Wilder (22 page)

Chapter 41

N
ew York was never quiet. Even in the early morning, the city hummed with life and excitement: garbage trucks rumbling, early-morning commuters grumbling, shopkeepers opening their doors.

Yet
this
morning, as Charisma rode the three blocks to St. Maddie’s, the streets were oddly empty and eerily silent.

Then from the south, she heard a hollow, rhythmic booming begin, as if someone were using a gigantic jackhammer to dismantle something big. Something like . . . the Statue of Liberty.

No. Osgood wouldn’t dare. . . .

Yet the sound funneled through the streets, loud and ominous, and only a week remained until the Chosen Ones’ chance was over and Osgood—and the devil—would reign for a thousand years.

Better not think about that. Think about the job at hand. Think about the orphanage under attack. Think about the nuns who would give up their lives for those children.

Charisma rode faster.

St. Madeleine Brideau Orphanage had been built in the mid-nineteenth century near the then brand-new Central Park. The convent occupied a full quarter of a city block, big enough for the church, the sleeping quarters, the classrooms, and a small playground. Even during the best of times, a twelve-foot-high chain-link fence surrounded everything except the entrance to the church, which was protected at night by iron bars. Now Charisma saw that rolled barbed wire had been added to the top of the fence, and even in the daytime the bars secured the church.

Good thing, because demons, dozens of demons, clung to the fence across the playground from the terrified children who peered out the windows, facing off against the phalanx of nuns who protected the school doors.

Charisma skidded to a stop. She had never anticipated this. She couldn’t have packed enough weapons to deal with an attack of this magnitude.

In the past, demons had hidden from the sun, skulked in the dark, attacked on the sly.

Now here they were in bright light, bold and hungry.

She leaned her bike against the wall, crouched down, and studied the situation. She should have brought her Steyr machine pistol, difficult to control, but capable of shooting lots of bullets. Instead she was carrying two Glocks.

Not that it mattered; unless she could lure the demons away from the school, her pistols were of no use. Positioned as the demons were, with the school behind them, she couldn’t shoot at them. Her pistols were loaded with hollow-point silver bullets, filled with mercury and made especially for the Chosen Ones. Through trial and error, the Chosen Ones had discovered that these were the only bullets that, if aimed correctly, could send demons back to hell. The trouble was, bullets slid into those moist, amphibious bodies and fragments exploded out the other side, rocketing wildly onto the next target.

How Mother Catherine had managed to sneak one of her nuns out to send word to the Chosen Ones, Charisma did not know.

A diversion would have to work. If Charisma could draw the demons into the middle of the street, she had thirty-four rounds to use on the ugly, creepy, slimy little imps. Then the plan was to run like hell and hope they followed her.

With a shout, she sprinted forward and lobbed a smoke grenade at the fence.

Their grayish green heads turned in her direction. Their bug eyes widened in anticipation. Their tongues lolled and their teeth gleamed. Half of them leaped off the fence and cantered toward her. They grinned and chattered. Their rotten-fish stench filled her nose and lungs.

And suddenly, in her mind, she was back underground, surrounded and terrorized. Weak. Exhausted. Broken.

Bitten.

In a flash, she was no longer Charisma Fangorn, warrior and Chosen One.

She was a victim.

These demons had hurt her before. They would hurt her again.

They would kill her.

Charisma wanted to get out of here. She
had
to run away.

Then across the schoolyard, she heard it: The nuns shrieked their war cry. “Charisma! Charisma!” They raced toward the fence, rakes and shovels in their hands. They attacked the demons still clinging to the fence, knocking them off, scratching them, piercing them.

For shit’s sake, they were nuns. Mostly
old
nuns. In sensible shoes. With sensible dark-rimmed glasses. They didn’t know how to fight. They were going to get themselves killed.

Leaves from the dying trees skittered along the sidewalk. A wisp of smoke floated through like a lonely ghost. But no people, no dogs, no cats, not even a rat. Every living creature had abandoned the orphanage to its fate.

Charisma Fangorn would not do the same.

She ran backward, drawing the demons into the center of the street. Lifting her pistol in her trembling grip, she shot the ones in the clear. Five. Ten. Fifteen. She emptied the Glock and threw it, knocking out one demon more with the impact.

