The Raven Page 12

  Gattis swung the mace under the table at him, and this time a shard of glass sliced Dez’s bottom lip. Dez scrambled back, and without thinking, he unsheathed the machete. Gattis crouched like a baseball catcher, reared back for another strike, and Dez whipped out with the machete. The bottom of Gattis’s beard sheared off, the blade scything through his black t-shirt and the flesh of his upper chest.

  The cut was not deep, but it was enough to startle the man, to make him glance down uncomprehendingly at his torso, the blood seeping through the slit in his shirt.

  Someone pawed at Dez’s shoulder. He shot a look that way and saw the idiot with the piercings trying to get at him. Dez kicked out at the young man, his boot striking him in the throat. With a phlegmy cry, the young man twisted sideways and clutched at his neck.

  Erica was hollering at Gattis to move, but Gattis remained squatting where he was and gazing with disbelief at the blood he’d palmed off his black t-shirt. Dez could see Erica sidestepping into position, no longer eclipsed by Gattis, and then a flickering kerosene lamp was spinning at Dez. It was projected with such force that Dez hardly had time to react before it struck him in the rotator cuff and exploded against the base of the table.

  Heat puffed around him, and knowing the shoulder of his coat was drenched with kerosene, Dez dove forward, away from the spreading fire. Gattis was pushing to his feet, retreating. Dez slammed into him, channeling his days of youth football, driving Gattis backward, straight at Erica, who rolled onto the tabletop, perched on her knees, and projected another beer stein at Dez.

  Dez wrenched Gattis sideways and the stein pounded him in the back. Gattis groaned. With his free hand, Dez thrust Gattis aside. With the machete clutched in his right hand, Dez bent, got his shoulder beneath the table on which Erica stood, and before Erica could fire another missile at him, Dez lifted the tabletop, upended it, and heard Erica thump to the floor on the other side.

  The men who’d been sitting there had scooted away from the table, which now lay on its side at a seventy-degree angle. Erica was behind it, and Dez knew the next decision he made would determine life or death. It was right or left, attack Erica from one flank or the other. If he guessed wrong, he’d run straight into a knife or another hurtling kerosene lamp. If he guessed correctly….

  Shouting voices from behind him, the hungry crackle of flames. Dez blocked all that out – it didn’t matter – when a figure lurched toward him from the direction of the fire.

  Dez half-turned and saw the sullen-faced man with the salt-and-pepper hair staggering toward him. The man’s eyes were slitted, his cheeks a livid purple. He looped a wild haymaker at Dez, who ducked, pumped a left-handed jab into the man’s belly. The guy jackknifed, and Dez shoved him toward the overturned table. Dez damned near lost hold of the machete, but he regained his grip, was about to dart around the table, when he saw the sullen-faced man explode in flames.

  Erica had mistaken the man for Dez.

  The man was wrapped in fire before the fragments of kerosene lamp had settled on the carpet. The man squealed, windmilled his arms, and Erica made a frantic supplicating sound. The kerosene ignited as it spread, the man staggering toward Erica. Dez heard Erica gasp, no doubt alarmed at the fiery man’s approach.

  Dez grasped the table’s edge and leaped. As he sprang over the tabletop, he swung his feet around at Erica’s face. Erica saw him at the last moment but wasn’t quick enough. Dez’s right boot smashed Erica in the mouth. She was knocked backward into a mountainous patron in a black jacket. The man shoved Erica away and roared, “Watch it, motherfucker!”

  Erica landed on her back and stared wild-eyed at Black Jacket. The guy seated with Black Jacket said something placating, but Black Jacket, his face wide and scarred and malicious, strode forward, reared back, and punted Erica in the side. The kick was so bestial it lifted Erica six inches off the floor.

  From Dez’s left, Crosby reappeared and shouted something at Black Jacket, and it was exactly as Dez had suspected: There was no loyalty in the Four Winds. A man might have a conditional ally or two, but the notion of solidarity here was laughable.

