Pockets of Darkness (18 page)

Twenty Five

There were more police cars and fire trucks arriving, judging from the crescendoing sirens and the increasing light play against the buildings. And there were plenty of lookiloos drawn out onto the sidewalks despite the hour. Bridget cut through a throng of young people with drinks in hand who’d emerged from a dance club, their breath puffing away from their faces like they were all smoking invisible cigarettes, the sequined dresses of the women glittering under the streetlights.

She took the steps down into the subway two at a time, her demon following.

Lord knew where the other two demons were. She hoped they weren’t still in the museum immolating police and firemen. She hadn’t the ability to stop them. Could anyone? Call the National Guard or drop a tactical nuke on the Metropolitan Museum of Art; maybe that would do it.

“Are you okay?” A doughy-faced woman with an ankle-length winter coat gave Bridget an up and down as she claimed a spot on the platform. “Young lady, you should see a—”

“Doctor? I’m fine, thanks.” Bridget brushed past her and stood farther away, rocking back and forth and still hearing the sirens. What the hell had she done? Releasing demons? What she had to do, she told herself, to keep Otter safe.

There were only a dozen people on the platform, two of them pointed at her. All of them regarded her curiously. She knew her clothes were singed and she likely smelled like a charcoal briquette. The stench of the museum fire and the charred bodies had coated the inside of her mouth; it was all she could taste and smell.

A train rumbled into view and she hopped on as soon as the door slid open. It wasn’t the one she needed to get back home, but it would take her to where she could make an easy connection, probably adding ten to fifteen minutes to the trip. She needed to get home, but she also needed to get away from the vicinity of the museum.

She shuffled to the far end of the car and sat; the plastic so cold she felt it through her pants. Rarely were the cars heated to a satisfactory level, but there were usually enough bodies to make up for that. Not at this hour, though. Bridget and her demon were the only riders in this car. The lighting, what there was of it with some of the lights out, flickered eerily. Still, there was enough to reflect her face in the window. There were soot smudges on her chin and forehead, and her once-long red hair was about a foot shorter on one side; it had caught fire and melted, her cheek and ear burned, making her look like a Goth freak. Bridget hadn’t felt the flames that had done it, but then she was numb during much of what had happened minutes ago in the museum.

She gripped the bar in front of her, the metal chilling. “Damn.” Bridget stared at her bare right hand. She remembered taking off one of her gloves in the museum to connect with a bowl. She must have dropped the glove. Probably wouldn’t come back to bite her, though, it was no doubt ashes. Her demon settled across from her and closed its eyes, oddly—thankfully—quiet. She couldn’t even smell its stench for the taste of the fire.

Three riders entered her car just before the door hissed closed. The train lurched forward. They were men.… boys, she mentally corrected, maybe Otter’s age. Shouldn’t be out so late. Should be home in bed, like Otter should be—though she was certain her son wasn’t. Please let him be safe, she thought. Dear God, please let Otter be safe.

The tallest of the three swaggered toward her. He was dressed in jeans—pants, jacket over a hooded sweatshirt, tattoos of steer skulls on the backs of his hands. “Smells like a fire sale over here,” he said. He gripped the pole for balance as the car wobbled, and flashed her a yellow-toothed smile. He made an exaggerated sniffing sound.

“I’ve got no money,” she told him. “Well, five bucks. Here.” She pulled the bill out of her pocket.

He shrugged and took a step closer, plucked the bill out of her fingers and made a show of tearing it in half, then quarters, the pieces fluttering to the dirty floor. Then he thrust his right hand in his pants pocket.

“You’ll live longer if you leave me alone.” Bridget noticed that her demon watched the boy and made a smacking sound with its bulbous lips. “Go away,” she added. “And quickly.”

He laughed. “Well, I ain’t interested in money.” He looked over his shoulder to the other two, who sniggered and elbowed each other. Bridget was certain they were no older than Otter. No business being out this late. They all had tats on their necks, but she couldn’t see the designs clearly because their collars were turned up; meager protection against the winter cold. Probably gang members, and certainly up to no good. Definitely up to no good. All three reached to the backs of their jackets and pulled the sweatshirt hoods up over their heads.

