Part 34 (1/2)

He took a halting breath, braced himself.

And looked at last.

He most clearly saw the undamaged side of her face. It retained little of its beauty in death: the one remaining eye gone milky and dull, the features distorted with rage and rain and pain. The other side of her face mercifully blended into the night, like the raw b.l.o.o.d.y gap where her throat used to be. Her body was the color of chalk, caked with mud and bits of leaves. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sagged to either side, loosened by lacerations, purple with settling blood.

Rows of teats extended down along the torn and savaged abdomen. Her haunches were still caught in that nowhere land between lupus and h.o.m.o erectus. Neither the tail nor the fur had completely receded. The feet had elongated into shanks, stiff limbs clawing the air; the toes were large and padded, each tipped with hook-like talons, and matted with mud and gore.

He forced himself to look. Forced himself to see it all. And as he did he flashed back to that lost weekend, as the fog blew off his memory under the shadow of the storm. For the first time, he could recall the experience without blinders against the pain. She had shown him something then. She was showing him something now.

Syd looked at Nora and saw himself: half-human, half-monster; both devourer and devoured. He looked at her and saw the naked face of his purest bilateral soul, the truth of what he was. A creature of great beauty. A honor unbounded.

Now you know.

The hole was ready. The hole was deep enough. He leaned on the shovel like a crutch, as the last of his tears spilled free. They came out hard, were quickly spent. He climbed out of the grave.

The insects had already begun to explore her. Syd's human side was appalled, and he wanted them to stop. The animal side felt no such need. This was the next natural stage in the journey: meat drawn in as sustenance, spirit departing to greener fields, the husk returning to soil and seed.

Her backside had flattened, in livid conformity with the terrain. Rigor mortis had already begun to set in; it made her harder to move, but only a little. There were no words, no tears, no good-bye kiss. Nora slid over the edge and into the pit. Syd picked up the shovel, threw the first faceful in.

By dawn's first light, he had laid her to rest.

Then he went back to the house, to collapse.

And await the inevitable.

PART THREE.

Vic.

38.

Syd groaned and opened his eyes. For one all-toobrief moment, he lost all sense of self: didn't know who or where or even what he was. Then the world spun again, reformed around him. He moaned, brought a hand up to ma.s.sage his throbbing temples.

The hand was caked with dried mud.

”Oh, f.u.c.k,” he mumbled, and it all came thundering back.

He was folded in half on the too-small living room couch, curled into an uncomfortable fetal crunch. He clothes were encrusted, stuck to his body. The dampness had settled deep into his bones. Someone had mercifully removed his boots, which sat neatly by the cooling fire-place embers. She'd thrown an old blanket on top of him, too.

Thank you, he mused, looking around the room. A crocheted comforter was piled in the armchair across from him. Evidently, he'd had company while he slept. The shotgun was within instant arm's reach. He recalled his paralysis at the moment of truth, felt a black rush of shame overtake him.

Syd tried to sit up, was immediately greeted by a monstrous backache. His neck and shoulders creaked, one solid slab of tension; the base of his skull ached horribly. The temptation to settle back and lie there forever was overwhelming.

Then he heard Mae's voice, coming from the kitchen. She was talking on the phone. ”Oh, s.h.i.+t,” he hissed and pulled himself upright, legs wobbling as he stood. He took a few halting paces toward the kitchen, feeling his innards s.h.i.+ft and shudder inside him. Gramma Mae was sitting at the table, speaking in clipped, anxious tones. He hovered in the doorway, listening. From her end of the conversation, he could piece together the gist.

First and foremost: Jane was still alive. Thank G.o.d, Syd thought, felt a knot loosen and unwind in his chest. If anything else had happened, he didn't know what he would have done. In the same breath, he caught that her condition had been upgraded overnight from critical to guarded; and that she had regained consciousness sometime this morning, but refused to answer any questions.

And that was where it grew tense. Apparently, some p.r.i.c.k named Simmons was getting nosy: asking very personal questions about the family, wanting to know about Jane's medical history, her extraordinary metabolism, anything and everything he could get his hands on. Syd grimaced; b.a.s.t.a.r.d was probably sniffing for his n.o.bel Prize, though Syd suspected the story was more apt to wind up in the Enquirer. He could see the ghastly headlines now. s.e.xY WEREWOLF'S HEALING SECRETS! LASCIVIOUS LYCANTHROPE'S DEATHBED DECLARATION: ”RAVAGE ME IF YOU CAN!”

Mae deflected him adroitly: playing the distraught-but-feisty old mountain girl to the hilt. But for all her diplomacy, her ingrained p.i.s.s and vinegar, Syd could tell that she was deeply rattled inside.

He retreated from the door, still keeping an ear c.o.c.ked to the conversation. And as he padded around eavesdropping, he noticed for the first time the fresh scratches all over the hardwood floors, the claw marks scarring the windows and doors. It wasn't hard to put the picture together.

She must have flipped out as Nora started prowling around outside: running from window to window to window like an old yapping house dog with a rabid stray in the yard.

He felt so bad for her; how terrified she must have been. Thank G.o.d, too, that nothing had happened to her. Unless, of course, you count helplessly watching your only granddaughter get ambushed and almost killed, he added. Some folks might regard that as slightly traumatic.

There was certainly nothing she could have done; of that much, he was certain. He tried to tell himself it wasn't any of their faults, that there was nothing any of them could have done. But the anguish underpinning her voice gnawed at his soul, told him that even if this were true, it would be no comfort to her now.

And that was when he understood the simple, ugly truth.

Like exactly whose fault it was.

Syd stood in the middle of the living room, was once again struck by its beauty. This was their home. They had lived here for years, without anyone ever having a clue about their true natures.

Until he came along.

And that was when it hit him, the responsibility implicit in his role. Syd understood what he would have to do: for their sake, even more than his own.

He didn't know how he would do it; quite frankly, he didn't have a clue. It almost didn't matter.

His duty was clear.

39.

By noon, a plan of sorts had taken shape.

Syd had slipped out of the back door quietly, pausing only to rinse himself with the hose outside. He wanted to put as much distance as possible between himself and the mountain; and the sooner he did it, the better. Gramma Mae watched him from the kitchen window; she didn't raise an eyebrow as he hopped into Jane's Jeep and drove off.

A quick stop by his room allowed him to grab a change of clothes and the gun he'd almost used on Vaughn Restal, one night a million years ago. Just down the street at Hoeffner's Sporting Goods he scored fifty rounds of hollow points, plus a small can of lighter fluid and a box of shotgun sh.e.l.ls.

The ammo jiggled on the seat beside him. It was only marginally comforting, for a variety of reasons. It might not even work, for one thing; he somehow doubted Nora could have been stopped by anything short of a bazooka blast last night. To further complicate matters, Treat Her Right was supposed to be playing tonight, and the potential innocent-bystander body count a Friday night firefight could generate was genuinely appalling. And the idea of stopping Vic only to end up indicted for manslaughter struck him as a real losing strategy, even if he could make a case for self-defense.

No; in the end, Syd decided that gunplay was a desperate last resort, one he dearly hoped he would not have to employ.

Besides, he knew, if he did this right, he wouldn't need to.

The parking lot floods were still on when Syd pulled up. Another good sign. It meant that Randy hadn't been in, and if he wasn't in by noon he probably wouldn't be until four. All of which suited Syd just fine. He needed the time, and the privacy. He screeched to a halt directly in front of the entrance, grabbed the ammo, and climbed out.