Girl of Nightmares

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The walking, distant stick figure at the bottom of the canyon could be anyone. But it isn’t. It’s my father’s murderer, my father’s jailer. He got the better of me once, with a curse that almost killed me. It’ll be different this time. This time I’ll make it stick.

His footsteps sound in our ears, too loud for being so far away. As he moves closer, our position changes; the cliffs shift in the space of a blink. We’d been looking down. Now he’s straight ahead.

“What’s wrong with his arms and legs?” I ask.

“Borrowed joints. Borrowed strength.” Anna’s eyes are steel; she doesn’t blink at his approach.

The extra joints make him ungainly. Before his gait was stiff, almost dragging. Now his legs jerk like they’re attached at wrong angles. He walks closer to the wall and grins as he grasps on to it with his hands, heaving himself up onto the side of the rock face, defying gravity. When he pivots and skitters forward faster, on all fours, I take a step back in spite of myself.

“Show-off,” I say, meaning it to come out mocking, but it sounds high and nervous, close to a squeak. It’s like Anna said. He is whatever he wants to be here. He can probably twist his head all the way around. I wish I could tell my dad how well I’m following his advice about always being afraid.

“I’ll slow him down, try to hold him,” says Anna, and her hair turns black and starts to lift. The white recedes from her eyes and dark veins stretch beneath her skin. The dress goes red in a slow, deliberate soak.

The Obeahman has come down from the wall and walks briskly on disjointed legs. His stitched-over eyes are trained on me. He doesn’t want Anna anymore. He has her. I’m the last loose end.

“He’ll break my arms first,” Anna says.

“What?”

“I’m just telling you,” she replies like it’s a matter of course. “I’m going to try to hold his arms, so he’ll break mine. I can’t beat him. Don’t rely on me. I don’t know if you can.” She looks at me and her expression reads easy. Regret. Empty wishes for more time or better chances.

I wish Thomas and Carmel were here. Only I don’t. I just wish there was a plan, or a trap, like last time. It would be nice to have some kind of advantage, aside from the one clenched in my fist. Anna steps forward.

“Aren’t you afraid?” I ask.

“I’ve done this before,” she replies. She actually manages a smile. Then she’s gone, closing the distance, her movements quicker than I remember. She throws a punch and his teeth rake a red gash into her forearm. She doesn’t wince, or scream. The way she’s fighting is robotic. She knows she’s going to lose and she’s used to it. She doesn’t even feel the pain.

“Don’t just stand there! Help her!” Jestine yells at me as she streaks past to jump into the fray. I have no idea where she came from. It’s like she popped out of the rock. But it doesn’t matter; she doesn’t hesitate. She dodges one of his arms and jams the end of her chisel into his shoulder. Anna has hold of his head, but it isn’t a good hold.

My legs are frozen. Between the two of them I don’t know what to do, where to attack. None of their movements have any effect. We should have gone. Gotten out when we could. Inside my head, Thomas is talking to me, his voice urgent. I can’t pay attention or look back. Instead I watch as the Obeahman snaps Anna’s arm like a twig, shoves her, and sends her rolling. Jestine he just shrugs off like an annoyance not to be bothered with. Not once has he taken his gaze off me. I stare where his eyes should be, watching the movement of the black stitches and the slow trickle of blood. I fear him. I’ve always feared him. He jerks his head once when he unhinges his jaw. He’ll be on me in seconds to tear pieces out of me like he did with the others, and my dad and I will stay here forever.

Black tendrils of hair rise up about his shoulders in the instant before Anna’s arm snakes around the front of him and takes hold of his jaw, her fist folding over his teeth and squeezing down. The Obeahman screeches, his black tongue lashing as she wrenches him around, grimacing.

“Stay away from him,” she growls, and smashes his body against the rock. The force is enough to send pebbles skittering. She does it again, and again, bashing him against the stone. I hear joints popping.

I hear Jestine say, “Bloody hell,” in a breathless voice.

The Obeahman is like an angry animal. His fingertips sharpen down to points and he slices through her chest and shoulders, shredding muscle until her arm falls and his feet find purchase on the ground. Still Anna doesn’t stop, jerking her shoulder, pounding his head into the rock so hard that any moment it must burst like a watermelon. But it doesn’t. And the only blood running down his chin is from the cuts his teeth are leaving in her palm as she holds his jaw. She goes down on one knee and her grip finally fails. He claws across her back and she slumps down into the dirt.

