Stones Unturned (18 page)

"And us?" Squire asked, his eyes shifting toward Eve standing beside him.

"You two will find its scent," he said, placing his arm around Ceridwen's waist and directing her toward Charles Street. "And hunt it down."

"Is that all?" Squire asked sarcastically.

Conan Doyle thought for a moment. "Teach it a lesson," he said, walking away. "Show it that humanity is far from being unprotected."

Where the hell are they going now?
Danny wondered. He was perched on the rooftop, watching his friends go their separate ways. They were supposedly checking out some scene of potential demonic activity, and if that wasn't something that could take his mind off his troubles, nothing would.

He considered leaping across to the building, checking out things on his own, but thought better of it. All he'd need is some cop to see him, and then the shit would really hit the fan. All he needed was to give Conan Doyle another reason to be pissed at him.

He slumped down to the roof, closing his eyes, letting the cold night air wash over him. He was thinking about his mom, the look on her face after he'd hit her.

Did I really want to hurt her?
he wondered, a twinge of fear causing the strange growth on his chest to tingle. He scratched at himself. He'd just been angry. He could never really hurt his mother.

Or could he?

For a brief instant, he imagined his teeth sinking into the flesh of her throat, her warm, salty blood exploding into his eagerly waiting mouth.

"Shit!" Danny said aloud, scrambling to his feet. He wanted to scrub his brain of the imagery.
What the fuck is wrong with me?

He decided to return to Louisburg Square and take whatever penance Mr. Doyle could dish out. Then he would tell the man what had been happening, and how much it scared him.

But another image flashed through his mind. He saw himself chained in the basement of the Beacon Hill home, a dirty mattress on the floor, a metal pan of water nearby.

That irrational rage surged up inside him.

Nobody's going to lock me up like a dog,
he thought, baring his fangs in a snarl.
I'd just like to see them try.

"Such anger," said a voice from the shadows, and Danny spun toward it, ready for anything. He hoped for a fight — he was itching to spill some blood.

The guy who emerged from the shadows was big, and he stank of rancid meat, but he wasn't the kind of threat Danny was hoping for. He immediately pulled back on his rage.

"Don't do that on my account," the man said extending his hand. His fingertips were bloody, squared off, missing. "I was nearly two blocks away when I sensed you."

The guy was smiling now, and Danny noticed the rips in the flesh of his jowly face. For a moment, he could have sworn he saw another kind of skin beneath it. Maybe he'd been wrong; maybe this was exactly the kind of situation he was looking for.

"So you sensed me, huh?" Danny said.

The guy moved strangely, as if he weren't comfortable in his own skin, and his eyes were crazy, too, a milky yellow that reminded Danny of pus.

They look kind of like mine
.

"I can't believe how fortuitous this is," the big man said. "It saves me from having to find you."

Danny chuckled, a throaty growl coming from somewhere in the vicinity of his toes. "Well, you've found me. Now what are you going to do?"

The man tilted his round head to one side, studying him. "Arrogance as well as anger," he observed. He smiled again, and this time Danny could see that the skin around his mouth was torn, as if he'd opened his mouth too wide.

"You are indeed your father's son."

Danny was taken aback. "What do you mean by —"

The man moved faster than a guy that size had any right to move. He lunged and slapped him across the face with such force that Danny went down hard, the taste of his own blood filling his mouth. He liked the taste; it made him angry. Springing to his feet, he bared his fangs.

"Come," the stranger said, motioning to him with his squared off fingers. "Show me your potential."

Danny charged, swinging his fist as hard as he could. He relished the feel of his hand connecting, the texture of flesh tearing on the roughness of his knuckles. He punched the man again, and then a third time.

The man stumbled back, but didn't go down. He was bent over, covering his face, and Danny could see tatters of flesh hanging from between his fingers.

"So, do I have potential, or what?" he asked, running his rough, pointed tongue over his stained knuckles. Feeling like the badass he knew he was.

