Nightstruck (31 page)

Was I honestly thinking of shooting Piper, my one-time best friend, in cold blood?

I tried to imagine what it would feel like to hold a gun on her, to pull the trigger, and my entire being cried out in horror and refusal. She had turned into a monster, but except for the green eyes and the awful hair, she still looked like the Piper I used to know. The girl who had never been put off by my shyness, who had such a gift for making me laugh, who had listened to me patiently when I'd complained about my parents' troubled marriage. That girl had had a lot of flaws, I won't deny it, but I'd loved her like a sister.

Realistically, I didn't hold out much hope that Piper or any of the rest of the Nightstruck could be restored to their original selves. They'd been changed by magic, and that was something completely out of human reach. I guess that meant I didn't hold out much hope that the city itself would go back to normal, either. Everyone liked to talk about the changes as if they were temporary, but I doubt I was the only one who feared this might be the “new normal.”

But though logic told me it wasn't realistic, there would always be a part of me that would stubbornly cling to hope. Which meant there was part of me that thought Piper could be saved—unless, of course, I killed her, in which case that hope would die with her.

I took a few deep breaths in a vain effort to calm my racing pulse.

There was no way I could do this. No way. I was contemplating cold-blooded
murder,
for God's sake!

Murder of someone who murdered your dad,
I reminded myself.
Murder of someone who's already tried to kill Dr. Gilliam once, and who you know is going to try to kill everyone you care about.

If Piper were out of the picture, then Luke and Dr. Gilliam and the rest of the family would be safe. Well, as safe as anyone could be in this city.

My shaking stilled, though I was still sweating and my stomach seemed to be turning backflips inside me. I swallowed hard a couple of times to keep my gorge down.

For all my angst, for all my resistance, for all of my doubts, I'd known as soon as the idea had popped into my head that I had found the one and only viable solution to the problem of Piper. The one and only way to stop her from picking off anybody and everybody I had left.

The prospect was daunting in the extreme. I doubted it would be hard to get to Piper—all I had to do was call the cell phone she had stolen and tell her I was ready to give up. I had no doubt she'd believe me, believe my capitulation was a direct result of the attack on Dr. Gilliam. She would meet me, and I would take my gun with me and shoot her dead. In theory, at least.

But meeting her would mean going outside at night. There were nasty constructs and packs of Nightstruck roaming the streets, and they might not care that I was only stepping outside to turn myself in. I might be sending myself on a suicide mission. Worse, I had no idea what made ordinary people turn Nightstruck, and there was always a chance that whatever it was might happen to me before I was able to carry out my plan. It obviously took more than just stepping outside during the night, because I'd done that on the night poor Mrs. Pinter was killed and I hadn't been swept away. But without knowing what triggered the change, it would be hard to avoid it happening.

By going after Piper, I'd be taking all the same risks. But at least, with my plan, they were risks rather than certainties. And the likelihood that the Gilliams would be safe as a result was a lot higher.

I slipped out of bed and began quietly getting dressed. Because of her injuries, Dr. Gilliam was not at work tonight, which meant I was going to have to sneak out of the house. I knew she would try to stop me if she had any clue what I was planning. Hell, what sane person
wouldn't
try to stop me? I could hardly believe what I was doing, and I almost talked myself out of it about a hundred times. But then I pictured Luke being restrained by some unseen creature while the demonic goat gored him, and I knew I couldn't just let that happen, that I was the only one who could stop it.

Steeling myself against the terrible images that kept flashing through my mind, I placed a call to Piper.

*   *   *

Bob raised his head and wagged his tail weakly as I crept through the living room toward the front door. He was still half asleep, and I hoped he would ignore me and drift back off. Instead, he yawned hugely, lurched to his feet, and trotted over to me. No doubt he thought it was time for his morning walk, although he hadn't been out in the dark for ages and there was still more than an hour left before sunrise.

