The light of dawn gave him the courage to look down again. His hands were black with blood, the foul coppery scent surprisingly enough to make his stomach rumble noisily as it wafted up into his nostrils. It seemed like forever since he’d pulled the Hungry-Man dinner from the microwave.
Mulvehill carefully moved his fingers, waiting for pain but feeling only minor discomfort, and a tightening of the flesh where the dark blood had dried.
The monster’s blood.
In the blasts from his weapon he’d seen it: a pale-skinned monster dressed in a hooded cloak that seemed to be made from the darkness that filled the apartment. It had been coming toward him, closer and closer in the staccato flashes of gunfire. In one of its hands it was holding something, a weapon of some kind that appeared to be made from yellowed bone.
And the monster had pointed it directly at him.
Mulvehill felt his heart race, his breaths coming in short gasps. He forced himself to move. His shirt was covered in blood, both his own and foreign. He could feel the scratches on his arms, recalling with increasing clarity how the fight with his attacker had evolved.
He’d fired his weapon more, but the monster had managed a shot or two at him.
Mulvehill could still hear the odd sound, like a loud cough, as something spat at him.
At full speed he had thrown himself to where he thought his attacker would be. He’d connected with the coffee table, sending himself sprawling to the floor and his firearm flying from his hand.
He looked around to the patches of sunlight and saw the Glock where it had landed on the floor in the corner, beside the overturned coffee table.
He was tempted to go for it, as he eyed the body that remained so very still beside him.
Just in case.
He remembered the feel of the rough fabric of the monster’s cloak as his fingers had closed around it. Holding on for dear life, he had pulled upon the clothing, dragging himself up on top of the monster, even as it had tried to escape him. He remembered the sound of the strange weapon, the blasts of fetid air that struck the walls of the living room with a force very much like the snap of a bullwhip.
The monster had struggled to throw him off, but Mulvehill had known that to relinquish his hold was to give up his life. It was as simple as that.
And he’d fought too hard of late to give up this life now.
Mulvehill counted to three before tensing his muscles and sliding up the wall to stand upon trembling legs. He almost laughed aloud with relief when he realized that he was all right. Every inch of him ached and burned, but that was just his body reminding him that he was still alive.
That he had survived.
His eyes fell to the floor, and he saw that there were yellow pieces of bonelike material scattered about— the remains of his attacker’s weapon.
There had been nothing graceful about their fight. It was a fight to the death, and it was ugly.
The monster had been strong. Any pretense that Mulvehill had of being civilized was quickly thrown aside, and he allowed his survival instincts to usurp any civility. There was nothing he wouldn’t do to take his opponent down, and he did just that, arms and fists flying, never letting up.
Things had become lost in a red haze, and he’d continued to deliver blow after blow, even long after his foe had ceased to move.
Mulvehill looked down at his hands, flexing them to make a fist, and remembering the feeling as he’d pummeled the creature that had invaded his home—the feeling of its flesh ripping as he rained down blow after blow.
The monster lay upon its stomach, its face hidden from him. He remembered the thing’s face in the flashes from his firing gun, and bent over with a moan of pain. His back was killing him.
Grabbing a handful of its robe, Mulvehill turned the body over to look upon his attacker.
Its appearance was even more disturbing in the light of morning.
Nothing could look this way and not be a killer of some kind. Its flesh was pale and gray, the teeth jagged like a shark’s. It wore an expression of surprise, almost as if it could not believe that it had died by his hands.
But it had.
Hate bubbled up inside him as Mulvehill looked upon the thing that had wrecked his evening. Bringing up something thick and nasty from his throat, he spat upon the corpse.
The beginning of a question sparked in his tired brain.
There was no reason other than the obvious: It had something to do with Remy.
The monster had fallen upon the landline phone, and Mulvehill reached down to pick it up from the floor. He hit the preprogrammed number for Remy’s cell.
“This is Remy Chandler,” the message began.
Mulvehill waited for the beep, then started to unload.
“I don’t know what the hell you’ve gotten me involved with now, Chandler, but something just tried to fucking kill me,” he said, feeling more tired than he had felt in his entire life.
He leaned back against the wall for support.
“It didn’t succeed, just in case you’re interested.”
Remy walked through the doors of Rapture out onto the steps of the abandoned Prometheus Arms in Connecticut.
He turned back, watching the slight shimmering of the air as the charnel house left him where he’d first arrived.
He’d returned to Rapture from Gunkanjima to find Squire and Montagin saddled up to the bar, and the women who had left their jobs to be with their children already back to work as if nothing had happened.
“Buy you a drink?” Squire had asked as he passed them.
“No.”
“I want to thank you,” Montagin began from behind him.
Remy turned to look at the angel.
“For all you did in trying to determine who killed the general,” Montagin finished, and raised his glass of scotch in a toast.
It wasn’t much, but at least it was something to show that a creature such as Montagin could muster some gratitude. At this point, Remy would take whatever he could get.
“See how much you feel like toasting me after you get your bill,” he said, continuing on across the bar to a table in the corner where a healing Prosper sat.
“Remiel,” the angel said nervously. His face was still bandaged and bruised, but he appeared to be on the mend. “What can I do for you? Anything you want . . . on the house of course.”
“How about a ride home?”
The charnel house gone on to who knows where, he walked down the steps from the abandoned arms factory to where he remembered leaving Aszrus’ Ferrari.
Remy was glad to see that the car was still where he’d left it. Fishing the key from his pocket, he unlocked the door, and leaned inside to flip open the glove compartment where he’d left his phone. Leaning atop the hood of the sports car, he checked his messages. Linda had called three times, and he listened to each of them. Hearing her voice made him smile. She’d just wanted to say hi, and ended each call by telling him that Marlowe was looking forward to him getting home, and that she loved him.
Hearing something like that after all that he’d been through made all the difference in the world. It gave him a reason to go on; a reason to fight if indeed they ever did come for him.
Remy was going to call Linda back, but saw the time and decided he might give her another hour or so to sleep before disturbing her. Mulvehill had left a message not long ago, so he hit the keypad to listen.
His blood froze in his veins; the sound of his friend’s voice was chilling. Remy flexed the muscles in his shoulders, calling forth his wings, and was about to travel to Steven’s Somerville apartment when the last of his friend’s message struck a very specific chord.
