That was when the tapeworm first began to uncoil.
Oh fuck, Syd thought, looking from Nora to Jules and back again. Jules was the most level-headed person Syd had ever met—the man had trained himself to deflect almost anything—but it was impossible to miss the flinch that rode the moment of impact on this one. It was, of course, because he had not been expecting it. The shift from yellow to full red alert had gone down in the space of a second; there just wasn't enough time to get the shields up.
Syd knew exactly how he felt. In a word: bushwhacked. But when he looked back at Nora, the one thing he saw no trace of was sympathy. What he saw was smug self-righteousness, a defiance totally unmitigated by apology. What he also saw was someone who was starting to show the effects of all those double shots. One look in those eyes and it was definitely time to look back at Jules again.
When you knew someone really well, it was amazing how precisely you could read the fine print of their faces. What X amount of raised eyebrow means, in an otherwise impassive countenance. Syd knew that Jules's expression could be broadly interpreted to mean either this woman is an asshole or your call, man. It's up to you.
But the most literal interpretation would have to be are you sure that you know what you're doing?
And the answer to that was: no, he wasn't. All of a sudden, he wasn't sure at all. He was drunk, too—there was no two ways about it—and up until about a minute ago, he'd been well on his way to falling for this woman. But he'd been around enough mean drunks in his day to develop a pointed aversion response. It was, at the least, a major turnoff; at worst, a deal-breaker. And it pissed him off besides.
When he looked back at Nora, it must have been in his eyes, because her own eyes flared over a nasty little smile. It was the kind of smile you only see on people who adore a bloodbath. "Let me know what you decide," Jules said, then went off to tend his clientele. Which left Syd and Nora alone together, locked in a war of the wills.
"You want to tell me what this is about?" he inquired.
Her eyes squinted suspiciously. "You want to tell me what you mean?"
"Aw, c'mon, Nora. Don't be coy with me. You're the last person in the world I wanna fight with right now." He looked at her as he spoke. "We were having so much fun. . . ." He let the words trail off and smiled a little, ruefully, because it was so utterly true.
Her features softened momentarily, though her eyes stayed flint-hard. "Maybe we still are having fun," she said.
"Yeah, well." Syd dropped the eyeball war for a moment, sighed long and deep, brought his gaze back to hers. "I gotta admit, darlin': it kinda rains on my parade a little when I ask a friend for a favor . . ."
"Ah." The hackles were back up, as quick as they'd fallen.
". . . and he winds up getting kinda pissed-on for it," Syd continued. He could feel himself step over the line of romantic propriety and instantly regretted the inelegance of the phrase.
"Ooh, baby!" she said, and her eyes were like fireballs of raging emerald glee. "Believe me: you haven't seen me take a piss on someone yet. When I do, you'll know it."
"Oh." Snide. "Well, that sounds promising. . . ."
"You don't seem to know what's going on here," she cut in, wild and fiercely grinning. "I don't think you even know what you're made of. You're a pretty cool guy, Syd. But you're kind of a dink, if you know what I'm saying."
The words stung. "No, I don't. What the hell are you saying?"
"What I'm saying," and for this she leaned in close, "is that I don't fuck domesticated animals. I eat them."
He laughed. So did she. She leaned in, until her nose was nuzzling up against his ear. "And I think you should know what you're rubbing up against," she murmured, " 'cause if you haven't figured out by now that there's an element of risk involved here . . . then, baby, you'd better wake up, 'cause you're in for an awful shock."
She pulled back, hovered inches from his face, eyes blazing, imperious. It was a withering look, to be sure. And it probably would have shriveled ninety-nine percent of the men she met. But the combination of liquor, lust, and just plain stubbornness had ignited something belligerent in Syd. He met her stare head-on, faced her down.
"So what the fuck," he said flatly, "has that got to do with whether I score you a bottle out the back door or over the counter? Can you explain that to me, please?"
And because he was staring into her eyes—-and because he was doing it so intently—he could see the fear resurface, flicker across them before she had a chance to raise the screens. It sent up an urgent warning flag, its double-edged message exceedingly clear. She is not about to go out back. And she is not about to tell me why.