I didn't know why Piper had set our rendezvous so close to dawn. When I'd called her, I'd hoped it would all be over, one way or another, by now, but she'd said she couldn't possibly make it until six thirty. I didn't ask what was keeping her so busy that she couldn't come meet me. I didn't want to know.

“Go back to sleep, Bob,” I whispered, making a shooing motion toward his dog bed.

He just stood there, giving me hopeful eyes, waiting patiently for me to do his bidding. Anxiety tightened my chest, and I hoped the Gilliams would take good care of my dog if something happened to me. This scheme of mine was seeming crazier by the minute.

I'd spent the long hours of restless waiting writing a rambling explanation and farewell to Dr. Gilliam and Luke, as well as one for my mother and one for my sister. I didn't want to disappear on them without a trace, wanted them to have at least a little hint of closure if I didn't come back. I also wanted to be sure no one saw those letters unless absolutely necessary, so I handwrote them, hoping I'd be back home in time to scoop them up and destroy them before anyone read them.

I patted Bob's head and told him to stay. He made a high, thin whining sound when I walked away, and I wasn't sure if he was complaining about not getting his walk or if he was just worried about the crackling tension he sensed in me. At least he stayed put. He was still ultrasensitive to the Nightstruck and the constructs, and the last thing I wanted was for him to catch a glimpse of something and go berserk while I was trying to sneak out.

I put on my warmest coat and hat, sticking the gun in the coat's pocket. I put a box of ammo in the other, though I figured if I needed the extra ammo I was already doomed. Trying to stifle the practical part of my mind that told me this was the stupidest plan in the history of the universe, I opened the door and stepped out into the freezing night air.

Stepping outside felt like something momentous, but in reality the street was deserted, so nothing happened. I closed and locked the door behind me, then stuck my hands in my coat pockets in a vain attempt to keep them warm.

Piper had refused to meet me right outside the house and had told me I had to come to Rittenhouse Square, to the place where Billy the goat stood during the day. It was only a few blocks—a short walk, under ordinary circumstances. But these were not ordinary circumstances.

I forced myself to start moving forward, one foot in front of the other, getting my first good look at the changes that had taken place during the night.

Everything was at least marginally familiar, the buildings all the same size and approximately the same shape. But that was where the resemblance to the day ended. I looked over my shoulder at the Gilliam house, which seemed perfectly normal and ordinary on the inside. On the outside, however, it was a nightmare come to life. Instead of being made of brick, as it was in the day, the house's facade was constructed entirely of bones, some bright white in the moonlight, some yellow with age, some coated with dirt. Where the door knocker should have been, a naked skull leered out at me.

I shivered and told myself to keep moving, and I tried to give myself tunnel vision, to only look at the pavement before me so I wouldn't have to see my surroundings. However, I was also afraid that I would be attacked at any moment, and that made tunnel vision impossible.

The streetlamps had all turned into gallows, the nooses swaying in a nonexistent breeze. The street signs looked fairly normal, until you read the words on them and realized they were encouraging acts of violence. The parking meters had eyes, and those eyes followed my every move. A toothy pothole cruised up and down Walnut Street like a shark awaiting unwary victims.

I passed a shop that I knew flew an American flag during the day. Apparently the shopkeeper didn't take the flag in at night like he was supposed to, and the thing had turned into a long, sinuous tongue that tried to lick me as I went by. I shuddered and hurried my steps.

Sirens wailed in the distance, almost comforting evidence that I was still in the world I knew, that there were people out there who dared to travel these streets at night. The occasional sound of gunfire revealed what a struggle those people faced as they tried to fight off the depredations of the Nightstruck.

I didn't see any Nightstruck, and at first I didn't see any constructs, either. Then, when I was about halfway to the square, I saw what I thought was a decorative trash can. I gave it a second look because it wasn't the normal city trash can and in fact looked much more like the kind that were in the square itself. Instead of being solid and blocky, the trash cans in the square are circular and made out of strips of metal. The strips flare at the top, creating an almost flowerlike opening.

