The Silver Kiss

by Annette Curtis Klause

  He looked up as if forcing himself to do so. “There’s a chance he might know about you,” he said in a rush. He walked out.

  She ran out after him, her nerve endings screaming. “What do you mean?”

  He stood outside, head bent, hands shoved into his pockets. “I’ll understand if you don’t go.”

  She felt herself turning white. “You weren’t going to tell me, were you?”

  “No.”

  “What changed your mind?”

  “Your damn kisses.” He shoved a piece of paper at her.

  She read the childlike prose, gradually becoming puzzled. “But, Simon, it says nothing about me.”

  “No, but he’s a spiteful sort. It would be like him to let me think you’re safe.”

  He’s paranoid, that’s all, she thought. He’s reading things into it. And he did tell me. He couldn’t go ahead without telling me, after all, even if he is desperate.

  “You’ve got to put faith in yourself sometime,” she said tenderly, despite the lump in her throat. “The chance is no greater than it was before, and I couldn’t get more frightened.”

  At midnight she walked down the quiet street, dressed to lure.

  Simon was out there, she knew, watching her, keeping her safe. She had to believe he could keep her safe. Yet her palms were sweating, and her mouth was dry. She had hung the crucifix Lorraine had given her around her neck, under her sweater. It made her feel better, no matter what Simon said. It didn’t hurt to cover all bases.

  Her stockinged legs were cold, but she hugged her jacket around her and forced herself to walk slowly. She wanted to give him ample opportunity to spot her.

  Zoë knew when Christopher started to follow her, though she never heard him. The texture of the air changed. Perhaps the part of Simon left in her blood could sense it.

  She walked toward the park under a star-crazed, clear, cold night, hardly daring to breathe.

  14

  Simon

  Simon watched Zoë from the shadows. He slipped from tree, to bush, to fence, but always he kept his distance.

  How pretty her legs are, he thought. How beautiful her long dark hair—like Bess in that poem about the highwayman. Yet he dropped that thought quickly, remembering how Bess died to save her love. It made him feel uncomfortable. She awoke poetry in him, though. “She walks in beauty,” he whispered. He smiled. A car drove by slowly, and he faded into a mist.

  She turned the corner, and he drifted across a lawn to follow. He felt fuzzy, as he always did when he dissolved. It was hard to maintain a purpose that way. I can’t allow myself to drift tonight, he decided, and reached out his mind to draw his scattered molecules together, seamlessly condensing into a pale boy in graceful motion behind a trellis fence.

  Then he knew Christopher was there, ahead of him. He couldn’t see the boy at first, and he started to panic. Then a movement in the trees caught his eye—a bat, up where she wouldn’t see. Bats used sonar. He cursed silently and drifted apart again. It wouldn’t catch him now. I hope he doesn’t stay that way long, Simon thought as the numb apathy began to build.

  He sensed Zoë’s pace quickening. She knows. Slow down. He’ll guess. Slow down. The last thought echoed around him, and Simon began to slow himself, started to drift. Ah, the sparkling night. Why don’t I drift up to the stars? No. I must follow. Follow who? The girl. What girl? I think I shall scatter and sparkle like frost. No, a voice of reason called distantly. Christopher, hissed a quiet memory. The warning ran from molecule to molecule and pulled them together with the same purpose. It molded him back into a boy.

  He crouched by a parked Volvo. Around the bumper he could see the park across the street. Two boys passed, smoking cigarettes and punching each other with the blows of comrades. They disappeared around the corner. He had gotten ahead of Zoë, but he could see her coming up the other side of the street. He could only hope that Christopher had not sensed the suspicious mist drifting out of tune with the night.

  If Zoë could lead Christopher into the park, all would be well. If she could only get to the other side of the pit, stop as if dreaming, to lure him out and entice him to approach her. “Oh, poor little boy,” she could say, and call him across the trap, to his death.

  A dark form flittered beneath the streetlights over Zoë’s head. She didn’t look up, but Simon saw her flinch at the shadow cast on the sidewalk. Don’t look. Don’t let him know. Her fists were clenched tight, but she didn’t even glance. Simon could hear the pipings Zoë couldn’t, the high-pitched squeal that bounced through the air and felt out shapes and movement in the night. He dared not move, lest he attract Christopher.

