TITLE    : Beyond The Veil Ch. 02
STORYID  : beyond-the-veil-ch-02
SUMMARY  : Betrayal, sex and murder in a small town.
AUTHOR   : slyc_willie@lit
DATE     : 2008-12-09
CATEGORY : science-fiction-fantasy
FLAGS    : h
TAGS     : |cold weather|car sex|ambush|mystery|magic|veil|


The lights of the wide-bodied sport truck blinked off a few seconds before it rolled to a stop at the edge of a snow-covered field. Trees all around provided shade from the moon high overhead, and the "<i>Trespassers Will Be Shot</i>" sign upon the heavy old fence helped hide them from any wandering eyes.



"We better not get caught, Billy," the comely, freckle-faced brunette bemoaned.



The young man chuckled, flashing the dazzling, dimpled smile all the girls in town talked about. That smile and his gift with words made it relatively easy for most girls to agree to "a ride" with him. It had taken more than his charm, however, to convince Chrissy Baines. It had taken persistence. "There ain't nothing to worry about," he assured the girl, even as he handed her an unlabeled pint bottle.



Chrissy sipped the dark brew, licking her lips appreciatively. "What'd you put in this?"



Billy sidled closer in the cab of the truck, taking the bottle from the girl's hand. "Little bit of Coke, little bit of molasses," he said, then sipped. "Little bit of whiskey," he added with a wink.



The girl giggled, placing her hand on Billy's strong upper thigh. Four years of high school football had left him with an impressive physique. "Are you trying to get me drunk?" she asked coyly.



Billy let his eyes wander up and down the brunette's voluptuous body. "I'm hoping I won't need to," he said suggestively.



The girl's eyes smoldered, and she bit her lip. "I don't think you will," she whispered.



That was all the encouragement the young man needed. With a confident smile, he leaned in for a kiss, simultaneously bringing up his hand to cup a generously-proportioned breast. Both the young lovers groaned at the same time, mashing their lips together. Chrissy was obviously inexperienced; her kisses were desperate and somewhat sloppy, the movement of her hand upon his thigh clumsy. But far from being deterred, Billy found the girl's awkward fumbling arousing.



<i>Is she a virgin? </i>He wondered excitedly, gently massaging the heavy bulb of flesh in his hand. He could feel Chrissy's nipple stiffening through the layers of clothing. <i>Joey said he already tapped her a few times. What a freaking liar . . . .</i>



"Billy, wait a sec," the breathless girl said when his fingers tugged on the buttons of her blouse. She gave him a pleading look. "If I say stop, you're gonna stop, right?"



He nodded vehemently. "Of course," he assured her, and softened his eyes. His fingers touched just beneath her chin. "Hey, I promise, I ain't gonna do anything you don't want me to."



Chrissy breathed in nervously, but nevertheless smiled and nodded. "Okay."



Billy kissed her again, and freed the first few buttons of Chrissy's blouse, revealing a fair amount of pale, creamy cleavage. "Now, just relax. I ain't gonna hurt you, I promise. In fact--" his cool hands groped her nearly-naked breasts through the flimsy and inadequate pink lace bra, making the girl gasp. "--it's gonna feel really good."



Chrissy's wide, innocent eyes glimmered beneath the filtered glow of the moon. She said nothing, only gasped when Billy tugged down her bra, exposing her breasts completely. Glowing with a pure, pale radiance and capped with nipples which were both the size and color of ripe cranberries, they were a marvel of young beauty. Billy certainly appreciated their natural buoyancy and firmness, and the way the pink aureoles puckered and swelled.



"Damn if these ain't the finest tits I ever seen," he muttered as if speaking internally. He scooted back in the seat, then lowered his head and cupped his warm, moist mouth around one of Chrissy's straining nipples.



The girl sighed loudly, threading her fingers through Billy's hair. He passed his mouth back and forth, kneading whichever breast he was not servicing, making Chrissy shiver with simmering arousal. He murmured all the while, voicing his praise of the girl's impressive endowments. Although the cold outside the cab had threatened to intrude the moment the heating was turned off, the growing passion of the imminent lovers was making the windows steam already.



"Mmm, Billy, that's so nice," she cooed, smiling down upon him. "Ain't nobody ever paid attention to them like that before."



He glanced up, mouth wet and shining, a somewhat perturbed expression on his face. "So, I ain't your first?"



Chrissy blushed deeply. "Well, I fooled around some," she revealed cagily. Her eyes met his and bore meaningfully into them. "But I never, um, you know, went too far. I'm sort of saving myself."



The young man looked dejected. <i>Well, shit. </i>"What do you mean, 'sort of?'"



The buxom brunette giggled. "Well, unless you got a ring in your pocket, my cooch is off-limits," she said.



Billy frowned in alarm. "Whoa! Hey, girl, I like you and all, but--"



Chrissy's laughter rose to a crescendo and she grabbed his head. "I was teasing about that," she said, pulling him back to her breasts. "But I wasn't kidding about the store downstairs being closed for business."



He mouthed her breasts a little more, lolling his tongue around a rubbery nipple. "Well, how do you feel about blowjobs?"



The girl considered his words. "Depends where you put that bottle," she returned with a coquettish smile.



Billy grinned and reached back, finding the bottle. "Got it right here," he said.



Chrissy giggled and took a healthy swig, then another. She eyed the bulge in Billy's jeans speculatively as the young man sat back, momentarily content to admire the blushing girl and her bared breasts. Handing the bottle back, Chrissy licked her lips. "Come on, Billy. I wanna see it."



He smiled, setting the bottle back on the seat behind him. Heart palpitating anxiously, he unsnapped his jeans and lifted his hips, shoving the thick denim down his thighs. His cock was fully engorged at the idea of enjoying the attentions of Chrissy's delectable mouth. Chrissy breathed in nervously, even as she felt a tingling, anxious sensation in the pit of her stomach. She sat up slowly, gaze switching back and forth from Billy's face and his waiting cock.



"Um, I don't have to suck on the whole thing, right?" she asked tentatively. "I mean, that ain't exactly small."



Billy chuckled. "Nah, you don't have to suck it all. Just the top part."



"Okay," Chrissy said, gingerly reaching for the stiff tube of flesh. She was surprised at the heat emanating from the thing. The moment her fingers wrapped around the shaft, a jolt coursed through her. She grinned as she rubbed up and down lightly, watching the clear fluid that trickled faintly from the slit in the dark pink head. She started to lower her head, but paused. "You're gonna tell me before you shoot off, right? I don't want you to, you know, jizz in my mouth or anything."