“Seriously,” she tried again. “This isn’t going to end well for you. Back off.” Crime had been going down, politicians and cops touting New York City as safer than Chicago, Detroit, and LA. But there were still too many assaults, including in the subways in the late, late hours to lone women on empty platforms or in uncrowded cars where not all the lights worked.

The closest youth drew a switchblade out, flicking it open. “Don’t put up too much of a fight, fire sale, and you’ll live through this. I promise.”

“A little bit of a fight though,” one of the others joined him. “It’ll be more fun if she fights a bit.”

“I dunno Joey,” this came from the third youth, who’d not budged from the opposite end of the car. “This doesn’t feel right. Why don’t we—”

“Why don’t we hurry up and do her, then,” the tall one said. “Train’s gonna make a stop real soon. If you ain’t gonna participate Zin-Zin, stay at the door so no one gets on at the next stop.”

“Or comes along from another car,” Joey added, as he unbuckled his belt.

“Me first, Joey. You got to go first the last time.” The tall youth lunged for her, leading with the knife, and trying to grab her arm with his free hand. Bridget jumped to her feet, and he took advantage of that, sweeping forward with a leg and catching her, setting her off balance.

She fell back, hitting the cold, hard floor of the subway car, and he was on top of her, blade pressed to her throat. He ground his pelvis against her.

“I’ll be quick, Joey,” he said. “Zin-Zin, watch how it’s done.”

Bridget got her hands against his shoulders and pushed up. She wasn’t afraid of the knife; she’d been stabbed to no effect from the Yankees Fan early this morning. Her assailant didn’t budge, and he pressed down harder.

The train stopped and the door hissed open. Bridget screamed to hopefully catch the attention of someone outside.

“Move along,” she heard Zin-Zin say. “Move!”

She screamed again and the tall youth head-butted her. The door hissed closed and the train lurched on its way again. The demon rocked with the motion and continued to watch.

“Get off me, you fecker!”

“A fighter, eh? This’ll be fun.” Fast as lightning, he dropped the knife and grabbed both of her wrists and pinned her harder, brought his face close to hers and licked her cheek. “Gotta love a fire sale. Yum, you taste like burnt steak.”

The demon hopped off its seat and loomed over them. Bridget had figured it would strike her assailant. Instead, it just continued to watch curiously and babble words she didn’t understand.

“Get off me!” she hollered again, as she redoubled her efforts, twisting and trying to raise her legs to kick him, but found her ankles held by one of the other youths. Bridget was strong and should have bested both of them, but she was also spent from the museum outing and everything else that had transpired today, and they were young and angry. “Get off—”

The demon leaned in closer still, its ugly face brushing Bridget’s forehead. It babbled something. She made out “Aldî-nîfaeti,” as she pushed one more time and dislodged the tall youth and kicked hard enough to loosen the grip of the other; she was pretty sure she’d landed a heel to his face. A second kick and she was free. She scrambled out from underneath them.

“Hey!” The tall one was on his knees and made a grab for his knife. Bridget was fast and fuming and kicked it farther away and then drove the tip of her shoe into his neck. He made a gacking sound and crawled back a few feet.

She caught her breath while he picked himself up. The youth behind him, shorter and thicker, had a knife too.

“Get her,” the shorter one said.

“We’re comin’ to another stop.” This from Zin-Zin back by the door. “Maybe we ought to—”

“Kill her is what we ought to do,” the tall one said. “Kill the bitch.” He reached behind him, and his fellow passed him the other knife.

“Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon said, babbling a mix of other words and craning its stunted misshapen neck back and forth so it could see Bridget and her assailants.

“Pissmires,” Bridget said. “Pay attention to Zin-Zin back there. Walk away while you gutter punks can still breathe.”

The tall one rushed her again, ducking low to avoid her wild punch. Bridget hadn’t been trying to actually hit him, just keep him back. Too many people had already died tonight … all their blood on her hands. Bridget stepped back and adopted a boxer’s stance; at that moment the train stopped again and she wasn’t ready for it. Set off balance, he rushed her once more, grabbing at her clothes and pulling hard to knock her down. Her punch only grazed his shoulder. The demon hopped excitedly, apparently enjoying the action.

Undaunted, she brought her elbow down on the top of his head, but the blow didn’t deck him. Undeterred, he pressed the attack, ripping her jacket and spilling out her cell phone, the damnable buckle, and the shard of pottery she’d intended to delve.

