Page 71 of The Undead

He shot me, point-blank. It hurt. I lost my patience. When I blinked the haze back from my eyes, it was too late to reason with him, unless I wanted to reassemble him like aGray’s Anatomymodel. The blood-smell sank claws deep in my guts and pulled. I should have felt horror at what I’d done—what I saw lying on the cream-colored carpet in a circle of splashed gore and gas—but that wasn’t at all what I felt.

There were still other heartbeats thudding over Maggie’s. I raised my head and looked into the den, or what the robbers had decided to leave of it before torching the place; Nick Gianoulos was lying on the floor, face down, fingers interlaced on the back of his head. The last of the intruders was standing up. He had Maggie clutched tightly against him; when I appeared in the doorway he raised my wife’s gun from where he held it aimed at Nick and put it under her chin. She was porcelain-pale, but her eyes were open. Intent. I couldn’t see any horror in them, only watchful blind concentration.

“Look, man, I don’t want no trouble,” the last of them said in a petulant, scared whine. He was a fat little man, of indeterminate age, with thin brown hair and a ragged thin mustache. “Shit, don’t make me kill the bitch, I just wanna leave, okay?”

“What the fuck did you think you were doing, robbing a cop?” Maggie asked. He jerked her arms and pressed the muzzle of the gun deeper into the flesh of her throat. “Easy, what’s the matter with you, you want to kill a cop too? You’re not in enough trouble already?”

“Shut up!” he screamed. There were panic-tears glittering on his cheeks. “You weren’t supposed to be here, we were just supposed to trash the place, that’s all, I swear—”

“Who hired you?”

I wanted to tell her it wasn’t a good time to start an interrogation, but Maggie was ignoring me anyway, and I just wanted to act, not think. Only the gun held me back. I was glad neither one of them knew that.

“Carlo, man, Carlo paid us!” the guy blurted. He was sweating hard, little pearly drops coming out all over his face like fast-growing pimples. Nick Gianoulos raised his head from the carpet, causing a brief confusion.

“Shut up, you little prick!” Nick shouted. Maggie’s eyes focused on him, and I could practically see all the little beads stringing together(click, click, click)in her head.

“Your friend in the lab coat, the one who whacked Angelo,” she said flatly. “You tried to sweet-talk me out of my case notes, and when that didn’t work, he decided to come over and do it the old fashioned way.”

“Enough talk, goddammit! You! Asshole!” The robber was freaking. He meant me. “Get over here!”

I did, avoiding the mess on the carpet. I was walking through gas, and the smell made my skin ache and prickle. Maggie and her friend kept pace. He sidled her around until they were between me and the back door. I didn’t like the way his eyes were darting around, feral and terrified and weirdly excited.

“You want her?” he taunted me, black eyes elated and shining. He had reason to be scared. I intended to take him to pieces too small to vacuum. “Take her!”

He flung Maggie at me. For the first time, I realized that in his other hand he held a lighter—not a disposable, the old metal kind that stay lit. My father’s, from the den. I clearly saw the Army insignia on the side of it as he struck the flame and let it arc toward me—toward Maggie—toward the gas around us—

Nick, rolling up to his knees, saw it coming and screamed. He stretched for it, and missed.

I reached out and caught it. Triumph.

My muscles spasmed.

The lighter … dropped … trailing fire like a comet.

I had Maggie around the waist. I picked her up and leaped flatfooted for the door of the den as the gas-soaked carpet ignited with a bluewhoosh.There was, I instantly saw, no safety in the den. They’d thoroughly soaked it. Nick Gianoulos scrambled to his feet and blundered screaming for the window. The fire raced after us, blanking my senses, reducing me to panic and reaction. I touched the carpet in two bounding strides, shoved Nick out of the way, and hit the window, twisting my body to protect the woman curled against me. Glass shattered around me, wood splintered and dug deep. I felt the fire behind me, but it was too late, roaring in frustration at the window as we fell into the cool night air. Nick climbed out clumsily after us and writhed around on the ground to put out a stray smolder or two. Maggie rolled painfully up to her knees and stared back at the house as it began to bum.

“God,” she whispered, eyes huge and black. She was streaked with blood, both from where I’d touched her and from tiny glass cuts that were beginning to ooze. I started to steady her and looked at my hands again. The blood was thick enough to drip.

Nick glared at both of us and got up with his clothes still smoking. He backed away, stumbled over ornamental bricks in the garden, and ran around the side of the house. A clean getaway.

“Hello,” Adam said, drawing my eyes. He was standing a few feet away. He held our friend from the house by the neck, fingers spread out over the pulsing veins. There was a dark gleam in Adam’s eyes; he took Maggie’s gun out of the punk’s white-knuckled fingers and handed it over to her. “Glad you could join us. I think you already know my friend?”

I bared my fangs.

The punk let out a sound somewhere between a howl and a whine, nearly lost in the groan of my house as it began to die.

“I don’t think Michael likes you very much,” Adam confided in a whisper to the man. “Who sent you?”

“Fuck you,” the punk managed. Adam’s fingers tightened.

“I’m a little out of patience today. Try again.”

“Fuck you!” It was a raw scream of panic. I took a step toward them. The punk whimpered and burrowed against Adam. “Keep him away from me!”

“Be glad to,” Adam said. “Tell me what I want to know.”

“What? Tell you what?”

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