Текст книги "Supernatural Noir "

Автор книги: Paul Tremblay

Соавторы: Caitlin Rebekah Kiernan,Brian Evenson,Joe R. Lansdale,Lucius Shepard,Laird Barron,Nate Southard,Gregory Frost,John Langan,Richard Bowes,Tom Piccirilli
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Текущая страница: 17 (всего у книги 23 страниц)

He bawled like a colicky newborn. I couldn’t take the sound anymore. I stood and walked around his apartment. It hadn’t been cleaned in months. Old takeout-food containers littered the kitchen table and counter. A sweat-stained pillow and some balled blankets at the foot of the couch showed me where he’d been sleeping. His soiled bed still bore the signs of feverish lovemaking from months ago.

I thought about what could have led Emily here. I wondered how she had known John Acton had been one of her mother’s lovers. It couldn’t have been difficult. The ward is full of men who mutter and hiss about the women who had destroyed them.

I wondered how many of Katy’s lovers stalked the white halls of Sojourner in their slippers, and hid themselves away in the corners of the work room fondling wet clay like they were still touching her body.

I stood in the bathroom doorway.

“What were you going to do with the .22, John? Kill yourself?”

He responded with a whisper.

I leaned in. “What?”

“I want to die,” he whimpered, “but she won’t let me. They’re under my bed—”

“Stop it.”

“—right now. All three of them. The whole family. Look if you don’t believe me. Go look!”

My pulse beat furiously in my wrists. My hands became fists. I wanted to wreck something. I wanted to hurt someone. An icy shiver worked through me and I had to cross my arms over my chest to keep from shuddering. “Did you do it, John? Did you murder Katy and Ron?”

His features shifted as if invisible thumbs were working themselves into the muscles of his face. His eyes widened as his cheeks sagged. “Christ, no! Don’t you understand? I loved her! I always loved her! I still love her! Nothing else works. No other woman means anything to me. Why do you think I’m still alone all these years later?” His eyes found mine. “You know, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I admitted.

“You know because you’re marked too.”

“Yes.”

“You know because you’re exactly the same way! You’re just like me!”

I didn’t know what to do with him. The cops could do a DNA test to discover he was the father, but there wasn’t enough evidence to lead them from there to here. I could kill him but there didn’t seem to be much point. He was either going to eventually dig into his wrists deep enough to do the job right or he’d wind up in Sojourner himself.

But I had to do something with my hands. I worked him over until his nose was broken and he was spitting teeth, but watching his blood pour off his chin onto the dirty tile floor did nothing to empty me of the rage, sorrow, and fear that continued to swell inside me.

Because he was right. I was just like him.

–

There was too much space under my bed. My fiancйe forced me to buy a king size and never spent a night in it as my bride. She had screwed around, but it wasn’t her fault. I’d pushed her away because, deep where it counted, I hadn’t needed or wanted her as much as I’d once craved Katy Wright. Once you’ve enjoyed something so wild, vicious, and bitter, no one else could ever matter again. I’d been marked. I bore scars.

There was more than enough room for four or five or even more bodies beneath the bed. For them to lie there, contorted, swollen, black faced, and crawling over each other, mewling and brooding and conversing. I spent a lot of nights on the couch downstairs now, looking up the steps and listening to the noise of the squirrels in the attic, the wind in the trees, the soft whispers and sighs that might be angry voices or only the sound of my next anxious breath.

–

“God will not look you over for medals, degrees or diplomas, but for scars.” —Elbert Hubbard, Epigrams

–

Tom Piccirilli is the author of twenty novels, including Shadow Season, The Cold Spot, The Coldest Mile, and A Choir of Ill Children. He’s won two International Thriller Awards and four Bram Stoker Awards, as well as having been nominated for the Edgar, the World Fantasy Award, the Macavity, and the Grand Prix de l’Imaginaire.

| THE BLISTERS ON MY HEART |

Nate Southard

–

Shelly keeps her eyes glued to the scorched two-lane as she reaches for the radio. With frantic fingers, she twists the dial, finds Jack and Squat with a whole mess of Not-a-Damn-Thing in between. It’s the quiet radio that scares me the most. Whoever said silence is golden was a goddamn liar. Silence is terrifying, and don’t ever let nobody tell you different.

