Body Surfing

blackened void that was Larry Bishop’s body, and then, softly but irrevocably, like a candle puffed out by a breath, he was gone.

14
    Q . threw himself to the ground as the gunshot exploded behind him.
    The syringe fell from his hands. The needle missed his leg, which was fortunate. The drop of sea snake venom on the tip of the spike would have killed him in less than a minute. He stared at the little spike in the leaves as a second shot ripped over his head, a third. How in the hell had the syringe ended up in his pocket? How in the hell had it ended up in his hands? J.D. Thomas had said he was an accomplished hypnotist, but really, how good was good? And then, as Q. glanced over at the paramedic’s unmoving body—the body that housed the disembodied consciousness of his best friend—he realized that the how of what he’d done was significantly less important than the what. He searched the body sheltering Jasper for some sign of life, but saw nothing. Jesus Christ, he thought. What have I done? But he knew. For the second time in a week, he’d tried to kill his best friend.
    The fourth shot brought him back to the situation at hand. Q. heard not just the burst of gunpowder but the whiz of the bullet speeding over his body. Bark exploded where the bullet tore into the meat of a tree. There was a flash of movement as Leo hurtled from the shelter of one trunk to the next.
    “Ileana!” Q. yelled. “It’s me!” As if she couldn’t see him. As if anything could keep her from her hunt.
    Another bullet roared over his head.
    “I suggest you keep your head down,” the huntress called, her voice as calm and flat as a traffic reporter warning commuters about a jam on the Thruway.
    There was another flash as Leo rolled behind another trunk. Two more shots exploded in a shower of dirt just inches behind the demon. It seemed to Q. that Leo wasn’t trying to get away though. It was more like he was trying to close in on the huntress. The fearlessness, the grim determination, sent chills down Q.’s spine.
    “Don’t make me kill the fledgling, Leo,” Ileana called now. “You’ve gone to great lengths to protect him. I know he means something to you.”
    Leo looked at Larry Bishop, lying open and exposed. For all he knew the paramedic, and thus Jasper, was already dead. But if he wasn’t, if the doctor had put some kind of sedative in the needle, then Q. would be damned if he’d let Ileana kill him. Jasper was Q.’s prey, not hers. He would decide whether his friend lived or died.
    Without giving himself time to reconsider, he flung himself in Jasper’s direction. Mud got in his mouth and eyes and he sputtered and choked but continued to roll blindly until he hit the warm mound of Larry Bishop’s body. He sprawled across it, head over head, arms over arms, legs over legs, crotch over ass. The absurdity of the situation wasn’t lost on him, or on Leo apparently. Q. heard a chuckle in Michaela’s voice, and then:
    “Oh, Q. What I wouldn’t give for a camera right now.”
    Q. ignored the demon, called instead to the huntress.
    “Ileana, don’t! He’s not like Leo!” It almost seemed as if he were yelling in Larry’s ear, as if he wanted Jasper to hear him as much as Ileana.
    “Do not fool yourself into thinking that there is such a thing as a good demon, Q. And don’t think I won’t go through you to get to Jasper.”
    There was another shot as Leo darted to yet another tree. What the hell is he doing? Q. thought. And then, as another shot whizzed through the air, he understood.
    “Ileana, stop shooting! He’s just trying to draw your fire!”
    But it was too late. Leo darted out and Q. heard one more shot, followed by a sickening sound: not the thud of a bullet smacking into a body, but the quieter sound of a firing pin striking an empty chamber. He caught a flash of a grin on Michaela’s face as the demon somersaulted into open space and came up with the very stick he’d used to trip Q. fifteen minutes ago. The spear-length shaft of wood flew from his hand like a bolt of lightning. There was a wet sound, a thud, a thump, as something, presumably the gun, fell to the loamy forest floor. Leo poised on one knee, his arm still extended from his throw. For a moment his face was expressionless, but then a little smile curled up one corner of Michaela’s mouth.
    “Zdravo sestra . It’s been a long time.”
     
    Q. lifted his head. Ileana sat with her back against the trunk of a young poplar. Her