“I couldn’t have missed!” the mechanic in the coveralls shouted.
My right shoe splashed into the pool of blood they surrounded. I was moving into the swirling region of space that separated this place from the hotel room. A young girl who could not have been more than fourteen made one last attempt to stop me. She had long, pale arms as thin as a child’s. Her arms and her steel flashed as she cut me with her blade and scored a nick in the back of my calf. I was glad she hadn’t been closer, and I was glad the others had tried to use their powers on me rather than simply stabbing me as I passed by. If that girl had slashed a half inch deeper, I would have been hamstrung. The pain was intense.
“Killer!” the schoolgirl cried after me. It was the last word I heard from any of them. They all vanished, to be replaced more familiar surroundings. I was back inside the Lucky Seven. Judging by the shattered glass and blood on the floor, I knew I was in the same room where Jenna and I had spent a night together. The dead cultist was still gone, as was Detective McKesson.
Hissing with pain, I quickly tended to the sliced meat of my calf muscle. Fresh blood dribbled down my leg onto the carpet—which had already been soaked by the first cultist I’d met that night.
Someone stepped through space after me. He was blurry, but I thought I recognized that long, lank hair. It was the cult leader, and I was surprised to see him. I hadn’t figured any of them would have the balls to follow me. Even working their little tricks together, they’d not managed to nail me—a fact that had left me relieved but baffled. I pulled my gun and aimed it at him, figuring I could blast him the second he walked into full view. Just like the Gray Men, he should be vulnerable the moment he came fully into this place. Whatever his trick was, I didn’t think he would have time to pull it off.
He stood there, not quite coming out into the room. I stared and aimed at him, my finger twitching on the trigger. I didn’t want to blink and give him a moment’s advantage. I wondered if he was waiting for more of his crew to come through to offer support. If they all stepped through the rip together, they might be able take me. But it would cost them.
More figures did not appear, however. The lead cultist spread his hands wide. Was this some kind of gesture requesting a truce? I laughed and aimed my gun at his gut. He wasn’t going to trick me so easily.
In response, he took out his gently curved blade and dropped it. I didn’t see where it landed, it could have been anywhere on their side or mine. I had a thought then: if he stepped backward, would he go back to the cellar, or someplace else? His little rip was shrinking and dying in color like a cooling fire. Did they really feed these things with blood? I didn’t know, but I supposed anything was possible.
The figure gestured to me, signaling that I should put away my weapon as he had done. I raised my free hand, extended my middle finger, and gave him a gesture of my own. I waved it around so he was able to see it, even if I was a shimmering ghost to him.
Finally, he decided to chance it. He spread his hands widely apart. Slowly, he stepped forward into my space.
I snarled as he entered the room. I almost fired—it was a close thing. Part of me urged my finger to squeeze the trigger, but it was hard to do. In the end, I found I couldn’t shoot a man in the gut when his hands were up. I’d not seen him make any moves at me, or I would have done it anyway. Whatever his power was, I had no evidence that it was violent in nature. But I remained guarded. These people were anything but friendly.
When he had stopped shimmering and could speak, he found the muzzle of my .32 auto in his face. This time, to my gratification, he looked worried. He didn’t have a gang of faithful minions surrounding him now.
“We’ve not been properly introduced,” he said.
I had to give it to him, he was smooth. Smoother than I would have been with a gun in my face. My lips had curled away from my teeth, and I must have resembled a snarling dog. I was angry, and my leg was still bleeding. I was in a dangerous mood.
“Give me your name, then,” I said. “I’ll have them carve it into your headstone.”
“Thomas Gilling,” he said evenly. “And yours?”
“Quentin Draith.”
Gilling nodded, then made a gesture of recognition, lifting a finger into the air and opening his mouth into an “O.” My trigger finger tightened in paranoia, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“Draith,” he said. “Ah yes! The blogger! I know you now.”
“You’ve read my stuff?”
Gilling nodded. His demeanor had changed a great deal. He seemed almost affable, despite my gun barrel, which never wavered from his face.