He glanced toward the apartment building several times. Rectangular and unremarkable. Brick and glass. No balconies.
Across the lake, the owl took flight. Wove through the trees, slipped from view, and dove to snatch its prey.
It was not an omen.
It was not a sign.
Owls hunted. It meant nothing, except maybe the bird was hungry. The myth of its wisdom was just that—a myth. Night offered no sagacity, not even in its animals; nor did it offer any pattern. Random—unimportant—the very characteristics that made up Jack’s life.
2.
At dusk, Nick Hunter walked through downtown. Up one side of Orange Avenue, down the other, then every crossroad. He walked slowly, casually, appearing clueless if anyone noticed him, just someone looking for the bar or restaurant where he was supposed to meet friends.
There were hints throughout the city, signs that something had been here recently—something more than just the three fiends he had taken out in the warehouse.
He walked slowly, taking a good whiff at the door to every bar, club, restaurant, and shop. He checked alleys. Abandoned storefronts. Empty lots. Parking garages.
Near midnight, having found nothing, Nick headed back toward that lake.
A jogging path surrounded the lake. Amphitheatre at one end, complete with a snack shack, bicycle racks, and a ticket window. A scattering of trees separated it from the streets.
A fountain ran in the center of the lake; another, smaller and without the lights, at one corner of the path. A park, with slides and swings, at another. A few apartment buildings between the path and streets, but no houses or shops. A veranda, presumably booked for weddings. Even a little beach, though he doubted anyone swam here. In the dark, the water looked oily black.
The undead reek was strongest near the southeast corner of the lake. He followed the scent as best he could—he was not a dog—and left the lake for an adjacent street.
3.
After a few hours of sitting, the same thoughts running through his mind (Stupid, stupid, stupid, I should have stayed, I could’ve stayed, I might have made a real life here), Jack Harlow finally gave up his downward spiral and stood.
Standing itself wasn’t much of a statement.
He strode toward Lisa’s building. He couldn’t remember the apartment number. But hadn’t there been some sort of directory by the door for a person to buzz in? It was not a question of whether she’d let him in, it was a matter of making the effort.
The street was mostly empty. The vestibule was a long corridor, wide enough to drive through, with two sets of double glass doors. The telephone pad was to the right of the second pair. Elevators visible inside. Bright fluorescent lights. Plain white walls. A decorative table, plant, a piece of mall art hanging inside. He hesitated before entering, turned around twice, and saw, across the street, a wine shop.
Taking a deep breath, he crossed. A bottle of red, he decided. The best he could afford.
4.
Showered, dressed, glancing at the clock and not caring how soon midnight would come, Lisa Sparrow left her apartment. The hall was longer, quieter than usual. The elevator took its time answering her call, then descended slowly, without stopping.
She didn’t know where she was going. Same place as the night before, probably. Maybe she’d find Liz. Maybe she’d wake up to find it had all been just another dream.
Yeah, right.
Her heels echoed on the tiled floor.
She wasn’t feeling any better yet. She shoved the glass door open, stepped out into the cool night. Not cold. Brisk, maybe. Not much wind.
Three steps from the second door, less than half the distance to the street, she heard a clattering of nails. Feet tapping across the ceiling. A solid, lizard-like tongue clicking.
She looked up to both sides. Nothing.
She heard the sounds again, behind her this time. Still nothing.
Another sound: the snap of teeth.
Up again, and she saw it: maybe three feet long, hanging from the ceiling like a squirrel on the side of a tree, its nails (sharp, sharp nails) holding it. Long, flat ears, like a wolf or a cat. Big yellow eyes. Teeth. Ugly, stained, rotten teeth. Jagged teeth.
It licked its lips with a slurp.
Then it fell.
5.
The thing dropped from the ceiling. Jack Harlow, bottle in hand, saw it before he saw its intended victim. All his years of treading the dark, he’d never seen anything like it.
He had nearly crossed the street. Now, he ran. “Lisa!”