The bullets sent them flopping backward. Their heads exploded.

Some demons leaped on their remains, dining on their former comrades.

Some hissed and spit at her, their eyes gleaming with malice.

All drew back.

The nuns cheered.

One nun screamed, “Charisma!” and pointed upward.

A demon scaling the fence.

Flail in hand, Charisma ran forward, using the spiked ball to bludgeon demons out of her way. When she was underneath the slimy little cockroach, she shot and prayed the bullet didn’t fall into the crowd of nuns.

The demon blew apart.

When she turned, she was surrounded, her back against the fence.

Just like before. Just like in the tunnels.

The bite on her shoulder burned at the memory.

She lashed out in all directions with her flail, driving them back. But no matter how many she took out, more and more pressed in on her, running sideways on the fence, attacking from the ground.

Panic built.

Behind her, the nuns screamed and battered the fence.

It didn’t matter. She didn’t stand a chance.
They
didn’t stand a chance.

Her time had run out. There was no hope. Unless help arrived now, the evil tide would wash over her, take her to some new hell, and all the nuns and the children, too.

Sweat ran into her face.

Desperation seeped into her bones.

Where were the Chosen Ones? Where was her backup?

When would they come?

Then, with a roar that made the demons chatter and quake, Guardian burst from a manhole and leaped onto the street.

Chapter 42

W
ith another roar, Guardian threw the hundred-pound manhole cover as if it were a Frisbee. It cut through the demons like a hot knife through butter, taking out two dozen as they scampered away.

The nuns screamed.

The demons wailed and fled in all directions.

But Charisma saw that hope had arrived.

Charisma attacked their enemies with renewed determination, using her blade in one hand, her flail in the other.

The demons ran as if pursued by . . . demons. They slithered. They jumped. They vanished into the storm sewers. And as suddenly as summer storm clouds appeared in the sky, they were gone.

Behind Charisma, she heard one of the nuns catch her breath and start to sob. She heard Mother Catherine comfort her.

But nothing mattered except Charisma and Guardian, alone in the street, staring at each other across a distance.

Two thoughts possessed her.

Seeing Guardian only intensified her love and heartache.

And . . . something was very wrong.

Why had the demons run?

“What’s that noise?” one of the nuns asked.

Charisma heard it, too. At both ends of the street, she heard the growl of speeding cars.

She looked. Large, powerful, black Town Cars accelerated toward them.

A racket, a clatter . . . a chopping noise, close . . . and abruptly loud.

Right
there
.

Across the street, from over the top of the building, a helicopter swept over them, so low it cast a shadow on the pavement.

Tires screeched as the cars accelerated toward them.

Trapped!
They were trapped!

“Charisma!” Guardian raced toward her.

The helicopter lowered a heavy rope net.

“No!” Charisma screamed. “Run!”

The net fell on him, knocking him to his knees, snaring him in its grip.

Cars shrieked to a halt. Doors flew open. Police officers piled out.

The New York police chief stepped from the car, looking smug and controlled in her crisp uniform.

Guardian struggled, lashing out wildly, a frantic animal in a trap.

Charisma ran toward him.

Officers caught her, held her as she struggled.

“God, what a monster!” she heard. “Look at the size of him.” “Look at those teeth!”

Over and over, she screamed, “Guardian! No. Let him go!”

As Guardian fought the restraints, he stared at her, his blue eyes wide and desperate.

Then a man in a dark suit stepped out of one car, walked to the net, and waited.

Guardian glanced up. Saw him. Stilled. And shrank back.

The stranger was a tall man, middle-aged, sharply handsome, with brunette hair that curled in a wave on his forehead and pale blue eyes.

Charisma had never met him, never seen him before. But she knew he must be Smith Bernhard.

He was the real monster. He watched Guardian avidly, observing him with pleasure and greed. “What a delight to see you at last in your true form, Aleksandr. And what an interesting form it is. When I thought some trigger in your family’s brain must be present for transformation to occur, I envisioned that an actual animal would be the result. This”—he waved his hand at Guardian—“this is very unusual.”

Guardian snarled.

The police officers gasped and backed up.

Charisma struggled again. “No!”

“It’s okay, miss,” one of the officers who held her shouted. “We’ve got you. You’re safe!”

