Or, rethinking the equation, perhaps it would be pleasant to crack his head like a walnut, scoop out great spongy hunks and munch munch munch until he reached the cerebral cortex, and then holler down his brain stem.
That would be a hoot. Little fuck was probably thanking his lucky stars this very moment, his nose half-buried in Nora's fragrant tail. Or vice versa, maybe.
That was okay. Vic downed his shooter and twirled the glass on the bar, felt the bloodlust go from boil to simmer. That was just fine. Right about now, he realized, that poor sucker must think he's just about the luckiest guy alive.
Ah, well, Vic thought. Didn't they always.
Uncle Vic would teach him different. And then, when he was done, he'd make her clean up the mess.
His imagination sated, Vic gestured to the ox for yet another round. As he did his gaze strayed to the dance floor, the loose crowd of gyrating humanity tuned into some vintage Blind Blake. As the bartender brought him his drink the sea of bodies momentarily parted, allowing Vic a clear sight line to the back of the room.
And that's when he spotted her.
"Nora," he said.
OH, SHIT, JULES thought with dawning horror, as the dark man stood and stepped away from the bar. He knows her. He said her fucking name. He looked back to the dance floor, saw one silhouette moving against the current, a second in close pursuit. He wanted to call out to them, sound some kind of warning.
But he could see the dark man already in motion, beelining toward the dance floor.
And he knew it was already too late.
NORA SMELLED HIM a second before she saw him coming.
Oh no. Freezing her in her tracks. Oh no. Feeling the void billow up in her soul. There was that one amazing second, when you watched a thing spin out of control. That second was happening now, and her only emotions were panic and horror.
Then the moment snapped, and instinct took over.
The first thing she did was let go of Syd's hand. There was a crowd, thank god there was a crowd, it was a simple matter of moving fast and keeping her head down. Syd said something. Music swallowed the sound, even as it receded. She picked up her pace. It occurred to her that she had not even said good-bye. The thought was a dangerous distraction. She kept going, parting the human cornfield with scarcely a ripple, heading for the door. She prayed to God that he hadn't actually seen her.
But of course she knew he had.
AT FIRST SYD couldn't make heads or tails of it. One minute all was right with the world: Nora's palm locked in his as they emerged from the hallway.
Then in the space of a second it changed: flesh going taut and cold, her fingers tensing and snatching away. Syd started tracking from the second she detached, going what the fuck? as she darted and weaved, cutting a zigzag swath through the room. Syd followed, jostling dancers and sploshing drinks as he plowed through the pie-eyed obstacle course.
He called her name; she ignored him. He saw the back of her head, lost it behind a potato-shaped couple. They parted as he plowed through, doggedly in pursuit: leaving a trail of irate curiosity, picking up gawkers in his slipstream.
"NORA!!" he called out. "WAIT!!"
She was past the fringe of the dance floor now, heading for the door. He could feel her desperation through the heat of the crowd. He tried to track her movements, the absence of logic behind them.
Then Syd hit the outer perimeter of the crowd, and saw the man-shaped shadow bearing down on her. He was moving fast, on a collision course. His body shifted in the light, revealed a face Syd instantly hated, its features forever burned into his DNA. His fists clenched and as his adrenaline kicked in, riding the Shockwave screaming through his guts.
And he knew: that was the strangest part. Syd knew before his brain even had a chance to register the escape vector and intercept course, before his memory had time to regurgitate the stories and process them into fact. The knowledge was instant, undeniable. The name, when it came, was bitter on his breath.
"Vic," he hissed . . .
. . . AND THERE WAS nothing like the feeling of those last few steps, when he knew for a fact she had nowhere to run. It was that one instant, at the end of the hunt, when the hunted finally grasped its fate, understood that it was going down. Total satisfaction, in that moment of truth. Such a feeling of completion, of absolute mastery.
For a moment they froze, with six feet of distance between them: Vic wallowing in predatory glory, Nora swimming in stark terror. He'd never thought of her as a timid soul, but there she was: for once utterly speechless, like a big-eyed bunny rabbit.
