by Mae Clair
Morris flecked a bit of tobacco from his tongue. “My old man said it went after him back in the sixties.”
Morris’ father was one of several old-timers who liked to embellish tales. Odds were he’d never even seen the creature, but Caden didn’t feel like debating. He changed the subject, more concerned with how Lach was going to maneuver through a roadblock. “I’m looking for a black Cadillac. Fleetwood model with Pennsylvania tags. Have you seen it out here?”
Morris whistled softly and shook his head. “Traffic’s been dead. A car like that would stand out.”
No doubt about it, so how exactly did the alien plan on reaching the igloo? Potters Creek Road was the most direct route, but Evening could have entered the TNT by way of Fairgrounds Road or Conway. He hadn’t bothered checking with the men manning those roadblocks, but the end result was the same. If the Cadillac rolled through, it would have been turned away.
“All right. Radio if you see it. And pull that roadblock aside.” He motioned to the wooden barriers blocking the entrance. “I’m headed that way.”
“Sure, Sergeant.”
Seconds later, Caden waved an acknowledgement to Morris as he drove past. Trees immediately closed in on either side, broken here and there by a narrow path forking into the woods. The steady drum of rain against the windshield and roof was magnified by an unnatural quiet. Too quiet, he realized. As if every other sound had been sucked into a vacuum.
A bright tongue of lightning zigzagged across the sky.
Caden counted the seconds, waiting for a crack of thunder but it never came. His radio was silent, void of the routine chatter from the deputies who scoured the grounds. Driving slowly, he flicked on his fog lights. The mist was thicker here, hovering in dense patches above the ground, billowing like smoke between the trees. The absence of patrols disturbed him. Had they moved to another location, miles ahead?
As he neared the cutoff that led to Cold’s igloo, a bulky silhouette materialized from the fog. Caden swore softly, recognizing the Cadillac emblem on the trunk. Rain beaded on the glossy black paint as if the vehicle had been freshly waxed only hours before.
“Not. Freaking. Possible.” He pulled off the road behind the Fleetwood and shifted the Capri into park. How the hell had Evening gotten past Morris—or any of the other deputies, for that matter?
Clenching his jaw, he watched as Lach stepped from the car. In addition to his black suit, Evening wore an equally dark fedora to shield himself from the rain. Irritated without understanding why, Caden thrust open the door and stalked forward.
“How did you get past Morris?” he demanded.
“Do you mean the deputy positioned at the roadblock?” Even with the rain hammering around them, Evening’s accent was clear. While Caden felt like he needed to shout to be heard, the Man in Black spoke in a neutral tone.
“Yes.” Caden thrust an arm behind him, pointing from the direction he’d come. “Morris.”
For answer, Evening extended his hand. A sphere of blue light sprang from his palm, driving back the rain. “Have you forgotten my skill with flicker phenomena?”
Caden gaped. This was a trick he hadn’t seen before. Evening had used flicker phenomena to hypnotize and regress Katie Lynch’s ex-boyfriend. In the process, he’d nearly fried Lyle’s brain, turning him into a killer with Caden as his target.
“What did you do to Morris?”
Evening curled his fingers inward, squelching the light. “Nothing but suggest he let me pass then conveniently forget my existence.”
Instant hypnosis.
Morris hadn’t seemed hurt, mentally or physically. Scowling, Caden stuffed his hands in his pockets. Had Evening ever used that trick on him without his knowledge?
The rain dripped down his neck, sluicing under his dark green windbreaker. Tugging the hood up, he attempted to keep the worst of the weather at bay. By contrast, Evening seemed untroubled by the storm. Rain dripped from his hat, and the edges of blond hair clinging to his face and neck were damp, but he stood as if the sun beat upon him rather than the rain.
“I see you received my message, Sergeant.”
“You mean ‘Cold.’” He should have known Evening would want him to find the clue. “Why are we here? And why are we standing in the rain?”
“Because it has started.”
“What has?”
