The Darkness of Shadows (25 page)

She leaned me forward so my back wasn’t touching anything and went to the sink. A pallet of reds swirled on the white tile floor. The room had no windows.

Val put the plastic cup to my lips. I took a sip—it came right back up.

“What was that light?” she said.

“I think it was my mother’s soul. What happened to the doppelganger?”

“She disintegrated after the light left.”

“You have to get out of here,” I said. “They’re going to do really bad things to you. Please go.”

“Do you know how to invoke the shield thing?”

“Nigel said we just need to stay together. It creates an energy barrier on its own.”

“I have to meet this Nigel.” She shifted her grip. “The way out is through that door and you’re coming with me. Come on.”

She eased me up, then craned her long neck around the doorframe and looked both ways like we were crossing the street.

“Let’s go.”

“Girls, where do you think you’re going?” Walter appeared in front of us, his white ensemble sprayed with blood.

I gave Val a sideways glance and nodded. She blinked in agreement. Walter didn’t have a chance.

Val swept his legs, sending him to the floor. A surprised look crept across his face as he got up, unsteady. Several vicious punches landed in strategic locations, leaving him hamstrung. She leveled a kick to his lunchbox that sent him careening into the wall. Walter wasn’t moving after that one.

Three Goths were waiting around the next corner.

“Mr. Gannon requests your presence in the living room,” the shortest one said.

Sarcasm from a dead guy. Perfect!

Val glanced behind us. “‘You’re gonna need a bigger boat.’”

A few more of the Goth family were about to join the fun.

“Mr. Miyagi isn’t here to lend a hand,” I said. “We have to stay together for the shield to work.”

She gave me the “yeah, right” look. She left my side and took a combatant’s stance.

So much for the solidarity of our paranormal safeguard.

It’s not like in the movies where the bad guys wait in line to fight the good guy. They came in hellbent from all directions, like brides at Filene’s Basement bridal gown sale.

“We’ve been told not to hurt either of you,” the tallest one said, poking at Val’s breasts. “Too bad.”

Val grabbed his hand, twisted it upward until it snapped, then swung him into a few of his buddies, black cloth and limbs flying. The others closed in.

I was behind two of them. Val seized the opportunity and pushed one back over my extended leg. His head slammed into the wall.

The two that remained knew they weren’t supposed to hurt us, but were puzzled over how to corral us.

A single shot made it clear how we were ending our escape. Walter limped down the hall, the pistol pointed between Val and me.

“I told you to keep them separated!” Blood dripped from his nose, down his chin, and onto his crimson-stained suit.

My father was leaning on the bar in his Thinker pose. No movement, save for the vein in his temple pulsing like an angry neon sign. Circles of exhaustion were under his eyes. My mother said he’d be weakened by the ritual. Maybe for once in her life she’d told the truth.

The Goths shoved us in front of the fireplace, making certain to keep us a few feet apart. The warmth of the flames was harsh on my back.

“Gentlemen, you may leave.” My father nodded to Walter, who moved between Val and me.

“Your blood and our ritual could have brought Karen back,” my father said. “Now your mother is gone and the last sigil lost.”

“She asked me to help her,” I said.

“You’re lying.”

“She’s finally free of you.”

“But you aren’t.” He took a sip of his cocktail.

Fear and disgust closed in around me.

“As for Valerie, the brothers would like to spend some quality time with her. Given that you’ve ruined the work of years, I’m inclined to let them.”

“I won’t let you hurt Val.”

He ignored me. “I will salvage this mess—you’re practically worthless without your mother to call the final sigil, but Valerie’s body should help me recoup some of tonight’s loss.”

“Don’t you dare!” I felt behind me for something, anything. A handle met my fingers. The fireplace tools!

“What are you going to do about it?” my father said.

“You should burn in hell,” Val said.

“A smart mouth, just like Rita.” His hand flew to Val’s face, but she was quicker. She blocked the blow and countered with a punch to my father’s throat.

Eyes widening in surprise and pain, his hand went to his neck, gasping for air. She took his outstretched arm and twisted it behind his back. He jerked free.

Val and my father danced around the battlefield of the living room: circling each other, striking, counter move, counter strike. She fought with a fierceness I’d never seen.

Walter vied for and got my attention.

“You were an easy mark, Natalie,” he said. “Always wanting a father to love you. All I had to do was play on that weakness. You still believe there’s good in people.”

“You have me confused with Anne Frank.” I swung the poker up—it connected with his head and he staggered back.

“Bitch!”

Before I could raise the weapon again, Walter rushed me until my back was against the wall. Terebrating pain accosted me. What I needed to do was turn it into an ally, turn fear and panic into action.

He twisted my wrenched arm until it cracked. I dropped the poker as he pressed closer.

I slammed my left hand against the side his face and dug my thumb deep into his hazel eye.

His response was high-pitched and loud as he pulled back. I dove forward, making a three-fingered grab for his trachea, exerting as much pressure as I could. He stumbled back, gasping, choking, blood and eye juice slipping between his fingers.

I picked up the poker. Black iron and white skin were introduced more times than I could remember.

I swung one last time—Walter crumbled to the floor, bleeding from many places. I’m not sure why it didn’t bother me.

