The Raven Page 8

  The eggs in the skillet stank now, the majority of them burned beyond edibility. Dez’s feet itched to cross to the table, to heft his backpack and his crossbow and get the hell out.

  But Jim was going on. “It was Fabian all right, but his voice was different, and I knew already. But I also knew I had to hear it. Like the gavel strike after the death sentence. Mary was watching me all along and my face must’ve shown something and the next thing I know she’s on her knees, wailing, her fingernails clawing at her cheeks.”

  Jim’s voice had taken on a raw, gravelly quality. Dez saw with a sinking gut that the old man’s hands were darker. Hairier. “‘You’re wrong,’ I said to Fabian. ‘She can’t be dead.’”

  Jim favored him with a horrid, heartbroken grin. “‘But she is,’ Fabian said. ‘She is, Jim. They came for her in the night. They had…horns.’”

  Satyrs, Dez thought distantly. Get out of this house now.

  Were Jim’s eyes flecked with yellow? “‘Where the hell were you?’ I shouted into the phone. ‘Where were you when my baby was being snatched?’ Fabian answered, ‘They didn’t take her, Jim. They…they held me down…made me watch while they…they ripped her clothes off….’”

  Jim shook the spatula and skillet, the eggs too grafted onto the black surface to go flying. But it was at Jim’s fingers that Dez stared. They were elongating.

  “‘I’d never seen anything like it,’ Fabian said. ‘I didn’t know what they were there to do.’”

  Dez watched Jim’s hands with paralyzed horror. Wiry black hairs threaded out of the skin, made the cuffs of Jim’s flannel shirt undulate. Dez heard a strained, groaning sound, knew the plaid fabric was stretching.

  Jim flung the spatula away and slammed the skillet down on the glowing scarlet coil. “‘Well, you should’ve saved her when you saw what they were doing!’ I screamed. ‘You should’ve had the courage to protect my little girl!’”

  “‘I didn’t think they’d rape her, Jim!’ my worthless piece of shit son-in-law wailed. ‘And even if they did, I didn’t think they’d kill her!’”

  Jim rounded on Dez, fists balled at his sides. “‘What are you telling me?’ I screamed at Fabian. ‘Just what in the hell are you trying to say?’”

  Dez took a backwards step. “Look, Jim, I know you’re—”

  “‘The third one killed her!’” Jim shrieked. His shoulders were expanding, pulsing under the old flannel. “‘She gave out while the third one was raping her!’ I asked that coward son-in-law, ‘Why didn’t you save her? Why didn’t you do something before it got that far?’” Jim’s eyes flashed, the irises a lambent gold. “You know what he said to me?”

  Dez bent down, grasped the strap of his pack.

  Jim bared his teeth, teeth that were longer than they’d been. “He says, ‘I was afraid they’d kill me too!’” Jim reached up, seized handfuls of white hair, and ripped out two big clumps of scalp. “That stupid…fucking…weasel!”

  Jim let loose with a soul-shattered wail and dropped to his knees. His face contorted in pain. “And all the time,” Jim said through curving scimitar teeth, his voice a hoarse rumble, “my Mary was sobbing on the driveway gravel. How was I to know I was changing too? How was I to know what I was becoming?”

  Jim flopped down on all fours. His shirt split up the spine, the knobby backbone cracking, undulating.

  Shoot him, a voice in his head demanded.

  Dez shook his head. But it’s not his fault!

  Dez shouldered his backpack. His fingers were numb, drenched with perspiration. His heart was hammering so thunderously he thought he might faint. Jim was doubled-over, roaring in agony, his head jittering, his feet splitting through his workboots and drumming on the floor. The stench of animal hair and feces overtook the sulfuric odor of burnt eggs.

  Head swimming, Dez got hold of the crossbow, pivoted toward the mudroom. He’d reached the threshold when he glanced back at the werewolf, whose transformation was nearly complete.

  The beast shot a look at him, the eyes leonine, enraged. “WHY?” he roared. “Why my Mary? I didn’t mean to—” He twitched his head, the neck muscles hopping. “—to kill her! My poor Mary! She didn’t even recognize me when I – oh GOD!”

