Jason had spent much of the morning turning his hovel at the old mill into something resembling a real living space. Since he had no idea how long he might have to stay there, he had decided to make it as comfortable as possible for both him and for Celine, who insisted on visiting him nightly. He had asked her to grab a few things from his house: an old rug that he knew his mom would never miss from the rafters in the garage, a box of books and comics from the closet— again knowing mom would have no idea they were gone. Jason hadn't asked Celine to retrieve his dad's old hunting rifle, which he had also stuck in the closet. It still needed bullets and it was one thing his Mom might notice was missing. Celine had been hesitant but had complied.
Jason knew that she could get into the house without being caught fairly easily, since mom took Trish to the park and then for ice cream every Saturday afternoon. And, Jason hadn't even needed to give her keys, since his mother had always been in the small town habit of not locking her doors.
Celine had gone yesterday during one of her breaks. Not only had she picked up the requested items, but she had also grabbed a calendar from her own trailer that showed the dates of the full moons. Jason had marked off the days that had passed since the last one, so he could count down the number of days until the next. Two weeks left. Jason had a feeling those two weeks would pass very quickly.
He had laid planks over the massive hole in the floor outside the boiler room and set up his blanket in the corner inside. Having accomplished a fair amount of decorating, he had returned to the library just after one o'clock. He spent hours combing through the same books he selected the day before, searching titles associated with various pagan deities until at last he had happened upon the Far-Reaching One…
Hecate.
She was a Greek goddess of magic, witchcraft, ghosts, necromancy, crossroads, dogs and… the moon. Despite her ties to the underworld, Hecate was generally described as benevolent. She was a protector and bringer of good fortune, and often portrayed either in dog form, or in the company of a dog. Related to Hecate's connection with crossroads, Jason found that she was a guardian of doors, gates, borders, and walls but also portals between mortal and divine realms.
A common link between both Ishtar and Hecate was sacrifice. Animals in the case of Hecate, but for Ishtar, every enemy who fell in battle was a kind of gift.
"She requires tribute."
But if Hecate truly was benevolent, and Ishtar was not…
Sitting now at a desk in the back of the library, Jason went back to his notes:
"The Far Reaching One is bound by the Lady of Sorrow."
Bound. Was that it? Was that part of the answer?
Jason slammed the book shut and fell back in his chair, pressing his palms against his eyes. How did any of this even make sense?
"Jason Emblock." The voice was deep, authoritative.
Oh shit, he thought as he removed his palms from his eyes. There was a black man standing before him in a dark shirt, jacket, and loose-fitting jeans. It took a moment for Jason to peg where he recognized the man from, and then it hit him: this was Agent Clay, the CID agent who interviewed him after the attack.
CID. They found him. This was it, game over.
Clay said "You're coming with me," and the way he said it did not invite further discussion.
***
Celine and Kyra sat in the living room of Kyra's parents' house. Both were drinking the kind of red wine that didn't come out of a box. The good stuff. Kyra's folks weren't rich, but they had made enough—between her dad's chiropractic business and Mom's custom jewelry—to buy the ranch-style home, put Kyra through college, and take the occasional vacation. They had left on their latest trip, to Hawaii, just a few days ago. Kyra hadn't told them about the abortion, in fact she hadn't even told them about the pregnancy.
Some made for TV movie was on the television but neither of them were really paying attention to it. Kyra was in her dad's favorite overstuffed chair, staring over her shoulder at the fireplace, perhaps at the family pictures on the mantle. Celine was on the couch but instead of the TV she was watching her friend. The remaining light of day beamed through the half-drawn curtains of the two windows that flanked the television.
Kyra had spoken to her on-again off-again boyfriend Connor not long after Celine had called her from the station. Connor had apologized to Kyra and said he wanted to come see her. When Celine had told her friend about Sheriff Barclay's theory, that the attacker was targeting women who had undergone abortions, she had put on a brave face. But Celine had known her long enough to know that she was worried. At least with her ex or maybe soon-to-be-not ex coming over, she would have someone to watch over her while her parents were away.
