Читать книгу The Demon Road Trilogy: The Complete Collection: Demon Road; Desolation; American Monsters - Derek Landy - Страница 34

THEY GOT TO SALT LAKE CITY the next day. Glen stared out at the snow-capped mountains that rose up behind the gleaming buildings like the backdrop of some insane science-fiction movie.

“They’re massive,” he breathed. “Are those the Rockies?”

“Yeah,” Amber replied sarcastically, “because every mountain range in America is the Rockies.”

“They actually are part of the Rockies,” said Milo, and Amber glowered. “That’s the Wasatch Range there.”

“We don’t have anything like this in Ireland,” Glen said. “Like, we have some awesome mountains, like the Sugar Loaf, and MacGillycuddy’s Reeks, and the Giant’s Causeway up north, but … but that’s less of a mountain and more of a … bit of rock. Are we anywhere near the Grand Canyon?”

Amber was pretty sure she knew this. “No,” she said, with a slight hesitation in her voice.

Milo gave her a nod, and she relaxed.

Glen lost interest in the mountains pretty fast, and started paying attention to the streets. “This place doesn’t seem that weird,” he said. “Apart from their remarkably straight roads, that is. What did you say they were? Scientologists?”

“Mormons,” said Milo.

“Which ones believe in the aliens?”

“Scientologists,” said Amber.

“I’d love to have been a Scientologist,” Glen said, “but I was never that good at science. I’ll say one thing for the Mormons, though – they love their straight roads, don’t they? I doubt Scientologists would have been able to build roads as straight as these, what with believing in aliens and all. Theirs would be all bendy.”

Amber frowned. “Why?”

“Well, because they’d be looking up all the time, wouldn’t they? Or maybe they’d try to build their cities around alien symbols, like crop circles, y’know? That’d be cool. Wouldn’t be straight, though, and it’d be hell getting from one place to the other if all their roads were circular. The Mormons had it right, I think. Straight lines. That’s the way to go. Who are the people with the beards?”

“Muslims?”

“No, the beards and the funny hats and building barns and stuff.”

“The Amish,” said Amber.

“And where do they control?”

“Nowhere. I mean, they have their communities, but they don’t build cities or anything.”

“They’d probably be better known if they built cities.”

“Yeah. I’ll mention that to them.”

A few minutes later, they pulled in across the street from a run-down bar with a faded sign out front that showed a picture of a staircase. They crossed, and Milo pushed open the door. The place was as quiet as it was empty. By the looks of things, no one had been in here in years.

Milo didn’t say anything, though, so Amber kept her mouth shut, and for once Glen wasn’t yattering on about something. They came to a set of stairs and started down them.

Within moments, they were slowly sinking into ever-increasing gloom, and still no music or voices, no clink of glasses or sounds of laughter. They went further down, and further, and, just when Amber thought they couldn’t possibly go any further, the wooden stairs turned to stone, and still they went down.

It was cold now, and pitch dark. The wall that Amber brushed against occasionally was now stone like the steps, cold and hard and wet. And then suddenly it wasn’t there anymore, and when Amber went to touch it she reached too far and nearly toppled. Glen grabbed her, pulled her back from the edge.

All three of them stopped.

“We should go back,” she said, though her voice sounded small and distant, like they were in some enormous cavern.

“Just a little further,” Milo said. “Put your hand on my shoulder.”

She did that, and Glen put his hand on hers, and they resumed their descent.

Gradually, Amber became aware of the darkness lightening to gloom again. Then a colour. Red. A hazy red. She heard music. And voices.

There was a wall beside her again. She could see it. It was painted a dark yellow, almost gold, and it blocked off the cold. Her fingers trailed over old fliers for old singers and old bands, her nails riding the bumps and the tears.

The stairs were wooden again, a dark wood, worn smooth by footfall. The music was fast – piano and trumpet music, the kind they used to dance to back in the 1930s or 1940s. The ceiling was low, and Milo and Glen had to duck their heads. Amber didn’t. She kept her head up and her eyes open, as the bar was laid bare before her.

The place was packed. People drank and smoked and talked, danced and sang. The bar itself took up the centre of the room, the beating heart of the establishment.

“I’m too young to be in here,” Amber said.

Glen looked nervous. “I think I am, too. Hey, no, look – they have children in here, like Milo said.”

Amber counted maybe half a dozen kids wandering around.

