Yeah, it’s true, Dina admitted. She was always pissed that I had a gift, and royally pissed when I joined the Others, and cosmically pissed when you and I hooked up. After all, she’s so much purer than me.
“Mr. Shea?” Martha waved her hand at him. “Are you okay? Or do you need new batteries for your hearing aids?”
“New batteries might be a good idea,” he agreed. Better that than telling her Dina was back. “Top drawer of my bedside table.”
Martha went into the other room.
He pushed his wheelchair over to the window and looked out.
There Dina was, standing on the street, smoking her cigarette and looking up at him.
She was the most powerful mind-speaker he’d ever met. With everyone else, she could project her thoughts into their brains and they heard her as clearly as a loudspeaker.
With him, all he had to do was think and she understood him. So he thought, I’ve been waiting for you.
It wasn’t safe before, she answered.
It’s still not safe, he warned.
No, but Osgood is distracted, busy preparing the papers that give him ownership of the world.
You could come in here with me. I’d keep you safe.
I would only do that if I were dying. Or you were.
Regret pierced him. Sorry to disappoint you. I’m the healthiest almost century-old man you’re ever going to meet. And he turned away from the window.
Don’t be like that, she coaxed. It’s not that I don’t want to see you. It’s that . . .
You don’t trust me.
A pause. Yes, I do.
Years ago, when they were young, he had used her, betrayed her, and abandoned her. Because of him, the Others had had her nose split from forehead to tip, a dreadful punishment that left her scarred and outcast.
He had earned her suspicion. He had no right now to wish he had been a better man.
“I can’t find the batteries, Mr. Shea,” Martha called.
“Forgive an old fool.” Irving tapped his forehead ruefully. “I moved the batteries to the drawer in the headboard.”
Dina’s warm chuckle sounded in his head. For an old guy, you’re wily.
Old age has to be good for something. Pretending forgetfulness is it.
I know.
You’re still young.
No. Not even compared to you, my darling. She pulled out another cigarette. So what’s in the box?
A feather from Lucifer’s descent from heaven to hell.
The lighter paused halfway to her mouth. Now, that’s interesting. What does it do?
We’re not sure, but we are almost sure it has something to do with one of Jacqueline’s prophecies.
Dina laughed so hard she went into a paroxysm of coughing. Fucking prophecies.
“Here you go, Mr. Shea.” Martha offered him the two tiny batteries.
“I can’t replace them, dear. My fingers aren’t steady enough.” He held out his hand to show her the palsy that shook him.
“Give them to me.” Martha held out her hand impatiently.
Meekly, he handed over his hearing aids.
When did she get so snappish? Dina asked.
“We’re all a little tense,” he said out loud.
Martha looked up, startled and confused, and said something.
He tapped his ear again.
She shrugged and went back to work inserting the battery—which he was completely able to do himself.
So how are you going to extract that feather from the box? Dina asked.
That’s the question, he replied, but this time he remembered to keep his mouth shut.
Martha offered him the hearing aids.
He put them in and smiled. “Thank you, dear. I don’t know what we would do without you.”
“I don’t either,” Martha said sharply. “I keep thinking about what Samuel asked last night.”
He observed as she fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other. “What’s that?”
“He wondered what would happen if someone just flipped the latch and opened the box?” Nervous. Martha was nervous.
“I’ve wondered that, too.”
“Which makes me worry. The dear boy is so impetuous.”
Irving lifted his eyebrows—no small feat for a man with the weighty equivalent of Gandalf’s eyebrows. “The dear boy?”
The dear boy? Dina echoed. She hates kids.
They’re hardly kids.
Compared to her, they are.
Crabby, he thought appreciatively.
“Isabelle said he was not to open the box. But if we don’t get it open soon, you know he’ll try it.” Martha spoke loudly and slowly, enunciating every word as if she knew she was competing for his attention.
She certainly had it, although probably not for the reasons she hoped. “What do you think is going to happen?”
“I don’t know,” Martha said. “But it could be dangerous.”
“It could,” Irving agreed.
What’s her angle? Dina’s voice echoed his own question.
Martha continued. “Isabelle said it best—which of the Chosen Ones can we afford to sacrifice?”
That bitch. In his mind’s eye, Irving could see Dina tossing down her cigarette and, with a dramatic flourish, stomping on it. She wants you to do it!
I intended to, anyway.
Bullshit, Irving.
Dina, I’m old. I’ve been atoning for my sins committed on this earth for a very long time—and my biggest sin was against you. It’s time for me to meet my maker. Surely you can understand that? And approve?
She didn’t answer.
“Mr. Shea?” Martha stepped close to the table. “Are you all right? You look . . . distant.”
He listened for another few minutes. Was Dina gone again? “I’m fine, Martha. Thank you.”
Now Martha spoke too quickly, as if she had a schedule to meet. “Did you hear me when I asked which of the Chosen Ones could be sacrificed to open the box?”
“Yes. I heard you. Both times.” In his mind, he continued. The question for me is—why are you urging me on this course?
