The group closest to the door consists of a very old man and his bodyguard. In the Celestial, the old man is nearly as shadowy as the dead man in the office. His bald head shakes on his shoulders with what I recognize as Parkinson’s disease, but his yellow eyes are alert and greedy as he scans the children. His bodyguard pounds a switch on the wall with his fist. Overhead, industrial lights brighten the warehouse—something I only notice when Jake points it out to me. He sighs in relief, and I understand how much he hates being blind.
It seems these two have been here before. The bodyguard grows impatient and begins to wander to and fro through the sea of children, causing me to nearly crawl out of my skin with anxiety. He strolls through the captives, shoving at the children with the toe of his boot like he’s examining the sturdiness of furniture at a rummage sale. As I focus on him, his figure transforms before my eyes.
He’s not human.
Like a holographic trading card, parts of his true self come into view as he turns this way and that. He makes his way toward us, angling his head to take in the cherubic face of a towheaded girl. With a sharp intake of air, I nearly give away our position.
“What is it?” Jake peers through a gap in the pile, straining as he takes in the large blond man.
“He’s not right,” I answer. “Not normal.”
“What do you mean?”
“The left side of his face,” I say, my voice hushed. “I could have sworn it—” But I don’t finish. The man tilts his head upright again, and the anomaly disappears. There he stands, seemingly human. The Marlboro man personified.
“What, Elle?” Jake says. “What did you see?”
“His face . . . it was almost skeletal. His skin was black, scorched, and it hung from his face like it had been nearly melted away.”
The light around Jake flashes bright and then fades back to its normal shine. His face takes on a sickened glaze.
“What does it mean?”
“A demon, Elle. He’s a demon.”
“Another one?”
I turn my eyes back to the Marlboro man. He takes the child’s face in one of his oversized hands. As he raises her chin, his fleshy human hand transforms into a black claw—a black claw only I can see. Sharp talons, invisible to the child, pierce her smooth skin. She stifles a gulp, and silent tears slide down her cheeks. The old man leans forward on his cane and laughs maliciously as he watches his accomplice terrorize the girl. The demon smiles at her response and stands, releasing the child’s face with a careless flick. The black mud of fear pours liberally from each of the four holes he’s cut into her skin—three from the piercings along her cheek and one from a larger hole his opposing talon has punctured in her chin. I squeeze Jake’s hand because I don’t know what else to do.
“She’ll be all right,” he assures me, though his face is painfully stoic. “It’s just fear. We’ll take care of that, okay?”
Jake can’t see the holes cut into her face, but he can see her fear.
We can all see her fear.
Another group stands talking among themselves. Farthest from the old man is an attractive but harsh-looking woman. She is voluptuously squeezed into her bodice, and her round chest heaves up and down beneath a faux leather jacket. She puffs on a cigarette and casually waves it about as she speaks. The trail of metallic fire it leaves in the Celestial reminds me of the sparklers Dad and I used to wave about on Independence Day.
A pang of angst strikes me as I think of Dad, entirely unaware of this world of light and darkness and the danger I’m now in. This reality, dangerous or not, has the capacity to devastate him. I shake off the feeling. I don’t have time to be distracted.
Again I take in the provocative woman. She is flanked by a feminine-looking man dressed in a fitted purple suit and a girl, probably my age, her face covered with thick makeup. The girl stands, arms folded across her chest, in skinny jeans and a heavy down jacket. Expensive designer boots are laced to her knees. She seems to respond appropriately to whatever the other two are saying, but fear seeps through her clothing, and a murky liquid streams down her face. She struggles to keep her watery eyes from the children.
Between this group and the old man stands a lone wolf. He fiddles with his cell phone, utterly bored and unmoved by the despair before him.
The light surrounding these six individuals varies. The old man alone has a shadowy appearance, but the atmosphere around the others is hardly reassuring. A fuzzy gray light bounces dully from most of them.
