by J. R. Rain
So, he sat, and waited, and ignored the irritant in his shoulder, and wondered where they were taking him, and wondered, too, where his mom was. Anthony almost—almost—felt sorry for these goons. His mother, though smaller, was going to tear their heads off. Kingsley, too.
Oh, yes. Especially Kingsley.
***
Anthony counted four of them.
Silver-tipped arrows, that is. Each had been plunged into various points of his body, each hurting worse than the one before it—at least initially. The pain mostly went away. Mostly. The arrow in his stomach hurt the worst of all, and that pain wasn’t going away so quickly, probably because he could feel it grating against what he was sure was his spine.
Minutes earlier, two of the men had hauled Anthony from the old car, which had been parked inside what appeared to be a factory or a warehouse. Anthony wasn’t sure what the difference was, but many of his video games were often set in places like this: massive buildings stacked with boxes and bins and metal shelves, with dusty rafters overhead that were perfect for lassos or whips or to run along.
A dusty overhead light revealed that he was in a room of sorts. Not a real room, because there were no actual walls, unless you counted the staked wooden crates and cardboard boxes that surrounded him. There had been a chair waiting for him under that dusty light bulb. Directly beneath the chair was a drain. The drain was rusted and the whole place smelled sort of like copper—and something else, something kind of rotten. He didn’t know the smell. The way the weak light lit up the metal chair seemed ominous—except Anthony wasn’t really sure if he was using that word right. Ominous. Yeah, it felt right, whatever it meant, although he was sure he had read it in books and had heard his mom use it.
They had shoved him down into the chair, and only then had Anthony realized the chair was much more than a chair. It had manacles along the armrests—and even manacles along the front legs. It took all the guys in the room—too many to count accurately, although there did seem to be more now—to hold him down while they removed the ropes and locked his arms and legs into place. Anthony hadn’t seen any chance to escape during the process, which made him nervous. How many more chances would he have to escape? He didn’t know.
Mostly, he watched them and tried to memorize their faces, their voices, anything that might help his mom find them later. His mom was really, really good at finding the bad guys. And these were very bad guys, indeed. Maybe the worst ever. Soon, they were satisfied that he wasn’t going anywhere. Maybe he really wasn’t.
Anthony was about to discover they weren’t done with him yet.
Not by a long shot.
***
The arrow in his stomach hurt the most.
Every breath, every small movement, and it seemed to dig deeper, doing more and more damage. He quickly realized that crying made it worse. So, he stopped crying, and stopped moving, as much as possible. He noticed, with some alarm, that he didn’t need to take as many breaths as he had thought. He could hold his breath, in fact, for far longer than he’d ever realized. And so, for long periods of time, he sat completely motionless, still in pain, but not as much.
He was alone for now, although he could hear voices coming from what he thought was another room nearby, voices he recognized as those of his captors.
Anthony was interested to discover a few things. One, he wasn’t really that scared. Two, he knew, deep down that his mother would find him, no matter how much these guys hurt him or tried to scare him. And three, he knew he would escape.
He knew it, and believed it, with all of his heart. But most interesting to Anthony, as he sat in the quiet space under the single light bulb and surrounded by boxes and crates, was the soft whispering he heard in his head. A soft whispering that, oddly, sounded a bit like his dad. The words came to Anthony whole and complete, telling him everything was going to be okay.
Everything is going to be okay...
Obviously, the words weren’t his actual father, but Anthony found them comforting. He liked them. He liked them a lot. He especially liked that they sounded like his father, who he missed so much. So much.
“Everything is going to be okay,” Anthony whispered to himself, nodding. “And I’m going to escape... oh, yes...”
As he fought a wave of pain in his stomach, Anthony saw movement behind the boxes to his left. There was something in the air, something in the air maybe. Something swirling. Maybe a dust devil?
Except this something, this dust devil, was all black and it was not very far from where Anthony sat tied to the chair, and now, it was swirling faster and faster.
Anthony had thought he was brave. In fact, he’d been proud of himself so far. Heck, he wasn’t afraid of these men. And if he could just get out of these ropes, he would show them what he could really do to them.
But as the swirling blackness took form before him, Anthony began to know real fear. More fear than he had ever known before.
Because directly before him, taking on more and more shape, expanding and growing and solidifying, and now growling deep within its massive chest—was the biggest dog Anthony had ever seen.
A dog with three heads.
Chapter Twenty-two
Outside the office, I pulled Allison and Tammy aside and gave them the news. Tammy held my hand with both of hers, crying harder than I had seen her cry in her life.
Her crying was contagious, and I fought the tears, and so did Allison.
“They really took him, Mom?” asked Tammy between the tears. “This is real?”
“It’s real, baby.”
“But who?”
“I don’t know yet—”
“Yes, you do. Mr. Matt—”
“Shh! Not so loud. We don’t know for sure.”
“But you’re going there now, to his house.” Tammy paused, cocked her head, spotted Sherbet coming out of the office with his cell phone pressed to his ear. “Sherbet is calling a judge, a friend of his, asking for a search warrant.”
“He is, now be quiet. We don’t know for sure if Mr. You-Know-Who is involved. He might not be.”