Impossible, I think as he strides calmly toward me with Anna’s blood dripping from his fingertips. I want to kill him more than anything, for her, for my dad. But it feels impossible. He’s closer now. Close enough so I can smell his smoke.

Jestine scrambles up off of the ground; she rises up behind him, screams, “Leithlisigh!” and strikes her hand down onto the back of his head. He falls forward, but not before catching her with his arm and slamming her down, so hard, onto the rock. I scream her name but the sound of her bones cracking is louder than my voice.

I dart forward and drag her out from under his arm. There’s blood on her teeth, and leaking from the corner of her mouth. Her legs trail behind, bouncing across the ground like rubber.

“That’s it,” she groans. “That’s all.” She lifts her head and we look back at the Obeahman. Whatever her spell was, it still has him doubled over. And something else: there are shadows around him now, and the effect is almost like watching him move too fast to see. Sometimes there’s an extra arm visible, or a head that isn’t his. I think I see the County 12 Hiker, still in a white t-shirt and leather jacket. Then it’s gone. But that’s what it is. He’s separating.

“What did you do?” I look down at Jestine. There’s sweat beaded on her forehead and her skin has turned bluish. Anna has managed to get to her feet and kneels beside us.

“It’s a curse,” Jestine says, sputtering blood down her chin. “He’s destabilized now. I thought I could do more but—” she coughs. “I’m done. I’m dying. And I don’t want to die here.” There’s so much surprise in her voice. I want to do something, to keep her warm or to stop the bleeding. But there’s nothing I can do. The inside of her probably looks like someone took a sledgehammer to it.

“Go back,” I say, and she nods. She twists up onto her shoulder and when she looks down at the ground, I know it’s not stone that she’s seeing, but Colin Burke. She glances once at Anna, sees black veins, and smiles. She glances at me, one more time, and winks. Then her brow knits and her eyes close. It seems that she falls down, and through, and then she’s gone, like she never was.

Behind us, the Obeahman still writhes, his hands pressed against his head, trying to hold himself together. I look at Anna’s broken arm, at her cuts, draining blood down into her dress.

“Don’t get hurt anymore,” I tell her.

“It won’t matter, after,” she says, but she stays kneeling where she is when I turn away.

The athame is at home in my hand. I don’t expect anything. I don’t know what’s going to happen. I just know that I’m going to cut him, and find out.

As I get close, the smell of him fills my nostrils, the sickening smoke, and beneath that, the sour scent of stale, dead things. It’s on the tip of my tongue to say something, to whip out one last, end-of-your-ass quip, but I don’t. Instead I bring my foot up into his stomach, rocking him back just enough so I can push the athame deep into his chest.

It doesn’t do anything. He screams but he’s been screaming. I pull the knife out and make another cut, but when I do his fingers lock around my arm and squeeze. The bones grind beneath the skin as he lifts me with him, rising to stand. Shadows of spirit are still blinking in and out of existence in the air. I peer closer, searching for my dad’s face. I stop looking when the Obeahman’s teeth sink into my muscle. My arm flexes and contracts instinctually, but it’s butterfly wings against a bulldozer. He jerks his head and most of my shoulder rips loose and goes with it.

I panic. All my limbs strike out at once and I make desperate grabs for the athame with my good arm. When I get it I just slice the air. I want him away. I don’t want to watch him swallow pieces of me.

One of the cuts severs an arm. Not his but someone else’s, one of the trapped ghosts, but it’s the Obeahman who screams as that body is twisted and torn free, pulling up and out through the hole in his chest. We sort of fall away from each other, staring up at the shade of Will Rosenberg’s familiar face as it twists skyward. For one mad instant he looks my way, and I wonder what he sees and if he understands. His mouth opens, but I’ll never know if he wanted to speak. The shadow of him blinks out, gone into nothing. Gone wherever Will was supposed to go before the Obeahman got his hooks in.

“I knew it, you fucker,” I say, something nonsensical like that. I didn’t know anything. I had no clue, but now I do, and I cut the air around him, and over him, the blade sweeping through and cutting down into his shoulders and head, staring up at spirits as they jerk free and fly. Sometimes two at a time. His scream is in my ears but I’m looking for my dad. I don’t want to miss the sight of him. And I want him to see me. When I roll and dodge it’s on autopilot; just a matter of time before I mess up. The distraction of a glimpse of black tail is enough to slow me down, and the Obeahman’s fist connects with my sternum like a battering ram, crushing my chest. Then there’s only air, and pain, and the hard, stone ground.

