Anna … if only Ffyllon had been there that night. If only he had stepped in instead of being in a drunken stupor on the upper floor of her house. He wrote after Anna’s death that he had not drunk that much that night and that he suspected the creature had slipped sleeping powder into his ale when he was not looking.
Ffyllon speculates on an interesting idea: he wondered if the reason why he could summon only small amounts of this strange metal was because he had only ingested a small amount of the creature’s blood. Had he drunk more, perhaps he would have been able to summon the deadly spikes from his arms as the creature can.
He also recorded this interesting fact: he had managed to wound the creature several times with the small spikes of his fingers, but the creature always recovered, though badly wounded. This further proved his theory that the metal would have to stay in the creature’s body for an extended period of time in order to kill it, not allowing it the chance of rejuvenation.
This would also definitely explain why the creature had left its spike in Ffyllon’s body on the mountain. Perhaps he planned to return and claim the metal. Perhaps even now he is somehow not whole, as I possess part of his body.
Madeline flipped ahead, skipping several entries. Noah had been getting used to the idea of a creature like this for more than two centuries. It was his life now, hunting Stefan, a daily routine. Madeline’s mind still reeled at the thought of other creatures sharing her world. She’d always loved the thought of magic, and as a child had read every book on fairies, dragons, and mythological beings that she could abscond away into her room. But none of that had prepared her for the absolute knowledge that such a thing could exist. And Stefan was no mischievous fairy or griffin with gleaming wings. He was a killer—an intelligent, relentless killer—and a kind of beast too dark for the books that had thrilled her as a child. Stefan was a monster that belonged in forgotten volumes, heavy with age and sealed with a rusting lock. Dark records of hideous creatures described and then hidden away for none to find, as if the sealing of the tome could seal in the beast’s power.
She found another entry and resumed.
June 15, 1765
Copenhagen, Denmark
I can scarcely believe it. I have actually caught up with the brute. I followed a rash of killings leading to Copenhagen over the last two years. Four murders in all, all of people with exceptional talent.
A poet here is to be honored by King Frederick V of Denmark, and reports have been in the local and larger gazettes. This is just the sort of opportunity to which the creature would be attracted.
I have started following the poet myself, studying his friends, hoping the creature will reveal himself. I have decided upon a particular friend who watches the poet with a hungry gleam in his eye and who looked quite startled when I strode by him one day.
I have introduced myself into the poet’s circle. Once again my aristocratic status has its advantages. My only doubt is that perhaps I have the wrong fellow. Doubts visit me in the small hours of the night … I wonder if the poet is indeed next, and if his friend Jesper is indeed the creature in disguise.
What if I am planning on killing an innocent man?
Though I have tracked the killer tirelessly over the last two years and get little sleep, racked with worry, I do not feel the worse for it. In fact, I feel more energized than ever before. I fear I do indeed have the same malady that afflicted Ffyllon, though such a fantastic malady I could never have hoped for. To feel so powerful, youthful, to be able to heal quickly. It is a miracle, though perhaps a dark one.
June 17, 1765
Copenhagen, Denmark
A terrible thing has happened! I can scarcely write it down. Damn my hesitation. Jesper was indeed the villain, posing as the poet’s friend. Jesper invited the poet to the opera, where he had purchased a box for the evening.
I followed, repeatedly checking the box nervously during the course of the opera. I saw the creature make its move, dragging the poet down below the lip of the box. I leapt up from my seat and ran to the box, where the creature was already feasting upon the poor man’s throat. The unfortunate fellow had not even time to cry out.
I dashed into the box and grabbed Stefan, who had shifted into what I have come to think of as his true form: a shadow of a thing, all black with no features save a pair of red saucer eyes and a mouth full of vile teeth.
As I rushed forth, hand inside my waistcoat to produce the weapon, the creature met my rush, lifted me up effortlessly over the lip of the box, and flung me down.
I crashed painfully into the seats below, injuring several operagoers. A commotion stirred up, the orchestra and singers still attempting to proceed with the performance in spite of it. One woman I had landed on screamed, and I struggled to right myself.
In the end, by the time I had returned to the box, the poet was gone, leaving a bloody trail. I can only assume Stefan dragged off the body to devour in some secret place.
I feel responsible.
How can I take up Ffyllon’s sword if I cannot save even one life? And I fear this may be the first in a string of murders I will be unable to prevent.
Spooked, Madeline closed the diary. She didn’t want to know this—didn’t even want to consider that the one person who knew what was going on had failed in the past.
She flipped through the rest of the journal. The entries grew further and further apart, sometimes only one or two every twenty years.
The last entry, dated February 22, 1922, read, “Hate myself. Hate myself. Hate myself. Hate myself.”
Blank pages followed. In the back, a number of pages were filled, listing names she assumed were victims. One column contained the name and the other the fate of the person. “Couldn’t save” was written after each name in a scrawling hand. The list went on for pages and pages, almost all with “Couldn’t save” written next to them. Only three entries differed. One read, “Died of natural causes before creature could kill.” Another read, “Incarcerated in H.M. prison before creature could kill,” and the column next to the last name was blank. She froze as she read the name: Madeline Keye.
