soulgaze

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know..." Butters said. It sounded like he was crying.
"Look at me," Grevane said. "Look."
I closed my eyes and turned my face a little from the window. I could imagine what was happening. Butters, probably on his knees, being held by a pair of zombies, Grevane standing over him in his trench coat, pinching Butters's chin between his thumb and forefinger. I could imagine him forcing Butters's eyes up to meet his, to begin a soulgaze. Grevane wanted to see the inside of Butters's head, in a swift and harsh attempt to assess the truth.
And Butters would be exposed to the corruption of a soul steeped in dark magic and a lifetime of murder.
I heard a high-pitched little sound that rose rapidly, growing louder and louder until it was a wail of terror and madness. There was no dignity in the sound. No self-control. I would never have recognized it as Butters's voice if I hadn't known he was out there. But it was him. Butters screamed, and he kept screaming without pausing to take a breath until it wound down to a frozen, gurgling sound and died away.
"Well?" asked another voice, one I did not recognize. It rasped harshly, as if the man speaking had spent a lifetime imbibing cheap Scotch and cheaper cigars.
"He doesn't know," Grevane reported quietly, disgust in his voice.

Dead Beat Chapter 23, Page 201-202


There were no screams or shrieks of battle. The rain muffled the sound, and in the heavy darkness I couldn't see anything going on behind me. I could dimly hear the whumping bass drum that kept Grevane's zombies going, still somewhere out there in the background. Beyond that, very quiet but getting nearer, I heard sirens.
"Everyone all right?" I asked.
"I'll make it," Thomas said. He had stripped out of his jacket and shirt, and had the latter pressed to the side of his bleeding head.
"Mouse?" I asked.
There was a wet, snuffling sound by my ear, and Mouse licked my cheek.
"Good," I said. "Butters?"
There was silence.
Thomas looked at the backseat, frowning.
"Butters?" I repeated. "Heya, man. Earth to Butters."
Silence.
"Butters?" I asked.
There was a long pause. Then a slow inhalation. Then he said, in a very weak voice, "Polka will never die."
I felt my mouth stretch into a fierce grin. "Damn right it won't," I said.

Dead Beat Chapter 23, Page 210