It was not a good look for her. It only lasted a second. Then she began to back up, and he paced her, making an exaggerated show of how leisurely he could be.
"Well, hell, Nora," he said, smiling wide. "Long time no see."
Nora snarled and showed teeth, but she wasn't fooling anybody. If she'd been wearing her ears, they'd be pasted back so flat on her head they'd look like she'd ironed 'em down. She took another step backward. He continued to pace her.
"You just stay away from me, Vic."
"Oh, princess . . ." He shook his head wearily, but his grin was enormous. "You know I can't do that."
Suddenly, her pick of the week appeared alongside her, wired extraordinarily tight. It poked a hole in Vic's smile. He had the kind of crazy look about him that said he was about to go badly savage. Vic sized him up in a glance.
Nora'd been working her mojo, all right: sonofabitch was primed, and coming on strong. In a couple of months, he might have actually turned into a problem, instead of the dogmeat he was about to become.
But he was green, not attuned to his nature. He had no idea what he was up against; he'd probably never even turned. In an open encounter, he'd be dead in seconds. That alone was enough to incur Vic's contempt.
Worst of all, though, Vic could smell Nora all over that unworthy piece of shit. And vice versa. All the way down to his cum on her breath. All pretense of magnanimity went out the window as the pictures that it posed made Vic berserk.
The urge to kill them both was very nearly more than he could bear.
SYD, FOR HIS part, was completely unintimidated: too crazy with his own bloodhunger to register Vic's danger level, too concerned about Nora to care. They were about the same size, that was all he knew. Cecil had fifty pounds on him, easy.
"Hey!" Syd hollered, stepping into the free-fire zone between Nora and Vic. "Hey, shithead!" They stopped, and Syd squared off, four feet from where Vic held his ground.
"Back off, little dog," Vic said. His voice was infuriat-ingly condescending. "I'll eat your fucking brain."
"Vic!" Nora cried, calling out his name. It barely registered on their map.
"Yeah?" Syd took another step forward. "We'll see who eats what, motherfucker!"
"SYD!" Nora, beside him. "NO!" There was genuine terror in her voice.
Vic's lips peeled back in a leering, lethal grin.
And a shadow seemed to pass over his face . . .
. . . AND THEN Vic stopped, as the cold, blunt business end of a shotgun barrel connected with the soft hollow behind his left ear. Vic stiffened. The barrel nudged him twice, for emphasis.
Sonofabitch. The ox was right behind him. Cocksucker had snuck up on him in all the excitement. Vic began to turn, and the gun stayed with him, maintaining that delicate, deadly contact. He stopped, noted that the fucker had placed himself well, in a blind spot and well out of reach. Slick. Dude had even taken care to make sure that, should he choose to pull the trigger, the only thing Vic's brains would hit on the way out would be the wall.
It chilled him out, right then and there. He really had no choice. For all of his power, there was nothing in Vic's repertoire that worked against a skullful of buckshot at close range. He felt the power of the Change ease out of him, exhaled slowly through his teeth. Then he smiled, tried to keep it breezy.
"Problem, officer?" Raising his hands palms-out and waist-high.
"Not anymore," Jule
s replied, meaning blink and I'll blow your brains out. "But I believe it's time for you to go." His tone was measured and neutral; the shotgun's mouth gave one more kiss, then withdrew. Meaning now.
The jukebox finished playing, wrapping the room in silence. Vic looked around; all eyes were upon them, the entire bar's collective breath held in anticipation of his next move. Vic's gaze took in the entire room at a glance, skipped Syd entirely, shifted back to Nora.
"Well, darlin'," he said. "You heard the man. You know the deal.
"So what's it gonna be?"
NORA FELT the question land in her lap, felt the attendant surge of imminent doom envelop her. It was like playing hot potato with a hand grenade. Vic and Syd had already pulled the pin, started tossing it back and forth, creating a deadly situation that could blow at any second. Jules and his gun had put an end to that volley, but it hadn't done a thing to defuse the potential explosion.
