And Clay knew Boyle was right. But he had been on his heels, in retreat, for so long that when Boyle charged back into the foyer, Clay couldn’t resist going on the offensive too, screaming, “Yeah, fuck you, Priest, fuck you!”
It was a mistake. Essie gathered herself and was ready for Boyle. Screaming, she dug her nails into the sagging meat of Karney’s pectorals and turned his momentum against him. He went crashing into the wall, cratering it. And Karney may have possessed impossible speed and strength, but Boyle had picked the wrong body to leap into. It was no match for Essie’s more-intact physique. She tore violently at his face, stripping wet flesh from dry skull. And then, with the precision of a judo champion, she stepped into Boyle/Karney and flipped him over her hip.
Something in his ribcage broke on impact and the mini-amp tumbled loose from his body.
“Es!” Clay called.
“Look out,” Priest warned, but not quickly enough.
Essie turned, and Clay swung the Rickenbacker like a Louisville, smashing her nose back into her face. The foyer seemed to echo with the sound of shattering teeth. There was no blood, but her days of walking into a supermarket without terrifying children were over.
Clay reached back to brain her again and her arm shot out, striking the Rick’s neck with enough strength to knock it away. Clay’s arms were still moving forward, his mind just registering that his axe was no longer in his grip, when she seized his torn shirt and slung him against the wall.
Boyle/Karney started to drag himself from the floor, but Essie put a stop to that, delivering a crushing kick to his bare groin, then pinning his throat with her foot. All Boyle could do was grunt and writhe under her. “How many rock stars does it take to handle one angry lady?” Priest laughed behind her. “Ruin him, Essie. Like how you were told.”
Essie seized Clay’s jaw. With her other hand, she stuck the web of flesh between her thumb and forefinger under Clay’s nose, lifting his head and simultaneously pulling down on his jaw. To get my tongue, Clay realized desperately. And he did what he could to prevent her, wailing on her with both fists.
Essie wouldn’t be denied though.
His lips parted. His teeth unlocked. Her fingers violated him, seizing his tongue in a swift pincer grip.
“We’re going to remove your voice, boy,” Priest explained, “then both your hands. How will you be a rock god then, hmmm? Before long, you’ll wish you could hang yourself.”
Clay’s wide eyes watched Priest, taking such pleasure in his demise. There would be no bargaining here, no second chances. No vocalizing. No guitar playing. Could there be anything worse?
And then Clay saw there could. Because at that moment, a figure stepped into the open doorway.
Savy.
30
NOW THAT WE’RE DEAD
Priest turned to her, not the least surprised by her presence. “You made it.”
His fingers snatched Savy’s arm and drew her inappropriately close. Savy did not protest. She met Clay’s stare with a withering rage. He had ruined her band, her family’s chances—now she was going to watch the beasts tear him asunder. And it was too much for Clay, the one thing his mind could not handle. His struggling hands slowed. His body went slack. His biting teeth loosened against Essie’s invading fingers.
All she had to do now was yank and it was over. Clay hung there, waiting for the inevitable rip, the screech of his own blood-filled shriek.
At the same time, Priest was noticing something else, something Savy was holding behind her thigh. “What have you got there?” he asked, petting her head.
And Savy lifted the object for him to see.
It was an old bottle. With clumps of dirt clinging to its ocean-smoothed glass. Glass that was cold and frosted under her grip. Just like—
Suddenly Clay understood. Her withering rage wasn’t meant for him.
Savy reared back and hurled the bottle at the wall over Clay’s head. The glass exploded and cold shards rained down. Essie flinched, her fingers lost their grip on his slick tongue, and Clay shoved her backward over Boyle/Karney’s prone body.
Next second, a fierce gust of wind blew past Clay’s face, racing to the far wall, dislodging a painting there. It rebounded, slammed the front door closed, rebounded, and struck the railing on the stairs hard enough to crack one of the balusters. The rapid motion reminded Clay of a pinball shot from its launch, the chaotic physics of thrust meets mass.
“What the fuck did you do?” Priest demanded, grabbing the back of Savy’s neck.
Savy knocked him violently away. “I sealed my fate,” she told him, “and yours with me.”
The gust struck the foyer mirror, one of Peter’s prized heirlooms, and there was another bright explosion. “Deidre!” Savy shouted. “If you want the ones responsible for you and Rocco—here they are! The smashmouth in the nightgown and the dickhead in the suit!”
Priest, finding himself outnumbered, told Estelle, “New plan. Kill ’em all!”
The gust rebounded again and struck Essie with such force that she rose up on her bare toes, ballerina perfect. And like that, Essie was gone and Deidre McGee was there with them, screaming and clutching at her new face and hair. She reached down to lift a shard of mirror, regarding herself with honest amazement. Shocked to be sealed in flesh again.
Then her new eyes narrowed on Priest. “Dickhead in a suit,” she said, and Clay remembered her high, airy, angry voice all too well.
Beside her, Karney’s ruined body was dragging itself to its feet. His appearance didn’t stop Deidre from knowing him. “Rooster,” she growled.
“No,” Boyle told her. “Not Rooster.”
And Deidre/Essie’s jaw fell slack. Some of the stiffness went out of her spine. Her hands reached up to touch Karney’s half-exposed skull. “Rocco? No—I was fooled before.”
“It’s me, darlin’,” Boyle assured her. “Amazing how easy it is to fly into a body with a tainted soul.”
“Holy crow, Roc,” Deidre/Essie snorted.