“Obadiah Preech is out there somewhere.”
Caden shook his head. “What are you talking about?”
Evening pointed a slender finger in the direction of the igloo. “Perhaps we should speak outside of the rain.”
Caden didn’t need further prompting. He jogged back to his vehicle long enough to stuff a flashlight in his jacket, then trailed Evening into the woods.
* * * *
Quentin lowered his window as the deputy approached. He should have realized there’d be a roadblock preventing him and Sarah from entering the TNT.
“That’s Rod Morris,” Sarah said at his side. “I know him from seeing him at the courthouse.”
“Sorry, folks. You’re going to have to turn around.” Morris leaned down to peer in the car as he made the announcement.
“Hi, Rod.” Sarah offered a friendly smile. “We were looking for Caden Flynn. He told us to meet him at one of the old igloos.”
Morris’ brows drew together, conveying his skepticism. “Sarah.” He nodded a greeting, but the frown remained firmly in place. “Caden was through here not more than ten minutes ago. He didn’t say anything to me.”
“But it’s really important we hook up with him.” Sarah pressed the issue.
“Sorry. The whole area is off limits to townsfolk right now. Orders from Sheriff Weston.”
“Maybe you could radio Caden,” Quentin suggested. It was worth a shot. “Let me talk to him.”
Morris scrutinized him suspiciously. “Who are you?”
“Quentin Marsh.” Quentin extended his hand. “I’ve been staying at the Parrish Hotel for the last week.”
Ignoring the hand, Morris stepped back from the car. “Sorry, folks. Like I said before, you need to move along.” He waved his hand, indicating they should turn around or continue down the main thoroughfare.
Expelling a breath, Quentin raised the window and backed the car onto the road. Changing directions, he headed for town.
“Where are we going?” Sarah sounded worried.
“Back to the hotel.”
“But Caden could be in trouble.”
“I know that, but we can’t get past a roadblock.”
“So what are we going to do?”
Quentin flecked his gaze skyward to the roiling clouds massing overhead. “Hope he survives the storm.”
* * * *
Shaking the rain from his jacket, Caden lowered the hood of his windbreaker. He switched on his flashlight to scatter the darkness clinging to the walls of the igloo. At least it was dry inside, shelter from the downpour.
“You do not need that.” Standing a short distance away, Evening nodded to the flashlight.
“Maybe you can see fine in here, but I need more light.”
Evening extended his hand, conjuring the same glow he’d summoned earlier. Flecks of luminescent blue immediately sprang to life on the walls of the bunker.
Stunned, Caden turned in a circle, mesmerized by the dazzling pulse of cobalt and aquamarine. “What is this?”
Evening extinguished the flame dancing on his palm. The light radiating from the walls remained steady. “A way for you to see. I trust it is satisfactory.”
Caden switched off the flashlight. Evening had a strange way of making a point. “Why are we here?”
Lach folded his hands in front of him. “Because you have something to tell me.” In the eerie blue glow, it was impossible to distinguish his pupils from the black of his eyes. He’d never looked more alien than he did now.
Caden shifted, dried leaves and stones crunching under his feet. He r
aked a hand through his damp hair. “The Mothman attacked my brother and a deputy last night. Ryan’s going to be okay, but Oates was seriously injured. The creature’s never been violent before.”
“Creature.” Evening’s gaze was penetrating. “Is that how you see it?”
“How else should I see it?”
“I believe you already hold the answer to that, Sergeant Flynn.” Evening removed his hat, his long fingers appearing like spider legs in the ghostly illumination. Somewhat absently, he examined the brim. “How did you see it last night?”
Caden shot him a sharp glance. “What do you mean?”
“Is that not why you sought me today? To ask about what you had seen?”
It was only part of a lengthy string of questions too entangled for Caden to dissect. He went to the heart of the matter. “I saw its face.”
Evening seemed to consider that. Lowering the hat, he gripped it loosely by the brim, right hand wrapped around his left wrist. Against the black felt of the fedora, the tips of his abnormally shaped fingers looked flat. “Few have seen what you did.”
