Wild Ride (36 page)

 

“A
peace offering,” Ethan said, holding out the Latin weapons book to Weaver when he met her on the midway, the cold night air biting at them.

She had her D-gun slung at the ready, her goggles up on her forehead for the moment, but she took the book from him and flipped through it. “Neat. We can get ready to fight the Crusades.”

“It's weaponry to use against demons,” Ethan said. “Probably tactics, too, once we translate it. People still study Sun Tzu, you know.” He nodded toward the Dragon Coaster. “We need to cover Gus for the midnight run in an hour. Then we have to meet Mab back at the paddleboat dock and escort her to her trailer. And then we can, uh . . .”

“Talk in Hank's trailer.”

“Sure,” Ethan said, thinking,
Talk?

They patrolled the park until the lights on the Dragon Coaster came alive. “Anything?” Ethan asked as Weaver's head turned back and forth, scanning the area around Gus.

“Nope.”

“There's someone over by the Pirate Ship.”

Weaver swiveled her head in that direction. “A person. Not a demon. Fuck.”

“What?”

“It's Ursula.”

Ursula stepped out of the shadows of the Pirate Ship, a set of demon goggles askew on her head and a D-gun held awkwardly in her hands.
They clashed with the finely tailored powder blue business suit, which was clearly not warm enough. She was shivering, which might have been why she looked so bitchy.

“Master Sergeant Wayne,” Ursula called out.

Ethan ignored her and kept walking toward the Dragon.

After a moment, Weaver followed.

“Agent Weaver,”
Ursula said, upping the bitch in her voice.

“We had a demon attack at the coaster the other night,” Weaver said over her shoulder. “We want to make sure there isn't a repeat.”

“That wasn't in your report,” Ursula said, but she caught up with them, stumbling a little, not used to the depth perception problems of the goggles.

Ethan stopped near the Pirate Cove Games, close enough that he and Weaver could cover Gus with Weaver's D-gun. He looked at the orange Strong Man and felt Selvans' seething. No wonder Gus was always worried.

“Master Sergeant Wayne,” Ursula started again.

“I'm not in the Army anymore.”

“I need to take you in for testing,” Ursula said.

“No.”

With a rattle, the Dragon began its run.

“That's my friend Gus,” Ethan said. “If I go with you, he and everybody else in this park are vulnerable to demon attack. So, no.”

“About that,” Ursula said. “We also would like one or two of your so-called demons to examine. Agent Weaver says they're more powerful than those she supposedly has encountered so far. Of course, we have only her anecdotal evidence.”

Ethan looked at Weaver. He had a feeling she was rolling her eyes behind the goggles.

“Which is why,” Ursula continued, “I'm taking you in. Your blood is the only substantial thing Agent Weaver ever brought us.”

“Ma'am,” Weaver said, “there's a lot more going on here than you can imagine. Ethan needs to be here for this next week. He can't leave the park.”

“
Ethan?
Are you losing your objectivity, Agent Weaver?”

The Dragon came swooping down the tail, and Ethan could hear the rattles. Four.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ray called out from behind them.

Ursula turned. “Who are you?”

Ethan kept his focus on Gus. The Dragon came to a halt and the lights went off. No minions.

“I own this park,” Ray said, walking up, bundled up in his Burberry, towering over Ursula, his cigar chomped in his mouth.

Weaver opened her mouth, probably to dispute the
I own this park
line, and Ethan shook his head. If Ray wanted to take point with Ursula, he was all for it.

Ray scowled down at Ursula. “Who are you?”

“Senior Agent Ursula Borden. Homeland Security.” Ursula lifted her chin, probably trying to look important, but her nose was red from the cold, so she just looked fussy.

“You got a warrant to be on my property?” Ray demanded.

“I have cause to be here,” Ursula said.

Ethan saw that Gus was headed to his trailer, safe and sound. Time to get Mab and take her home and then, god help him, talk with Weaver. “We have somebody to meet, Agent Borden, but I'm sure Ray will be very helpful. Excuse us.” He started down the midway to the paddleboat dock.