  Dez bolted for the door, but it was locked. Behind him, the werewolf’s words devolved into an ear-splitting bellow. Dez fumbled with the lock, the kind you twisted, but his fingers were too sweaty. He’d seen what a werewolf could do. It wasn’t if they killed you, it was how brutally. He seized the lock again, turned it the correct way this time. His body turned to ice at the sounds echoing from the kitchen. Growling, snarling. Was Jim done transforming? Was he even now stalking forward to rend Dez to shreds? Jesus Christ, he had to get out. He ripped open the door, flung the storm door outward, and was halfway onto the porch when he froze, remembering the key hooks in the mudroom.

  For a millisecond he stood there, agonized, knowing the end was upon him. Then he lunged back inside, made a grab for the Dodge keys. They came off smoothly, and he turned to go, but then he remembered the pole barn would be locked. He’d need the larger key ring. Moaning, he seized the ring, yanked, but it was tangled on the hook – goddammit! – and his eyes darted to the kitchen, where a shape was writhing on the floor. It was Jim, of course, but it wasn’t Jim. It was a pulsing humanoid abomination, a rippling, twitching figure with muscles so huge it seemed they’d burst, the face so diabolical Dez felt his bladder let go at the sight of it. The beast’s eyes were closed in agony.

  Dez backed away, felt for the storm door handle, and that was when the eyes flipped open, the irises a glowing amber, the pupils black slits that bore no trace of compassion, no semblance of humanity.

  Dez fled. His hands were trembling so wildly he could scarcely focus on the right set of keys, much less select the proper key from the ring. The pole barn was only a short distance away, yet there were seven, eight, nine keys to choose from. And goddammit, he didn’t have time to try nine keys. The werewolf was coming, might already be gathering for a barreling rush through the kitchen.

  Dez neared the pole barn. Twenty feet, ten. He reached down, fumbled for a key, a bronze-colored one, tried it.

  Not even close.

  He riffled through the keys, found another bronze one. Nope.

  Teeth bared, Dez shot a look over his shoulder at the back of the house. No sign of the werewolf, but he’d be coming. Any moment….

  Find the fucking key!

  Right. He tried another one, this one silver. No luck. Another, the same color. No.

  Almost halfway through his options.

  A howl split the morning air. Dez whimpered, dropped the truck key.

  Ignoring that, he tried another one from the ring. If he couldn’t get inside the pole barn, he’d have no need of the Dodge key, would he? He’d be dead where he stood, torn into a million—

  The key turned.

  Sucking in air, Dez flung open the door, scooped up the Dodge key, and plunged inside.

  For a ghastly moment, Dez was sure he’d somehow erred, that the truck was in the gray, weathered barn. Or maybe there’d never been a truck, and this was all an elaborate ruse. He peered into the gloom – no windows in here, no nothing except dust motes, sparse tufts of straw scattered about, a junker El Camino that appeared not to have run since Reagan was president.

  Then he spied it, a faint glint in the far recesses of the pole barn.

  It had to be the truck.

  Mouth twisting into a relieved grin, Dez set off across the dim, dusty expanse, and was halfway to the truck when a plangent thud, followed by a tinkling of glass, made his legs liquefy.

  The werewolf was coming.

  Dez gained the Dodge in a few seconds, tried the handle on the hope it would be unlocked, but of course it wasn’t. Jim might allow his chickens to roam free, but he wasn’t trusting enough to leave his primar
y means of transportation vulnerable to thieves.

  Dez fumbled for the truck key, but his hands were too full. With a frustrated grunt, he dropped the big key ring, realizing he no longer needed it. He got hold of the Dodge key, stabbed at the lock, gouged an ugly groove in the silver paint.

  Did he hear the huff of the approaching werewolf?

  His hand was shaking so violently, he was forced to grab it with his other hand just to steady it. The pole barn was so murky he could barely make out the silver circle of the key assembly, much less the slit where the teeth were housed.

  The key sank in. He turned it, heard the locks of the quad cab release. He grasped the handle, yanked back, and from the front of the pole barn the daylight flickered, a tenebrous shape filling the doorway.