It was the moment of truth and decision.
And that was when she kissed him.
And once again, he found himself sucked in and swallowed, drowned and intoxicated by her presence. The feel of her flesh. The taste of her lips. The unmistakable heat of her passion. There was something so utterly real about her—so fundamental and pure—that it made him question every objection he posed, made him doubt every appeal to caution.
He gave himself over to the kiss.
And, in doing so, sealed his fate.
9
VIC HUNKERED IN the choke of woods just beyond the roadhouse parking lot: long teeth sawing strips from a thin severed limb, cold blue eyes locked on the bright neon light in the clearing. Cars pulled in and out, loading and dispensing chattering bundles of humanity; the woods a safe distance away from him rustled with life. But the space immediately surrounding him was deathly still, a pocket of silence in a bustling netherworld. Other night creatures gave him wide berth, sensing it was for the best. He didn't blame them a bit.
Vic chewed contentedly. It wasn't yet time to scatter the bones, leave them out for scavengers to disperse. There was still a lot left on those bones, even if it was two days old. Vic preferred fresh meat, but he had to admit that the aging gave it a gaminess he rather enjoyed. And it was only right that you ate what you killed.
The chewy hollow at the crook of the elbow was surprisingly rewarding: not a whole lot of flesh there, but the texture was superb. And he liked the fact that you could make the fingers waggle if you gnawed on the tendons just right. He braced the arm with one huge misshapen paw, made toothy puppet magic. Wave bye-bye to all the nice people, Karen-Sharon-whatever.
C'mon and wave hi to my baby for me.
The dead fingers twitched feebly, just above the frozen grass: less waving, it seemed, than desperately clutching after life. Oh, well. Vic had hoped it might be good for a laugh, but it was actually kind of depressing. He cracked the arm like a crab's leg in his jaws, and the fingers just stopped.
So much for playing with your food.
This was the downside of the stalking process. Killing time. Keeping his man-mind both amused and in check. His animal nature was pure, unadulterated physical focus: ears cocked, eyes locked on target, massive body poised and alert, every nerve tuned to the tiniest motion around him.
But his man-mind was a capering monkey, and it loved to swing from limb to limb: restless and chattering, easily bored, far more a creature of the trees than the ground below. It had a way of racing away with him, even as the nervous system remained locked in the thrall of the beast: sometimes dragging his emotions along with it, making soul-art with handfuls of flinging shit.
Which was maybe why he found himself crouched here in the dark: way the hell out in the middle of Bumfuck, Pa., just upwind from some cheesy little r&b dump, with his animal nature wholly driven by the memory of Nora's scent while his man-mind went crazy for something to do. If he could just stroll in there and shoot a game of pool, have a drink, maybe KILL somebody, this wouldn't be a problem. It was the restraint that was driving him mad.
The moonlight tugged, her cold light balming his core. He took a moment to savor her glow, was struck once more by how totally misunderstood was the relationship between her and his kind. He loved the moon—was crazy about her in fact—but he c
ertainly didn't need her to turn. For that, he needed no one's help. He was fully the agent of his own Change.
So why, then, did he love her so much, spend so much time in her company? He might as well ask, why love women at all? He loved the moon because she spoke to him, was fluent in all his tongues. When his blood howled, she whispered encouragement in his veins, smiling down from the blackened sky as he roamed the darkened earth. She understood his desires and hungers. She questioned nothing, yet understood everything.
He loved her because she was beautiful, and mysterious, and powerful, and remote; because she was perpetually both there for him and simultaneously, maddeningly out of reach.
Most of all, he loved her because she touched a deep and secret place within him that mortal meat only dreamed of. The vibrations that steered the ocean's tides clearly exerted their pull upon him as well. He was in love with the way she yanked his chains.
It was a quality that only the finest lovers shared.
And so, each night, he sang to her, laid sacrifices on her altar. And each night, she returned to him, no questions asked. In many ways, the moon was the ultimate mistress: she never got jealous, never threatened him, never tried to have him killed; and she never made him chase her halfway around the goddam country, either. She was always just there. He wondered why more women couldn't be like that. It sure as hell would make his life a little easier. . . .