Shelly whines a split second before she hits the only pothole for miles. I brace myself, but it’s too late. The Mercury jolts up and down, and the hole in my gut tears a little, ripping a barking scream out of me. When I look down, blood weeps between my fingers. That can’t be good, not that anything good is coming down the pike.

“You okay?” she asks.

“No.”

“What do you need?”

“A . . . bed. Just get me a bed.”

Her face pinches, and she shakes her head without once tearing her eyes from the road. “If we stop—”

“I know. Just get me a bed.”

She nods, biting her lip. We both know there’s no outrunning the thing behind us. Best we can do is get ahead of it for a little while. Sometimes the small victories are just so damn hollow.

After a moment of road noise, I spot a motel on the left, a squat, dirt-caked building that would probably be ringed with buzzing neon if it were night. I point with a bloody finger. Shelly gives me another one of those nods and eases onto the brakes.

“Careful entering the lot,” I say. “Please.”

We enter the lot at a speed that wouldn’t even count as a crawl, and still my gut burns liquid fire. I hiss out my pain as tears leak from Shelly’s eyes.

“I’m okay,” I tell her. “Just park . . . by the rooms.”

“But you’re bleeding!”

“Been bleeding a long time. Blisters must’ve popped.”

“Stop it.”

“Wish I could. Just . . . Just not that easy.”

The Mercury groans to a stop, splitting a pair of parking spaces. Shelly turns to me, her face lined with worry, black hair a tangle.

“What do we do?”

I almost grin at the question, but everything hurts too much. Instead, I nod toward the first motel room. “See if it’ll open.”

“But—”

“Just check, baby. Please.”

Her teeth work that lip again, her eyes shifting toward the motel room, and then she shoulders open her door and climbs out. As she walks toward the door, pale denim sheathing legs I know all too well, I grab the flask from the dash and swallow a belt. The bourbon rips down my throat and sends warmth through my insides, drowning some of the pain. Not nearly enough, but some.

Shelly reaches the door—a number three hanging crooked on it—and tries the handle. It jiggles but won’t turn. The door to room two gives her the same deal. When she turns back to the car, her face looks panicked for a second, but then it goes hard, and I can see the resolve deep in those brown eyes. She stalks back to the car, and I know what she’s coming to get even before she opens my door and reaches over my lap. Her eyes don’t so much as tick my way as she opens the glove compartment and snatches the .38 snub nose from inside. She pops the cylinder, and I see four bullets inside. With ruthless efficiency, she slaps the pistol shut again, and then she stomps away, leaving my door wide open.

My vision dims as I watch her walk to the office, her fingers tight around the pistol and her entire body tick-ticking back and forth with each step. The fire in my belly’s getting colder, and I know that’s not a good thing. How she can walk like that in her condition beats the hell out of me.

Maybe I can just slip away, just be cold by the time Shelly returns. Then she can keep running. Then she can—

Two cracking shots snap me out of my daze. I jump, and a new jolt of pure goddamn torture kicks another scream out of me. Flashbulbs pop in my eyes. They don’t clear until Shelly tosses the gun at my feet and puts a warm palm on my face.

“Look, baby,” she says. She jangles a room key.

I force a smile. The pain makes it hard, but the whiskey helps. “Did good, babe.” I try to ignore the flecks of blood on her cheek. They almost match her lipstick.

“I love you.”

“Come here.” She pushes toward me, and I grab the back of her head, mash her warm lips to mine.

“Let’s get you inside,” she says, and then she slips an arm under my shoulder and lifts.

The world goes electric hot as she gets me on my feet. I feel another rip and press hard against my gut. Don’t want anything slipping through and slapping the concrete. Shelly gets her weight under me. She feels so small, but she supports this idiot better than any crutch.

