Hellhound

Page 50

Was this a trap?
“Good luck, team,” Daniel said. The screen went blank.
The ogre reached across me to open the door. “Wait!” I touched his arm. He looked at my hand as though it might be something to eat. Then his hard, tiny eyes met my face. His tusks gleamed.
“Remember that this tip came from a demon,” I said, looking at the ogre but speaking to the whole team. “Pryce is powerful in the demon plane. He may have passed me this information to set a trap.”
“We know that.” The hard eyes softened a degree. “But thanks.” Then he opened the door and stepped quietly out. For a monster the size of a gorilla, he was light on his feet. The others followed, silent.
The ogre wore a headset linking him to the van’s communication system, which the driver had now taken over. When the team was in position, the ogre notified us. Then we heard his whispered command, “Go, go, go, go!”
We heard shattering glass and the explosion of flash-bang grenades.
We heard shouts of “Police! Down on the floor, now!”
We heard rapid-fire shots.
And we heard a soul-rending scream of fear and pain.
After that, we heard static. Nothing else.
“Shit,” said the driver. “Something’s—”
I didn’t hear the rest of his sentence. I was already out the door and running toward the building.
My boots slapped the pavement as I sprinted to the opening they’d cut in the fence. Wire ripped my jacket, catching a sleeve as I squeezed through. I yanked free and darted to the open door, drawing a sword as I went.
Inside, I found myself standing in a long hallway. Sounds of fighting erupted from the far end. Moving quickly, I advanced along the hall, staying quiet and watching the shadows for hidden enemies. The corpse of an Old One lay on the floor. I raised my foot to step over it, but a hand grabbed my ankle and yanked me off balance. Not dead. I fell sideways, using the momentum to turn and ram my sword into the damn thing’s throat. Flesh sizzled as the silver blade entered the desiccated body. The Old One gurgled. The hand relaxed and fell away.
Good. Silver still did its job. The feel of the blade finding its target, the death rattle, strength slipping away—these things sped up my adrenaline-accelerated pulse. I wanted more.
The hot, prickling demon mark urged me forward. I paused, trying to suppress the feeling. It grew. I struggled for a moment, then I let it go. I was here to win. Not merely to stop my enemies but to crush them. To drive in my sword and exult in their annihilation. Instead of resisting the Destroyer, I’d draw strength from the demon that had marked me.
That mark raged with fire that raced up my arm. It ignited my heart, my brain. There would be death—and I would bring it.
Impatient to join the battle, I ran forward. I passed another body that made me pause. This one, in a mechanic’s coveralls, had been decapitated. A few feet away the head of a male zombie stared at me. Then it blinked. His mouth moved, but the severed vocal cords couldn’t produce sound. His black tongue licked his lips, and I realized the words he was trying to say.
“Help me.”
How in hell can you help a headless zombie? Maybe an undead surgeon could put him back together, but there was nothing I could do. Not even put the poor guy out of his misery. My attempt at a reassuring smile a sickly failure, I left him where he lay.
Almost there. From the room at the end of the hall came the grunts, scuffles, and shouts of fighting. Blades clashed. Someone bellowed in pain. Why no gunshots? I quickened my pace. My demon mark spouted flame, reflected in my blade. The need to be in the thick of it, to color my sword with blood and gore, gripped me. I’d stood by for too long. Only death—hot, steaming, bloody death—would satisfy.
I stepped inside. In the semidarkness, it was hard to tell who was what. Zombies, robed Old Ones, SWAT team members—all roiled and writhed in a noisy, pounding mass of violence.
A scream, primal, coming from some place far beyond me, tore itself from my throat. Raising my sword, I plunged into the fight.
33
DARKNESS. PAIN. MY FACE LAY ON SOMETHING HARD, rough. It scraped my cheek when I moved.
Could I sit up? Yes. My muscles screamed, but I managed. My fingers clutched something. A sword hilt. Good. I had protection.
I squinted into the darkness through watery eyes, trying to figure out where I was. My brain thudded like a cotton-stuffed drum: throb throb throb. A thought pushed its way through the thickness: Bonita’s cell. I stretched my arms widely, feeling with my fingers, testing with my sword. No walls within reach. In the distance, a car horn honked. I sniffed, inhaling scents of diesel fumes and salt air. Not a cell, then. I was outside. But where? I could think of no place in Boston where the darkness could be so complete.