Billy nodded enthusiastically. "Sure. Yeah. I'll let you know." <i>Yeah, right, </i>he thought as Chrissy lowered her head to his lap. He sighed at the feel of her warm, firm tongue passing over the head of his dick, lapping up the seepage from the tip, then again when he felt the warm cave of her mouth closing around the head.



<i>Oh shit that feels good! </i>He watched the top of Chrissy head as it bobbed slowly up and down, her mouth sucking and pulling, her hands lightly squeezing his shaft and balls. Billy spread his legs , pushing up with his hips. The girl gagged slightly and lifted up, wiping her mouth.



"Careful," she warned gently. "I don't wanna choke on it."



"Sorry," gasped Billy, his cock throbbing in the girl's soft hands. "You're just really good at that."



She smiled with self-congratulation, nibbling her lip. "Really?"



"Yeah," Billy affirmed, reaching for her head.



Chrissy giggled and willingly went back down, sliding the hot wetness of her mouth around Billy's length. She had to admit she liked the way the broad head rubbed against her tongue and the roof of her mouth. The oily fluid oozing from his cock did not have much of a flavor, she realized. Briefly, she wondered what semen tasted like, if it was as nasty as her more experienced friends always claimed. <i>Maybe they just never let a guy get off in their mouths, </i>she wondered, sucking and pumping. <i>Maybe it really isn't that bad . . . .</i>



Billy could feel himself getting close to orgasm after only a handful of minutes. A flicker of his angelic side told him he should warn Chrissy about the impending outflow of fluid, but the corresponding devil was more convincing, reminding him how intensely pleasurable it was to feel a hot, sucking mouth on his cock when he came.



Outside, something made the frosty underbrush rustle, loudly enough to suggest it was not some small rodent or young deer.



Billy perked nervously, trying to look out through the steamy windows. "What was that?"



"Hrm?" Chrissy queried through her full mouth.



Billy wiped the driver's window with the sleeve of his flannel shirt, looking outside. On the border of crazy old Mr. Hammerman's farm where they were parked, Billy was suddenly skittish. Hammerman took his hand-painted sign to heart; he had supposedly shot at cars that parked too close to his property for too long. <i>Sure, it's just past midnight, the old bastard's probably asleep, half a mile away in his house, but . . . what if he ain't?</i>



Chrissy lifted her head, wiping her mouth. She looked concernedly upon Billy as he peered out the window. "Somebody out there?"



"I don't know. Maybe. Probably just a deer or something."



The brunette regarded the suddenly flaccid penis that hung over the back of her hand, glistening with her saliva. "But you don't think so."



He looked back at the girl and forced a smile. "Hey, sorry. Just got spooked, that's all. All those rumors about Hammerman, you know?"



"Maybe we should go somewhere else," she suggested.



Billy smiled, the anxiety fading in the absence of further noises outside and the anticipation of finishing what had been begun. "Or, maybe you could put that back in your mouth."



Chrissy rolled her eyes, but her hands remained where they were, stroking Billy's slowly-reviving cock. As it swelled, she giggled, then doubled over to return to her task. She hummed upon engulfing his semi-erect cock almost entirely, and sucked hard to bring it back to full staff. Billy groaned in pleasure, placing his hands on the brunette's head, urging her.



<i>Yeah, that's it, Chrissy. Make me fucking bust a nut . . . .</i>



Just as he once more felt the rising tide of orgasmic release, however, the truck suddenly shook, dipping down deeply as something landed upon the hood. Billy cried out, and Chrissy screamed as she sat bolt upright. Through the foggy windshield, all they could see was the vague shadow of something that was definitely not human. As their exclamations faded away, the young lovers could hear a muffled sound not unlike heavy, feral breathing.



"What the hell is that, Billy?" shrieked Chrissy, hastily closing her coat around her naked bosom.



"I-I don't know," he admitted fearfully, hesitant to reach out and wipe away the obscuring layer of mist from the windshield. Whatever animal that was now perched upon his truck, it was obviously large. Something sprouting from its back writhed in the air back and forth like snakes, casting shadows which panned back and forth against the backdrop of the moon.



"G-get us out of here, Billy," Chrissy whispered urgently. "Please!"



"Y-yeah," he stammered in response, forgetting about his partial nudity as he centered himself behind the wheel. He reached for the key.



A bellowing roar split the air, eliciting more terrified screams from Chrissy. She clapped her hands over her ears as Billy winced, turning the key. The truck's engine rumbled, then roared as it turned over under the plunge of the accelerator.



Suddenly, the roof of the truck's cab buckled in deeply as something heavy landed atop the vehicle. Glass exploded outward and Billy and Chrissy reflexively sank down in their seats. The truck shook violently, listing back and forth under the sudden violent weight heaped upon it.



Having closed his eyes against the spray of glass, Billy opened them to behold a horrifying vision. The windshield, shattered yet intact due to its construction, was abruptly tossed away, revealing a creature that could not have been born under God's laws. Lean to the point of looking like an emaciated puma, the beast's coat of short fur was darker than pitch, yet glossy enough to capture the luminescence of the moon. Massive claws at the end of each of its four legs looked large and deadly enough to rend through bone with a single swipe. The creature's head was definitely catlike, replete with whiskers, but the infernal, glowing red eyes marked it as anything but natural.



And, most astonishingly and otherworldy of all was the pair of serpentine tentacles sprouting from the narrow back of the beast, ending in wide, spade-shaped tips sporting squid-like suckers. As Billy stared in terrified fascination, the tentacles released the ruined windshield, dropping it to the ground, then swung back around in preparation for assault.



"Jesus fucking holy hell!"



"Billy! Billy! Get us the fuck outta here!" shrieked Chrissy, recoiling from the monster in abject terror.



"Yeah! Yeah!" Desperately, he gripped the wheel, shoved the gearshift into reverse--



And screamed as an inky tentacle to match that of the monster on the hood of the truck suddenly lashed through the shattered driver-side window from above. The broad spade tip latched instantly onto his shoulder, fang-framed suckers slicing easily through layers of denim, cotton, and flesh and holding fast.



"Billy!"



