“Okay,” Joyce said, standing on the clutch and slamming the car into first gear, “now let’s . . .”
What she was about to say next was lost when one of the Ridden reached through the open driver’s side window and grabbed hold of Joyce’s throat, squeezing hard.
“Joyce!” Izzie shouted.
The driver’s side of the car was outside the salt circle, Izzie realized, even assuming that enough of the salt remained on the tarmac to provide any protection. One of the flailing Ridden, grasping at whatever was within reach, had by chance managed to grab Joyce. But now that it knew she was there, it wasn’t letting go.
“Shoot it!” Daphne said.
Izzie had thrown herself across the interior of the car and grabbed the Ridden’s arm, trying to pry its hands loose from Joyce’s neck. She knew that shooting it wouldn’t do any good.
Joyce, struggling for breath, eyes bulging, batted at Izzie’s arm, and at first Izzie thought she was just thrashing around in a panic. Then she met Joyce’s determined gaze, and saw that Joyce was trying to tell her something. She was trying to reach something.
On the floorboards at Joyce’s feet, a small case with squared off corners.
The Ridden still held tight to Joyce’s neck, and was now forcing its own head and shoulders through the open driver’s side window, eyes black and lifeless, mouth open and the same horrible sound shuddering from deep in its throat, audible even over the din of the music blaring from the speakers.
Izzie scrambled, ducking low and trying to reach the case. She was sure that she was kneeing Daphne in the face, but would have to apologize for that later. Muscles strained as she stretched her arm, shoulder wedged firmly against Joyce’s leg, until finally her fingers nudged the case.
From outside the car, Izzie could hear gunshots ringing out.
She sat up as best she could, clutching the case in her hand, and then quickly flipped open the lid. There on the bed of purple silk sat the long-handled silver-bladed scalpel that Joyce had shown them a short time before.
Wrapping her fist around the handle of the scalpel, Izzie twisted and in one swift motion slammed the blade into the side of the Ridden’s neck, just below the jawline.
Joyce gasped for air as the hand gripping her neck slowly loosened, and the Ridden slid backwards out of the open window like a marionette whose strings had just been cut. The dark blots that mottled its skin were quickly shrinking, like drops of water burning off a hot skillet, and the Ridden’s eyes rolled up in their sockets, showing white. By the time the lifeless body hit the ground, the scalpel’s handle sticking out of its neck, there were no visible signs that it had ever been possessed.
“Go!” Daphne shouted, somewhere behind Izzie’s knee.
Without waiting for Izzie to get out of her lap, Joyce stood on the accelerator pedal and the Volkswagen Beetle lurked into motion, barreling toward the mouth of the alley.
Patrick barely had time to jump out of the way as Joyce’s car roared past him. He’d stopped charging toward the circle the second that the Volkswagen had appeared at the far end of the alley, and had breathed a momentary sigh of relief as first Daphne and then Izzie had climbed into the passenger seat. But seconds later when the Ridden had reached through the driver’s side window and grabbed hold of Joyce, he had rushed forward again, all thoughts about his own safety forgotten.
Patrick had ducked the grasping arm of one of the flailing Ridden, then skidded to one side to avoid colliding with another. But just when it looked as though he had a clear path to rush the Ridden who was slowly choking the life from Joyce, in the hopes of tackling it and prying loose its grip on her throat, a third Ridden shambled directly into his path. Patrick’s forward momentum was too great to change direction in time, and his shoulder slammed right into the Ridden’s bony chest.
The Ridden grabbed hold of Patrick’s left arm just above the wrist, pinning it in a vice-like grip.
Patrick’s first instinct was to try to wrest himself free by force, but his first attempt to budge the Ridden’s fingers was met with failure, the thing’s grip being too strong to break. He tried punching the Ridden in the throat, but got no response.
The Ridden might be impervious to pain, it still relied on the mechanics of the possessed body to function. And if he could impair the functioning of the body parts involved . . .
Trying to ignore the pain of the Ridden’s tight grip on his left arm, with his right hand he drew his semiautomatic, and pressed the barrel right against the wrist bones of the Ridden’s hand that gripped him.
Patrick fired three shots in rapid succession, ripping through the bones and tendons of the Ridden’s wrist.
The Ridden’s fingers still tried to keep their hold on Patrick’s arm, but with the tendons that connected to those fingers left shredded, it was unable to maintain sufficient pressure, and Patrick was able to wrench his arm free.
Just then, Joyce’s Volkswagen beetle barreled past him, blaring the Sisters of Mercy.
The Ridden lost track of where Patrick was, disoriented and confused, and Patrick took off running after the speeding car.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Izzie’s heartbeat was pounding in her ears as she and Daphne tumbled out of the passenger side door of Joyce’s car.
“Joyce!” Patrick shouted, sprinting around the corner toward them.
From the driver’s side, Joyce waved him away with one hand, the other held to her bruised neck.
“Door . . .” Joyce managed to croak, and then gestured toward the front of his house. “Inside . . .”
Without missing a step, Patrick pivoted and raced up the front steps, hand digging in his pocket for his keys. By the time Izzie and Daphne were helping Joyce up the steps, Patrick was flinging the door open to usher them inside.
Izzie glanced back over her shoulder, but from
