5.17
“Let go of him,” Landis says, struggling to keep his voice even. He can’t look directly at Mal - he trains his eyes on Abbie’s face instead, feeling rage start to boil in the pit of his stomach where there was only fear before. His grip around the utility knife tightens, his knuckles turning white.
“Or what?” Abbie asks sweetly. “You’ll kill me? Like you killed all those other people?”
She tightens her grip on Mal’s throat. Landis can see it, see her fingernails dig into Mal’s skin, see Mal start to kick his legs in a frenzied attempt to push Abbie away from him. Mal is making a different sound, now, an airless, guttural gasp, and the sound makes something come loose inside of Landis.
“You know, I’m considering it,” he says, and rushes Abbie with the utility knife.
She drops Mal nigh immediately in surprise, her self-preservation instinct outweighing everything else just as Landis had hoped. Landis drops into a crouch, using Mal as cover in the brief moments before he hits the floor, nearly passing a hand through his torso to swing the knife at Abbie. The blade just barely slices through the fabric of her dress as she steps backwards.
“You’re pretty sloppy,” she says, her tone still light and amused. “I was expecting someone who got away with eight murders to be a little sneakier.”
Landis feels a sudden, sharp pain in his scalp. It takes him a moment to register it for what it is: Abbie’s grabbed a fistful of his hair, and is yanking on it, pulling him closer to her. He grunts, swinging the utility knife in a wide, wild arc, but she catches him by the wrist with her other hand and twists it up behind his back. Landis cries out, and feels his hand reflexively open. No, no no! The knife slides out, and lands on the floor with a soft thump, almost in defiance of his desperately grasping fingers.
“You know, I was thinking maybe we could partner up, work together,” Abbie coos, bending him forwards so she can talk into his ear. “Once I get rid of those friends of yours, I mean. It’s no fun when your murder victims are still hanging around, watching you kill other people.”
Landis snorts. “Yeah, no thanks. I saw what happened to the last guy to take that offer.”
He tries to glance towards the foyer, to see if Grace and Otter are at the front door, but it’s impossible to check from the angle Abbie is holding him at. Besides, no one would be able to see a fight in the den from the sliver of window next to the front door. Grace and Otter won’t know to come in and play backup unless things get loud in here.
But if that happens, Landis thinks, there’s always the chance that Abbie will slit my throat, or run out the back. Or even do both. So might as well go along like she’s really going to persuade me to start killing again, until she gives me some kind of opening. She’s strong, but I’m taller than her, and if I can just get the knife -
“So, you met Declan.” The barest hint of surprise creeps into Abbie’s voice. “And here I was thinking you were all just smart enough to put your heads together and figure out I’d tricked you.”
“No such luck,” Landis says. Though I’m sure we would have, eventually. Probably not in time to save Mal. Maybe not even until we showed up here, and either caught you in the act or found you and the ghosts missing.
Movement on the floor catches his eye. Mal is stirring, very slightly, rolling over inch by inch so Landis can see his face. Abbie doesn’t seem to notice - her attention, for the time being, is fixated on Landis. Mal meets Landis’s gaze and quirks one eyebrow, either to say Can you believe her? or Really screwed the pooch on this one, didn’t you? Landis isn’t sure which. He raises an eyebrow back in reply. Perversely, there’s a smile tugging at one corner of Mal’s mouth.
“I mean, I never expected to meet you in person,” Abbie says, sighing. “And not like this, not with you investigating me and all. Of all the people to come sniffing around about the missing ghosts, of course it’d have to be you and Amber and that - that stupid secretary. I mean, Jesus.”
The rage in Landis’s stomach is white hot. He swallows, trying to even out his breathing, and watches Mal move across the floor out of the corner of his eye. “Grace isn’t stupid.”
“You’re all stupid.” Abbie laughs, shrill and uneven. “You can’t catch a killer when she’s staring you right in the face, suggesting leads for you to go on.” She yanks on Landis’s hair again, pulling him back up to his full height. He can feel her close behind him, still holding his arm against his back, only tall enough to come up to his shoulder. “Shame I had to kill Amber, though. She was great at finding ghosts who bought into the whole seance thing, wanted to reconnect with their families and all. But I guess I won’t be doing that anymore, anyway.”
She strokes the inside of Landis’s forearm, tracing her thumb over the long scar that runs from his elbow to his wrist. A shudder of revulsion runs through his body.
“How’d you get this?” Abbie asks. “Someone fight back long enough to give it to you before you killed them?”
“A witch gave it to me,” Landis growls, between clenched teeth, and offers nothing more.
Abbie laughs again. “Is that why you’re so afraid of witches?”
“Not afraid of them,” Landis says. He squirms a little in Abbie’s grasp, to force her attention on him and away from Mal. “They should be afraid of me. One of them died last time we met.”
He doesn’t mention that Aster dying wasn’t directly his fault. It’s not particularly important, and besides, Abbie seems more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt when it comes to murder.
Landis feels someone else’s gaze on him suddenly, and glances up without tilting his head. Jeremy is looking down through the ceiling, eyes wide, his mouth slightly open in an expression of concern. His stare meets Landis’s, and Landis flicks his eyes to the side, towards the front of the house, hoping to communicate that Jeremy and Danton should go and get Grace and Otter. Even if Abbie tries to run, they’ll have her outnumbered, and the ghosts shouldn’t have too hard of a time chasing her.
“I should kill you before the rest of your friends get here, hm?” Abbie asks.
Her hand, the one not clutching Landis’s wrist, is suddenly around his throat. Landis feels his breath catch in his chest, and he struggles against her grip in earnest now, survival instincts kicking in. Abbie squeezes gently, slowly, barely compressing his windpipe with her palm.
Well, this is ironic, Landis thinks dryly.
“Last chance to scream,” Abbie says. “Not that anybody will - hhgkk -”
Her hands slide away from Landis without warning. Landis wrenches free and spins around, searching for the source of the distraction, and finds it almost immediately. Abbie is on the ground, clutching her ankle as blood pools underneath of her, her chest heaving in heavy, pained breaths. Mal is just behind her, pushing himself up on his knees. The blade of the utility knife in his hand is bright crimson.
“Should’ve finished me off first, bitch,” he spits at Abbie. His voice is hoarse, barely above a whisper. The knife phases through his hand suddenly, glitching into it, then dropping to the floor again.
Landis raises an eyebrow. “Where’d you learn to do that?”
“Lots of practice.” Mal grins lopsidedly. “Get the others in here so you can arrest her or whatever, will you? I’m tired.”
Landis nods, touching his throat absently as he starts for the front door. Abbie’s pained moans follow him from the den, but he ignores them. She can wait to get bandaged up.