[Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind (8 page)

Her stride became more brisk, more military.

She had done it. Today she had done it. And it was a
hell of a fine feeling.

At the end of the second block she reached Mainland, a two-lane highway aiming north and south as it passed
the Station. No houses faced it, only a tall, dense screen
of evergreens that swallowed most of the light beyond.
A block to her right
—like all the blocks in
Oxrun
nearly
twice as long as those in other towns—Williamston
Pike spilled into the road, its flashing amber traffic light the only sign there was a community here. Across from
her was a dense black wall of embankment and wild
shrubbery, a few straggling trees, beyond that the dead
expanse of a long-abandoned farm.

She stepped in front of the corner stop sign and leaned back against it, arms folded loosely over her
chest. She supposed it would have been nice to let Greg
up, to sleep with him, to wake in the morning with her
head on his shoulder, but she hoped he understood this
wasn't the time, that the night of her victory she wanted
to spend alone.
Savoring.
Wondering.
Perhaps indulg
ing in some unwarranted melancholy.
Without question
he was one of the few men she knew who didn't press
for an advantage. He wasn't masochistic, but neither
did he ignore the signals when there was something she
needed he could not provide. Otherwise, he made no
secret of his desire to protect her.
When he could.
When she permitted.

And it occurred to her suddenly, painfully, that per
haps it was he who needed her tonight.
Because of Susan Haslet.

A lone car sped past her, and she followed it until it
had vanished over the rise just beyond
Oxrun's
north
end. When her gaze drifted slowly back, however, she
frowned and rubbed a finger under her eyes, trying to rid her vision of the taillights' afterglow. Then she
shook her head. There was nothing over there; it was
only her eyes readjusting.

Her nose began to run, and she wiped it with a sleeve. First thing tomorrow, she decided, she'd see
Ford. She had no idea what to say, but it was important
he didn't believe she was gloating.
Especially after what had happened tonight.

A tickling at her cheek and she shook her head once.
It was snowing out of the black. Large spiraling flakes
that swiftly coated the crust of previous falls,
greyed
the
blacktop, clung like white burrs to the front of her coat.
One landed on her nose and she brushed it off reluc
tantly, grinning as she pushed away from the sign to head for home.

A sound, then; a great weight snapping a thick branch
in two.

She shaded her eyes to peer across the highway, but
the dark was unrelieved save for the blurring snow, no
light beyond to give whatever moved an outline. But
whatever it was, it seemed to be pacing.
Slowly.
A few
yards left, a few yards right.
Hesitant, as though debat
ing crossing the road.
Another branch
cracked,
a
rifleshot
in the silence she hadn't realized had fallen. Her tongue
poked between her lips, withdrew, poked again. She moved to the edge of the curb. And saw nothing.

Only the snow, sifting more thickly now in and out of the
streetlamps'
spill.

A
shape,
and she almost leaped back to the pave
ment. It was there. She was positive she'd been able to
discern a shape, though of what she didn't know. But it was tall, it was broad, and it had moved in its pacing to
the embankment's edge.

Greg, she thought.
Oliver and Ben.

Or Danvers, troubled and angry.

She turned around quickly, determined not to run.
High Street stretched toward the center of town, awash
in snow, scrabbled over by branches defining a dimin
ishing tunnel. The blacktop and sidewalks were covered
and slippery, her boots soundless as she hurried, her
breath plumed over one shoulder.

This is ridiculous, she thought; all I have to do is stop
and
yell,
and whoever it is will either run away or expose the gag. It's silly. It's stupid.

There was a lump in her stomach that turned grave
cold.

The stitch in her side that laughter had caused re
turned and spread, made her hand clench tightly at her
waist while hedges rose and the snow whispered softly.

One block gone.
One more to Northland.
And she
couldn't help feeling that the shape was still watching.

Her shoulders hunched in reflex, her arms folded again so her hands could grip her sides.

On many occasions while she'd lived in New York
she had walked the streets at night and had felt gazes
following her from alleys and doorways. That was to be
expected, and she'd turned it to a game the rules of
which she forgot when she heard something crashing
through the shrubs.

Watching.
Moving.
The same feeling she'd had that afternoon when she'd fled the school to fetch Homer.
Immediately, she plunged her left hand into her handbag
and gripped the statuette, wincing when one of its teeth
pierced her glove and finger.