He grimaced in pain, clamping one hand around the muscular tentacle to which the spade was attached, gripping the wheel fiercely with the other. He found himself pulled toward the window, the monster's strength easily surpassing his own. His death-grip upon the wheel was already weakening.



"Chrissy!" he shrieked, casting a desperate, fearful look toward the brunette. "Help me!"



But the girl was terrified into immobility, watching with horrified eyes as her lover was inexorably dragged out through the window. Billy kicked helplessly as he was lifted into the air, howling in pain and fear. The last Chrissy saw of him was the young man's sneaker-clad feet dancing in the air just past the contorted metal and plastic of the window frame, before they shot upward and vanished.



A last, horrific cry was abruptly silenced by a rude and sickening sound which reminded Chrissy of a cat biting into a bird. Then the truck rocked once more as whatever had been on the roof leapt away, ostensibly taking Billy with it.



A sudden silence filled the cold air as Chrissy sat motionless in the truck, shaking uncontrollably. Terror-stricken eyes panned about slowly, finding no trace of the beast. No sound filled the air other than the whistle of the frigid wind. The sudden silence was eerie and surreal.



"B-Billy?" Chrissy whispered, slowly inching across the seat. Her lips trembled, spittle dripping to the fake leather beneath her. She barely noticed the numerous small cuts her hands endured as they scraped along tiny shards of glass.



Settling slowly behind the wheel, Chrissy numbly chanced a look outside. Shadows stirred in the trees many paces away; she wondered if the disgusting sounds of a feasting animal were real or her imagination. Swallowing down the bile in the back of her throat, she settled a shaking hand upon the steering wheel.



<i>I just gotta get home, she thought over and over. Just gotta get home, gotta get home, gotta--</i>



Movement registered in her peripheral vision as she sat facing forward. Something panted hotly in through the windowless opening beside her, carrying a foul, sulphuric stench. Whimpering fearfully, Chrissy slowly turned to look.



The monster's head was level with hers, its broad, catlike face split by what could almost be considered a cruel smile. The baleful eyes glowed demoniacally; a thick, crimson tongue slipped out and passed along elongated fangs with a wet sound of anticipation. A low, ominous rumble issued forth from the creature's throat.



"Oh, God . . . ."



*****



Kyle Perrin was thoughtful in the passenger seat of the vintage Monte Carlo, ruminating over what Malcolm had told them prior to leaving. It had been a couple of weeks since he had agreed to join the Veil Society. Between the secrecy of an organization that apparently does not exist &#x2013; although Kyle had seen a few crackpot and conspiracy theory blogs mentioning the Society &#x2013; and the lack of "activity," Kyle had begun to feel that he had signed a fool's contract. Until the call had come.



<i>"Kyle."



"Dr. Benedict."



A low chuckle rolled from the other end. "Please. Call me Malcolm, will you?"



"Sorry. I guess I'm still a little conservative in some aspects."



"I understand. Do you have any plans for the next few days?"



"Well, let's see . . . thought about smoking some cigarettes."



"You really should quit, you know."



"You're not my medical doctor."</i>



<i>"Touche. With the assumption that your plate is not exactly full, I have a request. There was an incident in a small town, not far from here. Two teenagers killed. I'd like you, Victor, and Faster to check it out."</i>



<i>Kyle frowned. "Any details?"



"Everything I've learned should already be in your inbox. The wounds inflicted upon the unfortunate victims do not conform with any typical animal attack for that area, although local officials are willing to explain it away as such."



Kyle was intrigued. "Any theories?"



"It's too early to indulge in conjecture."



Kyle rolled his eyes. "Of course."



He could almost hear the Director's smile. "Faster and Victor are already on their way. Pack lightly."</i>



Checking his new email account set up by Malcolm, Kyle had found crime scene photographs that showed the remains of a late-model truck in a sylvan setting. Kyle's first reaction was that the vehicle looked to have been savaged by a very stubborn and desperate bear. The remains of the two bodies, according to the email, were awaiting his inspection.



Kyle wondered just what it was about Dr. Benedict and the Veil Society which elevated their status to surmount even that of local law enforcement. Without the need, even, to show any kind of identification, Kyle and the others were freely and openly accepted in places from which, previously, he would have been barred.



<i>How the hell does that work?</i>



"Awfully quiet there, Bandit," chirped Faster, leaning between the seats from the back of the spacious car. Kyle gave the athletic, sharp-featured brunette a mildly annoyed look; her nickname for him had come from the the term 'one-armed bandit,' referring to the slot machines that were all too common in her Reno, Nevada hometown.



"I'm thinking," he said.



She grinned and smacked his shoulder playfully. "That's what Malcolm hired you for," she said.



Kyle shifted in his seat, casting a wondering gaze over the lithe woman. "So what, exactly, did Malcolm hire <i>you </i>for?" he asked. "I mean, if I'm the brains and Vic's the muscle, what's that make you?"



She didn't flinch at the unintentional insult. "I'm the legs, of course," she said with a wink, then leaned back. She was clad in a short denim skirt which revealed her strong, shapely &#x2013; and sexy, Kyle had to admit &#x2013; legs, which she kicked in the air briefly. She did not seem to care that her minuscule thong barely covered her privates. She rolled back forward, making her eyebrows dance.



Victor chuckled from behind the wheel. "Go ahead, Faster," he urged the woman. "Tell him."



Kyle frowned, feeling out of the loop. But that was not a new sensation when it came to his knew friends and cohorts. "Tell me what?"



Faster chuckled. "My real name is Dawn Kaster. Don't suppose that rings any bells."

<hr pg="2" />The furrow in Kyle's brow deepened. "No. Should it?"



She didn't look the least bit perturbed. "Come on, doc, I thought you knew everything," she chided.



"Tell him how many medals you got," prompted Victor.



"Medals?" queried Kyle. "Were you a soldier, too?"



"Nope," Faster said with a self-impressed smile. "Olympian. Four silvers in Sydney, and two silvers and two gold in Athens."



Kyle looked impressed, his perceptions of the younger woman changing. "No kidding?" he asked. "What events?"



"Gymnastics, relay, and marathon," she said proudly. "Far as I know, I'm still in the Guinness book as the world's fastest woman. I took the Big Five with an average time of just under two hours and seventeen minutes."



"What's the Big Five?"



"Five biggest marathons held every year," Faster informed. "Boston, Chicago, New York, London and Berlin. I ain't too bad at sprinting, either. I can do two hundred meters in about twenty-two seconds."



