Night In A Waste Land (Hell Theory #2) - Lauren Gilley Page 0,76
in the way that Lance had seen time and again. But it had to hurt like a bitch.
Shubert dropped Morgan’s wrist and bent forward at the waist, bellowing. White steam curled up from his lips, and from his back, and his eyes went supernova.
Time to go.
Lance stepped forward and shot him at point-blank range in the temple with an obsidian round. The shot wasn’t loud, but the spray of brain and blood was as obscene and messy as ever, spattering against the wall paneling. He crashed sideways, and fell in a tangle of twitching limbs.
Behind him, he heard the suppressed gunshots of his company as they dispatched the waking guards.
Rose stood with the dagger dripping steaming blood, poised like she was ready for the kill shot.
“Rose,” he barked. “Is the kid under the table?”
She glanced that way, briefly, and nodded. “Yeah.” Looked back to Shubert. “Let me finish him.”
“Wait,” Morgan said, her voice a high, clear note like a bell. It echoed through the room, chiming off the walls, leaving a ringing hush in its wake.
Then the wall exploded.
Not a bomb, Lance thought, stupidly, as he dropped to his belly. There was no flash, no great boom – save the brick and studs and drywall bursting apart under great force. Dust burst through the air in gritty clouds. Debris rained against every surface; he heard the table groan as bricks tumbled down on top of it.
He glanced up through the forest of mahogany legs – table and chair both – and saw Logan crouched down, silent tears tracking down his face.
Lance reached out for him, and the boy came readily, shuffling along on his hands and knees, gasping.
Overhead: a rush of wind. A gravelly voice said, “Two for one. What a bonus.” And chuckled.
Logan took his hand, and Lance dragged him the rest of the way, and twisted around to shove him into Gallo. “Get him out of here,” he hissed. He watched to make sure they were safely out through the doorway into the hall, then he crawled out from under the table, and stood.
The wall had been punched inward, a gaping hole letting in rain, and wind, the scent of a damp, fire-filled evening – and a man dressed in black motorcycle leathers, heavy boots, and with eyes that burned a deep, pulsing amber.
A hell beast.
Shubert continued to twitch against the wall, pulsing with light and crackling like bacon in a skillet: healing, but not there yet, not conscious and able to act. That left the demon conduit squared off from Morgan, alone.
Morgan and them.
Lance reached for his belt and the cache of grenades there. Not a Wraith, that wouldn’t work on a wraith-possessed creature. But he had holy water; he had blinding silver and consecrated iron shrapnel.
A hand gripped his arm, tight: Rose. “Wait,” she hissed.
“We have to go,” Gavin barked behind them, uncharacteristically savage. “Leave the little bitch, and let’s move. We’ve got the hostage.”
Lance wasn’t in disagreement, but before any of them could act, Morgan flew at the demon, whose glowing amber eyes widened in comical shock. When she collided with his chest, both tiny hands against his black leather jacket, a sound like a thunderclap echoed through the room, loud enough to leave Lance wincing.
Morgan shoved him back, back, back, like he wasn’t a grown man against her adolescent girl weight – but, well, conduit. Powerful conduit, going by the ease with which she backed him out through the hole in the wall, across a bit of alley, and into the street.
When they stood in its center, Morgan gripped his jacket in one tiny hand, and opened the other toward the street, palm flat, fingers crooked at the last knuckle. Another sound – a low, deep rumble, a vibration that came up through their boots.
“Is this a fucking earthquake?” Gavin asked, shouting over the noise.
But it was Morgan, Lance knew – could feel. Just as he could feel the earth shudder, right before a massive crater opened up in the street. Deep, black, the asphalt splitting in jagged lines, it yawned, and spread, and pavement crumbled away down into its depths, depths not visible from here, maybe not from anywhere.
The demon scrabbled at Morgan’s hand, kicking and cursing, but she lifted him with seeming ease, and tossed him down into the hole.
Light flared – white-hot, buffeting their faces with an acrid wind.
When Lance opened his eyes, the street was whole again.