Anna is screaming. I open my eyes. She’s fighting him. She’s losing, but she’s doing what she can to hold him back. She should let him come. There’s too much blood in my throat for me to talk. I can’t tell her anything. It’s nothing but sputter and spray. Jestine is dead. And I am dead. It’s over.

But I could go back. I could do what Jestine did, and die with Thomas and Carmel and Gideon there. The room would still have the warmth of lit candles. My head half turns, thinking of it. If I turn just an inch more, I’ll be able to see Thomas, see the whole room, and if I press until the glass shatters I’ll be back there.

“Cassio, get out!”

Anna, I can’t breathe. She’s still fighting, one-armed, refusing to fall. How many ghosts did I cut loose in those seconds? Three? Maybe five? Was one of them my dad? I couldn’t tell. I wonder how much it counts, that I did my best. I wonder if he knows that I’m here.

CAS!

My body jerks. I felt that one. Right between my eyes: Thomas’s voice firing across my synapses.

Come back! You’ve got to come back! There isn’t blood left in you. Your heart is slowing! The blood is slowing! We’re stopping it, do you hear me? I’m stopping it!

There’s no blood left in me. Funny, Thomas. Because there’s a hell of a lot of it still pumping into my lungs. Gallons of it, filling me like a sinking ship. Except that … there isn’t. Not really. And I’m lucid, despite not having taken a decent breath for what seems like an hour.

I look at Anna, using her broken arm now like she doesn’t care if it tears off completely. Because she doesn’t care. It doesn’t matter. None of it matters, not the ragged remains of my shoulder, or my crushed chest. The Obeahman kicks one of Anna’s legs sideways at the knee and she tumbles.

I push myself up onto my elbows and spit blood onto the stone. The pain is dulled, still strong but no longer intense. It feels … inconsequential. I bend my knees, get my legs under me, and stand up. When I look down at my good arm, I smile. Did you see that, Dad? The athame never left my fist.

The Obeahman sees me rise, but I barely notice. I’m too busy watching the ghosts try to break free of his body, tracking their movements to see where they emerge the most. The vibrations of the knife are singing up through my wrist. Get in. Get out. Cut.

When I dive forward he’s unprepared. The first cut catches a ghost trailing out of his left leg. I kick out and put him on one knee, then get to my feet and cut across his bent back, severing another spirit before jumping away. Two more twist and spin out of his chest, and he screams, music in my ears. A four-jointed arm swings for my head; I duck and cut down beneath his ribs, then once more behind his head. No time to think, no time to look. Just get them out. Set them free.

Two more. Then one more. My dad’s voice is in my ear. Every piece of advice he ever gave me flashes through my mind and makes me faster, makes me better. This is what I was meant to do, what I’ve waited for, trained for.

“It doesn’t feel like I thought it would,” I say, wondering if he can hear me, if he’ll know what I mean. It doesn’t feel like I thought it would. I thought there would be rage. But there’s only elation. He and Anna are with me. The blade flashes and the Obeahman can’t stop us. Every time a ghost flies the Obeahman gets angrier, more frustrated. He tries to plug the hole in his chest, pressing his fingers down into the wound. The ghosts only tear it wider.

Anna fights with me, pulling him to the ground. I cut and count and watch them fly. The last of them leave him in a storm; they erupt from his chest, forcing the wound wide. He lays on the stone, split nearly in half, empty of everything but himself.

It all happened so fast. My eyes scan the blankness that should be sky, but there’s no one there. My dad’s not there. I missed him, in the middle of all of it. All that remains is the son of a bitch who took him away in the first place.

I step forward and kneel. Then, without really knowing why, I drag the athame across the stitches of his eyes.

The lids snap open. His eyes are still in there, but they’re rotten and black. The irises have turned an unnatural yellow, almost iridescent, a snake’s eyes. They swivel toward me and fix me with a look of disbelief.

“Go to wherever your Hell is,” I say. “You should have gone there ten years ago.”

“Cas,” Anna says, and takes my hand. We stand up and back away. The Obeahman watches, his pupils maddening pinpoints against the yellow iris. The wound in his chest is no longer growing larger, but the edges are drying out, and as we stand, the dryness spreads, turning his flesh and clothing to an ashy brown before caving in. I look into his eyes until the decay takes them over. For a second he lies there like a cement statue against the rock, and then he collapses, and the pieces of him scatter in all directions, until they disappear.