The occupants of the pit stood in groups of two or three, wearing basic black, as if they meant to attend a highbrow cocktail party after the festivities ended here. I counted thirteen all together, none of whom I recognized as major players. Disappointed that Bozcowski, Aidyn and Assan, not to mention Derek and Liliana, were haunting some other pit—I mean part—of Miami, I continued my exploration. Still hugging the wall, I moved toward the part of the room furthest from the stairs.
I saw her before she saw me, and though I withdrew into a shallow alcove, I knew she would not miss me once she knew what to look for. The Tor-al-Degan viewed the world through cold, dead eyes, making me feel like a deer forced to drink from crocodile infested waters. Irises the color of gangrene swam in pus-hued sclera, making any of the acolytes they rested on shudder and back up a step. I'm not sure I'd have held my ground either. And I could understand why no picture of her existed in Cassandra's old books. She was just plain hard to see.
It could have been a trick of the lighting, the rise and fall of flame throwing odd shadows so all you got were confusing snapshots, none of which revealed an entire picture. After the eyes I didn't expect to glimpse an ounce of beauty in the beast, but there was a finely sculpted cheekbone, and there, the smooth curve of a shoulder. But I couldn't blame the fizzle, fade the Tor did next on the torches. I blinked, squeezed my eyes shut before I remembered they weren't physical orbs at the moment.
Must be tough, existing in a couple of different planes at once, I thought, as she gained enough definition that I could make out a foot, oh, ugh, make that a big, hairy claw. Definitely hard on the posture, too. She seemed to hunch, as if to protect something she held close, though I couldn't tell what it might be since she wore a dark, voluminous gown that hid a great deal. Then she turned her head and I saw the webbed tissue that connected her neck to something even larger that moved, squirmed, underneath the material that covered her back.
Again, the Tor-al-Degan began to fade, taking on the translucence of fine Japanese paper. She turned her head toward the waiting crowd, which immediately began to chant and sway, reminding me of the snake charmers I'd seen on Discovery Channel specials. Three women, all in their late thirties, all prematurely gray, stepped forward. They kept their backs to the crowd as they knelt on the floor, their knees sinking a good inch in the muck. The rest of the group formed a semicircle behind them and fell to their knees as well. The bottom third of their pants darkened as the cloth soaked up the mystery soup that covered the floor. As I tried to figure out its ingredients, Granny May's strident voice popped into my head. Well, that'll never come out, not even with bleach. Frankly, I was glad to hear her. This whole scene gave me the willies. Mostly because I figured my sacrifice was going to be part of the Big Finish.
The Tor's eyes swiveled in their sockets as she opened her mouth so wide her jaw came unhinged with an audible pop. Enormous fangs descended from the pointed teeth surrounding them, and she spit thick white goo at the watchers, making them cringe and retreat though they continued to chant. Then the Tor whipped her head sideways and slammed those teeth into the wall. The power she might soon unleash became clear as she took a bite out of the trembling earth, leaving ugly black scars in her wake.
As soon as she began to chew she solidified, and I realized how she'd managed to survive in this state for so long. Not only did she gain sustenance from unwilling souls, she fed on the earth as well. Assuming our Native Americans were right, some of the earth's spirit entered her that way, providing even more nourishment. Though I don't throw trash on the ground and I have been known to recycle a soda can or two, I'd never thought of myself as an environmentalist until that moment, when all I could see were the scars she'd left in her steady consumption of the good earth.
That's enough, I thought. That's all I need to see. That's all I want to see.
I rushed back to my body and found it where I'd left it, still blinking and breathing, still alone. Out the window I flew, my phantom heart skipping a beat when I discovered the cords connecting me with everyone who mattered in my life had now visibly faded, a hushed octet drawn from the original magnificent orchestra.
Urgency moved me to new speeds and I reached the van within 30 seconds. Vayl jumped in his seat when I dropped through the roof, landing on, or rather in, Cassandra's lap. Muttering a quick apology, I withdrew to my former spot while Vayl informed Bergman and Cole that I'd rejoined them.
"They've started the ceremony," I said. "It's happening below the basement of Club Undead."
Vayl slammed on the brakes and I suddenly found myself perched on the hood of the van as it slid to a stop inches from the back bumper of a dirty green station wagon. Just ahead of us a four-car pileup jammed the street. It must've just happened, because all the drivers involved still sat in their cars and no cops were in sight. I moved over to Vayl's side of the van, standing beside his window as if I really had feet, and told him what I'd seen.
"Dammit!" Vayl never swore. Never. I guess that's when I knew how much he cared. He jerked the van into reverse, but braked hard again as he realized a parade of mini-vans had him blocked in.
He shoved the van into park and let it idle. "This is going to take a few minutes. Go back to your body and stall them."
"What? Vayl, this is not a basketball game! I can't go in there and eat the clock, because when that buzzer sounds the whole block explodes!"
"You have got to do this, Jasmine. We will be there as soon as I can convince these drivers to move."
"How are you going to know where to find me?"
"Give me directions." So I did, along with my last excuse.
"I don't want to go. What if the monster eats my soul?" I sounded like a three-year-old, cowering under the covers because we all know what sleeps under the bed. But I was scared, more even than I'd been that night in West Virginia, when I'd been young and dumb enough to believe I could survive anything.
Vayl stared into my eyes, willing me to believe him. "It won't. And if it does, we will hang it by the ankles and thump it on the back until it coughs you up."
I smiled, only because he meant for me to. "Hurry, Vayl. I don't want to die again." I swooped into the air and stalled almost immediately. Only four of the seven cords remained and I had to strain to see them. I picked mine out as the only one leading away from the van and sped along its length, strumming it like a single guitar string, forcing the music to send its faint melody into the cosmos. The cord disappeared entirely as I entered Club Undead, and the prickles at the back of my un-neck reminded me I could still feel enormous fear despite my current lack of adrenal glands.
I slipped into the attic, the scene inside my body's temporary abode striking me as both comical and desperate. There I sat, draped halfway off the chair, "Unconscious and barely breathing!" according to Assan's hysterical assessment, while Aidyn crouched before me, his head and forearms under the chair, his back supporting my legs as he tinkered with the bomb. Apparently their remote shut-off wasn't 100% reliable. Not a comforting thought.
Assan pressed the shaking fingers of one hand to my carotid while he checked my pupils with the other. "She's dying!" he yelled. "How can she be dying?"
"Silence, you imbecile I am trying to disarm this bomb!" Aidyn's spirited reply jiggled my body so that my legs slipped off his back, my feet thumping to the floor to one side of him as my butt slid completely off the seat to land between his shoulders. Assan shrieked like a schoolgirl as my weight shifted.