The Marlboro man, of course, is different. Mostly, the light responds to him in the same manner as the others, but whenever I catch a glimpse of his demonic appearance the light pulls away, leaving an empty blackness between his form and the brightness of the Celestial.
I jump as the office door bangs open. The guy with the ponytail strides into the room, his hands stained red with murder.
“Sorry to keep you all waiting,” he says with a roguish grin. “First things first, if you don’t mind. This is a gun-free zone, ladies and gentlemen.”
Dimples stomps up from behind Ponytail and pats down each of them, pulling a few guns from the lot before retreating into the office. By far, the lone wolf is the most reluctant to hand over his handgun, but the voluptuous woman is none too pleased herself.
“What is this, Juan? Where’s Horacio?” she demands, one hand on her hip.
Juan steps up to the trio, taking the woman’s hand and kissing it. “Cleo! You look ravishing.”
She bats her lashes and drops her cigarette to the dirt, where she grinds it out under the heel of her ridiculously inappropriate stiletto. He turns his eyes on the younger girl at her side.
“Horacio didn’t tell me Michelle would be accompanying you!” His gaze makes the girl blush. He pulls her to his chest and kisses her cheek. He is suave, but even I can see he’s insincere. “It’s been a long time, Michelle.” He slaps her on the behind and briskly moves away, offering his arm to Cleo.
“Really, Juan,” she complains. “You’ve kept us waiting, you strip us of our weapons, and still, where is Horacio? He assured me he would be here.”
“I cannot tell you, my lady, where Mr. Santilla is. All I know is he’s asked me to stand in for him. Tell me, Cleo, wouldn’t you rather look at me?” He winks at her and leads her toward the man in black, smirking at the others.
“Jules,” Juan says, extending his hand. “We haven’t met, but Horacio speaks highly of you.”
“Well,” the man says with a sneer, “Santilla’s always been a fool.”
Juan chuckles and continues past him to the old man and his escort.
“Henry,” Juan says, bowing elegantly. “Nice to see you again. I’ve pulled a few of the girls I thought may fit each of your needs, but of course you’re welcome to take your pick of the lot.” He gestures grandly to the rows of children now doing their best to disappear behind their binds. “Eddie!”
Dimples pushes and prods the four older girls into the room, Kaylee bringing up the rear. With the exception of Kaylee, the girls stand dripping with hose water—their clothes pasted to their wet bodies. Kaylee’s face is uncovered now. Her hands and mouth remain taped.
All business now, Cleo struts toward the girls, her two comrades joining her. Seeing they’re in the market for a similar purchase, Jules moves quickly as well.
Henry stays put. “Did Horacio tell you—I requested a blonde. Several, actually.”
Juan answers him, but his voice is drowned by the heated discussion Cleo and Jules are having. They’re arguing over a redhead—fifteen, sixteen years old, maybe. She stands drenched so heavily in fear I can no longer make out her facial expression. Her thin frame rattles side to side, and she cries out as they each yank on one of her arms in a sadistic game of tug-of-war.
“I do not think so, madam.” Jules’s voice rises to a feverish pitch. “You seemed perfectly content with the brunette until I showed interest in this one.”
“I was here first, you crazy little man, and that means I get first pick!” Cleo screams back.
“First pick, my—”
A shot rings out into the night air and everyone freezes, their eyes trained on Juan’s .45.
“What happened to your no-gun policy?” Jules says. Both Cleo and Henry also look put out.
“No guns for the
customers
, Jules,” Juan says with a smirk. “I’m sure you understand.”
“No, I don’t understand,” Jules hisses back. “You are just as likely to turn on us. How do I know you even work for Horacio?”
“You’ll just have to trust me,” Juan answers. “Or not. It makes no difference to me.”
Jules crosses his arms defiantly but is silent.
“This room is full of suitable merchandise, and you two are fighting over one worthless girl.”
“Worthless to you, but this girl could make me a decent stack of cash,” Cleo argues, tugging on the girl’s arm again.
