Part 21 (1/2)
Tastes.
Pull hair.
Lick skin.
Bite.
Feel the air, the moving air, the wind.
Feel the real.
Howl!
Wait, what was he doing? What was Anastasia becoming? What was the biting doing to-stop!
Stop thinking. Feel. Go with it, truth, life.
Howl!
Time for Prime to become Primeval.
Hair, sprouting. Fangs, growing. Claws, extending. Nose, blossoming. Eyes, sharpening. Ears, encompa.s.sing. Body, transforming. Becoming a better . . . being.
Time for Primeval to take his mate.
On all fours, hunching, biting, howling, coming, with the scent of blood spilled from the s.e.x for the first time. An honest mating. The best.
Running through the night, howling again, with wind, with his true family, his pack.
He belonged. He had his place.
He had his mate.
He had his pack.
It was going to be a long-term relations.h.i.+p.
Primeval howled with satisfaction.
He'd been picked up.
THE GARDEN, THE MOON, THE WALL.
AMANDA DOWNUM.
The ghosts follow Sephie to work again that day.
They stand outside the windows of the bookstore, staring in with hollow eyes-more of them now than a few days ago. She tries to ignore them. At least they never come inside.
Most of them, anyway.
The light dims as she's shelving books, and Sephie turns to find her ex-boyfriend grinning down at her, pink filming his long ivory teeth. He tilts his head, shows her the still-wet ruin a bullet made of the left side of his skull.
Her hands tingle with adrenaline shock as the smell of his blood coats her tongue-copper sweetness, and beneath that the familiar salt-musk of his skin.
A wink and he's gone, and the air smells like books and dust and air freshener again. Sephie wobbles, and the stack of books in her arms teeters and falls, hardbacks and trades thumping and thwapping one by one, echoing in the afternoon quiet. No blood stains the worn green carpet.
The third time this week. Cursing, she crouches to pick up the books, and pauses as she reads the nearest t.i.tle.
Lycanthropy: An Encyclopedia Caleb always was a smart-a.s.s-she shouldn't expect that to change because he's dead.
”Are you okay?” Anna calls from across the store.
No, she thinks. Not even a little.
The sky darkens as they close, October nearly over and autumn chewing the days shorter and shorter. Purple eases into charcoal, and the grinning jack-o'-lantern moon rises over the jagged Dallas skyline.
The moon doesn't bother her, never mind Caleb and his lousy jokes.
Sephie lights a cigarette as Anna sets the alarm and locks the back door. Her hands shake, the itch in her veins more than nicotine can ease.
”You want to get some coffee?” Anna asks, pocketing her keys and pulling out her own cigarettes. Her nails are orange and black to match her Halloween hair. Her lighter rasps, and the smell of cloves drifts through the air.
Sephie swallows, her mouth gone dry. The shakes are coming on for real, her stomach cramping. ”That'd be nice, but I need to run some errands. Maybe some other time.” She likes the bookstore better than any of the other jobs she's had, and doesn't want to get fired because someone thinks she's a junkie.
It's not like she can tell them the truth.
”Sure,” Anna says, waving as she turns toward her car. ”See you tomorrow.”
”Yeah. 'Night.” Sephie ducks down the alley toward the street, trying not to think about Anna's bemused little smile.
Tonight will be bad-she hears it in the hollow roar of traffic, sees it in the halos bleeding off the street lamps. But cold sweat p.r.i.c.kles her scalp, her neck, and chills crawl up and down her back; she can't wait another day.
Hunching her shoulders, she slides into the ebb and flow of downtown streets.
For a few blocks everything's okay. The night hums and chatters, traffic and voices, the cacophony of city-noises. The air tastes of exhaust and asphalt, the sewer-stench of the Trinity fading now that summer's pa.s.sed. She catches a whiff of decay, of meat, and saliva pools on her tongue. But it's only a dead dog, not what she needs.
Then it happens, that sideways lurch in the pit of her stomach, and she's alone on the sidewalk. No more neon and s.h.i.+ning gla.s.s, no more noise. Dusty brick and stone instead, grime-blind windows and the moon grinning overhead.
And the ghosts.
She's learned not to stop, not to listen to their whispers. Keep walking, eyes on the sidewalk-don't look at those pale faces peering out of the shadows, bruised and b.l.o.o.d.y or just empty, eyes burning with a junkie's aching need.
She knows the feeling, all too well, but she can't help them. She can barely help herself.
Her nose wrinkles against the smell of this place. The city stinks, but at least it's a living stench. This is dry bones and dust, old tombs.
The wind that sighs from black alley-mouths is worse-sulfur and ammonia, sickness and pain. It aches like a bruise when it touches her, makes her eyes water.
Her footfalls echo as she lengthens her stride. It will pa.s.s. It always does. She has to keep moving, out of the between-places.