Quincey Morris, Supernatural Investigation: Evil Ways Part 33

11:56pm "Hannah!" Libby cried, although her voice came out as little more than a croak. "I took his magic, Hannah. He has... no... power..." Then Libby lowered her hand, her eyes closed, and fell over, into the pool of bright red, arterial blood that continued to grow larger by the second.

Pardee and Hannah stared at each other. Then recognition, or something, seemed to dawn in Pardee's eyes-which may have been why he turned and ran.

Hannah started after him, but, after a second's hesitation, stopped and knelt next to Libby Chastain, whose eyes fluttered open.

"Libby," she said, in that voice of heartbreaking beauty. "What can I-"

"Go," Libby croaked. "Go get him. My life's... with... G.o.ddess now... her will. Now, go!"

Hannah looked at Libby for just a second longer, but a great deal pa.s.sed between the two women in that brief s.p.a.ce. Then Hannah whispered, "Goodbye, Sister." Then she was gone, sprinting off into the night.

11:58pm Quincey Morris had finally reached the place of sacrifice. Most of the black witches were still busily engaged in their ritual, although a few had broken off and were staring, wide-eyed, toward the big altar that looked like it was made of marble.

Although everyone else in the world who owned a handgun seemed to have gone over to automatics, Morris perversely stuck with a revolver, maybe as a homage to certain of his forefathers, one of whom, it was said, had ridden with the Dalton Gang. Morris carried a Colt Python chambered for .357 Magnum, and when he aimed it over the heads of the black witches and fired, it sounded like a small artillery piece going off.

At the first shot, the witches looked up, startled. By the second, most of them were on their feet. When he fired a third time, they began to scatter-several, Morris noted, without bothering to put any clothes on.

He turned toward the altar then, and saw the still figure lying in an impossibly large pool of blood. Three seconds later, he was kneeling in the gore, next to Libby Chastain.

Her skin was cold, so cold. But he found a heartbeat. It was slow, but it was still a heartbeat. Morris saw that the blood was coming, although slowly now, from a deeply slashed artery in her leg. He whipped off his belt and used it to tie a hasty tourniquet at the point where Libby's leg joined her groin. He felt briefly creepy about putting his hands there, but then figured that Libby was in no condition to feel outrage at being groped. She was almost certainly unconscious, anyway.

The tourniquet working as well as it was likely to, Morris tried to figure out what to do next. He considered an impromptu blood transfusion, but he had no equipment, and was embarra.s.sed to realize he didn't even know Libby's blood type.

Morris held back a sob. Libby was going to need a miracle to- Then he blinked rapidly a couple of times. He happened to know some people who specialized in miracles. And they were not far away.

Morris gathered Libby into his arms and tried to regain his feet, slipping on the blood. He finally managed to stand, then gingerly stepped off the altar and clear of the blood pool. Clutching Libby Chastain tightly to him, he began to run.

11:59pm Pardee was also running-past the trees, through the underbrush on the fringes of Grobius's estate. That woman, the one in black. He knew her from some- Pardee's right knee exploded in a spray of blood and cartilage and pain. He found himself on his back, looking up at the full moon, before he even knew he was falling.

The woman in black stepped out from behind a tree, a big automatic pistol in her hand. She'd been ahead of him, even though he'd had a substantial head start. She must be in phenomenal condition to- "Good evening," she said. "Lovely night for a jog isn't it?"

Pardee said nothing, gritting his teeth against the pain.

"You don't agree?" The woman pretended surprise. "Then you won't mind this." She fired again, and his other kneecap was instantly a b.l.o.o.d.y ruin. Pardee howled in agony.

"Can't have you running off now, can we?" the woman said. "I mean, we have so much to catch up on."

She stood over him now. "Tell me, do you have an itch anywhere? Someplace you want to scratch?"

Pardee was too busy stifling a scream to answer.

"No? Well that's all right, then." She put a bullet exactly in the spot where his right shoulder joined the arm. He would not be using that arm again anytime soon. Pardee thought he would pa.s.s out from the white-hot pain, but even that grace eluded him.

"Last chance to scratch," the woman said, in her melodious voice. She waited a couple of seconds, then fired a .45 slug into his other shoulder, hitting the exact same spot as on his right and likewise shattering the joint.

She watched Pardee writhe and bleed for a while, then nodded, as if satisfied with a job well begun. She put the pistol away, and knelt down next to him.

From somewhere she produced a big knife with a black, partly serrated blade and a textured leather handle. Pardee did not recognize it as a K-Bar, the combat knife that was once issued to U.S. Marines and Navy SEALS.

There was something slightly mad in the woman's face now, but her voice was calm, too calm, when she spoke again, after first placing the point of the blade six inches above Pardee's groin, the ultra-sharp cutting edge facing his chin.

