Page 89 of Dead Serious Case 5 Madame Vivienne

“Come on,” Dusty urges.

We creep out into the hallway and past the staircase towards the main room. I can feel all the ghosts following me like a psychic Pied Piper and it’s strangely comforting. Sneaking through the doorway, we end up ducking down behind the cash desk, the only thing still in situ. As the three of us rise slowly to peek over the top of the desk, I get a good look at the devastation in the room.

Bookcases have toppled over, spilling books, candles, and tarot cards, but everything’s been swept up against the walls like it’s been washed up with the tide. The periphery of the room may be a mess of broken shelves and debris—even the sofa is on its side, shoved against the wall and with the other chairs piled atop it—but the centre of the room reveals the glowing and intricate demon trap in all its terrifying glory. Now that the floor is cleared, I can see just how big it is.

Harrison hangs in the dead centre of that circle. Just as Dusty said, he’s wearing nothing but his trousers from the funeral, and his bare feet dangle a clear foot off the ground. His wrists are bound with a peculiar type of coarse rope which is woven through with tiny white flowers, and his bare chest is covered with the same type of symbols as were on Viv.

But most unsettling is the figure, head bowed, kneeling in front of him and wearing a white robe. A deeply cowled hood completely obscures his face and a bone-handled knife with a wicked-looking blade rests on the floor before him.

“Okay,” Sam whispers. “One distraction coming right up. Be ready to grab Harrison, and once you get him out of harm’s way, we can deal with the dick in the bathrobe.” Danny and I nod and Sam slips out from behind the desk and strolls blatantly towards the circle, as calm as if he were taking a stroll in the park.

“Hey!” Sam calls out, and the figure’s head jerks up, although his face is still obscured by the hood. “Yeah, you,Blair Witch Project. Love what you’ve done with the place. VeryExorcistchic. But that’s my little ginger biscuit you’ve got there, so I’ll just be taking him with me.”

“Sam!” Harrison gasps, his face pale but his eyes blazing with a mixture of concern and irritation—and maybe a tinge of relief. “What are you doing here?”

“I’d have thought that was obvious,” Sam says with aduh!expression, even as his irritation with Harrison bleeds through the fear. “Rescuing you.”

“Are you mad?” Harrison grits out from between clenched teeth. He tries to crane his neck in Sam’s direction to see him better, but it’s obviously quite difficult since the rope binding his wrists is looped over a huge metal hook suspended from the ceiling. “Trying to get yourself killed?”

“Not really,” he answers. “But I’m plenty pissed with you…Sage…”

“That’s not… I’m not…” He kicks his legs to try and swing himself around to face Sam. “That’s none of your business,” he growls, and it’s kind of cute.

“I beg to differ. It’s very much my business seeing as you’ve managed to get yourself kidnapped and strung up like a chunk of meat in a kebab shop window.”

“I–”

Whatever Harrison was going to say is cut off by the sound of a throat being cleared loudly. They both turn their heads to see the hooded figure has stood up and is watching it all with the knife now gripped in one of his hands.

“Oh, please,” a deep voice says from beneath the hood. “Please don’t let me interrupt you. I have all night. In fact”—he turns his head slowly towards the desk right when Danny and I abruptly duck down—“why don’t we ask your other friends to join us?”

The desk shoots across the room and crashes into the wall opposite, leaving Danny and I in our crouched positions but completely exposed.

We stand, and I’m aware of Dusty and Bruce watching everything unfold with concern

“Surprise,” I say with an inane little wave of my hands.

Wow, don’t know why I did that. Pretty sure the creepy hooded killer isn’t one for jazz hands.

“Not really.” I swear the hooded figure is smirking at us even though we can’t see his face. “But why don’t you join us? You may as well witness the birth of my new world, Tristan and Danny.”

“You know who we are?” I say warily.

The man lifts his hand and pushes his hood back, and I can’t hold back my gasp of shock.

“Detective Byrnes?”

22

“Byrnes?”

I stare, open-mouthed. Okay, I did not see that one coming.

“Close, but no cigar.”

He smiles slowly and there’s something sowrongwith it. Like it doesn’t match his face—no, wait. It’s his face that looks wrong, like it’s melting.

“Oh my god, how many glasses of wine did I have? Is his face melting?” I ask the room at large, rather than directing my insane-sounding question to anyone in particular.