  Then the bat was ahead of Zoë. It dipped around a tree and disappeared. And, at the park, a small boy stepped from the bushes out onto the sidewalk. He carried a knapsack over his shoulder. A teddy bear poked its head out from under an unbuckled strap. The boy waited for Zoë with anticipation on his face.

  Simon bared his teeth and growled softly at the back of his throat. Damn his eyes. He couldn’t wait any longer? He couldn’t follow her farther? Did he know?

  Zoë reached the park, and Christopher walked up to her, the knapsack bumping his thigh. Zoë looked startled. Don’t give it away, Simon begged. He’s just a boy to you, remember. He raised a hand to his mouth and worried a nail. Damn! Damn! Damn!

  They talked. Simon could not quite hear what they said, even with ears acutely tuned for the hunt. It was too far to make out words, and it nearly drove him crazy. Perhaps Christopher’s words gave him away. Perhaps he did know her. Zoë wouldn’t be able to tell, but Simon could—if only he could hear.

  Zoë walked into the the park with Christopher, offering her hand. Good girl. Brave girl. Her smile looked strained to him, but Simon suspected Christopher did not care enough about humans to tell a false smile from a true.

  Simon followed carefully at a distance as they traveled the path to the center of the park. It was the right direction, and he dared to hope. But they stopped in the dark of a wide-spreading tree. Not here, Simon pleaded silently. Don’t stop here. The moonlight didn’t penetrate the shadows, and he could only see shady forms. Don’t look into his eyes, he thought. Remember what I said. He’ll have you, if you do that. Get out of there. Get out. Yet they stayed there in the dark, as if in eternity, and Simon wanted to howl.

  This was all wrong; he had to go to her. He took the risk and eased himself through the night. If I can get close, I can jump him, he thought.

  The figures were clearer the closer he got, and he saw the small form hold up something to the girl. Then he was close enough to hear the chirping voice. “This is Teddy. He’s lost too. Kiss Teddy and make it better.”

  Zoë bent to the child, closer and closer into the reach of those greedy hands. He would grasp her hair, expose her throat—he would have her. Simon tensed to spring.

  “Oh, what a lovely bear,” Zoë cried, and snatched the toy from Christopher. He tottered back a step, and Simon held motionless in shock. What was she doing?

  “Gimme my bear,” Christopher said, recovering.

  Zoë held it out of his reach. “Fm just looking.”

  “Gimme my bear,” Christopher said more forcefully.

  She laughed. It sounded forced to Simon. “What’s wrong? Can’t take a joke?” She backed away a few steps, and Christopher advanced on her, his fists clenched.

  “Give it back.” He almost used the command tone but stopped short, still playing the helpless child.

  “Come on, don’t you want to play?” she asked, backing away faster. “If you want it, come get it.” She turned and burst from the shadows, holding in front of her the bedraggled teddy bear.

  Christopher let out a cry of rage and rushed out behind her, panic on his face.

  Simon grinned and punched the air in glee. Go, Zoë, go. She just might do it. He wanted to cheer.

  She headed toward the gazebo. “Come on,” she called. “You’re no fun.”

  Simon felt like laughi
ng. Christopher didn’t dare go lightning fast and grab it back, because that would give his game away. He still thought he had a chance. He didn’t know. He played the helpless little boy, running after his beloved teddy, outraged by the teasing. Simon hoped he hadn’t sewn up that hole, that his precious soil was falling out all over this alien dirt.

  Simon followed eagerly, herding them with his wishes. The quiet, long a habit, took no effort, and soon he became daring. Since Christopher had eyes only for his bear, sometimes Simon crossed moonlight, briefly startling against the night. He wanted to keep up.

  Zoë dodged around the gazebo, up the steps on one side, and down those on the other side. There were four sets of steps; she used all but the one on the pit side. And Christopher chased her frantically, picking up speed, gradually casting aside the pretense. Soon he would be too enraged to care. He flung aside the knapsack that hindered his pace. It was a dark park, a late night—he’d strike quick and abandon the game.