He pushed past someone. Didn’t take time to notice if it was a man or woman, alive or dead. Nothing mattered but Lisa.
The thing had claws. Teeth. It was on her, shredding and tearing. They tumbled together to the ground. She couldn’t shove the thing off. Jack raised the bottle, an Australian shiraz, and swung at its head.
Sent the thing flying.
It clutched a piece of Lisa’s hair in its claws. Smacked the wall, dropped to the concrete floor, turned and glared.
Jack swung again, missing, smashing the bottle on the wall. Red wine and green glass sprayed everywhere. The creature scampered aside, giggling, eyes afire. “She issss mine!” it hissed, scaling the wall and looking down at Jack. It grinned hideously and pointed an accusing finger. “You interfered!”
Jack lunged again, but it was quicker. The creature dropped to the ground. Bouncing, it said, “You issss in trouble!”
Jack brandished the broken bottle like a knife. “Try me,” he said.
“Or me,” another voice said. The stranger brought a blade down at the creature’s head—but his warning gave the thing time to step aside. The weapon sliced through one of its hands.
The creature screamed. High-pitched. Ear-piercing. It bounded out of the vestibule, into the night. The knifeman chased it.
Jack dropped the broken bottle and ran to Lisa’s side. Breathing heavy, eyes wide, scratches across her face, arms, and chest, tattered clothes. Teeth clenched in pain. She looked at Jack, her eyes unsteady. “What . . .”
“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t.” He held her gently, not sure how seriously it had hurt her.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Me? Don’t worry about me. You. I think we need a hospital.”
“No,” she said. “No, I’m fine. Fine. I’ll be fine. Take me upstairs. Just that. Take me back to my apartment, Jack. Please. That’s all I need.”
She pushed off the ground. Jack steadied her as she stood. She didn’t seem badly hurt. No chunks of flesh missing, no broken bones, eyes intact, no serious bleeding. Dizzy, perhaps in shock. She leaned on Jack to walk, and they went inside.
6.
Nick Hunter chased the beast. It was fast. Too damned fast, even running on three limbs.
It didn’t share the reek of typical vampires. Something he’d never seen before. If he hadn’t rounded that corner when he did, the thing would have slaughtered the woman and her companion.
He’d stuffed the knife back in his sheath. He’d thought to take the thing’s head clean off; he was close enough, and it hadn’t detected him. So he thought.
Its blood was black, thicker than oil, with a hint of red, but it left no trail. It smelled more animal than vampire. And it was gone.
Damn it, Nick should’ve been able to track it. Catch it. If it usually ran on all fours, the severed hand should’ve hobbled it.
It had raced around the side of the building, toward the lake, and veered through the trees toward another street. Nick followed that far, but couldn’t see where it had gone. There were houses here, a small restaurant, a bed and breakfast. Driveways disappeared behind the houses. Wood fences separated the yards.
The thing might’ve scaled the trees.
No blood on the street. No witnesses, jaws hanging, to indicate direction. Nothing knocked over or broken. He couldn’t even track it through the grass, with so much sidewalk and this cobblestone street.
Nick looked
up, aiming his gun wherever he looked. Nothing moved, not even wind. He felt stupid. Foolish. Inadequate.
It wasn’t a vampire. He didn’t know that for certain, but he felt it. Believed it. He’d been mistaken. Should not have gotten involved. But it was more like a vampire than a common criminal, and certainly not human. What else could it be? Anything. Anything at all. Nick realized, with a sudden heaviness, that if vampires existed, so too did other creatures: demons, werewolves, fairies. Dark, twisted out of reality, scarred and vicious.
CHAPTER SIX
1.
Lisa Sparrow tried to push out the memory of teeth—she remembered nothing but those and the claws. No luck. When she closed her eyes, the thing dropped on her again and again. Only Jack’s touch chased it away. It wasn’t sexual. He’d gotten her into her tub, tended her wounds, washed and rinsed them, and bandaged the worst. She let him.