Kyle looked thoughtful, his sharp mind calculating. "That means . . . you run at about twenty miles per hour. Not bad."



Faster snorted, giving Kyle a challenging look. "I've actually been clocked at twenty-four in the hundred-m. How fast can <i>you </i>run?"



He chuckled with self-admonishment. "I'm guessing maybe half that," he said.



Playfully &#x2013; and irritatingly &#x2013; she ruffled Kyle's short dark hair. "You're so cute when you're humble," she commented, hazel eyes glittering for a moment.



Kyle rolled his eyes and turned back to face the road. "I'll remember that next time I'm in a singles' bar," he remarked dryly. For a moment, he caught a strange, knowing look from Victor, but did not comment on it.



"Shelby, next exit," the smooth-headed man announced as he guided the Monte Carlo toward the highway exit. "Game time."



*****



The township of Shelby was home to, according to the large white sign at the county line, just over nine thousand people. It was a mainly rural area, with the center of town consisting of a clustered gathering of buildings no more than three stories high. The constructions were hallmarks of the late forties, when much of the United States enjoyed a post-war economic boom. Since then, however, Shelby had apparently relaxed into a comfortable equilibrium between growth and obscurity. The comfortable facade the miniature metropolis wore was indicative of classic Midwestern small-town life. Kyle could feel the stirrings of half a dozen John Cougar Mellencamp songs in his head.



"Welcome to Podunkville, USA," Victor said with a wry smile stretching one corner of his mouth. "Man, I couldn't live in a place like this."



Faster laughed softly under her breath. "No shit. You'd go nuts in a week."



"More like a day."



Kyle looked about at the clean streets and classic, small-town architecture, the simple store fronts and basket-style trash receptacles on every corner. "I don't know," he said. "I've thought about living in a small town sometimes."



His companions both laughed. Kyle shot them wondering frowns. "What's so funny?"



"Nothing personal, doc," Faster said. "But you gotta admit you're pretty damn white."



He frowned. "Proud of it, too."



"Hey, more power to you," remarked Victor.



*****



The sheriff of both the county and Shelby Township was as stereotypical as Kyle could imagine. From his khaki-colored shirt which strained at the buttons to hold in a barrel gut, to the obvious plug of chewing tobacco which made his lower lip bulge, Sheriff Stonesbury exuded the sort of jaded small-town quality one would expect from a character in a Cormac McCarthy novel. He looked to be of age to remember where he was when Robert Kennedy was assassinated. The Wal-Mart radio behind him was tuned into a classic country station, allowing the verses of a David Allan Coe song to filter through the air.



The portly man looked over the trio before him as he smacked thick lips and narrowed his small dark eyes. "I've been told to give you all more than a little deference," the sheriff said, his tone betraying his dislike for the situation. "Don't know why you big city boys--" he shot a lewd wink at Faster. "--and girls are taking such an interest in a wild animal killing, but I've been around enough to know that the more I ask you, the less I'm gonna know. So have at it."



Kyle did not speak at first, until he felt the expectant eyes of his companions upon him. His role as spokesman for the three of them was suddenly clear; hearkening back to the conversation in the car, Kyle realized that, as the 'brains' of the group, he was, apparently, also expected to speak for them.



"Well, um, thank you, sheriff," he finally said awkwardly. But his composure was quickly restored as he continued. "Who we are doesn't really matter, does it? After all, we want the same things you do: to figure out what happened to those kids and make sure it doesn't happen again."



Stonesbury arched a bushy eyebrow. "Is that your story?"



The man's words were clearly a challenge, and Kyle felt the pressure from Victor and Faster to waylay the portly man. In response to the lawman's words, Kyle chuckled under his breath. "There's no reason for paranoia, Sheriff Stonesbury," he said in a disarming tone. "We aren't Big Brother, and this isn't the <i>X Files</i>. This whole mess will get cleaned up soon enough as long as you work with us."



The aged man did not look impressed. "Yeah, that's what I figure you guys would say."



Kyle effected a relaxed, doleful appearance. "Sir," he said. "Two teenagers were killed. All we want is to put them to rest, and to do a good job, we're going to need you and your men. You know this area; we don't. Christ, I can't tell a farm road from a intrastate highway around here."



Stonsebury suddenly laughed, belly and jowls shaking. "We call them state roads around here," he informed, smiling a bit more amiably. "All right. Look, I ain't gonna stand in your way so long as you don't try to step on my feet, hear?"



Kyle nodded with a roll of his shoulders. "Sounds good to me."



The sheriff pushed his lips out, pursing them in thought. "You'll probably want to check the morgue, first," he said, taking a Post-It note from the edge of his desk runner and clicking a pen. He wrote quickly as he continued. "I'm writing down the mile marker where those kids got chopped up. The truck was impounded; it's in the lot out back."



Kyle smiled genuinely, holding out his only hand to accept the slip of yellow-colored paper. Stonesbury frowned slightly in interest.



"Something wrong with your right arm, son?" he asked, indicating the sleeve hanging against Kyle's side.



The anthropologist nodded. "Yeah. It's not there," he quipped, then smiled and winked. "We'll be in touch, sheriff."



An uncomfortable look crossed the man's face. "Uh, sure."



*****



Heading out of the police station toward the glossy black Monte Carlo, Kyle could all but feel the reverence his two companions felt for him. Halfway to the car, he suddenly stopped and whirled about, facing them. "What?"



His fellow Veil agents both smiled proudly. Faster spoke first. "Nice work, doc," she praised. "You got a real silver tongue, don't you?"



Kyle smiled, blushing slightly while trying to play it off. "I've learned a lot about people," he said simply.



"You ask me, I figure you could sell sand to an Egyptian," Victor commented favorably.



"No shit," Faster added. "I've seen some smooth talking, but I bet you could give Mal a run for his money."



Kyle gave them both a weary look. "Are we done with blowing smoke up my ass?" he asked.



Victor chuckled and stepped past, fishing out his keys while shaking his head. Faster lingered just a second longer, dealing Kyle an inscrutable look. She sauntered past the wiry anthropologist, eyes smoldering. "I'm done with smoke," she said. "But, <i>blowing </i>. . . hmm . . . ."



Briefly, Kyle felt a stirring in his groin at the athletic woman's implication. He wondered as to the policy of intra-employee dating in the Veil Society. Or, at least, sex . . . .