So Vic, in his wisdom, had tossed it to her at the very last moment. That ruthless, murdering sonofabitch. He knew her options, could guess how she'd play them.
And the game was over, no question about it. All she had to do was read the look on his face. Every thought in his head was now etched on those features, emblazoned in his knowing gaze. He held nothing back. He was reading her, too.
The moment of truth had finally arrived.
The fact was that he would never stop coming. He would never ever stop. He would follow her wherever she ran, ambush her whenever she rested, dog her tracks every step of the way for the rest of her miserable life.
She looked in his eyes, and they told her that, yes, this was destiny unfolding: the once and future pattern of her life, immutably fixed for all eternity. She would never escape the bond they'd forged, the hideous tie that bound them still. There was no one to turn to, and no force short of death that could keep them apart.
And if, by chance, she should meet someone—and for a moment, dare imagine some other, happier twist of fate—Vic would kill him. It was really as simple as that. She understood now, with a terrible finality, that there would never be enough time to get one up and running. Vic would always arrive too soon. Without mercy, and without fail.
Nora watched the last remnants of her dreams collapse, her plans vaporize, her strategies turn to dust. All of the endless running—every desperate attempt to rebuild her life—had been a cruel joke. A charade of astonishing depth and malice. The ache in her belly only served to confirm that she had pulled the wool over her own eyes, and in the process, chewed up dozens of lovers over thousands of miles. And for what?
For nothing.
For nothing at all.
She couldn't bring herself to look at Syd, though his eyes were hot upon her. She was already trying to forget what he looked like, erase from her mind all painful delusions of the things that might have been. And Vic's gloating countenance was far too much to bear. He'd known her decision, almost before she did. He knew her all too well.
But there was one last card she could play; a single move left to her before she conceded defeat. She could not save herself; that was a given.
But as for Syd . . .
"I'll go with you," she said to Vic at last, her burning eyes averted. "If you swear—you swear—that you won't hurt him."
"WHAT?"
Syd looked as if he'd been shot, as all the color drained from his face. "WHAT?"
"Syd, shut up," Nora snapped. "It's over." Then she turned to Vic, and Jules saw her terrible resignation. "Swear to me," she reiterated.
And Jules realized in that moment that she really did love Syd: twisted as she was, her feelings were genuine. Then he looked back to the dark man, to the smile on his face, and was more than half-tempted to blow it right off, blow him right the hell out of their misery. Vic was just looking for the right way to cunningly phrase his end of the bargain. There wasn't a genuine fucking bone in his body.
"I swear to Christ," Vic said, "I won't even lay a finger on him."
Nora stared at him hard. "You won't hurt him," she insisted.
Vic looked from Nora to Syd, and back again. "Like I said," he said flatly, "I won't touch him." He looked over his shoulder to Jules. "You, I can't make any promises about. But as for him . . ." He gestured to Syd dismissively, as if it scarcely even mattered.
Then he turned his attention solely to Nora.
"So," he said, "shall we?"
A long silver chain appeared in Vic's hand, like a magician pulling flowers out of his sleeve. It was fine-tooled and delicate, easily five feet long, with a tiny silver clasp on the end. He extended his hand, offered it to her.
"Nora," Syd implored her. "Nora, you can't—"
Nora shook her head and stopped him.
"Good-bye, Syd," she said.
And now, at last, she met his gaze, her tears welling up defiantly. Her eyes never left his as she took the chain, its silver clasp gleaming in the light. And before God and everybody, fastened the clasp to the ring in her nose.
"C'mon," Vic gave the chain a playful tug. She flinched minutely, stoic in her submission.
All the struts went out from beneath Syd's conviction. It was amazing how fast, and how complete the devastation. Jules could do nothing but helplessly watch him sag, visibly deflate, from all the holes that had been punched in his core.
"Nora," he said, but there was no steam left in it. His eyes, like hers, were brimming with tears. The despair in them was beyond measure.
