Eve of Destruction

“He’s tracking,” Eve murmured.

“We have to follow him without alerting the others,” Richens said.

Her brows rose. The rest of the class was crawling all over the building now. “And just exactly how are we supposed to do that?”

He gestured over his shoulder. “There’s a fire escape over there.”

Eve froze. “Very funny. How old is that thing? How many years has it gone without maintenance?”

“How many hours do you want to spend in this shit heap?” he countered. “We could be celebrating by noon, if we bag the faery now.”

“No way.” She retreated even farther from the edge.

“Why are you so—?” He gaped as comprehension dawned. “You’re afraid of heights? Crap. Is there anything you’re not afraid of?”

“You. I can take you. Don’t push me.”

Edwards laughed.

Richens scowled. “Come on, Hollis. Get over it.”

“It’s not a contest. Let’s get the others and do this right.” Foreboding weighed heavily in her gut, a sort of sixth sense she’d had her whole life. Right now it was ringing the alarm loud and clear.

“No way. They’re idiots. We were the ones smart enough to have a workable plan.”

She backed up. “I’m not risking my life for your ego.”

“Risk it for your soul, then.”

Eve snorted. Frankly, she wasn’t hanging off a rusty fire escape for that.

When she didn’t budge, Richens made an impatient gesture and set off toward the fire escape. Edwards hesitated a moment, then followed. Eve didn’t waver. She left the roof and took the stairs. Gripping the railing, she hurtled down the three flights, passing Claire with a brief wave. Izzie was nowhere to be seen.

Eve hit the sidewalk at a run, but despite her speed, Richens and Edwards were at least a block ahead of her. Just as her brain kicked its way past her competitive drive and asked, Why are you so into this?, the mark kicked in, too, pumping the heat of the chase through her veins and urging her into a swifter gait. There was no labored breathing, no throbbing pulse. The lack of physical stress allowed feelings of euphoria and omnipotence to take precedence, inspiring false courage and confidence.

“I’m just watching out for them,” she muttered to herself, skidding around a corner in time to see a glass door swinging from recent use. “Good Samaritan and all that.”

The building was long and squat, its exterior a shiny silver metallic reminiscent of a 1950s Airstream trailer. Above the entrance, a crooked and faded sign read Flo’s Five and Diner.

Eve went in with gun drawn, hissing as her armband burned her skin. Cracked and torn red vinyl booths lined the wall beneath the many grimy windows. Plastic food on plates decorated tabletops and the counter. Two mannequins in pink and white uniform dresses stood at the coffeemaker and the register, respectively. Lifting to her tiptoes, Eve peered through the opening to the kitchen but saw nothing at all.

Had they run out the back?

She continued cautiously, one step at a time. Her next step hit the ground wrong and she lost her footing, skidding atop something on the ground. Grabbing for the back of a barstool, she nearly fell as it swiveled under her grip. She glanced down, saw that she’d slipped on an armband, and guessed that Richens had lost his short temper over the annoyance.

A shout followed by a crash rent the air.

A dark shape flew past the food service window. Eve dropped to a crouch. A hand touched her biceps and she caught it, yanking hard. Claire tumbled into her lap. The Frenchwoman shrieked at the same moment pots banged wildly against each other. Clamping a hand over Claire’s mouth, Eve strained to hear.

“Let him go, lovey,” Richens cooed.

“Make me, darlin’,” purred a sweet feminine voice.

Claire tensed.

With a narrowed look of warning, Eve pushed Claire up to a kneeling position. Go around back, she mouthed. The Frenchwoman nodded and crab-walked awkwardly to the front door. Eve waited until she was gone, breathing in the smell of mold and dust, her emotions fluctuating from excitement to dismay.

Part of her was enjoying the hunt.

You’re losing your mind, she told herself, crawling the length of the counter to its end. Peeking around the corner, she saw the aluminum swinging door to the kitchen. The quilted surface and round glass window were covered in grime. Through the two-inch gap at the bottom, Eve searched for shadows that would betray movement on the other side, but all she saw was darkness. She moved closer.

We could be celebrating by noon, Richens had said.

Who was the faery holding hostage? Ken? Edwards?

There should be three Marks in there. Where was the third man?

“Come any closer,” the faery said, “and he gets it.”

“He ‘gets it’?” Richens laughed. “What rubbish.”

“Shut your mouth, Richens!” Ken gasped. “This knife is jaggy.”

Eve paused a moment, surprised to learn that it was Ken who was captive. She was further astonished when she pushed the swinging door open a couple of inches and took in the enfolding situation courtesy of her nictitating lenses.