As she walks me toward the room, telling me to watch the curb, I lift my head and look west. The sky looms black. Most folks would say it looks like a bank of fat storm clouds, but I know better. It’s something much worse—even from here, I can see the fire inside it—and it’s my fault.

Least I did it for love.

–

“Babe, you’re gonna break my heart, you keep that up.”

Shelly chuckles a little—giggling doesn’t suit her—and leans her head back, sending black curls to break like angry waves against her pale shoulders. She wriggles on top of me, sending tiny jolts of pleasure from my lap through my entire body, and my hands find her hips, make her grind a little slower so I don’t explode then and there.

We sit in a darkened corner of the club, draped in shadows, out of reach of the black lights and televisions tuned to sports, like any guy in here is watching something other than the latest dancer to take the stage.

“That sounds funny?” I ask. I hope it sounds playful, but everything that comes out of my mouth sounds cold. Just the way it goes.

“A little.” Her voice makes me picture honey, pouring slow and smooth.

“Why’s that?”

She leans in close. Her breasts press against me, and her hot breath finds my ear. She smells like soap, not the cheap, stinging perfume all the other dancers use. Somehow, I manage not to shudder.

“Because hearts don’t break, baby,” she says. “They scrape against the inside of your chest until they blister. Then they pop and leak and blister all over again until they get tired and give up.” She arches her back and sets her hips going harder.

“Speaking of popping, better slow it down.”

A pout appears on her red lips. Then, it breaks into a wicked grin. “Don’t you want me to get you off?”

“Not my game.”

Shelly—she says that’s her real name, that she only goes by Ivy onstage—slides back until she’s sitting on my knee. She arches one smooth leg the color of milk and plants her foot dangerously close to my crotch. I’m trailing my eyes from her shin down to her ankle when both her hands close around me and squeeze.

“This feel like a game, baby?”

No, it doesn’t. It feels amazing, and my cock jumps in response. She slides her hands up, down, working me through my jeans, and my entire body feels alive. My eyes slip shut, and my breath comes in ragged bursts. If it’s a game, it’s the best one I’ve ever played.

Pressure builds. My vision crackles red. I hear Shelly chuckle again, and I grab her wrists in my hands, move them to my shoulders.

“Babe, I didn’t show up for a rub and tug.”

She jerks away, and the look on her face makes me think I really wounded her. I figure it’s a practiced expression. A woman like her can use a look like that better than guys back in the yard can use a shiv. You never see it coming; you’re just bleeding all of a sudden.

The wounded look goes razor hostile. Another good trick. “If you’re not worth my time—”

I grab her hips and pull her close, press her hard against the bulge in my lap. She squirms, her lips slipping from a firm line to a smile, and a sigh breezes out of her.

My eyes lock with hers. “Maybe I just want a little company.”

She presses her weight down on me. Her chest rises and falls, a black bra mashing her breasts into a shelf of flesh.

“If I’m worth your while or not is for you to decide, babe. I just know I ain’t paying for your hand.”

“You know how to use it?”

“Yeah.”

She climbs off of me and starts to walk away. I reach for my drink, sure she’s decided to move onto another worm she can hook, when she looks over her shoulder.

“C’mon.”

–

She drives a beat-up Mercury, but it looks real nice with her stretched across the hood behind the club. The night’s sticky hot, but Shelly doesn’t care. Everything’s given way to animal lust, me included. I try to be gentle, tender, but her eyes keep finding mine. She arches her back and digs her nails into my naked chest, and it’s like a whip across a thoroughbred’s flank. My groans become grunts. Her moans become screams.

When it’s done—when Shelly stretches her arms over her head and a smile fills her face—I button myself up and stand there with my hands in my pockets like some schoolkid. Shelly climbs off the hood and touches her hand to my face, kisses me.

“Amazing,” she says. “You better come back for me.”

