But he never told her the price she'd pay. . . .
Nora stopped, realized that she was crying again. "No," she hissed, then reined it in tight, forced herself to take a minute, reassess her situation. True, looking at this squalid Pennsylvania ghost town didn't exactly inspire her.
But Syd was another matter entirely. Yes indeed. He had passed the first test: he had the wild seed inside him, and was stable enough for it to take root. He was instinctively protective. And he was a good lover: enthusiastic, empathetic. Eager. Maybe not as good as Michael, at least not yet. But not a combination you found every day, nonetheless.
Vic had never been able to walk that line; even if he had been able to get her pregnant, he would have made the worst father in the world. Abusive, selfish, drunken, and cruel. God help them if they were girls.
Syd, on the other hand, would never rape his own daughters. This much she could tell, and that in itself made him stand out from the crowd. She could tell that he really liked her, on top of his obvious hard-on and in spite of his anger tonight. And there was something so enormously satisfying and rewarding about being genuinely cared for, appreciated for who you really were, instead of just being craved as a fuck machine.
But what was she going to do? Set up shop and play house, hanging around town until she got herself mired in this decaying postindustrial tar pit? Was she insane? In the same amount of time, Vic could find them, kill them, travel the world, and write a book about it.
Which meant that, if she wanted Syd, she'd have to defer his nesting impulse somehow. Get him to go on the road with her. And train him like a sonofabitch. Maybe by the time they were in a position to tear Vic limb from limb, they'd also be in a position to settle down somewhere. Start a little pack of their own.
But how would she talk him into it? She hadn't a clue in the world. She'd never been so intensely focused on such a regular Safety-First Clyde, such a do-goody waste of talent. Tonight was important; at least, he had proven that he had some fight in him. But would he survive the Change, when it came, or would he fry in the transition? She had no way of knowing. He was more concerned that the cable bill be paid wherever they landed. He was soft. That was all there was to it.
But he's good. She paused to reflect on the thought. And he loves me. Or at least he will.
And when he gets in touch with his nature, he will be the one I need. I know he will. All he has to do is let go of his bullshit: all those things that he thinks he needs to have.
Then he will be perfect, she thought.
Then he will be mine.
And suddenly the smell of Karen was everywhere in the apartment: that drip-dry vegetarian cooze, with her chlorophyll cunt. Nora couldn't blank it out, couldn't make it go away. She was tasting blood, and it wasn't her own. Her cottonmouth was intense, utterly untenable; she pulled a glass off the counter, filled it with water from the tap.
When she brought it to her lips, she smelled essence of Karen.
And something snapped.
"Fuck!" She flung the glass down, smashed it into the sink. "Fuck you!" And it was too much, just all too much, the pain and the memories and the desperation, the fear that relentlessly hounded her like a ravening pack. "FUCK YOU!" Not knowing exactly who it was she cursed, not even caring, as the tears came back with a vengeance: a raw, wracking sob erupting up and out of her like a poisonous black wave. She was drunk, she was wired, she was cursed and running on fumes. Something had to give.
There was a plate by her hand, stacked ever so tidily in the drying rack. She wrenched it loose, let it fly. By the time it blew up, she already had another in hand. Another plate. Another stupid stinking plate.
She felt the Change start uncoiling in her guts, straining at its tether. Now, it screamed. The plate exploded with a bright brittle crack, loud as a gunshot. Not now, she thought, beating it back. A glass came up, came down again, sending sharp shiny fragments up to dance before her eyes. Now. Her head pounded and she slammed the counter. Not now. This wasn't the right time. Her mind was spinning. These were not Syd's things. They were Karen's things. They had to die. He had to understand.
She smashed another plate. It was not enough. She smashed another one. Syd's voice called out from the bedroom. Not now, she thought, growling. It wasn't time.
She was running out of time. . . .
And that was when the hands grabbed her from behind. Nora let out a mournful low, like an animal embracing its doom. The arms were strong, and she buckled and sagged within them. The Change subsided: kept down, if barely. He was talking to her, but she could only hear jangling, jumbled noise. She had to get him ready. She had to tell him soon.