With a resigned sigh, Kyle turned and continued to the car, waiting until Faster slid into the back seat &#x2013; flashing a bit of her underskirt flesh in the process &#x2013; before he stepped in. Victor gave him an expectant look as he turned the key, bringing the rumbling, powerful engine of the vintage car to life.



"Where to?"



Kyle forced himself to focus on the case at hand. He took out the hand-written note Stonesbury had given him. "Morgue."



*****



The short, pale-skinned coroner at the City Morgue was short on both tact and manners. Kyle got the impression the middle-aged man had not enjoyed too much exposure to the living. Upon the arrival of the Veil agents and the rather simple establishment of their group identity, the little man escorted them to a cool room which smelled heavily of formaldehyde. Upon a single, metal-framed gurney sat a pair of thick, grey plastic tubs covered in sheets.



"Folks, meet William J. Biederman and Christine L. Baines," he announced, casting back the sheets. "Or, what's left of them."



"Fucking Christ," Victor muttered darkly, looking upon the contents in the two tubs.



Beside him, Faster audibly held back the urge to vomit. Her expression was plainly one of disgust.



Kyle, however, betrayed little other than morbid fascination mingled with a distanced sense of sympathy for the parents of the victims.



"Victor, Faster," he called in a low, even, yet commanding tone. "I'll meet you outside when I'm done."



A hand over her mouth, Faster backed quickly to the doorway of the morgue. "No problem, doc," she said.



Similarly, but with visibly less disgust, Victor nodded and followed the slim brunette. "Yeah. Your show."



Kyle scanned over the remains of the corpses before him. In both cases, only the torsos remained intact, and even then incomplete. Not a single arm or leg had been recovered. Of the young man, only half of a ravaged face remained attached to the denuded stalk of vertebrae between the skull and shoulders. As far as the girl, the entirety of her face was gone as well as one of her impressive breasts. The long, dark brown hair framing a ghastly grinning sepulcher was matted with dark, congealed blood.



"Sorry I spooked your friends," the coroner said, although his statement seemed perfunctory.



"They're not spooked," Kyle explained. "Just out of their element. Tell me about the bodies."



The man rolled his shoulders. "Okay, let's talk facts," he said. "In life, at least according to his driver's license, Mr. Biederman was nineteen years old, stood five-ten, and weighed about a buck seventy. He's lost about a hundred and five pounds since last night. About the same deal with Miss Baines. There were some rodents gnawing at them when they were found, but I figure most of the flesh was stripped away soon after death. Some of it maybe even before."



Kyle looked to the tired, bloodshot eyes of the coroner. "Tell me what you think."



The man scoffed. "Yeah, sure, then I'm out of a job."



"What do you mean?"



He gave Kyle a wan look. "I mean, I know when to shut the fuck up," he declared. His eyes burned with anxiety. "This wasn't a mountain lion that did this. It sure as hell wasn't anything normal. But if I put 'unknown animal attack' in my report, I'm gonna be on the next bus heading to the next town."



Kyle nodded slowly. "Okay, pretend I'm nobody," he suggested. "Pretend you're just talking out loud. What did this?"



"Seriously?"



"Seriously," Kyle said in a dark, dramatic tone.



The coroner huffed, gazing over the remains before him. "I'm looking at a couple of kids killed by a fucking panther and a giant squid."



Again, Kyle nodded, taking in the implication of the man's words. "Why a panther?"



"Bite marks," the coroner explained. "Radius and fang penetration matching a standard large cat, probably about two and a half to three hundred pounds."



"Okay. So why a squid?"



The coroner touched the scarred and shredded shoulder of the young man's corpse. He looked to Kyle meaningfully. "I know a few things about marine biology," he said. "Saw what happened to a guy who happened to meet a Humboldt and get away alive. These wounds--" he tapped the corpse's shoulder. "--look almost exactly alike."



Kyle breathed in, then out. "Thanks for your help."



*****



"Sounds like a flayling," Victor mused once Kyle had shared the details of his conversation with the coroner. "Also known as a displacer beast."



"What the hell is that?" asked Kyle around a cigarette. He tucked his head inside the lapel of his pea coat to keep the flame from being blown out by the almost sub-zero breeze.



"It's like a big cat, right?" Faster asked.



Victor nodded. "Think a skinny puma about four feet at the shoulder, with red eyes and two big tentacles sticking out of its back," he described. "Nasty as fuck and cunning as all hell. Plus, they have a weird ability to sort of . . . shimmer, I guess, so it looks like they aren't where you think they are."



Kyle arched a speculative brow. He was still getting used to the casual way Victor described the impossible. "So, I take it you've met one."



He shook his head. "Nope. But another team down south had a hell of a time trying to wrangle one that had gotten into the Appalachians. I'm pretty good buds with one of their point men, and he sent me some pics and vids. It's a vicious fucking animal."



"Can you get in touch with him?" Kyle asked.



Quickly, Victor produced his cell phone. "I'll see if he's there," he said, stepping away as he dialed the device.



"So, Kyle," Faster said, cocking her head and squinting her eyes against the afternoon glare. "None of that stuff in there freaked you out?"



He shrugged. "Maybe a little. But, after you've seen your own arm mangled, with the bones sticking out through the skin . . . that has a way of changing your perceptions. It's like . . . I new this girl in high school, most squeamish woman I've ever met. She'd just about throw up if someone dribbled pudding. Five years after graduation, I met up with her and her baby girl at a grocery store, and we caught up on old times. I watched her feed her drooling baby, and not only did she not gag, but she even ate off the same spoon as her kid."



Faster grimaced. "Don't know if I could do that."



"Wait'll you have a kid," Kyle pointed out meaningfully.



"That ain't gonna happen, either," she said, all but concealing the hint of dismay in her eyes. "I developed ovarian cysts when I was nineteen. They ended up removing both of them to keep the cancer from spreading. Ain't no kids in my future."



"You could always adopt."



She scoffed. "Yeah, right. I figure there's a reason I can't have kids. More than that, I don't wanna inherit the combined bullshit of two other idiots who couldn't keep their own kid."



Kyle said nothing, deciding not to refute the woman's one-sided logic. He sensed there was more to the story, anyway, and was patient to let it come out with time.



Victor returned, clipping his phone closed. "I talked with Dex," he said, ostensibly referring to the aforementioned member of another Veil Society team. "He's gonna email you everything he's got on flaylings."



