“You’re being watched,” Nick said.
“It’s never been like this.”
“And I don’t feel very comfortable in your spotlight,” Nick said.
Jack suddenly wanted to stop him. What if the night beasts attacked? What if the zombie had only been the first? What if, what if, what if?
The hunter walked into those shadows, deeper and deeper until the darkness swallowed him.
4.
Jack Harlow had seen many things in his life, but he’d always felt invisible. On the sidelines. Safe. The hunter had said a word: spotlight. It was exactly right. The world focused on Jack now. Why? How? For how long?
All Jack wanted was to get back to Lisa, make sure she was okay, kill that damned . . . imp, that’s what it was.
Names often—but not always—came to him. He didn’t make up errant zombie, or lycanthrope, or revenant. After seeing something, he knew what to call it. Sometimes, he knew things by reputation. Ghosts, vampires, and witches all had stories and legends and myths. Sometimes, Jack knew instinctively which stories had an inkling of truth—like he’d done this before, but so long ago he couldn’t always be certain.
Imp. That was all he knew. Popular culture had no silver bullets or holy water to deal with such creatures. They were unique to Jack’s experience.
One of the owls launched into the air. It flew low over Jack’s head before veering away from the lake.
He walked slowly. Carefully. He made sure every step was light, soft, in the grass, so his feet didn’t tap the asphalt. He watched every shadow. Some shadows lived—or approximated living. They watched and listened, just as Jack did. He carried his laptop loosely in one hand.
Something had changed, something fundamental. Was it the imp? The Asian vampire chick? The ghost in the club? Or was it the ghost that followed him, even now, clinging to his warmth because she could not see “the light”?
“Are you still there?” he asked.
No immediate answer.
“I know you can’t see me, but I’m still warm, aren’t I?”
“You are,” she said.
“You sound young.”
“I was.”
“You can’t stay with me.”
“There is no place else,” she pleaded.
“There are hundreds of places. Thousands. Millions. But you must leave me.”
“Why?” She choked on the word, ready to cry.
“What do you hear around me?”
“Whispering,” she said, lowering her voice. “Voices. Footsteps. Questions. I hear no words, just the tone.”
“They’ve been with me since you came,” he said.
“No,” she said.
“They have,” Jack insisted. “My life was . . . not ordinary, no, but simple. Always the same. Not since you.”
“I didn’t bring them,” she said. “I’m not bringing them, am I? I can’t be. They weren’t there from the beginning. When I touched you in the hotel . . .”
“Touched?” Jack asked.
She ignored the interruption. “There was nothing then. No one. Everything pretended you weren’t there. Moved aside, even. It was hard to stay with you then. Now…now, I don’t want to go. I’m drawn to you.”
“Why?”
“The snapping thing. The clicking thing.”
“The imp,” Jack said.
She shivered. Jack felt it as a vibration through the chill around him. “It was awful,” she said. “I hated to be near it.”
If she was right, if the imp had changed things . . . Jack had done it to himself. He’d interrupted, protecting Lisa. He’d made himself a target. Whatever immunity he’d had, he surrendered it up the moment he interfered.
CHAPTER EIGHT
1.
Clouds gathered. They obscured the stars, veiled the moon and threatened. The weatherman had said they’d come, and that early Friday they’d bring rain.
But the moon still shone through. They were in thin layers as yet, the clouds, but building.
One step. Jack Harlow took only one step onto the path, toward Lisa’s apartment building, and a huge man stepped out of the dark. Not an ounce of fat. Bulging arms, tattoos up and down the sides—and across the chest, beneath an open leather vest. A yellow-toothed grin. One eyebrow lower than the other and no other hair on his head. Silver through his nose, lining his earlobes, studs under his lip. Around his neck, he wore a black dog collar with inch long spikes; more were grafted onto the knuckles of his left fist like claws. Black leather pants and heavy boots.
He inhaled, expanding his broad chest, raising his shoulders and lifting his hands to fight. “Nice night, ain’t it?”