I turned back to find Val blocking a lunging punch. She slammed her elbow into my father’s temple. He floundered back a step or two.

“Come on, you son of a bitch!” Val bounced from foot to foot, shaking her arms out, ending in a fighting stance. “Let’s finish this.”

My father thudded toward her, wheezing and weaving, holding his head. Val was determined as her muscles tightened, coiled and ready for the attack.

He dropped his hands and smiled.

“Not this time.”

He seized her surprise as his fingers latched onto her shirt and tossed her into the air like a shot put. The wall stopped her flight. Dazed, she tried but failed to get up.

I stood before him, a broken and bloodied Rubenesque figure. A puree of fear and hatred pulsed through me.

Strength is a funny thing. I’m not talking about physical strength either. It can come from many different places: your faith, your friends, your family, and sometimes even the least likely place—yourself. Just when you think you can’t take anymore, a clarity comes to you. A clarity that fills and calms you, giving you the strength to go on.

Like the gentle movement of the second hand of a watch, my sanity left me.

I attacked my father with the strength of thirty-two years of pent-up fear, buried anger, shame, and fury. I shoved him onto the coffee table—it shattered under his weight. He was like a Weeble: he wobbled but he didn’t fall down. Weakened by the ritual, my ass!

Val sprang up from the floor and executed a side kick, knocking him off balance. He backhanded her into the wall. She slid to the floor.

He took her hand and started to squeeze. Val screamed. He unsheathed a knife.

I sailed toward him and impaled him with the poker.

He dropped the blade and plucked the rod out like it was a splinter. He raised his hand to strike me but I didn’t flinch. Instead, I kneed him in the groin as hard as I could. My right leg wouldn’t support my weight and we both fell. He had me in a death roll—an alligator and its prey.

Where was the fucking knife?

I reached out and felt cold steel. Got it! I held it in an awkward left-handed grip, then slashed across his jugular.

My father’s fury-filled rage smacked the knife out of my hand. He scrabbled to his feet and used one leg to push me onto my back. He stepped on my broken arm and I howled. He feasted on my misery as he dropped on top of me, hands reaching for my throat.

My breathing was wild, tears raced down my face. Agony burned through the wounds on my back, bringing them to life. I arched upward as the pain continued volleying between dragons and sigils. And not to be left out, the runes joined the game.

Something besides pain waylaid me. Power!

My mother said there’d be residual energies left from the ritual. Channel and use them—but how?

She said my mind and my hands were all I needed.

It had been like that when I helped Val, healed the cut on her arm. Worry and love fueled my actions then. Now I had death in my heart.

I was the highway for the collected energies—what I needed was an off-ramp.

The designs of my back settled into my mind like touchstones, guiding me through the pathways, collecting the energies as I called them into my hands. A storm was building in my digits.

His grip tightened, chasing the air from me. I wriggled my hands between us. My right arm wanted to tap out of the wrestling match, but I wouldn’t let it.

He stopped, tenting his body over mine. “Are you trying to heal me?”

Finding the gash in his stomach, I tunneled my fingers to a subterranean level as he wailed. My hands were humming like a power line. I willed my mind to open, relaxed, and released a mélange of invisible forces into his body.

Small earthquakes ripped through him as his eyes rolled back in his head. Trickles of red ran from his nose, eyes, ears. Blood bubbles simmered and popped between his sadistic lips. Crosscurrents of power thrust him to the side and left him unmoving. The energies were gone, freed from their captor.

Zombie-like, I rose to my side.

Something collided with my head. Maybe the Grim Reaper was pissed that I got to my father first.

A
ir flowed back into my lungs. I couldn’t get enough. Breathe.

The pungent stench of blood filled the room. It was everywhere, sprayed on the walls and floor like a Jackson Pollock wannabe.

My father and Walter were gone.

Val was crumpled on the floor, her long limbs enervated with the rest of her body. Her hair, matted with sweat and blood, hid her face.

I tried to stand, but was betrayed by my weak leg. I pulled myself along and settled by her side. She wasn’t moving.

Her skin felt cool when I touched her neck to check for a pulse. A faint rhythm thrummed under my fingers. I wished I watched the medical channel instead of the retro cartoon station. Maybe I’d have a clue how to help her.

I said into the air, “Please, God, please do whatever you want to me, but let her be all right.”

Her right hand was swollen and mangled. Her wrist wasn’t in much better shape. There had to be something around here to help.

I went to the bar and found what I needed. I channeled MacGyver as I rigged some bar towels, plastic bags filled with ice, and a crude sling from my belt to immobilize her injuries. It was the best I could do.

The raw pain swarming through every cell in my body had to be buried—we needed to get moving. I pulled her backward with me, using the wall as a cane.

“You know, we missed the chocolate show in the city this year,” I said.

No comment.

“I know. I was feeling sorry for myself and blew it. There’s one in Vegas after the holidays.”

The only sound was the drag of her feet as I hauled her through the house.

“We get out of this, my treat. Promise.”

Our journey was excruciating and slow. We passed the room they carved me up in. The scrapbook lay abandoned on the table, the silenced voices needing to be heard, calling out. As carefully as I could, I slid Val down the wall. I wrapped the book in a clean towel from Walter’s supplies and tucked it into my waistband. It chafed against my scars with a vengeance.