  Zoë was panting, and her face was white, as if the frost were tearing her throat. Dodge here. Duck there. Slowing down. And Christopher, on short, pudgy legs, moved faster, bouncing from step to step, across hollow boards, no fatigue on his face, only anger and growing bloodlust.

  “Can’t catch me,” Zoë shouted between ragged breaths, and headed across the gazebo again to the other side. The side she had not gone down yet. The side with the pit.

  Simon raced around the bushes, almost on all fours, and flung himself down in the dried leaves. He could see from here.

  Zoë hit the top of the steps with a burst of speed. Suddenly she was in the air.

  Oh, Zoë, don’t jump too short. A picture of her, broken and pierced, flashed through his mind. His hands went to his mouth to cover his horror.

  Christopher was at the top of the steps, Zoë was flying through the air, and Simon felt frozen in time. He half rose.

  Christopher, ready to run down the steps and snatch her, stopped. He had seen movement. His eyes focused in and found Simon, poised half free from the ground. Zoë rolled to safety as Simon and Christopher stared at each other, Simon in shock, Christopher in disdain.

  Simon rose slowly, completing the journey to his feet. Zoë lay gasping on the grass, clutching the teddy bear to her like a talisman.

  “What is your trick, Simon?” came the bell-clear child’s voice, harder than any child’s. “Have you a game afoot? Is this your slut?” He laughed when he saw Simon’s eyes flash to anger. “Yes, how foolish I’ve been. I must be getting old. Where were you leading me, Simon?”

  Simon relaxed a little, inwardly, but he wouldn’t let Christopher see this. “That’s for you to find out.” Christopher didn’t guess about the pit just a few short paces from him. There was hope.

  “Shall I ask the girl?” Christopher’s fangs glinted as he leered.

  Simon wanted to hurt that face, slash it, rip it. His brother brought an unreasoning hate alive in him. It boiled inside him and made it hard for him to think. Caught in his anger, he didn’t see the change right away.

  “You cease to be amusing,” his brother said. Christopher’s voice was higher, wavering, as if his larynx was distorting. “I should have killed you long ago.” It turned to a squeak.

  Bullet fast, a black bat dived for Simon’s face, over the pit, over the stake-lined hole that was to be its death. Sharp claws slashed at Simon’s eyes, and he staggered out from the bushes, covering his face. He was only feet from the pit. The bat dived for his face again. Simon ducked. But the bat changed to a boy and sent Simon crashing to the ground.

  They struggled furiously. Simon tried frantically to roll away from the pit that could be his own death, too, and Christopher unknowingly forced Simon closer.

  Christopher was strong beyond human terms, yet so was Simon, and Simon was larger, which gave him more leverage. Yet Christopher lacked the spark of humanity that tempered Simon. He bit, he scratched, he clawed for Simon’s throat, and won a throttling grip.

  “You can’t kill me,” Simon gasped. “You have nothing you can kill me with.”

  “I can maim you,” Christopher growled. “I can disable you and leave you helpless while I find the means.” He sank his teeth into Simon’s forearm and ripped the leather like tissue. He sliced the flesh beneath.

  Simon screamed, more in anger than pain. “Damn you!” He clutched his brother’s throat, but Christopher pried him off. Christopher rolled, and flipped Simon over him. Simon’s head was over the edge of the pit.

  A branch bent. Leaves rustled. Simon could hear the dirt trickle beside his ear as Christopher’s weight bore down on him. Don’t give, he begged the soulless dead boughs. He’ll know then. He’ll tip me over.

  “Simon!” Zoë screamed. He had forgotten about her. She stood above them, beating at Christopher with a branch.

  Christopher laughed in his blighted child’s voice, the voice Simon hated so much. The branch broke. Tears ran down Zoë’s face. Christopher began choking Simon again, crushing his windpipe.

  Then another voice. “We’ve got you now, Blondie.”

  Christopher flung himself off Simon. “What the hell …?” He crouched, ready to fight or flee.

  Simon turned, and was amazed to see two boys running from the other side of the park—a big one, vaguely familiar, and a slighter, younger kid behind him.

  They panted to a halt in front of Simon. Christopher backed carefully away. “Hassling kids now, pervert?” said the smaller boy.

