Hunted

by S W Vaughn

  "Oh. Er, hang on.” Shit oh shit maybe I can play this off please let me stay. The girl fumbled for her bag and rifled through the contents. A minute passed, then two. The conductor glowered down at her. “Um..."

  "Can't you find it?” Grace said.

  The girl flinched like she'd been slapped. “No,” she said cautiously.

  Grace gave the conductor a cool stare. “She's with me. She had her ticket a second ago. It was right there on the seat. You sure you didn't punch it already?"

  "I didn't see it.” The conductor sent an awkward glance up the aisle. “Look, I'm not supposed to let you stay on without a ticket..."

  "We'll pay for it again. We're going to Syracuse.” Grace lifted her laptop bag, opened it, and separated three hundreds. “You can call the next station, and get her a replacement printed for the transfers, right? And keep the change.” She reached behind the girl and held the bills out to the conductor. He blinked rapidly, accepted the money and pocketed it.

  "Sure, yeah. I can. Need your name, though.” He produced a small pad and a pencil.

  The girl shook herself. “Megan. Jones. Megan Jones."

  The conductor printed the name laboriously. “Make sure you pick up that replacement."

  When he disappeared through the rear door, Megan released a gusting breath. “Wow,” she whispered. “Why did you ... I mean, thank you, but why?"

  Grace shrugged. “Just seemed like the right thing to do. It was, wasn't it?"

  "I guess.” Megan stared at her feet. “I can't pay you back. And how did you know I was going to Syracuse?"

  "I didn't, but that's where I'm going, and he'd already seen my ticket."

  "Oh."

  Grace managed a smile. “I'm Kayla."

  "I'm M-Megan.” Oh man quit stuttering you dope she heard you the first time.

  "It's okay. I don't like my name either."

  Megan laughed, and the tension drained visibly from her. “Thank you. Seriously."

  "You're welcome."

  The train gathered speed, and carried them both further from harm's reach.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 7

  Within minutes, Megan had fallen asleep. Grace couldn't manage to drop off again, so she got her laptop out and engaged in a bit of research regarding her destination. Fifteen minutes into her search, she discovered the New York State Office of Parks, Recreation and Historic Preservation, which informed her that when visiting the great state of New York, she would find 176 parks to choose from. And that was not counting the miles of wilderness.

  Finding her father might be harder than she'd thought.

  She abandoned the hope of stumbling across a photograph of the forest in her dreams. For a moment she considered looking for the man himself, but she had no idea where to begin. Her mother had never even bothered mentioning his name. Almost without thinking, she plugged Nephilim into a search engine instead.

  The hits numbered over a million. She scanned the text snippets and found several allusions that the Biblical Nephilim had been giants, deformed and horned monsters like the popular conceptions of the devil. It certainly didn't describe the witch or her killer. Grace didn't make a habit of judging women's appearances, but the redhead was gorgeous—in a cold, psychotic sort of way. And the head-ripper ... she'd never seen a more attractive man. Even covered in blood, he could stop traffic. Okay, anyone covered in blood could stop traffic. That was beside the point.

  His eyes. They didn't glow, exactly, but the color of them ... like honey in the sunshine, filtered through red-brown glass. She could still see them without half trying.

  Grace shook herself and concentrated on the screen. On the second page of results, she found a link that mentioned Nephilim and UFOs. Something called SARET. Intrigued, she clicked on it, and discovered the Society for the Advancement and Recognition of Extraterrestrials. A quick scan of the shoddy but convincingly worded website revealed these people believed the Nephilim were actually aliens, and the scientifically ignorant folks in Biblical times had simply misunderstood their origins.

  She'd almost rather believe in aliens than angels herself.

  Grace settled in to read the information on the website, which contained pages and pages of documentation, personal essays and dissertations by SARET members, and a handful of blurred photographs said to have been taken at Area 51. Her initial impression shifted gradually away from belief. When she found an article detailing the proper ritual to harvest power from a captured alien-slash-Nephil, complete with links to photographic evidence, she shuddered and closed the window. This was a cult of the most dangerous order—the kind that looked rational on the surface. She mentally added “card-carrying SARET members” to her list of people to avoid, and resumed watching the night landscape fly past outside.