  Black Jacket hollered in pain, and Dez glanced at him in time to see fragments of white shrapnel – a broken dinner plate – clattering over tables and chairs behind the massive man. So Erica hadn’t been in as much pain as she’d let on. In fact….

  Dez saw Erica grin, extend her arm toward the kerosene lamp on the neighboring table.

  Dez reached back, flipped the crossbow into position, and loaded a bolt.

  Fired.

  Erica jerked her hand at the bolt, which veered off course just enough to miss her by a couple inches.

  Dammit! Dez thought.

  Behind him the flames seethed like demons.

  Erica grinned. The kerosene lamp leapt from the table.

  It zoomed toward Dez’s face. Dez lunged forward, corkscrewed sideways to elude the lamp. Its base caught him in the cheek, but it didn’t ignite like a firebomb, instead went into an ungainly twirl, and Dez continued his spin and landed on Erica. The two of them ended face-to-face on the floor. One of Erica’s arms was wedged against her body, Dez’s knee trapping it. Distantly, Dez heard the lamp crash and a chorus of voices shouting. Shadows and light danced all around them, the patrons scrambling to put out the fires. Dez ignored it all, focused on his adversary.

  Erica raised her free hand to summon another object, but Dez seized her wrist, wrenched it with all his strength. Erica whimpered. Dez raised the machete. Shock registered in the telekinetic’s face.

  “Tell me you won’t come after me,” Dez said in a low voice.

  Erica’s face clouded. “Huh?”

  Dez squeezed Erica’s wrist harder. Erica’s trapped arm squirmed under Dez’s knee, but Dez had the woman firmly contained.

  Dez spoke in an undertone so Erica might preserve a vestige of dignity. “If you let me alone, I’ll let you live.”

  Erica stared at Dez as if seeing him for the first time. Then her mouth twisted. “Liar.”

  “Goddamn you, I’m trying to—”

  Dez nearly didn’t realize it in time. Erica’s eyes flitted to the machete in Dez’s right hand. The machete vibrated, and before Dez could register what was happening, the wicked blade was at his own throat, pressing the skin.

  “Stop…it,” Dez growled.

  But Erica was positively leering now, all her considerable mental energy bent on severing Dez’s jugular. Another inch or so…Dez could feel the blade beginning to part his flesh…he struggled against it….

  With a sick moan, Dez hammered down with the machete. The blade buried itself in the soft cup of the telekinetic’s throat, burrowing deep enough to unleash a torrent of blood.

  The din in the bar immediately died, the only sounds the hustling of men trying to put out the fires and the honkytonk strains of Hank Williams Jr.

  Beneath him Erica gagged, shuddered, her eyes fluttering white. Blood bubbled in the corners of her mouth and slopped over her lips. Dez pushed away from the dying woman and closed his eyes, all the energy draining from him. Erica coughed a syrupy gout of blood, then went boneless, the only movement the rush of blood from her throat wound.

  Unable to bear the sight of it, Dez unseated the machete, stood and wiped it on his pant leg. The jukebox lapsed into silence, the shouting voices of the men now subdued murmurs.

  Dez was aware of every eye in the Four Winds upon him. He stood panting and staring down at Erica’s lifeless form. He listed a little on his feet, not from his injuries, but from the surfeit of adrenaline. He heard a voice.

  He turned and discovered a pretty woman with an emotionless face. His eyes lowered to what hung at her side.

  His crossbow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Iris

  Dez eyed the woman gripping his crossbow. “I need that back,” he said.

  Sh
e didn’t respond, didn’t even blink. Behind her were a dozen or so patrons rushing around, beating the flames with burlap blankets, chucking handfuls of sand from gallon buckets. Evidently, this sort of fire happened regularly.

  Motion from the woman’s left, Crosby striding toward Dez with a nasty-looking Bowie knife clutched at his side.

  The waitress didn’t look at Crosby, but said in a level voice, “You touch him, Keaton will decorate the wall with you.”

  Crosby froze in mid-step, his pale eyes widening. He opened his mouth, shut it again.

