“You think you can take me down with that?” Wolfe said.
“Sure do.”
“Take your best shot.”
The pinging sound had not gone away. Peter glanced at the picture window that faced the park. Milly’s crows were throwing their bodies against the glass, trying to get inside to save their mistress before it was too late. Or maybe they knew how evil Wolfe was, and were trying to stop him. Whatever their motive, they looked ready to die, just like him.
Peter threw the vase across the living room. He’d had lousy aim since childhood, and missed his enemy by several feet.
“Ha,” Wolfe laughed.
The vase shattered against the wall. Instead of falling to the floor, the jagged pieces flipped backward through the air, and impaled themselves in Wolfe’s neck.
“Ha, yourself,” Peter said.
Wolfe screamed in pain, and let the club slip from his hand. With blood pouring down his neck, he staggered around the living room. With each step, his eyes grew more panicked.
“You tricked me,” he gasped.
“Yes, I did,” Peter said.
The living room had a working fireplace that got plenty of use during the winter. Wolfe fell to his knees in front of it, and looked ready to pass out. The tattoo on his neck began to glow, and his eyes snapped open. He pulled the poker from the ashes, and struggled to his feet.
Max and Milly had not moved from their spot on the floor.
Wolfe lunged toward them.
Peter stood on the other side of the living room. He thought back to the night he’d lost his parents. He couldn’t live through that again, and looked at the birds.
“Get him!” he screamed.
The window imploded, allowing the crows to enter. In a mad flurry of beating wings, they crossed the living room and swallowed up Wolfe, biting at his clothing and his skin. He looked like a scarecrow having the stuffing pulled out of him. Within seconds, his clothes had been torn apart, and his face was a bloody mess. A pitiful sound escaped his lips.
“Help me,” Wolfe begged.
Peter hesitated. The image of the dead and dying in Times Square had never been far from his thoughts. Wolfe had been in the center of the carnage, assessing his work like the merchant of death that he was. With Wolfe gone, there would be no massacre.
“No,” Peter said firmly.
“Please!”
“No,” he said again.
A gust of rain blew into the living room. The crows pulled Wolfe toward the broken window. Wolfe began to kick wildly as the birds lifted him cleanly off the floor.
Peter looked at Holly, now standing beside him.
“Are you controlling them?” he asked.
“I am,” she replied.
“I didn’t know you could do that.”
“I’m learning.”
The crows carried their prey through the window. Wolfe had stopped making any sound, and was frozen in fear. Once outside, he hung in the air, the sight both beautiful and horrifying at the same time. Peter crossed the room with Holly beside him, and stopped by the window. The crows pivoted Wolfe around so he faced them.
“Please spare me,” Wolfe begged.
The words sounded strange coming out of his mouth. How many of his victims had he spared in his life? Not a single one, Peter guessed.
“Tell me about Times Square,” Peter called to him.
“What about it?”
“How were you going to kill everyone? With a bomb?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Wolfe replied.
Peter felt his blood boil. The coldness was gone, replaced by a hot wire that ignited his veins, and made him as capable of ending a life as the man hanging outside. He leaned against the windowsill, and stuck his head into the blowing rain. “You killed my friends, but I’m still going to give you a chance. Tell me what your mission is.”
“To kill you, and your psychic friends,” Wolfe said, his voice growing hoarse.
“Tell me the rest of it.”
“There isn’t any more.”
“Liar.”
Wolfe dropped a few feet in the air as the crows tired. He blinked wildly, and Peter wondered if his life was flashing before his eyes.
“They can’t hold him any longer,” Holly said.
“Tell them to bring him back inside,” Peter said.
“I’ll try.”
The crows tried to bring Wolfe back into the apartment. His weight was too much, and he fell several more feet. A startled yell came out of his mouth.
“They can’t do it,” she said.
One by one, the crows released their grip, and disappeared into the night. Wolfe appeared to be hanging on an invisible thread as he floated in the air. The thread finally broke. He flailed his arms and legs while descending to the pavement below.
Holly turned away, unable to watch.
Peter stuck his head out the window just in time to see Wolfe tear through the building’s awning. His body hit something on the sidewalk, and lay perfectly still. Peter didn’t think anyone could survive such a fall, but was not willing to take a chance. He turned from the window to face Holly, and saw that she was crying.
“I just killed him,” she sobbed.
“It had to be done.”
“I’m not a monster, am I?”
“You did what had to be done. I’m going downstairs. Please stay here.”
“Whatever you say.”
Peter crossed the room to check on Milly and Max. The old magician was sitting on the floor, and had pulled Milly’s head into his lap. A painful-looking welt had appeared on Milly’s forehead, and Peter saw her eyelids flutter.
“Is she okay?”
“Just knocked out,” Max said. “What about Wolfe?”
“I think he’s dead,” Peter replied.
“You think? Better make sure. We don’t want another round of this.”
“He fell five floors, Max. He’s dead.”
The old magician gave him a scornful look. Peter had learned everything he knew from Max, yet there were times that he wondered how much his teacher had really told him.
“He was sent by the Order. Five floors is nothing,” Max said. “You need to check.”
Peter nodded, and hurried from the apartment.
41
Peter took the stairway to the lobby and ran outside. Wolfe’s crumpled body lay on the sidewalk. His clothes were on fire, his face seared beyond recognition. Smoldering chestnuts littered the ground. In the street sat the
