Wicked Prayer (26 page)

It had to fucking well stop, and
right now.

Kyra reached under her arm for her shoulder holster.

It wasn't there, and neither was her Walther PPK.

Fucking hardass dream,
she thought.
I can’t even catch a break.

And then Kyra looked at the black Hansel and Gretel tree trunk just inches from her face.

Really looked at it.

Saw the Mountain Clan Crow knife stuck between scabby slabs of bark. Yeah. Right where it belonged. Because this wasn't a hardass dream. It was a vision, and it belonged to Kyra Damon.

Kyra grabbed the hilt of the knife and freed the blade from the fairy tale tree.

The blade shone brightly despite the gloom. Kyra smiled. The knife had some serious mojo, all right. She held it up, stared at her blue-eyed reflection in the gleaming metal.

The knife belonged to her now, the same way the vision did.

A slight movement behind her.

A shadow, reflected in the blade.

“You're wrong, Kyra," came a familiar voice. “You don't own the
vision anymore. It doesn’t belong to you . . . and neither does that knife.”

Kyra turned, startled, the blade gripped tightly in her trembling hand.

In a second the knife was snatched away.

Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin stood before Kyra, low fog pooling at her ankles, pitted scarlet eye sockets gleaming in her smiling, bronze-skinned face.

“I think this belongs to me,” Leticia said, pressing the sharp blade to Kyra’s throbbing jugular vein.

Kyra wanted to scream, knew that she couldn’t. The knifeblade had her pinned against the twisted spine of the tree, and she didn't dare move an inch.

Leticia Hardin leaned toward her, empty eye sockets wet and slick as chopped meat. In the real world, there'd be no way the dead woman could stand there with a knife pressing against the plum-colored scar that ringed Kyra's throat, no way Leticia could so much as see Kyra at all when her goddamn Injun eyes had been carved out of her head, but this was obviously a long fucking way from the real world. Kyra wasn't quite up to testing the bounds of an alternate reality by taking a chance with a razor-sharp blade, no matter how imaginary this world might be.

Better safe than sorry. That was the way she'd play this one.

“Smart thinking, Kyra.” A rictus grin crossed Leticia Hardin's face and she leaned closer, close enough so that the raw scent of the dead woman's blood hit Kyra like a couple of rusty iron spikes hammered into her nostrils.

Leticia's empty eye sockets came even with Kyra's new blue eyes. “Nice eyes,” Leticia said, and only a deaf person could have missed the pained sarcasm in the Crow woman's voice. “I like the color . . . but it really doesn't suit you.”

Though Kyra was terrified, a ripe
fuck you
brimmed on her tongue like a conditioned response. But as soon as the first word overflowed Kyra's lips the knife dug in.

‘‘You had your chance to talk," Leticia said. “I had to listen to you back there at the trading post. You and your slag boyfriend were quite the chatterboxes. Remember?

Leticia eased off with the blade, but only for a second. Then she redirected it. The flat edge whispered over Kyra’s cheek until the point neared the comer of her right eye, flicked against Kyra’s eyelashes . . . and then the flesh beneath.

A single tear spilled from the blue orb and ran the length of the silver blade.

“Last night I didn’t have a choice," Leticia said. “I listened to you. You treated me like an idiot, like there was no way in the world I could understand your power But I’m not an idiot, Kyra. I know what you’re about now. I’ve seen what you can do. I’m not impressed. Because all you’ve done with your power is spit on mine."

“I
killed
you," Kyra whispered. She couldn’t help it, couldn’t keep silent no matter what price she might pay for her words. “Your Native American mojo can’t save your little red ass in this world any more than your dream catchers could save it in our world. Maybe that’s what happens when you slap a price tag on your magic, put it up for sale in some tourist trap. I’ve got news for you: all the fifty-percent-off flashing blue light special dream catchers in the world wouldn’t have helped you last night. None of them caught the all-American nightmare that blew through your front door like a Halloween wind, did they?"

Leticia didn’t answer It didn’t matter, because Kyra was mad now . . . mad enough to tempt fate. “Face it, Pocahontas—you couldn’t stop me then and you can’t stop me now, because this is only a fucking dream, isn't it? This world is only as real as I make it, and right now I think it’s way past time for me to open my eyes."

“They’re not your eyes, Kyra. Remember that."

The blade pricked Kyra’s eyelid, and just that fast she shut up.

“That real enough for you, Kyra?"

It was.

A hot needle of pain bloomed on Kyra’s face.

A single red teardrop rolled down her cheek.

She didn’t say another word.

“That’s better," Leticia said. “You were getting a little carried away
there. Doing the white girl thing . . . speaking with a forked tongue. That’s what this little red girl thinks, anyway.”

Kyra clenched her teeth, hit that tongue. It was forked, all right. . . or it should have been. Pocahontas was right about that. Kyra’s tongue had been forked a long time ago, genetics laid down bad and brutal by a big bad monster of a daddy and a mama who just didn’t care, and if she could just open her mouth she 'd tell the Crow woman that her cactus- hugging, dirt-kissing, blanket-wearing mojo wasn’t anything when you went up against the eternal power of the dark side.

But Kyra wouldn’t do that.

She’d go the dead woman one better

She’d show . . . not tell. That was the way Kyra would do it. She’d show Pocahontas the error of her ways The little Injun was babbling like the ubiquitous brook. Talking and talking when she should have gone into slice ’n’ dice mode right from jump.

‘You think you’re pretty smart,” Leticia said. “But you're not smart, Kyra. You're not in control of this situation.”