"I'm sorry," she managed, and then once again started to cry.
The song had changed. It was obscenely upbeat, straight out of Motown in its perverse jauntiness. She vaguely recognized the melody. "Destination Anywhere." Background music could be so cruel.
"I'm sorry," she repeated, and then he turned her around and kissed her. "I'm sorry." Pulling her mouth away. The room was spinning. The world was spinning. When Syd spoke again the words spun in her mind. "It's all right," he said, and she wanted to believe it. Only she knew it wasn't true.
17
IN THE DREAM, he was home again.
Syd ran through his house, frantically calling his wife's name. A terrible storm lashed the windows, echoed off the roof. Something was pounding on the front door, demanding entrance. They had to get out of there. Something was coming, something horrible. He had to find her.
Just then Karen's voice rang out somewhere behind him, and Syd turned in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of her moving up the stairs. He chased after her, but as fast as he ran he could not catch up; the house itself conspired against him, the floor sagging beneath his feet as the stairs stretched and corkscrewed like an Escher print.
He fought his way to the hallway, found door upon door before him, each one revealing more ruined and desecrated space: a gutted bedroom, a trashed nursery, the crib shattered, the plush toys lining the walls ripped to pieces and scattered, their bright plastic eyes blindly gleaming.
The storm crashed and boomed outside. The pounding redoubled with a vengeance, the door groaning from the impact of the blows. He could hear the wood bow and crack, start to give way. Syd turned . . .
. . . and that's when he saw Karen, standing at the head of the stairs: her face an empty mask, devoid of reaction. He could hear the front door crashing inward, feel the wind that rushed through the house as the lightning flashed and blistered the sky. Karen stared at him, blankly uncomprehending, as something huge and made entirely of shadow ascended the stairs, rose up behind her.
Syd tried to move: the floor held his feet, trapping him. He tried to scream, anger fueling his fear. Can't you see it? Can't you feel it?? What's wrong with you?? He tried to warn her, but when he opened his mouth no sound would come out.
Karen watched his desperate pantomime, her eyes blank as mirrors. He watched in horror as the shadow descended, completely engulfing her. There was a terrible rending sound. He could not watch. As he looked away something soft and moist hit his leg, slid to the floor. Syd looked down.
Just in time to see that perfect mask land wetly at his feet. . . .
Syd jolted awake, completely disoriented. The dream fled in the cold light of consciousness, retreating from his grasp even as he tried to chase it. Karen's face fragmented, wraithlike.
And then it was gone.
Leaving Syd panting, afraid to move, unable to clearly remember why. He lay like that until his heartbeat slowed to somewhere near normal, then let his head sag back into the pillow. He looked at the clock. One-thirty. Jesus.
Nora murmured and curled into him, warm and serene. In sleep there were no traces of her previous emotional holocaust; indeed, the Nora who nestled so peacefully into the crook of his arm was so far from the hysterical creature smashing dishes in the kitchen as to be another species entirely.
He had to admit her behavior had spooked him:
he'd never been close—emotionally or physically—to someone who was so prone to violent mood swings. Nora's explosion had yanked him out of a dead-black slumber, sent him lurching into the kitchen to quell her private rampage. She had wanted only to be fucked once he'd finally eased her back to bed. This they had done, despite his fatigue: Nora pinning him to the bed and grinding with such unhinged abandon that he thought he would pass out. It was fast and furious and over almost before it started, the carnal equivalent of beating drums to ward off evil spirits, an act of desperate intensity.
She punctuated her climax by raking her nails across his chest so hard that she actually drew blood, effectively obliterating Syd's orgasm in mid-squirt. Then she collapsed, still clinging to him, and fell almost instantly asleep.
Leaving Syd to wonder what the hell had just happened.
It was clear that whatever baggage she was carrying around was heavy and full of God only knew what kinds of secret pain and punishment. It was also clear that hand in hand with her passion came the full-blown mother of all tempers. It was bad enough sneaking up on it from behind, dodging shrapnel and carrying a heartful of devotion; he shuddered at the thought of ever facing such anger head-on. He had the feeling that going up against Nora would not be fun.
