It was funny how Simon had never once thought it might be the police out there, as if he didn't believe the Undertaker would bring the police to the party.
Edward stared down the barrel of that gun, looked past it, into Simon's eyes, and the look was his usual look. His eyes were cold and empty as winter skies. There was no fear. There was no anything. It was like he wasn't there at all.
Edward may have been calm, but I wasn't. I'd seen enough bad men to know that Simon meant it. More than that, he wanted to do it. He'd feel safer if Edward were dead. I was out of ideas, but I couldn't just stand here and watch it happen.
"Tell them, Undertaker, or I will blow your head all over this porch."
"Even if I asked, they wouldn't come."
Simon pressed the barrel in, so that Edward had to brace his feet against it to keep from being pushed backwards. "You better hope they come. We don't need you alive, just her."
"I need him alive," I said.
Simon's eyes flicked to me, then settled back on Edward. "Lying bitch."
"Are you a witch, Simon?" I asked, though I knew the answer. I'd have spotted it if he had been a practitioner.
"What the fuck does that matter?"
"Then you don't know what I need to do this spell, do you? Your boss would be pissed if you blew away someone I needed to keep him safe from the monsters."
"Why do you need him?" Deuce asked.
I swallowed and tried to think, nothing good was coming. I tried for truth. When I'm out of other options, it still works. "Riker said he wouldn't hurt the kids. He said he wouldn't hurt us. He said he just wanted me to save him from the monster. If you blow … Ted's brains into the next county, then I'm not going to believe any of Riker's other promises. The second I think that Riker is going to kill the kids and us once I do the job, then I don't have any incentive to help him."
Simon's eyes flicked to me again. "We can give you incentive." I didn't see him nod, but I felt Mickey moving behind me. I've never been good at taking a blow. I moved without thinking and he missed my shoulder, but I'd been right. He knew how to fight. I was turning towards him to do what, I'm not sure, when the butt of the gun caught me on the chin. I think I'd made him mad by ducking because he hit me hard.
The next thing I knew I was on the ground, looking up. Deuce was kneeling by me, stroking my face. I had the impression he'd been petting me for awhile, as if I'd passed out. I didn't remember passing out. The sunglasses were gone. I didn't know if Deuce took them off, or if they flew off when my head went back.
"She's awake," Deuce said, voice sort of dreamy. He gave me a gentle smile and kept stroking my face.
Simon knelt by me, blocking out the light. "What's your name?"
"Anita, Anita Blake."
"How many fingers?"
I watched his hand move back and forth, following it with my eyes. "Two."
"Can you sit up?"
It was a good question. "With help, maybe."
Deuce put his arm behind my back and lifted me. I let him take a lot of the weight, not because it was necessary, but because them thinking I was more hurt than I was might make them think I was less of a threat. We needed some sort of edge.
I rested against Deuce's shoulder. He was humming something tuneless under his breath, his hand cupping my face, stroking the skin, over and over. I was finally able to see everything. Edward was on his knees with his hands clasped on top of his cowboy hat. Rooster had a gun touching his head. Edward didn't look hurt. More like they'd done it to keep him from doing anything heroic.
Mickey had a bloody lip. He was carefully not making eye contact with anyone.
"Can you stand?" Simon asked.
"With help, yeah."
"Deuce."
Deuce helped me to my feet, and the world wavered. I clung to Deuce, hands digging in as the world tried to slide out my ear. Maybe I wasn't pretending to be hurt.
"Shit," Simon said. "Can you walk if Deuce helps you?"
I started to nod, and that made me nauseated. I had to breathe through it before I could answer him. "I think so."
"Good. Let's go." He backed into the house, eyes watching the darkness beyond, though with all the lights his night vision was probably shit. Deuce and I went next. He had Edward's wire hung around his neck like a doctor's stethoscope. Edward was next, hands still firmly on top of his head. Rooster, then Mickey bringing up the rear. They staggered us so that if someone started shooting, there was room to maneuver.
Simon started up a flight of stairs. I looked up the long flight and the world swam. Deuce called, "Simon, I'm not sure she's up to stairs."
"Mickey." The man in question moved up to the foot of the stairs. "Carry her."
"I don't want him touching me," I said.
"I didn't ask you, either of you," Simon said.
Mickey gave his gun to Simon, then took my arm. He pulled me too fast and I was suddenly airborne on his shoulder, my head hanging down. I couldn't breathe. The world was spinning, and I was going to be sick.
"I'm going to throw up."
He dumped me unceremoniously back to my feet, and I fell. It was Simon who caught me, "Are you too hurt to do the spell?"
I knew the answer to that one — no. Because if Riker thought I couldn't help him, he would kill us all. "I can do it if Mickey here doesn't dangle me over his shoulder with my head hanging down. I need to stay upright, or it's not going to get any better."
"Carry her in your arms, not over your shoulders," Simon said. "All those muscles got to be good for something."
Mickey picked me up in his arms like you'd carry a small child. He stood there like I weighed nothing. He was strong but carrying like this is harder than it looks. We'd see how he did if there was more than one floor to climb. Here's hoping he didn't drop me.
I put my arm around his shoulders. I'd have clasped hands around his neck to be more secure, but I couldn't reach around his deltoids without straining. "How much do you bench press?"
"Three-ninety."
"I'm impressed," I said.
He preened a little. Mickey was dangerous, but if I could keep him from hitting me, he was the weak one. Rooster followed orders too well. Simon was Simon. Deuce seemed harmless, but there was something in those dreamy eyes that was a little scary. Maybe I was wrong, but I'd try Mickey before I tried Deuce, for trickery anyway. Arm wrestling, I'd take Deuce.
Mickey walked up the stairs with me in his arms, effortlessly. I could feel the muscles in his legs pushing, working. Again, I had the sense of immense physical potential and quickness.
"What's Mickey mean?" I asked.
"Nothing."
"Simon explained his nickname, I'm just wanting to know what yours means."
Deuce answered. "It's for Mickey Mouse."
"Shut up, Deuce."
"He's got a tattoo of Mickey on his butt," Deuce said as if Mickey hadn't spoken.
Mickey's face darkened, and he turned to glare at the other man. I just fought to keep my face blank. What kind of moron would have Mickey Mouse tattooed on his butt? But not out loud, not with those tree trunk arms wrapped around my tender body. If I hadn't had the marks on me, he'd have probably killed me with that one blow. No, I didn't want Mickey angry with me.
There was a landing, and a second flight of stairs. Mickey didn't even hesitate on the landing. He just went for the next set of stairs. His legs moved as easily up the second set as the first. He never paused to catch his breath. In fact, his breathing barely sped up. Whatever you could complain about Mickey, being out of shape wasn't part of it.
I told him so. "How far you jog a day?"
"Five miles, every other day. How'd you know?"
"A lot of body builders would be having trouble by now. They neglect the aerobic stuff, but you move like some kind of well-oiled machine. You're not even breathing hard." There was something very intimate about being carried in someone's arms like this, a reminder of childhood and your parents' arms maybe.