A Cold Tomorrow

by Mae Clair

  Right. Ryan puffed out his cheeks.

  Evening wasn’t doing much of anything except standing with his eyes closed. His arms hung at his sides, his head tilted slightly back. Moonlight gilded his hair with a coin-bright polish, but otherwise, he appeared as a murky stain concealed by heavier darkness.

  Ryan resisted the urge to look at his watch again, crushing a stronger impulse to pace. Halloween night, and he was standing in a slaughter-pen for dogs, placing his faith in a self-purported space invader—who might just as easily be whacked in the head—hoping to summon a bogeyman from folklore. If anyone had told him last spring he and his brother would be mixed up in a hotbed of unexplained hocus-pocus, he would have laughed in the idiot’s face.

  “Get on with it already,” he mumbled under his breath.

  Whether his words triggered the results, or the timing was coincidental, a burst of silver-blue shot upward from the ground engulfing Evening in a geyser of flickering light.

  Ryan wobbled back a step. Flashes of argent and pearl twined with flames of cold sapphire, outlining Evening’s form. The snarl of trees encircling the clearing appeared to dance, grotesquely animated by a nightmarish blend of light and shadow.

  Transfixed, Ryan stared.

  A metallic sheen seeped over the grass, inching forward with the speed of slowly oozing blood. Evening hadn’t moved, his posture a mirror image of before. His eyes remained closed, arms limps at his sides. The only outward clues to betray his tension were the rapid tapping of a single index finger against his leg, and a noticeable tightness at the corners of his mouth.

  Ryan fidgeted. Evening didn’t appear in any outward distress, yet the sense of strain rolling off the man was palpable. Hell, maybe that kind of conflict was normal for an alien, part of the everyday gig. For all Ryan knew, he could be plotting an invasion of Earth, communicating with a mothership instead of calling the Mothman.

  Minutes passed, Evening’s toll in maintaining the trance growing more apparent. The eerie light flared brighter, a white sun, threatening nova. Evening’s face contorted, his expression bordering on agony. The tremor in his hand crept into his arm and traveled down his leg.

  “Evening.” Ryan lurched forward, drawing up sharply when an earlier warning echoed in his head.

  Do not interfere.

  Shit.

  A whirring hum started at the back of Ryan’s head, the gradually building drone like a drill boring into his skull.

  Evening grunted and dropped to his knees.

  “Evening.” No response. The light flickered and dimmed, but the buzzing intensified. Ryan ground his teeth . “Lach, what the hell is happening?”

  The man swayed forward, planting his palms against the ground to keep from crumpling altogether.

  So much for not interfering. Ryan gripped him under the armpits and tried to haul him upright. The whine whistled higher, then exploded with a roar. A strong wind ripped through the clearing, blowing the hair back from his face. The light died abruptly, snuffed by an invisible hand.

  Ryan glanced to the sky.

  He had the presence of mind not to scream when the Mothman winged into the clearing.

  * * * *

  Caden’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but exhaustion and cold crippled his movements. A smattering of moonlight penetrated the tree canopy, barely enough to illuminate the ground. The arm wound left him disoriented. Bleeding freely at first, it had finally begun to slow, the sleeve of his jacket stuck fast to his skin by coagulated blood. At least the bullet hadn’t ripped through muscle and tissue. The damage would be minimal if he could get to a hospital.

  Drained, he leaned his good arm against the scarred trunk of an elm in an effort to stay upright. A few minutes. That’s all he needed to gather his strength. A few moments of rest and he’d move on.

  “Can’t hide forever, Flynn.”

  Lyle was close. Caden had lost track of how long he’d been running, dodging and hiding among the trees. He was starting to think Mason was part bloodhound. Wearily, he pushed forward. The beam of a flashlight swept across his path. A bullet blasted into the elm, splintering the bark.

  Caden crashed to the side, tucking and rolling through a snarl of brush. He grunted when his injured arm struck the ground, the pain bringing him close to blacking out. Another bullet whistled over his head.

  “Nowhere to go.” Lyle’s heavy footsteps crunched through the leaves, drawing nearer.

  Caden froze.