“Wait a minute,” Ursula snapped.

Ethan kept walking, Weaver behind him. He could hear Ray being rude to Ursula.

“Do we really want to leave the two of them alone?” Weaver said, catching up to him.

“We have to get Mab,” he told her. “And as far as I'm concerned, Ray and Ursula deserve each other.”

Weaver looked back. “Yeah, but do we deserve what they'll get up to together?”

Ethan slowed.

The paddleboat dock was empty.

“Fuck,” he said, and started to run.

 

M
ab had reached the paddleboat dock and climbed out, shivering in the cold, Frankie swooping ahead of her. She looked around and didn't see Ethan and Weaver. Probably off somewhere discussing the best way to kill with the thumb. Although, really, she should stop mocking them. They had a good relationship, definitely better than she and Joe, no, Fun, than she and Fun had ever had. Of course, he was a demon. It was hard to have a serious relationship with a demon. Them being demons and all.

Don't cry
, she told herself as she walked down the dock, wrapping her coat around her against the freezing air. She was happy for Ethan and Weaver, they were meant for each other, people were supposed to be happy—

She stopped and squinted into the darkness.

There was a child on the path over by the Mermaid Cruise.

“Hello?” she called out. “Are you lost? Where's your mama and daddy?” She stepped off the dock and went toward the kid, mentally cursing the idiocy of parents who lost children in amusement parks.
Give the kid nightmares for years
, she thought as Frankie shrieked his own disapproval above her. “Hey,” she said, when she was close enough to speak without yelling, and the child turned around, and she saw painted eyes and a wide painted smile under a black beret—

Something hit her from behind, and she went down hard, the breath knocked out of her, as wooden dolls swarmed around her in berets and lederhosen and flowered shirts, stuffing paper leis in her mouth as she tried to get her breath back to scream, their little wooden hands digging into her arms and legs, dragging her across the flagstones as she kicked out at them. Her foot struck wood, hard, and something went thump, and there was another one, there were too many, she tried to wrench her arm free and almost dislocated her shoulder, tried to get the damn lei out of her mouth so she could scream for Ethan, and then they shoved her hard and she went over an edge and fell facedown into freezing water between two cars. She spit out the lei and tried to get to her feet, but they were on her, surprisingly heavy little bastards, demon-heavy, a half dozen grabbing on to her canvas coat and sinking her to the bottom of the three-foot-deep tank with their weight, sending her into panic, she
was drowning, her baby was drowning, she was going to die, her lungs bursting—

And then something red rose up inside her and said,
Fucking minions are not going to kill my demon spawn
, and she shrugged herself free of her coat and shot forward under the next cruise boat and surfaced beyond it, inside the dark cruise tunnel, gasping for breath, mad as hell, and freezing to death. She grabbed on to the side of the tank and tried to boost herself up, her teeth chattering in the cold, but they were on her again, dragging her down, and she lashed out, screaming at them, and then a strong hand grabbed her arm and yanked her out of the water and lifted her up into darkened France.

“Let go,”
she said, swinging, and whoever it was said,
“I'm saving you, dummy.”
He kicked at one of the demons who'd tried to follow her, and she saw thick-rimmed Coke-bottle glasses gleam in the dim light and stopped struggling.

“Up there,” he said, pointing, and she climbed over the wrought-iron railing into the upper part of the diorama—the Eiffel Tower—as he threw two more dolls back into the water and followed. “Get behind me,” he said, and picked up a gun that looked a lot like Weaver's demon gun, so she did, her teeth chattering in the cold as her wet clothes began to freeze.

“What are you doing here?” she said, shivering hard as she leaned up against his back in the dark, more for warmth than support.

“Your bird yelled, and I came to find out why,” he said, his voice calm as he looked down the tunnel toward the dim light of the opening. “What are
they
doing?”

“Some of them are still drowning my painting coat and some were trying to drown me,” Mab said, her teeth chattering, and then one climbed out of the water and he shot it, blowing it back into the drink.