“That’s it you feckin’—” Bridget tried to knee him in the groin, but missed the mark and only landed a strike against his thigh.

“Move along, people. This ain’t the car you’re looking for.” This from Zin-Zin. “Move. Move. Move.”

The tall youth growled and tugged harder on her jacket and pulled her to her knees. She punched him squarely in the face, breaking his nose. But he landed a punch too, against her jaw, momentarily stunning her.

The tall youth hit her again, and she sagged back, head hitting the floor of the car, legs bent at an awkward, uncomfortable angle. Her tongue lolled against the sharp edge of a broken tooth and tasted blood. She tried to get up, but her limbs had other plans, and she flopped like a wounded fish.

“Aldî-nîfaeti,” the demon said. It had waddled over to her, ugly face looking down at hers. “Unshackle Aldî-nîfaeti. Otter. Mmmmm.” Then the demon disappeared.

“Wonder if its gold?” The short thug picked up the buckle and held it high in the flickering light. “Joey, my man, look what fire sale had. Odd looking thing, huh? Bet it’s worth something.” He grabbed up the cell phone too, but left the pottery, which had broken into even smaller pieces.

Bridget could smell the redolent swirl of subway scents. She still tasted blood and the museum fire, but the stench of the demon was gone.

“Joey, if it’s gold think we can swap it for that used Cobray at Broad Street? We need another nine.”

A gun, Bridget realized. They were going to try to trade the buckle for a gun. But they couldn’t trade it. The damn buckle would come back. Over and over and over.

Bridget spit out the broken tooth and shook her head—which did nothing to clear her senses. She rose up on her elbows and straightened her legs. The subway car shifted in her vision, and the young toughs blurred. “Dropsit,” she said, hearing her words slur together like she was drunk. Probably concussed. “’S’buckle. Jus dropsit. Pleash.”

On second thought, don’t drop it, her hazy mind said. Take the thing and get off at the next stop. Leave me here or kill me … either way Otter should be safe now since you stole the damn demon.
Let the demon go after your loved ones. Let it wipe out your whole feckin’ gang and do the city a favor.
She was certain her assailant had taken on the curse, just as she’d taken it on from Elijah Stone. He’d taken it and she could no longer see or smell or feel the presence of the demon.

She was free.

“Must be valuable,” Joey said, looking around his companion. Joey’s hood had fallen back and the gutter punks were coming better into focus, though her head hurt horribly. Bridget saw the tattoos on their necks. She stared and they came clearer, stylized initials—ICG—Insane Gangster Crips members. Joey leered at Bridget.

The car stopped and the doors hissed open.

Dear God, leave,
Bridget willed them.
Get the hell away from me. Take the demon with you.

The youth who’d stolen her buckle didn’t see the demon yet … otherwise he’d be hollering or pointing or running from what was clearly a monster. But Bridget hadn’t seen it at first either, not when she’d initially stolen the briefcase from Elijah Stone in his fine apartment, and not when she’d rode home with it on the subway. It wasn’t until after she’d had it a few hours, when she was safe and sound and alone in her brownstone, studying the amazing Egyptian piece the briefcase held. Maybe it took time for the demon to transition from one owner to the next. Or maybe it liked to appear when its new owner was alone.

“Pissmires.” Bridget grabbed onto a nearby seat and pulled herself up, just as the doors hissed closed and the train moved again. Didn’t they have video surveillance on these trains? Didn’t anyone know she’d been assaulted by a trio of gutter punks? Older car, she realized. The MTA only installed the cameras on the newer ones where they wouldn’t have to rewire everything.

“Not the ’droids you’re looking for. Move along,” Zin-Zin had told whoever had been going to board from another car. “Go somewhere else.” A pause: “You, too, dick-wad. You don’t want this ride neither.”

“So fire sale, you told me you didn’t have no money.” This from the tall one. He looked from the buckle in his buddy’s hand to her, and back to the buckle. “So that was a lie. Maybe you got more lies in your other pockets. Maybe you got more treasures.”

Bridget turned her pockets inside out. The three exhibit cards she’d taken from the museum fluttered out.

“Joey, Bo,” Zin-Zin slapped the side of the car to get their attention. “Next stop, I’m out of here. You should—”