When the terrible shaman turned to face the Grandfathers,
Meiman of the taheen felt the Turtle's awful, lovely glammer lessen a bit. He saw that the boy was gone, and that filled him with dismay, yet at least he'd gone further in rather than slipping out, so that might still be all right. But if the boy found the door to Fedic and used it, Meiman might find himself in very bad trouble, indeed. For Sayre answered to Walter o' Dim, and Walter answered only to the Crimson King himself.
Never mind. One thing at a time. Settle the shaman's hash first. Turn the Grandfathers loose on him. Then go after the boy, perhaps shouting that his friend wanted him after all, that might work-Meiman (the Canaryman to Mia, Tweety Bird to Jake) crept forward, grasping Andrew-the fat man in the tux with the plaid lapels-with one hand and Andrew's even fatter jilly with the other. He gestured at Callahan's turned back.
Tirana shook her head vehemently. Meiman opened his beak and hissed at her. She shrank away from him. Detta Walker had already gotten her fingers into the mask wore and it hung in shreds about her jaw and neck. In the middle of her forehead, a red wound opened and closed like the gill of a dying fish.
Meiman turned to Andrew, released him long enough to point at the shaman, then drew the talon that served him as a hand across his feathered throat in a grimly expressive gesture.
Andrew nodded and brushed away his wife's pudgy hands when they tried to restrain him. The mask of humanity was good enough to show the low man in the garish tuxedo visibly gathering his courage. Then he leaped forward with a strangled cry, seizing Callahan around the neck not with his hands but his fat forearms. At the same moment his jilly lunged and struck the ivory turtle from the Pere's hand, screaming as she did so.
The skoldpadda tumbled to the red rug, bounced beneath one of the tables, and there (like a certain paper boat some of you may remember) passes out of this tale forever.
The Grandfathers still held back, as did die Type Three vampires who had been dining in the public room, but the low men and women sensed weakness and moved in, first hesitantly, then with growing confidence. They surrounded Callahan, paused, and then fell on him in all their numbers.
"Let me go in God's name!" Callahan cried, but of course it did no good. Unlike the vampires, the things with the red wounds in their foreheads did not respond to the name of Callahan's God. All he could do was hope Jake wouldn't stop, let alone double back; that he and Oy would go like the wind to Susannah. Save her if they could. Die with her if they could not.
And kill her baby, if chance allowed. God help him, but he had been wrong about that. They should have snuffed out the baby's life back in the Calla, when they had the chance.
Something bit deeply into his neck. The vampires would come now, cross or no cross. They'd fall on him like the sharks they were once they got their first whiff of his life's blood. Help me God, give me strength, Callahan thought, and felt the strength flow into him. He rolled to his left as claws ripped into his shirt, tearing it to ribbons. For a moment his right hand was free, and the Ruger was still in it. He turned it toward the working, sweaty, hate-congested face of the fat one named Andrew and placed the barrel of the gun (bought for home protection in the long-distant past by Jake's more than a litde paranoid TVexecutive fadier) against the soft red wound in the center of the low man's forehead.
"No-ooo, you daren't!" Tirana cried, and as she reached for the gun, the front of her gown finally burst, spilling her massive br**sts free. They were covered with coarse fur.
Callahan pulled the trigger. The Ruger's report was deafening in the dining room. Andrew's head exploded like a gourd filled with blood, spraying the creatures who had been crowding in behind him. There were screams of horror and disbelief.
Callahan had time to think, It wasn't supposed to be this way, was it? And: Is it enough to put me in the club? Am I a gunslinger yet?
Perhaps not. But there was the bird-man, standing right in front of him between two tables, its beak opening and closing, its throat beating visibly with excitement.
Smiling, propping himself on one elbow as blood pumped onto the carpet from his torn throat, Callahan leveled Jake's Ruger.
"No!" Meiman cried, raising his misshapen hands to his face in an utterly fruitless gesture of protection. "No, you CAN'T-"
Can so, Callahan thought with childish glee, and fired again.
Meiman took two stumble-steps backward, then a third. He struck a table and collapsed on top of it. Three yellow feathers hung above him on the air, seesawing lazily.