The shouting seemed to be coming from the first floor of the cabin, and he could make out the noise of boots pounding on the stairs. And there was Maya’s voice, tense with a barely controlled anger, threatening action if any damage was done to any of her valued possessions. Or if even a hair was harmed of any of her beloved felines.
“Shut that flapping trap. The Blessed Jesus, lord of freedom and detester of government says that the open mouth of a nagging slut is an offense in the eyes of any right-thinking person. I say amen to that.” The whining, hectoring voice belonged to Brother Owsley.
“I say that sec men are all either bullies or cowards. And most frequently both.”
Doc had unsheathed his rapier and gripped the silver lion’s-head hilt in his right hand, though he was only too aware that it was likely to be a futile gesture.
“By the Three Kennedys! But I can take one of the mongrels with me, Emily,” he whispered to himself, and to his long-dead beloved wife.
Outside, the whole building seemed to be swaying in the wind, now risen to full gale force. Doc was aware of timbers groaning, and he could actually feel the sides of the chest vibrating against himself.
“This is the attic,” Maya said. “I keep telling you, I haven’t seen an old man. Haven’t seen a man at all for nigh on three weeks. There’s just me and my cats here.”
“If I have to I’ll slit the throat of every one of your fucking cats, starting with this sinister black bastard.” There was a shriek of protest from an animal and a yell of anger from the woman, followed by a gasp of pain and the sound of someone falling to the floor of the crowded attic.
“You broke my balls, you—”
“You hurt Astaroth, you devil! You deserve all the agony there is going, trying to wound a poor, defenseless little mite like Astaroth.”
“Defenseless! Its fucking claws opened me up from wrist to elbow.”
Another voice warned Owsley that he was bleeding from the cat scratch.
“I know it, you triple stupe. And the witch kneed me in the balls.”
Doc’s fingers were slippery with perspiration. He was trying to do what Ryan had always advised. If there was going to be some sort of combat, then try to ready yourself for it—imagine the opening moves of the fight, so that you had a heartbeat’s edge over your opponents.
But that still came down to having a single chance with the rapier.
One lunge. That was all there’d be. Doc thought it through, imagining the feeling of the razored steel as it slid between the fourth and fifth ribs, warm blood gouting along the blade, over his hand and wrist.
Then there would be the crack of blasters. Probably, Doc thought, several of them. He winced, closing his eyes in the perceived expectation of several .44- and .45-caliber bullets ripping into his body, punching great holes in his flesh, smashing bones to white shards.
He wondered how long death would take to come.
“Where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,” he hummed to himself.
“And grave thy victory?”
Now he could feel the floorboards vibrating with heavy boots, feet very close to the chest, and Owsley’s complaining voice, still moaning about the grievous injury that Maya Tennant had inflicted on him.
“How about opening up that old chest for us? Or would you rather we smashed it in? Come on!”
Doc clearly heard the clatter of a shingle breaking loose in the gathering storm. He held his breath.
J.B. STOOD in the doorway of their cabin, bracing himself against the gale, his eyes narrowed. “Bastard rough,” he said, making two words do where other men might have used two dozen.
Krysty was walking around the room, leaning heavily on Ryan’s shoulder, her fiery hair glowing in the gloom of the hut. Her face was pale, emerald green eyes tight shut, lips pinched. A tiny worm of blood inching over her jaw. Ever since she first recovered consciousness, at the beginning of the storm, she had been fighting hard to regather her damaged strength.