  Dez didn’t need to look up to know the werewolf was coming. He lunged into the driver’s seat, slammed the door shut, not even bothering with locks. Werewolves wouldn’t bother with handles. They’d just—

  A huge shape thundered onto the hood.

  Dez screamed, pushed involuntarily away from the enormous black mass. The werewolf’s momentum pounded its snarling face into the windshield, the taloned hands instantly scrabbling for purchase. His vision swirling with a sick vertigo, Dez aimed the key toward the ignition and could hardly believe it when it slid in smoothly. At the sound of the engine’s rumble, the werewolf’s face froze in a wide-eyed stare, the eyes of the monster so vast and profound that Dez could scarcely summon the strength to reach up, shift the truck into Drive.

  The werewolf’s eyes narrowed, the lips curving in a snarl. The teeth were long and hooked, the lips black and speckled with pink. Dez depressed the accelerator, only dimly aware of the new problem he faced. Not only was there a bloodthirsty monster preparing to spring through the windshield at him, there was no way out of the pole barn. Had he more time or composure, he might have raised one of the rolling barn doors so he could simply drive out. Now, however, he was left with no choice but to motor straight at the wall opposite and hope the Dodge could punch through the sheet metal without shredding the tires or detonating the airbags. As the Dodge veered around the El Camino and picked up steam, he imagined himself pinioned behind an airbag, unable to reach the steering wheel, the werewolf simply stalking around to the side of the truck to feast on him as Dez thrashed in terror.

  The werewolf grinned through the windshield.

  No!

  Dez floored the gas. The werewolf thudded against the windshield. Roaring, the creature clambered higher, but the sheet metal wall was fast approaching, the truck doing at least twenty miles an hour. Dez reached up, clutched at the seatbelt, but it was too late.

  At the last moment, the werewolf swiveled its head toward the wall racing toward it, and when they crashed through, the impact wasn’t nearly as bone-jarring as Dez had imagined it would be. The werewolf was mashed against the windshield, but he was up immediately, climbing onto the roof.

  Then Dez could see between the creature’s knees.

  And the house racing toward them.

  Hissing, Dez pumped the brakes and cut the wheel to the left. He hoped the skidding action would fling the werewolf off, but the creature’s talons were too keen. The truck slid over the frost-kissed lawn, rose up on two wheels, then jounced down with an outraged squeal of shocks. Dez depressed the accelerator, ground his teeth at the strident cries of the spinning tires, then let off the gas. A harsh chunking sound from directly above him, a spine-tingling roar. Dez shot a look at the ceiling, saw the clawed hand that had punched holes through the roof and dug furrows through the thick metal.

  What would the talons do to human flesh?

  Dez toed the gas. His instinct clamored for him to floor it, but then he’d be spinning futilely in the yard, and in moments the beast above him would peel the truck roof off like a kid’s decal.

  He banished the thought and focused on navigating the yard. The ground appeared level, but like most lawns, the terrain here was lumpy, the Dodge bouncing like some unserviced carnival ride.

  The metal split directly above his lap and a swarthy forearm pistoned down a foot from his face. Dez pressed backward into his seat, his foot standing on the accelerator. The Dodge leapt forward, its back end fishtailing. He surged toward the primitive country lane as the huge talons snatched at him, the lethal claws slicing the air inches from his face. Dez slid downward in his seat to evade the whickering claws, but one slashed his cheek anyway, the gash an instant dousing of ice water. Dez leaned hard to his right, thinking to elude the talons, but the Dodge swerved with him, directly in the path of the mailbox. He slammed into it, worried it would damage the truck’s chassis as they bounced into the road, but the engine merely coughed once before catching again.

  The talons snagged his shoulder.

  A yellow-black claw punctured the leather of his jacket, curled upward until he was levered off his seat. For the love of God, it could lift him with one damned finger?

  Dez swatted at the talon and managed to detach it. He plopped down. The truck was angling toward a ditch. It wasn’t a deep ditch, but it might be steep enough to trap the Dodge, and once the werewolf had the truck stopped….

