Felon raced away from Bloody, pistol in one hand full clip in the other. He still didn’t know how important the nun was. She might be the best clue to identifying who betrayed him. He needed the leverage.
He dropped on his face when he caught a movement at the top of the stair. An Eyesore with a single eye and a beak like an owl glanced out, with an AK-47 in hand. The gun burped into life, tearing at the space Felon had occupied a second before. The assassin fired five bullets into the thing’s face before he hit the carpet. Its head exploded in a cloud of gore.
One bullet left in the chamber. Felon ejected the clip, slipped it into his pocket-pushed another home. The Eyesore’s body wedged the oak-paneled door open. Beyond, there was a set of fourteen steps circling clockwise to the basement. A door to the driveway opened off of them. There was a large wine cellar at the bottom. He had locked the woman in a room up against the stone foundation about forty feet past tall wine racks and piled kegs. The cellar ran away from the stair the entire length of the basement. A hard sprint with a wary eye should take him through.
Gun in hand; Felon crept to the top of the stairs, crawled over the Eyesore’s body. The stench was incredible and made it impossible to detect any of the creatures waiting below. The floor squeaked behind him. His peripheral vision had shown him Bloody advancing, making a big target of his upright body.
He looked up at the dead man and put a finger over his lips.
The stairs were dark. The wooden steps had creaked when he used them before so he slid his shoes along the trim that edged them and started down silently. Distantly, he heard the sound of muffled voices. He hoped the sporadic gunfire behind him would cover any sounds he might make.
When he reached the fourth step he heard a metallic click. He’d forgotten a beam crossed over the stairs, bracing the floors above. It created a little alcove that held cleaning fluids and tools. Now it held a small Eyesore, maybe two feet tall. It held a sawed off shotgun in its oversized hands. Its misshapen face showed brown teeth.
Felon jumped down five stairs, glancing heavily off the banister, then dove outward with all his strength. He landed hard on the stone floor. The breath went out of him. Dizzy, he tried to roll. There was a flash of gunfire up the stairs. Bloody’s gun roared and something squealed.
A big, clawed hand hooked his waist and flipped him over. Felon looked into the face of a huge Eyesore. It was four feet tall and two hundred and fifty pounds-a walking tree stump. Its mouth was big enough to hold a football, was lined with long sharp teeth. The two large eyes glared with animal intelligence. Short squat hippo legs propelled it over him, while long muscular arms whipped his chest.
His gun was knocked away and the thing was on him. Felon drove a fist into its left eye, but the lid and muscle around it contracted around his wrist-started sucking at his forearm. He pulled but could not free it. The Eyesore pummeled him with both fists, thumping with a caliper motion at Felon’s ribs, knocking his breath out.
The assassin tightened his shoulders, and twisted. He used all his strength to keep its snapping teeth away from his abdomen-already the fangs had slashed his shirt. Drool poured out of the toothy maw and soaked him. Felon was an expert at several martial arts. But those skills were designed for fighting human-or at least human- shaped opponents.
It pounded on his chest and stamped on his ribs, pushing upward-turning against Felon’s strength.
The assassin couldn’t find a weak spot, and there was no sign of genitalia to pulverize. Burning yellow mucus seeped out of the thing’s eye socket where it gripped his hand, but instead of lubricating his escape, it caught the wrist like glue. Felon’s stomach twisted with revulsion as the Eyesore’s lips pulled back revealing ripping teeth and black gums. The jaws slid forward as they opened-inching out toward his face.
Felon’s Derringer was wedged against the floor in its holster between his shoulders-if he could brace the thing’s teeth a way from him with his knees.
An explosion and flash detonated in the confined cellar space. The Eyesore’s eyes flipped wide in astonishment. Another explosion and the top of its head sprayed a plume of dark red and bone. Felon’s hand came free of its eye socket with a pop!
He shoved the thing off of him and rolled, completing the action by pulling his Derringer free. He came up with the gun pointed directly at Bloody. The dead gunman stood on the bottom stair. Smoke or steam wafted up from his dead head. Sunglasses still covered his eyes. Small rips and wounds peppered his cheeks. He turned his head from the dead Eyesore toward Felon. The stench of burned meat filled the air.
Felon wiped the mucous from his red and blistered hand and grabbed his. 9 mm where it laid at the base of the closest wine rack. He pocketed the Derringer and shook his head, every muscle aching. “Cover me!”
Felon ran to the door. Light etched its perimeter. The bedroom inside was small. Bloody was ten feet behind him, giant pistol up and cocked. The assassin raised a finger to his lips. Voices.
The Marquis said: “Hurry and be gone. This is not the plan.”
Felon raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t upset yourself,” said another voice. “The fighting has stopped. We must hurry if the assassin is to die.”
“He wanted the God-wife Cawood. That was the plan,” the Marquis whined.
“Stop your crying! Give her to me and slay Felon.”
“But…” The Marquis choked on tears.
“You are his superior.” There was a pause. “You fought in the war. Give her now!”
“But she is my only protection!” the Marquis wailed.
“Give her!” the second voice insisted.
Felon looked at Bloody, stepped back and kicked the door open.
Inside, the Marquis stood against the bed. Tears had dragged the mascara down his powdered face. In his thin old arms he held the nun. She was unconscious. Felon’s lips drew back. The other voice belonged to Balg’s assistant. Passport’s long-fingered hand was wrapped around the sleeping nun’s wrist. He flashed long teeth.
Felon raised his gun. The Marquis pointed a finger at Passport. “He was kidnapping her!”
“Shut up!” Felon barked. He glanced. She was breathing.
“A sleep charm.” Passport noticed his look. He released the nun, dropped his thin hand to his side. The Marquis struggled to hold the sleeping woman.
The Demon’s assistant then crouched against the far wall beneath the barred window. He hissed and faded into the stone.
Felon grabbed the woman’s arm, pulled her from the Marquis’ grasp and flung her onto the bed.
Felon glared into the Marquis’ faded blue eyes. “Talk.”
“Felon, you must understand, it’s not how it looks.” The assassin grabbed a fist full of the dandy’s lacy collar. “Please. Think of all the times I’ve helped you out.”
“I am.” Felon spat on the floor. “You sold me out!” He was still tense from all the action-he wanted violence. Felon pounded the old Marquis against the wall.
“Whoa! Hey there!” Felon glanced to see Driver and Tiny join Bloody at the bedroom door. The Texan made a calming gesture. “He won’t be able to explain nothin’ if you tear his throat out.”
Felon pulled the Marquis closer. He pressed the mouth of his gun against the gangster’s blue-veined temple. “Talk!”
“This yer girl, then?” Driver muttered. “Good looker. I don’t mean to criticize, but I ain’t a fan of all that black.”
“A nun.” Felon rasped, pushing the Marquis against the doorframe.
“Shit. Well there you are.” The Texan checked the action on his gun. He pointed it at the Marquis.
“Felon.” The Marquis patted the assassin’s chest with his wrinkled hands. “You must understand the whole story.”
“You betrayed me!” Felon pulled the trigger half way.
“No!” the Marquis shrieked.
“You fought in the war,” Felon spat. “You’re one of them!”
“What war?” Driver pointed his other gun at the Marquis’ belly.
“In Heaven,” Felon snarled at the old face.
“What?” Tiny gestured back along the wine rack toward the dead Eyesore. “Is he one of those things?”
“Different.” Felon felt his killing rage slipping away.
“Entirely different, Felon.” The Marquis’ face suddenly took on an intangible sturdiness, as though some