  “Come out of there.” The light found his hiding place.

  He blinked against the beam. How pathetic to be hunted and penned like an animal. “Lyle, we can talk about this.”

  “Out here. Where I can see you.”

  He stood slowly, the pain of gaining his feet drawing his jaw into a clench. He slogged through the thistles, a bloody hand clamped over his wounded arm. Lyle had used four bullets but two remained in the gun. This time there was no chance of Caden running or dodging. He played the only card he had left. “Lottie wouldn’t want this.”

  Lyle faced him, one hand gripping the .38 at waist level, the other slanting the flashlight from his shoulder. All he had to do was pull the trigger for a gut shot.

  “You didn’t know her. You wouldn’t know what she’d want.”

  “I know she wouldn’t want you wasting your life in a jail cell, and that’s what’s going to happen if you shoot me.”

  “Shoot you?” Lyle guffawed, his laugh tweaked with sarcasm. “Nah, I’m not gonna shoot you. I got better things planned.” He motioned Caden ahead of him, back the direction they had come. “Start walking.”

  Biding his time, Caden did as instructed. He glanced over his shoulder, gauging the distance between them. Too far away to make a play for the gun, too close to miss being shot if Lyle pulled the trigger. “Where are we going?”

  “Back to the igloo.”

  “Why there?”

  “Because that’s where I have everything I need to finish the job.” Lyle’s face was implacable, an unforgiving mask, twisted by tentacles of insanity. “I lost my heart the day my sister died. I’m gonna cut yours out as payment.”

  * * * *

  Ryan ground his teeth and clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block the incessant droning. The damn sound was going to drive him insane if it didn’t ease up. He whirled away from the creature, stumbling beneath a wave of terror. What had Caden told him? The Mothman projected emotion, wielding fear as a weapon. Nightmare images plundered his mind—his body, broken and discarded in the clearing, his intestines leaking from his gut in a pulpy, blood-soaked string.

  Stop!

  He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped for air.

  Lach Evening touched his arm. Immediately, the droning ceased and the images vanished. As if an invisible hand had been squeezing the life out of him, then abruptly released its hold.

  Breathing heavily, he straightened. Fear fired along his nerves, but without the same mind-numbing constriction as before. Enormous red eyes met his gaze head-on when he turned. He’d never seen a color like that—a chaotic fusion of blood, crimson, and char.

  It has no face.

  Beside him, Evening said something in a language he didn’t understand. Lach had recovered most of his poise. A measure of strain still showed in his black eyes, but otherwise he appeared composed.

  Immune to the bombardment of projected fear.

  Ryan chanced another glance at the creature. Made his gaze travel from its eyes to its wings, then the bony structure of its mid-section. It towered over them, its upper body hunched slightly forward. Its flesh—if flesh it could be called—appeared rubbery and pliant. Half bird, half man, it was hard to believe the monster had once resembled someone as striking as Evening. Time and Earth’s prehistoric atmosphere had warped it into the nightmare that stood before him. Too bad Evening’s people hadn’t figured out a solution for the problem until after it was too late for the Mothman.

  Som
ething foreign touched his mind. An inquisitive exploration that lasted only a second. A flicker of sorrow for the creature’s fate passed through him. The last of his fear melted with the fading probe.

  “It accepts you,” Evening said.

  Ryan jerked in response. “What?” Had he been tested in some manner?

  “It also understands you and Caden are family. It is impatient, angered. It has sensed your brother’s pain.” He frowned, noticeably troubled. “Their bond is much stronger than I anticipated.”

  Ryan looked from the cryptid to Evening. The thing was already retreating, its gait a strange shuffle-lope as it took three steps backward. “It knows where Caden is?”

  A gust of wind buffeted Ryan as the Mothman launched straight upward. The thunder of its wings was almost as punishing as the droning buzz, both sounds amplified throughout the clearing. Not as sharp this time, or as piercing, but enough to make him grit his teeth. He grasped Evening by the arm. “What the hell’s going on?”

  “Hurry. Back to the car.” Evening wrenched away, striding crisply in the direction of the road. “It will lead us to Sergeant Flynn.”