“I’ll tell you what,” Jules counters. “I’ll drop her off on your street corner when I’m done with her.”
“My street corner!” Cleo is furious. “My girls do not stand on street corners!”
Again Juan fires his gun into the air, silencing both Jules and Cleo. The children duck and cover their ears. Their cries pierce the air, and the older children try to quiet the younger ones. Henry clucks at the chaos.
Dimples steps up.
“Here,” he says, grabbing Kaylee.
I have to clamp a hand over my mouth to stifle the cry building up inside.
“She’s fresh, pretty. You’ll have to keep her muzzled—got quite a mouth on her—but I’m sure she’ll bring either of you exactly what you’re looking for.”
Kaylee releases a string of unintelligible angry words and swings her long arms toward Dimples. Her elbow connects with his temple, and he drops. He tries to stand, but before he gets a chance she kicks out with those sequined cowboy boots. His head snaps sideways, and he flops back, unconscious.
“Wow,” Jake breathes.
Cleo shakes her head. “I have enough attitude as it is.”
Jules, though, is obviously intrigued. “There is something very spirited about her, isn’t there?” He blocks Kaylee’s arms with a single hand and takes her chin in the other. “What do you think, darling? Would you like to be a movie star?”
“Nooooooooo!!!!!!”
From behind a stack of empty pallets, Marco dives at Juan and knocks the gun away. It skids across the concrete and disappears into the mass of children. With a resounding clatter and several moments of echoing clamor, the pallets, unsettled by Marco’s movement, totter and fall—one after the other—to the ground.
Jules takes advantage of the distraction and heaves Kaylee over his shoulder. She swings and kicks, but Jules continues on, making for the door.
Surprise had been on Marco’s side, and now he sits straddling Juan’s chest. He throws punch after punch at him, but Juan’s much larger and his forearms seem to be taking the brunt of it. I fear Marco isn’t doing much damage.
“We have to help him!”
“No, we don’t,” Jake says. “We have to help her.”
I follow his gaze to the door. Kaylee has grasped the steel door frame with her bound hands, but she’s hopeless against Jules. He throws his shoulder into her stomach, forcing her hands free, and she screams.
Jake releases my hand and sprints from behind the garbage heap.
“Jake!”
But he doesn’t respond. He’s too far away already, running fast toward the door. Through the wall I watch as Jules turns right, toward the gravel lot. Kaylee swings her bound arms and kicks her legs, fighting hard against her captor. Jake’s close, but Jules reaches his vehicle, a dark SUV. He opens the front passenger door and shoves Kaylee inside.
A wounded yelp draws my attention, and with my lack of focus the wall rematerializes, blinding me to the action in the parking lot. I look around for the source of the distraction.
It seems the tables have turned for Marco, and now Juan sits astride his torso, bringing practiced elbow after practiced elbow down on Marco’s face. Flames of violence erupt around the two men, keeping time with their accelerating heart rates.
My eyes move desperately around the warehouse, but there’s nothing there to inspire faith. No savior come to rescue us. What I
do
see causes chilling beads of sweat to race down my warm spine.
Cleo, following Jules’s lead, is dragging the screaming redhead toward the door by her long, wet hair. Michelle and the man in the purple suit scurry behind.
They pass the old man, Henry. His gnarled hands grip his cane, and he guffaws at the spectacle before him, his demon-friend gone.
An unnatural movement draws my attention, and I turn my face toward the aluminum ceiling.
There he is.
The demon hovers above us, invisible to everyone but me. I know it’s him, and yet his appearance is so frightfully different than it had been. The scorched skin, skeletal masses protruding here and there—it’s all exaggerated now, almost unbelievably so.
Black talons, dangerous talons, grow out of his chalky gray hands.
I crouch behind the garbage heap, too scared to move. Despite the halo’s warmth, my hands are shaking, flinging black tar into the air. My feet are gummed to the cement floor with the stuff, and I realize, painfully, that I’m paralyzed. My lips barely move as I utter the first words that come to mind.