And such were his thoughts in the moment before the front door of the roadhouse opened. Vic leaned back on his haunches, grinning horribly through his rows of teeth. Is this him? he asked himself. Is this the miserable fuck that I'm gonna have to kill tonight?
The door hung open for a moment, as if in shock.
And then out he came.
"SON OF A BITCH!!!"
Syd stepped outside and got power-slammed by a faceful of wind. The night had turned unexpectedly savage in the couple of hours since they'd come together: temperature plummeting into the twenties, with a windchill factor that dropped it into the single digits. The blast that whooshed up to greet him was a serious, sobering smack in the face; it pulled his flesh taut as a snare drum head, made his corpuscles cringe underneath the skin.
"SYD! SHUT THE DAMN DOOR!" Red hollered over the din inside.
"SORRY!" Syd yelled back, as a gaggle of latecomers crowded past him and pushed up to pay the cover. He stepped out of their way, let the door shut behind them. The wind gave it a boost on the back half, and it slammed home with a mute finality.
Leaving him out in the cold.
And all by himself.
"Damn," Syd hissed, and turned to face his mission. Nora had remained adamant about slipping out the back door; finally in exasperation Syd had said that he would get the car, swing around to meet Jules, then come back around front to pick her up. It appeased her only a little.
"Hurry up," she'd said, then kissed him again. The kiss was hot, hungry, almost desperate. As if she was afraid she would never see him again.
Syd stuffed his hands in his pockets and started across toward his car, feet crunching on hard-packed stone. As he walked he realized that he was seriously buzzed; Nora was definitely not the only one feeling the effects of so many double shots. Correction, he thought, as he pitched and weaved around a pickup truck: he was higher than a fucking kite. The sights and sounds of the night seemed razor-sharp, incredibly clear; frosted windshields sparkled in the arc-light glow, flickered from the multicolored neon beer signs in the windows; the crackle of boots on gravel echoed in his bones.
Beyond the parking lot, naked trees and lush evergreens swayed together in the pale moonlight: great gangly skeletons, huge hulking leviathans, dancing with the whistling wind. The moon was nearly full, completely unsullied by clouds. The cold made everything crisp, beautifully severe; the wind in his eyes made the lights beam like stars; the alcohol underpinned it all with the detached surrealism of a dream. His brain felt loosely moored inside his skull, as if any minute now it would disengage, go spiraling off.
Syd shook his head, trying to clear it. It had been ages since he'd gotten high, easily a decade or more since he'd dosed or done mushrooms, but the feeling threw him back. It was the preternatural feeling of something coming, the high-voltage subterranean hum of doors about to be blown open. It was a feeling that had been growing all night, one that started the moment her tongue first slid between his lips. . . .
Syd shivered, his lips still electric from her touch. Behind him, Queen Bee's rhythm section receded to an urgent thud as her voice wailed over the top of it. "Harder than a Freight Train." Yee-hah.
His car was just ahead, at the far end of the lot. He could see it glistening faintly in the distance as he jogged between a Volvo and a battered Plymouth Fury. As he made his way through the rows of neatly parked cars, he didn't see anything that jumped up and screamed "Nora!": no sleek black Porsches with zebra-striped seats, no cherry-red Alfa-Romeos. He could always be wrong, but he seriously doubted that she drove a Yugo.
Funny she didn't say anything about having to leave her car here, he noted. Then again, not funny. Or particularly surprising. Syd got the feeling there were a lot of things she wasn't telling him. It made him uneasy, thinking of the unknown baggage that could be coming along on this particular ride. It reminded him why he was so bad with one-night stands, why he had so few of them to his credit. There was always a life, just past the fantasy. And life could get messy.
As he reached his car, a thought struck him. You could just leave. It was completely ridiculous, strangely appealing. Syd considered what it would be like: actually getting in, starting up, and driving away without her. He pictured Nora: sitting at the bar, growing increasingly impatient, increasingly pissed, until she eventually got the hint and left, cursing him for his gutlessness.
. . . you 're a nice guy, Syd, but you 're a bit of a dink . . .