Watching; but she would not look over her shoulder.
She told herself it was the champagne, it was the gin,
it
was the way Greg had looked at her before she'd left his car. There was nothing out there, nothing in the
field so huge it terrified simply by being. It couldn't be.
What it must be is a deer down from the
hills,
or even something smaller whose traveling sounds were magni
fied by the night and the snow and the alcohol in her
veins.

The wind struck her at Northland.

At the corner she turned right, ready to break into a
run as she dared a look behind. But a sudden explosion
of wind blinded her, stole her breath,
whirled
her off-
balance, off the curb into the street. Her hands flailed,
her woolen cap spun from her hair. She cried out
—or thought she did—and fell to one knee. Gasping against
the roaring in her ears, covering them with her palms until her lungs filled again. Then she staggered to her
feet. Looked around wildly and could not find her
house. The snow spun right to left in front of her, behind her, trapping her in an ice-bar cage that held
until she lurched forward and tripped over the curb. A
tree slammed against her shoulder, spinning her back to
the street.

Watching.

She felt it watching.

Towering somewhere above her, leering at her, study
ing, but not moving at all when her fear galvanized and she ran blindly, arms outstretched and mouth open to
breathe. The snow slapped her cheeks, her forehead,
tangled in her hair and slipped down her collar. There
was nothing soft about it now, nothing peaceful,
noth
ing
pure; it rode the fierce screaming wind and tried its
best to drown her.

The streetlamps were gone, their lights useless, dark.

Again she reached the curb, this time slowing to
avoid collision and sobbing when she found herself in
front of her home.

Watching; she felt it watching.

The wind punched at her side and shoved her into the
hedge. Twigs dug at her hands, her wrists, but she ignored the needle pain and ran up the walk to the steps, to the door
—it was locked.

"God, oh god," she whispered, struggling through
her handbag for the key chain she carried. Not finding
it, and feeling the shape watching, and wincing at the
stings of the snow on her face, and finally dumping the
bag's contents onto the porch and scrambling to her
knees, one hand on the stone bear, the other frantically
shoving aside compact and lipsticks, cigarettes and de
bris from the bottom of the bag that except for some small stone shards was blown away along the porch. The keys, then, just as she thought she'd lost them.

The wind shrieked, the shape watched, and once the
door was open she leapt over the threshold and slammed
it hard behind her. Backed away toward the stairs, Homer held high to her shoulder in case she had to throw it.

A single bulb in the high ceiling gave more shadow
than light, but it was sufficient for her to see the snow
sweep onto the porch as if thrown by giant hands. It spattered against the glass panels on either side of the
frame and made the curtains tremble; it slipped a small
contingent under the door; it turned to ice; it turned to
hail; and just as her heel thumped against the bottom
stair the wind died, and there was silence.

SHE sat, hard, and the tartan skirt pulled up to her
knees, her hands dropping into her lap white-knuckled
around Homer. Her heart raced; she could feel it in her
chest. Her jaw was tight, her head slightly quivering.
She looked away from the door, and back
...
to the
translucent panes that flanked the frame, to the flocked
white curtains on the door itself. Beyond was a dark flickering, the snow falling
heavily.
No wind, no shape,
and after a few moments of trying not to move she
pushed herself to her feet and walked slowly across the
foyer, Homer waiting silently on the step she had left.

A hand on the brass doorknob.

Another parting the curtains.

Snow.
Nothing but snow.
White in the streetlamps,
grey in the shadows.
A lump in the center of the
street
—it was her cap, and she had no urge to fetch it.

A tear glinted in the corner of one eye, coursed down
her cheek before she could catch it.

Wood creaked and a hinge protested, and before she
could turn around a hand touched her elbow. She almost cried out, bit her lip fiercely and tasted blood instead.

"You okay?"

Kelly stood hesitantly beside her, eyes narrowed with
concern,
hands holding closed a shimmering Chinese
robe. Her hair was in curlers, her face puffed from
sleep, and back in the apartment Abbey stood waiting.
Pat smiled shakily, did not protest when Kelly led her
out of the foyer and into her home.
Into a place of
chrome and vinyl and travel posters on the walls.
Ab
bey immediately led her to the sofa and sat beside her, a
taller and much thinner version of her roommate.

She lifted her hands and spoke in sign language:
What happened to you?