“But he might be. I want to go, Mom. I’ll tell you if he’s lying.”
“I can do that on my own—”
“Unless he’s a vampire or something else, then you can’t. But I can.”
“She has a point,” said Allison.
I was about to tell my friend to stay out of it, and I was about to be nasty because I was still not myself—and I wouldn’t be myself until I found Anthony—but I took a deep breath, looked at both of them, my powerful friend, and my powerful daughter. Truth was, I could use both of them.
“Exactly, Mom,” said Tammy. “Anthony’s going to need all the help he can get. The detective got the search warrant.”
I blinked, amazed all over again by my daughter.
Not trusting myself to drive, I handed the keys to Allison, and soon, we were following Sherbet’s unmarked vehicle through the tangle of cruisers and news vans.
Kingsley trailed us in his own black SUV.
***
I scanned the house, using a trick of my own, and verified the place was empty, except for a sleeping cat.
The door was locked, too; that is, until Kingsley put a shoulder into it. Then the whole thing went down in a heap, along with most of the doorframe. A cat scrambled over the linoleum, trying to find purchase, its face a rictus of unabashed fear. Finally, its paws found enough traction to rocket it down the hallway and out of sight. It would have been funny under just about any other circumstance. Or not. The little guy nearly had a heart attack.
Sherbet winced at the door falling in, but I mentally reassured him that by the time everything was said and done—and by the time we found my son safe and alive—no one would remember the destruction of property. I would make sure of it.
We spread out. I paused often and scanned, projecting my thoughts forward—this time into closets and showers and behind anything and everything. Yes, we were alone.
The house was smallish. From my scans, I already knew it was a two-bedroom, one-bathroom deal. It was also old. Of course, he was living on a teacher’s salary. Principal Russo had confirmed Matthews was single and had been for as long as he’d known him.
On the drive over, I had confirmed there was no Facebook page or LinkedIn page for Matthews, no Twitter or Instagram. There had been, however, a picture of him on the school’s website, which I had copied and text-messaged Sherbet, Allison and Kingsley. I’d asked Tammy, who had been sitting in the back of the minivan, if this was our guy, flashing his pic on my cell phone at her. She nodded, but reminded me that she’d never had one of his classes, although she was sure that was him. Tammy was a few years removed from middle school now.
Now in the home, I saw framed pictures of his cat, and that was it. No pictures of family or friends. Just framed cat pictures. Presumably, the same one who’d nearly split itself trying to run in two different directions to get away from us. Apparently, cats had an aversion to werewolves. Go figure.
The floors creaked as we fanned out, looking for anything that would suggest Matthews’ part in the kidnapping of my son. Even better, where they might have taken my son. What that anything was, we didn’t know. But each of us trusted our instincts. Kingsley focused on Matthews’ bedroom. I found myself at his desk, which was located in one corner of the living room. Sherbet was poking through the kitchen, going through mail and piles of paper.
We all moved with purpose, speed. I forced myself to look as calmly as possible, not wanting to miss anything. Sometimes the smallest clue was the biggest break.
My baby, I kept thinking. My baby.
Even as I searched, even as I forced myself not to drop to my knees and just completely freak out, I kept the mantra going in my head:
My baby, my baby.
It was on repeat, and that was okay. I didn’t need to think of anything else. I didn’t want to think of anything else. So, as I searched, I let instinct take over.
I noted the empty desktop. I noted the dusty indication that a laptop had recently been removed from this space. My guess, he took his laptop to and from school. I glanced around; no laptop bag, either. Today, he’d never made it home. I bit my lip. Having his laptop would have been damn helpful.
“Having anything would be damn helpful,” said Sherbet, tossing aside a handful of unopened letters that looked to be bills. “At least, that’s what I think you said. Hard to make out your thoughts with all that ‘my baby’ going on.”
“Sorry—”
“Don’t be, Sam. We’re all freaking out here.”
Kingsley came back, shaking his shaggy head, and barely fitting through the narrow hallway. The house shook with each of his steps. As he approached, I suddenly knew what I was looking for. Knew it without a doubt. Whether it was here or not, I didn’t know, but I was suddenly a woman with a plan.
I nearly bowled over Sherbet as I moved through the small and dusty living room. I felt both sets of men’s eyes on me, and sensed Sherbet’s concern for me. He and he alone had access to my thoughts, which I didn’t bother shielding. There was nothing to shield anyway. He heard the running patter of my thoughts, and saw me suddenly scouring the living room, and could only wonder if I was losing it.
The living room wasn’t very big—and I’m sure I looked like a crazy woman as I tossed aside magazines, and scanned all the outlets, looking for telltale signs. Nothing in the living room or kitchen. I headed into the bathroom—and there, under a pile of science fiction novels stacked on the toilet tank was something I had sensed was here, but couldn’t have possibly known. And deep down, I could only wonder if my own psychic senses were developing. They had to be. Hell, maybe they were developing out of necessity. As in, the necessity of finding my son.
Either way, I tossed aside the Asimov and Howey novels and saw my prize: A Samsung Galaxy mini-tablet computer.
