike up in the mountains on those narrow, winding roads and really open her up. You know. Feel like I was flying. I guess I must have wiped out or something. I remember bright light, and when I woke up, I was face to face with my first demon.”

“I take it you were in the castle.”

He looked sidelong at her. “Not a good place.”

Emily bristled, thinking he meant to talk her out of her mission. “I have business there.”

“So I figured.”

“You don’t have to come with me.”

“I figured that, too.” He held her gaze for a moment.

Emily looked away. She’d wanted to talk about the castle, get the layout, another perspective on what to expect. Now all she wanted was to change the subject.