As if she were afraid of Guardian!

Guardian’s gaze shifted to the woman who uncoiled herself from the backseat of the car.

Charisma recognized her at once.

Iskra. The woman who had been at Aleksandr Wilder’s side when he vanished.

The police officers who restrained Charisma moaned simultaneously, piteously, in the throes of desperate, needy desire.

Charisma glanced at them.

Both of them were riveted by the sight of Iskra’s sinuous body, her flowing blond hair, her red lips and sensuously made-up eyes.

At that moment, Charisma recognized her as a
thing
. One of the Others. Like Ronnie, she had been given the gift of seduction. Like Ronnie, she had used it to destroy a member of the Chosen Ones.

No wonder Aleksandr had run off with her. He had known all was not right with her, but he hadn’t been able to resist her.

Guardian
was
Aleksandr Wilder.

And Aleksandr Wilder had been fatally seduced.

“Guardian!” Charisma yelled. “Aleksandr! No! Don’t look at her!”

He glanced at her. “Get away,” he shouted. “Save yourself!”

Even with Iskra here, he recognized Charisma. He wanted to save Charisma.

As Iskra stepped forward, voluptuous and lovely, Charisma screamed again, “Aleksandr!”

This time, he didn’t look back at her. He kept his gaze fixed . . . on Bernhard.

Bernhard, who gestured to the hovering helicopter to pull the net up.

Charisma screamed and cried until she was hoarse, straining against the men who restrained her. They wrestled with her, gently at first, then yelling in pain as she broke bones. The next bunch of officers subdued her with nightsticks to the head and arms.

She fell to her knees.

The police grabbed her by her arms.

“She’s gone crazy with fear,” one said.

“Or she’s just crazy,” said another.

The net began to lift off the street.

Guardian snarled and fought as he was lifted into the air.

From behind Charisma, someone plucked the remaining pistol from her belt. She heard the safety click off.

Also from behind her, the calm, imperious voice of Mother Catherine said, “Let her go.”

The police turned.

Charisma turned.

Mother Catherine, withered, sweet faced, five-foot-nothing, pointed an imperious finger at the officers.

Sister Marie Clare, younger and with a cold, cool gaze, held the Glock steadily pointed at the police chief.

Sister Margaret, who had taught at the school for forty years, caught the ear of the policeman who held Charisma. “Young man, let her go!”

The police officers released Charisma.

Charisma seized the moment. She crawled to her feet, ran, and leaped to catch the net with both hands.

Guardian still struggled wildly.

“Guardian!” she yelled.

Still mad with terror, he didn’t respond.

She crawled up the webbing, looked into his eyes, said intently, “Aleksandr.”

He froze.

“Aleksandr, get my knife.”

He came back to life, no longer a panicked animal caught in a trap, but a man. “Yes.” Reaching into her vest, he pulled out her blade and instructed her, “Jump.”

Fifteen feet off the ground, she dropped off the net and onto the street, crumpling in exhaustion.

The net rose closer to the helicopter. The helicopter headed over the building across the street.

And at the rooftop, Aleksandr slashed a hole through the net and jumped.

Bernhard yelled, “Get him! Catch him!”

Iskra stared, beautiful brown eyes narrowing.

Aleksandr ran along the rooftop.

The policemen raised their guns.

Bernhard hopped up and down. “Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot. He’s mine!”

Aleksandr disappeared from sight.

Bernhard pointed at Charisma. “Take her. Keep her!”

The police turned.

In a firm tone, Mother Catherine said, “Thou . . . shalt . . . not.”

The officers paused.

“You don’t impress me,” Bernhard said. “You have no authority here.”

“No. Not I.” Mother Catherine pointed to the spire of the church.

A disbeliever to the marrow of his bones, Bernhard turned red with fury. “Take the woman! We can use her to trap the beast.”

One by one, the police officers looked at him, then at Mother Catherine, and shook their heads. “She works for somebody more important than you,” one remarked.

To her nuns, Mother Catherine said, “Pick Charisma up. Bring her inside.”

Sister Marie Claire and Sister Margaret grabbed Charisma under the arms and dragged her into the schoolyard.

Mother Catherine adjusted her sleeves, adjusted her glasses, and followed.