“Should people even be smoking in a room that has children?” Glen asked. “I don’t know if they should be doing that. They shouldn’t even be smoking, anyway. Aren’t they breaking the law?”

“Stay behind me and say nothing,” said Milo, and led the way to the bar. The man serving was big, with a beard that spread from clavicle to just under his eyes. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled back over strangely hairless forearms. “Hey,” Milo said in greeting.

The big man looked up at Milo, then at Glen, and then at Amber, much as she tried to hide. But, instead of ordering her out or asking for ID, he said, “Three beers, then. Take a seat.”

Glen beamed, and went immediately to a free table. Milo shrugged at Amber, and she followed him to a table near the back wall. Glen frowned, and joined them.

“What was wrong with my table?” he asked. Milo didn’t answer.

The barmaid came over with their drinks on a tray. Amber was pretty sure they weren’t called barmaids anymore, but she couldn’t for the life of her think what they were called. Besides, barmaid suited this place.

“Here you go,” the barmaid said, setting their drinks down.

“Thank you,” said Milo, putting a note on the tray. “I wonder if you can help us find someone. Our travelling companion—”

“Friend,” Glen cut in.

“—is looking for someone. Abigail. If you can point her out to us, the tip’s all yours.”

The barmaid smiled. “Oh, no need, sir. Abigail’s already found you.”

Amber frowned. “She has?”

The barmaid walked away, and out of the crowd a little blonde girl in a pretty dress appeared.

“Hello.”

“Hi,” Amber said, forcing a confused smile on to her face. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Abigail,” said the girl, smiling back. “I’m the owner of the bar.”

Glen paled. “You’re Abigail?”

Milo frowned. “You’re the owner?”

“Yep.” She giggled. “Yeah, everyone has that look on their face when they find out. It’s a funny look.” She smiled again at Amber. “By the way, I love your horns.”

Shock surging in her chest, Amber’s hands went immediately to her head. No horns. Everything was normal.

Abigail looked at Milo, looked at him with eyes that saw more than what was there, and she smiled again. Amber wondered what she could see.

Lastly, Abigail looked at Glen. “You’ve got the Deathmark.”

“Uh,” said Glen.

“You’re here to kill me, are you?”

Glen swallowed thickly. “No?”

Abigail nodded. “That’s what I thought.”

“I’m sorry,” said Glen, “I didn’t know you were a … a kid. Now I feel bad. I feel, like, really bad. I was told you’d killed people. Aw man. Now what do I do?”

“I can help you, if you want,” said Abigail.

Glen brightened. “You can remove it?”

“Oh yes,” the little girl replied. “It’s quite easy.”

She tilted her head, and the people around them surged, slamming Glen’s head down on the table while they pressed a knife to Amber’s throat. She froze.

Someone else had a knife to Milo’s throat. “He really isn’t a friend of ours,” he said.

They gripped Glen’s arm, straightening it out on the table, and a big man walked up, holding a butcher’s cleaver.

“No!” Glen screamed. “No, no, please!”

“Don’t be so silly!” Abigail giggled. “He’s only going to cut your hand off. It’s not like you’re going to lose your entire arm!”

The cold blade pressed deeper into Amber’s throat, like its wielder knew how much she wanted to shift into demon form.

“Please don’t do this,” said Glen, trying to sound reasonable. “I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were Abigail. If I’d known you were a little girl, I would have said no.”

The big man tapped the cleaver on Glen’s wrist a few times to test his aim, and then raised the cleaver high above his head.

Glen abandoned all attempts at appearing reasonable and started screaming again. “Oh God please don’t do this please don’t cut my hand off I need it I didn’t know I didn’t know the old man didn’t tell me!”

Abigail held up a finger, and the man with the cleaver paused.

She leaned closer. “What old man?”

Glen gasped. “The … the old man who passed the Deathmark on to me. He just said this was intended for someone who deserved to die. Said you’d killed people. Lots of people.”

Abigail pursed her lips. “Did you ask his name?”

“No,” said Glen.

Abigail shrugged. “Pity.” She looked at the big man with the cleaver, was about to issue an order when Glen continued.

“But he had grey hair! And he was small! And Spanish! And he had a big grey beard!”

Abigail laughed. “Lautaro Soto asked you to kill me? That is so cute! He’s not Spanish, though, he’s Mexican. Or he was. He’s dead now, right?”

Glen nodded. “Died as soon as he passed the Deathmark to me.”

