Before Hal was forced to admit no, no he hadn’t, sirens split the night, drawing Della’s attention away from him. He exhaled in relief.
“Fire trucks,” Della said. “Police too, no doubt.”
Neighbors, awakened by the explosion, peeked out of windows or stood in clusters on the sidewalk and in driveways.
“Della?” a red-haired woman across the street called, pulling her bathrobe closed with one hand. “You okay?”
“Oh, hey, Rose,” Della said with a wide smile. “I’m fine.”
The sirens were getting louder. “Time to go,” Hal murmured.
Lawrence sprinted to the Mustang, jerked the door open, and slid behind the wheel. The engine revved to life.
“I’ll talk to you later,” Della said, waving to her neighbor. She hurried to the Mustang and climbed into the backseat. Brianna leapt in beside her. Hal rode shotgun, his catch pole angled across the seat. Lawrence burned rubber out into the street even before Hal had snapped his seat belt shut.
The car reeked of smoke and Oil of Olay. Hal rolled his window down. Fresh air poured in, clearing the smell of smoke from his lungs. Tongue lolling, Brianna stuck her head out in the warm night air.
“Where we going?” Hal asked. Though he was pretty sure he knew.
“To those tunnels you found,” Lawrence said. “I haven’t had time to put things together. Haven’t even had time to be much help to you.” He flashed a quick look at Hal. “So I’ll go over what I know, what Louis read, what I think might be happening.”
“Okay,” Hal said.
“Anything you want to add, Della?”
“Hell no,” she said. “Not me. I told you, I ain’t gonna be the wise woman who dies after giving up most of her secrets to the hero. You been to the movies lately?”
“I don’t want your help anyway, Della,” Hal said, shifting in the seat to look at her. “In no way, shape, or form.” He rolled his eyes skyward, whispered, “Think that about covers it?”
She smiled. Her pink rollers bobbed as she nodded her head. “Good enough.”
Hal grinned. Okay, then. “How come you lied about knowing Louis?” he asked. “He’s your nephew. Which I still don’t get. Isn’t Louis yōkai?”
Della shot an accusing look at the back of Lawrence’s head. “He’s my nephew, true enough. My brother hooked up with a back-swamp Cajun gal. Got a feeling shifters run in that gal’s family. Louis, now, he’s a good boy. He can’t help it if he’s bad luck. Not his fault. Like I said, shifters run in his mama’s family. Going way back. And somewhere in there, one of Suzette’s relatives tangled up with a yōkai. Mixed it up good. In a friendly way, if you know what I mean.”
Hal nodded. “Yeah, they fell in love.”
Della looked at him for a long moment, then a smile flitted across her lips, hummingbird-fast. “Well, that’s one way of putting it.” She nodded. “They fell in love.” She glanced out the window at the passing night. “Long story short, Louis carries traits from both of his ancestors. Boy’s either a throwback or a step forward.”
“Meaning?” Hal asked.
“Louis can change shape at will, day or night—human to cat, cat to human—and he’s got cat traits in human shape and vice versa. Ain’t ruled by the sun or the moon.”
“He was born human?” Hal asked. “I thought he was a cat. I was sure he was a cat—Galahad and Nick thought so too.”
Della nodded, her night cream-lathered face ghostly in the darkness. “Born human, true. But it don’t matter. Louis’s a shifter through and through, brimming with mojo.”
“Boy’s bad luck, though,” Della said. “His daddy died because of it. So did his mama. Louis came to me from Lafayette; then Katrina hit, flooded New Orleans. I lost him during the flooding . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“Louis is not bad luck,” Lawrence said, his gaze flicking up to the rearview.
“You haven’t been with him long enough to know, Hunter Lawrence,” Della snapped. “He’s a black cat always crossing your path. Just wait.”
“This is fascinating, and I’d love to discuss Louis a little more,” Hal said, “but I need other info to help me on this quest. Time’s short, right?” He looked at Lawrence.
Lawrence sighed, “Yeah, time’s short. You’re right. Sorry.”
Della said, “I’m not guiding you. Remember that.”
“You mentioned awakening a god?” Hal reminded Lawrence. “Which god? What culture?”
