Part 12 (1/2)

Her throat felt dry and rank with phlegm. Cottonmouth, on top of everything else. She groped out blindly through her tears for the bottle, then remembered it was shrapnel in a pool on the floor.

”f.u.c.k!” she yelled, purely reactive now: no longer Nora, but a hysterical recreation, a creature made entirely of red wine and grief.

The terrible truth was, there was no hope. She'd feared it then, and she feared it now. She was as doomed as a lobster in a restaurant aquarium, as doomed as doomed can be. Vic would never die, and he would never stop coming, and nothing she could do or say would make a G.o.ddam bit of difference.

And here she was, in the middle of as grim a nowhere town as she'd ever found, in the apartment of a guy she had met just last night, contemplating a happily-ever-after life of monogamous downwardly-mobile domesticity. As if such a thing were even possible, not to mention desirable; as if it were even an option at all.

But the fact was that part of it was incredibly attractive; she was surprised by how strongly the feeling surged. As much as she loved the night and the roaming and thrill of the kill, she was-dare she admit it?-tired. Tired of the road and the running, the relentless shadowy trail. Too many miles. Too many faceless strangers in nameless bars, snuffling after her like a b.i.t.c.h in heat and paying for it with their lives. It used to be fun; now it was just stale. Spent. Old.

Then again, what wasn't? She certainly was not getting any younger; quite the opposite, in fact. Even given the obvious perks of her turbocharged metabolism-she was eighty-eight years old and didn't look a day over thirty-five-she was still a long way from immortal.

Worse still, lately it seemed she was feeding more and getting less for it; the glistening predatory rush she used to get from swallowing another's life essence was receding to a dull, throbbing buzz. She wasn't bouncing back like she used to, either. Indeed, not a day went by that she didn't check her face for lines, her t.i.ts for sag, her a.s.s for loss of definition. It was age as gravity, and more: it was youth as a fading window of opportunity.

And that made her think about the other urge; the one she measured by the ticking clock that thundered ever louder inside her. The need to love and be loved by someone who saw her as the center of all creation, someone who would be there long after her strength and beauty had faded. Someone whose love would never leave her, who would never let her die alone.

She longed to feel the life growing inside her, to cradle her baby's tiny, helpless form in her arms, to feel its mouth pressed to her nurturing breast. It was a naked desire, one that sprang from her deepest self, and it transcended all logic or politics or reason. It was both incredibly human and utterly animal, the one point where her warring natures inexorably met.

And no amount of running could put it behind her. Or the fear that snapped at its heels.

She thought about the little white lie she'd told Syd this evening, the one about not being able to conceive. Not a lie, she instantly amended. Not exactly. It was very true that she hadn't been able to carry a young one to term. And she feared whether she could ever get pregnant again, especially after Vic . . .

Nora stopped in mid-thought, unable to face the memory of the last time she'd tried, and what Vic had done. It was his fault, the s.h.i.+t. It had to be. He was the one who was corrupted: he'd been at it too long, far longer than she. Yes, they both fed against nature: perverting the instinct even as they strengthened it; she knew it in her bones as every new theft coursed through her veins. It was cannibal karma, a shortcut to power. And it was an abomination.

But she could turn it around, and he never would. He was a dead end; she wasn't. It was what she told herself, what she needed to believe. She had the power, she was an experienced and seasoned survivor, she held the future in her belly and between her legs. All she needed was a fresh chance. Vic just couldn't give her that.

The question was, could Syd?

Could anyone?

And that was when the fear caught up to her, in all its rabid, snarling glory: slas.h.i.+ng at her flanks, bringing her tumbling down. The idea that she had inadvertently polluted herself beyond repair. Feeding on the forbidden spark until she was a barren and empty vessel. Unable to hold, let alone give forth life. It was simply too much to bear.

It was just another one of the little things Vic hadn't told her about, way back when he'd first seduced her from the mortal normalcy of her girlhood in the mountains of Montana. She flashed back to that long-ago time-the memory distant, faded, worn with time-when she was still nothing more than a good girl with a bad streak, and he was the deadly handsome stranger that drove her daddy crazy.

Nora was all of fifteen when Vic blew into town and blew her neat little world apart: promising her the pa.s.sion and danger she'd always dreamed about, the kind she knew she would never find as the precious only daughter of a successful, upright Christian cattle rancher. Vic offered her the moon, and everything under its cold blue light. Nora was only too happy to accept.

So he stole her away one night, running south all the way to Mexico. Along the way he also stole her heart and her virginity, though not in that order and with not much of a fight. He showed her how to Change, how to hunt and feed and roam the night, how to live wild in a world full of human cattle ripe for slaughter.

He showed her the ways of the wolf inside, and in the process made her over in his own image.

But he never told her the price she'd pay. . .

Nora stopped, realized that she was crying again. ”No,” she hissed, then reined it in tight, forced herself to take a minute, rea.s.sess her situation. True, looking at this squalid Pennsylvania ghost town didn't exactly inspire her.

