The demon’s face shifted from Margaret Percival’s to Beth’s as fire leapt across the attic and lit up the gash in the ceiling. “Well, I didn’t want Kendra to see me like this.”
Even with her damp hair, the bloom of blood on her chest, and the reflection of the encroaching flames in her eyes, she was beautiful. Digger’s half-dead heart twitched in his chest, revived enough to ache. “She’s not ready to know what she is.”
“She’s almost a woman, Wayne. Haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ve been trying not to.”
“Thanks for bringing her. It was so good to see her.”
“Sorry I waited so long. I was just—”
“Scared. I don’t blame you.” Beth sat on the soggy, gypsum-covered bed as smoke and steam swirled around her face. “We knew something was here. Dumb as we were, we somehow knew.”
A gutter banged against the windowsill and glass shattered. Another chunk of the ceiling fell down, and the attic rumbled and copper roofing flapped from the heat of the updraft.
“Go now,” Beth said, looking at the sketch pencil in her hand. “Get her away.”
“I can’t lose you again.”
“Somebody’s got to fit her for wings.”
“I’m not much—”
“But you’re all she’s got. Dying is the easy way out. I should know.”
“The hotel....”
“Ashes to ashes and all that. Get out of here. I’m tired of goodbyes.”
“Six demons against one angel. Odds are not good.”
“When God gives you a job, you just do it. Come hell or high water.”
Wayne wished he had Beth’s faith. He struggled to leave her with something, even as the walls crackled, but all he had was doubt. “How will I know who wins?”
“See me in heaven and you’ll know.”
He staggered through the smoke and kissed her. She was already gone, air, ether, mist, a cloud in heaven. All that was left was crackling flames, a cacophony of splintering wood, and the filthy sketch pencil lying on the bed.
He grabbed the pencil and ran for the door. The deadbolt blistered his fingers as he racked it loose and swept the door wide, then entered a hall of hell.
“I love you,” he shouted, words lost in the roar of Belial’s fury.
Chapter 53
Violet’s fingers played over the petty cash. A few hundred. Not so hot, but it would do until the unemployment checks came through.
Outside the office, windows shattered and the fire fighters sprayed their futile hoses. They must have thought everyone was out by now, because no hero types were barging through the lobby looking for lost souls.
The real pity was that there was no time to raid the cash register in the bar.
She folded the rumpled stack of bills and slipped them in the waistband of her pants. She wasn’t worried about the fire, not yet, because most of the damage had occurred on the two wings. The front door was barely 50 feet away. She played the flashlight around the office, glad she’d found one that worked.
Violet wondered what else Janey might have stashed away. Maybe there was a lost-and-found drawer, with jewelry, watches, and wallets. She opened the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet and rifled through papers. Aside from a half-empty bottle of Merlot, there was little of interest.
She tried the one above it, now conscious of the smoke collecting in the office. The cabinet was empty except for a photograph of a young woman. The photograph was yellowed with age and chipped at the edges, and Violet would have disregarded it except the face looked disturbingly familiar.
She retrieved the photograph and peered at it.
“Margaret,” Janey said.
Violet turned, nearly dropping the flashlight. The round cone of light framed the manager’s face as she sat behind her desk, smoking a cigarette.
“We couldn’t let her leave,” Janey said. “She was pregnant.”
“We don’t have much time.”
Violet started toward the door and saw it was closed. When she spotlighted Janey’s face, the woman’s eyes were utterly black and no light reflected from them.
“We have a lot of time,” Janey said, except her voice was deep as graves, as cold as a winter tombstone. “And the White Horse needs a new manager.”
Violet tried the door but the handle was so hot that the flesh of her palm sizzled. She yelped and banged on the wood with the bottom of her flashlight, now desperate for heroes.
Chapter 54
Almost....
The floor had nearly fallen away, but Wayne managed to reach the service stairs. Her energy had sluiced before him like a cool winter storm, pushing the flames away, parting the red sea of hell. The demons grabbed at him, claws curled, their howls of rage melding into the larger scream of the dying hotel.
Beth’s ether enveloped him, proving the permanence of devotion, yet he couldn’t touch it. The substance was like mist, white vapors that pushed against the darkness and chaos.
The womb of God....
This is how it feels to be reborn.
But even now, clambering down the stairs, he couldn’t surrender to the mystery. If God had taken Beth just to have another warrior on the front lines, Wayne saw no grace or mercy in it. Just the endless cycle of desire, merry-go-rounds of good and evil, little games to validate the fallibility of mortals.
You’re saving my ass, but you’re a sorry bastard, God.
He almost wished God would summon his wife home and grant her peace, even if it meant his death. At least then he would have sacrificed something. And it would prove God was listening.
But all he had was the will to live, and a daughter to raise, and a second chance—
“Lock the door and throw away the key,
Stay and play with Mommy and me.”
The kid stood below him, on the first-floor landing, his back against the door.
As he squinted through the angel haze and black smoke, two more kids emerged from the walls. They were dressed in ill-fitting, archaic clothes.
They chanted in unison as he descended, knowing Beth’s shield couldn’t long withstand the pressure. If he hesitated, they might yet win.
And Kendra would never know....
“Play with your goddamned selves,” he said, plowing toward the door, throwing his shoulder into it. The wood yielded and the door creaked open, the night pouring in and feeding the flames, pulling Beth away in the updraft of flames, screams, and the vanity of God.
DECEMBER
“Too bad all the equipment burned up,” Cody said.
Wayne didn’t think it was bad at all. Some things were better left as mysteries. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his life reviewing audio files and video clips, trying to determine what was real and what wasn’t.
The inn was a brittle, black skeleton, wobbling on a few support beams as if a strong wind would push it over. December was underway, a few snow flurries twisting in the air among the ashes. That should do the trick.
Nine bodies had been found in the wreckage. All were considered victims of the fire, including three staff members and the manager, Janey Mays. Rodney Froehmer’s injuries had been caused when a pipe burst from the basement ceiling, and the initial investigation pointed to Rodney as the cause of the fire. He’d been messing around with accelerants, and for some unknown reason had been trying to start a fire in the old rusty furnace below.
“The court would take everything anyway,” Wayne said. “Once the civil trials start.”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Kendra said.
Sure, it was. In ways you’ll never know.
“That doesn’t matter, honey,” he said. “People always need somebody to blame.”
He should know. He had God to blame. Not that it was getting him anywhere. Maybe one day he’d get on his knees, or get out an Ouija board and look for Beth again, make a few more promises.