“Keep in mind this is speculation on my part,” Lawrence said. “Based on what Louis’s cards revealed.”
“Fair enough.”
“I think someone’s trying to unchain Fenrir and begin Ragnarok.”
“Ah,” Hal murmured. “So the gods will battle and destroy the world.”
Lawrence looked at Hal. Arched an eyebrow. “You’re versed in mythology. Yes, destroy the world as we know it. Fenrir will die, as will Odin. That’ll leave the playing field open for a lot of other gods—ancient, nameless deities.”
“So, not a literal destruction of the planet,” Hal said, rubbing his chin. Stubble whisked against his fingers. “Of course. A societal destruction. And I bet organized religions will get their asses handed to them by these awakened deities.”
“These awakened gods will be hungry,” Lawrence said, voice low and his face grim in the dash-light glow. “And empty.”
“Their offspring will roam the land—the thing that you fought at my place.”
“I told Nick it wasn’t global warming,” Hal muttered. A pang of regret pierced him. He’d give anything—including making mistakes, being wrong—to have Nick back, safe and sound.
His mind flashed back to the dream that’d yanked him up from unconsciousness. Giant forms stalking from the forest. Swallowing humans and shifters.
“Not on my watch,” Hal said, sitting up straight. He slid his fingers along his catch pole. Bent his neck from side to side. Rolled his shoulders. “Anything special I need to know about kicking their awakened, hungry asses?”
Lawrence laughed. “I don’t know if you’re fearless or just crazy deluded, but I like you, Hal Rupert.” His gaze shifted to the rearview mirror again. “Sure you don’t want to guide him?”
“Positive,” Della snorted. “You wanna die, keep on talking. I plan to keep breathing.”
“Ass-kicking?” Hal reminded. “Special?”
“Fenrir could already be awake,” Lawrence said, all humor vanishing from his face. “Sacrifices will be needed. My guess is that’s why your friends were taken.”
Hal stared straight ahead. “Sacrifices?”
“Your friends are yōkai?”
Chains of ice looped around his heart. Hal nodded. “Nick’s a wolf and Galahad’s a cat—an orange tabby. A smart-ass tabby.” The chains tightened.
“Okay. Maybe Nick represents earth and maybe the tabby represents air or fire.”
“No, fire would be Desdemona,” Hal said. “They need human sacrifice too?”
“Yes,” Lawrence said. “Sorry, but yes. They’d really want Dezzie anyway.”
Hal’s gaze narrowed. Fixed on Lawrence. “What’re you saying?”
“Well . . . of course you know this, being her . . . uh . . . boyfriend and all,” Lawrence said. “Dezzie’s a virgin.”
Hal’s thoughts whirled. A virgin. His alluring, avenging beauty! She’d been saving herself for Hal. For her creep. Remembered the color in her cheeks when Louis had kissed her.
“Of course,” he said. “How do you know that?”
“Louis is her best friend,” Lawrence said. “She tells him everything. And he, uh, tells me.”
“Lousy at keeping secrets, then,” Hal murmured. “Good to know.”
“And Louis—what do they want him for?”
“For his magic. They will devour him.” Lawrence’s voice
faltered, gained strength. “But they screwed up when they left you, alive and whole.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. You possess a hero’s undefeated heart.” Lawrence waited a moment before adding, “One that should’ve been torn from your chest—”
“And gobbled down by the alpha god,” Hal finished, remembering his dream. “Got it. Well, they’re gonna find this heart a little tough to chew.”
“Maybe they didn’t know who you were then,” Della said. “But they do now.”
Hal swiveled around. “You guiding?”
Della slapped a hand over her mouth and shook her head vigorously. Her pink rollers wobbled.
“I didn’t think so.”
“I’m not sure how to advise you on deity ass-kicking,” Lawrence said. “Depends on the god, depends on who’s serving it, depends on the goal. Once we’re in the pot dens below—”
Lawrence’s words ended abruptly as he slammed on the brakes. The Mustang skidded to a tire-smoking stop, stuttering sideways across the highway. “By the stars,” he breathed.
Hal turned around in his seat. A shape rose in the darkness. And rose. And rose. Fire glimmered at its edges, defining its monstrous shape, its elm-slender limbs. The ground shuddered as it stepped forward and crossed the river.