Syd winced, her words stinging at his memory. At the edge of the lot the Mt. Haversford Road beckoned, a black macadam ribbon ready to carry him back. But to what? Syd felt more keenly than ever how empty his life had become: wandering shell-shocked through his private wreckage like a bomb-blast survivor, neatly stacking the shrapnel, making piles of nothing.
Still, Nora had spooked him, back in the bar. Worse yet, there was genuine fear beneath all that attitude. But what was she so damned scared of? A jealous ex-boyfriend? That would certainly suck. A pissed-off current boyfriend? The tiny voice nattered in his head again, painting ugly pictures he didn't want to see. Begging other questions he wasn't sure he wanted the answers to.
Then again, he told himself, he could be way off-base. Maybe she'd had some kind of horrible experience in a parking lot at night. Some kind of assault. Maybe rape. Or a loved one killed.
Maybe even a loved one killed by the maniac who was EVEN NOW LURKING IN THE SHADOWS . . . !!!
"Aieee," he said out loud. "You bet." Yep, nothing like irrational terror to get the blood going. It was also distinctly possible that she'd come from outer space, and now was afraid that a tractor beam was gonna yank her back up to the mothership. Or that she was really a murderous fugitive from justice: Jessica Rabbit meets Boxcar Bertha.
Or maybe that the wolf was out here somewhere, waiting for them. . . .
Syd stopped, felt a shiver run through him that had nothing to do with the cold. Why did he suddenly think of that? His skin prickled and his ears perked up, suddenly tuned to the sounds of the night. For a moment he thought he could feel it out there somewhere: lurking in the darkness beyond the trees, shadowing him, tracking his every move.
Suddenly, the music from inside the bar felt as far away as his car had seemed, by the side of the road in the first light of dawn. He blinked and the morning's tableau returned: belly organs gaping, splayed out in his mind.
"This is stupid," he told himself. It didn't help. He picked up his pace, scanning the parking lot for big hairy monsters and scary ex-boyfriends.
Nope. Nothing. Not even an engine running. The parking lot wa
s full of cars, but utterly devoid of souls.
Then why can't I shake this feeling?
He reached the Mustang, unlocked the door, and slid inside. The interior was freezing—even without the wind, it was like sitting in a meat locker. His breath fogged the windows into an opaque translucence as he fumbled with his key, fingers numb and tingling as he jammed it into the ignition. The engine cranked and shuddered. The dash lights winked and glowed; the defrosters erupted with more cold. Syd pressed the gas a few times, coaxed it to roaring life.
As the car idled his hands came up to grip the wheel, seesawing it back and forth as he weighed his options. This woman was trouble; he'd seen it already, could feel more coming. More than that, even: this woman was dangerous. Her voice came pinwheeling back. I don't fuck domesticated animals.
I eat them.
Yeah, right. He could use a little of her kind of danger right about now. She was also, he reminded himself, the most real, vital, utterly alive thing he had felt in years. Maybe ever. It felt as though his whole life was leading up to this, his fate riding on it like a high-stakes gambler, betting the house on a single roll of the dice.
The engine idled down, ready to roll. The air from the vents began to warm, blowing off the condensation that clung to the windows. Chameleon's lay directly before him. To one side, the safe road beckoned. To the other . . .
Syd reached down, put the car into gear.
And started to move.
VIC SKIRTED THE perimeter of the parking lot, tracking the slow-moving car. His prey was oblivious, as usual. Animals were different; they never questioned their instincts. It was nature's way of compensating them for their lack of reasoning power, and it made sneaking up on them a real challenge.
People, on the other hand, reasoned instinct away, and almost always chalked it up to superstition until it was too late to do anything about it but scream.
It was what made them so easy to hunt: they simply couldn't believe that it was happening. In the heat of the moment they invariably disassociated, thinking wow, just like on TV! As if life were a cop show, or a movie they once saw. And before there were movies, a book they'd once read. Or a story, told round the campfire. Or anything that served to lift experience into the province of legend. Render it larger than life, and thus beyond them. It was ironic; their power to imagine was their greatest source of strength, as well as their most fatal flaw. It made anything possible for them, even as it kept them forever out of the moment.
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