air, a serpentine stream of wavering smoke. He pursued them out into the foyer of the funeral home. There were sitting rooms on either side of the front door. In one, two young boys sat on a loveseat, obviously uncomfortable in their suits, attention locked on the screens of their GameBoys. The other sitting room was empty, and the husband held his wife's elbow and escorted her into the room. Clay paused in the foyer, just out of their line of sight, checking his pockets as though he'd forgotten something.
"You said no one knew," the husband rasped.
"No one does ," the wife replied.
"The way they were comforting you —"
"He was my friend . They all knew that much. But no one . . . no one knows —"
"No one knows you're a whore," the husband said, words like hammering nails.
Clay's contact from Boston Homicide was waiting out on the sidewalk. He should have left then, just walked out the door, but he found that he could not. Instead, he glanced into the opposite parlor to make sure the two kids were still absorbed in their GameBoys, and then he rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feeling of Corey Gillard's skin.
A ripple went through Clay's flesh. Bone popped quietly, reknitting. Muscle shifted. Pigment changed. This was what God had made him, a shapeshifter, able to take the form of any creature the Lord ever imagined, and with a touch, to duplicate the appearance of anyone, alive or dead.
When he turned and walked into the sitting room with the murderer and his wife, he wore the face of Corey Gillard.
The husband saw him first. His face went slack, all the color draining from his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head in denial, no sound coming from his mouth. When his wife saw his expression, she turned.
Her scream echoed through the building.
"Oh, Corey," she whispered then, holding one hand up to her mouth. "Oh, my God."
Wearing the dead man's face, Clay pointed at the killer. "It was him. He cut me open. He murdered me."
Her hands fluttered, and they both covered her face as she backed away from her husband, gaze shifting quickly back and forth between him and what she thought was her dead lover.
"You . . . you can't be here," the murderer snarled.
Clay smiled with Corey's mouth. "You're right. Corey's not here. He's dead and gone. His soul's in a better place. But guess where you're going."
Clay raised his arms, and once again he willed his flesh and bone to shift. Bone spikes thrust up through his scalp, two rows of sharp horns. Skin tore wetly as black, leathery wings sprouted from his back. Of all the shapes he had ever taken, Clay found the form of a demon the most difficult. It left him feeling filthy, his mood dark.
But his mood was dark enough already.
Now it was the killer's turn to scream. The man fell to his knees and began to plead for mercy, from Heaven, from Hell, and from his wife. He reached for her leg, and she recoiled in disgust.
Clay towered over him, appearing as a nine-foot demon, a thing right from the depths of Hell, skin the color of dried blood and thick and hard as stone. Fire spilled from his mouth as he pointed again at the murderer and laughed.
"See you soon," he said.
Then he turned, hooves thumping the carpet, and as he left the room, his flesh changed, and he was himself again. Joe Clay. The human face was not the one he had begun life with, but it was the one he wore most often, the one the world saw.
The two kids in the other parlor were still playing with their GameBoys.
People were running down the corridor now, summoned by the screams. Clay ignored them, turned left, and went out the front door of the funeral parlor.
The sky was gray and drizzling rain. An unmarked police car sat at the curb across the street. When Clay started down the stairs to the sidewalk, the passenger door opened, and detective Adam Hook climbed out.
Detective Hook was forty-four, fit, and handsome in a grizzled, sad, seen-too-much-fashion way that had probably
"You said no one knew," the husband rasped.
"No one does ," the wife replied.
"The way they were comforting you —"
"He was my friend . They all knew that much. But no one . . . no one knows —"
"No one knows you're a whore," the husband said, words like hammering nails.
Clay's contact from Boston Homicide was waiting out on the sidewalk. He should have left then, just walked out the door, but he found that he could not. Instead, he glanced into the opposite parlor to make sure the two kids were still absorbed in their GameBoys, and then he rubbed his fingers together, remembering the feeling of Corey Gillard's skin.
A ripple went through Clay's flesh. Bone popped quietly, reknitting. Muscle shifted. Pigment changed. This was what God had made him, a shapeshifter, able to take the form of any creature the Lord ever imagined, and with a touch, to duplicate the appearance of anyone, alive or dead.
When he turned and walked into the sitting room with the murderer and his wife, he wore the face of Corey Gillard.
The husband saw him first. His face went slack, all the color draining from his cheeks. He narrowed his eyes and shook his head in denial, no sound coming from his mouth. When his wife saw his expression, she turned.
Her scream echoed through the building.
"Oh, Corey," she whispered then, holding one hand up to her mouth. "Oh, my God."
Wearing the dead man's face, Clay pointed at the killer. "It was him. He cut me open. He murdered me."
Her hands fluttered, and they both covered her face as she backed away from her husband, gaze shifting quickly back and forth between him and what she thought was her dead lover.
"You . . . you can't be here," the murderer snarled.
Clay smiled with Corey's mouth. "You're right. Corey's not here. He's dead and gone. His soul's in a better place. But guess where you're going."
Clay raised his arms, and once again he willed his flesh and bone to shift. Bone spikes thrust up through his scalp, two rows of sharp horns. Skin tore wetly as black, leathery wings sprouted from his back. Of all the shapes he had ever taken, Clay found the form of a demon the most difficult. It left him feeling filthy, his mood dark.
But his mood was dark enough already.
Now it was the killer's turn to scream. The man fell to his knees and began to plead for mercy, from Heaven, from Hell, and from his wife. He reached for her leg, and she recoiled in disgust.
Clay towered over him, appearing as a nine-foot demon, a thing right from the depths of Hell, skin the color of dried blood and thick and hard as stone. Fire spilled from his mouth as he pointed again at the murderer and laughed.
"See you soon," he said.
Then he turned, hooves thumping the carpet, and as he left the room, his flesh changed, and he was himself again. Joe Clay. The human face was not the one he had begun life with, but it was the one he wore most often, the one the world saw.
The two kids in the other parlor were still playing with their GameBoys.
People were running down the corridor now, summoned by the screams. Clay ignored them, turned left, and went out the front door of the funeral parlor.
The sky was gray and drizzling rain. An unmarked police car sat at the curb across the street. When Clay started down the stairs to the sidewalk, the passenger door opened, and detective Adam Hook climbed out.
Detective Hook was forty-four, fit, and handsome in a grizzled, sad, seen-too-much-fashion way that had probably
Similar Books
