When the creature fled, she barely noticed.
She held Jack’s hand, held his head, said nothing about the tears trickling from his eye.
He was right; it had smelled like death. She’d recognize that odor next time. Maybe she’d be able to do something, even if the hunter could not.
She didn’t know what the new Lisa Sparrow would be like. Stronger? She’d never been weak. Smarter? She’d never been dumb. More aware, maybe. Eyes open. Alert. Conscious. Like Jack and even Nick, even the smoke beast that had tried to take her lover, she now belonged to the night. That was the difference. There would be few, if any, days of basking in the sun. Tans and bikinis, sand and surf, those were things of the past. She’d wake at sunset, prowl—not unlike a vampire—and return to bed at dawn. She couldn’t be the person she’d been, not any more.
It hadn’t taken the teeth dropping down on her to change Lisa’s life; Jack had done that. The moment they’d met, everything had changed.
She hated to think she might be the catalyst that had endangered him. He was a watcher, not a victim. Maybe she couldn’t see everything, but she’d seen the vaudoux, and the smoke, and the imp that had attacked her. More than enough for any sane, rational person. She was sane, and rational, but accepting.
Jack opened his eyes again. Looked straight at her, gave a weak smile. “Stories,” he said.
“Right.” She helped Jack to his feet, then retrieved the knife she’d dropped at the shattered window. No more fancy pumps for her, no stiletto heels, nothing for going out. Sensible shoes: something in which she could run. Jump. Fight. Good thing she was wearing workout clothes.
The future stretched before her like a blank canvas, wiped clear of the mundane.
Now, she saw the sentinels more clearly. There, in the corner of an upstairs apartment window, a cat watched them. A bird upon the flagpole. Faces in the alleys, belonging not just to the homeless who had lined the path along the lake. Exposure had made her aware of the things she’d previously ignored.
“You okay?” Jack asked.
“Me?” Lisa kissed him lightly. “I’m not the one falling like a stone.”
“I hate to break this up, kids,” Nick said, “but we ought to keep moving.”
2.
Nick Hunter checked his watch. Less than two hours till sunrise.
Morning people would be arriving soon. Bakeries would bake, papers would be delivered any moment. A new day had officially begun for many.
Jack led the way to a club. All such places were closed. Late-night eateries were dark, gates rolled down over some storefronts, doors locked. Workers, having cleaned up after the last stray customers, were home asleep, dreaming or nightmaring.
“Well?” Jack said. He wasn’t talking to Nick, or even to Lisa, but to the ghost that lived here. Haunted here? Died here? Nick didn’t try to puzzle it out.
“You said you had stories to tell,” Jack said. “Would blow my mind.” Emotionless. No fear, no excitement, nothing. Admirable, Nick thought.
The ghost, the other half of the conversation, remained invisible to Nick Hunter. Still, Nick kept a hand on his gun, and didn’t let his gaze rest on either of his companions.
Lisa might be seeing the ghost. Her eyes were wide, lips slightly parted.
The rooftops seemed empty, nearby windows clear. Here, in the heart of an empty downtown, every sound echoed. A pebble pushed aside by a roach resounded like an avalanche. Every noise attracted Nick’s attention. He felt feeble, positioned as he was, a bodyguard of sorts. Protection, the first line of defense, and vulnerable.
The next attack could come from anywhere. It might even be a vampire.
He saw maybe the trace of a figure in the blackened window, a hint, but heard no voice. And then, suddenly, Jack’s cool veneer slid into disappointment—and anger.
3.
“What do you mean, it’s too late?” Jack asked.
In the window, the ghost seemed like a living photograph, neither whole nor three-dimensional. A big, wide, pale image, shimmering, distorted by imperfections in the glass.
“You’ve marked yourself,” the ghost said. “You didn’t just make yourself a target, you slapped on a green, day-glow raincoat that screams Come and get me like a fuckin’ dinner bell.”
“So,” Jack said, “are you here to get me?”
“Not interested,” the ghost said, “though I’ve got to admit, the thought has its appeal.”
“Really?” Jack didn’t like the direction of this conversation, but he needed all the information he could get.