Anyway, there was no reason for one of those trash cans to be sitting on the sidewalk on Walnut Street, and the thing was missing its requisite trash bag anyway. The hair on the back of my neck stood up, and I came to a sudden halt when what were supposed to be metal strips moved, the flared tops all turning like heads to look at me.

They turned like heads because they
were
heads. Snake heads, to be exact. They hissed at me in unison, and the hydralike construct rose on stubby metal legs and trundled toward me.

I stood frozen to the sidewalk, staring in wide-eyed horror. I'm not one of those girls who runs screaming at the very thought of a snake. But this was far worse than an actual snake, and my gun would be useless against it.

It's got short, stubby legs,
I told myself.
You can outrun it.

It was between me and the square, so I would have to run past it instead of away from it, which was not a prospect I relished. Still, it was better than standing here waiting for it to reach me, so I darted forward, crossing the street at a diagonal to get as far away from it as possible.

I got past it easily enough, but I heard those stubby little legs clinking against the sidewalk as it pursued me. I ran as fast as I could, the cold air burning my throat and lungs. The construct kept up easily, and when I glanced over my shoulder I saw that it was only about a body length behind me, heads hissing and snapping at me.

One thing I have never been is an athlete. Adrenaline was giving me an extra boost, but I wasn't used to running, and though I kept pumping my arms and legs as hard as I could, I knew I was slowing down. I expected to feel the bite of those snakes' metal fangs at any moment, but though I didn't turn to check, it didn't sound like the construct was gaining on me.

Still I kept running, my pace getting slower and slower. And still the construct didn't gain on me. Was it possible the thing was getting tired just like I was? Or was it maybe closer to dawn than I thought and the magic that animated it was fading? But that couldn't be, because there was no hint of light in the sky.

Eventually I couldn't run anymore, and I came to a panting halt. I whirled around with my gun in hand, knowing it wouldn't hurt the construct but having no better way to defend myself.

To my surprise, the construct came to a halt as well, stopping when I was just out of reach of the closest snake heads. Its legs bent so that its bottom was resting on the sidewalk, for all the world like it was sitting down and waiting to see what I would do next.

Keeping my gun pointed at it, I took a couple of steps backward. It followed, then sat again when it was just out of reach. I then tried taking a couple of steps to my right, and again it mirrored my motion. I couldn't step any closer without being in striking range of the snakes, so that was an experiment I didn't try. I
did
try a quicker move to the side, intending to try to dart past it and go back the way I'd come.

I wasn't entirely surprised when the construct moved way quicker than seemed possible, to block my way.

It wasn't here to hurt me. It was here to herd me toward Piper. Maybe she thought I'd get cold feet and change my mind about meeting her.

I blew out a deep breath, searching for courage. There was no turning back now. But that didn't matter, because there was no way I was going to change my mind. I knew what I had to do.

I couldn't stand the idea of having the construct at my back, so for a little while I progressed toward the square in a weird sideways walk-shuffle-hop that was both slow and tiring, after my frantic run. I finally decided to bite the bullet and walk normally, my shoulders tight with strain, my entire body tensed for an attack from behind. But the construct kept its distance, herding me inexorably to my fate.

 

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

During the day, Rittenhouse Square is a lovely, popular city park. Benches line the paths, and even in the winter the place is alive with greenery from trees and grass and bushes. At this time of year, the trees and streetlamps would usually be glittering with pretty white Christmas lights, but I supposed there was no point in putting up lights only the Nightstruck would see.

The square is usually bordered by short ornamental iron fencing, but in the night that fencing had tripled in height and was topped with knife-sharp spikes. There would be no entering from anything but one of the paved paths—not that I'd been planning on hopping the fence anyway.

I made my way around the square until I reached the entrance that was closest to the little plaza where Billy the goat made his daytime home. The city streets were scary enough at night, but the square was somehow even scarier. I couldn't help wondering if some of its other sculptures—like, say, the lion—had come to life in viciously altered form just like Billy. And, of course, I was worried there were more trash can hydras in there.