"It gives me some hope, you know," Kyra was saying, still staring at nothing in particular. "That he still wants to talk, even after…"
Celine took a gulp of wine and said. "Yeah well if he turns his back on you he's a complete dumbfuck, and I have no problem telling him—"
A knock interrupted her. Celine glanced toward the door in the front corner of the room. There was a carved pedestal with a potted plant atop it in the foyer, and behind it she could see the silhouetted shoulder and arm of a man in the sidelight.
Kyra eased from the chair. "Wait!" Celine said, bolting up. "Make sure it's him."
"It's Connor," a muffled voice called from beyond the door. Kyra smiled over at Celine, who nodded and sat back down on the couch.
Kyra crossed and opened the door. Connor said "Hey" and came in. Celine looked over as Kyra shut the door behind him. "I was hoping to talk to you for a minute," he said, barely glancing in Celine's direction. "In private."
"Sure," Kyra answered. Celine leaned back as her friend led Connor down the hall into her bedroom.
The glass of wine hadn't stood a chance. Celine got up from the couch to get another. As she walked past the hallway muffled voices from the bedroom reached her ears. After refilling her glass, she stepped back through the entry to the living room and her eyes traveled to the window nearest the door. Outside, parked just off the lawn she saw the very front end of a small vehicle, what looked like a Ford Fiesta, blue in color.
A very light blue.
Celine's heart jumped into her throat as she strode to the window, yanked the curtain aside, and stood staring out at Connor's car. The sound of the bedroom door opening made her jump. She turned from the window.
Connor walked out of the hallway with Kyra on his left side, his hand holding hers. "I hate to do this to you," Kyra said. "But Connor's taking me to dinner. You can hang out and watch the tube if you want."
Celine thought back to the night at the Careless Whisper when CJ had accused her of being a baby killer. Connor had been there. And now Celine could remember the look he had given her. At the time it had seemed like silent judgment… but now Celine realized it was much more than that: it was thinly-masked hatred. Kyra took another step toward Celine, who moved directly in front of Connor. Drawing close, she stared into his eyes, and saw the eyes of the man behind the ski mask on the night of her attack.
"What's the plan?" Celine asked. "Take her somewhere secluded so you can beat on her, you son of a bitch?"
"What—" Kyra began to ask, her head tilted, brows furrowed.
A familiar heat had risen in Celine now, the kind that took over without warning, obliterating all thought. But before she could move, Connor's right leg kicked out. Pain exploded in her gut and she stumbled backward. "What the fuck?" Kyra yelled, trying to yank her right hand away from Connor's. She smacked twice at Connor's face. He let go of her hand and retaliated with a straight right that caught her on the bridge of her nose. Gasping, she fell flat onto her back in front of the couch.
Celine threw what was left of her wine into the bastard's eyes, then tossed the glass aside as she lunged, thrusting with her left hand for Connor's throat and cocking her fist to pummel his face. The world had turned red; a surge of strength and purpose flooded her being.
Instinctively, Connor grabbed at the hand groping for his neck. He grasped the wrist and spun blindly before Celine could strike. Together they rotated clockwise; Celine smashed back-first into the foyer wall, her head shattering the glass of a family portrait.
Kyra crawled in front of the couch to an end table between the sofa and loveseat. She swiped at the phone atop the table and pulled it down to her. She punched at the buttons centered on the receiver with shaky fingers.
Celine whipped her left hand from Connor's throat to the back of his head, pulled forward and slammed her head down into his nose. Connor stumbled back, blood gushing onto his chin and shirt. Celine yanked the broken portrait off the wall and raised it high for an overhead blow.