“Hey, it’s your life,” the ghost said. “Or death, as it may be.” He turned his eyes to Lisa. “Cute. Not as fine as the lass here the other night.”
“No?” Lisa asked.
The ghost raised its eyebrows. “You see me?”
Lisa nodded.
“And what about you, there, with that stupid expression like someone’s about to jump out and go Boo, do you see me too?” Nick, however, did not respond. Didn’t even look. “Guess not. So there’s two of you, then. If you really want stories, I can tell you some. Though to be honest . . .” He paused, looking again at Lisa. “I really hate to spoil a lady’s ears.”
“Tell me more about the raincoat,” Jack said.
“Raincoat?” The ghost furrowed his eyebrows. “Ah, yes, that. Just a metaphor. You’re attracting, now. Strong pull. You just ain’t the same as when we first met. Should’ve listened to my stories then, maybe you would’ve missed the big change. You had a slipperiness then, a suggestion of look away about you, a flashing red sign that said, No Touch. Now, it demands, Do your worst.”
“What changed me?” Jack asked.
The ghost laughed. “Damned if I know.”
The phantom had no information for Jack. He only wanted an audience.
“Tell you what,” the ghost said. “Why don’t you come in, pour yourselves a drink, and sit back for a while? I’ll tell you about a girl I knew back in . . . in . . . well, fuck, who cares what year it was, right? She was gorgeous, that’s all that matters. Body to kill.” He winked at Lisa. “Like yours, really. Blonder hair, shorter. A fox, I tell you.”
Lisa looked at Jack. He said, “Maybe another time.”
“C’mon,” the ghost said. “Drinks are on the house. Until the cops come.”
Jack shook his head. “When I’ve taken off the raincoat.”
“That, right. Good luck. Never seen anything like it. Almost gives me the strength to get out of this place.” He shimmered. “Still stuck. I swear, if you pulled, I mean gave a good, strong tug, you could get me out of here.”
“You’re not just a ghost,” Jack said. “A revenant, right?” No answer. “I imagine you’ll be stuck there until you do something about the guy who killed you.”
“And what would you know about it?” the ghost asked; his image bubbled and turned like boiling water. “He ain’t never been back, never will, probably dead as I am and enjoying the fuck out of it. So why don’t you take your sweet little girlfriend and your paranoid pal and find some other corner of the dark to haunt. This place is mine.”
The revenant turned sharply and faded quickly.
Lisa touched Jack’s shoulder. Smiled softly. Her eyes glistened—or were they his eyes? If the ghost couldn’t tell him anything, who could?
“Is it gone?” Nick asked.
“He knew nothing,” Jack said. “Which gains me exactly nothing.”
“No help, then?” Nick asked.
Jack shook his head.
“Any other potential fonts of information?” Nick asked.
Jack Harlow, in fact, had no idea what to do next. His life had consisted of wandering. No maps, no destinations. He followed roads. Sometimes, they brought him to interesting places. Often, they led to tiny towns in the middle of nowhere.
He sometimes believed the roads conspired against him, bringing him to various towns and cities specifically so he might witness something and write it down, as if the int
erstates had a mind of their own and directed him, pulling down snow when they wanted him to stop, throwing up barriers to make him turn, even destroying bridges to keep him away from someplace else.
If a greater mind had a plan for him, a reason for his sight, Jack didn’t know it.
The wraith was the first thing he’d actually fought. It had seemed small, what he’d done, but he knew better. Just closing his own eyes, pulling himself away from the suffering of his reflection, had been an amazing feat of willpower (with timely assistance by the slight touch of Lisa Sparrow, of course).
Sometimes, he knew things he shouldn’t. Their methods, their strengths and weaknesses, and fears. He knew to put out the wraith’s eyes, that the zombie’s head must be cut. These were instincts, not learned by rote or experience.
If he walked a predetermined path, nothing indicated the direction of his next step. Normally, he’d just get in his Mustang and hit the gas. The roads rarely brought him back.