Kyle nodded slowly, with a slight frown on his face. The way Victor, and Faster as well, seemed ready to defer to him made him a little suspicious. As much as he felt he could trust them &#x2013; and that itself was a strange and sobering realization &#x2013; he wondered why his companions seemed to accept him so eagerly. "Can I ask you two something?"



"Sure," said Faster.



Similarly, Victor nodded. "Shoot."



"Why do I get the feeling I'm in charge? I mean, you've both been around this a whole lot longer than I have."



The other two exchanged a quick glance before Faster spoke. "Well, maybe not that long--" she began.



"But longer than me," Kyle interrupted.



"Look, doc," Victor said. "Yeah, you're still green at this. But I figure that's why Mal wanted you with us. We've got the experience, but I'm not a face. Neither is Faster. You're a face, doc."



"'Face,'" Kyle repeated. "What do you mean by that?"



"He means," Faster spoke up, looking bemused. "You're a talker. You're a leader. You think about this shit in ways we don't. Me and Vic . . . I've tried being a face, and that's not me."



"Ain't me, either," Victor echoed. "Hey, I was a damn captain when I was a ranger. But I was in command long enough to know that I ain't cut out for it. Like I told you, I'm the front line type. I work a lot better when there's someone else to shoulder all the responsibility."



Kyle arched an eyebrow. "Such as?"



"Such as making decisions where you know someone might get killed," Faster said. "I couldn't do it."



Kyle regarded them both, his gaze passing back and forth. "But you're both content with the possibility that I might have to make a decision that means one of you could die? Or both of you?"



Again, Victor and Faster exchanged a look. They both appeared speculative and somewhat uncomfortable.



"I ain't too big on suicide, doc," Victor said at last, meeting Kyle's gaze directly. "And I ain't no idiot. But . . . what we do, it's dangerous. We're all gonna get hurt now and then, and sometimes, people die. That's how it is. And somebody's gotta be the one to make that decision about who goes where and does what. You said it yourself, doc: you know people. Me, I just know about hurting people."



"So you just accept me as a leader?"



Victor thought a moment, then nodded simply. "Yeah."



"Why?"



The stocky man chuckled. "For one thing, I got a shitload of respect for Malcolm--"



"Ditto," Faster chimed.



"-- and for another . . . that mess with the zombies and the antiques dealer."



Kyle frowned. "What about it?"



"We clicked, man," Victor said with a comradely smile. "There was that one fucking moment, when we were in the hotel, taking the elevator up, and all of a sudden, it just seemed right that you were calling the shots. I don't know people like you do, doc, but I've always been pretty good at figuring out who I can respect. I didn't mind taking my cues from you."



Kyle looked away, thinking briefly about that night. The night in which he had taken another human being's life. The night in which he had lost Gina.



"Seriously," Faster was saying. "That's enough for me, too."



Kyle forced himself to concentrate on the moment. He looked to the younger woman with assessing, dubious eyes. "Is it?"



She nodded. "If for no other reason, than because I trust Mal."



The anthropologist nodded slowly. Part of him expected to feel the weight of responsibility, of leadership, but he did not. The assumption of command seemed natural, albeit in a guarded way.



"Okay," Kyle said at last. "But I won't let it ever be said that I'm an autocrat. We're a team. Agreed?"



"I like it," Faster said quickly, extending her hand, palm-down.



"I'm cool with that," agreed Victor, placing his hand over Faster's.



Kyle added his own with a smile. "Get us some rapiers and bell-top boots, and we could be the Three Musketeers."



Both Victor and Faster groaned. Still, they smiled.



*****



Investigating the truck and the crime scene yielded little other than a few vague clues which, given the flayling angle, seemed to mesh with the information Kyle already had in his email. He went over his notes and thoughts as the three of them were driving toward the family home of William 'Billy' Biederman. In the back seat, Faster had her laptop open beside her as she searched for reports of unusual happenings around Shelby.



"Damn, this a boring place," she lamented. "Aside from our dead kids, the biggest stories are about a whooping cough breakout, a bat infestation in the high school gym, and an official changing of the time the salt trucks are sent out from five-thirty in the morning to five-fifteen. Talk about yawn-o-rama."

<hr pg="3" />"Small town," Kyle reminded her.



"They should've named this place Mayberry," Victor muttered. "Bet they still leave their doors unlocked at night."



"Though probably not currently," Kyle suggested. His brow furrowed in thought. "You said these flaylings can be trained."



"Yeah. You think someone trained them?"



Kyle shrugged. "It's only speculation at this point. Faster, you didn't find any other references to wild animal attacks around Shelby?"



"You mean, other than some dumb-ass hunter getting his leg broken in a bear trap?"



The anthropologist mused darkly. "That strikes me as suspicious."



"Unless they just came through the Veil," Victor offered.



Kyle nodded. "So, at this point, two logical explanations. But . . . ."



"But what?"



"A typical animal, even an intelligent one, goes for the main meat when it kills. Arms and legs have the most tender and flavorful meat, because those muscles are used a lot more during life. The torso is full of fat and organs."



"Unless I missed something, those kids didn't have any arms or legs," Faster chimed from the back seat.



"Yes. But," Kyle continued. "Their faces were shredded, especially the girl's. There wasn't anything left. That's an act of malice. That's deliberation. Not to mention the damn thing had to get through a car to get to them."



Victor pursed his lips. "Flaylings might be smart for an animal, but they're still just animals."



"Exactly what I was thinking. So, why rip off their faces?"



"Oh, I get it," Faster said suddenly, rolling forward and insinuating her face between the two men. "You're thinking someone had a personal beef with those kids, and sent the flayling after them, maybe even told them what to do."



"It's a possibility."



"They'd need a place to train it," Victor said.



"And for a flayling, it would have to be very secluded," Kyle agreed. He panned his eyes out through the windows of the car. "Of course, in a rural area like this, finding a secluded training ground isn't exactly difficult to find."



"Hmm," Faster muttered. "Hell, if you <i>were </i>gonna train a flayling, this would be the perfect place."



"Exactly."



*****



The Biederman house lay on a three-acre plot of land and faced a good-sized pond. It had obviously been purchased as a tiny starter home in the forties or early fifties, most likely by the grandparents of the deceased. Over the decades since, rooms had been added to the point where it was now thrice as large as the original construction.



