His teeth clacked together and drew blood.
“Ow. Goddamn it.”
Before she could consider the consequences of having an enemy on staff, she slapped him across the cheek. If his goatee were long enough, she’d have yanked his head off and tossed it into the corner for the rats.
“I’m sorry, eez not like me....” Phillippe stared at his hands as if they belonged to someone else, but she was already to the stairs, adjusting her clothing, patting the narrow gash below her ear. Her fingers were warm and wet. The heavy breathing now sounded like giggles oozing from the dark, secretive nooks of the basement.
By the time she reached the door, she was somewhat composed. She’d been hit harder by better, and Violet Felkerson would make sure to sharpen the guillotine as soon as she became manager. Phillippe was toast, French or not.
“Cherie?”
“Stay down there and rot,” she said.
Behind Phillippe, the rag thingy was crawling out of the boiler, wormy fingers clawing at the door for traction.
Rats.
An old hotel like this, what could you expect?
By the time she’d slammed and locked the door, the giggling had turned into a laugh track.
Chapter 32
The Roach pressed back against the stones, fingering his crucifix. He’d drifted in and out of consciousness and couldn’t tell how long he’d been in the basement. Eloise’s—check that, Belial’s—blow had given him a concussion. His tongue probed a few loose teeth, and his nose was clotted with dried blood, which forced him to mouth breathe. His broken jaw throbbed and he wasn’t sure he’d be able to speak.
Not even the prayers he would need.
He awoke the first time with something touching his leg. The touch had given way to a slithery, slick stroke, all the more disturbing because it was vaguely sensual. He opened his eyes to near-total darkness, his night-vision goggles knocked somewhere across the uneven floor.
A dull orange glow emanated from a distance, like a star trying to wink in the gathering dusk. The touch became a turgid rope, and it continued across his thigh and moved on. Seconds, minutes, or maybe hours later, he heard the skuffff of something heavy being dragged across the dirt. Then he remembered Nancy’s corpse.
Disoriented and too sore to move, all he could was lie in the clammy dirt and assess his injuries. The scuffing lasted several minutes, followed by a meaty thunk, like encased bone hitting metal. The orange glow deepened and the fire roared to life. The woman’s body was thrown in silhouette against the bed of embers, then the fire roared to life and engulfed her flesh.
Rodney tried to crawl away, feeling exposed and vulnerable in the bright light cast by the flames, but the going was slow and painful. Blood seeped from his nose and he had to pause every few feet to wipe it from his lips. He expected the slithering limb to latch onto him at any moment.
Are you finished with me, God? Is this the price of arrogance?
But as he clawed his way inch by inch over greasy dirt and protruding rocks, he wasn’t sure he’d be granted such a quick release. After all, the blood of at least eight people was on his hands. Sure, it was all part of his holy work, but that didn’t bring them back to life or give their souls peace. Like Belial and the other fallen angels who did God’s dirty work, he was a necessary evil.
But an evil nonetheless.
And evil masquerading as “good” was in a class by itself, and deserving of a jalapeno enema in the scorching bowels of hell.
After the flames died down and the embers fell into a lulling pulse that made a mockery of a heartbeat, Rodney checked the luminous dial on his wristwatch. It had gone dark, along with the lamp attached to his headgear. Most of his equipment had scattered during the demon’s assault, but his digital camera was still strapped around his neck. Its batteries, too, were dead. The demon had drained all the energy from him, which explained his enervation.
He must have dozed again, because he awoke to near-total darkness, the embers dampened as if the source was entering a long sleep. He could barely make out the stairs, and figured they’d provide some refuge until he could recover enough to climb them. He dragged himself under them and huddled with his prayers.
“Give me a sign, Lord,” he whistled through his shattered mouth.
And the Lord provided, as the basement door creaked open above him and He let there be light.
Rodney thought about calling out when the woman and man descended the stairs, but he wasn’t sure whether one or both were possessed. Belial could have changed hosts, or Eloise might be manipulating people by now, spreading its profane influence like an infection.
Rodney recognized the young woman as one of the hotel hostesses. The man was obviously trying to make a move on her, in the slick, clumsy way of someone who hadn’t mastered his own power. The source would take them both, Rodney decided, and he controlled his uneven breathing so he could watch unnoticed.
The teasing of their coy embrace gave way to an argument. Then she mentioned the boiler and Rodney couldn’t help looking at the rusted hulk. The glow of embers had given way to a roiling pile of smoke. The tendrils of smoke looked solid, and Rodney recalled the tentacle that had brushed his leg. The woman said the things were rats, but she wouldn’t be able to know the demons for what they were.
Only the Chosen could see.
When the woman slapped the man and fled up the stairs, Rodney had called out for her to wait, but his mashed-up mouth could only emit a moan. After the door slammed, giggles slithered from the corners of the basement.
After the door slammed, the man gave a slow turn at the foot of the stairs, as if only now acknowledging his surroundings. “Beetch,” he said.
Rodney called again, this time doing a better job of wiggling his tongue.
“Who’s there?” the man said, squinting beneath the stairs and backing up a couple of steps. Toward the furnace.
Rodney slid a hand in the gap between the crude steps so the man could see he was human. “SSI,” he said, in a sibilant mush.
“One of the paranormal people?” The man had a French accent.
Rodney used his grip on the step to raise himself to his knees and moved his ruined face into the light.
“Mon dieu,” the man said. “What happened?”
“Belial happened,” Rodney said, though the words were unclear and he doubted the man would know the demon’s name anyway.
The man rushed to help him, but Rodney was reluctant to leave the relative safety of his hiding place. He licked the blood from his lips and said, “She locked you in?”
The man nodded. “What were you doing down here?”
Rodney pointed to his camera and the meters on his belt.
“Ah. The ghosts in the basement, no?”
“Worse than ghosts.” His words were still a little mushy, but his tongue and lips were now on speaking terms with one another.
“You must have fallen in the dark? The manager was afraid this might happen.”
“I’ve fallen, all right.” Rodney let the man help him to his feet, and the rush of blood to his head carried an electric jolt of pain. He leaned against the steps and checked his equipment. The EMF meter, audio recorder, and thermal-imaging camera now seemed like stage props. He hadn’t needed them to detect the demons. All he’d needed was his blind faith. “Do you work here?”
“I’m a chef.”
“My cell phone and walkie talkie are dead,.”
“I’ll check the door,” the man said. He thundered up the stairs and tried the handle, though they’d both heard the lock click into place after the woman slammed it. “American women. I should have heeded everyone’s advice. Don’t play where you make your pay.”
Rodney wasn’t listening. He was studying the coal boiler at the far end of the basement, where Nancy’s body had been consumed. If Belial were upstairs, inhabiting Eloise’s body, then what entity was down there feeding?