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to explain to people that she was not crazy. For which act she had been
chained to her bed and visited by a stream of psychiatrists.
"Mrs. Everette," the doctor said, gently. "I know you think you saw what
you're saying you saw. But under extreme stress, hallucinations can occur.
You've been under a lot of stress, lately. We've spoken to your husband and he
tells us that you were already acting . . . erratically . . ."
"I am not crazy," Barbara said, trying not to cry. But who was she to judge?
The first thing a crazy person was sure of was that they weren't crazy. Who
was she to think that the Lord and Savior would give her the power to dispel a
demon? She knew that she tried to live her life in a Christian manner, but she
was no warrior of God. She knew that.
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"No, you're not crazy, Barbara," the doctor said, shaking his head.
"Apparently there was a group of rapists and murderers that were keeping the
town under their thumb. But the only person who saw this god-monster wasyou .
Now, the police are aware that you may have committed some acts that you could
be charged with. But they're willing to overlook that, given that you stopped
the Ripper killings. However, with your continued delusionary state . . ."
Barb tuned him out. They were going to let her go, only if she promised not
to talk about what she'd seen. Realistically, there wasn't anyone she could
tell. Who would believe her?
"Barbara, I'm going to come back in a while," the psychiatrist said, standing
up. "If you'd like, I could prescribe a sedative . . ."
"No thank you," she said. "My body is a temple of God. I'll take a pain
killer if I need it, but no mind altering drugs."
"I'm sorry, but it may come to that," the doctor said, shaking his head.
"We'll talk later."
She lay back, closing her eyes against tears, her abdomen shuddering with the
need to cry. Kelly was dead, his chest flailed by the monster. She'd failed
him. That was the thing that kept coming back to her, not the victory, if
there had been one, but the sight of his pain ravaged face telling her to "go,
go."
She opened her eyes and glared at the door as there was a light knock.
"Come in," she ground out. She was done with being Mrs. Nice to these people.
Maybe God would forgive her that as well.
The man who entered was not, apparently, a doctor. And older guy, very well
preserved, though, with distinguished gray at his temples and black hair. Nice
suit.
"Who are you?" she asked.
"Augustus Germaine. I'm here to congratulate you."
"On what? Being crazy?"
"You're not by any means crazy, Mrs. Everette. And I'm sorry it's taken me
this long to pull the strings to get you out of here. A warrior of the Lord
who dispels an avatar of Almadu deserves far better. However, up until
yesterday I was in Serbia tracking a werewolf that was causing a spot of
trouble. Would you consider having dinner with me? I have a job offer I think
you might entertain."
BOOK TWO
THE NECROMANCY OPTION
Chapter One
The picture on the flat-screen projection was of a pretty young woman,
slightly overweight, with black, obviously dyed, hair, lying on her back with
her throat cut from ear to ear. Her lips and eyelids had been painted in black
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and there was a symbol painted on her right cheek in what appeared to be
permanent marker.
"Victim Number Nine, Sharon Carter," Special Agent In Charge Jim Halliwell
said. "Age, sixteen. Home, Newberry South Carolina. MO standard for case
R-143-8. Found in a remote, wooded, area. Anal, vaginal and oral sexual
assault. Markings drawn on the body with magic marker. Marks of stakes in the
ground and remnants of military parachute cord ties. Ligation marks on hands
and ankles. Biological tracings of a white male with brown hair. Footprints
indicate somewhere between five foot seven and six feet in height. Stake marks
are of a military type stake. Perpetrator may be current military or of
military background."
"So, basically, we're where we were with victims four through eight?" Agent
Donahue said. "All the clues in the world and no idea who the perp is?" Greg
Donahue's six foot four, heavy-set, frame was leaning back in his chair,
frankly sprawled, in contrast to the other six agents watching the briefing
all of whom were sitting erect with every signs of attentiveness. They put
Halliwell in mind of a group of well-trained Dobermans with one sprawled St.
Bernard in the middle.
"Not quite," Halliwell replied with a note of satisfaction. "Agent Griffith
might have an idea," he added, gesturing at the young man at his side.
Griffith was twenty-six, medium height and overweight with brown hair that
was already receding. Unlike everyone else in the room his clothing was
rumpled and his tie pulled down and askew. The FBI liked clean-cut agents with
an almost military bearing. But over the years they had learned that certain
types of personalities did not grow on trees. So for the Griffiths of the
world, an exception was made.
"I've been comparing known similarities in all the cases," Griffith said,
throwing up a complicated chart. "All of the victims have been in their teens,
female, all the rest. However, what got me was that most of them had a 'Goth'
look to them."
"Victims four and seven didn't," Donahue pointed out.
"Goth?" Agent Laidlaw asked.
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