Ravenous (35 page)

The house stood before him, a blacker structure against the blackness of the night, with soft light glowing vaguely in some of the broken, glass-fanged windows. Jason stood cautiously across the street, staring at the house from the safety of a stand of Sitka spruce trees, eyes narrowed, his breath loud in his alert ears. He could feel the beating of his heart in his chest. Pulled toward the house by something he did not understand, he moved forward across a deep ditch running with water that was cold against his feet, then loped into the road and headed toward it.

Light suddenly surrounded him and he turned to his left and raised his claws slightly, just as two glowing orbs rushed at him fast. A terrible screaming sound, vaguely familiar, cut through the night—

tires

brakes

—and the lights veered sharply to the right. For an instant, Jason caught a glimpse of two pale, horrified faces beyond the windshield—a man and a woman. The car thumped loudly as it hit the ditch, then slammed into the trunk of one of the spruce trees with a thunderous crunch. Upon impact, the car's lights blinked out and the passenger shot through the windshield like a missile, flying clear of the hood and disappearing into the dark.

Still standing in the road, Jason turned away from the wrecked car and almost immediately forgot about it as he focused his attention once again on the house. He crossed the road quickly, before anymore lights came, and bounded over the broken-down old fence in front of the house. He stood on the broken walkway that led to the porch and stared at the house.

A voice spoke inside his head:

“You're heeere ... come iiin ... come iiin ... come iiin ... “

Jason lifted his leg past the broken front steps and moved up onto the porch. It creaked and crackled under his weight but held him as he went to the door. He stopped and stood there for a long moment, uncertain, mildly confused. The house seemed to be trying to embrace him, to take him in invisible arms and hold him closely, tightly.

He sensed something ... an unfamiliar feeling, but one he recognized nonetheless. He sensed ...
others
. Suddenly, he knew he was no longer alone. On the other side of the battered, cracked old door in front of him, there were others ... like him ... hungry ... burning with lust ... and there was something else ... some
one
else ... a strong presence that felt even stronger as it drew nearer to him, until—

The door was pulled open slowly. In the darkness beyond stood a tall, hulking figure.

Jason focused his eyes, released a low, warning growl without even realizing he was doing it. At the same time, he felt the tingling sensation of his fur shifting over his flesh, as if a breeze were passing over him. The figure stood perfectly still, and yet Jason felt as if it were moving closer to him, closing in suddenly, stepping into his space and crowding him.

A single silver eye stared back at him for awhile, then the shape stepped forward. It had halted its transformation around the halfway mark—it was a man covered with hair, with tall, pointed ears on each side of his head, and a mouthful of fangs but no snout. His left eye was gone and skin had mostly grown over the empty socket.

The man spoke in a low, rumbling voice, and as he spoke one word, the same word was echoed in Jason's head, as if the wolf-man were communicating with him in two ways at once:

“Jason.”

“Jaaasooon.”

For an instant, a terrible fear rose up in Jason. He took a fraction of a step backward and almost turned and ran, but other eyes appeared in the darkness behind the hairy, one-eyed man. They glimmered and flashed as they stared directly into Jason's eyes—

—and suddenly, he felt welcomed, as if they had been waiting for him. For indeed they had, and now they were glad he'd arrived.

Just out of the reach of his mind's hearing, like voices that could barely be heard on a radio with bad reception, Jason heard the others, felt them, picked up the very edges of their thoughts as they reached out to him from behind their glistening eyes. At the same time, he heard them with his ears, as well—the low, not unpleasant growling sounds they made deep in their chests. The growls were almost voices, but still not quite human.

“Come—”

“—iiin—”

“—in,” the man said. “You're—”

“—hooome—”

“—home now.” He lifted his arm slowly, reached out a hand to Jason, its black claws like needles coming from the tips of his fingers.

Jason took in a deep breath, then released it tremulously. He stepped forward as the man and the others stepped back, and Jason entered the house.

 

* * * *

 

Doris peered out her front window through her binoculars. Sheriff's Department cruisers were parked everywhere, most of them with their red-and-blue bars of light on top flashing, the colors bleeding all over the road and sidewalks and yards. Through the open doorway of the Norton house, she could see a body lying on the floor. It seemed to be moving slightly, but no one was nearby or helping out—all the police were outside.

Others in the neighborhood were coming out of their homes slowly, looking around, talking quietly to one another in their yards in the glow of their porch lights.

When she'd heard all the gunfire earlier, Doris had automatically reached for the phone to call the police. Then she'd realized they were already there—that
they
were the ones doing the shooting.

Movement caught her attention and she turned the binoculars a little to the right. She saw Sheriff Hurley crossing the street with a group of deputies, approaching the house.

More movement, again to the right—a news van from Channel 4.

Frowning, Doris muttered, “What's happening over there?”

 

* * * *

 

When he saw the news van pull up and double park beside a cruiser at the curb, Hurley groaned, “Oh, shit.” It was bad enough that they were following him around from the scene of one killing to another, but he knew if they saw that thing on the floor in the house, he would never be able to keep things quiet. The reporters would start a panic in the town—in the whole county—and it would make his job a lot harder than it was already. Hurley turned to the deputies. “Get some tape and cordon off this entire yard, right now. Make sure
nobody
gets
near
that house, understand? And somebody go stand in that doorway—I don't want that body to be visible from out here. Get something and cover it up, while you're at it.”

Several of them replied positively as Hurley broke away from them and went to the news van as its two doors opened.

Here we go,
Hurley thought.

 

* * * *

 

The first thing Jason noticed inside the house was the smell. It was, in part, dusty and moldy, but there was something else almost overpowering those odors—the heavily musky, gamey animal smells of the other figures that lurked in the murky darkness.

