Blackbone (40 page)

“You and me and the Boy Scouts.”

They searched the entire hut to be sure the djinn wasn’t already inside with them. They peered under the cots, between the sheets, unfolded the blankets, studied jars of medication, shook out towels. Gilman had no idea what they might find, what form the djinn would be inclined to turn itself into, or how they would recognize it.

They turned the back rooms inside out but found nothing, nor was there anything in the rear cubicle where Kirst had spent his last hours. They searched the medicine cabinet and found only a sealed bottle of iodine and a sponge.

There was still a closet left to search just ahead of the back rooms, but Loring was tired. They had been up all night, and she was beginning to fade. There wasn’t much time left until dawn, and she reasoned that if the djinn were going to make a move, it wouldn’t bother hiding in some stupid closet.

In a cupboard Gilman found a windfall: a large brown bottle filled with salt tablets. Loring found saline solution bottles and Gilman hit on the perfect weapon.

“Molotov salt cocktails.” He unstoppered the solution bottles, dropped a couple of salt tablets in each, then stirred them, increasing the ratio of salt to water. He hefted one like a grenade. “Should be enough to make that overgrown pain in the ass piss in his pants.”

Loring was too tired to tell him how clever he was. Gilman lined the bottles up on a rolling cart and left them unstoppered. Stuffing more salt tablets into their pockets, they tried to think of what else to do.

Gilman rolled the cart to the window and looked out again. The wind had died down completely, leaving a light snowfall descending in the night. Gilman leaned against the wall and thought of his childhood winters, of snow blanketing his parents’ home in Pennsylvania. He closed his eyes and saw the woods, thick stands of pine, branches heavy with snow, pools of slush, the sun warming the chill ground....

The djinn’s face loomed before him with jaws distended and fangs dripping gore.... His eyes snapped open and he jumped upright. He blinked and realized he had gone to sleep standing up.

Loring lay on the nearest cot, one hand massaging her forehead as she struggled to stay awake. She was worried now. Yazir’s talisman was gone, and with it any semblance of safety and security she had felt since arriving here. She had grown dependent on it, but what good had it been? Would anything work against the beast? Then she recalled how violently the djinn had reacted when she slashed it with the talisman, how it had drawn black blood, and how Steuben with his peculiar knife had stabbed at it, pierced its flesh but had been unable to harm it. Why? What was the difference between her attack and his?

Then she realized what it was. “Silver,” she said aloud.

The knife was made of steel, the talisman of silver. The talisman had drawn the djinn’s blood. The knife had not.

“Silver,” she repeated, looking at Gilman. “Something made of silver might hurt it. If we can get close enough.”

Gilman reflected for a moment then walked to the back cubicle. A moment later, Loring heard a loud crash. She forced herself to get up, though she was so tired she just wanted to stay on the bed no matter what.

Gilman returned carrying the jagged remains of the medicine cabinet mirror. He tossed the pieces on a cot. “Mirrors are glass backed with silver, right? Choose your weapon.”

Loring nodded. “Brilliant.” She dropped onto the bed again.

“Don’t go to sleep. It’s not that long till dawn.”

Loring braced herself on one extended arm. Gilman admired the swell of her breast beneath the open coat. She was gazing out the window.

“Sky’s getting lighter,” she said.

Dawn was coming. The djinn had to move soon or lose its chance.

They waited.

Gilman sat on the cot next to Loring. Her face was close to his, her eyelids drooping. She leaned against him. His arm went around her shoulders. He moved a length of hair out of her eyes and bent to kiss her cheek. She didn’t respond. He kissed her lips then covered her mouth with his. Her eyes were almost dead with tiredness, but her arms went around him and pulled him down.

Something scratched at the door.

Chapter 29

Flooding out of the burning mess hall as Gilman and Loring ran off, the nightform shot away into the camp, the djinn anticipating where they would go and determined to complete the trap it had laid. In the center of its consciousness, the djinn was furious with them for interfering in its hellish war. Anger turned to rage as the djinn realized that, if it failed to find a new host before first light, it would lose all it had gained and be completely at their mercy.

Fear drove it now, welling up from an awareness of its vulnerability, its need to keep feeding on the fear of others to gain energy, its compelling drive to create chaos and havoc and death so its power would grow. If not allowed to range outward and escape the compound, its power would eventually turn inward and feed on the djinn’s own fears. The one emotion upon which the djinn depended so heavily for its own sustenance could slowly destroy it from within, creating an inner panic greater than that of any of its victims. And now, concern over this possibility threatened to cloud the djinn’s judgment with irrational, desperate need.

It rushed forward across the compound, skimming over the icy white earth, hell-bent on preserving what it had carefully created—the image of vast, overwhelming, all-consuming power that no human could hope to defeat. Yet at the forefront of its mind lurked the knowledge that its enemies already held the key to its corporeal destruction. The djinn had used up too much power dealing with these frightened animals and, since it no longer possessed the element of secrecy, finding a new host became imperative.

With its appetite for energy growing in direct proportion to the amount expended to kill, it now felt a hunger unlike any experienced by mortals, and that hunger was rapidly, insidiously driving the djinn mad.

A muffled whine accompanied the scratching. Loring stayed absolutely still on the cot while Gilman slowly rose and both listened.

Scratch. Scratch.

Gilman moved cautiously to the door. Loring rolled off the bed, adjusted her clothing, and followed.

Scratch.

More whining. Gilman put his ear to the door and listened.

Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.

A pitiful, lonely whine.

Gilman grunted, recognizing the sound, growing certain of what it was, or what it should be. Loring was at his shoulder, intent on the sound.

“Bruckner’s dog,” he whispered.

“Don’t be so sure.”

Gilman went to the rolling cart with the row of salt cocktails. He picked one up and, returning, moved the chair and reached for the door handle.