At the end table, Kyra blurted "Help! We need help! He's here…"
Still staggering and blinking wine from his eyes, Connor recovered enough to duck down and charge like a linebacker. The picture flew from Celine's hands and burst on the entry tile; the doorjamb rattled Celine's spine with the force of her impact against it. She kneed her enemy's stomach and pounded his back while Connor reached up with his right hand for the left side of her face, his own head still tucked to her side. Connor lifted his head and reached around, grasping Celine's hair. He kneed her in the gut and, joining his right hand to his left, smashed her head through the potted plant and down onto the edge of the pedestal.
Momentarily dazed, Celine fell to all fours. Connor stalked to Kyra, who was still speaking into the phone, grasped a handful of her hair at the crown, and hauled her to the front door.
Seconds later he was outside, yanking a kicking and screaming Kyra down the front steps and into the driveway.
Celine regained her feet, grasped the pedestal's shaft and hefted it. As she bolted for the door, the world held for her a single focus: to destroy. Right now there was only the enemy.
Only prey.
Celine rushed out, holding the pedestal to one side in a two-handed grip. Connor had dragged Kyra halfway across the lawn and glanced back in time to see the blow coming, but it was far too late for him to react. Celine ran full-tilt, putting the entire weight of her body behind the swing, connecting the pedestal base to Connor's jaw. His head spun to one side as a tooth launched from his open mouth. His knees gave way and he fell heavily, letting go of Kyra's hair.
Kyra backed up against his car as Celine tossed the pedestal aside and pounced. She sat atop his stomach raining blow after blow onto his face with the intention of reducing his skull to a pulp with her bare fists. Everything around her had receded to nothing. The only thing that existed was the immediate, primal act of violence and retribution.
After the first several strikes Celine's hands were coated in blood. She raised them, staring. Two words entered her mind, though she didn't know why or where they came from:
Divine essence.
She didn't hear the vehicle come to a stop in the street. She had resumed pummeling her downed, bloody, and battered opponent when she felt two strong arms encircle her stomach and pull her, flailing and screaming incoherently, up and off him. In that moment, one imperative dominated the entirety of her mind, heart and soul—the whole of her being:
Kill.
***
Agent Clay had been discrete, so at least there was that.
Jason sat in the back of the government sedan, hands zip-tied behind his back. The vehicle was on its way out toward the edge of town. Clay had been silent, but now finally began to speak.
"Whenever I'm searching for someone I run through a checklist of locations: relatives' houses, train and bus stations, churches, libraries…"
Jason tested the strength of the ties. As the days passed, he had begun feeling stronger than ever before. He thought that maybe, if it came to it, he could probably break the zip tie and try to escape.
"Last time we spoke," Clay continued, "All I had were questions. But now… now I know certain things. Things you might find interesting. In 1934 a group of British students performed an ethnographic study of a remote Iraqi hill tribe…"
Where is he going with this?
"There are handwritten accounts of… rituals performed by this tribe. They danced like animals around the fire and seemed to worship some kind of stone they had dug up centuries before…"
Realization, sudden and electric, sparked. The vision of Serrano, bloody, holding the crimson rock in his hands returned to Jason:
"They found something. Out there in the desert."
"Something old. From a time before history."
"…One night, a few of the students reported being attacked by an animal; what they thought was a wolf."
He knows. Holy shit he knows.
Agent Clay's eyes, which had so far remained on the road, shifted to look at Jason in the rearview mirror. Aware that his mouth was hanging open slightly, Jason shut it. Agent Clay turned his attention back to the path ahead.
"They returned from Iraq to the UK and that's where the trail began…" Clay continued. "It's amazing what you can find when you know where to look: maulings, butchery, impossible rumors, biological anomalies that defy classification. In recent years global agencies—the nameless kind that operate off the books—have taken a very specific interest in such phenomena."
The vehicle slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder. There was no other traffic on the road, just towering Douglas-firs to either side. "Disturbing rumors have circulated about people who have been caught by these agencies. People who could become something other than human, people who could turn. In captivity these things are reportedly used as test subjects, guinea pigs. These things, see… the shadow organizations want to know how to neutralize them. How to stop the spread of their disease."