  Black Jacket made a move toward Crosby. Dez noted the messy spiderweb of blood crisscrossing the huge man’s forehead. “Your dead friend smashed a plate over my face.” Black Jacket jabbed a finger at Crosby. “I’m gonna take it out on you motherfuckers.”

  “You’re going to sit down,” the woman said in the same even tone. She nodded toward Crosby. “So are you.”

  Gattis rounded on the woman, the glass-speckled mace clutched dangling from one big hand. “This sonofabitch started it.” He poked the mace at Dez. “He’s the one should be punished.”

  Dez eyed the woman. Her royal-blue shirt was sleeveless and tight with a zipper at the throat, her eyes a notch bluer than her shirt. Her black hair was cut fairly short, but unlike most people’s hair these days, hers actually appeared to have been washed in the past month. It was glossy, parted in the middle so that it framed her face, which was fixed in a grim stare. Her pants were khaki and form-fitting, her boots faded leather. She was likely no more than five-five, but in the boots she was as tall as many of the men.

  Gattis moved into her sightline and tugged on his mangy beard, which looked even worse now that it had been lopped off at a diagonal. “Look what he did to me, Iris. I guarantee you Keaton will have his head for this.”

  “Or his dick,” Crosby said, his bullying grin reappearing.

  “Hernandez,” Iris said. “Badler. Get these men to their seats.”

  A pair of hulking figures left off the firefighting – the flames had been contained, but several spots in the carpet were still smoldering and breathing sour wisps of smoke – and approached Gattis and Crosby. Dez felt his pulse quicken. He had met one of the hulking figures before, but there was no time to linger on that now.

  Gattis, who was no dwarf himself, looked childlike next to the pair of gorillas. The one named Hernandez crowded into Crosby, who looked like all the fight had gone out of him. Hernandez was maybe six-and-a-half feet tall and possessed a leonine mane of curly black hair. Though he wore a long-sleeve gray shirt and blue jeans, his muscles bulged visibly.

  Gattis made a face. “Goddammit, Iris, I tell you it’s not fair. No way Keaton would put up with this.”

  “He’ll be back soon enough,” the one named Badler said. He was slightly shorter than Hernandez but appeared even beefier, his shoulders broader than a doorway. “You behave now, you might live through the night.”

  That was enough to persuade Gattis. He ambled toward his table and paused, his face expressionless. “It’s still smoking. So’s my chair.”

  “Then find another chair,” Iris said.

  Crosby joined Gattis and the young man with the piercings at their scorched table.

  Hernandez jerked a thumb at Black Jacket. “You sit too. You’ve caused enough shit for one night.”

  Black Jacket didn’t move. He gave up an inch or so to Hernandez, but he was nearly as wide. “I could do your job, you know.”

  Hernandez squared up to Black Jacket, but it was Iris who spoke. “Drop it, both of you.”

  The two behemoths watched each other a moment longer. Then, Black Jacket turned, grinning, and went back to his table.

  Most of the patrons seemed to relax, but some in the general vicinity continued to watch Iris uneasily.

  Dez said, “I’ll take the crossbow.”

  Iris’s expression didn’t change. “Your guns.”

  Dez smiled. “I’m attached to them.”

  Hernandez took a step toward him, and Dez rested a hand on the butt of the Ruger.

  From his right, Badler said, “You don’t wanna do that, friend.”

  Dez stared at Badler, the noxious memories of their first encounter bubbling to the surface. Badler’s face broke into a grin. “Hey…I remember you.”

  Dez’s grip tightened on the Ruger’s grip.

  “Look around,” Iris said. “You see any guns?”

  “You mean ones that are visible, or the ones they’re concealing?”

  Iris stared back at him. He had the impression she was communicating something subtle, but that might have been imagination.

  Hernandez and Badler drew nearer.

  “When do I get them back?” Dez asked.

  “You won’t if you’re dead,” Badler said.

  Dez noticed the gleam in the muscular man’s eyes, wondered what manner of creature he was. There were several possibilities, but his size and robust health suggested Badler was a cannibal.