Candles burned in a few places, their glow shifting back and forth, giving the darkness a kind of secret animation, a flickering life that jittered over the figures around the room. Some stood, others sat or crouched, all in groups of two, three, or four, curiously sniffing each other. Some of them grunted as they rutted savagely on the floor, or on dusty old furniture, or against the walls. Still others stood and watched Jason as he came into the house.

Jason's hunger gnawed at his gut. But he realized that was not all he was feeling—he could feel the hunger of the others! Their urge to feed, their need to bite into warm flesh and feel and taste hot blood was as powerful as his. Combined, those hungers and urges formed a sort of vibration, an invisible aura that surrounded them all, a silent and unseen shower in which they eagerly bathed.

They were enjoying it. The anticipation of what was to come—the hunt for the right prey, the stalking of the prey, the attack and the kill, the explosive release of savage sex—seemed to be as powerful as the real thing. But then, Jason did not know—he had not yet fed.

The one-eyed man began to communicate with them silently, not with words, but feelings and pictures. He comforted, he reassured, he encouraged their hunger and their urge to hunt and kill and fuck—but all the while, he subtly impressed upon them his primacy, his leadership. He made sure they had no doubt about his alpha status.

He was like them, and yet different, because he was older, stronger, more practiced in the ways of the hunt, far more experienced in the kill. He emanated power and strength.

Jason feared the man—it was a fear he could not control or reason with, but one imbued with great respect for the creature that stood before him.

Something in the room changed. The air became charged. Suddenly, the other creatures in the room were all standing, shifting from foot to foot, making low, rumbling sounds.

Jason felt it, too. It came from the man—

Taggart

—who stood perfectly still among them—

Irving

—sending his thoughts and feelings out to all of them.

Taggart Irving Taggart Irving Taggart

The name entered Jason's mind from the outside, infiltrated his primitive thought processes.

Taggart was stirring their hunger like the boiling contents of a steaming pot, making it roil. He expressed to them the feeling of the kill, the sensation of their fangs popping through flesh, the taste of blood bubbling up into their mouths, and it was making them restless. Those engaged in sex stopped and pulled apart so they could pace as they kept their eyes on Taggart.

They breathed harder, faster, fidgeted nervously, all of them—even Jason. His heart thundered in his chest. He could feel the very blood rushing through his veins. He wanted to—no, he
needed
to feed,
had
to. But something held him there, looking at Taggart. Large invisible hands pressed his feet to the floor. Some distant part of Jason's mind understood that it was Taggart himself—he was not quite done with them yet.

Taggart worked them into a frenzy. The house hummed with their deep growls and chuffing snorts, their pacing footsteps, and the occasional snapping of their jaws.

Saliva dripped from Jason's snout as he closed his eyes and lost himself in the sensations Taggart was sending—warm, tender skin, hot, salty blood pumping into his mouth, the taste of the raw, wet flesh. As these sensations moved through him, he pictured only one face, one person. The person he held responsible for the death of Andrea. The leader of those men who had fired their guns and sent a bullet into her neck.

Sheriff Farrell Hurley.

A sharp sound interrupted Jason's reverie and that of all the others.

A voice crying out. Then, pounding.

“Hello? Help me! Please!”

The room fell silent and every head turned toward the front door.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

Taggart turned his body around to face the door.

“I'm hurt! Somebody please help! We've had a wreck ... across the street! My wife—” The voice was interrupted by sobs. “I think ... my wife ... is dead!”

The room filled with the sound of thick, heavy breathing.

Taggart went to the door, reached out and turned the knob, pulled it open.

A figure huddled low on the porch.

“Will you help me? Please, call an ambu—”

Taggart bent down, grabbed the man with both hands, and jerked him easily through the door into the house. He kicked the door shut and threw the man over the floor toward the others.

Jason smelled the blood. So did the others.

They all surged forward, but Taggart stopped them.

“Wait! New ones—”

“—Neeewww—”

“—first. You ... and you ... and—”

“—yooouuu—”

“—you, come here.”

Taggart gestured for Jason and others to come forward.

The others grumbled their protest.

As Jason neared the man—

“Wait! No! Wait, please, I'm hurt, I can't—what're you
doing
?”

—the smell of blood grew stronger. Jason's consciousness winked in and out of a bleary, foggy state of helplessness as he threw himself forward and pounced on the man along with the other new ones.

The man began to scream and fight weakly, but he was no match for them.

Jason felt his fangs pierce the man's skin, felt the blood well up in his mouth, tasted the warm, juicy, raw meat underneath.

The man's screams stopped with a gagging sound.

Jason consumed bites of the man, growling and grunting as he fed. But he did not eat much. He stopped when the face of Sheriff Farrell Hurley appeared behind his eyes again.

Jason lifted his head and looked around, his muzzle dripping with the man's blood. His eyes found Taggart in the flickering darkness.

Taggart slowly lifted his arms—

“
Feeed! Feeeeed!”

—as he looked around at all of them.

There was a great, noisy rush as the creatures left the house. Some went out windows while others bottlenecked at the front door, but they left the house quickly, eagerly.

Hungrily.

And Jason went with them, bounding over the bloody, savaged corpse on the floor.

Once outside, he felt better—he had not realized how closed in and imprisoned he'd felt in the house. Now he was out in the open, in the night. He quickly put distance between himself and the house as he ran across the street and disappeared into the woods on the other side.

He ran back the way he had come with only two images vivid in his mind.

First, Andrea's face, smiling softly at him, her eyes warm, skin soft.

And second, the face of Sheriff Farrell Hurley, which he looked forward to eating.

 

 

 

42

 

Stalking the Prey