Richens stood with his back to her. Two yards in front of him, Ken was kneeling. Behind Ken, a portly and kindly faced woman with gray hair hovered gracefully, supported by impossibly tiny wings.

It was one of Sleeping Beauty’s faery godmothers; cherry red cheeks, pastel dress, and pointed hat included.

Unsure of whether to laugh or freak out, Eve surveyed the rest of the kitchen. It was staged as if the owners had walked outside for a short break. Pots and pans sat on the stove, knives and cutting boards littered the island. She looked for Edwards and found him prone on the floor, unconscious. Her feelings of unease increased. The sight of an unmoving body on the filthy ground was just too realistic for her tastes.

How far would this simulation go? What was the best way to bring it to an end?

Ken’s eyes were wide, his neck arched away from the blade pressed against his skin. “What do you want?” he bit out.

“You’re coming with me, toots.” The faery smiled and the result was so sweet-looking and innocuous, Eve had a hard time reconciling it with the reality of the knife in her chubby little hand. “We are going to slip out the back and make our getaway.”

“You’re not going anywhere.” Richens’s voice held a chilling amusement. “I’ll shoot him before I let you walk out of here.”

A dark cloud moved over the faery’s features, briefly revealing the horror of her demonic soul. An Infernal could never be tamed or trusted. But they could be understood. They were similar to infants—self-centered, impatient, ravenous for attention and stimuli.

The faery made a tisking noise. “You should have crossed over to the dark side, sugar. You would have made a great Infernal.”

Eve took aim and shot Richens in the ass.

He screamed like a girl. The gun fell from his hand and hit the floor, firing a bullet into a cast-iron skillet hanging on a pot rack above the stove. The bullet ricocheted, squealing through the air and waking Edwards, who bolted upright. His upthrust head smacked the underside of a cutting board whose edge protruded beyond the lip of the island. The knives atop the board leaped into the air. They spun and twisted, then fell to the counter in a deadly riot. They skidded across the surface as a single writhing mass, hitting a small metal canister and sending it toppling over the side. It struck Edwards on the crown of his head, dumping its contents over him before rolling to the floor with a resounding gong. The resulting cloud of flour billowed outward, expanding in unison with Edwards’s choked curses.

Ken tossed the startled faery from his back, sending her careening into a tailspin. She crashed into the overhanging rack, her “Oh, shit!” muffled by the stockpot that fell from its perch and dropped over her head. She toppled to the floor with a substantial thud, landing still as death.

Richens was still screaming. Ken lunged to his feet and hit him with a perfect right hook. The Mark crumpled to the floor beside the faery, knocked out.

“Arsemonger,” Ken muttered.

His gaze met Eve’s. She looked at Edwards, who resembled Casper the Friendly Ghost or an uncooked corn dog, depending on the turn of his head. His eyes were two blinking black holes in an otherwise white face, his mouth a round “O” as he stared at the two prone bodies on the ground.

Eve’s brain caught up to the series of events.

The screaming hadn’t stopped. It had just moved outside.

“Claire,” she breathed.

She jumped over the unconscious bodies and sprinted out the service door. For a split second, her nictitating lenses hindered her sight, then she retracted them with a deliberate blink.

Claire stood in the center of the narrow alley, her beautiful features frozen into a mask of terror. Her mouth was wide and a hideous wailing poured out. Her eyes were locked on a spot beyond Eve’s shoulder, and madness stirred in the cerulean depths. Eve turned her head, her gaze following the Frenchwoman’s line of sight.

She choked, then stumbled, the world spinning. Ken’s tall form emerged from the unlit kitchen, his head turning to align with theirs.

“Holy mother of God,” he gasped.

Pinned to the exterior wall of the diner was Molenaar’s body. Arms splayed and hands affixed to the metal facade with iron nails through the palms. Urine soaked his pants and puddled on the crumbling asphalt. His sightless eyes gazed heavenward, his mouth lax and lips spattered with crimson. A circlet of rusted barbed wire hugged his head, completing the sick recreation of the Crucifixion.

Where was the blood . . . ?

“Sa tête est—” Claire doubled over, but no vomit came up, her body too perfect to succumb to her emotions.

It was then that Eve realized Molenaar’s head had been severed from his body. It was held in place above his neck by nails staked through his ears.

Terror chilled her fevered skin.

Eve screamed, her fists clenching even as her knees weakened.

A flock of seagulls joined them, screeching to the sky and the God who allowed such things to happen to those who served him. ns class="adsbygoogle" style="display:block" data-ad-client="ca-pub-7451196230453695" data-ad-slot="9930101810" data-ad-format="auto" data-full-width-responsive="true">