  A soft moan rose from the figure balled in the next seat. Megan gasped and sat up, her eyes wild and unfocused. “Black,” she blurted. “Don't go down there."

  Though Grace knew they were remnants of a personal nightmare, Megan's words chilled her. She reached for her, intending to wake her fully, but Megan shuddered and slumped back against the seat. “How long did I sleep?"

  "A few hours.” Grace realized she'd left her laptop running, and started the shutdown. “We should get to Salt Lake soon, and there's a layover and transfer there."

  "Good. I need a smoke like you wouldn't believe."

  Grace laughed. “Me, too.” In truth, she didn't need one. For some reason the physical addiction had never taken hold, but the emotional one ebbed and flowed according to her stress level. Since her current stress had reached somewhere around orbital heights, she could use a cigarette. Maybe a stiff drink, too.

  "We have a lot in common.” Megan offered a tentative smile. “It's kind of funny. We could be sisters or something."

  Grace stared at her laptop. Damn it. She'd already gotten too close. She couldn't afford friends, especially a green girl who took stupid risks like boarding trains without a ticket. Resolved to stop this conversation before it started, she shut the lid and slid the computer back into her bag. And said nothing.

  Megan tried to suppress a sigh. It didn't work. The girl produced her headphones and notebook, stuffed the buds in her ears, and started scribbling away, holding the cover at just enough of an angle to hide whatever she was writing.

  The relative silence in the car, blended by the steady whisper of the train's air circulation system, amplified Megan's pen scratching on the paper. Occasionally she paused, vigorously crossed something out, and started again. Grace pinned her gaze to the window, but her attention insisted on returning to Megan. The girl's thoughts ran in a steady stream, clear enough for Grace to hear if she chose.

  Crap, what did I do? I'm such a moron. Sisters. Sheesh. Why can't I just shut up? I wish she'd ask me what I'm writing. Nobody ever asks. What if Michael doesn't like me either? I'll have to find a job. Where will I live? I'm hungry. Did I eat all those cereal bars already? Eyes. Cries, lies, dies, flies ... compromise? No, disguise. It would be so wicked if she asked me what I'm writing. I can be cool about it. If she asks, I'm not gonna gush. I'll just shrug about it, like it's no big deal. Maybe she'll talk to me then. I hope she'll let me bum a smoke. Guess I shouldn't ask her, though. Ask me what I'm writing! God, I'm stupid. Nobody cares about me...

  Grace stifled a grin. Though her gut told her to let it drop, put some distance between them and avoid the inevitable questions, she leaned closer to Megan and said, “Hey. What are you writing?"

  Holy shit! Be cool. Don't blow it. “Oh, nothin’ much. I'm just working on a song."

  "You write songs?"

  "Yeah. I sing, too. I'm gonna—” Shut up, you idiot! She didn't ask for your life story. “It's no big deal."

  "I think it's really cool."

  "You do?"

  "Yes. It's awesome. I could never write songs."

  "Well, I don't do all the parts. Just the lyrics, you know, and the tune sometimes. But when I get
to Webster, that's where I'm going after Syracuse, there's this guy and he wants me to sing in his band...” Megan trailed off. Her lips pressed together and she dropped her gaze to the notebook.

  "What kind of band?” Grace prompted. She had a feeling if she asked enough questions, the girl would just keep babbling and save her the trouble of attempting small talk. She'd never been a great conversationalist. No sense talking to people she'd have to eventually avoid.

  Megan looked at her. “You really want to know? I mean, I don't want to bore you or anything."

  "I'm not bored."

  "Really?” Megan beamed. “Okay. So, I met this guy online..."

