Cal lunged-a feint, designed to fall short-swordtip sailing toward one of the captors’ breasts. The man flinched back, released his hold just as Cal parried the retrieved piece of pipe, slashed back down to graze the pipe wielder’s arm and, without pause, arc back to the girl’s second captor.
They loosed their prey, began backing away. The girl gasped, fled stumblingly into her building.
Cal turned again to the mob, and the next moment carved itself in nightmare. Confronting him was a vast sea of angry faces. Stern’s dark army. They would do Stern’s work, and leave Stern free to do as he pleased.
Cal’s brief skirmish, terrible and terrifying, hadn’t even marked the beginning.
Slowly, the mass began to close.
“Cal!” Doc sailed a trash can lid at him. He caught it one-handed, positioned it as a shield, stepped backward. Cal sensed the mob gaining courage with even this tiny retreat.
Something inside, deeper than thought, again cried out: I will not let this happen. He said, “The first one who moves. . this goes right through.”
He felt no longer himself but rather an electric wire of sheer will in this tiny, firestorm universe. Something in his eyes, his movement, telegraphed that single raw, unwavering message-NO-and he felt Stern’s army begin to falter, lose their nerve. It’s not what I’m doing, Cal thought. It’s what I’m being.
With a mind-jarring shout, he leapt into their midst, managed to knock a few aside and plow through them to a wall, a guardian for his back.
His sword shot up before he was aware of having seen the two-by-four sweeping down. He blocked it, kept fighting, gradually inching back, losing ground. There were so many. Five driven off, ten more behind. Slowly, very slowly, he backed along the wall as the pack closed in.
“Let him be!”
The voice rumbled through the mob. Stern’s army broke off. Turning, they drew apart like black clouds, leaving an open corridor between Cal and Stern.
“He’s mine.”
Stern flashed his murderous smile. Cal’s gaze locked on Stern; he resumed edging backward along the face of the wall, nearer to his own building. Slowly, Stern closed in, taking his time.
“Goldie!”
Stern followed Cal’s gaze, swiveled his head to regard the lanky figure. Goldie stood by the brownstone, clutching an electrical cord that ran up through an open window into the building. He gave it a sharp tug.
There was a sound of release overhead. A big, weighted net flew through the air, fired via some kind of improvised catapult from atop the building, sailed toward Stern.
Cal stood frozen. The whole street went still and watchful.
Stern canted his face upward. Taking a vast, deep breath, he hesitated, then exhaled a dazzling great gout of flame.
It blazed green like some hellish firework and twisted toward the sky, struck the webbing and seared it to nothing. The weights rained down about Stern, clattering harmlessly.
Goldie, still with the cord in his hands, said numbly, “I think we’ve got a problem.”
This shouldn’t be happening, Cal thought in the stunned silence. Not with what Goldie had shown him at the campfire, the explosion dissipating, the flame guttering out.
But then this was a new kind of fire, fed by where that fire had gone, and by the white-hot rage of this demon he had once served. A fire, like Stern himself, capable of anything.
Stern grinned at Cal. “Surprise.” He reached out to him with razor claws.
Suddenly, an arrow flashed through the air. Stern gasped as it struck him in the arm.
Colleen stood beside the Volkswagen that had been shielding her, the crossbow in her hands, already reloading. She fired another shot.
This caught Stern in the shoulder, spun him. Cal seized the moment to dart past, get clear.
Stern wheeled on Colleen, glaring. “You woman. .” He swept the arrows off his body, took a deep inhalation, the inferno rising in him.
Fluid crashed into him, drenching him. The scent of gasoline hung pungent in the night. Stern bellowed, twisted around to see Cal standing by the derelict tanker, still aiming its hose at him.
Cal’s voice was low and deadly. “Try your fire trick now.” He pulled a lighter from his pocket, flicked it. Stern cringed.
“Where’s my sister?”
With a howl of rage, Stern grabbed a bus bench, ripped it free of the concrete and hurled it at Cal. Cal dove aside as it smashed to the pavement. Stern took off running back the way he came, scattering the crowd in his blind charge.
Cal was on his feet now, running, waving toward Colleen, Doc and Goldie. “Don’t lose him!”
In the dim, creepy house, Tina stirred fitfully. There were sounds outside, but they seemed distant in the heat haze of her fever. She had been getting better, but somehow being near Stern had made the sickness flare with new ferocity. It churned in her like a living thing, worked its will. In her delirium, she saw blurry, indistinct figures, enticing her. Sometimes, she fancied they were Petrushka and Odette and the Firebird calling her to the dance, but then they would shift into other forms, some human, some not, and the place they beckoned from was a dark haven she had never known.
The front door burst open, rousing her. She opened her eyes to see Stern, gleaming with wetness that steamed off his hot skin. He tore down the gauzy curtains, wiped furiously at himself. “Damn, that stings!”
Footsteps sounded from outside. Through the open door, Tina saw Cal running toward the house, followed by the woman and man who had been in her room and also another man. She cried out to them, but Stern grabbed her up in his rough arms.
He brought his ghastly face down to her. “I’m sick of this dump. How about you?”
She fought to form words of protest but found she could only moan. Stern strode toward the window.
Sam banged the back door and burst into the room, wheezing hard. The import of the scene burned instantly into his mind. Ely was leaving, and he was taking the dancer girl with him-to whatever dark destiny he chose next.
Amazement washed over Sam, he couldn’t believe it. The genie, the dread genie would be gone, and miraculously Sam would be spared, left alone. The dancer girl, it would be her turn to reap the whirlwind, wherever it chose to spin her, even tear her apart in its brute savagery.
But she hadn’t invited it in. Sam had.
Ely was almost to the window, his broad wings stretching out. He would have to smash out the glass, perhaps even the frame, to fit through, but that would be nothing to him. No amount of destruction ever was. Sam hung back in the shadows, breathless and watching. The little girl hung limp in Stern’s arms, and she looked so small, so fragile, not like a real person at all.
Her eyes opened, all depth-of-ocean blueness, and found Sam in the shadows. For just that moment, Sam felt swallowed in her gaze, recognized the desperation and despair there, the helplessness and humanity. Then her eyes slipped shut, and the connection was broken.
Hang back, the voice in Sam cautioned. Do nothing, and they’ll be gone.
But his legs were already working, rapid, little steps that quickly overtook Stern. Sam stepped in his path, blocked his way.
“I can’t let you, Ely,” he said simply.
Stern advised, “Move aside, Mr. Mole.”
Sam felt dizzy, sick with terror. His hand sought out an end table for support, and his fingers brushed the Loetz silver-overlay vase that had been Mother’s favorite, a precious thing in a houseful of precious things that populated his life, that had never been his. Sam’s glance held on Stern’s face, so magnificent and appalling.
“I can’t,” Sam said.
The girl’s eyes half-fluttered open, and Sam thought he saw comprehension there, that she knew what was happening. Stern drew in a deep, warning breath.