  Hernandez loomed over him and snapped his fingers. “Gun.”

  Dez gazed up into the man’s stygian eyes. Was Hernandez a cannibal too? It made sense. Keaton peddled human beings to the highest bidder. The two most obvious consumers were vampires and cannibals. Wouldn’t it be natural for Keaton to employ those sorts of creatures, the kind who wouldn’t scruple about his flesh trade?

  No point fighting it, he decided. Besting a telekinetic was one thing; defeating a pair of brawny cannibals was another. Besides, it might have been dumb luck that had allowed Dez to thwart Erica.

  As Dez unholstered the Ruger, he kept his eyes on Hernandez. He noticed Hernandez didn’t even look at the gun when Dez handed it over. Instead he stared straight into Dez’s eyes with a gaze that exhibited not a trace of human emotion. If Dez didn’t know better, he’d guess the giant man was from outer space.

  “Any others?” Hernandez asked.

  Dez thought of the Smith & Wesson on his ankle. His jeans weren’t especially loose. Did the gun show?

  “That’s all,” he said.

  “I don’t frisk people,” Hernandez said. “If I find out you’ve got another one hidden, I’ll gut you.”

  “Then let’s hope you don’t find one.”

  Hernandez’s indifferent expression slipped, but only for a moment. With a smirk, he turned and lumbered toward the bar. Badler watched Dez a bit longer, radiating a disquieting mixture of hostility and lunacy. He brought to mind someone who in the old world would have gotten his kicks by torturing cats.

  Or humiliating people.

  Eyes glittering, Badler followed Hernandez.

  Iris was still watching him.

  Dez nodded at the crossbow. “That’s not a gun.”

  Did he detect the merest hint of a smile? “You’re not getting it back.”

  “Where’s Keaton?” he asked.

  She scowled, her eyes darting to the table where Crosby and the rest sat watching. “You need to learn caution.”

  “I guess I don’t have a choice, with you stealing all my weapons.”

  Her eyes flicked to his ankle, back to his face. Did she know?

  “I’ll fix you a drink,” she said. “Then you have to go.”

  He followed her toward the bar. “What if I like it here?”

  She glanced at him over her shoulder. “Then you’re dumber than I thought.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Joe, Smile, and the Boy

  “What kind of monster are you?” he asked.

  She looked up from the whiskey bottle she’d just replaced. “Are you remotely familiar with the concept of subtlety?”

  “Don’t see the point of it,” he said. “Not anymore.”

  She sighed and moved down the bar to a pair of black men, both of whom wore the sort of leather hats he associated with the Australian outback.
As Iris walked away Dez couldn’t help notice how perfectly the khaki pants adhered to her buttocks. The flare-up of lust took him aback. What libido he’d experienced lately had been spurred by fantasies of Susan. To have a beautiful woman before him was an unexpected novelty.

  Iris spoke to the men, and Dez studied her silhouette. Her small nose was slightly upturned at the tip, her cheekbones curved with good humor. An endearing overbite. And her hair….

  What did it say about her that she took so much pride in her appearance? Was it vanity or something else? A desire to cling to what dignity remained? A refusal to acquiesce to this barbaric world?

  Who the hell knew? Dez knocked back a slug of whiskey.

  Nearly choked. He covered his face and coughed until the fire in his throat subsided.

  One of the black men, his face smiling and his hat tipped roguishly to one side, remarked, “Should have made his a virgin, Iris.”

  “Still would’ve been too strong for him,” the other black man said.

  Dez shivered, wiped his mouth. Without looking up, he said, “You two find that a man’s alcohol tolerance is an accurate measure of his virility?”

  They were silent a moment, perhaps reassessing him. He noticed how still Iris had become.

  The second man, the one who wore his hat like a normal person, said, “Did you feel manly when you gigged that mover in the throat?”

  It took Dez a half-second to connect the word ‘mover’ with Erica’s telekinesis. “Do I look like I enjoyed it?”

  The smiling man said, “You don’t seem remorseful.”

  Dez stared down at his drink. “What I felt is none of your business.”