  Simon saw Christopher change his mind about running, a glint of interest in his eyes.

  The bigger of the two advanced. “Kenny wants his jacket back, asshole.”

  The other followed. “Yeah. He’d get it himself, but he’s still in the hospital.”

  Simon, furious at his plot’s collapse, frustrated in his anger, advanced on the boys, eyes blazing. Christopher could get away anytime he wanted now. Where would he go? How many more years would it take to find him again?

  The big one pulled a knife from his belt—a cheap hunting knife honed to a brittle edge.

  Simon stopped. He recognized the boy now. The fool. What made him think that he could do any better this time? But the smell of liquor drifting to him answered that question. Hunted him down, had they? Hunted the hunter?

  The boy thought Simon had stopped from fear. He advanced, waving his knife, and Simon let him, anger raging inside. The lumbering boy was right before him now, but Simon stood his ground. The boy didn’t know what to do. He had anticipated anything other than this. He swung his knife, expecting Simon to duck, but the blade slit neatly across Simon’s face. Simon grinned a berserk grin. His fangs slid down from their sheaths. He licked his own blood.

  The boy stepped back, his mouth open. He looked at the knife, and at Simon’s face again, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then his eyes grew wide, and his tongue bulged like an idiot’s. Simon felt his flesh pulling back together and knew what the boy saw before the boy turned and ran.

  Simon whirled to face the other boy, who had crept around him during the confrontation, hoping to surprise him from behind. The boy gasped in horror as he saw the curtain of blood down Simon’s face, the demonic leer, and the writhing flesh curling back into itself. He backed away, and a noise came from him like that from a wounded beast. Farther back he went. One step more. Then his arms were flailing, and he was sliding. There was a crash and a scream. He disappeared down into the pit, the hole meant for Christopher.

  “You thought you could fool me with that?” Christopher smirked.

  Simon moved toward him. I almost did, you bastard, he thought.

  Zoë fumbled with her coat, as if burning up.

  “I’ll get away,” hissed Christopher. “But I’ll have your girl first.”

  He dived at Zoë, fangs bared. But something was in her hand—a crucifix. He stopped and snarled, raising his hands, then he started to shift. Leather wings peeled from his arms.

  “Don’t let him go,” Simon screamed.

&nb
sp; She blinked, too afraid to comprehend what he meant.

  “Stop him!”

  Christopher’s face heaved and rippled. His nose turned up, and he began a mocking chitter.

  Simon couldn’t look at Zoë directly. The light coming from her upraised hand hurt his eyes. Yet he ran to her and grabbed the searing cross from her with a cry of pain. He hurled it at the creature that was Christopher, as it rose into the air. The ribbon tangled around the bat. The chittering turned to screams.

  The boy emerged from bat, with the ribbon about his head, the cross strapped to his eyes. There were burns across his face, and he tore at his flesh as if trying to tear out the pain. He opened gouging wounds on his cheeks as he struggled over the grass. He couldn’t see where he went. He stumbled blind. He stumbled too far, and he found the pit. He howled. A squelching thud filled the empty air where he had stood a moment before.

  Simon flung himself down at the edge of the hole to see. He heard Zoë come up behind him, then moan and move back.

  Christopher writhed on two stakes impaling him. Foul smoke arose from his bubbling form. His body, dying, tried remembered shapes to escape but couldn’t quite make the change. A sequence of muddled forms emerged, and twisted on the skewers, spitting blood—boy with bat’s head, wolf with boy’s arms, pig with boy’s face, sloughing skin.

  And huddled in the corner, miraculously unhurt, the skinny boy whimpered and sucked his hands, too terrified to scream. Simon reached in, hauled him out with one hand, and flung him. He rolled across the grass, got up, and fled.

  Christopher, a boy once more, twisted into a wizened dwarf, fell in on himself like a crushed insect husk, and finally lay still and mummy like.

  Zoë didn’t speak. Simon didn’t turn to face her. He imagined disgust on her face and didn’t want to see it.

  “Leave me,” he whispered hoarsely, fighting ice tears. “Leave me, brave heart. I’ll come for you. I’ll let you know how I am. I must fill this hole, and I must think.”