A truck aged a good tens years sat in the simple stone pebble driveway, while a slightly more recent green sedan was parked further back, beneath a basic carport. Spruce trees dotted the broad front lawn before the house, and a towering pine stood like a sentry beside the multi-framed bay window which looked into the kitchen.



"So, what the hell <i>do </i>you say to parents whose kid has been half-eaten by a flayling?" Faster asked as they exited the Monte Carlo. She cinched the leather belt of her jacket about her waist against the cold. A light snowfall had begun, a harbinger of stronger winter storms to come.



Kyle gave her a wan look. "You sure know how to put a man at ease," he quipped sarcastically.



She smiled crookedly. "Sorry, Bandit."



With an inward groan, Kyle headed along the path of russet-colored stepping stones embedded in the grass. A rocking chair and a simple straw welcome mat greeted them upon the narrow porch. Kyle rapped against the metal-framed screen door as the other two stood behind him.



The very stoic and emotionally drained face of a middle-aged man greeted him once the door opened. He looked over the three strangers on his doorstep with tired eyes and spoke in a drained monotone. "Who are you?"



"Mr. Biederman," Kyle said, keeping his voice low and calm. "We're working with the police on the matter of your son's death. If you have a few minutes, I'd like to speak with you."



The man frowned. "About what?"



<i>Tact and diplomacy</i>, Kyle thought cautiously. "Sir, it would be best if we spoke inside."



The Biederman patriarch frowned, clearly annoyed, but he was too exhausted by grief to argue. With a resigned huff, he stepped aside and allowed his guests to enter. What had originally been the living room when the house was first built was now something of a media room, with a large-screen television against one wall, surrounded by speakers and towers full of varies movies and music discs. Standing before the television were several varied bouquets of flowers, each with plastic stems to which condolence cards were attached.



"The sheriff told us Billy was killed by a wild animal. Cougar or something," the man said stoically. His eyes sunken, face pale, he looked to Kyle exactly the way a man brought up in the Baby Boomer generation was supposed to after the loss of his son.



Kyle nodded diplomatically. "I'm not going to dispute the sheriff's findings," he said. "We work with a private research firm, cataloging attacks of this nature. We want to make sure this doesn't happen again."



The man's eyes fluttered toward the floor. "They didn't catch it, then."



"We're confident it won't take long." Kyle's voice was mollifying but succinct. "Any information you can give us about last night would be helpful."



Mr. Biederman sighed heavily, indicating the couch and two other chairs in the room with a vague gesture before seating himself. Kyle sat across from the man, leaning forward, arms open with his elbows on his knees. He wanted to appear as approachable as possible.



"We, uh, didn't keep much of a leash on Billy," he said. "He's a man now. Or, was." A look of pain briefly crossed his face. He glanced to the small mountain of flowers and baskets before continuing. "He reminded me a lot of myself. You know, when I was his age."



"You were a tiger when you were his age," chimed a cheery voice. All eyes &#x2013; save for those of Mr. Biederman &#x2013; looked to see a middle-aged woman clad in a white frilly apron over a typical housedress. The shadow of a once-pretty young woman still lingered on her lined face. She smiled broadly, displaying dimples and professionally-cleaned teeth. "Walther. Why didn't you tell me we had visitors?"



Biederman grumbled something unintelligible beneath his breath.



Kyle stood and offered the woman a sympathetic hand. "You must be Billy's mother," he said. "My condolences."



Her plastic smile twitched slightly. "You know, I'm famous around here for my fresh-squeezed lemonade," she chirped. "Why don't I make us some?" She whirled away with a flutter of her dress, busying herself in the kitchen.



Kyle glanced back to Biederman as Victor and Faster exchanged "Twilight Zone" looks. "She's in denial," remarked the anthropologist, returning to his seat before the harried-looking husband.



The man sniffled, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Cried her eyes out all morning, then she finally went to sleep. When she got up . . . she was like this for a while after our second was stillborn."



Kyle nodded in understanding. "We can leave now, if you prefer," he offered. "I'm not one to intrude upon someone's life at a time like this."



Biederman shook his head. "No, you're all right. Hell of a lot more sympathetic than the deputies that broke the news this morning."



Kyle waited, expectant.



After another moment in which he gathered his composure, Biederman finally spoke. "Billy was seeing a new girl. Chrissy Baines. Nice enough kid. I like her mother. Now, I know how my boy is &#x2013; I was the same way &#x2013; and I taught him to treat a girl right. Don't push her into anything she doesn't want to do, and for God's sake, always use protection. I taught him to respect women."



"Like that always works," Faster muttered. Kyle shot her a glaring look, which she matched. Without a further word, she rose and stepped outside.



"Something I said--?" began Biederman.



Kyle smiled disarmingly. "Not at all. Go on."



With a cautious flicker to Victor, the dead young man's father continued. "Well, I knew Billy had a reputation with the girls." He managed the faintest of proud smiles. "He <i>was </i>a Biederman, after all. There was this place he'd go parking, out by Fred Hammerman's farm. Guess he had taken a few girls out there before Chrissy. Never had any problems."



"So, you're not aware of any animal sightings out around that area?"



"Not if you don't count deer. Fred liked to keep a close watch on his farm. If he saw any animals around his property, he'd be out there in his old truck in a flash to chase them off."



Kyle mulled over what he had been told, glancing briefly to Victor. The former soldier shrugged as if to say, "I don't have anything to ask."



"Thank you, Mr. Biederman," Kyle said as he stood. "Hopefully, we'll make sure this never happens again."



Slowly-swelling red eyes lifted up to the anthropologist before him. "So do I."



*****



Faster was leaning against the Monte Carlo, arms folded tightly about her chest as she exhaled thick streams of frosted breath. Kyle approached her with deliberate, angered steps. Sensing his approach, she looked up at him with an apologetic expression. "Look, I'm sorry--"



"If there's one thing I expect," Kyle breathed through his teeth. "It's professionalism. We do not, <i>do not</i>, go stomping off because something somebody says is distasteful or reminds you of a bad memory--"



"You don't know me, <i>Kyle</i>," she shot back. "You don't know the shit I've had to put up with--"



"And when I am trying to question someone, I. Don't. Care."



The cold, sardonic breeze flowed between the two as they glared at one another. Victor watched the quiet power play, at once admiring Kyle and feeling sympathy for Faster, whose past he knew. The urge to step in was mitigated only when Faster scoffed bitterly and stepped back.



