Edge of Midnight (McClouds & Friends #4)(137)

“No!” Liv shrieked, as he whipped it down, smacking hard right against Sean’s blood-drenched, injured shoulder.

Sean didn’t move. Fresh blood streamed down his arm, dripping off the ends of his fingers and onto the floor. His eyes burned wildly.

Osterman dropped the tire iron, hands opening and closing. “See?” His voice shook with excitement. “He didn’t even flinch, and that had to hurt. There’s nothing wrong with his nerve receptors, you see.”

She wanted to scream, but once she started, she wasn’t going to be able to stop. If the blade on Tam’s ring were longer, she would spare them what was about to happen. Without hesitation.

Osterman was undoing the restraints that had fastened Sean into the chair; wrists, ankles, arms, the belt around his waist. Sean began to move. He got slowly to his feet, and shuffled towards Liv’s gurney.

“Good boy,” Osterman crooned. “You’re doing wonderfully.” He glanced at Liv. “Just think of the applications for weapons defense.”

“Stop,” Liv told him, her voice cracking. “Just stop.”

“Oh? Really? Should I?” His mouth stretched in a hideously cheerful smile. His eyes were utterly mad. “I don’t think so. Let’s start with the blowtorch, hmm?”

She shrank back. Sean awkwardly picked up the blowtorch. He flicked the switch several times before he managed to turn it on.

She stared into his eyes. It took several tries to get the words out. “Sean. Wh-whatever happens now…I l-love you.”

“Aw.” Osterman let out a sigh. “Brings tears to my eyes. And speaking of eyes. Let’s start with one of hers.” He patted her cheek. “Feel free to scream,” he invited her. “The place is soundproofed.”

The girl tied to the radiator started to wail. Osterman spun around. “Shut up, or I’ll have him start with you instead,” he barked.

The girl curled up with a keening moan, and began to rock.

Sean’s body jerked, shuddered. He took a shuffling step closer.

Liv squeezed her eyes shut, cringing away.





Chapter 27



O sterman lied. This wasn’t a preview. This was hell, here and now. Twisting in the flames, damned souls screaming, pitchforks jabbing. Every muscle was locked in a burning rigor of agony with the effort to resist the impulse Osterman sent through his nerves. The impulse to lift the blowtorch, and burn Liv’s beautiful, tear-streaked face with it.

He could sense Osterman’s gloating pleasure. Fucking with him and liking it. The foul intimacy of the contact made him want to vomit.

Consciousness of who he was, what was happening, wrapping itself into a protective bubble, retreating from the horror…

He yanked it back. Pain roared through his body afresh. If he let go of that bubble, he was dead meat walking. Osterman’s pet zombie.

Time warped, stretched. He hung on, shuddering to stay still while Osterman yanked the puppet strings. The room spun. He was trapped in the center, in a fiery pillar of agony. His father stood before him, his lean face seamed with pain and loss. He contemplated his lastborn son’s distress as if he were all too familiar with it.

Do the hard thing, he advised, his voice dour.

Sean would have laughed, if he could. Yeah, Dad. And what might that f*cking hard thing be? It’s all hard.

Eamon nodded gravely. Turn it around.

Turn what around? How? I’m paralyzed!

Eamon was gone. Sean sat on the plank floor of the kitchen. A woman with blond hair sat with him. She had dimples. Beautiful green eyes. A rush of emotion made his heart leap. Mom?

She held a piece of gray plastic tubing, from the irrigation pipes his father was laying outside, tilted it down towards him, and poked something into it. A ball bearing rolled into his palm. A toddler’s hand. Knuckles dimpled. Grubby, dirty nails. Turn it around. Send it back.

Then he was on the cot in his room, staring at the mandala on the ceiling. Its hypnotic curves sucked him up, tossed him in the air. He swooped with the stunt kite over a desert landscape. The colors of the kite were so bright against that vast, aching blue. turn it around

He followed the cord down to the figure far below. Tall, dirt blond hair, buzzed so short it was mouse brown. The man lifted his face.

It was Kev, but not the Kev that he remenbered. This was a Kev Sean had never known. His face was thin, seamed and hard. His eyes distant. The entire right side of his face was puckered with scars.

Sean opened his streaming eyes, stared at Liv, lying on that table.

She told him she loved him. While he held a blowtorch over her.

turn it around

His mother held out the length of gray tubing.

He took it, held it to his eye. It was no longer gray plastic. He was looking through a throbbing red wormhole. He gathered his strength.

turn it around

He dove. The universe screamed with him as he raced through the wormhole, burrowed into the polluted place that was Osterman’s brain.

He sank the talons of his will into the other man’s mind, and reeled. These were not his hands, clutching the scalpel. Not his muscles trembling, not his limbs holding this body upright.

Not his, this dead, rotting heart, that somehow still beat.

He couldn’t keep this up. Pressure was building. There was no valve to release it. He spoke, haltingly. Alien vocal folds vibrated, the pitch and timbre all wrong, and he fumbled with the wrong teeth, the wrong tongue, but still, the words came out, of Osterman’s mouth.