  Megan poured the story out with quiet desperation, as though it would poison her if it stayed inside much longer. She had a troubled home life. She glossed over that part, and Grace didn't search her thoughts to find out more. She'd met Michael, a guitar player who claimed to be twenty-two, in an online music forum, and they had clicked right away. Michael's band played weekends in a variety of bars and clubs in western New York and enjoyed a degree of success. When the band's singer quit over “creative differences,” Megan had half-jokingly suggested that she move out there and take the singer's place. Michael had been enthusiastic about the idea, and Megan made the colossal decision to go for it. And here she was.

  By the time Megan finished talking, the train began to slow for the arrival at the Salt Lake station. Grace tried to ignore the knowledge that she'd have to somehow sever this blossoming companionship between them—because for now, it was nice to have a friend.

  The train stopped. The lights in the car came up and the people around them stirred gradually: rousing those who'd fallen asleep, gathering purses and scattered belongings, pulling luggage down from the racks above the seats. Megan thrust her notebook into her bag and watched the shuffling exodus but made no move to rise.

  "We'll be here for a while,” Grace said. “How about that smoke? You can have one of mine."

  Megan threw her a smirk. “You reading my mind or what?"

  Actually, yes. The temptation to confess passed quickly. Grace had learned the hard way that telling the truth convinced people she was a lunatic. “Come on. They're going to kick us off anyway."

  Grinning, Megan stood and merged into the exiting throng. Grace followed. The loading platform gave way to stairs that opened into the train station waiting area. There were a few fast food places to choose from. After they stepped out, she'd get her and Megan something to eat while they waited for the transfer.

  Grace started to remind Megan that she'd have to pick up the “replacement” ticket before they boarded the next train. Before she could speak, a familiar and unwelcome electric sensation coursed through her, stronger than it had ever been. Her senses heightened to an almost painful level. Within the vivid miasma of sight, sound and smell enfolding her, she was compelled to direct her gaze to the left.

  Eyes of crimson-tinged honey met hers across the lobby. The monster stood before a window, real as the floor beneath her. He exuded complete apathy. No trace of emotion or intent lurked in his posture or his deceptively beautiful face. Her heart seized for an instant and leapt into her throat to hammer fear into every breath.

  He stepped aside to reveal the red-haired witch, wearing an executioner's smile.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 8

  "Kayla? What's wrong? Are you all right ... Kayla!"

  Grace finally realized Megan was talking to her. She'd forgotten the name she gave the girl. “I..."

  You're dead, Nephil.

  The woman's voice ricocheted in her head. Grace tore her gaze from the awful grin and tensed, searching for an escape route.

  You can't run. I'll find you.

  Grace squeezed her eyes shut. “Megan.” Her lips barely moved. “You have to get your ticket. Go—” She gasped. Pain tore through her head like a fishhook plunged into her brain. Thoughts and images flowed without her permission from the phantom rip: her mother, her first experience with power, her casino rip-off tour. The cop at the motel. Comp Roberts. No! She held on to that one, and felt the other woman attempt to pry it from her mind.

  The tugging sensation stopped.

  Fear me. I am your end.

  She opened her eyes. They were gone.

  "You look seriously sick. Do you want to sit down for a minute?"

  Grace blinked hard. Still gone. “Did you see them?"

  "See who?"

  "A man, and a woman with red hair. Over there.” She pointed toward the window. Jesus. Maybe I am going crazy.

  "I don't see anybody."

  "No, they aren't there any more. But...” Her legs trembled beneath her. “You didn't see them?"

  "Well, I wasn't looking over there. I was scoping out the bathrooms, and then you went white as a corpse. Hey, I gotta write that down.” Megan fumbled with her bag and managed to scribble something in her notebook without taking it out. “Anyway, was it somebody you know?"

  "No. Well, yes. I don't know ... it was nobody. Let's go outside."

  "Cool."

  They crossed the lobby and exited through the double set of glass doors leading to a semi-circle turnaround drive and a massive parking lot. A bus rumbled at the far right end of the drive and a knot of people stood smoking near its open doors. Two were women. Neither had red hair.

  Grace headed to the left and sat down on an empty bench. The warmth of the night air conflicted with the cold uncoiling inside her. Had she really been the only one to see them? Impossible. The crowd outside the casino had definitely reacted to the brutal murder, though they'd seemed to have forgotten about it immediately afterward.

