Which meant all he could do now was follow, stick tight, stay alert, keep them from straying into some other dream where there were creatures more dangerous than bear and wolves, or into the Between where anything could happen. Nothing he could do, though, if something decided to come through an open door. At least it would be light soon. Most dream creatures didn’t care for the light.
They walked single file, the girl in the lead. She was good, he had to admit. Carpenter had taught her well. Taking her time, scanning the trees, watching for signs, listening, sniffing the air. The old man was on higher alert than he had been with his sons, though, a little more protective. A little less at ease. Maybe he sensed something too, seasoned old hunter that he was.
Jenn led them down into a ravine where the darkness congregated thick and undisturbed, even though the sky was now very nearly blue. A good choice if you were looking for game. Not so great considering the invisible threat. Above, on the higher ground, birds had been rousing, beginning a chorus of tweets and chirps. Breeze in the trees. Racket from a couple of frogs that hadn’t yet dug down into the mud for the winter.
Down here in the ravine it was too quiet. No birds, no frogs. Not even the wind in the trees. Just a dead calm.
Morgan’s unease grew, although in his mind he was still trying to argue it away with logic. It was normal for it to be darker in the ravine. Quieter, too, he reminded himself, because of the dark. Plus, they were shut out from the sounds above.
He stepped on a dry twig and his heart skipped at the sound of its snapping.
At first there was only a whiff of an unpleasant scent, rapidly growing into a solid sensory assault, part skunk, part carrion, that set him to coughing. He recognized it, knew what it was, and his heart hammered a warning. He was aware of the others, watched them cover mouth and nose with their sleeves. An unearthly screeching howl rose up dead ahead, in the direction they’d been going. An answering howl came from the other direction, echoing, bouncing off the rocks, a sound that made his blood congeal, his knees go weak.
Boq, Sasquatch, Bigfoot. So many names, so many jokes. But there was nothing remotely funny about the creatures. The Indians had long known them for their supernatural powers and kept a deep and respectful distance. You couldn’t shoot them, it was said. Guns exploded, bullets went wide. They could shift time, work tricks with water and fire.
Puzzle pieces clicked into place, remembered images flashing one upon the other. A wounded Sasquatch. The flash of a blade. Blood.
“Up, back to high ground, now!” he shouted, following his own advice without looking around for the others. It was a blind scramble over rocks and loose dirt, sliding, grasping onto branches and roots, and dragging himself up one- handed, still clutching the rifle with the other.
At the top, he paused to look back.
Hell and damnation. They hadn’t followed. He could barely make them out down in the shadows, braced back-to-
back with rifles ready. Down the ravine on either side, branches swayed. A loud banging sound, as of sticks against tree trunks, and then that howling again that turned his bowels to water.
He tried to shout but found he had no voice. He ordered his body to go back down, told himself that he must not abandon his party. Throughout his long life he’d faced down all manner of creatures without fear. Now he stood silently cursing himself, shivering like a rabbit under the paw of a coyote, and watched the hunting party, his hunting party, that he had abandoned and run away from.
Two dark shadows were visible now, emerging from the trees. The offensive stink was almost unbearable, wafting up to him in waves that set him retching.
The beasts were well within range, out of the trees now and visible. They were roughly man-shaped but covered in brown fur, bent forward a little at the hips, with long apelike arms and human hands. As they moved, they banged on tree trunks with sticks, keeping up a constant howling.
Carpenter’s rifle leaped and then exploded in a burst of fire. The man went down with a scream and one of the beasts leaned over him, blocking him from sight. The girl, still self-possessed and externally calm, took aim in turn. Her finger pulled the trigger. The rifle clicked. Nothing happened. She tried again. Another click.
Still the creature advanced toward her.
At last she screamed and broke into a run. One of the man-creatures shambled in pursuit, graceless and awkward, but fast.
Dropping to one knee, trying to steady his shaking hands, Morgan drew a bead on the Sasquatch and fired. It kept running. He fired again. Saw in disbelief a spray of dirt and rock as the shot struck way wide of his target.
But even as he fired again it picked up speed, long legs covering the ground in a shambling stride, caught Jenn around the waist and swung her up over its shoulder. She struggled and fought, beating with her fists on the beast’s back. Her eyes found Morgan and she began to scream, still not in a panicked fear but half plea, half command. “Help me! Morgan—”
Both of the creatures turned then to look up at him. He felt the full force of their burning eyes, a pressure on his brain, a searching.
Revenge.
The girl’s cries twisted in his heart, but Morgan stood transfixed, his hands loose and nerveless on his gun, his feet grown into the dirt and incapable of movement.
And then they turned away. Carpenter’s limp body now dangled over the shoulder of the first creature as it vanished into the trees. The second lumbered into the forest after his mate, dragging the girl. She had stopped screaming. The last glimpse Morgan had of her, she had stretched her arms out toward him, hands reaching as though all of the space between them did not exist, as though she were a child seeking safety. A bitter and desperate hope still animated her face. And then went out. She was not one to go easily into death, however, and she shouted one last word back before she was lost to him in the trees.
“Coward!”
It echoed, bouncing off cliffs and trees and the memories stowed deep beyond his conscious thought.
Coward.
Coward.
Coward.
As the last echo died away he shook himself, released from the spell. It wasn’t the first time that word had been hurled at him by a girl, and goddamn it if this time he’d let it stick.
Five
Zee sprawled in one of the armchairs at the back of A to Zee Books, head tilted back, eyes closed. His face looked softer in sleep, the artist again, and not the hardened warrior who took wild joy in slaying dragons. A book lay open in his lap—Joseph Campbell’s Hero with a Thousand Faces. His right hand lay on the arm of the chair, relaxed and easy, but his fingertips grazed the hilt of the sword, unsheathed and resting against his thigh.
Vivian had run in through the back entrance, using the fire escape to reach Zee’s upstairs apartment, but it made sense he would be watching for her here. Part of her wanted him awake—she needed to tell him about the lost pendant, to make plans to search for it. On the other hand, she didn’t want to talk about what happened on the beach or any of the hurt that lay between them.
She picked up the book, set the bookmark, and laid it on the coffee table beside an unfinished chess game. He was dreaming, his eyes rolling behind his eyelids, a touch of a smile on his lips. Vivian found herself envying him. Always, dreams had been serious business for her, even before she knew there was such a thing as a Dreamshifter, or a possibility of being lost in a Dreamworld. What must it be like to dream with casual abandon, to have dreams of pizza delivery and flying penguins? This looked like a pleasant dream, and a deep yearning filled her. She feared her own dreams, but maybe it was possible to dip into his.