Normally, Jack could walk right past him, brush by, exchange a few words if absolutely necessary. But tonight, Jack wasn’t sure it’d be so easy. There wasn’t anyone else to be this thing’s victim, only Jack.
“So, you watch,” the man said, lifting the higher eyebrow and narrowing the other. “And they think I’m the freak.”
“What do you want?” Jack asked.
The thing—ogre—laughed humorlessly. He reached up, grasped one of his tattoos—a dagger—and pulled it from his skin. The dagger was real, not ink, and came away with a sticky slapping sound. It was twice as long as the tat had been.
On his other arm, a fanged snake twisted around his thick bicep. He pulled the snake free. It writhed around his hand, black, hissing, venom dripping from its mouth, eyes intent on Jack.
It was Jack’s turn to laugh. “Like you need those.”
The ogre shrugged. “Likes my toys, I do.” He pulled the snake-arm back, swung it forward, and shot the end of the snake like a whip.
Jack stepped aside as it snapped, teeth striking exactly where he’d been standing. The snake returned to the ogre’s hand, but its eyes never left Jack.
“I eat punks like you,” the ogre said. “Pick the gristle from my teeth with your bones.”
“Appetizing,” Jack said.
The ogre swung the snake-whip again, closer, almost getting him. His grin widened as Jack almost stumbled.
Jack couldn’t fight it. The man was easily two feet taller and two feet broader, and could probably lift Jack with his pinky finger. And there were more weapon-tattoos for him to grab: skulls, dragons, demonic faces.
It was fight or flight. Jack had only one real option. He ran.
He took off to the left, away from Lake Eola and toward the street. He hopped a low hedge, trampled some flowers, and ran between the trees. It wasn’t forest-thick here, mostly open spaces near the edge of downtown, so he couldn’t hide. Jack hoped whatever the ogre had gained in muscle, it lost in speed. When he glanced back, as he reached the street, the ogre lumbered after him.
Not slowly enough.
Magnolia Avenue was ahead. There, the trees and houses gave way to buildings and alleys. He’d put a good amount of space between him and the ogre and halved the distance to the other street. This was three lanes, one way, and very few cars drove past.
“Wanna party?” a woman asked. He hadn’t seen her there, on the side of the road near the corner. Huge breasts, short skirt, bleached blonde hair. She opened her blouse, revealing gnashing teeth where nipples should’ve been. “Free for you tonight, sugar.”
Jack ran into the street, heedless of the traffic—which was light. Someone screeched on their brakes. A horn honked. A Lexus veered to the side, narrowly missing him.
Reaching the other side, Jack looked back. The prostitute smiled and blew pink bubblegum bubbles. The ogre ran into the street—and into the path of a semi.
Jack hadn’t seen the truck, either. Its brakes locked. Its horn screamed. It tried to turn, angling only slightly before smashing the ogre with its grill.
The truck shuddered with the impact. Bones cracked audibly, and again when the ogre landed. The ogre split open down the side. He landed on his face, tumbled and rolled a good fifty feet. Dagger and snake were thrown aside. Blood poured from his arm and face, along his ribs a
nd leg. His entire left side had been demolished.
The truck managed to stop without losing control, but the car behind it crumpled under the suddenly stopped semi. Its airbag filled. A moment later, drivers of both car and truck stumbled out of their vehicles. A crowd was already gathering.
The hooker, still visible, breasts exposed, teeth champing, popped her bubble gum.
Jack ran down the street, one or two blocks, checking over his shoulder to make sure the ogre never rose and the prostitute stayed on her corner. Finally, panting, he stopped to catch his breath.
2.
Lost him.
Nick Hunter had chased Jack—and by default, his pursuer. Still unsure whether or not to shoot, he ran with gun in hand and the relative certainty that he’d be shooting the big, leather-clad monster of a man, but he never got the chance.
Distracted by the big man’s being run down, Nick lost sight of Jack. Completely. Up and down the street in either direction, he saw nothing but a growing crowd wanting to get a better look at the abomination sprawled across two lanes. Blood pooled beneath the thing. He looked unlikely to get up. That didn’t mean anything. His dagger had clattered under one of the cars on either side of the road. Maybe the snake continued the chase.