But Syd was another matter entirely. Yes indeed. He had pa.s.sed the first test: he had the wild seed inside him, and was stable enough for it to take root. He was instinctively protective. And he was a good lover: enthusiastic, empathetic. Eager. Maybe not as good as Michael, at least not yet. But not a combination you found every day, nonetheless.

Vic had never been able to walk that line; even if he had been able to get her pregnant, he would have made the worst father in the world. Abusive, selfish, drunken, and cruel. G.o.d help them if they were girls.

Syd, on the other hand, would never rape his own daughters. This much she could tell, and that in itself made him stand out from the crowd. She could tell that he really liked her, on top of his obvious hard-on and in spite of his anger tonight. And there was something so enormously satisfying and rewarding about being genuinely cared for, appreciated for who you really were, instead of just being craved as a f.u.c.k machine.

But what was she going to do? Set up shop and play house, hanging around town until she got herself mired in this decaying postindustrial tar pit? Was she insane? In the same amount of time, Vic could find them, kill them, travel the world, and write a book about it.

Which meant that, if she wanted Syd, she'd have to defer his nesting impulse somehow. Get him to go on the road with her. And train him like a sonofab.i.t.c.h. Maybe by the time they were in a position to tear Vic limb from limb, they'd also be in a position to settle down somewhere. Start a little pack of their own.

But how would she talk him into it? She hadn't a clue in the world. She'd never been so intensely focused on such a regular Safety-First Clyde, such a do-goody waste of talent. Tonight was important; at least, he had proven that he had some fight in him. But would he survive the Change, when it came, or would he fry in the transition? She had no way of knowing. He was more concerned that the cable bill be paid wherever they landed. He was soft. That was all there was to it.

But he's good. She paused to reflect on the thought. And he loves me. Or at least he will.

And when he gets in touch with his nature, he will be the one I need. I know he will. All he has to do is let go of his bulls.h.i.+t: all those things that he thinks he needs to have.

Then he will be perfect, she thought.

Then he will be mine.

And suddenly the smell of Karen was everywhere in the apartment: that drip-dry vegetarian cooze, with her chlorophyll c.u.n.t. Nora couldn't blank it out, couldn't make it go away. She was tasting blood, and it wasn't her own. Her cottonmouth was intense, utterly untenable; she pulled a gla.s.s off the counter, filled it with water from the tap.

When she brought it to her lips, she smelled essence of Karen.

And something snapped.

”f.u.c.k!” She flung the gla.s.s down, smashed it into the sink. ”f.u.c.k you!” And it was too much, just all too much, the pain and the memories and the desperation, the fear that relentlessly hounded her like a ravening pack. ”f.u.c.k YOU!” Not knowing exactly who it was she cursed, not even caring, as the tears came back with a vengeance: a raw, wracking sob erupting up and out of her like a poisonous black wave. She was drunk, she was wired, she was cursed and running on fumes. Something had to give.

There was a plate by her hand, stacked ever so tidily in the drying rack. She wrenched it loose, let it fly. By the time it blew up, she already had another in hand. Another plate. Another stupid stinking plate.

She felt the Change start uncoiling in her guts, straining at its tether. Now, it screamed. The plate exploded with a bright brittle crack, loud as a gunshot. Not now, she thought, beating it back. A gla.s.s came up, came down again, sending sharp s.h.i.+ny fragments up to dance before her eyes. Now. Her head pounded and she slammed the counter. Not now. This wasn't the right time. Her mind was spinning. These were not Syd's things. They were Karen's things. They had to die. He had to understand.

She smashed another plate. It was not enough. She smashed another one. Syd's voice called out from the bedroom. Not now, she thought, growling. It wasn't time.

She was running out of time. . . .

And that was when the hands grabbed her from behind. Nora let out a mournful low, like an animal embracing its doom. The arms were strong, and she buckled and sagged within them. The Change subsided: kept down, if barely. He was talking to her, but she could only hear jangling, jumbled noise. She had to get him ready. She had to tell him soon.

”I'm sorry,” she managed, and then once again started to cry.

The song had changed. It was obscenely upbeat, straight out of Motown in its perverse jauntiness. She vaguely recognized the melody. ”Destination Anywhere.” Background music could be so cruel.

”I'm sorry,” she repeated, and then he turned her around and kissed her. ”I'm sorry.” Pulling her mouth away. The room was spinning. The world was spinning. When Syd spoke again the words spun in her mind.

”It's all right,” he said, and she wanted to believe it.

Only she knew it wasn't true.

17.

In the dream, he was home again.

Syd ran through his house, frantically calling his wife's name. A terrible storm lashed the windows, echoed off the roof Something was pounding on the front door demanding entrance. They had to get out of there. Something was coming, something horrible. He had to find her Just then Karen's voice rang out somewhere behind him, and Syd turned in time to catch a fleeting glimpse of her moving up the stairs. He chased after her but as fast as he ran he could not catch up; the house itself conspired against him, the floor sagging beneath his feet as the stairs stretched and corkscrewed like an Escher print.