"Oh yes," the man replied. "There's potential indeed. It appears that this world agrees with you."

The man righted himself, and Danny gasped.

His face was practically gone, torn away to reveal a reptilian visage behind the mask of human flesh. Dropping down on all fours, his limbs bending in ways impossible to the human anatomy, the man — the thing — came at him across the rooftop. Danny stepped back as the creature sprang to its feet in front of him, bones popping obscenely as they reconfigured to reflect the armature of a biped.

The beast attacked, pummeling him again and again.

Danny wanted to fight back, to release the bestial anger and frustration that had been building inside him for weeks, but shock stayed his hand, and all he could do was take the beating — blow after savage blow that drove him back across the rooftop. Finally he felt the backs of his legs hit the ledge, and then he was falling backward.

Panic spiked through him, but then he felt a vice-like grip lock onto the front of his sweatshirt, and the relentless beast hauled him up and tossed him back onto the roof. Danny struggled to shake off the weird numbness he was feeling throughout his body, tried to ignore the trickling blood that ran freely from his injured face to stain the ground before him.

"You show me respect by not striking back," the monster said, the suit of flesh he wore hanging from his hands and face in tatters.

"Believe me, I would if I could," Danny said, spitting the taste of blood from his mouth.

The monster smiled. "Deep down, you know," it growled, "your true self knows my identity."

Danny scowled. "Let me guess," he scoffed, "you're my father."

And the monster nodded. "Yes," it hissed, reaching up with its clawed hands to pull away the flesh that hid its true visage.

"No fucking way," Danny shrieked watching as the monstrosity revealed itself. "It was a fucking joke! Y'know, the whole Darth Vader thing . . . Jesus is this fucking bad!"

"Your heritage is no joking matter," the demon said, sloughing off its skin and standing there in all its horrific glory. It was much taller than it had appeared within the man-flesh.

Danny felt it deep inside. He didn't want to believe that something this awful could have anything to do with him, but he knew it was true — he felt it in every fiber of his changing being. This
thing
was somehow part of him.

This demon.

The words left his mouth before he even had chance to stop them. "What . . . what do you want?"

The demon glided toward him. He'd never seen any living thing move in such a way. Freaky as it was, it was also strangely cool.

"I've come for you," it said, reaching out one of its long, skeletal hands to touch his chest. "To take you away from here."

Danny felt the fleshy growth beneath his clothing begin to throb painfully.

"Your true nature is screaming to emerge," it said. "Eager to escape the restricting confines of humanity." The demon looked around, peering out over the city of Boston. "And it is good that you leave here while you still can, for soon this will be nothing more than rubble and death."

"What are you talking about?" Danny said, shaking his head in confusion.

"The reverberations are felt across the world . . . across all dimensions. The Demogorgon approaches. I came back to the human world because I knew if I did not come now, soon there might have been no world left for me to visit. I came back . . . for you."

The demon held out his hand. "Will you come with me?"

The monster that he was becoming chattered inside with glee, anxious to be part of something bigger, but Danny shook his head. He'd heard about this thing before, the Demogorgon. Conan Doyle and the others were practically obsessed with it. This thing — the demon — talking about it made him understand for the first time what it really meant.

This wasn't just another monster for them to thrash. The whole world really was in jeopardy. His mother would die. The world . . .

He shook his head again. Julia Ferrick had raised him as her son. No matter what he looked like, no matter what instincts he might have, under the skin he was still Danny Ferrick. She'd given him humanity, and it was still strong inside of him.

"I'm not like you," he said, knowing there was only partial truth to his words.

The demon smiled again, a Cheshire cat grin that chilled him to the very bone. "But you will be," it said, reaching out to lovingly stroke his face.

"You will be."

"You getting anything?" Squire asked.

Eve scowled at the hobgoblin, as the two of them walked down Newbury Street, on the hunt. "You just asked me that a minute ago."

"And?"

She tilted her head back slightly, sniffing the cold, prewinter air. The November night was crisp. The glow of headlights washed over them, but she ignored them, searching for that scent. "When I get something you'll be the first to know."