  The other fist punctured the ceiling, this one directly over Dez. They were revving along now at forty miles per hour, but that didn’t matter. The beast showed no signs of relenting, would at any moment have the roof split wide open and Dez plucked from his seat. Both clawed hands darted down at him. Dez moved as low as he could without losing sight of the road.

  Both hands grabbed hold of him, and then he was rising rapidly toward the roof of the Dodge. His head rammed the roof fabric, the talons rupturing his leather jacket in several places. The werewolf lowered him and jerked up again, this time smacking his head on the roof with such force that Dez worried about a fractured skull.

  There was a ringing in his ears. They had traveled perhaps a hundred yards down the country road, but that didn’t mean a damned thing. The beast had him now, didn’t give two shits whether they veered off the road or not. Up ahead, the road plunged into a steep valley, both sides wooded and dark. The werewolf jerked him toward the roof, cracked his head on the thinly padded steel. Dez’s vision blurred.

  Desperately, he reached down and seized the Ruger. The Dodge drifted toward the left shoulder, beyond which was a drop-off into a gully. Dez gritted his teeth, righted the wheel, and thrust the Ruger toward the roof.

  As the werewolf lifted him again, Dez fired. Judging from the way the hairy legs slung over the windshield went ramrod straight, the slug had found its target. Dez heard a guttural roar that he at first mistook for the truck’s descent down the steep gravel decline.

  Then blood pattered on his arm, and he realized the roar was coming from the werewolf.

  “Sorry, Jim,” he said and aimed the Ruger.

  Then the whole roof disappeared.

  Dez looked up in time to see the werewolf heaving up the huge flap of steel and casting it aside like a ragged sheet of cardboard. The wound in the werewolf’s sternum sluiced blood that was whipped away by the rushing wind, and for a moment the beast perched on its knees, roaring and glowering down at Dez, its arms spread in challenge.

  Dez swung the Ruger up and blasted the creature in the throat.

  The werewolf slapped its hands over the wound a split second before it started to gush, and then, horribly, the monster tilted forward as though he would tumble into the cab beside Dez.

  Dez slammed on the brakes.

  The werewolf somersaulted over the hood, and Dez lost sight of it as the Dodge was plunged into a nauseating spin. There were no guardrails here, and though he was nearing the bottom of the valley, the drop-off on either side of the road was ten feet or more. As the back end skidded around, Dez gripping the wheel for dear life, he imagined what would happen if the Dodge crashed. He doubted the werewolf’s wounds were fatal. He’d heard that
werewolves, like vampires and other creatures, could heal rapidly, could even regenerate missing limbs. If the truck did plunge into the gully—

  The spin ended, the front tires perched on the soft shoulder. The engine stalled. Distantly, Dez was aware of a notification dinging from the dashboard.

  Dez’s breathing was shallow, his heart triphammering so hard that he feared he’d faint after all. He was lathered in sweat, still terrified the Dodge would nose down the hill, flip, end up in a bed of fallen leaves upside down, the creature still strong enough to finish him in a flurry of claws.

  Fingers numb, Dez keyed the engine, certain it wouldn’t start. It would be flooded, wrecked, screwed up in some way. He never did know much about cars.

  The engine turned over.

  Adrenaline surged through him as he reached for the gearshift. He listened for the werewolf, but couldn’t hear anything above the ragged growl of the Dodge and the continual dinging from the dash.

  He slid the Dodge into Reverse and backed away from the edge. He thought he might roll over the werewolf’s prostrate form, but there was no jarring thud, no sensation at all save the sparse gravel under the tires. He cut the wheel, shifted into Drive, and nosed the Dodge toward the road again. He yearned to floor it and rumble up the hill, but he was terrified he’d spin out. He knew he should be searching for the werewolf, but terror had sapped him of the strength. It was all he could do to drive straight. When the Dodge began to climb the long incline, he risked a look in the rearview mirror, which was miraculously intact despite the fact that most of the roof had been removed.

  The werewolf was pushing shakily to its feet, a hand clamped over its throat. Though the beast glistened with blood, its eyes remained fixed on the receding truck.

  Slitted in rage.

  A chill gripping him with icy fingers, Dez guided the Dodge up the hill.