I nod. She can tell I’m not lying. By now, she’s probably used to hooking guys like this. Give them the first one free, and then make them pay hand over fist. I know the game by heart, but her hand on my face feels so soft, so cool. I can almost feel the hook enter my skin, and I don’t think I care.

Maybe Shelly can see my thoughts tumbling around, because she pulls me close to her and plants a hard kiss on my mouth.

“You ain’t paying me a thing, baby. This is just you and me.”

My heart accelerates, and I can feel it start to scrape.

–

The days and nights blur, twist, and combine. Shelly burns everything down and builds it back up again. Her skin becomes my home, her touch the electric spark that keeps my pulse racing. Our time together is spent in a world of teeth and lips and sweat. Whiskey and cigarettes. Our eyes lock as our bodies buck against each other, only slipping shut when our passion explodes.

If it ain’t love, it’s the purest lust I’ve ever experienced.

–

Months pass blissfully, and then this guy, this total asshole, appears. Walks right into the club like he owns the joint. Maybe he does. Not like I know things like that. I just come to see Shelly, and I can feel her bristle the second he enters the place.

“You okay?”

“Fine,” she says, but her voice is flat, far away.

I fix my eyes on the guy and try to burn holes through him. He wears a leather jacket that shines in the dim light. Long, black hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and the only thing distracting from his deep, shadowed eyes is a scar that travels a jagged path from his hairline to his chin. When he jabs a cigar into his teeth and lights it, I see fire dance off a collection of silver rings. The musky smoke from his cigar fills the club, and it smells like money. The kind of cash that comes with a whole lot of power.

I feel Shelly’s hands tighten around my arm as I watch the man sit. A drink appears at his hand the instant his ass hits leather, a nervous-looking waitress giving him her best smile. He waves her off with two fingers and then knocks back the entire drink in a single swallow. The smile his eyes give me over the rim of the glass makes me want to crush his throat. One by one, my muscles harden.

“Don’t,” Shelly whispers in my ear, and for the first time I can remember, she sounds scared. “He’s dangerous.”

“Who is he?”

“His name’s Michael.”

“Who is he?”

“I’m not sure. Deals art or something. I just know he’s dangerous.”

“So am I, babe.”

“Not like he is.”

I shoot Shelly a glance, and I see her watching Michael, her eyes narrow and worried. Another blister rises, and I know I hate this man. This man I don’t even know, I despise him with everything I have.

A waitress I know as Liz approaches. She looks scared, like a child afraid to tell her parents about the awful thing she’s done. Shelly’s hands ratchet tighter on my arm.

“Michael wants to see you, Ivy,” Liz says.

“I’m with somebody,” Shelly replies.

“He wants to see you now.”

“She doesn’t want to see him,” I say, standing before I even realize I’m doing it. Shelly pulls at my arm, dragging me back to my seat.

“Don’t.” There’s a begging note in her voice, and one of the blisters deep inside my chest pops.

“Who the hell is that guy? He bad news? Has he hurt you or something?”

She shakes her head. “Just go home. I’ll call you later.”

I stare at her for what feels like forever. Really? Like I can’t handle it? I know what she does here. My brain twists and tumbles, and I try to sort out what the hell’s going on, but eventually all I can say is, “I’m staying. Do what you have to.”

“Baby . . .”

“Just do what you need,” I say, making sure to phrase it in a way that hurts. Petty, but I don’t really care. My leaking heart wants me to be a child for a moment.

“Okay.” Shelly nods, and the look on her face is more than a shiv. It’s a Christmas tree, a jagged, barbed hunk of metal that rips out your guts when a con yanks it out of you. Without another word, she kisses me on the cheek and then leaves, the sex absent from her walk. She looks defeated, lost. Looking past her, I catch Michael smiling at me.

“Let me grab you a beer,” Liz says. Then she’s gone, and I’m left to sit there and stew.

