Part 40 (1/2)

There was a blur of motion, then: a gray streak, aimed right at Vic's throat. Mae came within an inch before he seized her by her open jaws: wrenching them wide, cracking them like a walnut. Gramma Mae shrieked as her skull bisected. Death was instantaneous.

But momentum lingered on.

And as Vic fell back, propelled by Mae's hurtling corpse, Syd threw himself desperately forward. Catching Vic's charbroiled belly momentarily exposed.

And burrowing deep inside it . . .

. . . and there was no death more intimate, no murder more complete, than devouring from within. To gnaw through the bowels of another-to feel oneself being eaten alive-was the essence of the dance at its most fundamental.

Syd buried his face in Vic's belly, ripping into the weakened flesh. Claws tore at his back. It didn't matter a bit. His razored fangs hacksawed straight up the abdominal cavity, slicing through innards and soft belly-sausage, until they found what they were looking for . . .

. . . until they locked on Vic's thundering heart . . .

. . . and it was hard to remove, to tear loose from its moorings. The muscle was strong. It held on. It fought back. Syd bit down and shook, ignoring his own pain, ignoring the great howl that welled up within . . .

. . . and this time, the black heart wrenched free, collapsing within his crus.h.i.+ng jaws. Syd pulled it out, felt the hot gus.h.i.+ng muscle deflate. The nature of Vic's tremors dramatically s.h.i.+fted, from desperate resistance to antic.i.p.ation of death.

Syd withdrew his gore-drenched maw abruptly, the better to look Vic in the eye.

Then he spat out the heart, like the poison it was.

Vic stared at the heart, at the sputtering hole. Then his eyes rolled back, empty. He teetered. And fell. He was dead long before he stopped twitching, the soul outlasted by involuntary muscle response.

Syd remained standing, just long enough to make sure. And then he was falling as well. . . .

48.

The world went black, phased out, bled back again. Syd felt his physiology s.h.i.+ft rearranging itself even as the bloodl.u.s.t receded, like a red tide returning to the sea. The tide pulled at him, beckoning. Inviting him to join it, and sink into its peaceful, thoughtless depths.

A sound like distant thunder rumbled across its surface; a storm on the far horizon. Beneath it, all was black and still. Syd closed his eyes, panting, soaked in blood and sweat.

Dimly, he heard his name being called. When he next opened his eyes, he saw a flickering mirage with Jane's face on it. She was human, too, or nearly so. Or maybe he was dreaming.

He heard his name again, realized, no, this was real. He shook his head. When he looked again, he saw Jane: her features now clearly human, pale and trembling. She was crying, and trying to sit up.

Trying to get to him.

Syd moaned, pulled himself upright. As he did he saw Gramma Mae's body, lying on the floor. She had not reverted. Her back was to him, the pelt ragged and b.l.o.o.d.y. A wave of sadness and regret washed over him. I would like to have known you better.

She died to save them, he knew. To save him and . . .