Horrified, she realized Noah had never saved a victim. Not even once. Some had escaped being eaten, but only through coincidence.
Her safe haven suddenly seemed as dangerous as going it alone.
But where else could she go?
At least Noah was knowledgeable, even if he hadn’t been successful. She couldn’t imagine what it must have been like for him, discovering everything as he went, both the horrible with the good.
She sat for many moments with the book closed on her chest, unsure if she should stay or flee and hope for her chances. She debated for a long time, feeling the terrible sadness of the book sweeping over her.
Madeline checked her wrist, ensuring she still wore the bracelet. She unhooked the latch and lifted the tiny lid. Inside, coiled and gleaming, was Ellie’s thin silver bracelet, the one she’d lost that day. She rarely touched it herself, and would never wear it. Locked inside the metal were such powerful images of Ellie that when Madeline touched it, she almost felt her friend was there, like she could talk to her and Ellie would hear her. She touched the bracelet gently, just the tip of one finger resting on its surface.
Images swept over her. Ellie sitting next to her in math class. Ellie and she watching movies on a Friday night, popcorn strewn around them. They’d met when they were five, on the first day of first grade. Huddled outside the gray stone school building that chilly morning, waiting for school to start, they’d begun a conversation with each other, comparing their similar woolly hats. The talk turned toward age and birthdays. Being only five, neither could remember their exact birth date (they left that and the toy-giving to their parents), but they were both sure they’d been born in late October. It was close enough, and they became instant friends.
When the other kids teased Madeline or tried to pick fights because they were scared, Ellie was always ready to jump in and let her fists fly. An intense
flash erupted of Ellie standing over one bully on the jungle gym, shaking her five-year-old fist threateningly after shoving him into the monkey bars. Another image sprang up of Ellie thrusting a tree branch into the spokes of a bully’s BMX bike as he tried to flee the area after calling Madeline a series of unflattering names. The jerk had flipped up over the front of his handlebars and landed with a terrific smack in the middle of the street. It was a hot July day and the bubbling tar on the street had stuck to the boy’s face.
“Ellie.” Madeline breathed softly. Her friend shimmered and swam into view, sitting next to her on the foldout couch.
“Hey, Mad,” she said softly.
“I don’t know what to do.”
“I know. And that’s okay. You’re a good person. You’ll figure it out.”
“I think you’d want me to help.”
“You’re probably right,” Ellie answered, a wry smile turning the corner of her mouth.
After a stretch of silence, Madeline said, “I think I really like this guy.”
“I can see why. He’s hot.”
“And nice. And he has a noble quality about him, too.”
“Your knight in shining armor come to take you away from all this madness?”
“Or maybe to take me into all this madness.”
“That’s not as good.”
“I know,” Madeline answered, nodding in the darkness. She watched her glimmering friend, remembering the curve of her brow, the mischievous look she could get in her eye, all the years of happiness they’d had, and all the years that had been taken.
“I miss you.”
Ellie met her eyes, sadness glistening there.
They sat in silence then, Madeline not sure of what to say, not needing to say anything. That had been their way in life. They understood without needing to say much.
Finally Madeline closed the latch on the small silver box, Ellie’s image shimmering, then vanishing into the darkness. She set the journal aside, her mind drawn back to the Sickle Moon Killer, the story fresh now in her mind. She could distinctly picture his face, that terrible knowledge that he’d been caught, the desperation, needing to get rid of them. She lay awake nights sometimes, terrified he’d escaped from the penitentiary and was on his way to her house. Or worse, already there, breathing laboriously outside her bedroom door, seething with hatred and waiting to crush the life out of her in revenge. The fear hadn’t stopped until she learned he’d been killed in that fight.
Her mind traveled over what was to come tomorrow if she agreed to Noah’s plea for help. They’d drive out to the cabin where the creature was holed up for its “digestion period.” She cringed inwardly. She’d feel any belongings it had there, see if she could get a fix on any future victims. Maybe she would, and then they’d go to the police. They’d contact her hometown police station, or maybe they’d remember reading about her from the Sickle Moon Killer case files. They’d either ridicule her or ask her to participate in the investigation. Maybe they’d even save the next victim’s life and catch the killer. What if they wanted more? Piles of dead-end grisly cases, one after the other? This time she couldn’t use the excuse of being fourteen years old. Now she was twenty-one and was supposed to be deciding her future. People would expect her to “do the right thing,” to give up her innocence and happiness in the service of others, to use her “gift” to identify other killers. They wouldn’t consider the horrific images and acts she’d have to relive while acquiring visions. They wouldn’t consider the empty black-hole ache that consumed her after she’d encountered the Sickle Moon Killer. She’d become a hollow, bleak shell.
She alone had to consider herself. And she didn’t want that kind of life.
She wanted to transfer to her new college, engage in normal college activities. Go to parties, take fun classes, hell, even write term papers and cram for biology finals on hydrophilic cells and mitochondria. She wanted people to know her for who she was, not her bizarre talent. She wanted people to act normal around her.