Agent Clay pulled his sidearm, a Sig Sauer. He held it up, barrel pointed skyward. Jason began to sweat. He looked at the doors to either side of him, knowing full well that both were locked.
"Unique ammunition was supplied to me when I was sent to retrieve you." He made a short grunting noise. "Like I said, tests. Apparently silver bullets passed."
If he turns that gun on you, sink your teeth into his wrist.
Clay opened the driver's side door, got out, and opened Jason's door. He motioned with the weapon for Jason to get out.
After Jason exited the vehicle the agent closed the back door and ushered Jason around to the other side by the forest edge. The sky was overcast. To the west, the sun was sinking into obscurity. Clay stood before Jason, those unwavering eyes holding him fast.
"I had the opportunity to speak again with PFC Styles. She told me about the letter." Jason thought back to Celine's letter to him, the letter he had read in Iraq the night he was attacked. "I expected to come here and find that CJ had been killed. When I found you, I half expected you to resist."
Clay was silent for a long moment, eyes locked on his captive. Jason waited, ready to attack or run if the man raised his weapon, despite the fact that the agent intimidated the shit out of him. "If either of those things had come to pass, you would not be standing here."
Jason frowned. Agent Clay pulled a lockback knife from his pocket and flipped it open.
If you're going to attack do it now!
No. If Clay really believed silver bullets would be necessary to kill Jason, why would he use a knife instead? There was something about his manner, something in his eyes. There was no malicious intent there. "Turn around," the agent said.
Jason hesitated. Clay waited. Finally, Jason complied. Agent Clay slit the zip tie through the middle. Jason turned back. The agent said "If I were you I'd keep laying low. In fact, I would get the hell out of here and never look back. My report will state that I found evidence of you having fled to Salem. I'm afraid that's the best I can do. If any of your actions from here on draw any kind of attention… it won't be me who returns to hunt you down."
Clay walked around the front of the vehicle, back to the driver side door. "Why are you letting me go?" Jason asked. The agent looked at Jason and after a long pause i
t seemed that no answer would be given. Finally Clay said "I have my reasons."
The government-issue sedan drove away, leaving Jason standing at the side of the road in the growing dark.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Sheriff Barclay had been following Boil, a good distance behind. The old crook had headed out to the interstate when Lieutenant Embury radioed in what she thought was an assault, possibly committed by the man they were looking for. Ty had recognized the address as Kyra's parents' house, which was less than two minutes from his location.
When he had pulled up to the house, Celine was on top of a young man, pummeling him viciously. Ty hopped out and pulled her, kicking and wailing, off of him. He had hauled the man, who he learned was Kyra's boyfriend Connor, into the back of his squad car and then radioed dispatch to call Doc Keen.
Celine didn't seem too much the worse for wear, thank God. Ty was taking down her account of the events when the neighbor, a portly old gal named Mrs. Woodby, approached and informed them that she had been sitting on her porch drinking tea, and witnessed the entire event. Ty spoke to both her and Celine separately, just to make sure he was doing it all by the book, and both accounts matched up.
Lieutenant Embury arrived next followed by Keen. Embury began snapping photos while the doc saw to the boyfriend first—mild concussion, broken nose, missing tooth, several lacerations on his face, and who knew what else. Maybe a fractured jaw. Celine had done a number on the creepy fucker. Something that made Ty… proud. She had quite possibly saved Kyra's life and protected her own. On the other hand, he was the slightest bit worried about the absence of her when he snatched her off Connor. He had spun her around and stared hard into her eyes, and the Celine that he knew simply wasn't there. It had taken a moment for her to come back.
Ty committed to keep an even closer eye on her, for the next little while, just to be sure she was okay. Meanwhile, the doc fixed Connor up best he could on scene. The rest would have to be done back at the station. In a holding cell. The sheriff wasn't about to take any chances. Not now.
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