Four and Twenty Blackbirds (Eden Moore 1)

I lifted my head, dazedly wiping my hair out of my eyes. Willa, Luanna, and Mae were still standing there, right where I'd left them in the yard. Willa and Luanna gazed dispassionately upon me, knowing the worst they had to fear was another member in their ghostly troop; but Mae's hands twisted in a mortal gesture of anguish, and her sunken eyes were strained.

You should have listened to me. I told you to get yourself gone. I was afraid of this.

"O ye . . . of little faith," I breathed.

I put my hand down on the ledge to push myself up, but jerked it back when I settled on fractured glass. Instantly my palm spurted blood, but it didn't much matter. My shirt was sloppy with it too. Warm blood also trickled down through my hair, dripping one trail south behind my ear and one down my forehead.

Afraid of touching more glass, I heaved myself backwards and up, returning to a standing position. I turned around and Avery was there.

Right there.

Nose to nose with me.

Before I had time to think myself a new plan, I did what every woman instinctively does when standing that close to a man who means her harm. I brought my knee up sharp and fast—and hit nothing.

He was gone.

To my side.

One of his huge, thin hands caught my head and slammed it down on the stove. By pure luck my face missed the flames, but a searing pain across my forehead announced that I'd not gotten away from the fire scot-free. I fell to the floor, and it was mercifully cool.

Then he was on top of me again, pinning my arms to the boards with his hands, which meant his knife was all but useless, except for the fact that its handle was bruising my wrist. I wriggled and struggled, refusing to give him enough slack to make use of that terrible knife. But I was pinned.

The teeny wound I'd made on Avery's neck was closing, sealing itself as I looked up from underneath him. He saw me staring at it and cackled, though he was a bit winded. I found hope in the breaks of his voice. "You could have had . . . this power too—and much more. I would have given it . . . to you. "

"I'll take it yet, you son of a bitch. "

"Oh, so you want it now?" He grinned. "Only if you kill me. "

"Gimme a minute," I growled with more assurance than I felt. But, summoning my last drops of adrenaline, I put all my weight into my right side and heaved. Avery lost his balance and our fight began to roll. I found that if I fought my natural inclinations and pulled my body closer to his, he couldn't get enough leverage to stay on top.

It worked until we hit the bed. Avery's back collided with it, and he let go just enough—and my skin was just slick enough with my own blood—for me to jerk one arm free from his grasp.

In my flailing to get away, it was by simple accident that I elbowed him in the eye; but it worked so well I didn't complain. He let go of my other arm, and of his knife as well. It clattered to the floor and I reached for it, but he swiped it away first. It slid under the bed beyond either of our immediate reaches, so we both turned our attention to my gun.

Malachi's gun. The one I'd brought inside with me.

On the floor near the door. We saw it at the same moment. I shoved off from against the bed—the shack wasn't any bigger than a large bedroom and I could have cleared it in a single leap, if Avery hadn't grabbed my foot and yanked me out of the air.

I fell on my face and palms, kicking at him with everything I had left. But my hands were sticky-slippery, and I couldn't pull myself up or get any traction to escape. My fingers ached and my head ached and I was bleeding from places I couldn't even see without a mirror, and Avery had me like a fish on a hook.

Next to the gun, the door was open. As I flailed against my grandfather, who was reeling me in, one chunk of pants leg at a time, I saw the three ghosts outside. As one, they raised their heads as if they heard something approach.

Mae shook her head, her eyes wide. She's coming, child. You must kill him now, before she reaches us, or it is too late.

Oh God. Mae was right. The shadows were so long they were steadily blending into darkness, and Lu would be dead in a moment if I didn't

act. It couldn't end this way. I couldn't come so close only to blow it at the last second.

Lu was counting on me.

Dave was counting on me.

All those monks, or priests, or whatever they were, at that church in St. Augustine, they were counting on me too, whether they knew it or not.

Avery got his hands inside the waistband of my jeans and yanked me back, me still without the gun and him exerting one hundred and thirty years of accumulated strength against my fear. He thrust his hand down onto my neck and tacked me to the floor with his thumb and middle finger, pressing against my throat and completely cutting off my air. With his other hand he collected both of mine, holding them against the ground.

When you're not breathing, you don't struggle long and you don't struggle hard. My fingers flapped uselessly against his wrist. I felt my blood rise to my skin's surface, and my face went hot. I didn't close my eyes, but after a minute I couldn't see.