Part 20 (1/2)

He shakes his head like he is disappointed, and chides, ”Christopher, you've got to stop running.”

And from behind, I hear the doom-filled tread of Bat's Keds on the tarmac.

Chet stands before me, the whites of his eyes faintly glowing with a sick pearly light. ”Almost midnight,” he says. ”Almost time for all h.e.l.l to break loose.” He yanks my arms again, and I twitch in pain.

”Who are are you?” I hiss. you?” I hiss.

”My name is not important, Christopher. We're going to see your handiwork now. The fruit of your labor. Couldn't have done it without you.” He's clearly enjoying himself.

Bat steps out of the shadows, his stubbly face weird with snarls. He points at me, yells, ”BASTARRRD! He's mine. Miiiiiiine! Miiiiiiine! Give me the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Give him to me, Chet.” Give me the b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Give him to me, Chet.”

”No, Bat,” says Chet. ”I can't do that.”

”Give him to meeeee!” Bat screams. ”MEEEEEE!” He swings his fists. ”He's the reason they've got her! GIVE HIM TO MEEEEE! GIVE HIM TO MEEEEE!”

Chet drops my arms.

”They don't have her anymore, Bat,” he says lazily. ”I'm afraid your succulent, truculent friend was executed just three and a half minutes ago. You can see the footage on the news. They took her to the town center.” His voice harsh with pleasure, he continues, ”I understand her body started to knit back together on the ride over. By the time they got her into town, she was awake. She started struggling. The police went to take her out of the car and transport her into the courthouse. Unfortunately, she lashed out. One of the officers tripped and fell. The crowd couldn't be controlled. It was a mob scene. They found sharp things. Someone must have found a stake. They killed her where she fell, with her head and half her back on the pavement and the lower half of her body trailing in the gutter. She didn't even die on level ground. Somehow that hurts particularly, don't you think?”

Bat looks lost. He's pale. Pale as a ghost.

”Sorry, Bat. She's not here anymore. She's gone. d.a.m.ned.”

Bat is limp. ”I've got to talk to her,” he whimpers. ”But I've got to talk to her.”

Chet shrugs. ”Okay,” he says. Suddenly, his voice is high - his voice is hers - and he screams, ”Help me, Bat! Help me! I'm in so much pain!!! pain!!!” He smiles blandly, and says, ”It goes on like that for a while. All eternity.”

”You b.a.s.t.a.r.d! b.a.s.t.a.r.d! YOU b.a.s.t.a.r.d! YOU b.a.s.t.a.r.d!” yells Bat, moving toward Chet. He slaps his hand down to his belt and pulls out an ornate and ancient switchblade, rune covered and flas.h.i.+ng with little sparks of fire.

Bat yowls and throws himself at Chet, raising the wild dagger.

He flies across the clearing.

Chet waves his hand, and Bat disappears.

The woods are in turmoil. The trees still warp and shudder in the wind, and the leaves still spin as if propelled.

”Where did he go?” I ask, breathless.

Chet looks up and down the empty road, obviously pleased with himself. ”He was no longer useful,” he says. He claps once. ”Now I want to see what you've made possible, Christopher. They'll be sacrificing the final goat soon. So step lively. Move.” He grabs my shoulders, turns me, pushes me toward the woods. I stumble between the trees.

Chet lifts his legs above fallen branches; he holds back the spiny limbs of saplings for me to pa.s.s. The road gets smaller behind us. We're headed down the slope toward the bank of the reservoir.

”What's going on?” I demand.

”On?” says Chet.

I shove through a stand of pine that writhes with our pa.s.sage. ”Tell me what's going on,” I say.

”Isn't it a little late for that question?” Chet asks. ”Maybe you should have thought of that earlier.”

”I did,” I say sourly. ”I was tricked.”

”I'm so sorry,” he says. ”I'm very sorry to hear that you were tricked.”

The night is uneasy and electrical as we pace along through the forest at a furious clip. The clouds are low and discolored; but the moon still s.h.i.+nes. Through the trees, the lake burns an electric blue. Strange currents slip along power lines and rock the trees and prod the crickets to chirp like clockwork mechanisms.

Through the loose branches of pine, I can see the reservoir. Out in the center, the light bobs from the sacrificial boat. Beyond it, little isles rise, then the blinking radio towers and the dark hills beneath the moon.

”Pick it up. There's not a moment to spare,” Chet says.

We run silently through the woods. I have to run to keep up with him. His strides have gained in urgency. He bangs boughs out of his way with unfeeling arms. Tramples through brambles. Scampers over boulders. And I run to follow him.

He holds out his hand and guides me down a wall of rock.

We stand on the banks of the Wompanoag Reservoir. The clouds are dense and draining across the sky. The crickets sing as if in fever.

”Here, so you can follow the action, let me galvanize something. You'll be able to hear our vampiric counterstrike,” says Chet, taking a nickel out of his pocket. He rubs it twice with his thumb, and it starts to speak.

It blares: ”. . . give us the cue, we'll continue with the ritual as scheduled. We must not panic.”

And: ”No, certainly not, Mayor. We're ready to continue here.”

”A-OK, Father Bread?”

”Lay your hand upon this wilderness that the wicked and untoward may not stalk within it. Smother us with peace, O guardians of Light.”

”Soon,” mutters Chet. ”Soon.”

”Bless us in this time of trial. Place your seal upon the waters of Wompanoag and the valley where once our ancestors roamed. Place the ancient seal of holding upon those hills and forests, that Darkness may not -”

And then there is a burst of static.

Nonsense voices keening and screaming.

The squealing of wind instruments untuned and blown without rhyme or reason.

People screaming in Latin; screaming in Greek; screaming profanity.

”. . . seem to have some static on your line . . .”

And ripples start to shoot across the lake.

Vampire voices scream blasphemy and blood.

Chet is licking his lips. His eyes fly from one point to the other, absorbed.

”The spell of interruption,” he says. ”I'd give it one more minute.” Slowly, statically, like a statue unfolding, he lays his arms out straight on either side. And as he does so, there is a low hum of power. I hear him whispering beneath his breath, ”Lord, make me an instrument of your discord.” His fingers begin to twitch with blue fire. On either hand, his slim fingers wheel like the branches that thrash around us.