Oh, well. She was here, she was with him, and he didn't want her to go. Weird as it all was, he could not imagine kicking her out of his bed. What had she said about risk? He decided he'd take his chances.
As Syd turned toward her his stomach suddenly flipped, did a curdling somersault into his bowels. A yawning emptiness opened like a trapdoor inside him, and he felt as though he had been scraped hollow. Damn, he realized. I'm starving.
It came as a shock, not just the immediacy of it but the depth. It was as though he had never felt this level of pure unadulterated craving before, as far removed from ordinary appetite as a paper cut was from a traumatic amputation. And though he was so hungry that it had come full circle, until the mere thought of food now made him queasy, Syd realized he'd better eat something soon, or suffer the consequences.
He disengaged from Nora, started to get up. His gorge ballooned menacingly. Not good. He sat back down, took a deep breath, thinking not puke I will not puke I will not until it actually seemed to work.
He tried again. Better this time. Nora stirred beside him and slumbered on, oblivious. Pulling on sweatpants, Syd made his way out of the bedroom. His legs were quivering, unsteady as he moved. Syd felt loosely held together, as if any moment he might rattle apart and fly all over the room. He did a quick internal gauge as he reached the midway point between the bathroom and the kitchen, decided that no, he really wasn't about to hurl, but yes, he was incredibly dehydrated.
The kitchen won. Syd groaned and stumbled forth, careful to watch for any stray frags of glass. The fridge was just inside the door, and that was good. Hands shaking, he grabbed a half-gallon bottle of water off the shelf, brought it to his lips. A flood of icy liquid sluiced down his gullet, diluting his roiling gastric stew. He kept on drinking until he had drained fully half of it. By the time he was finished he actually felt a little better.
Syd surveyed the refrigerator's contents. Eggs sounded okay; hell, maybe he'd even whip up a little breakfast-in-bed action, surprise her with it.
The first order of business was clearing away the debris. The sink and counter were littered with stray shards and slivers of ceramic and glass, and some had flown clear across the room. It took a good twenty minutes and a great deal of care to clean them all up; the whole time his thoughts jogged between worrying about what was bothering her and imagining what one of the plates would look like sailing at his head.
Once finished, he got the ingredients out and piled them on the counter. His kitchen setup was spartan, consisting of leftover items Karen hadn't requisitioned for her own needs. There was a big black cast-iron frying pan hanging on a hook over the stove; he took it down, plopped it on the front burner and fired it up.
Next he began chopping veggies, using the big chef's knife that he'd insisted upon taking. As he worked, the frying pan started to smoke on the stove; Syd pinned back the heat, then carved off a hunk of butter and tossed it in. It sizzled and liquefied as he lifted the pan and rolled it, coating the surface.
Setting it down, he pulled a stainless-steel mixing bowl from the cupboard and opened the egg carton. There were six to the count, a neat three-egg omelet each—but then he saw that one sported a gummy-looking crack across its surface.
"Ugh," he grimaced and set it aside, began cracking its siblings into the bowl with a fluid one-hand motion. Yolks swirled and ran, making a miniature cholesterol whirlpool. He tipped them into the heated pan.
The eggs bubbled and spread, browning at the edges; Syd waited a moment, then folded in half of the cheese and veggies. As they melded together in the pan he got down two plates, quartered an orange, put two slices on each one.
The kitchen filled with cooking smells; as he worked Syd began to realize that his appetite wasn't responding the way it should. Though he was enjoying the process, and the hunger still raged inside him, everything he was making seemed strangely unappealing. It wasn't that the food wasn't good: the eggs and cheese were okay, and the vegetables were perfectly fine. He sniffed the butter to see if it was rancid; it was fine.
Too much excitement on not enough fuel, he figured, shrugging it off. He'd feel better when he got something into his system.
The smells mingled in the air oppressively. His belly burbled and gnawed at him. As he flipped the omelet he actually began to feel dizzy. He leaned over and cracked the door leading to the porch, took a deep lungful of air. Just then a voice sounded behind him.
"Hi."