"My name is Hannah Widmark," she said. "I just thought you'd like to know."

Then she put her weight behind the blade, and it began.

Midnight Walter Grobius still sat, staring at the shape that could be seen within the circle. He had been waiting for it to coalesce into something clearer, better defined, more immediately present. But it never had.

Grobius finally worked up the courage to speak. "I am Walter Grobius, and I bid you welcome."

The shape inside the circle seemed to notice him for the first time. "WHO ARE YOU TO WELCOME ME, LITTLE MAN?" The voice was almost unbelievably deep, and guttural, and loud. It hurt Grobius's ears just to hear it.

"Who am I? I'm the one who sent for you, O great father Satan."

"YOU LIE. IT WAS NOT YOU WHO SENT FOR ME, BUT THAT OTHER WRETCH, WHO CLAIMED TO BE MY FAITHFUL SERVANT. WHERE IS THE TRAITOR? I WOULD CHASTISE HIM. ETERNALLY, FOR A START.".

"If you mean Pardee, I'm afraid I don't know. Anyway, Pardee works for me, and-"

"SILENCE, WORM!" Grobius was almost literally knocked over by the force of the voice.

"THE WORTHLESS WRETCH PARDEE PROMISED THAT I SHOULD BE FREE OF MY FETTERS IMPOSED BY THE CREATOR, AND HAVE MY WAY WITH THIS WORLD AND ALL WHO DWELL IN IT, IN RETURN FOR SOME PETTY REWARD.".

"No, I'm afraid that's not what I-"

"BE SILENT! NOW THE HOUR IS Pa.s.sED, THE CIRCLE WEAKENS, AND MY GLORY WILL NOT BE VISITED UPON THIS LAND-ALL BECAUSE OF ONE INCOMPETENT FOOL. I MUST PREPARE SOME SPECIAL DELIGHT FOR HIM TO ENJOY WHEN HE JOINS ME IN MY KINGDOM-WHICH I NOW PERCEIVE WILL BE VERY SOON. ALREADY HE SCREAMS AND BEGS FOR MERCY, BUT HE SHALL HAVE NONE IN THIS WORLD, AND MOST ESPECIALLY NONE IN THE NEXT.

"No, sir, I'm afraid you don't understand."

"I UNDERSTAND ALL THAT IS, WAS, AND EVER SHALL BE. I UNDERSTAND THAT THE MOMENT IS NOW Pa.s.sED, AND I MUST RETURN TO MY OWN DOMAIN, WHERE THE WORM DIETH NOT, AND THE FIRE IS NOT QUENCHED. BUT I WOULD LEAVE WITH YOU A GIFT BEFORE DEPARTING. DO YOU WISH TO RECEIVE MY GIFT, LITTLE MAN?.

"Oh, yes, very much so, that's why I sent for-"

THEN I BID YOU EMBRACE MY LARGESSE. I WILL SEE YOU IN GEHENNA, WORM, AND VERY SHORTLY. MEANWHILE, ENJOY A TASTE OF YOUR ETERNITY.".

Pardee's circle was well constructed, and strong. Even Satan was unable to escape it, in his semi-formed state. The books say that a summoned demon cannot harm the summoner or any others present, as long as the circle remains unbroken and they remain outside it.

But the books were not written with the Prince of Darkness himself in mind.

The indistinct shape slowly faded. But in its place appeared a flame, which quickly grew wondrous and vast and terrible-and then, with a roar that could be heard for miles, exploded out of the circle.

Walter Grobius was incinerated before he could fully grasp what was happening to him.

So, too, was everyone and everything within Grobius's compound consumed by that great, unholy fire. Within seconds, nothing remained alive within those walls, no structure stood, not a blade of gra.s.s was spared by the flames.

Morris was fifty feet outside the compound when the h.e.l.lfire raged. It shot out of all the gates briefly, but Morris had run at an angle upon leaving the compound, and so he and Libby escaped the flames, mostly.

Morris did not even look back. He was searching frantically for Eleanor Robb among the group of white witches, all of whom were staring at the inferno with shock on their faces. Ellie saw him, and what he was carrying, and immediately came running forward.

"Libby! G.o.ddess save us! What happened to her?"

"She's lost a lot of blood, an awful lot of blood," Morris said. "Cut in her thigh, here. Deep one." Morris was having a hard time remaining coherent. "Needs blood, lots. Don't know her blood type. More than blood, needs magic."

"Give her to me, please," Ellie said, and took Libby's still form from Morris. She seemed to handle Libby's weight with surprising ease.

Ellie stood holding Libby for a few seconds, her eyes tightly shut. Then she opened them and said, "Sister Elizabeth lives still. And her blood is AB positive."

Morris tried to think. "That's the universal recipient, isn't it? Anybody's blood is good?"