“Crap,” Hal said.
“The old ones walk,” Lawrence said.
“Crap,” Hal and Della repeated together.
Lawrence’s fingers touched the crescent-moon pendant hanging at his throat. “Cernunnos, give me strength.” Twisting around in his seat, he grabbed his antlered staff from the back.
Hal shot a hand out and locked his fingers around Lawrence’s wrist. “Not your fight,” he said. “Mine. Mine alone, I figure.”
“How you figure that?” Lawrence asked, his gaze shifting from Hal’s face to the god beyond the windshield.
“This is what I do,” Hal said.
Brianna leapt out of the Mustang’s window and dashed up the highway toward the Valley River Center.
“Brianna!” Lawrence cried. “No! Let go, Hal. That’s my sister out there!”
Hal tightened his jaw. Held Lawrence’s fierce, determined gaze. The ground trembled. The Mustang bounced across the highway. Passing cars screeched to stops. Slid. Metal crunched. Horns blared. People screamed.
“No time to argue,” Hal said. Locking his fingers around his catch pole, he clocked one end hard against Lawrence’s temple. The Wiccan’s eyes rolled up white. He slumped against the driver’s-side window.
The ground tremored. The Mustang vibrated into a guardrail. Red glowed in the sky. Like hell had cracked wide-open and lit the night from below.
“What the hell you do that for?” Della asked.
Hal snatched the antlered staff from Lawrence’s lax grip and tossed it in the backseat. He met Della’s gaze. “I don’t want anyone to die guiding me.”
Throwing open the passenger-side door, Hal glanced at Della. “Can you drive a stick?”
“Yeah, darlin’.”
“Then get the hell out of here.” Hal jumped out of the car, catch pole in hand, and slammed the door shut. He glanced up as the god stomped into the VRC. Light streamed up from the crater in the roof. People ran around in the parking lot, screaming. Others poured out of the mall. Screaming.
“See you on the other side,” Della said. She revved the Mustang’s engine.
“Drive safe,” Hal said, stepping away from the car, his attention still on the god. He thumped his catch pole against the road. “Bring it.”
His heart drummed slow and steady in his chest. He drew in a deep breath. The air stank of scorched rubber, burning oil, and antifreeze. His fingers tightened around the catch pole.
I was born for this. That thought resonated like chiming crystal through Hal’s mind and pounded in time with his heart. A hero and a catch pole for Eugene. Yeah, yeah, and Springfield. My people.
Della steered the Mustang in a tight U-ey, then peeled away in the opposite direction from the VRC. The earsplitting screech of brakes made Hal swing his head around. A swerving semi headed straight for the Mustang, the driver staring, mouth open, at the looming horror striding through the mall.
The Mustang shot off the overpass, spiraling for a heartbeat, maybe two, in the night air, then dropped, disappearing from view.
“Della,” Hal whispered. “Lawrence.” Both doomed for helping him?
The semi plowed into cars angled to stops across the highway, birthing a catastrophic chain collision. Hal heard crunching, shrieking metal, smelled the pungent odor of gasoline. A dragging muffler struck sparks across the highway as the semi bulldozed the twisted and smoking mass of cars along the road.
WHOOMPFFF!
The gasoline burst into flames. Lit the night and the god striding the highway.
And both—god and screeching, burning collision—headed straight for Hal.
17
MEANWHILE . . .
Galahad opened his eyes to darkness and bouncing movement. Head spinning, stomach queasy, he was definitely not feeling his best. Too much of Hal’s whole milk? Always stick to cream, dammit. When would he learn?
Wait. Hold on. Was he upside down? The blood pounding in his temples answered yes. Galahad tried moving his hands and discovered that his wrists were bound together, his fingers numb. His elbows thunked against something solid—hard plastic? It reeked of wet cardboard, smelled like the pulpy smell of the paper mills in Springfield.
Galahad tried to remember what had happened. Tried to wrestle memory past the huge, ugly ache in his head. Pot dens. Hal unconscious on the ground, Nick kneeling beside him, patting his face. Desdemona with a pitchfork. Louis spilling out of a monster’s gut . . .
