Part 18 (2/2)
I closed my eyes and listened.
”Once upon a time, there was a little girl,” Circe began. ”She had a wh.o.r.e for a mother and a charlatan for a father, but she was special all the same. Her name was Circe, and she was a child of prophecy, born to hear a siren's call.
”One day her mother left her all alone on a bridge. The little girl sat there and waited for her father. She waited very patiently, staring down at the clear water rus.h.i.+ng in the creek below, watching fish as they swam upstream to die.
”The fish were so pretty, strong and sleek as they hurried toward death. The creek was pretty too, like liquid gla.s.s. The little girl noticed that no matter how fast the water moved, it held her shadow like a mirror holds a reflection. At least she thought it was her shadow that the water held. Soon enough the little girl started to wonder. Because the shadow on the water called to her-”
”A siren's call,” I said.
”The girl answered it, of course. She was a child of prophecy. What else could she do? She strained toward the shadow...”
Twin memories of the bridge intertwined in my mind-the little girl leaning forward to watch the fish, and Janice Ravenwood staring down at the water as if hypnotized during the strange seance.
”...and the shadow's voice begged her to come closer...”
I caught Janice Ravenwood before she fell into that cold, clear water.
But no one caught Circe Whistler.
”...and the little girl fell off the bridge and the shadows pulled her under the surface like liquid gla.s.s and the creek took her under the bridge and over rocks that never saw the sun...oh, so many rocks...and what those rocks did to her....”
Circe slapped me again. My eyelids fluttered open. ”Don't sleep yet, darling,” she said. ”Stay with me a little while longer. There's not much more to tell.”
Another breath rattled down my throat. Another old man's birthday. I'd lost count, but I knew there wasn't any point in starting again.
Circe said, ”The rocks hurt her horribly. The little girl died, of course. But her wounds did not matter, for they would pa.s.s as she had pa.s.sed. She was a child of prophecy, a husk to be emptied and repaired by Satan.” Circe leaned close and whispered in my ear as if we were in church. ”And the ruin of Whistler's corpse shall be Satan's cradle, and Satan will be reborn in flesh and blood to walk the earth once more-”
”Circe was Satan's vessel,” I whispered. ”She was the chosen one. Not Diabolos-”
”Yes,” she said. ”A little girl was Satan's cradle, and He walks the earth as a woman.”
I coughed blood.
The thing that had once been Circe Whistler ran a long slim finger over my lower lip and silenced me.
She slipped that finger between black lips and sucked it hungrily. A dark buzzing filled her throat, and her words were like a misplaced echo. ”Diabolos Whistler's prophecy was fulfilled a long time ago. The funny thing is, no one seemed to notice.”
Blood pooled in my mouth. Rich and salty and hot, pumped by my heart. Like life itself...like- She leaned toward me.
Opened her mouth.
Kissed me deeply.
Drinking my blood like sustenance. Feeding the dark things that hid in the hollow of her throat- I screamed.
She broke off the kiss. ”Mortality.” She laughed. ”It's been a real tradeoff. Of course, everything is. I wouldn't want to carry the whole load, though. I wouldn't want to grow old, or give up certain advantages I've always enjoyed. But it's like they say-sometimes you've got to bring it to get it. I paid a high price to enjoy the pleasures of the flesh. Higher than you would ever believe.”
But I did believe. I had to. Satan had shown me the proof.
I believed every word.
I blinked and tried to focus. I looked for the woman who had drawn me to her bed. I looked for her in the shadows. She was with them now. A thing that wore a woman as a mask. A dark ripple on water. A siren calling from the heart of my wildest dream- My wildest nightmare.
”It's past your bedtime,” said the thing that lived in Circe Whistler's skin.
I sucked down one last breath.
Her palm closed over my face, dammed my nostrils and my mouth.
That last breath burned in my lungs. I knew I'd never draw another. I drew my K-bar instead. Drew it from behind my back.
The blade sliced crushed velvet, tore flesh, skittered between ribs.
And dug a grave in Satan's black heart.
They lay at my feet.
Three dead dogs and Satan's corpse.
Her blue eyes shone with surprise.
Her open mouth was a gutter for blood.
In dying, that was all she had surrendered.
Or perhaps it was all I could see.
No shade. No ghost. Only blood.
But blood was enough.
Flies came.
And flies lingered.
So did I.
I heard footfalls on the staircase. Careful, quiet, afraid. And very much alive.
Janice Ravenwood stood before me, searching for answers in my eyes.
My eyes held nothing. I was dead. But I saw clearly. I saw Janice's future. She could have everything she'd ever wanted. Fame, fortune...even Circe Whistler's mansion. She could have it all, as long as she was willing to pay the price.
We all paid our prices. All of us, the living and the dead. Me, and Diabolos Whistler, and the thing that had masqueraded as his daughter, and Spider Ripley and all the rest.
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