Squire grumbled, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his leather jacket. "It ain't right," he said, waiting for her to respond.

Eve sighed. "What isn't right, Squire?"

"Funny you should ask," he responded. "Don't you feel it? Something ain't right — it's all out of whack."

She hated to admit it, but the little prick was right. There was definitely something not quite right of late. The air was filled with smells that didn't belong — aromas that weren't there before the nasty business with Sanguedolce, and the Nimble Man. Nasty things carried on the winds of change.

"I think the son of a bitch has figured out how to mask his scent or something." Squire stopped to buy a pretzel from a vendor near Newbury Comics.

He offered Eve a bite.

She shook her head. "No thanks," she said, looking around, feeling a certain sense of futility to being out there tonight. "Y'know, I'll hate myself for saying this, but I think you're right."

The goblin feigned surprise, pretending to choke on his pretzel. "What was that I heard?"

"Oh knock it off, you asshole. You heard me."

"Yeah, and it was music to my ears," he said, enjoying the moment immensely.

They moved off of Newbury onto Massachusetts Avenue, walking across section of sidewalk that passed over the turnpike.

"It's no good," she said. "The signals I'm getting are all wrong."

"I told ya, it's fucked up," Squire said, finished with his snack, and licking his fingers clean of salt. "I bet it's got something to do with that skinned body I saw," he said, stroking his chin.

"Go on," she said, turning onto Boylston Street.

"Well," he started. "One of the bodies was partially eaten, but the other one was skinned. Why would he chew on one, but not the other, unless he didn't want to damage it? The skin's missing. What if it's not a trophy?"

Eve paused and regarded him. "You think he's wearing it?"

Squire tapped a finger to his temple. "That's the thought that I have. I'll bet he's using it to mask his nasty demon funk."

"I've heard weirder theories," she said, waiting for traffic to thin before she started across the street toward the Hynes Convention Center.

A car beeped at them, and the two turned in unison to flip off the driver. They got to the other side and headed up the side street toward the Sheraton Hotel.

"What we need, no offense, is something with a more discerning sniffer," the hobgoblin said, tapping the side of his bulbous nose.

"Who do you have in mind?"

He smiled the nasty grin that always made her want to slap him, then abruptly shot across the street toward a parking garage that had once been attached to one of the city's better movie theaters, now turned barroom.

"Y'know, I've kind of had my fill of parking garages lately," Eve called after him.

"I need some shadow," Squire hollered over his shoulder.

As she caught up to him, the hobgoblin cast a sidelong glance at her, smiling broadly. "You ever get one of those ideas where it just hits you over the fuckin' head, and you realize you're a genius?"

"Every day," she drawled. "Why don't you tell me what your bright idea is and let me be the judge of your genius."

A bright spotlight inside the parking garage created a deep patch of shadow next to a trash barrel with a bright orange top. "Give me a few," he said, disappearing into the darkness just like he'd dive into a deep pool of water.

No matter how many times she'd seen him do it, she was still impressed with what an amazing talent it was. Near invulnerability, superhuman strength, and animal-like reflexes were one thing, but the ability to travel using shadows? That was just too cool for words. Of course, she'd never share that with him, the miserable piece of crap that he was. That would be the day when she ever admitted to being envious of Squire.

Leaning back against a nearby wall she turned her attention to the pool of shadow, attempting to peer inside its seemingly impenetrable depths, searching for any sign of the hobgoblin. She glanced at her watch, becoming antsy. She hated to stand around doing nothing. Conan Doyle was depending on them to come up with something, and even if they didn't she at least wanted to be able to explain to the arch mage that they'd tried everything that they could.

"C'mon asshole," she muttered, pushing off the wall and moving closer to hobgoblin's entrance to the shadow path. She focused on the darkness. "Hey," she yelled at it, hoping that wherever he was, he could hear her. "We don't have all night, let's go."

Nothing.