arm around my neck loosened just long enough for me to suck in a breath and shout, “BEN!”
The knife came back down, but instead of deflecting it I unintentionally caught it in my grasp. The sharp edge sliced into my scarred palm, and I let out a howl of pain.
Somewhere through all the noise, I heard Ben’s frantic voice screaming from the earpiece of my cell, “… ROWAN? ROWAN?! GODDAMNIT! WHAT THE HELL’S HAPPENIN’ OVER THERE?! JEEZUS H…”
I had no idea how the thin reverberation was even audible to me since at this point the device was lying several feet away. I struggled to push myself up and stumbled backward, slamming first my attacker and then myself into the doorframe, but she didn’t even loosen her grip.
The fresh chokehold from the woman was working. The room was starting to spin as my vision tunneled. My ears were ringing, and I struggled for a breath that simply wasn’t allowed to come. I twisted and then pitched forward, unintentionally ramming my forehead-followed by the rest of my face-into the wall. The squirming weight on my back wasn’t helping my balance, but in the grand scheme of things, that was the least of my worries.
A flash of thought bounced through my head, tweaking what consciousness was left in my brain. It reminded me that this wasn’t exactly how I’d imagined meeting my demise. But then, I’d held fast to an unspoken feeling for quite some time now-a sense that my death would be violent. If this didn’t qualify as such, I’m not entirely certain what would. I’d come close many times. Maybe this was the one.
A blaze of raw pain seared my right palm as I desperately tried to work my fingers in behind the pale forearm that was attempting to crush my windpipe, and it was nearly succeeding by all present indications. However, the bone-baring gash in my hand was rendering my task nearly impossible, as my fingers didn’t seem capable of carrying out the orders my brain was giving them. Unfortunately, my left hand was of no help either because it was otherwise occupied by holding fast to the wrist of my attacker’s other arm. I would have simply let go were it not for the fact that she was still clenching the eight-inch butcher knife tightly in her white-knuckled fist, and this was the only way I could keep it at bay.
The blade already had enough of my blood on it as far as I was concerned.
I abandoned my vain attempt to loosen the constriction clamped around my neck and thrust my hand forward instead. A fresh lance of pain screwed its way through my palm then up my arm as my hand hit with a wet slap against the wall, leaving a bright red smear in its wake. I stumbled out of control as I propelled myself backward, the frenzied weight still clinging to my back by way of my tortured neck.
I had yet to actually see the woman who was now trying to kill me, although I had a better than solid idea who it was. Still, given everything that had led up to this moment and the fact that I had been attacked from behind, there was a sick churn in the pit of my stomach telling me I could be wrong. That maybe, just maybe, I had made a critical error where magick and the dead were concerned. It was that acrid, nauseous feeling that was keeping me from fighting back with the unbridled fervor it seemed it was going to take to save my own life. Until I knew for sure whom I was up against, I couldn’t take any chances.
With the lack of oxygen beginning to shut down my brain, the rest of my muscles were beginning to weaken as well. I could feel my right arm buckling against an unnatural strength that was trying to drive the butcher knife downward into my chest, and my legs were quivering as they took on the properties of an elastic band stretched to the breaking point.
Still careening wildly in reverse and unable to see any obstacles in my rearward path, my luck with staying upright finally ran out. In a single misstep, my heel hooked around what felt like the leg of the coffee table, effectively negating what little balance I had left, and the two of us launched into a backward free-fall. A heartbeat later, the dull rush of a crash punctuated by shattering glass ornaments sounded in my ears as we brought the Christmas tree down with us.
The arm was no longer around my neck since the force of the impact had shaken my attacker loose. I gulped hungrily for the air as I tried to roll away, only to entangle myself even farther into the branches of the artificial tree as well as the still winking strands of lights. Twisting back the other direction in a bid for escape, I lost my newly found breath as a knee came down hard on my stomach.
The acid churn in my gut suddenly twisted into a fearful knot as I looked up into an all too familiar face framed in fiery auburn hair, and then I saw a sharp glint from the blade of the upraised butcher knife in her hand.
“You bastard!” she screamed. “You sonofabitch! You killed her! You took her away from me!”
I tried to call my wife’s name as I reached for the weapon, but she couldn’t hear me. Any faint sound I could muster with my again empty lungs was completely drowned out by the ungodly concussive explosion of a handgun fired a scant few feet away within the tight confines of the room. Hot blood sprayed my face, the knife clattered harmlessly to the floor, and her lifeless form slumped downward across me.
In the muted distance, sirens began to play, drawing closer as each morbidly long second ticked past.
I looked up at Felicity. She was still stiffly holding our semi-automatic pistol stretched out at arm’s length in front of herself. There was a glassiness to her eyes as she stared, but I could tell it was merely shock and nothing preternatural. Given what she had just been forced to do, I would have expected no less.
“Are you okay?” I asked, still panting as I regained my breath.
She nodded mechanically.
“Relax and put the gun down, honey,” I told her. “The police are going to be here any minute. Just cooperate with them and everything will be fine.”
The muffled sounds of racing engines were drawing close, and now emergency lights were flickering through the windows. A siren burped out a half tone as it switched off in front of the house, and I could hear distant, hurried footsteps coming up the driveway.
In that moment, a bell on the toppled-over Christmas tree jingled an abrupt, sad peal…
Tuesday, January 29
9:37 A.M.
FBI Field Office
Saint Louis, Missouri
EPILOGUE
“So, even after I told Doctor Jante to take a flying leap, you still want me to come work for you? You’re kidding, right?” As the question tumbled from my mouth, I was training a bemused stare on the section chief seated behind the desk in front of me. Given the look on his face definitely wasn’t one of jest, it didn’t take any of my uncanny psychic prowess to tell me his reply was definitely not going to be “ Well damn, you caught me. I’m just kidding.”
In fact, the truth is I wasn’t really expecting an answer at all. The words I had spoken were in and of themselves rhetorical. Verbalizing them was, in effect, merely a way for me to express astonishment at what he’d just said and not really a serious quest for an answer. That much was nothing if not obvious.
Or so I thought.
He leaned forward in his seat, adopted an even more stony expression, and answered me anyway. “I can assure you, Mister Gant, I am… The bureau…is entirely serious about this.”
Well, at least his answer verified what I already knew, not that it was necessary. Score one for the Witch I guess, even if it was a perceptual gimme.
I shook my head. “Pardon me for saying this, but the bureau hasn’t exactly earned my trust lately, if you know what I mean.”
“I understand. I’ve read your file.”
“Yeah, I can’t say as that I’m surprised by that,” I grumbled. “I mean after all, who hasn’t?”
“This bothers you,” he observed with a slight nod.
I didn’t hold back on the sarcasm. “Whatever gave you that idea?”
“Mister Gant…”
“Sorry,” I said, stopping him with a wave of my hand. I let out a long sigh before going ahead and grimacing slightly at my indiscretion and then added, “I shouldn’t have said it like that. It’s just that it has become a bit of a