“Because the bitch wants the feather for herself.” Dina had run into the house and up the stairs. Now she stood in the doorway of Irving’s bedroom suite. Her chest heaved; her eyes flamed.
Martha flung herself around to face the intruder. “You! What are you doing here?”
Irving had forgotten how much the sisters resembled each other.
Both were handsome rather than pretty, sturdily built rather than thin, with dark, gray-streaked hair, brown eyes, and tanned skin that betrayed their Romany heritage. Yet they were nothing alike.
Martha had elected to serve the Chosen Ones.
Dina had joined the Others.
Martha had served him long and well as his housekeeper, and he appreciated that.
More than fifty years ago, he and Dina had conducted a violent, passionate love affair, and it ended badly. His fault.
Yet he loved Dina. Loved her with an affection that only increased with age and distance.
Now the sisters faced each other like the adversaries they were.
Aggressive and angry, Dina slammed the door hard enough to make his collection of skulls rattle on the shelves. She paced around Martha. “What are you going to do with it, sister? Who are you going to give the feather to? Did you finally realize the Chosen Ones’ ship was sinking? Did you feel the ice water lapping at your feet? Your thighs?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Martha watched her as if she were a circling shark. “You shouldn’t be bothering Mr. Shea. You shouldn’t be here at all.”
“But I am,” Dina said. “And I heard everything you said. I was in Irving’s head. You want him to open that box and take the chance that he’ll be obliterated.”
“The box needs to be opened. The feather needs to be rescued to fulfill the prophecy and save the world from being overtaken by the Others.” Martha lowered her voice. “Having
him try to open it is not such a stupid idea. He’s close to one hundred years old, after all.”
“New hearing aid batteries, Martha,” he reminded her.
She whipped her head around to glare at him, then whipped back to face Dina.
“So you were encouraging Irving to open the box for the good of the Chosen Ones and to increase the likelihood that good will defeat evil.” Dina smiled with cruel mockery. “Did you intend to remain in the room while he sacrificed himself?”
Martha leaped for the door.
Dina tackled her around the waist, slammed her against the table.
Martha gasped in pain, then twisted and pushed Dina to the ground.
Dina came up at once, gold candleholder in hand, and smacked Martha across the side of the head.
Martha staggered.
Dina caught her in her arms. She looked over her half-conscious sister at Irving. Do it. We can never be together in this life. Too much divides us. Maybe we can be together in the next.
“I love you,” he said aloud. He ripped open the latch and threw back the lid of the box.
Magic roared out in an explosion that rocked the walls, blowing out and up in a blast of heat and light that disintegrated every life-form in the room.
Then, like a cool breeze, it slid across the shelves, ruffled the pages on the open books, whipped through the empty-eyed skulls, and dissipated as if it had never been, leaving only a three-foot-long gleaming white feather floating, suspended, above the box that had been its home.
Chapter 41
New York was never quiet. Even in the early morning, the city hummed with life and excitement: garbage trucks rumbling, early-morning commuters grumbling, shopkeepers opening their doors.
Yet this morning, as Charisma rode the three blocks to St. Maddie’s, the streets were oddly empty and eerily silent.
Then from the south, she heard a hollow, rhythmic booming begin, as if someone were using a gigantic jackhammer to dismantle something big. Something like . . . the Statue of Liberty.
No. Osgood wouldn’t dare. . . .
Yet the sound funneled through the streets, loud and ominous, and only a week remained until the Chosen Ones’ chance was over and Osgood—and the devil—would reign for a thousand years.
Better not think about that. Think about the job at hand. Think about the orphanage under attack. Think about the nuns who would give up their lives for those children.
Charisma rode faster.
St. Madeleine Brideau Orphanage had been built in the mid-nineteenth century near the then brand-new Central Park. The convent occupied a full quarter of a city block, big enough for the church, the sleeping quarters, the classrooms, and a small playground. Even during the best of times, a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence surrounded everything except the entrance to the church, which was protected at night by iron bars. Now Charisma saw that rolled barbed wire had been added to the top of the fence, and even in the daytime the bars secured the church.
Good thing, because demons, dozens of demons, clung to the fence across the playground from the terrified children who peered out the windows, facing off against the phalanx of nuns who protected the school doors.
Charisma skidded to a stop. She had never anticipated this. She couldn’t have packed enough weapons to deal with an attack of this magnitude.
In the past, demons had hidden from the sun, skulked in the dark, attacked on the sly.
Now here they were in bright light, bold and hungry.
She leaned her bike against the wall, crouched down, and studied the situation. She should have brought her Steyr machine pistol, difficult to control, but capable of shooting lots of bullets. Instead she was carrying two Glocks.
Not that it mattered; unless she could lure the demons away from the school, her pistols were of no use. Positioned as the demons were, with the school behind them, she couldn’t shoot at them. Her pistols were loaded with hollow-point silver bullets, filled with mercury and made especially for the Chosen Ones. Through trial and error, the Chosen Ones had discovered that these were the only bullets that, if aimed correctly, could send demons back to hell. The trouble was, bullets slid into those moist, amphibious bodies and fragments exploded out the other side, rocketing wildly onto the next target.