Pat stalled by unbuttoning her coat, pulling her muf
fler from her throat and folding it neatly on the gold-and-
glass cocktail table set too close to her knees. Abbey
poked her arm, her sharp chin raised, her nearly black
eyebrows lifted in question.

"I had a scare," she said finally, not turning away
but listening to Kelly bustling in the kitchen.

Abbey's hands moved again.

Pat grinned sheepishly. "No, I wasn't mugged." She
remembered, and hid a shudder. "I got a promotion today, you see, and
—"

Abbey applauded, her lips parted in silent laughter. The two women had known of Pat's battles and had candidly told her they didn't think she would make it.
Too many men in a position to thwart her.

Kelly returned with a tray laden with coffee cups, a
box of tollhouse cookies, and floral tissues they used in
place of proper napkins. "I'll be damned," she said,
settling easily into a beanbag chair on the other side of
the table. "You did it, huh?"

Pat nodded, and Abbey grabbed her shoulders and
kissed her.

"Incredible." Kelly handed her a cup; instant coffee
and the water barely warm. "But my god, what hap
pened to you out there?
That art guy get
fresh or something?"

Pat leaned back, as much to relax as to allow Abbey
to see her lips. "No. It was the wind. You . . . you
heard the wind?" When they nodded she almost ran to
the window. If they had heard it
—Abbey more cor
rectly sensing the house trembling—then it had hap
pened. This time she couldn't blame it on her drinking.
She felt them staring, lowered her gaze to the cup and sipped once, twice, shook her head slowly. "I guess I
celebrated too much or something. I went for a walk
over to Mainland and thought I saw something in the
fields. It spooked me."

What was it?
Abbey
asked,
her expression patiently
doubtful.

"I don't know, I didn't see it.
I just ..." She
cleared her throat. Now she was feeling foolish. "I ran.
If
anybody'd
come along then, I would have belted him
with Homer."

"Tension," Kelly said firmly. "I know about that stuff. It all builds up, it gets released, and you react. Some people fall asleep, some people get giddy, but you have hallucinations. It's normal.
Really."

Whether it was normal or not, Pat thought for the
moment what the woman said made sense. She had
drunk the champagne, she had had that awkward mo
ment with Greg, and a sudden spat of gusts in a snow
storm wasn't unusual. Add Danvers' car, her abrupt
memory of Lauren . . .

"You're incredible," she said.

Kelly shrugged. "It's nothing. I didn't take all those
psych courses just to fill up some notebooks, you know.
It's also common sense. Abbey, do you remember the
time I was interviewed for that job over in Hartford,
with Travelers? It was
managerial
, and I had a week's
notice." She grinned wryly. "I was a wreck. I lost
fifteen pounds and had to buy all new clothes just to go
talk to the guy." She glanced down ruefully at her
still-pudgy figure. "I should be so lucky again."

Abbey touched her knee.
She was late coming back, and I got worried about her so I went to look for her.
You know how she is.

"Hey," Kelly said. "Watch it."

Her roommate ignored her.
She was standing there
on the riverbank, talking to herself about swimming
upstream all the way to New Hampshire.
Her eyes
brightened, and she winked broadly.
She got the job, you see, and that's how she was going to celebrate. I was a wreck, and she was going to swim to
New
goddamn Hampshire.

Pat laughed and looked to Kelly. "But you work in a
bank, now,
Kel
."

"Yeah, tell me about it. The guy made so many
passes I thought I was trying out for the Patriots. I quit in less than two months. Small world, though. Would
you believe it was Abbey who hired me for the job I have now?"

I'm not perfect,
Abbey signed.
I
do make a mistake
now and again.

Once more the laughter, freer now and less strained.
Pat filled them in on the details of the meeting, omitting
the car incident and the expression on Danvers' face.

I'll bet Greg was happy.

Pat smiled. "I think so. I hope so. At least he seemed
to be, and I didn't feel he was jealous or anything."

He's a good man.

"Oh, he's okay," Kelly said. "God, Abbey, if you're
not careful you're going to start lighting candles to him
next."

Pat looked away for a moment, not wanting to see
the embarrassment in Abbey's face. But Kelly noted the
sudden silence and rolled her eyes toward the ceiling.

"Jesus, I put my foot in it again, right?"

Abbey nodded vigorously, humorously, and Pat grinned
to tell her no offense was taken nor feelings bruised.