Syd turned and saw Nora standing by the doorway, wearing nothing but one of his flannel shirts. Her hair was sleep-tossed and wild; the shirt itself was unbuttoned, held closed only by her folded arms. She was bleary-eyed, more than a bit embarrassed.
"Hi," he said. Silence.
"Whatcha makin'?"
Syd smiled wanly, pushing his hair back. "Breakfast," he replied. "Well, more like brunch, actually. I was gonna surprise you."
"Mmm," she murmured, leaning against the fridge. "Ain't you sweet."
Syd moved back to the stove, and as he did she scooted over and slid her arms around him from behind. "Sorry about last night," she said.
"S'okay." Syd shrugged, kept cooking.
"I've just got some shit to deal with. . . ."
"S'okay," he repeated. She paused, gauging the vibe.
"You're not mad?" she asked.
"I wouldn't go that far," he said. "I mean, I don't like seeing you hurting like that. Not to mention it's really hard on the dishes. . . ." He flashed a smile; she didn't return it.
"Anyway," he added, "your past is your business, not mine. You want to talk, I'm here to listen. Otherwise . . . " he shrugged, let it go at that.
Nora hugged him. "You know, you're pretty swell," she said.
"Well, I'm swollen."
She snickered then. A good sign. "I noticed," she said, burying her face between his shoulder blades as her hands slid down his stomach and into his sweats. Her shirt fell open, and Syd could feel her breasts press against his naked back. His beleaguered cock began to respond in kind.
"Keep this up and you'll never eat," he scolded.
"Maybe," she replied. "Maybe I don't need food." She bit him on the shoulder. "Maybe I'll just eat you."
"Suit yourself," he said. "I, on the other hand, will die."
"Aw, poor baby." She released him, leaned back against the counter. He finished the first omelet, scooped it onto the plate.
"Here you go," he said. "Bargain-basement cuisine from Chez Syd." He passed her the plate.
"You first. You're the starving one."
"Nah," he replied. "This'll only take a second."
He grabbed another egg. She spotted the defective one, picked it up.
"That one's bad," he warned.
"Y
ou sure?" Nora turned it in her fingers, sniffed it. "Smells okay to me."
Before he could reply, Nora cracked it on the counter's edge, brought it to her lips, and tipped it back down her throat. She gulped it down, then wiped her mouth.
"Yum," she said. She picked up an orange slice, peeling the pulp away with her teeth. Syd made a persimmon face. "Jesus," he grimaced. "And I actually kissed those lips?"
"What?" Nora said, nonchalant. "They're good this way."
"Uh-huh," Syd said skeptically. "This is all a cheap ploy to avoid my cooking." He cracked the egg he was holding, poured it into the bowl, and picked up the fork.
"Oh, shit," he groaned, stepping back.
"What?" she asked. He gestured queasily. Then she looked in the bowl, and all the color drained from her face. Nora gasped.
Floating in the bowl was a gelatinous, malformed mass: tiny body soft as a Dali-clock, little stringers of blood curling around it, threading through the clear amniotic fluid. It was a chicken fetus, right down to the beak and bulging eye sockets. A grinning little rictus was frozen on its dead, gooey face.
Syd dropped the fork and stepped back, his head suddenly reeling. He looked around wildly, then turned toward the back door: wrenching it open, pushing through the screen, and falling out onto the porch.
He was leaning against the rail—coughing and sputtering, a thin rope of spittle trailing from his lips—when Nora appeared in the doorway. "Syd, are you okay?" she asked, her voice tense and choked. She reached out to touch him.
He pulled away, leaned his head against his arms. Then the sickness took precedence, and he visibly slumped. A high-pitched buzzing trilled in his ears. "I think—" The buzzing got louder. He shook his head, trying to clear it. "I think maybe I . . ."
He took a step away from the railing, and his legs folded under him.
"Syd!" Nora cried. She lurched forward, caught him by the waist. "Syd, what is it?"
"I . . . feel sick," he mumbled.
"You're okay," she urged, an undercurrent of panic swelling in her voice. "You're just having a bad reaction. . . ."
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