  “Then you did communicate?’ Ryan ran to catch up. He switched on his flashlight, irked that Evening was able to dash so agilely, never faltering or stumbling. The guy wasn’t even breathing hard. He also didn’t bother to answer.

  By the time they reached the road, any strain Evening had experienced during his telepathic communication with the Mothman was no longer evident. The tension lines on his face had vanished, his black eyes sharpened by preternatural intelligence. Ryan still had no idea how they were going to find Caden when the Mothman abruptly materialized several yards down the road. The thing had been daunting when standing, but far more intimidating soaring in flight, its wing span large enough to rival a pterodactyl.

  “Holy shit.” He froze with his fingers wrapped around the door handle of his patrol car. Backlit by moonlight, on a cloud-streaked sky, the creature looked like a demon from the Netherworld. A ripple of fear crept down his spine.

  “Get in the car, Sergeant.” Evening opened the door on the passenger’s side and ducked into the seat. “The creature will stay within range, at least until we reach the area where Mr. Mason has your brother.”

  Ryan did as instructed, firing the ignition and shifting into gear. He hit the gas, his gaze traveling to the mic on the dashboard. It wouldn’t hurt to have backup, but he’d committed to Evening that he’d keep the sheriff’s department out of their plan. Stupid. Then again, there was no logical way to explain getting help from an alien and a monster rooted in folklore. All he needed was a witch on her broom to make the Halloween night complete.

  “You said it sensed Caden’s pain.” He craned his neck, leaning forward to peer upward through the windshield. The Mothman was still there, a giant black bird blotting out the stars. “Does that mean he’s hurt?”

  “Most likely.”

  “Fuck.”

  Evening sent him an arched glance. “I have never understood the attachment for that particular vulgarity.”

  “Yeah?” Ryan tightened his hands on the steering wheel. “You might want to try broadening your vocabulary. When you talk, you sound like some aristocratic duke from the 1800s.”

  “Ah. Perhaps my favorite period of Earth’s timeline.” Evening tapped one finger restlessly against the dashboard. He didn’t extend his gaze upward, but tension was evident in his rigid posture, impatience in the fidgety beat of his fingertips.

  In Ryan’s opinion, the edginess made him more human. “You’ve lived on Earth that long?”

  “Longer. I remember when Fort Randolph was all that existed of Point Pleasant.”

  Ryan nearly choked. “You were here in the days of Chief Cornstalk?”

  “Yes, a great leader to his people. His murder was a tragedy.”

  Ryan would have said more, much more—Cornstalk supposedly cursed Point Pleasant with his dying breath—but the Mothman veered abruptly into the woods on his right, vanishing from sight. He stomped on the brake, bringing the car to a screeching halt. “Damn. I can’t see where it went. Now what?”

  Evening opened the door and stepped outside. “Now we run.” Without waiting, he leaped outside and sprinted for the trees.

  Chapter 18

  Lyle hadn’t tied his hands. That much was good.

  Caden squatted in the corner of the igloo, directed there by Mason. Two lousy bullets left in the gun and he couldn’t get the damn thing away from the guy. The trek back had worn him out, his injured arm throbbing with each thudding beat of his heart. The wound had stopped bleeding, but it hurt like hell.

  Mason was back to mumbling to himself. He kept the gun steadily pointed in Caden’s direction as he snagged a duffle bag from his sleeping area and dumped its contents on the ground. Four iron stakes, coils of rope, and a thick-bladed butcher knife.

  Crazy. Fanatical.

  Lyle hadn’t joked when he said he planned to cut out Caden’s heart.

  Caden gripped his forehead with one hand, pressing hard on his temples. Trying to reason was pretty much out the door. The moment Lyle tried to tie him, he was going to have to make a play for the gun. Even wounded, he stood a chance of taking Lyle down. If only his head wasn’t pounding, his arm pulsing, his thoughts muddled by pain.