Curious, Caden stepped closer. “Have you ever seen its face?”
“Not in its present state.”
Caden digested that. A rumble of thunder took him back to last night when he’d stared up into the creature’s eyes. He’d experienced the same crushing terror others felt when trapped by those malignant red circles. But as quickly as the fear came, it had evaporated, the crimson glow of the creature’s eyes fading with it.
Caden’s mouth went dry. “I…I saw the way it looked when it first came to this planet.” All those thousand yesteryears ago. “It resembled a man. As you do.” Caden’s gaze flashed to Evening’s face. The Mothman’s features had not been as refined as Lach’s, the brow much higher and nose broader, but he’d looked as human as anyone Caden might encounter on the street. The clarity of that realization made him dig down in his gut. He dredged up the question he’d shied from asking. “Did it…did he have a name?”
“You would not be able to pronounce it.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Evening said something that sounded like gibberish to Caden. “The closest approximation in your language is Drayandor.”
Drayandor.
Once you put a name to something, you can no longer think of it as a thing. Caden wet his lips. It was dangerous to imagine the creature as a man. He forced the thought from his head, concentrating on what he knew.
There had been others like the Mothman, who’d come to Earth when the creature did, all left behind by Indrid Cold. Standing in the igloo that had been a channel of communication with Lach’s father, Caden was reminded of what Lach once told him. Earth’s atmosphere had warped the appearance and minds of the aliens, altering them into misshapen beings that became the subject of human nightmares. Only later did Cold’s people discover a way to prevent that. By then, it was too late for the Mothman and that initial group of alien visitors.
Last night, the creature had allowed him to see what others could not. With that single glimpse of its face, he’d understood the motive that compelled it to survive when all it truly craved was death. It was old. Tired. Unable to return to its own planet, but the last of those who’d lived with the mutation caused by time on Earth. Before death, it would have vengeance.
“It wants Obadiah Preech.”
Evening nodded. In the blue glow pulsing from the walls his hair was threaded with silver. “Preech killed its…offspring, if you will.” He seemed to recognize Caden’s difficulty in thinking of the creature as anything remotely human. “Preech believed the Mothman was responsible for his wife’s death and enacted his own brand of retribution. He believed there to be one creature, but there were two.”
Two.
On edge, Caden paced to the opposite side of the dome. Biting down on his lip, he tapped the top of the flashlight against his palm. “It’s been alone since then. All those centuries ago when its…offspring”—he stumbled over the word—“was killed.”
“Murdered.” Evening’s accent was clipped. “Now you understand why nothing will stop it from going after Obadiah. It has waited centuries for justice.”
“And you expect me to believe that Shawn Preech is possessed by the spirit of his dead ancestor?” Caden pivoted to face the alien.
“The storm I predicted.” Evening spread his hands to indicate the steady rain hammering down on the igloo. “Do you think Shawn Preech would have murdered a man in cold blood if he were not controlled by a demon?”
“Will Hanley.” Caden’s gut twisted. “Shawn’s as much a victim in this as Hanley was.”
“Do not feel too remorseful for him, Sergeant. The curse that brought about these circumstances is the result of a knife that has been in Mr. Preech’s family for generations. Obadiah waited and selected Shawn because the young man welcomed the corrupting stain of darkness. Shawn Preech would not have been able to carry out a deed as ugly as murder were he not already capable of it in his heart.”
“He went after Sarah Sherman last night.”
Evening settled his fedora on his head. “I am aware of that. She was protected.”
“Protected?”
“The same blue light that illuminates this igloo kept her from harm. It comes from the stones she and Quentin Marsh carry.”
“You said it was a life-force.”
“From the people of my planet. Just as the flame you saw in my hand is an extension of my own life-force. When we pass from this life to another, we leave a portion of ourselves behind. Like a shell. Imagine a reptile shedding its skin or a butterfly abandoning a cocoon.”