***
It still had some power, too.
We were in the kitchen, with both men crowded behind me as I powered it on, praying like crazy that the tablet wasn’t password protected.
The Samsung logo appeared on the screen, unspooling like magic. I knew that most tablets weren’t as locked down as phones or even computers. Mostly forgotten, tablet computers were a gateway to personal information. The screen cycled through... and I breathed a sigh of relief when the home screen opened before us.
“Good thinking,” said Kingsley. He was leaning next to me, and I couldn’t help but notice the longish hair that had recently sprouted from between his knuckles. Yes, between. As in, within the last hour; indeed, with tonight’s full moon and sunset just hours away, Kingsley was already beginning his own transformation.
“You’ll be turning soon,” I said.
“I can fight it. For a little while.”
I doubted he could, but I didn’t say anything. I had seen him in the process of turning last year, and it had been... rigorous, to say the least. The monster within him was not to be denied. But I appreciated his support. The problem being: if we were facing down a pack of werewolves—and judging by the size and speed of the men, it seemed obvious that we were—then my boyfriend himself was susceptible to the same changes they were going through. Which meant, my boyfriend would be of no help at all, and I knew this was killing Kingsley. I patted his shoulder, and nearly recoiled. The sheer amount of heat coming off him was staggering.
Sherbet was on the phone, talking urgently, barking orders. He clicked off and reported, “We located Matthews’ cell and car.”
I looked up, my mouth opening.
Sherbet quickly shook his head. “The car was parked at a Taco Bell a few miles away, the cell in the trunk. No sign of Matthews anywhere. We’re contacting Taco Bell to release their own surveillance footage. My bet, we’ll catch him parking the car... and then walking away, but you never know.”
I nodded, willed myself to stay strong, calm. Finding his cell—and Matthews—would have been ideal. I said, “It was a long shot, but worth taking since the van’s plate turned out to be a fake.”
He nodded. “We could have lucked out, Sam. Your son, Matthews, and his cell could have been all in one place.”
“Meanwhile,” I said, holding up the tablet computer, “we have this.”
Chapter Twenty-three
I’m dreaming, thought Anthony.
He’d heard his mother say those very same words often enough, usually under her breath, and usually alone. Sometimes, he would hear her in her office or alone in the living room or even the kitchen. His hearing was that good. Often, she would whisper the words in the bathroom, of all places, but he knew why: Mommy couldn’t see herself in the mirror, and he knew it totally freaked her out.
Now, he heard himself saying them, too, over and over, sounding just like his mother. And if he wasn’t saying them, he was sure thinking them, because never in all his thirteen long years could he have imagined seeing what he was seeing now.
But there it was, bigger than any dog he had ever seen, and not just because of its three heads. It was easily as big as a horse, maybe even bigger than a moose, if moose were bigger. Anthony wasn’t sure. Anyway, its chest was packed with muscle. In fact, the whole dang thing looked like one big pile of walking, bulging muscle. And it was black, so black that it looked like a moving shadow. But Anthony saw the teeth, saw the dripping drool, and, most of all, saw the flickering eyes.
Like everyone else, Anthony had heard the reports of the three-headed dog. It had been the talk of school today. Word had it that a whole street of people had reported seeing it. People were saying it was an optical illusion. A hologram. A video game company pulling a stunt, maybe.
It had sounded so awesome. Anthony had wished like craz
y he’d been one of those lucky enough to see it, even if it had been a Hollywood stunt or something. The police had been concerned enough to ask his mother to look into the reports, according to Tammy. But that’s all his sister would say on the subject. At the time, Tammy had seemed scared. She had seen something she wasn’t telling him, something inside their mom’s mind. Sometimes, Anthony was glad he couldn’t read minds.
Now, of course, Anthony knew it hadn’t been a trick or a hologram. The thing coming toward him was massive and real, and it was kicking up dust and growling deep inside it chest. The growling seemed to echo all around him and Anthony knew why: the growls were coming from each of the three heads. Three times the growls.
But it was the flaming eyes that held him transfixed. Heck, he could even see the black smoke rising up from the eyes, trailing behind each head.
It was then—right about then, anyway—that Anthony decided he was dreaming. That there was just no way in hell any of this was real. And, if he was dreaming, he might as well just close his eyes, and wait to wake up.
Which was exactly what he did, even as the floor beneath him shook with each of the creature’s steps...
***
The nightmare—and Anthony had very nearly convinced himself that this was indeed one long, horrific nightmare—had started all the way back in math class, with Mr. Matthews.
The math teacher had been acting very strange today, sweating and drinking lots of water and acting, well, erratic. Anthony wasn’t a hundred percent sure what erratic meant, but the word somehow fit his math teacher’s behavior.
At one point, he’d caught the smallish man staring openly at him. In the past, Mr. Matthews would quickly look away, but this time, he hadn’t. This time, he kept staring and staring, and Anthony had begun to feel uncomfortable. Yes, he was used to kids staring at him at school, where he was known as a major freak by one and all, but rarely by adults. And when Mr. Matthews did finally look away, Anthony couldn’t help but notice the small smile on the man’s thin lips.