Nick wondered, had the semi not taken down the ogre, if he could’ve. Would’ve been fun to try.
A number of people rushed forward, or out of their cars, to see the thing in the street and gape at the dent it left in the truck. The driver was shaking, leaning on the side of his vehicle.
Near Nick, a prostitute—a little out of her regular neighborhood, apparently—twirled hair in one hand and pink bubblegum in the other. She looked up and down Nick, smiled big, then looked down at her own cleavage. “Wanna?”
Nick shook his head. “Sorry, hon. Not my type.”
“Fuck you,” she said, turning back to the scene in the street.
He didn’t follow Jack out of some desire to help, nor out of curiosity—not about the man, anyhow. He understood enough. If he thought too much about it, he wanted the information on that computer. Types. Methods of elimination. The dark, obviously, had kept secrets from Nick—secrets Jack had in that tiny black box. And in the back of his mind was an urging to follow, an unnatural instinct being thrust upon him by outside forces. He didn’t understand it. Follow, stalk, hurt, kill. He didn’t have to obey, not all the way; but a compulsion cannot always be simply ignored.
At the first sign of flashing lights, Nick tucked his gun into his pants. The cruiser stopped behind the semi. More were coming.
If Nick couldn’t find him, he at least knew where Jack was headed.
3.
Jack had run four blocks before the truck demolished the ogre, four blocks away from Lisa and deeper into a dark that surrounded him now. The street he’d chosen was not well lit. Houses lines both sides; behind him, downtown disappeared behind trees that canopied the street. Very little moonlight reached him.
Cobblestones lined the road. Fences and hedges fronted some houses, some apartments, only a few cars were parked on the street. Jack walked in the middle, away from corners, hiding places, and surprises. It had been too interesting a night already.
Leaves rustled in the wind. Cars on other streets sounded like a low, distant murmur. The laptop, thin as it was, felt heavier now. He still felt a chill on the air. “Still with me?” he asked.
“What was that?” the ghost asked.
“Ogre,” Jack said. “I think.”
“Like, with a club?”
“Almost,” Jack said.
“And a snake? I thought I heard a snake.”
“What do you hear now?” Jack asked.
Silence. “Nothing.”
“Would you let me know if you do?” Jack asked. “I don’t much like surprises.”
A moment of silence, and then, “Don’t you want to know who I am?”
Jack blinked. “What?”
“Who I am,” she said. “I mean, you know I’m a ghost. That I was stuck in that motel room until you came along.”
“I didn’t free you,” Jack said.
“No, but you told me how to escape.”
“Did I?”
“Go to the light, you said. Except, I can’t see, so I followed the warmth. Your warmth freed me.” She paused. “So don’t you want to know who I am? How I got there?”
Jack thought about it a moment. Not really, he wanted to say, but he couldn’t. She’d started to become a person to him, more than just part of the darkness. He didn’t want to know her. He didn’t want the attachment. But it was too late. She was worse than a wink, worse than the ghost in that damned bar trying to tell him stories . . . but not as bad as the things that wanted him dead. “Can it wait?”
“It’s not like I’m going anywhere,” she said. “But you can at least ask my name.”
When he didn’t answer, she said, “Come on, ask who I am.”
But if he knew her name . . . Jack shook his head. If she had a name, something more than just the blind ghost girl, she would be real.
He wasn’t sure it was a good idea. “What’s your name?”
She giggled. “I’m Claire. Claire Winters. Pleased to meet you.”
“Hi, Claire,” Jack said.
As they talked, he walked. He checked up and down every road he passed, watched driveways and carports. Checked windows for silhouettes. Paid careful attention to the movement of shadows.
At Lake Avenue, which was too small to be called an avenue, Jack turned north again, back toward Lisa’s apartment and the lake.
