The time had. come to establish psychic bonds with the small assassins
that had come out of the pit and were now stalking the Dawson children.
Without turning on any lights, Lavelle went to the dresser, opened one
of the top drawers, and withdrew a fistful of silk ribbons. He went to
the bed, put the ribbons down, and stripped out of his clothes. Nude,
he sat on the edge of the bed and tied a purple ribbon to his right
ankle, a white one to his left ankle. Even in the dark, he had no
difficulty discerning one color from another. He tied a long scarlet
ribbon around his chest, directly over his heart. Yellow around his
forehead.
Green around his right wrist; black around his left wrist.
The ribbons were symbolic ties that would help to put him in intimate
contact with the killers from the pit, as soon as he finished the ritual
now begun.
It was not his intention to take control of those demonic entities and
direct their every move; he couldn’t have done so, even if that was what
he wanted. Once summoned from the pit and sent after their prey, the
assassins followed their own whims and strategies until they had dealt
with the intended victims; then, murder done, they were compelled to
return to the pit. That was all the control he had over them.
The point of this ritual with the ribbons was merely to enable Lavelle
to participate, first-hand, in the thrill of the slaughter. Psychically
linked to the assassins, he would see through their eyes, hear with
their ears, and feel with their golem bodies. When their razor-edged
claws slashed at Davey Dawson, Lavelle would feel the boy’s flesh
rending in his own hands. When their teeth chewed open Penny’s jugular,
Lavelle would feel her warm throat against his own lips, too, and would
taste the coppery sweetness of her blood.
The thought of it made him tremble with excitement.
And if Lavelle had timed it right, Jack Dawson would be there in the
Jamison apartment when his children were torn to pieces. The detective
ought to arrive just in time to see the horde descend on Penny and
Davey.
Although he would try to save them, he would discover that the small
assassins couldn’t be driven back or killed. He would be forced to
stand there, powerless, while his children’s precious blood spattered
over him.
That was the best part.
Yes. Oh, yes.
Lavelle sighed.
He shivered with anticipation.
The small bottle of cat’s blood was on the nightstand.
He wet two fingertips in it, made a crimson spot on each cheek, wet his
fingers again, anointed his lips. Then, still using blood, he drew a
very simple veve on his bare chest.
He stretched out on the bed, on his back.
Staring at the ceiling, he began to chant quietly.
Soon, he was transported in mind and spirit. The real psychic links,
which the ribbons symbolized, were successfully achieved, and he was
with the demonic entities in the ventilation system of the Jamisons’
apartment building. The creatures were only two turns and perhaps
twenty feet away from the end of the duct, where it terminated in the
wall of the guest bedroom.
The children were near.
The girl was the nearer of the two.
Like the small assassins, Lavelle could sense her presence. Close. Very
close. Only another bend in the pipe, then a straightaway, then a final
bend.
Close.
The time had come.
Standing on the dresser, peering into the duct, Penny heard a voice
calling out from within the wall, from another part of the ventilation
system, but not far away now. It was a brittle, whispery, cold, hoarse
voice that turned her blood to icy slush in her veins. It said, “Penny?
Penny?”
She almost fell in her haste to get down from the dresser.
She ran to Davey, grabbed him, shook him. “Wake up! Davey, wake up!”
He hadn’t been asleep long, no more than fifteen minutes, but he was
nevertheless groggy. “Huh? Whaa?”
“They’re coming,” she said. “They’re coming. We’ve got to get dressed
and get out of here. Fast. They’re coming!”
She screamed for Aunt Faye.