The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(55)

Spengler died because of me.

The lawyer’s skin rippled, turning serpentine, a cruel shade of muddy green. “He did, you know. You tried to save him, and he suffered and died because of it. How many times has that happened? How many more times does it have to happen before you embrace the truth?”

I deserve to die, I thought, and the snake on the other side of the desk bobbed its head with gleeful approval.

? ? ?

Hands hauled me up into a world of light and pain. My skin burned, like lying under the spark-shower of an acetylene torch. Chanting voices filled my head, droning as I struggled and tried to see past the the blurred lights that scarred my vision.

“Damn it all,” a woman shouted, “he’s buckin’ like a bronco! Get over here and help me!”

“We’re losing him!”

Bony fingers touched lightly on my brow, another hand on my shoulder.

“Daniel,” a voice whispered in my ear, a soothing sound in the maelstrom, “you have to fight. Remember what we taught you, son. Remember!”

I smelled books. Musty old books, well loved and dog-eared. That smell meant sanctuary to me. I was eighteen years old and learning what the word “home” meant for the first time.

“—might not believe it,” Bentley said, standing behind the antique register at the Scrivener’s Nook, “but I was a bit of a scrapper back in my day.”

He threw some punches at the air, dancing on his feet like a prizefighter. I laughed, perched on a ladder, stocking a row of moldering hardcovers fresh from an estate sale. Corman trundled out of the back room, lugging a cardboard box, and nodded.

“It’s true, kiddo. Of course, he’s lucky I came along when I did. Damn biker nearly stomped him into a mud puddle. This was the seventies, remember. He’s talking about a two-hundred-pound outlaw, not some suburban dad with his midlife-crisis Harley.”

“I was,” Bentley mused, “a bit outclassed. Still, I knew that when I threw the first blow. The ending was a foregone conclusion.”

I looked over at him. “So why’d you start a fight if you knew you were going to lose?”

“Well, someone had to defend that girl’s honor.” Bentley paused, his smile fleeting. “I think Cormie will agree when I say this, Daniel. I’ve always felt that the mark of a man is his willingness to fight for his principles. It doesn’t matter if you win or lose. It doesn’t matter if you ever had a chance to win in the first place. Even if the deck is rigged and the game’s against you, you keep fighting until the bitter end.”

Corman chuckled, setting his box on a cluttered table. “We come into this world screaming, covered in blood and throwing punches. When all else is lost, it’s not a bad strategy.”

“Of course, we do most of our fighting at the ballot box and with strongly worded letters these days,” Bentley said, “but it’s not about violence; it’s about doing what you can, whenever you can, to stand up for what you believe. You fight and you never, ever give up. That’s what makes a man.”

The memory shattered like a broken mirror, shards tumbling and clattering into a million glittering pieces, leaving me in darkness.

? ? ?

The serpent reared up before me, ten feet tall and twice as long now. Its cobra hood flared and its tail rattled, a hybrid monster out of a child’s nightmares.

I looked up at it. Calm, now.

“I know what you are,” I said.

“I am the manifestation of what lies within your corrupt heart,” the serpent hissed, “the truth you fear to face.”

I shook my head and smiled. “No. You’re a cheap party trick.”

The tail shook furiously. “I am your judgment, the mirror of your soul!”

“You’re the venom Lauren Carmichael spewed into my stomach,” I said, “the curse she left behind. You’re trying to make me give up, to stop fighting so you can finish me off. Let me tell you something, you piece of shit. I didn’t deserve what happened to me. No kid does. I spent years learning that. Sometimes I still forget, but it’s going to take a better class of phantom than you to make me put a noose around my own neck.”

The snake let out a rasping chuckle, swaying hypnotically from side to side.

“It doesn’t matter,” it said. “Your body is weak. Dying. I can finish you off myself.”

I held up two fingers. “You made two big mistakes invading my mind.”

“Oh? Do tell.”

Walls rose up around us, flagstones forming under my feet. We faced one another in a shadowed cathedral. Thin fingers of sunlight streamed in through towering stained-glass windows.

“Number one—you pissed me off. Number two—the inside of my mind is a seriously f*cked-up place, and I’ve got home court advantage.”

The serpent glanced around, suddenly uncertain. I strolled to one of the windows. Like the others, it depicted a version of St. Patrick driving the snakes from Ireland. On this one, Patrick had a sword. I reached up and peeled it away from the image. The weapon took on depth and form in my hand.

I turned to face the serpent, brandishing a blade of stained glass in hues of ocean and bottle green.

“Let’s dance, motherf*cker.”





Twenty-Eight



The serpent lunged with a furious roar. I dove left, hit the ground rolling, came up, and sliced into its flank. Black blood sprayed across the flagstones. Its tail whipped at me, rattling a staccato beat, ruffling my hair as I ducked underneath. I repaid the move with another wild slash, laying its tail open.