Michael kisses Shelly’s hand when she greets him, and I see the shiver run through her body. She’s sad and terrified, and he doesn’t even care. Another wave of his fingers, and a fresh drink appears at the table, along with a flute of champagne. Michael lets Shelly take a single, faltering sip, and then he makes a great show of reaching down and unzipping his pants.

Shelly shoots another look my way, an apology. I don’t give any sign that I’ve noticed. Instead, as Liz places a cold bottle on my table, I tell myself this is all part of the game. I’ve seen Shelly tug on men before. This is just another Joe, another dollar. He’s an asshole, but he doesn’t mean a damn thing to her. She loves me.

Then, Shelly’s head disappears under the table, and Michael leans his head back and gives me the biggest grin I’ve ever seen.

Rage flares inside me like a black fire. It surrounds my heart, helping it to blister faster, and I pour beer down my throat as though it might douse the flames.

Michael sees this, and somehow his grin widens. I want to walk over there and rip his face off with my nails, but the sight of Shelly’s head cresting the plane of the table and diving back down again reminds me I’m not the only person involved.

My eyes flick back to Michael’s face, to that grin. It’s still spreading, and I wonder if the guy’s face is made out of rubber. But then the skin splits at the corners of his mouth. It cracks and peels away like old leather or something, blood trickling past exposed teeth. His eyes don’t leave mine, and I sense a terrible glee in them, and still the guy’s mug is splitting in half, the bleeding ruptures in his skin almost back to his ears, the tendons of his jaw now visible. The club’s lights flicker. No, they vibrate, everything feeling like an earthquake for a few seconds. I can’t tell if anybody else notices. Shelly doesn’t stop, so maybe it’s just me. Right now, I’m not sure I care if anybody else feels it. Michael has my attention. Blood trickles from his ears; a tear of red leaves his eye and traces his scar down to the rip in his face.

Then, the world blinks, and he’s just Michael again. Sitting there. Smiling at me. My woman’s head in his lap.

Liz appears. “You okay?”

“You see any of that?”

“Any of what?”

“That shit with Michael.”

“Not . . . No, I didn’t.” Her voice is thick with terror.

“Somebody needs to shut that guy down.”

Her hand touches my shoulder. “You should go.”

The words finally pull my eyes away from Michael. “What? Like hell.”

“You’ll make things worse for her, if you stay. He likes to make examples.”

No shit.

“I’ll make sure she calls as soon as she can.”

“Fine.” I climb out of my seat and start walking, but I keep my eyes on Michael’s, letting him know I’m not backing down. I’ve told more obvious lies. Hell, I even believe this one right up until I hear the man’s laughter chase me out of the club.

–

Shelly doesn’t call. Instead, she comes by late, just after I put the sixth hole through my wall. Her eyes are red and wet, and she breaks into sobs when she sees the blood on my knuckles.

I wrap her in my arms and tell her it will be all right, even as I hope she can’t feel the hate inside me. As she weeps against my chest, I imagine my hands around Michael’s neck. I wonder if he’d smile as his face turned from red to purple.

“I’m so sorry,” she says.

“It’s okay.” I press my lips to hers and taste mouthwash alongside cigarettes. It makes me feel a little sick. Then she kisses me with more force, with a desperate hunger, and I’m hooked again. I want her and need her. She’s everything in the world to this big idiot.

Before I realize it, my own hunger’s kicked in, hard. My arms tighten around her, my hands roaming. Shelly moans. I slide my kisses down to her neck, and soon my fingers pull at her clothes.

Her moans stop. Her hands grab at mine. “No.”

“What?”

“Just . . . not now. Not for a few days.”

I stare at her for a moment, and shame clouds her eyes.

“What did he do?” I ask.

Instead of answering, she turns away, her hands rubbing at her arms.

“Michael, right? What did he do to you?”

“Leave it.”

“Tell me!”

She sobs again, and my heart scrapes hard against my ribs. Shelly doesn’t say anything, but instead peels off her clothes.

My breath catches in my throat like a cork in a dusty bottle.

