Darren Shan: Hell's Horizon

The problem is, Paucar Wami doesn’t exist anymore. He’s fled these waters for seas beyond the confines of reality. Whether he snapped out of existence when The Cardinal jumped to his doom, or was disposed of by the villacs , he’s gone and he ain’t coming back. There’s no one for Bill to set his hounds after.

I was willing to forgive Bill when I thought he was dead. Someone who’d blow himself up was to be pitied, not hated. But the thought of him faking his death, continuing the game, putting one of my half brothers through the crazed hell he had inflicted on me…

That pisses me off. It’s drawn me away from self-pity, apathy, the vodka and its promise of release. I won’t let the bastard get away with it. For what he did to me, Ellen and the others, death’s the least he deserves. And I’m going to make sure the son of a bitch pays his dues.

But how to track him down? With no Paucar Wami to strike against, there’s no reason for Bill to show his face, nothing to tempt him out of hiding. He went to a lot of trouble to make people think he was dead. He’s unlikely to risk blowing his cover, not without Wami to tempt him. How can you entice a man out of hiding when the bait he hungers for no longer exists?

The answer struck me in the middle of a long dark night, as I lay staring at the bottle of vodka — send the dead to catch the dead! Paucar Wami must return to haunt the streets of the city. If the killer can be brought back to life, I’m sure Bill will seek him out like a knight of King Arthur’s upon hearing a rumor of the Holy Grail. Bill won’t have forgotten Wami. His hatred will have kept his memories of the killer alive. I can’t resurrect Wami physically, but his spirit can be rekindled, and when it is…

There’s not much of a view from this apartment. A filthy avenue and the backs of a couple of buildings. But it’s great for studying the sky come evening. I sit by the window and watch the sun fade on the horizon. I let my eyes linger on its jagged shadows, stretched out like so many bloodstained fingers across the sky. I stare into the red flames of horizoned hell, and empathize with the tortured edge of the Earth’s rim.

When the sun drops out of sight and the glass turns reflective, I study my face. I shaved my head two nights ago, with an electric razor. It was hard to adapt to — bald, I realized how closely I resembled my father — but I’m getting used to it. I no longer jump nervously when I spot my reflection.

The left side of my face is the same as before, but when I rotate my neck a twisting snake comes into view. The tattooing will take longer than I thought. The design I asked for is tricky to create, and will require time and patience to get right. But I can wait. A week or two won’t matter. When it’s finished, I’ll have the tattoos and the smooth skull, as well as the motorcycle. The clothes will be easy to replicate. Then I’ll take his name, hit the streets and spread the word— Wami’s back!

That should draw Bill out. He’ll have to investigate. Even if he senses a trap, he won’t be able to stay away. His hatred will drag him out of his pit and back into the playpen of the city. When it does, and he shows himself, I’ll capture him, put a knife to his throat, kiss him once on the forehead, then make a swift end of him. Mere murder wasn’t revenge enough for Bill Casey, but it will do for me.

But what if he doesn’t show? What if the charade isn’t enough to lure him out of hiding?

I spin away from the window and study the photo hanging next to the bottle of vodka, the snapshot of Bill and a young Priscilla Perdue. My eyes turn to the trinket hanging from a chain around my neck — Bill’s little finger, varnished so it will last. I stroke it from tip to base, as I have many times since I conceived the ruse to tempt Bill out into the open.

The look might not be enough. Bill’s no fool. Maybe he won’t fall for rumors alone. I may have to do more than re-create my father’s image. Wami’s body of work might also have to be duplicated.

I think I’ll have to kill.