How Mother Catherine had managed to sneak one of her nuns out to send word to the Chosen Ones, Charisma did not know.
A diversion would have to work. If Charisma could draw the demons into the middle of the street, she had thirty-four rounds to use on the ugly, creepy, slimy little imps. Then the plan was to run like hell and hope they followed her.
With a shout, she sprinted forward and lobbed a smoke grenade at the fence.
Their grayish green heads turned in her direction. Their bug eyes widened in anticipation. Their tongues lolled and their teeth gleamed. Half of them leaped off the fence and cantered toward her. They grinned and chattered. Their rotten-fish stench filled her nose and lungs.
And suddenly, in her mind, she was back underground, surrounded and terrorized. Weak. Exhausted. Broken.
Bitten.
In a flash, she was no longer Charisma Fangorn, warrior and Chosen One.
She was a victim.
These demons had hurt her before. They would hurt her again.
They would kill her.
Charisma wanted to get out of here. She had to run away.
Then across the schoolyard, she heard it: The nuns shrieked their war cry. “Charisma! Charisma!” They raced toward the fence, rakes and shovels in their hands. They attacked the demons still clinging to the fence, knocking them off, scratching them, piercing them.
For shit’s sake, they were nuns. Mostly old nuns. In sensible shoes. With sensible dark-rimmed glasses. They didn’t know how to fight. They were going to get themselves killed.
Leaves from the dying trees skittered along the sidewalk. A wisp of smoke floated through like a lonely ghost. But no people, no dogs, no cats, not even a rat. Every living creature had abandoned the orphanage to its fate.
Charisma Fangorn would not do the same.
She ran backward, drawing the demons into the center of the street. Lifting her pistol in her trembling grip, she shot the ones in the clear. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She emptied the Glock and threw it, knocking out one demon more with the impact.
The bullets sent them flopping backward. Their heads exploded.
Some demons leaped on their remains, dining on their former comrades.
Some hissed and spit at her, their eyes gleaming with malice.
All drew back.
The nuns cheered.
One nun screamed, “Charisma!” and pointed upward.
A demon scaling the fence.
Flail in hand, Charisma ran forward, using the spiked ball to bludgeon demons out of her way. When she was underneath the slimy little cockroach, she shot and prayed the bullet didn’t fall into the crowd of nuns.
The demon blew apart.
When she turned, she was surrounded, her back against the fence.
Just like before. Just like in the tunnels.
The bite on her shoulder burned at the memory.
She lashed out in all directions with her flail, driving them back. But no matter how many she took out, more and more pressed in on her, running sideways on the fence, attacking from the ground.
Panic built.
Behind her, the nuns screamed and battered the fence.
It didn’t matter. She didn’t stand a chance. They didn’t stand a chance.
Her time had run out. There was no hope. Unless help arrived now, the evil tide would wash over her, take her to some new hell, and all the nuns and the children, too.
Sweat ran into her face.
Desperation seeped into her bones.
Where were the Chosen Ones? Where was her backup?
When would they come?
Then, with a roar that made the demons chatter and quake, Guardian burst from a manhole and leaped onto the street.
&nb
sp; Chapter 42
With another roar, Guardian threw the hundred-pound manhole cover as if it were a Frisbee. It cut through the demons like a hot knife through butter, taking out two dozen as they scampered away.
The nuns screamed.
The demons wailed and fled in all directions.
But Charisma saw that hope had arrived.
Charisma attacked their enemies with renewed determination, using her blade in one hand, her flail in the other.
The demons ran as if pursued by . . . demons. They slithered. They jumped. They vanished into the storm sewers. And as suddenly as summer storm clouds appeared in the sky, they were gone.
Behind Charisma, she heard one of the nuns catch her breath and start to sob. She heard Mother Catherine comfort her.
But nothing mattered except Charisma and Guardian, alone in the street, staring at each other across a distance.
Two thoughts possessed her.
Seeing Guardian only intensified her love and heartache.
And . . . something was very wrong.
Why had the demons run?
“What’s that noise?” one of the nuns asked.
Charisma heard it, too. At both ends of the street, she heard the growl of speeding cars.
She looked. Large, powerful, black Town Cars accelerated toward them.
A racket, a clatter . . . a chopping noise, close . . . and abruptly loud.
Right there.
Across the street, from over the top of the building, a helicopter swept over them, so low it cast a shadow on the pavement.
Tires screeched as the cars accelerated toward them.
Trapped! They were trapped!
“Charisma!” Guardian raced toward her.
The helicopter lowered a heavy rope net.
“No!” Charisma screamed. “Run!”
The net fell on him, knocking him to his knees, snaring him in its grip.
Cars shrieked to a halt. Doors flew open. Police officers piled out.
The New York police chief stepped from the car, looking smug and controlled in her crisp uniform.
Guardian struggled, lashing out wildly, a frantic animal in a trap.
Charisma ran toward him.