“He always was a sneaky one,” said Abigail. “Hey, guys, you can let him up now.”

Abigail’s people released their grip. The guy with the cleaver looked disappointed. The knife was taken from Amber’s throat and, like this happened every day, people around them went back to whatever they had been doing.

“Are you still going to chop my hand off?” Glen asked meekly.

Abigail laughed again. “No, you ninny! Everything has changed! This isn’t the work of my enemies – this is Lautaro, one of my oldest, dearest, most recently departed friends.”

“So … so you’ll let me go?”

“Absolutely. So long as you deliver that Deathmark to someone else instead.”

Glen’s eyes narrowed. “But … but I thought it’d only work on you.”

“Nope, it’ll work on anyone.”

“So I could have just given this away at any stage up until now?” Glen said, his voice rising. “Why didn’t anyone tell me that? Why didn’t the old man tell me that?”

“Lautaro probably didn’t want you wasting it on some random person on the street,” Abigail said. “But the guy I want you to pass it on to, he really deserves it. His name’s Ralphie. He’s a complete meanie, Glen, he really is. Him and his brother. Ralphie and Ossie. Oh, they are meanies. Drug dealers, too, and they have been known to kill a person for money. They’re in on this for sure – they did everything Lautaro told them to. Make sure you kill Ralphie, though. He’s the smart one.” She paused. “Admittedly that’s not saying a lot.”

“Why did they want to kill you?” Amber asked.

Abigail shrugged. “Why does anyone want to kill anyone? It’s just a thought that occurs, isn’t it? Things happen and the thought occurs. They used to work for me, ages ago. Then they did something stupid, and I said things I regretted, but by then it was too late. They went and found God – I imagine He was between the sofa cushions, I’m always losing things there – and they hooked up with Lautaro. He was a preacher – he’d been after me for years. He was convinced I was the spawn of the Devil, which is just rude. Lautaro was the kind to look the other way when it came to Ralphie and Ossie dealing drugs and killing people, but still believe he was fighting the good fight when it came to me. Together they must have come to the conclusion that it would be a neat idea to kill me.”

“So how did the old man end up in Ireland?” Glen asked.

“Educated guess?” said Abigail. “They figured out the Deathmark would be the only thing that could kill me, but making one isn’t like reaching into a box of cereal and pulling out the cheap plastic toy, you know? Real, actual work is involved. Lautaro must have known someone in Ireland with the skill to do it, so over he goes, they make the Deathmark, and Lautaro intends to carry it back to America with him. Only he’s an old man, and old men are frail, and the Deathmark can wear you down and wear you out if you’re old and frail.” She shrugged. “They miscalculated. It happens. So, right before he dies, he finds a healthy young man like you, Glen, and he gets you to agree to carry it over the ocean and use it to kill me. To kill … me.”

Abigail’s voice went very cold and very quiet.

Then that happy smiled returned. “But look at us! We’re taking those meanies’ plan and we’re turning it back on them! How surprised are they going to be when you turn up on their doorstep, Glen? Can you imagine the look on their faces?”

“I … I don’t know if I’m up to this,” said Glen.

“Not on your own,” Milo said. “But with our help you can do it. We’ll make sure.”

Glen blinked. “You’d … you’d do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Glen started to smile, then stopped. “It’s because you want me to go away, isn’t it?”

“Of course.”

Scowling, Glen turned back to Abigail. “I don’t think I can do this. I can’t kill someone. I thought I could, I thought I’d just pass it on to you, but … I can’t. A few days ago, I shot someone – a bad man. For a moment, I thought I’d killed him. It was dreadful. He was a serial killer, but I felt dreadful, anyway. I’m sorry, I just don’t have it in me. But you have lots of people here that work for you, right? I can pass the Deathmark on to them and they can kill your friend for you.”

Abigail shook her head. “The Deathmark can be passed on once, and no more. Lautaro Soto passed it to you. Whoever you pass it to next – they die. No loopholes. No exceptions. And, by the looks of it, Glen, you don’t have an awful lot of time left.”

Glen looked at his hand, at the black trail that was swirling faster. “I know.”

“But, lucky for you, Ralphie and Ossie don’t live far. Isn’t that lucky?”

Glen stood up, clutching his hand. “We have to go! We have to go now!”

“Sit down, sit down,” said Abigail. “I don’t know where they’d be this early in the evening. I know where they’ll be tonight, though.”