Bruises cover her body, a canvas of browns and blues and blacks. Red welts serve as accents. I know who the artist is, and I can tell he’s a master. Looking at the damage, I’m amazed Shelly can even walk, let alone act like she’s okay. As she returns to my arms, however, she pulls the curtain aside and shows how much she’s hurting.

I realize I’m going to kill Michael.

“Does he always do this?” I ask.

“When he wants.”

“And the club allows it.”

“He throws enough money their way, it doesn’t matter.”

I take a deep breath, wondering if I’m willing to go back inside for this. Yeah, I am.

“Have you been to his house?”

–

I don’t know who Michael is, and Shelly doesn’t have much of an idea past him being rich, powerful, and mean to the core, but his house looks like it belongs to somebody important. Parked down the street from this thing that can only be called a mansion, I ask Shelly about security. I hate that she can tell me she’s never seen any. She speaks with the confidence of somebody who’s visited more than once or twice.

My fingers tighten around the tire iron in my lap. I picture my plans, how I plan to use the tool, and my body burns cold. Shelly must feel it, because she shivers behind the wheel.

“I’ll be back soon.”

“I have to come with you,” she says.

“No you don’t. You stay here, and I’ll be back when it’s over.”

Her eyes shift to razor focus. “I’m not helpless.”

“I know, babe.”

“And you don’t have to do this. Please. Michael’s dangerous. He’s scary.”

“I can be scary, too.”

And I climb out of the Mercury.

–

Getting over the fence ain’t so hard. I’ve pulled off tougher jobs, and getting across the prick’s giant, lit-up yard and finding an unlocked window is almost a walk in the goddamn park. Did a six-year stretch on a B&E once, but that was just one screwup compared to dozens of successful jobs. I know how to get into a house.

I ease the window open slowly, listening for dogs. Michael strikes me as the breed of rich bastard to keep a few dogs around. He has to feel so secure for some reason, and I haven’t spotted so much as a lick of security.

What I hear drifting from the window sure as hell ain’t dogs, though. Not unless Michael taught a pack to moan like a gaggle of pros. My teeth grind as I think about Shelly sitting in the car, bruised and marked, while this bastard entertains himself with even more women. I take a deep breath, steeling the last of my nerves, and then I climb through the window.

Something’s wrong. It doesn’t take a genius to figure that much.

I find myself in a study, thick books lining shelves made of dark wood. A leather sofa sits in the middle of the floor, facing two armchairs. It looks so normal, but the light’s all wrong. It vibrates, just like it did in the club. A new sound has sprung up to match the women. It’s a low, threatening moan. Somebody singing deep and full at the end of a long tunnel. Everything rushes right to my skull and throbs. Dizziness grabs me and almost sends me to my knees. The iron feels slick in my hand, and I realize I’m sweating tin pails.

Everything dims. I shove my fingers into my mouth and bite down, hard. Pain races up my arm to my brain, and suddenly I’m awake again. The light’s still weird, and that moan is still there, but they’ve backed off a little. I can function.

I leave the room cautiously, fingers on the door’s edge, feet heel-toeing it when I walk. As I leave the study, I take in the bastard’s impressive home. Everything’s marble, polished and white. If the lights would stop their fluttering, it would be perfect.

No. Nothing will ever be perfect here.

That low, moaning sound is more of a rumble, now. It lays underneath everything, threatening to break loose. I have to search to find which direction all that pleasure’s coming from, but it doesn’t take long. Michael really has the women with him singing. I wonder what he’s doing to them, and if Shelly had to make those noises when he was beating her five different shades of awful.

By the time I find the door I want, the one with all the moaning and screaming on the other side, the tire iron is almost a part of my hand. My fingers burn against the cool metal. My knuckles shine white.

I close my eyes and picture Michael’s smile. I see Shelly’s head bobbing up and down. Before Michael’s face begins to split, I open my eyes again. I’m ready for blood.