He’d tried to stop, more than once; each time, boredom set in within days. By the end of a month—the longest he’d remained in one place since he was seventeen—he thought he might go crazy. His life was meant to be in motion.
But there were ties now, bonds he wanted to keep.
4.
Nick Hunter shifted his weight from foot to foot. He glanced down the street, to the rooftops, waiting for something, anything, to pop out of nowhere and strike while they stood there.
This wasn’t his game. He could step out whenever he wanted, walk away and return to his own path. Nothing, absolutely nothing, prevented him from running off. Vicious, rotting, inhuman creatures existed in the dark. The vampires alone gave Nick plenty of exercise. Did he need more?
“You’ve been doing this a while,” Lisa said to Jack. “I’d think, by now, you’d know someone who can help you.”
Jack shook his head. “Mostly, I just see things. They rarely speak to me, and I’ve never, never approached them.”
“Maybe,” Lisa said, “that was a mistake.”
The smell of death returned: rotting tissue, fresh earth, something recently dead, recently risen. Nick cleared his throat. “We’re about to have company.”
“I can’t change what I didn’t do,” Jack said.
This wasn’t a vampire smell. A hint of mold. Worms. A snapping of bones, like twigs, as the thing came closer.
Nick settled into a low fighting stance and trained the gun in every direction he looked.
“Maybe we should go,” Lisa suggested.
They were nearly twenty paces from the corner. The building obscured any view of the cross street.
“Too late,” Nick said. “Let it show itself.”
Silence.
A crackling, followed by more silence.
The dead thing rounded the corner. It followed their path. Dragged one foot behind it. A man just a week ago, it was now moist and sludgy. When it came into sight, the putrid odor intensified. Its eyes were dead, coated by a white membrane that contrasted the dirt-encrusted face and body. Its mouth hung open, the jaw broken, teeth missing. Both arms dangled at its sides. Something had eaten away most of its stomach area and genitals.
Whatever it was, the dead man moved with incredible slowness. It pushed a stiff leg out, pulled itself forward, then did it again.
Between the eyes. If it had been a vampire, Nick could hit it between the eyes, in the throat, or in the heart. Choice of targets. Everything exposed. But he couldn’t kill a dead thing, even with bullets of silver, and he shouldn’t waste them on such a negligible threat.
He stepped back, lowered his gun, and said, “I don’t think we have to worry about this one.”
Then all Hell broke loose.
CHAPTER TWELVE
1.
As soon as Nick’s eyes left it, the dead thing moved. It was not so slow as it pretended. Suddenly quick and agile, it wrapped a tight, strong hand around Nick’s wrist. The skin sloughed a little, but Nick couldn’t get free before it pried his gun loose.
A winged man, with fangs and talons, swooped from the rooftops, passing over Nick, aiming for Jack and Lisa.
Other figures moved, too, but the dead thing demanded Nick’s attention. Nick managed to twist his hand free by pulling it down, then kneed the dead man’s stomach cavity. Maggots and worms spilled from its mouth. Flies swarmed around its head. Nick punched the thing in the chest, hard enough to kill a man. His fist broke through rotted flesh and cracked the sternum. For an infinite, panic-filled moment, Nick couldn’t pull his hand free.
2.
Lisa finally screamed when the clay man grabbed her.
She hadn’t seen it, didn’t see where it had come from. Its hands were soft, malleable, but solid enough to wrap across her chest and yank her backwards—out of the path of the winged man.
With all her strength, and every ounce of self-defense training she’d ever picked up, she elbowed its chest, making a squishy sound. Its hold slackened just enough for Lisa to duck down, slip forward, and turn to face it.
The golem stood at least seven feet tall. Its face had barely been shaped, more the idea of a man rather than an actual figure. It wore the indentation of her elbow.
No mouth had been marked. It could neither speak nor grin. It lunged with both hands, meaning to choke her. Lisa stepped back at an angle, just out of its range.
A battalion of rats swarmed at her feet, gray, thick as shoes, with long, naked tails and iridescent red eyes. Most ran past her, around her feet or over them; some climbed her calves. One bit behind her knee. Two fell loose on their own; she swept more away while another bit her lower thigh.