Let her talk. Kyra closed her eyes. Felt the knifeblade there on her cheek. But she wasn't going to listen anymore. She didn't have to listen because she was certain that she was in control of this situation.

Leticia Hardin was just a picture in her head. So was the knife. None of this shit was real.

Real was Las Vegas.

Real was a bathtub in the Skull Island hotel.

Real was her physical body.

Kyra had to find a way to connect with it.

It was simple, really. All she had to do was open the eyes she'd stolen from Leticia Dreams the Truth Hardin.

In a bathtub in a hotel room in Las Vegas, Kyra’s body jerked, eyelids fluttering.

“It's not that easy, Kyra
."

The knife wasn't against her face now, but Kyra didn't open her eyes. She concentrated, tried to wake up.

“You see, you're not alone in this anymore. Your vision belongs to me, too. You sucked me into it the second my heart stopped beating."

The dead woman’s hands dropped onto Kyra’s shoulders.

“Listen to me
—
I’m part of your vision now. You can’t just wish me away.”

She had stronger hands than Kyra imagined.

“Dan Cody is part of your vision, too.”

Those hands pushed her down.

“So
is the Crow.”

Kyra didn’t want to listen to the dead woman’s words anymore. She couldn’t concentrate. But she had to concentrate, because she couldn’t think straight. . . she couldn’t escape this fucking illusion . . . she knew that’s what it was, that’s all it was, but she couldn’t shake free of it because she couldn’t fucking breathe . . .

She was underwater, invisible hands pressing her lower . . . lower . . . and lower still in a Fiberglas skull brimming with water as warm as blood . . . and Kyra gasped for air but that was a big fucking mistake because all she got was a sick swallow of H
2
O scented with yarrow and attar of black roses and clary sage.

She wanted to scream, but she couldn’t. A torrent of bubbles escaped her mouth, and she writhed beneath the water—twisting, fighting against hands that seemed to be everywhere . . . pressing her shoulders, covering her mouth, squeezing the blood from her heart. . .

Napalm flared in Kyra’s lungs.

The scar ringing her neck shone like a garrote made of scarlet
silk.

The scar pulled tighter . . . tighter . . .

And darkness came . . .

Dan opened his eyes.

The vision was a part of him now. He could feel it, deep inside, a pulse beat of memory that wouldn’t be denied. He wondered if it were this way for the others who shared the vision: Kyra Damon, and the Crow, and
—

He heard a voice in the distance.

No more than a whisper riding the chill fog, but Dan recognized it.

“Leticia!” he shouted.

The Crow cawed and spread its wings. ‘‘No, Dan! Wait!”

But it was too late for warnings. Dan Cody had heard Leticia’s voice, heard it distinctly. He was already moving, running through the fog. Leti was just ahead . . . she had to be . . .

Dan sprinted through a maze of tombstones and leaning monuments, heavy boots thudding over turf that was never meant to be marked by the tread of man. There was no path to follow, and he couldn’t have seen one through the low-hanging fog even if it had been there for him to see. He darted between thick tree trunks, knocking off scabs of bark as he hurried onward, into deeper tangles where arthritic branches clawed at him like the gnarled fingers of fairy tale witches, and
—

“Leticia!” Dan called. "Leticia! Where are you?”

He stood in the fog, waiting for an answer. The cold wind washed his back, and his hair crossed his face in a tangle. He wasn’t even sure if he was heading in the right direction
—

No. This had to be the way. Leticia was up there somewhere. He’d heard her.

And now he could feel her presence.

She was there. Just ahead . . . Dan hurried on, the rising wind shifting course, coming at him now. Brittle leaves twisted through the air like huge bats. Twigs and branches broke free of the trees and tore at Dan’s face and hands. But still he kept moving, still he tried
—

"You can’t stay here, Dan,” the Crow called. ‘You have to go now . . . You can’t see Leticia yet . . . It’s not possible . . . We have things we must do . . .”

"No!” Dan screamed.
"NO!"

The fog streamed over him, cold and damp as death’s own hand. . . then warm . . . and dry . . . and hot as the blazing ramparts of hell. . .

A blistering wind slapped Dan Cody’s face.

He opened his eyes.

He stood in the desert.

No fog, no trees, no lady love.

Only the Crow.

The enchanted bird was perched on Dan’s outstretched arm. A brittle caw broke from the animal, and it took wing.

Dan lowered his arm. It ached terribly. He stared down as his hand brushed his thigh, numbly, like it wasn’t a part of him at all.

The back of his hand had been scalded by the desert sun. Trickles of blood wept from deep scratches torn by branches that didn’t exist in this world.

The scratches healed over in an instant.

The sunburn faded just as fast.

But the pain remained.

It was constant.

Kyra’s belly heaved.

Hot water spurted over her tongue, a blistering gush of yarrow and clary sage and attar of black roses.

“Shit,” Johnny said. He stood above her, wearing a shiny sharkskin suit that was electric Batman blue. “Are you okay, babe?”

Kyra didn’t answer. She was on all fours in the middle of a puddle on the hotel room floor, wet as the fucking Creature from the Black Lagoon. She spit, then drew a ragged breath.

Of course, the wound on her eyelid had already healed . . . but Kyra wasn’t aware of that. It was another pain that tortured her most.

She caressed her neck with black-nailed fingers, and she might have sworn that she felt the imprint of a dead woman’s nasty little hands.

Sorry, Pocahontas,
she thought
.
You lose again.

“Man,” Johnny said, because he couldn’t keep his mouth shut. “I thought it was San Francisco all over again. I thought you were dead.”

Kyra opened her mouth.

Her voice was a razored rasp.

“Fuck death,” she said. “And fuck San Francisco, too.”