That doll's going to be hard to fix
, she thought, and collapsed behind him, shuddering with the cold. She tried to sit up while he blasted two more demons off the walkway, and finally managed to stay upright, her shivers turning to spasms.

He looked around at her and said, “Hell,” and put the gun down.

“No, no,” Mab said, “
keep the gun
,” but he took off his jacket and put it
around her and she didn't argue. It was a down jacket, and she was freezing for two.

Then he picked up the gun again and said, “I don't like waiting to be murdered by a bunch of little foreigners. Is there a back way out of here?”

“Yeah, farther into the tunnel, behind the scrims,” Mab said, her teeth chattering less now. “They're—”

They came charging from the front of the tunnel, some running along the walkway, some paddling a cruise boat, and began to stream around the sides of the fence, the French, the Germans, and the Hawaiians, all with hateful glowing demon eyes, converging on them. The guy raised his gun and fired at the first one, blowing it back against the two behind it. He fired again and blew another one out of the boat. He aimed at another, and the first one he'd shot got up and began to run toward them.

“What the hell?” he said as the rest rushed toward them, getting temporarily blown back by the D-gun and then running again. “I thought this gun was supposed to
kill
them.” He pulled the trigger and there was a click.
“Hell.”
He ripped off the drum underneath the barrel and slammed another one home and fired again. “How many are there?”

“Eighteen, I think,” Mab said, her teeth chattering. “Six dolls in each country, France, Germany, and Hawaii, after us.”

“Hawaii is a country?” the guy said, and kept shooting, but not fast enough.

Mab rose up behind him and yelled, “Specto!” throwing her hand at the closest one, and he froze in midair, which was reassuring, since she hadn't been sure she could do that without the Guardia behind her.

The guy kicked him into the water and blew several others after him back with the gun. Then he pulled off the drum magazine and reloaded again from a bag hanging on his waist. “That's a nice trick you've got there.”

“Thank you,” Mab said. “I think we should leave.”

“That way?” he said, nodding farther down the tunnel as he snapped the gun back together.

“No,” Mab said, shivering. “There are twelve countries in this thing, and for all we know they're all possessed. What if there's another one waiting for us?”

“If it's China, they'll take a trade deal.”

“It's not funny!”
Mab said, in pain everywhere from the cold.

“Sorry.” He sat back on his heels. “I was assured this gun killed demons, but it doesn't seem to be working. And I've only got six more rounds.”

“I think you're hitting the wood,” Mab said. “I don't think you're touching the demon inside. We need to break their bodies.”

“Good, you work on that,” he said, and picked one off as it tried to crawl around the fence. “Because this is not . . .”

His voice trailed off as he straightened.

“Crack the wood, huh?” he said, and put the gun down.

“Keep the gun!”
Mab said as another one rushed them, but he picked up the doll and threw it with great force onto the iron railing below, where it cracked open and spewed something that looked like rotten purple jam all over the walkway.

They were still coming, but he was a fast thrower, and Mab specto-ed every one she could, so that after four were splintered on the railing, the others drew back to confer, babbling in little chittering sounds, like dead leaves blowing on pavement, that sent shivers down Mab's back. Or that could have been the cold.

“Here's the plan,” he said. “We go out the front and then run like hell.”

“You're not brave,” she said. “I like that in a man.”

“Stay behind me,” he said, and handed her the gun.

“What am I supposed to do with this?”

“Try not to drop it.” He edged his way down to the fence and shook it a little, and then he bent down. “I'll be damned,” he said, and then a little Hawaiian jumped on his back and Mab raised the gun and shot the doll, sending them both into the fence.

“Ouch,”
the guy said. He grabbed the doll that had fallen off him and smacked it into the rail, and then he reached down and wrenched one of the wrought-iron supports free. “Come on,” he said to her,
“and don't fire that damn gun again.”

“Sorry.” Mab stuck behind him, shivering as they edged along the fence, his body blocking her from the worst of the wind blowing into the
tunnel. He stopped at the opening and stayed there silent for several moments, and she looked down at the fence to see what had made him swear.