Then the clay hands closed around her throat.
3.
Jack Harlow had walked in the dark for years. He’d never seen different creatures working together. The dead man lunging at Nick. The golem grabbing Lisa. Mindless automatons, golems always worked for someone, or something, but were usually employed for protection, not assault.
Jack ducked to avoid the talons of the winged man.
When he turned, the were-bat was fully human, except for its claws, those teeth, and bat-like ears. Like any other lycanthropic thing, it was part human but mostly beast; it was unintelligent and primal and driven by instinct. It was vicious and strong and fierce and relentless.
It hissed, grabbing Jack by the throat. Behind the were-bat, something else. Something big. Twice the size of any of them, bigger even than the ogre. Burgundy skin, a single horn in its head, yellow cat eyes, three-fingered hands.
But the were-bat had Jack. Its fingers ripped the flesh of his neck. Jack fell backwards, pulling the man-like thing on top of him. He lost his breath when he hit the sidewalk. The beast hissed.
4.
The rats came as an organized swarm, a small army, a squadron of which had broken from the rest of the pack to focus on Lisa. A half dozen—at least—climbed her, their little claws clinging to her jeans and shirt, their teeth—more teeth—taking small chunks of flesh. Clay hands tightened around her throat, crushing her windpipe. She kicked, hard, to no avail. Her punches made small, ineffective indentations.
One of the rats reached the clay hands and came at her face. Lisa swung her head one way, then the other, losing the one rat and loosening the clay grip—but not enough. Another rat chomped on her stomach.
She shoved herself forward, into the clay golem, throwing him off balance, backwards, and into the wall. The rats that fell never returned, going for their real target: Jack. The golem lost his grip. Lisa wrenched herself free, and hit something on the ground.
5.
Lisa toppled over the were-bat and Jack. The beast took the brunt of her fall, allowing Jack to finally roll free. But even as he reached his feet again, despite the rats that swarmed around him, he was grabbed from behind. One arm snaked under his arm and around his torso; the other covered his mouth. Her chest pressed to his back, her lips close enough that her breath warmed his ear, she whispered, “Hold on.”
&
nbsp; Then she jumped.
Gunshots followed. The were-bat hissed, transforming as it, too, leapt into the sky. The golem looked up. The rats, confused, scattered. The red-skinned demon clenched its fists and raised its enraged face.
Then Jack couldn’t see the street anymore. His captor landed, rough, on the roof, two stories above the street, and pulled him away from the edge.
6.
His hand barely out of the dead man’s chest, Nick Hunter threw a crescent kick—his leg rose alongside his opponent and smashed the side of its head hard enough to crack bones. The thing stumbled aside, dazed, dropping the gun it had just taken from Nick’s hands.
A second kick snapped the dead man’s neck. The head lolled to one side, hanging by threads of rotted flesh. Nick brought his elbow up under the head, smashing the ear, tearing the last sinews and knocking it into the air. The head rolled into the street; the body dropped.
Nick found his gun and shot twice at the vampire carrying Jack. The vampire landed on the roof. The were-bat followed. Nick shot twice more, then once at the were-bat.
Every shot missed the vampire, or was useless, but he hit the were-bat in the small of the back. From his angle, that meant the bullet probably went up through the heart, exiting near the throat. The bat crashed, hard, into the golem. Rats scattered. Blood rained from its wound.
The demon might have been the devil himself, except Nick always thought there’d be two horns. No pitch fork. A tail, yes, and a forked tongue. It hissed, having watching the vampire’s leap, and vanished in a hot red cloud.
The golem slumped, already splattered and deformed, and began to melt. The rats disappeared in every available crevice. Neither the were-bat nor the walking corpse moved. Lisa managed to stand again.
Jack was gone.
7.
Lisa stared up the side of the building. She hadn’t even seen the thing that grabbed Jack except as a blur.
A half dozen rat bites burned under her skin. Tears stung her eyes. She was muddy with clay. And helpless. “Can we follow it?” she asked. But she knew the answer. The coordinated attack had succeeded; Jack was already dead.
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