“You’re okay,” Jack said. Again. His voice comforted her. Had he been coming back? Had fate intervened, sending him to her that very moment? She suspected it had been nothing more than luck.
And love, she wanted to tell herself, but she wouldn’t hear it. Not yet. She wasn’t sure the teeth wouldn’t return.
Lisa hadn’t said much since getting upstairs. She closed her eyes, clenched her fists, and let Jack wash her.
2.
She wasn’t badly hurt. The scratches were mostly superficial. Jack Harlow found a first aid kit under her sink and applied antibiotic creams to the cuts.
It had gotten her back worst. Crisscrossing scratches. A few bites. If Jack had been any later . . .
If he’d been earlier, he might have prevented the whole thing. The creature would’ve skipped Lisa, just as all night things always ignored Jack.
“You’ll be okay,” Jack said, not the first time.
After Lisa began to relax, Jack helped her out of the tub. He toweled her dry. Led her back to the bed, which she’d made, and tucked her in.
She didn’t really need the help. She could walk perfectly fine. See straight. Totally coherent. The initial shock had worn off. He didn’t think the cuts were deep enough to scar.
“You’ll be okay,” he said. It had become a mantra by now. “I need to get some things.”
“Leaving again already?”
“I won’t be long,” Jack said. “I need some things from my car. I won’t be thirty minutes.”
Lisa nodded. “Do you know what that thing was?”
How much should he tell her? How much could she handle—or accept? “I don’t think so,” he finally said. “But I want to be sure.”
He’d recorded things in his computer for years, building a database that might, in fact, include a creature just like this one. He didn’t remember any, but that’s why he had the laptop. Memory played tricks. Time warped it. He didn’t trust himself to cross-reference every little detail in his head.
So he’d been tracking this information with a purpose, after all.
He kissed her cheek, then her lips. “Half an hour,” he said.
He took the keys to the apartment and locked the door on his way out.
The hall was empty. A few spots of blood, nothing noticeable. The next cleaning crew would take care of that.
He descended in the elevator. The downstairs hall, with its tiled floor and mass produced art, was just as clean.
Outside the glass doors, blood stained the ground. Not human blood—this was blacker, easily mistaken for oil or even water. No one had reported anything, apparently. Jack didn’t see the severed hand anywhere.
The streets were unusually quiet. Nearly barren. A small breeze had risen, chilling his back.
He didn’t want to leave her again, but he didn’t know what he was dealing with. If the claws carried poisons, Lisa might be dying. He doubted it; those had been designed to tear and rend. But if he’d seen one before, maybe he could . . . what, fight it? Destroy it? It was long gone, and the knifeman with it. It wouldn’t come back.
He hadn’t gone fifty feet when the next streetlamp flickered and went out. Twice in one night, as if he interfered with the flow of electricity.
He kept walking.
His Mustang was on the opposite side of downtown, maybe ten blocks west and a few more north, but by the time he reached the far end of the lake, Jack heard footsteps.
They echoed his own, but imprecisely. Off to the right, toward Lake Eola and the path which circled it. He saw nothing. No one. Too many bushes and trees in the way.
He quickened his pace.
Past the lake, a few small stores faced the street: a locksmith, a bookshop, a restaurant where people still dined outside, laughing and drinking.
The footsteps were to his left now. Across the two-lane street, the double yellow lines. Houses behind that sidewalk, and trees, and plenty of places to hide. The echoes stopped when Jack stopped.
Maybe they were normal sounds, his own feet bouncing off of curved metallic objects, or cars, or 200-year-old oaks. He didn’t believe it.
He crossed Magnolia, a one-way, three-lane street, where trees gave way to buildings. A lot of cars were parked along here, and in a private lot at the corner. He passed the library, a parking garage, a few clubs, a tattoo parlor.
The echoes came from above now.
