The Hollow Ones(62)
At once, a gust of wind came up and grabbed the black smoke off the dying flames, whipping it toward Solomon. He covered his eyes as the oily emission washed over him, choking the oxygen where he stood. It lasted no more than a second, and was gone. But when Solomon opened his eyes, Vernon was standing before him, having crossed a distance of ten yards with the speed of one step.
The boy leapt at him, ferally, one hand on Solomon’s throat, the other scratching at his eyes. Solomon tried to grasp the boy’s frail body, but whether from sweat or moisture or some more diabolical balm he was slippery to the touch. With a cry, Solomon fell backward to the ground.
The boy was more wild than strong, his hand scraping Solomon’s eyes so that he could barely see. Solomon tried to forearm him off, but Vernon’s little clawlike hands would not release. The boy found Solomon’s windpipe and gave it a wrenching squeeze. The boy’s face was close to Solomon’s head, his breathing coming out in a rapid, seething hiss.
Solomon still held the flashlight and he struck the boy twice in the side to no effect. He felt the boy’s small fingers dig into the flesh around his orbital bones. Solomon couldn’t get any breath. The only true advantage he had was the boy’s slight weight. Solomon wedged his arm between the boy’s chest and his own, and with a great heave threw the boy clear of him, gripping his choked throat to make sure Vernon hadn’t taken a chunk of skin with him.
Solomon got to his feet. The boy was up and running at him, and Solomon swung the flashlight, catching the crazed child on the side of the jaw. It sent him spinning down into the dirt, but he popped right back up, baring his teeth again…only now a few of them were gone.
Solomon put out his free hand, warning Vernon, “Stay back!” He reached for his gun, but just as he got it clear of his holster, the boy flung himself at him again, rabidly, Solomon’s gun discharging once into the ground as it was knocked from his hand.
Vernon clung to him tight, having gotten under Solomon’s arms. He felt a wet sensation at his throat and realized the boy was trying to bite him with his jagged, broken teeth. Solomon let out a scream, feeling the feverish heat of the boy and realizing he was fighting not a child but a thing—a possessed thing.
With two hands he worked the handle of the flashlight beneath the thing’s throat and pushed back, keeping his gnashing teeth from the arteries in Solomon’s neck. The thing snarled and snapped its jaw but Solomon could not push it off him. He felt something rough at his back and found that he had backpedaled against a tree. This close, the thing’s eyes looked almost glowing, their madness boring into him, powered by demonic strength and, at the same time, an element of terror.
At once, the thing’s expression changed to surprise. Its head bucked backward and its grip on Solomon’s back lessened. Its head lowered and Solomon saw Hugo Blackwood revealed behind it, his hand holding something to the back of the thing’s neck.
Solomon threw the fiendish child off him with a yell. He slapped at his throat and face, exploring for bites or mortal wounds, but his hands came away unbloodied.
The thing lay on the ground some feet away, half on its side, twitching. Blackwood looked down at it, too. Solomon now saw the thing Blackwood had been holding, a thin silver handle sticking out of the base of the thing’s neck.
The thing’s slender hands reached for the implement impaling it, but never touched it. The twitching stopped. The thing lay still.
Solomon, however, could still feel its small-handed grip on his throat. “What was that?” he said. “What was that?”
Blackwood looked him over. “You appear unhurt.”
“I SAID WHAT WAS THAT?”
Solomon heard his own voice echo into the trees and was scared he had woken some other evil spirit.
Blackwood had turned back to look at the dead thing. “That was an invocation.”
“The robed figure—?”
Blackwood shook his head.
“Got away?” said Solomon, each word like a gasp.
“I heard you scream,” said Blackwood. “I had to make a choice.”
Solomon was a moment processing that. He looked down at the thing. He remembered the flashlight in his hand and switched it on. The flat glass lens had cracked against the thing’s jaw, but the light worked. He shone it on the thing’s bare back, the silver-handled implement shining in the beam. “You killed it.”
Blackwood crouched next to the body. As Solomon watched in horror, Blackwood placed one hand on the back of the boy’s head, and the other on the silver handle. He pulled the blade out of the boy’s neck.
It was slick with blood, but there had been no bleeding. No spilled blood. The implement was a dagger with a fine, thin blade, almost the shape of a screwdriver or ice pick.
Solomon turned around and doubled over, vomiting violently. He continued until he was through retching. He felt no better.
He turned around again. Blackwood was cleaning off the blade with a soft cotton cloth. “May I have your electric torch?” he asked.
Solomon handed over the flashlight. Blackwood trained it on the back of the boy’s skull at the base, using his free hand to ruffle the hair.
Solomon saw the sigil in the boy’s flesh, looking like an old-fashioned letter seal pressed into hot wax, but formed by raised veins beneath the skin. He couldn’t make out the exact design, bisected as it had been by the wound from Blackwood’s dagger.