She glanced toward the bedroom door. Noah had been hunting this thing for two centuries. He had a weapon but had been unsuccessful thus far. She thought of the endless list of victims he was unable to save. Why would she be any different? She didn’t need to hang around him, waiting to be murdered, so much bait waiting in a tackle shop.
Looking out the window at the darkness beyond, she suddenly thought of the goat in Jurassic Park, the one tied to the post in wait for the Tyrannosaurus rex.
The urge to run suddenly became intolerable. Listen to your instincts, she thought. Know when to get the hell out of here. Lying still for a moment, she listened for sounds from Noah’s room. Silence. Turning her head, she looked at the door. It was still open a crack, and darkness lay beyond. She was almost sure he was asleep. Quietly she peeled the yellow blanket back and swung her feet to the floor. Her own clothes, the pair of jeans and long-sleeved cotton shirt, lay draped and damp over the back of a chair. She dressed quickly in the dark, putting one of Noah’s fleece jackets on top. Lacing up her boots, she glanced again at the bedroom. Still silent. Still dark.
Creeping silently across the floor, she reached the front door and pushed aside a curtain. Only trees and a Dumpster met her eyes. No creature in sight. She disengaged the bolt and slipped outside. Turning the lock on the inside knob of the door, she made sure Noah would be locked in safely and then closed the door behind herself with finality.
A chilly breeze blew over her, and she zipped up the fleece jacket as high as it would go, partially covering her face.
She needed to reach her car. She didn’t fancy the idea of waiting out on the road at this hour for a car to hitch a ride. Hardly anyone would be driving by, and she’d be out in the open, vulnerable to the creature.
Then she thought of Steve, the naturalist who had helped her earlier. She was in trouble and needed to leave the park. He would understand that. Maybe he’d give her a ride to her car.
Making up her mind, she set off down the paved path, the pines creaking overhead as her boots crunched on loose pebbles. The ranger residences lay only about a quarter mile away, on a parallel road. She’d reach them in no time.
The moon overhead shone bright enough for her to see the path, and she navigated quickly to the main road. She tried not to think about the dense shadows around her or what could be hiding in the black beneath the trees. If the creature was there, it was not attacking, which was fine with her. And if it wasn’t there, she didn’t want to slow herself down by checking every shifting shadow beneath the pine branches. With her ears tuned sharply to the sounds around her, she pushed on quickly, her eyes darting around furtively. If it did jump out and she caught a glimpse or heard a shuffle, she’d be ready. She could dart aside, or maybe even turn and strike out at it. She’d wounded it before. She could do it again.
Up ahead she could make out another road turning off to the left. In front of it stood a small wooden sign that read Private Residence.
She was almost there.
A sharp, snapping twig brought her to a halt. She spun around and heard another snapping branch. Her breath coming fast, fear consumed Madeline. Her feet became lead bricks, her mouth went dry, and though she wanted to run in terror, she couldn’t move.
Her eyes wide, she stared into the trees and brush on that side of the road. Another twig snapped. Then the shrubbery began to part, and a dark shape emerged. Madeline ran. Not looking back, feet pounding the pavement, she raced toward the rangers’ houses. “Somebody help me!” she yelled, though the plea came out hoarse and not as loud as she’d hoped. Almost at the other road, she dared a look back.
And saw a bear standing in the middle of the road.
She had never been so relieved to see a bear in all her life. She stopped running and turned to face it. Meandering along the pavement, it was a huge, hulking mass of shaggy, powerful limbs and a tremendous head. Its nose sloped distinctly from the forehead, and she took in the dish-shaped face and large shoulder hump. A gri
zzly. One look at the tremendous white claws scraping on the pavement confirmed it. It looked at her with disinterest and crossed the road to the bushes on the other side. Branches cracking and bending in its wake, the bear pushed into the thick of them and reared up on its hind legs. Placing its mighty paws together, it shucked the berries off a branch and devoured them.
Madeline laughed, breaking the silence, relief bubbling up inside her. Then she stopped short, feeling a little embarrassed, and hoped no one had heard her call for help.
The grizzly moved to the next bush, shucked off some berries. Then it dropped to all fours and pushed farther into the bushes, into the forest beyond and out of sight.
She sighed as she watched it go, but the minute it disappeared she felt the woods press in on her again, every piece of darkness hiding the creature. The presence of that huge ursine predator had comforted her.
But now it was gone, and she turned and hurried toward the ranger’s house.
9
MOST of the windows in Steve’s cabin were dark. Though she knocked quietly on the door, the sound thundered in the otherwise hushed night. She waited on the doorstep, watching a haze of blue smoke drift through the forest, remnants of the many campfires still smoldering, even at this late hour.
No one came to the door. She peered in a window. A light was on in the back of the cabin. She knocked again. Waited. Knocked harder.
Finally she heard someone stirring on the other side of the door. “Listen, buddy,” Steve called through the wood. “There’s nothing I can do about your damned beer. You’re just going to have to drive to town tomorrow and get more.”
She stood silently on the other side, confused.
“Besides,” he went on, “if it was that important to you, you should have known they didn’t sell it at the camp store and brought more.”
Madeline said, “Um … Steve? It’s me, Madeline, the person who reported the murder tonight?”
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