Then she turned and, with Vic leading the way, walked out of the door.
And out of Syd's life.
THE DOOR EASED shut again—slowly, slowly—and for Syd Jarrett, there was a fifteen-second slice of infinity when all Creation was reduced to that narrowing gap. Watching the darkness as it winnowed down to nothing. Then gone.
Then gone.
As if from a distance, he felt the world start up again without him: disaster averted, and on with the show. Somebody laughed, too loud; it was almost like a signal. All at once, the muted buzz gave way, the party resuming in earnest.
Syd just stood there. Silent. Thrumming. Paralytic with shock and pain. The jukebox came on, abrupt and startling. Billie Holiday. "Tain't Nobody's Business If I Do." Underneath the boisterous relief of the crowd, the clinking glass and chinkling change, Syd felt his nerve endings begin to unravel, his heart crisp and shrivel inside his chest.
"Syd." Voice first, then the hand on his shoulder. Syd recoiled from the touch, his eyes aflame.
He began to shake his head.
"C'mon, man." He felt Jules behind him, trying to steer him back to the bar. "You gotta let it go. . . ."
"No." Syd growled, wrenching suddenly free. There was violence in the gesture. It was barely restrained. Jules stepped back, staring into those burning eyes.
And for the first time in ten years of friendship, Jules was afraid of him.
Syd smelled the fear, found it strangely exhilarating. The killing rage hurtled forth like a living force, a separate entity with a mind and a will all its own. Yes, it said. You SHOULD be afraid. You should ALL be afraid . . .
. . . and then it struck him that no: not them. There was only one who should have such reason to fear . . .
. . . and then he was moving, hitting the door with both hands, sending it slamming back to crash against the wall as his feet smacked gravel and his eyes scanned the biting black air. Thinking sonofabitch, I'm gonna rip right through you. I'm gonna tear you to fucking shreds . . .
. . . and then he spotted them, at the far end of the parking lot: Vic, closing the passenger side door of a battered sedan; Nora inside, head down, shoulders slumped. They were maybe sixty feet away. Vic looked up, saw Syd coming, ignored him.
"HEY!" Syd called out, moving faster now, the killing rage singing in his blood as he crossed the parking lot. "HEY, YOU!"
Vic waltzed around the front of the car, heading for the driver's side. The thought that Nora was afraid made him crazy; the idea that she was scared for him sent Syd clear
over the top. Syd himself felt no fear, only a terrible clarity of purpose.
"HEY!!!"
Twenty feet now, and Vic still showed no sign of response. Adrenaline surged through Syd's system: every cell humming in anticipation, restless for impact.
Ten feet, five. He could practically taste his blood "MOTHERFUCKER, I'M TALKIN' TO YOU!!"
He got there just as Vic reached the driver's door. Nora called out Syd's name; it was lost beneath the roaring in his ears as his left hand snaked out, grabbed Vic's shoulder, spun him around . . .
. . . and then the air itself changed, became violent, as Vic whirled, face gone liquid and wickedly distorting, mad eyes alight with a ravening flame as the mouth grew wide and kept on growing, lips blackening and peeling back to reveal so many many teeth . . .
. . . and the teeth, like ivory stilettos, flicking up to fill jaws far too huge to believe. Jaws that stretched and sprouted from the terrible no-longer-human face: long snout long jaws long gleaming spikes that snarled and snapped like a beartrap full of bayonets.
Syd stumbled back, his bootheels skidding on the loose-packed gravel, his tumbling ass-backwards on the stony ground. Nora screamed. Syd's eyes rolled back, as the dark shape descended . . .
. . . and then Syd felt the teeth graze the soft skin of his cheek: light enough to tickle the stubble there, sharp enough to break the skin. Just a nip. A warning.
And then they stopped.
Syd's blood thudded painfully in his temples, as his eyes refocused, fixed on the figure before him. There was a disorienting moment as the form seemed to glitch and shift in the darkness, like a rippling man-sized hole in the night.
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