“We can’t wait that long,” Glen said.

“Of course you can. You stay here and I’ll be back when I know more. This is a busy bar and I am a busy lady. Enjoy the atmosphere.”

She gave them another smile, swung her feet off the chair, and hopped off and walked away.

Glen hesitated, then sat back down, and Milo leaned in. “You accepted the Deathmark?”

“Did I?” said Glen. “Oh right, yeah. Yeah, the old guy may have said something about … uh, what was it? In order to pass the Deathmark to another person, that other person has to willingly accept it. Or something.”

Amber glared at Glen. “You said you were attacked.”

Glen looked hurt. “I was!”

“You said you were attacked by a creature.”

Glen nodded. “Or a creature-like person, yes.”

“I’m sorry? What? What’s a creature-like person?”

“It’s a, I mean, it’s a person that looks like a creature, obviously. Like a, y’know … an old person.”

“You said creature.”

“I meant old person.”

“And you accepted the Mark?” said Milo.

“I didn’t know what it was!” Glen said. “This old guy comes out of the shadows and attacks me—”

“Attacks you?”

“—or talks to me, or whatever, and he says he’s about to die, will I take this Mark of Death to its intended target, a terrible person called Abigail who’s been hiding in this bar in America … What am I supposed to say? No?”

“Yes,” said Amber. “You’re supposed to say no.”

“Well, I’d say no now,” said Glen. “Obviously, I’d say no now. I’m in possession of all the facts now. But back then I wasn’t. And he seemed so harmless and he … he reminded me a little of my granddad.”

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

“What? My granddad was very important to me growing up.”

“So just because he reminded you of your dearly departed grandfather—”

“Oh no, granddad’s not dead. He’s just living in Cork.”

Amber glared. “He told you to kill someone in America and you said yes.”

“My granddad?”

“Soto.”

Glen paused. “I suppose I did say yes, yeah. But I’d never been to America and I’d always wanted to go. This seemed like the perfect opportunity.”

“You,” said Milo, “are an incredibly stupid person.”

Glen slumped in his seat. “Whatever.”

Amber stood, and Glen’s mouth dropped open.

“You’re abandoning me?”

“I’m going to the restroom.”

“Oh. Uh. Carry on.”

Sighing, she walked away from the table. She found the restroom, which turned out to be delightfully clean, and on her return trip she passed the dance floor. She saw Abigail, flanked by two burly members of staff, pointing to a woman doing her best to avoid eye contact. The staff members walked up either side of the woman, said a few words. The woman shook her head stiffly. The people she’d been talking to, her friends, took their drinks and moved away. She watched them go, pleading with her eyes.

The staff members took a firm grip of her elbows, led her to a room in the back. They nudged her gently through the open door and she immediately turned, tried to leave, tried to talk, but she was crying too much to get the words out.

Abigail was joined by the other children. The way they smiled sent actual shivers down Amber’s spine. Six of them, six beautiful little children, walking for the room now. The staff members moved away. The woman stepped back, hands up to keep the children at a distance. Her knees buckled. She was in hysterics now. The little boys took thin knives from their pockets and the little girls took thin knives from their purses, and they went into that room and the woman started screaming and the door closed.

Amber hurried back to their table. “The kids are killers,” she said, interrupting whatever Glen was saying to Milo. “The kids,” she said again. “The children. Abigail. I just saw them go after a woman with knives in their hands.”

Glen frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes, Glen. Seriously.”

“They’re actual killers, like? Actual murderers?” The moment he said it, panic set in. “We have to get out of here. We have to leave. Don’t we? Who goes first? We can’t make it obvious that we’re leaving.”

“We’re not going anywhere,” said Milo.

“Did you not hear what she said?”

“We’re waiting for Abigail’s instructions. What she does here in the privacy of her own bar is her own business. It’s got nothing to do with us.”

“You don’t seem surprised,” Amber said to Milo. “About the killer kids.”

“Of course not,” he replied. “I recognised her the moment I saw her.”

“You know her?”

“I’ve read about her. She’s Abigail Gateling. Killed her entire family when she was eight years old. She was shipped off to an insane asylum while the authorities were figuring out what to do with her. She escaped the asylum and knocked on the first door she came to. She was found the next morning, drenched in blood.”

Glen gaped. “And she’s loose?”

“She’s dead,” said Milo. “This all happened in 1932.”

Amber stared at him. Glen started crying. It kind of ruined the moment.