"Ah, shit. Well . . . hell, the coffee's cold," Kelly
muttered. "Nuts. Hey, Pat
... ?"

She sensed the abrupt approach of another favor about
to be asked, but it didn't matter. Talking and laughing
had made her feel much better.

"Would you mind . . . that is, I think I did a really
terrible
thing.
"

"You wrecked the car."

"No, I did not. But I figured that as long as that cute
guy at King's had our junk
heep
, he might as well do a
job on it. It's been months, you know. He said it would
probably be ready by dinnertime tomorrow. Tomorrow's Friday, right?
Yeah, tomorrow.
You think we could borrow yours again? Abbey hates to ride the bus."

Abbey pouted, but nodded contritely, and when Pat
agreed as she rose to leave she could have sworn she
felt a severe wash of relief. It puzzled her, but she said
nothing. At the moment she was suddenly too tired to
think about the car; it was going to be hard enough just
getting up the stairs. She made her exit quickly, then, snatched up Homer where she'd left him, and let herself
into her own apartment without bothering to switch on
the lights.

Her clothes trailed behind her. Her legs slowly filled
with lead, and her fingers were barely able to unfasten
her blouse. By the time she peeled back the coverlet she
was already half asleep vowing once again moderation
in her drinking, and wondering as her head lowered
onto the pillow what sort of creature it was she'd imag
ined had been stalking her.

Her eyes closed, her lips parted.

Greg, she decided.
All very symbolic.
Or Homer
given life and protecting her, guarding her, shepherding
her until she had returned home, to safety.

She nodded in her sleep.

That made sense. That made perfect sense. Greg the s
hepherd and Homer the
sheepgrizzly
.
Of course.
Why
hadn't she thought of it before? All her protectors lined
up in a row, and why the hell couldn't she admit that she needed protecting now and then?

The demon rose from the blue-black sea and slowly turned its head toward her.
Fish eyes.
Scales.
Ears that
flared to the back of its head, pointed and scalloped.
Arms thick as tree trunks, hands more claws than fin
gers. It rose from the blue-black sea and it began to wade toward her. She was sitting on a bed, a canopy
bed done in greens and distant
cornsilk
, sitting on the
bed and floating toward a shoreline that jutted out of the surf to cliffs a hundred feet high and covered with gulls.
Black gulls, white gulls, and in the center of the colony
a crimson gull that shimmered as it rose from its nest and turned into a demon that soared over her head
toward the fish-eyed, scaly demon driving with piston
thighs toward her. She could not turn around. There
was a hush of wind as the crimson demon swept over
her, a clash of flesh and bone and claws and teeth as
the two demons collided just above the water. But she could not turn around. She could not tell which of the
demons was after her heart and which of the demons
was after her blood. She could only hear them fighting,
only hear them screaming their rage, while the bed
rocked with the turbulence of their battle and the blue-black water washed over the edge of the mattress and
soaked her nightgown until it was transparent.

Her pillow floated away. Homer was resting on it,
pushed down in its center, its front paws high,
its
nose
testing the air.

The bedspread floated away.

The quilt.

She saw her furry slippers bobbing in the waves.

She saw the cliffs nearing, and saw the gulls slowly
turning pink, turning red, turning crimson,
lifting
from their nests to fill the air with a sailor's warning sunrise.
Her flesh darkened. The temperature rose. The water boiled. Whitecaps flared and the cliffs began to melt
and behind the demons were thrashing closer and closer
until she could feel the wind-shock of their blows, of
their screams, could barely feel the claw that pierced the back of her neck and penetrated her spine and
slowly, slowly, so slowly she dared not nod separated
her head from her torso.

Then Oliver
Fallchurch
rode by on a raft, his cowboy
hat stained with
seaspray
, his fringed gloves blackened,
while Ben knelt between Harriet's legs and drove into
her while she shrieked Greg's name.

"Draw," Oliver said, reaching for his holster.

Pat began to laugh.

"Draw, you two-timing
sonofabitch
," he shouted as
the raft drifted out of range. "
Draw,
goddamnit
!"

His hat fell off and his gloves turned to lace and
Harriet's orgasm knocked Ben into the blue-black sea
where he grew his arm back and turned into a demon
that rose from the water.
Fish-eyed.
Scaled.
Piston thighs driving toward her.