I kick open the door. Wood splinters and women scream. As I step into the room, iron cocked and ready to swing, I see naked flesh scatter. Half a dozen women run in half a dozen different directions. Some are bruised already. A redhead has a quartet of bleeding gashes in her neck.

There’s more white marble in here, only this is laced with blood. Red splatters draw my eyes downward. I spot more red at the back of the room and raise my eyes to see a curtain. Elsewhere, I see immaculate lounges and rotting wooden racks. Nothing matches, here. Everything is chaos.

Michael stands in the middle, an epicenter in black pants and nothing else. His hair is a wild tangle. A whip occupies one hand, and a bottle of whiskey fills the other. That grin sits just how I expected it, and I can already see myself knocking it in with the iron.

“White knight?” Michael asks. His voice is silky, that kind of smooth that has a layer of pure rot underneath.

The tire iron shakes in my fist. I want to say something, but my throat is full of anger. The lights are vibrating more, that rumble is starting to shake the floor. What on earth . . . ?

“Not exactly, huh?” He tosses the whip to the floor and takes a long pull of the bottle. His confidence is a living thing. He doesn’t even care that I’m here.

“Shelly said she had a fella. Told her I didn’t give a damn. She tell you to stay away?” As if putting a period on the end, his skin ripples, a quick wave that could almost be imagination.

I answer by taking a step forward. Can’t be scary just standing there.

“She never told you? Maybe she doesn’t know. Here.”

His flesh moves again as he walks away from me. I want to rush him, want to crack his skull wide open, but my feet refuse to move. As Michael reaches for a golden rope, I can only watch.

He pulls, and the curtain glides open.

I look at a storm in a large glass jar. A roiling mass of pure black fills the glass that’s almost waist high. Fire twists with the black clouds. Lightning traces patterns along its outer shape. Together, the three—I don’t know, are they elements?—move like a living thing. I try to think of another time I might have seen something so amazing, and all I can think of is Michael’s face-splitting grin.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” Michael asks. “That’s Hell for ya. Looks great until it busts loose. Lucky for you and Shelly and everybody else on this rock, I’m here.”

He steps to the jar and traces a finger along it. Lightning and fire follow his touch.

“See, white knight? I keep Hell right where it belongs. It’s not easy work, but I have my appetites to keep me sane.”

One of the girls whimpers. I’d almost forgotten about them.

“Sane?” Not the first word I’d planned on speaking.

“More or less.” His grin starts to split along the edges again. He walks back to the curtain, reaches behind it. My body tenses.

“How about you stop moving?”

He pulls off the bottle. There’s a shrug, so casual I barely notice it, and then his other arm appears, the snub nose tight in his fist.

I rush him. You run at a guy with a gun, he panics. His reaction time drops to nothing, and any shots will be wild ones.

Michael fires twice, but only the first misses. The second punches right into my belly. Everything becomes fire, but I keep moving. A growl scratches out of my throat as I reach Michael and swing.

The first strike drops him. I feel the crunch of his skull all the way up my arm. He doesn’t make a sound, just collapses to the marble floor. I hear more screams, followed by the sound of one of the women running for her life.

I raise the tire iron and bring it down again. It smashes through Michael’s face. Something tears in my gut, and then pain is almost blinding.

The rumbling becomes a roar. The lights strobe faster and faster.

I grab the snub nose and press it to Michael’s chest. Somehow, it continues to rise and fall. Not much, but enough that I have to be sure. When I jab the barrel against his sternum, something pushes back. Black veins travel across his flesh and then disappear.

I hold my breath and pull the trigger.

His body bucks hard beneath the blast and then lies still. I stagger backward, trying to figure my next move. Five women stare at me. This many witnesses can’t be good; I know that. Before I can make a decision, however, I hear glass cracking.

My eyes flash to the jar, to the fracture making its way from top to bottom. Tendrils of flame and blackness snake out from the crack, testing the air.

I drop the tire iron and push the hand to my bleeding gut. The women scream and scream, and I back toward the door, wanting to tell them to run, but unable to do a damn thing but hiss through bared teeth.