On a normal night, he wouldn’t expect to see anything else; tonight, in fact, had been the most active ever: imp, hunter, zombie, ogre, even the hooker—and Claire Winters with him, every step of the way, watching in her own way. But he hadn’t witnessed things tonight; he’d participated. And he expected more. The night was too young, the dark too ominous. Until he reached Lisa’s apartment, he wouldn’t feel safe.
Not safe was a new sensation for Jack Harlow. He wasn’t frightened, didn’t expect to die, but he couldn’t assume the things he saw would continue turning blindly away from him. They were interested now.
The breeze, at his back, carried a sudden chill. He glanced over his shoulder, not slowing. A minivan on the side of the road. A mailbox. Oaks. A low wooden fence. Bushes. And a shadow, yes, a slippery, slithering shade, almost human in shape. Translucent, with coal-like eyes.
Anyone other than Jack would have missed it.
It flowed without sound, drifting without regard to the wind’s direction.
“What is it?” Claire asked.
Jack said nothing. He’d stopped walking. Narrowed his eyes.
It was almost tall, almost broad, nearly solid, and almost on top of him.
“I’m getting tired of this,” Jack told the dark.
No response. The mass rolled forward, thicker than the dark around it, deeper than shadows.
It reminded Jack of Edgar Allen Poe: Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing, Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before. Jack now knew what it was like to be stared down by the abyss. The depth of the darkness, the solidity, the cold, the gloom—it hurt and it awed and it frightened him.
The face, if there was one, grinned, baring teeth, its mouth a black hole.
Run, Jack told himself, but his will was not strong enough to make his legs move. Go.
“It’s so cold,” Claire said. Jack felt her shivering. He closed his eyes and prepared for the worst.
For a long while, nothing happened, as though time had stretched infinitely. No life flashed before Jack’s eyes, just images of Lisa. Their time together was short, but it had given him a deep joy with which to die. She was the only happiness he’d known since the night he turned seventeen.
He had no expectations of death, nor certainty that it would come. The cold crept around him, pricked his skin, caressed him like a lover—a deeper, harsher cold than the
ghost Claire. It enveloped him slowly, slipping between fingers and through his lips, under his eyelids, into his nostrils and ears, into every pore of his skin. It snaked under his clothes, coating him, in his hair like wind, under his fingernails. It wrapped around his tongue, his wrists, his chest. It touched every cell, every molecule, every ion that made Jack what he was, and siphoned him out of himself. Strength ebbed. Consciousness wavered. His hearing muted. Muscles locked. And the cold intensified.
Hours might have passed. Seconds. Years. The air around him shimmered, threatening to knock him over, but he was frozen. He opened his eyes, best as he could, as the cold seeped away.
Claire.
She stood, back to him, her arms locked around the shadow. They struggled, dancing, fingers locked, neither fully visible but both solidifying in the cold.
“Run!” Claire said.
Jack still couldn’t move. The ice left gradually. His muscles were achy and stiff. Ghost and shadow melded together, joining at the hands, the hips, even the mouths locked in an eternal kiss as their bodies hardened together.
The shadow’s scream was so high-pitched, Jack heard nothing but had to cover his ears because of the excruciating pain. Windows on a nearby car splintered. In the distance, in every direction, dogs started barking, and wolves. Bats took flight. Shadows receded. The shade, and Claire Winters, became a solid thing. They dropped to the street, no longer floating, all sense of cold gone from Jack’s body.
He’d been an inch from death. Closer.
Where they fell, their legs crumbled away like dust. The rest of their bodies, united and distorted, began to break apart. Chunks that hit the ground puffed into gray dust and were gone.
“Claire?” Jack asked.
No answer. A section of the ghost/shadow’s legs split away, shattering, and the upper bodies fell to one side, disintegrating to dust on impact.
Jack stepped back, his muscles sore and timid but working. After another moment, nothing remained. The shadows around him were normal, albeit dark and thick. The air was warm, almost hot. She’d sacrificed herself for him, the great moment of a hero’s life, but he wasn’t worth it. He hadn’t earned it. It was a debt he might never repay.
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