Kendare Blake - Girl of Nightmares

Impossible, I think as he strides calmly toward me with Anna’s blood dripping from his fingertips. I want to kill him more than anything, for her, for my dad. But it feels impossible. He’s closer now. Close enough so I can smell his smoke.

Jestine scrambles up off of the ground; she rises up behind him, screams, “Leithlisigh!” and strikes her hand down onto the back of his head. He falls forward, but not before catching her with his arm and slamming her down, so hard, onto the rock. I scream her name but the sound of her bones cracking is louder than my voice.

I dart forward and drag her out from under his arm. There’s blood on her teeth, and leaking from the corner of her mouth. Her legs trail behind, bouncing across the ground like rubber.

“That’s it,” she groans. “That’s all.” She lifts her head and we look back at the Obeahman. Whatever her spell was, it still has him doubled over. And something else: there are shadows around him now, and the effect is almost like watching him move too fast to see. Sometimes there’s an extra arm visible, or a head that isn’t his. I think I see the County 12 Hiker, still in a white t-shirt and leather jacket. Then it’s gone. But that’s what it is. He’s separating.

“What did you do?” I look down at Jestine. There’s sweat beaded on her forehead and her skin has turned bluish. Anna has managed to get to her feet and kneels beside us.

“It’s a curse,” Jestine says, sputtering blood down her chin. “He’s destabilized now. I thought I could do more but—” she coughs. “I’m done. I’m dying. And I don’t want to die here.” There’s so much surprise in her voice. I want to do something, to keep her warm or to stop the bleeding. But there’s nothing I can do. The inside of her probably looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it.

“Go back,” I say, and she nods. She twists up onto her shoulder and when she looks down at the ground, I know it’s not stone that she’s seeing, but Colin Burke. She glances once at Anna, sees black veins, and smiles. She glances at me, one more time, and winks. Then her brow knits and her eyes close. It seems that she falls down, and through, and then she’s gone, like she never was.

Behind us, the Obeahman still writhes, his hands pressed against his head, trying to hold himself together. I look at Anna’s broken arm, at her cuts, draining blood down into her dress.

“Don’t get hurt anymore,” I tell her.

“It won’t matter, after,” she says, but she stays kneeling where she is when I turn away.

The athame is at home in my hand. I don’t expect anything. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just know that I’m going to cut him, and find out.

As I get close, the smell of him fills my nostrils, the sickening smoke, and beneath that, the sour scent of stale, dead things. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something, to whip out one last, end-of-your-ass quip, but I don’t. Instead I bring my foot up into his stomach, rocking him back just enough so I can push the athame deep into his chest.

It doesn’t do anything. He screams but he’s been screaming. I pull the knife out and make another cut, but when I do his fingers lock around my arm and squeeze. The bones grind beneath the skin as he lifts me with him, rising to stand. Shadows of spirit are still blinking in and out of existence in the air. I peer closer, searching for my dad’s face. I stop looking when the Obeahman’s teeth sink into my muscle. My arm flexes and contracts instinctually, but it’s butterfly wings against a bulldozer. He jerks his head and most of my shoulder rips loose and goes with it.

I panic. All my limbs strike out at once and I make desperate grabs for the athame with my good arm. When I get it I just slice the air. I want him away. I don’t want to watch him swallow pieces of me.

One of the cuts severs an arm. Not his but someone else’s, one of the trapped ghosts, but it’s the Obeahman who screams as that body is twisted and torn free, pulling up and out through the hole in his chest. We sort of fall away from each other, staring up at the shade of Will Rosenberg’s familiar face as it twists skyward. For one mad instant he looks my way, and I wonder what he sees and if he understands. His mouth opens, but I’ll never know if he wanted to speak. The shadow of him blinks out, gone into nothing. Gone wherever Will was supposed to go before the Obeahman got his hooks in.

“I knew it, you fucker,” I say, something nonsensical like that. I didn’t know anything. I had no clue, but now I do, and I cut the air around him, and over him, the blade sweeping through and cutting down into his shoulders and head, staring up at spirits as they jerk free and fly. Sometimes two at a time. His scream is in my ears but I’m looking for my dad. I don’t want to miss the sight of him. And I want him to see me. When I roll and dodge it’s on autopilot; just a matter of time before I mess up. The distraction of a glimpse of black tail is enough to slow me down, and the Obeahman’s fist connects with my sternum like a battering ram, crushing my chest. Then there’s only air, and pain, and the hard, stone ground.

Anna is screaming. I open my eyes. She’s fighting him. She’s losing, but she’s doing what she can to hold him back. She should let him come. There’s too much blood in my throat for me to talk. I can’t tell her anything. It’s nothing but sputter and spray. Jestine is dead. And I am dead. It’s over.

But I could go back. I could do what Jestine did, and die with Thomas and Carmel and Gideon there. The room would still have the warmth of lit candles. My head half turns, thinking of it. If I turn just an inch more, I’ll be able to see Thomas, see the whole room, and if I press until the glass shatters I’ll be back there.

“Cassio, get out!”

Anna, I can’t breathe. She’s still fighting, one-armed, refusing to fall. How many ghosts did I cut loose in those seconds? Three? Maybe five? Was one of them my dad? I couldn’t tell. I wonder how much it counts, that I did my best. I wonder if he knows that I’m here.

CAS!

My body jerks. I felt that one. Right between my eyes: Thomas’s voice firing across my synapses.

Come back! You’ve got to come back! There isn’t blood left in you. Your heart is slowing! The blood is slowing! We’re stopping it, do you hear me? I’m stopping it!

There’s no blood left in me. Funny, Thomas. Because there’s a hell of a lot of it still pumping into my lungs. Gallons of it, filling me like a sinking ship. Except that … there isn’t. Not really. And I’m lucid, despite not having taken a decent breath for what seems like an hour.

I look at Anna, using her broken arm now like she doesn’t care if it tears off completely. Because she doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, not the ragged remains of my shoulder, or my crushed chest. The Obeahman kicks one of Anna’s legs sideways at the knee and she tumbles.

I push myself up onto my elbows and spit blood onto the stone. The pain is dulled, still strong but no longer intense. It feels … inconsequential. I bend my knees, get my legs under me, and stand up. When I look down at my good arm, I smile. Did you see that, Dad? The athame never left my fist.

The Obeahman sees me rise, but I barely notice. I’m too busy watching the ghosts try to break free of his body, tracking their movements to see where they emerge the most. The vibrations of the knife are singing up through my wrist. Get in. Get out. Cut.

When I dive forward he’s unprepared. The first cut catches a ghost trailing out of his left leg. I kick out and put him on one knee, then get to my feet and cut across his bent back, severing another spirit before jumping away. Two more twist and spin out of his chest, and he screams, music in my ears. A four-jointed arm swings for my head; I duck and cut down beneath his ribs, then once more behind his head. No time to think, no time to look. Just get them out. Set them free.