A Deafening Silence In Heaven - Thomas E. Sniegoski Page 0,152

backyard. Mulvehill’s addled brain immediately began to search for what it could be: a bird, a piece of trash blown by the wind, a cloud formation drifting past . . .

The shadow was back, and it was larger now; then it crashed through the window in a shower of glass and wood.

“Fuck,” Mulvehill screamed, already on the move. “I’ve got this,” he announced to the others, who more than had their hands full.

He raced around the bed as the Bone Master assassin rose to its full height, a cord tied about its waist that it’d used to swing in from atop the roof. Their eyes met, and the killer smiled as it drew the six-inch blade from a scabbard on its leg and turned its attention to the unconscious Remy.

Mulvehill knew this killer. He’d spoken with it in the kitchen, before the siege on the Beacon Hill brownstone had begun.

And Mulvehill also knew that this one was here to finish the job.

• • •

It was absolute chaos, and it took everything Linda had to hold on. The room was filled with the stink of blood, piss, and shit, and the floor of the bedroom where there had only been the most lovely of memories—lovemaking, lazy Sundays reading the newspaper and sipping coffee—was now slippery with the blood of demons.

She was exhausted and not sure how much longer she could hang on.

The demons that managed to get by Squire and Ashley and Marlowe were her responsibility, the jagged piece of pine proving to be far more effective than she had thought it could be. She stabbed it into bodies again and again, even going so far as to grip the leg of one of the demons as it attempted to slither back out the door and drag it back, jamming the wooden spear into the back of its pale neck until it no longer moved.

A tiny, scared voice in the back of her head asked, What are you doing? Another, louder and far scarier, voice answered, Surviving any way that I can.

It was like being in a dream, things seeming to move in slow motion. Looking up from her kill, she was ready for whatever would come at her next, and she glanced toward the broken door. Most of the panels were missing; only the actual framework remained. She looked into the hallway and saw with horror that there were still far more killers out there than there were already dead in the bedroom, and it seemed that more were heading up the stairs.

“Shit,” Squire said, obviously seeing what she did.

But the strangest thing happened. The Bone Masters at the door began to yell in some strange foreign language and turned their attentions—their fury—upon the newcomers.

“What’s happening?” Ashley asked, her pretty face spattered with blood. “What’s going on?”

Linda didn’t answer, transfixed by what was happening outside the door. The newcomers that she had mistook as Bone Master reinforcements were not that at all. In fact, they were attacking the Bone Masters with knives, guns, and clubs.

But who were these mysterious saviors?

Were they friends?

Or were they some new foe?

• • •

Mulvehill threw his empty gun, the spinning projectile connecting with the demon’s face and causing it to stumble back. Taking the opportunity, he dove, tackling the monster and driving it away from the bed.

The Bone Master still held the knife, and Mulvehill put all his attention on that arm, taking it in his hands and using his waning strength to bend it back and away. But the demon was stronger, and Mulvehill felt the arm begin to come around. The detective reacted in the only way he knew how, driving his forehead down into the demon’s face. He saw stars from the blow, and felt a gash open in his face, but he did it again, and then again. For a moment, he thought he might have had an advantage, but that was short-lived as the Bone Master yanked its arm free, driving its elbow into Mulvehill’s throat.

The homicide cop began to choke, reaching up to his neck as he tried to catch his breath. His legs suddenly went out from beneath him, and he sat down hard upon the wooden floor. The blood from his head wound streamed down his face, obscuring his vision. Through a scarlet haze, he saw that the assassin had recovered and was making its way toward the unconscious Remy, knife still in hand.

Mulvehill tried to cry out to the others, but his voice was little more