How did I get here? And what the hell happened in the abandoned factory? I probed my memory, but the cottony, sludgy feeling wouldn’t clear. I remembered making my way down the hall, my demon mark aflame, excitement building as I neared the fight. I remembered my lust for violence, my blood-chilling battle cry in a voice that wasn’t mine. But then everything collapsed into a flashing kaleidoscope of tumbling images. Blade hitting blade. Blade sinking into flesh. Screams. Thuds. And blood—so much blood. Fountains of it. Rivers. Oceans.
I couldn’t tease the images apart. I saw the blossoming of a sudden wound and didn’t know whether it was mine or another’s. I felt myself step over a body but couldn’t tell whose it was, not even friend or foe. And through it all, a voice whispered in my mind. Not my own thoughts—I was sure of that. A voice outside of me, seeking a way in, wanting something from me. But I couldn’t find the shape or meaning of the words. It was like trying to listen to someone speaking underwater. The words bubbled toward me, but I couldn’t make them out. When I tried now to recall, to listen, my fragmented memory went blank.
Nothing.
My eyes had adjusted to the darkness, which wasn’t as absolute as I’d first thought. I needed to figure out where I was. Everything would fall into place then, and I could move forward. I hoped.
The phone Daniel had given me had a GPS. I’d find out where I was, and then I’d call my apartment. Mab would pick up. She must be frantic with worry by now.
I tried again to dredge up a memory from the raid. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t remember. Mab wasn’t the only one who was worried.
Daniel’s phone wasn’t in my pocket. Damn it, it had to be. I stood, feeling every blow and cut I couldn’t remember, and checked all my pockets. My clothes were torn and stiff with blood. My hands were sticky with it. But the phone was gone.
So were most of the weapons I’d carried. All I had was the sword in my hand. It, too, was tacky with blood, both hilt and blade.
Okay. No phone, but the plan hadn’t changed. I’d determine my location, and then I’d find a phone to call Mab.
I seemed to be in the middle of an alley between two tall buildings. No streetlights shone here, but the darkness seemed thinner ahead, so I went that way. It amazed me that there could be a pocket of such deep darkness in a city the size of Boston, especially so near the full moon. Overhead, the sky was uniformly black. No moon, no stars. Despite the sunny afternoon, heavy clouds must have blown in. But now, in this alley, there wasn’t a whisper of wind.
I moved slowly, left hand in front of me, my right gripping my sword as I shuffled through the inky night toward the lesser darkness. Each step sent pains of every description surging through me. Twice I stumbled over unseen objects in my path. But I kept going. When I exited this alley, I’d be on a street. There would be lights, traffic, people, signs. It would be like stepping back into the world.
Except it wasn’t. I reached the alley’s mouth and leaned against the corner of the building. There was a street here, yes, but everything was still so dark. I couldn’t see the far curb, let alone a street sign. Distant sounds of traffic were audible, but muffled. I shook my head, trying to clear it. What was wrong with my senses? And where was the source of the light I’d seen while in the alleyway?
There. A glimmer in the darkness. I squinted, and it took shape, grew steadier. A flame burned. I went toward it.
As I got closer, I could make out the source: a fire burning inside a barrel. A figure stood by it, warming his hands. One of Boston’s homeless? Maybe he could tell me where we were, why everything was so dark.
The man stared into the fire, the flames giving his wrinkled, bearded face a maniacal air. He wore a torn raincoat, belted at the waist. His old, gnarled hands writhed around each other in the heat. His shoes were mismatched—one was an old work boot, the other a running shoe held together with duct tape. He didn’t look up as I approached.
“Excuse me,” I said, standing back a little in the darkness so my bloody appearance wouldn’t alarm him. “I’m lost. Could you tell me where we are?”
The old man cackled, still staring at the flames as though hypnotized. His grin revealed a mouth missing more teeth than it held. I wasn’t sure he’d understood my question, so I asked again. No answer. His laughter was the only sign he’d heard me.
This man couldn’t help. I turned away, wondering which way I should go in all that darkness, when the cackling stopped.
“Yes, I can tell you where we are.” The deep baritone voice didn’t match the old man’s high-pitched laugh.
When I turned around, the man stood in the same place by the fire. But the face that now stared at me wasn’t the face of the old homeless man.
“Pryce.” My aching fingers tightened their grip on my sword.
“You’ve been here before. The world between the worlds. Limbo, humans call it.”
Yes, I’d been in Limbo before. A place of lost things, of wandering souls. It was a borderland between the human and demon planes, a place touching both but belonging to neither. Pryce had once sent a demon to pull me into Limbo and attack me there.
Not again. I brought my sword forward and stepped out of the darkness. Aim for the bastard’s heart.
As soon as the firelight touched me, my hand released my sword. It fell to the ground and my arm dropped to my side, shaking.