He turned down Orange, the main thoroughfare of downtown, and passed a row of clubs. Pretty people in designer clothes lined the sidewalks, partitioned from the rest of the world by velvet ropes, let in one at a time by an overly muscular Hispanic man in a tuxedo. A crowd of Goths gathered near another bar, the same where the vampire chick had winked at him.
There, in the window (which was not a window at all, painted black on both sides), a shimmering ghost stared at him. He had tried to tell Jack stories the other night.
He watched Jack approach with an expression resembling sorrow, or maybe pity.
“Back for my stories?” the ghost asked. “A drink, perhaps?”
“Nothing,” Jack said.
The ghost squinted, as if trying to look at Jack more closely. “Ah, but you have changed.” No one else heard or saw the ghost. It was a private showing, just as it had been the night before.
Jack stopped alongside the window, lowered his voice so as not be overheard. “Shouldn’t you be off haunting something?”
“Oh, I am, really,” the ghost said. “But you can’t fault a man for curiosity. Kill a man for it, certainly, that’s been done. Oh, I could tell you stories.”
“So I’ve heard.” People walked behind him, most ignoring him entirely, some sparing a second look. Jack pretended to be examining the flyers posted on the window: advertisements for bands, techno nights, parties.
“You’re in trouble, aren’t you?” the ghost asked. “Someplace you haven’t been before. I can tell. You’re the opposite of what you were. Attracting rather than repelling.”
“If you have something to tell me,” Jack said, “something so important you came to the very edge of your…habitat.” Jack tapped, once, on the window, “then quit fucking around and tell me.”
The ghost smiled. After a minute, he said, “Come back when you have time for a story.” He faded backwards, into the club.
3.
Quiet: the room, the whole apartment, the entire world. Sitting at the edge of her bed, staring out the window, Lisa Sparrow felt the thickness of silence. The depth of it.
She couldn’t see the street, just the lake and the path around it, buildings on the other side, even the theatre. Movement, too, of people and night birds, shadows and silhouettes, merely shapes, all of them.
She didn’t feel the scratches on her face, back, and breasts. They had burned at first, itched afterwards, but now she wouldn’t know they were there if the window didn’t reflect them—and it did a poor job of that. She, and the room behind her, looked ghostly. The glass also reflected recent memories: yellow eyes and teeth, dropping, slashing, slicing, laughing.
It would be easier to forget Jack.
Would he
come back again? Did he feel as strongly as she suspected—as strongly as she felt? What did she feel? Better to focus on questions about Jack Harlow, wandering mystery man who had returned, than the champing teeth, the biting, the slashing.
Midnight approached. The Witching Hour. The beginning of tomorrow. Sleep, perchance to dream—as Hamlet had said—what dreams may come? None good for Lisa Sparrow.
Though tired, her eyes refused to shut before Jack returned. If he failed to, she would never sleep again. That thing would haunt her dreams. Better to sit on the end of the bed and never lay down again. Stare outside until the sun rose and fell and rose again, endlessly, infinitely, until the very thought of dreams—and all visions, images, and ideas—disintegrated within her mind. She had need of none.
Lisa inhaled deeply, held the breath. It wasn’t like her to fold up or collapse. She released the air slowly, through her mouth, expelling anxieties and tension. There, those were things she didn’t need.
She could prepare better next time. Get pepper spray, or a gun for her purse. Take karate lessons. Pump iron. Cast spells that burned three-foot-tall teeth-baring creatures to ash. Life was simpler when she only had to worry about random drive-by shootings, terrorism, and co-workers going postal.
Jack was out there. He had her key. He’d be back. Next to him, she could sleep. Dream of flowers and sunshine and . . .
No, that was wrong. Not sunshine. Jack belonged to the dark. She knew it, then, as truth. Something she should have realized right from the beginning—and something he’d never be able to change. That’s why he’d left.
But then he’d come back.
4.
The street grew darker as Jack passed the parking lot and police station. No kids got in his way this time. Still, he cast furtive glances left, right, over his shoulder. He watched the distance ahead of him. The sky above.
DarkWalker Page 5