  The fire still flickered, but it was sputtering, the shadows in the igloo growing heavier. Caden welcomed the darkness, the gloom better for concealing himself. With any luck the damn thing would die altogether. Unless—

  A spark of hope shot through him. With Lyle’s mind twisted the way it was, maybe he could use the dying flames to his advantage. Caden didn’t have Evening’s abilities, but if light had been a trigger in altering Mason’s mind, there was a chance he could use it as a trigger again. At the very least, a delaying tactic to buy him time. He had nothing to lose.

  “Lyle.”

  Mason halted what he was doing and straightened, two spikes clutched in one hand, the .38 in the other. “Need to stake you out before I can cut out your heart. That’s how they do it on TV in the horror shows.”

  What a whack job. “Sure.” Caden dragged his tongue across his lips, tasting dirt and blood. “But the fire’s dying. You won’t be able to see.”

  “Uh. Yeah.” Lyle scrunched his brows together. “I guess you’re right.” He took a few steps toward the flames, then seemed to realize he couldn’t stoke them while holding everything in his hands. Frowning, he glanced from the gun to the stakes, then back again, the decision plainly complicated in his present state. Finally, he dropped the stakes.

  To Caden he looked like a kid whose mind had been pulped to mush. Lyle located a few sticks from a pile off to the side, then squatted to feed the fire. The moment his gaze settled on the flames, he froze.

  Flicker phenomenon.

  Caden launched himself across the igloo. The hard hit of collision ripped the breath from his lungs. He struck the ground with Lyle, rolling over in the dirt.

  “Nooooo!” Lyle shrieked.

  Caden straddled him, delivering a hard crack to his face. He hammered Mason’s wrist into the ground, trying to loosen his grip on the gun. Lyle jerked the trigger and the .38 exploded. The discharge kicked back a deafening roar, the ricochet pinging off the walls twice before burrowing in the dirt near the entrance.

  “Lyle, you asshole. You’re going to kill us both.” Caden drove Lyle’s chin to the side, but the momentum sent him sprawling off balance. Mason pistol-whipped the revolver against his wound, sending pain boomeranging the length of his arm.

  Caden clenched his jaw, his vision swimming.

  “You’re outta luck, Flynn.” Lyle knocked him to the side. Scrambling quickly to his knees, he shoved the barrel of the gun beneath Caden’s chin. “One bullet left.” His breath dispelled in a hot, fetid whoosh. “Yeah, I know you’ve been counting. You’re a cop. It only makes sense. I wanted to cut out your heart, but I’ll settle for bl
owing your head off all the same.”

  Caden tensed, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Lyle—”

  The humming started as a low drone, but built swiftly, a thousand angry bees. An audible vibration of vengeance and wrath.

  Lyle jerked backward. “What the hell is that?”

  A roundhouse kick to the head sent him sprawling facedown in the dirt. Caden wrenched the gun from his slack grip, then staggered backward. The kick had knocked Lyle out cold.

  Closing his eyes, Caden pressed his back to the rough stone of the bunker. He wanted nothing more than to sink to the ground and rest, but his predicament had summoned something far more dangerous than Lyle.

  You don’t have to come. There’s no need.

  How had he ever bonded with such a creature? For a moment, discordant noise threatened to overwhelm him, the harshness nearly as painful as the ache in his arm. Gradually, it receded. A tempest of wind blew into the bunker, swirling dirt and debris into a funnel from the ground. The fire was extinguished in a single, powerful gust, plunging the interior into impenetrable darkness.

  Using his hands to guide him along the wall, Caden fumbled his way outside.

  The Mothman waited, a demon from folklore, wings arched high above its back. The sight of the alien no longer inspired fear, but as always, its presence filled him with awe. The welts on his forearm burned as fiercely as they had on the day the monster had placed them there.

  It had come. To save him. Again.

  Exhaustion, weakness, and pain rolled off him in waves, sensations he had no desire to telegraph. The Mothman cast emotion effortlessly, but consumed the same with equal ease. Now that he understood it better, the last thing he wanted to do was add to the being’s misery.

  Safe.

  He tried to share the concept mentally, hoping the creature would grasp he was no longer in danger. Stepping closer, he was surprised to have no qualms about its proximity. Despite their connection, there had always been a sliver of uncertainty on his part. Bumping against a fallen log, he slumped to a seat three feet from the cryptid.