"Exactly right, Quincey. And Sister Louise, who is with us, is a doctor, who never travels without her medical bag."

"I want to donate," Morris said. "Please."

"Of course. But first let's lay Sister Elizabeth down somewhere comfortable. And I want to get the other Sisters working on a healing ritual. We are all exhausted, but the G.o.ddess will give us strength."

They put Libby in one of the Econoline vans, and Sister Louise organized the blood transfusions. There were twenty-two volunteers, including Fenton and Colleen O'Donnell. Ellie Robb also had the Sisters, two at a time, performing healing rituals in the van.

While waiting to see if they would be needed as blood donors, the two FBI agents and Morris talked among themselves.

"What the h.e.l.l happened in there, Morris?" Fenton said. "It was like an explosion at a G.o.dd.a.m.n oil refinery, or something."

"I can't say for sure," Morris told him, "but I'm guessing that Satan got sent back home, and wasn't real happy about it. Maybe what we saw was kind of a parting shot."

Colleen was staring at him. "Speaking of which," she said, "that's an interesting-looking burn you've got on the back of your neck."

Morris felt back there. "What bu-ouch! In all the excitement, I never even noticed. How the h.e.l.l did that get there?"

"Precisely," Colleen said.

Morris looked a question at her.

"Where else have you been exposed to an open flame tonight," she said, "except when you ran out of Grobius's place with Libby?"

"And here I thought it missed me completely," Morris said. "I must be getting slow."

"It's not real bad," Fenton said, peering at Morris's neck. "I've seen worse."

Colleen had an odd expression on her face. "I'm sure you have, Dale. But how many have you seen that were caused by h.e.l.lfire?"

Morris felt his neck again, gingerly. "a.s.suming that's what it is, so what?"

Colleen hugged herself, which might have been due to a chill in the air. "I don't know, Quincey. But, I have to say that I find it... troubling."

"Why's that?" Morris asked quietly.

"Because his mark is on you, now."

The three of them were silent after that, until Colleen asked, "What about Hannah?"

"Last I saw, she was chasing down Pardee," Morris said. "I don't know what that was all about, but I'm pretty sure she had some kind of unfinished business with him. I just hope she got it done, before..." He shook his head.

"Didn't get out, huh?" Fenton said.

"I don't see how she could have." Morris's voice was bleak.

"If you didn't actually see her body, be careful about your a.s.sumptions," Colleen said. "She's got a knack for survival, our Hannah does"

"What she means is," Fenton said, "that lady's just too d.a.m.n mean to die."

"Maybe," Morris said. "We'll have to see what the autopsy reports say. It's going to be quite a while before this mess gets sorted out."

Fenton looked past Morris. "Company coming."

Morris turned to see Ellie Robb heading his way.

"Quincey," she said, "I'm sorry-"

"Oh, G.o.d d.a.m.n," Morris said softly. "She's gone, isn't she?"

Ellie looked surprised. "Who, Libby? No, on the contrary-Sister Louise says she's out of danger. I was apologizing because I know you badly wanted to be a blood donor. I forgot to remind Sister Louise, and she got all the blood Libby needed from the Sisters. And, I'm glad to say, the combined healing spell we laid down was very successful."

"Oh." Morris let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Well, I expect I can forgive you for that, Ellie, all things considered. Can I see her?"

"Sister Louise gave her something to help her sleep. Maybe a little later, if you don't mind."

"All right," Morris said. "I reckon there's no hurry, now."

Ellie Robb nodded and started to walk away, but then turned back. "I almost forgot," she said to Morris. "Before she fell asleep, Libby gave me a message for you."

"What'd she say?"

There was an odd-looking smile on Ellie's face. "I'm pretty sure I can render it verbatim." She closed her eyes, and took in a couple of slow, deep breaths. When she spoke again, it was in Libby Chastain's voice. "Thanks for the tourniquet, Tex. I owe you. But if you're ever planning to feel me up like that again, at least take me out to dinner, first."

ABOUT THE AUTHOR.

Justin Gustainis is a college professor living in upstate New York. He is the author of the novels The Hades Project (2003) and Black Magic Woman (2008) as well as a number of short stories. In his misspent youth, Mr. Gustainis was, at various times, a busboy, soldier, speechwriter, and professional bodyguard.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS.

Christian Dunn, my editor at Solaris Books, made excellent suggestions for revisions and was gracious about the few changes that I did not want to make. Once again, he took my work and made it better, bless him.

I was fortunate to have Lawrence Osborn as my copy editor again. I am both embarra.s.sed by the mistakes I made and grateful that he caught them before the book went to press. In the unlikely event that any errors remain, they are my responsibility alone.

Jim Butcher was generous enough to allow Quincey and Libby to hang out at a certain pub frequented by Chicago's premier wizard-for-hire. Harry is welcome to come on down to Austin and kick back anytime.