A sound echoed up from the depths of memory.
* * *
DING!
“Does that sound like an elevator to you?” Nick asks from where he crouches beside Hal’s unconscious form.
“Well, it’s not a bicycle bell.” Galahad swings his flashlight around at the sound, aims it down the tunnel. Metal gleams. SHOOSH. Another sound from the same direction. He hears Nick rise to his feet, dirt grating beneath his shoes.
CLICK.
Light explodes through the tunnel, buzzing from recessed fluorescent tubes in the ceiling. Vision dazzled, Galahad shades his eyes with the edge of his hand. A man with graying hair, dressed in gray janitor coveralls stands beside an elevator door, frozen in the act of switching on the lights, his eyebrows lifting as he takes in the scene of blood and guts drenching Galahad’s end of the tunnel.
A blond guy in a red plaid flannel shirt and worn jeans pushes a blue recycling bin out of the elevator. The door slides shut behind him with a soft clunk. He lifts his head, tosses his hair out of his face, blowing at the strands as he does so. He comes to a screeching halt. Stares.
Janitor Man drops his hand from the light switch, his gaze twitching from Galahad to the gutted wolf-man to Desdemona and wolf-man-slimed Louis, to Nick and motionless Hal, then back to Galahad. A smile stretches the man’s lips. He leans in toward the guy in red flannel and whispers, “We need more bins.”
“How many?” Flannel Boy asks.
Janitor Man counts with his index finger. “Four,” he whispers. “No, wait. Make that five.”
“We can hear you,” Galahad says, switching off his flashlight and lowering it to his side.
“Yeah, so don’t bother with more bins,” Nick says. “The one you’ve got should be enough.” He nudges the wolf-man’s body with the toe of his shoe. “We’ll just get our friends and go. Sorry about the mess.”
“About that—” Janitor Man starts, but Desdemona’s excited cry cuts him off.
“There! A pulse! He’s alive!”
Galahad turns around. Desdemona looks at him from where she kneels beside Louis’s body, her face
practically incandescent. “I knew it. I knew it.” As if to underscore her words, Louis sucks in a breath of air, then coughs. But his eyes remain closed.
“Desdemona,” Galahad warns, inclining his head toward the newcomers and their recycling bin. He offers her a hand up. “We have company.”
Sudden wariness scrubs away Desdemona’s joy. She grasps Galahad’s hand and allows him to pull her to her feet. “Who are they?” she asks softly.
Galahad shrugs. “Could just be the janitorial crew—”
“Holy shit!” Flannel Boy exclaims, his eyes Holy-shit-wide. “Bob ate the magic kid! Gobbled him up! Bad, Bob! Bad!”
Janitor Man sighs. Rubs the bridge of his nose. “I think Bob is a little past scolding, Eddie. Besides, he didn’t eat the lad. He was merely carrying him.” Sauntering forward, Janitor Man smiles and Galahad’s flesh crawls. Empty, that smile. And cold. “For safekeeping.”
“Safekeeping?” Galahad whispers. He catches a peripheral flash of movement as Desdemona bends down. “From what?”
“Safe keep this, asshole,” Desdemona says, straightening with the pitchfork in her hands. She aims it like a spear. “Come any closer and you can party with Bob.”
Janitor Man stops. He is close enough now that Galahad can read the name embroidered on his coveralls—Alan. He slides a hand into one of the coverall’s pockets. “No need for hostility,” he says before yanking a large gun with a yellow grip from his pocket. He holds it steady in both hands. His smile returns. “Just kidding, gang. There’s a definite need. Who would like to be first?”
Galahad studies the gun. It looks odd, the muzzle thicker, square.
“My guess would be you, buster,” Nick says, doubling his hands into fists. He skips forward as fast as vintage Ali and hammers a fist into Alan’s face just as Alan pulls the trigger.
“Nick!” Galahad cries. “No!”
Nick stumbles as wires hit him mid-chest and belly. He stiffens, jerks, and then drops to his knees. He falls over onto his side, spasming.
Not bullets. Relief pours through Galahad as he dashes to his friend. He kneels and yanks the barbed prongs free of Nick’s flesh. The detective shudders. He stares at the ceiling, expression dazed.