“The stones.” Understanding clicked in Caden’s head. “Jonathan Marsh found them, and gave one to Etta Sherman as a promise token. Later, they must have been set in silver to create jewelry. Something that would become an heirloom in each family.”
“Yes.”
“They were left by others like the Mothman. Others of your kind who died centuries before Cornstalk lived.”
Evening nodded. If there’d been energy in those stones, energy of any kind, it would have bound Jonathan and Etta together in an afterlife and protected Sarah when needed. Through everything that had happened—Cornstalk’s death and curse, the tangled lines of the Marsh, Sherman, and Preech families, everything came back to one source—Indrid Cold, the alien responsible for bringing the Mothman and others from his planet to Earth.
“Your father is responsible for this mess.”
“He never intended for any of this to happen.”
“It doesn’t matter. It’s why you’re here. Why you’ve been here all along.” Pacing off a circle, Caden pressed his fingertips to his temple. “I should have realized it before. Your father fucked up and you came to Earth to do damage control. Cold is responsible for the Mothman, for opening the ley lines in the TNT, for UFOs and dimension travelers.” The enormity of what Cold had done left him stunned. He spun to face Evening, his thoughts tumbling over one another in rapid succession. “He led your people here eons ago, and in the process, opened a door that should have remained shut.”
Evening stiffened, a hint of tension evident in the tightening of his jaw. “My father made a mistake. A horrible mistake. Our planet was dying. He attempted to find a suitable terrain for our people. You would have done the same.”
“He didn’t consider the consequences.” Caden lurched forward. “For your people or mine. Damn it, Lach. All of this…everything that’s happened—Obadiah, Cornstalk, Shawn, Hanley. All of it can be traced back to that single mistake.” His gut contracted. Were it not for Cold, the Mothman wouldn’t exist. Point Pleasant’s stability had been altered by the legend of the creature, shaped by the curse of Cornstalk. Through centuries and decades, each event could be traced back to the damage Cold had done.
Even the Silver Bridge.
Caden sucked air through his nose. So many had perished, claimed by the frigid waters of the O
hio River or crushed beneath deadly debris. His own sister. It wasn’t enough Cold had fried the mind of Parker Kline and saddled Caden with the guilt, he was responsible for every tragedy enacted from Cornstalk’s curse, if only indirectly. When it came down to it, his own failure had caused the Shawnee’s death.
Evening moved in front of him, his gaze level.
“What would you have me do, Caden?”
The rare use of his first name forced Caden to focus. Whatever Cold’s faults, they were ancient history. He might not always see eye-to-eye with Evening, or even trust the alien implicitly, but Lach had done what he could—in his roundabout way—to help. Caden would be in worse straits without the nuggets of information Evening provided.
“Tell me what I’m facing.” A gust of wind blew through the igloo, hurling a handful of leaves to the corner. How many times had he stood in this same bunker, chasing the supernatural? It was no different now, except he directed his questions to Evening rather than Cold. “If Obadiah has really taken possession of Shawn, how will I defeat him?”
Evening’s dark eyes glittered in the light pulsing from the walls. “As you would any man. Despite the spirit that inhabits him, Shawn Preech is still flesh and blood. Obadiah must have a heart that pumps. Lungs that breathe. He cannot exist in this world otherwise.”
Caden nodded. He didn’t want to think what would happen when he arrested Shawn. He still had the anomaly of fingerprints found at Hanley’s house to deal with. First and foremost, he had to find Shawn before Obadiah goaded him into harming someone else.
“All right.” His brain was on overload, pumped full of information that was useless to anyone but him. Strolling into Pete Weston’s office and announcing their killer was the ghost of an eighteenth-century settler wasn’t an option. “Whatever happens, stay out of my way, Lach. You might find it entertaining to bullshit the patrols out here, but we’ve got to find the Mothman before Shawn does.”
Caden stalked toward the door.
“You’re too late for that,” Evening said behind him.