  Of course, the crowd's reaction would have been the same if they'd only seen a girl's head fly off her body in a shower of blood for no discernible reason.

  No. They couldn't be invisible. This was reality, not a comic book, damn it. And if Grace sometimes felt like joining up with the X-Men, well, urban legends had to start somewhere. Resolute, she opened her laptop bag and found her cigarette case, took two out and passed one to Megan. She lit them both and ignored the impulse to peer into the shadows in case the killers lurked out there.

  Why hadn't they come after her? They apparently had no qualms about killing people in front of witnesses. Grace's abilities served her well in a lot of situations, but she doubted she could stop the monster if he decided to tear her apart. So why wait? The woman seemed intent on playing with her, forcing her to contemplate imminent and brutal death.

  Grace decided she didn't want to play.

  "So,” Megan said after a minute. “You want to tell me who those people were?"

  "No."

  "Okay.” Megan shrugged and drew on her smoke. “Where are you headed?"

  "Syracuse."

  "You said that already. I mean, what's there for you? Do you live there?"

  Grace sighed. “Can we talk about something besides me?"

  "Sure. What kind of music do you like?"

  "That's still about me.” Grace smiled. “But I can answer that one. Actually, I like just about everything."

  "Even country?"

  "Some of it, yeah."

  Megan made a face. “I hate country. I only listen to rock."

  "You should broaden your horizons then.” Grace dropped her cigarette in the tall, thin receptacle beside the bench, helpfully labeled The Smoke Stand, and got out her laptop. “Grab your headphones. I want you to hear something."

  Megan flashed her a skeptical look, but she extracted her MP3 player and unplugged the headphones.

  "Trust me. You'll like it.” When the computer finished putting itself together, Grace logged on to her favorite video sharing website and found a copy of Alan Jackson's “The Talkin’ Song Repair Blues.” She jacked Megan's headphones in, settled the computer on the girl's lap. “Check this out."

  Megan stared at the screen like she'd just been told to eat all her Brussels sprouts. Within seconds her dubious expression became a
smile, then laughter.

  Grace chuckled. The song was about a car mechanic overcharging Jackson for a laundry list of ridiculous repairs. In the second verse, the mechanic told the singer he'd written a song and asked for opinions. Jackson returned a mocking litany of problems with the mechanic's song and offered to “fix” it for a price—more than the mechanic quoted for the car. She knew Megan would get it right away.

  The song ended and Megan pulled one of the ear buds out, grinning. “Damn, that was funny! Okay, my turn. Just thought of a good one.” She located the search box and typed something in. “Your computer is awesome. What kind of a connection do you have on this thing?"

  Grace froze for an instant. Lying had become second nature for her, no big deal—but it bothered her to lie to Megan. “I don't really know,” she said. “I just told them I wanted to be able to get online all the time and this is what they gave me."

  "Gotta be a WiFi, then. Whatever it is, it definitely works.” Megan surrendered the ear buds and passed the laptop over. “The vid sucks, but the song rocks."

  "Okay.” Grace clicked the play arrow first, and glanced at the caption. Her breath caught when she read Killer Angels—The Chase. She stopped the feed and stared at Megan. “What is this?"

  Megan's brow furrowed. “It's an indy band in Rochester. Michael knows their guitar player. Why ... what's wrong?"

  "Nothing.” Just a coincidence, Grace told herself. Still, her hand shook a little as she restarted the video, which turned out to be a recording from a club show. Whoever had recorded it seemed to fancy themselves an accomplished action director. Unfortunately, they didn't have the right equipment and the video was a montage of blurred close-ups and jittery cuts. The music, on the other hand, sounded great.

  Two cigarettes and ten songs later, Grace glanced at the laptop's system clock and swore. “We have to go. We're going to miss the train!” She unplugged Megan's headphones, shut the computer down, and stood. “Tell you what. You go grab your tickets, I'll get us some dinner, and we'll meet at the gate. Okay?"