Scratch. Scratch.

Gilman opened the door.

Churchill darted inside, scooted directly to the nearest cot, and dove under it. Gilman stared after him, ready to throw the salt cocktail. A chill spread from the open door.

“Sure looks like a dog,” Gilman said.

Loring shut the door quietly and moved the chair back into place. Churchill poked his head out from under the cot and watched them, his eyes flicking from one to the other.

“Come on out, fella,” said Gilman. “Come on.” He handed the salt cocktail to Loring then crossed to the cot. Loring followed, her arm back, ready to throw the bottle.

Bending over, Gilman gently snapped his fingers at the dog. He whistled through his teeth and flashed a friendly, encouraging smile. The dog just stared at him.

“What do you think?” Gilman said.

“I don’t know.” Loring turned on all the feminine charm she could muster and coaxed the dog. “Come on, sweetheart. Nobody’s going to hurt you. Are you cold? Want to get warm? Can’t be too warm under that cot. Why don’t you climb up here and we’ll rub you down with a blanket? What do you say?”

Churchill’s front paws edged out, then he stopped and eyed them uncertainly, making up his mind if they were worthy of his trust.

“Nice doggy,” Loring said. “Come on.”

They both stood over the cot, coaxing the dog. He emerged inch by inch, making a game of it. He came out a bit, they offered approval, he came out a little more. At last he wriggled free, stood on all fours, and panted up at them.

Loring let him lick her hand then rub against her leg. Gilman got a shard of mirror from the other cot. “Maybe we shouldn’t take the chance,” he said.

She glanced at the shard of silver-backed glass in his hand then shook her head and gave him a firm “No.” Gilman tossed the shard back on the cot. Churchill sniffed Loring’s legs then rose abruptly on his hindquarters and planted his front paws against her knee. Loring leaned over and let him lick her chin. “Why do they call him Churchill?” she asked.

“I think it’s supposed to be a joke.”

“Oh.”

Gilman crouched and extended a hand. Churchill obediently came to him and licked at his fingers. “Probably hungry or thirsty,” he said.

“Don’t give him anything,” Loring said. “He’s as much a potential host as we are.”

Glancing up, Gilman saw Loring pour some of the salt solution into her palm then extend her hand toward the dog. While Gilman tickled Churchill’s ears to distract him, Loring quickly rubbed the salt solution into the dog’s fur. She yanked her hand back and waited.

Churchill swung his head to gaze curiously at the wet spot. Disappointed in Loring, he slunk back under the cot.

Loring was relieved. “It’s not the djinn. It really is a dog.” She managed a tired laugh then apologized to Churchill. “I’m sorry, old boy. That was a nasty trick. I should have asked first, right?”

Churchill watched her carefully.

Loring put out her hand to be licked, but it was the one with the salt on it. The dog jumped up, shot past her, and retreated down the length of the ward, disappearing into the back cubicles.

“Win a few, lose a few,” said Gilman, getting up and moving to the cot. “Where were we?”

“Oh, Christ. I’m sorry, but I’m one of those girls who just can’t do it with a monster on the loose.”

Gilman snorted a laugh. They looked out the window. The snowfall had slowed to a trickle. The sky was starting to lighten. Dawn was only a few minutes off.

“As soon as the sun comes up, we should be relatively safe, at least for the day,” said Loring. “The djinn will be dormant, hidden somewhere. Whatever it turns itself into, it will have to stay in that form. We’ll have to figure out what and where. But at least we can hunt it down without worrying about being torn to pieces.”

Churchill was whining.

They hurried across the ward to investigate and found him hunched in front of the closet door, his hindquarters raised and front paws extended. He glanced up at them and whimpered.

Gilman stared at the closet door. Loring ran back to the cart for a couple of salt cocktails. Handing one to Gilman, she hefted the other herself. Gilman studied the door.

Wouldn’t it be smarter to just clear out and run?

He reached for the handle. It turned easily.

Churchill ran and hid under the sink. His whining grew increasingly worried.

With a glance at Loring—she was ready with her bottle of salt solution—Gilman turned the handle until it stopped and he could feel the door loosen in his hand.

The djinn is in the closet. It’s been there all the time. It’s waiting for me to open the door.

Gilman fought panic.

“Now,” Loring said, braced with her salt cocktail.

Gilman yanked open the door.

For an instant, nothing happened. Then something stirred in the darkness within. It leaned out and the light fell on it—a brutally mutilated human corpse, its clothing torn to shreds, its arms dangling from their shoulder sockets, held in place only by the remaining stretched and exposed tendons. The throat was gone and the head hung back on the shoulder blades, chin pointed to the ceiling. It wavered a moment then crashed to the floor.

Gilman stared at the face. Hopkins.

Loring’s salt bottle slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor. The liquid splashed away, most of it running under the corpse. Gilman whirled and saw Loring stagger a few steps, white as a sheet. Her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled, and she dropped to the floor.

Gilman backed away, for a moment too stunned to do anything. Then he remembered that wasn’t just water running across the floor. It was a triple-strength saline solution, and it was pooling under Hopkins’ corpse.

But there was no sizzle or spark, no reaction at all. This time it
was
Hopkins, the real Hopkins, dead Hopkins. It wasn’t the djinn.

Gilman’s gaze darted to the closet.

It wasn’t the djinn, but the djinn had put it there. It knew they were in here. It was in here with them.

Gilman put down his salt cocktail and kneeled beside Loring. Trying to revive her, he kept glancing over his shoulder to be sure Hopkins didn’t get up and walk. He slapped Loring’s cheek, pinched her arm, talked to her urgently. She stayed out. Maybe sleep had finally caught up with her, and she was too exhausted to wake up.