"Yeah, you were the right choice for the job," she hissed. "You're as fucking ruthless as Malcolm." Jerking open the passenger door of the car, she climbed into the back.



Kyle watched after her, a sense of admonishment flowing through him. He turned to Victor. "Do you think I was wrong?"



Victor's stoicism was unwavering as he closed the door. "No," he admitted. "But like she said, you don't know her."



The doctor nodded philosophically. "Something I'll have to change . . . ." He trailed off, noticing a slim young woman upon the front porch of the Biederman house, wrapped in layers of black. Her hair was onyx, matching the shade of her lips. With practiced indifference, she lit a cigarette and blew a trail of smoke.



Kyle cocked his head, eyebrow arched in interest. Giving Victor a cautionary glance that indicated he should wait, Kyle headed back to the house, approaching the girl. "Excuse me," he called out. "Are you Billy's sister?"



She regarded him with the sort of blasé to be expected from a Goth teen. "I was," she said. She pulled on her cigarette again, smearing the filter blue-black. "I'm Kathleen."



"Nice to meet you."



The girl &#x2013; mid teens, Kyle figured &#x2013; looked over the empty right sleeve of Kyle's coat. "How'd you lose your arm?"



"Accident," Kyle responded. "How'd you lose your manners?"



"Don't think I ever had any," Kathleen said, spewing a frosted cloud. She was trying hard to make smoking look natural for her.



"That's a possibility," he said drolly. "Do you--"



"I know what you're really looking for."



"Oh? What's that?"



"A demon," she said with surety. "I've seen it, too. It likes to prowl around the edge of town, looking for people like my brother."



Kyle narrowed his eyes. "What does it look like?"



Her gaze faltered slightly. "Big. Black. Red eyes and its breath smells like sulphur."



"You've been that close to it?" Kyle asked, baiting. "And you're still alive."



Kathleen's eyes glared briefly. "I'm not the same kind of person as Billy and his slut girlfriends."



"What kind of person is that?"



"Sinner," she said flatly.



"Hmm."



The girl rolled her eyes. "Go on, laugh at me, like everybody else does. But when everyone's dead, killed for their sins, I'll be the one laughing."



"Do I look like I'm laughing, miss?"



Kathleen fixed him with a challenging stare. "Forget it. You're like everybody else. No way just a kid like me could know anything, right?"



"Awfully ironic of you to make judgments about me, don't you think?" he shot back, then turned away. "And if you have any information, you should really give it to the sheriff--"



"It's gonna kill again," the girl proclaimed.



He half-turned, looking over his shoulder. "Animals often do."



Kathleen smiled haughtily. "We both know that wasn't an animal."



Kyle watched the girl as she flicked her cigarette and opened the door of the house. Part of him wanted to dismiss her words as nothing more than typical teen angst. But he had long before learned that there is no such thing as useless information.



"So, what did Morticia Addams want?" Victor asked as Kyle returned to the car.



"Attention," Kyle responded.



*****



Mrs. Baines &#x2013; legally separated from her husband for over nine years &#x2013; was an emotional wreck, unable to speak to Kyle. Thankfully, however, her sister and a few friends were at the small house in which Lisa Baines had raised her daughter. It was the sister, Amanda, who answered the door and, following brief introductions, showed Kyle in. Victor and Faster elected to remain outside.



"Her physician came around a few hours after she got the news," Amanda explained. "Lisa's been taking a trip to morphine heaven ever since."



"Everybody deals with loss differently," Kyle commented, looking around the home. There were pictures everywhere of Mrs. Baines and her daughter &#x2013; the balance being in Chrissy's favor &#x2013; going back the eighteen years the teenager had been alive. Only a few showed a rather heavyset man with dark hair, who never seemed happy. The deceased girl's father, Kyle figured.



Amanda sighed heavily, rubbing her nose. Her eyes, as well, were ringed in crimson. "Chrissy was her life," she said. "After she was born, Lisa had to have a hysterectomy. The asshole she married wanted boys. Since he left, everything Lisa ever did was for Chrissy."



Kyle mused thoughtfully. "Do you know anything about the boy she was with last night?"



A crooked smile stretched one corner of Amanda's mouth. "Billy Biederman, the resident stud of Shelby?" she quipped, then winced with self-admonishment. "Guess I shouldn't be too hard on the kid, especially now."



"I understand he had something of a reputation."



Amanda rolled her eyes. "Yeah, he did. Every town's gotta have one, right? Well, that was Billy. High school jock, good looking kid, folks got some money. All the girls in town fawned over him."



"Including Chrissy, I take it?"



She smiled sadly. "Actually, no," Amanda said. "Well, she could tell a hot guy when she saw him, but she was pretty smart. He chased her for months before she finally agreed to go out with him. I figure he just wore her down."



"Was last night their first date?"



"Yeah, I think so." Her eyes welled swiftly, but she sniffled back the tears, cleared her throat. "That's the way it happens, I guess. She tells him 'no,' over and over, then finally says 'yes' and . . . ."



"You can't think that way," cautioned Kyle, knowing where her logic was headed.



"Hard not to," the woman said in a harsh whisper. "Don't suppose you've ever lost anyone."



"A few," commented the anthropologist vaguely as he stepped carefully around the living room. He acted as if he was in a museum. As with the Biederman home, there was a multitude of flower arrangements and gift baskets. A couple of women were at work on a large memorial photograph of Chrissy Baines, which was obviously a blowup of her senior class picture.



"She was a popular girl," Kyle commented with a practiced smile, passing his fingertips across the flowers of the various bouquets. He scanned each card briefly as he went, reading the typical sympathy phrases: "So sorry for your loss," and "deepest condolences." One apparently misguided well-wisher wrote, "get well soon."



Amanda smiled. "Homecoming Queen, Cheer Captain, Young Republicans President," she informed proudly. "She graduated summa cum laude."



"The quintessential All-American Girl," Kyle remarked, stopping before one of the arrangements. Mixed in with chrysanthemums and daisies, carnations and baby's breath was a single sprig with dark green leaves and tiny yellow buds, framed by a pair of Carolina roses. Kyle looked upon the card in interest: "Irascible apologies. J.C."



"'<i>Irascible</i>,'" he said aloud, gaze falling once more to the green sprig.



"Yeah, I don't know what that means, either," Amanda admitted. She smiled wanly. "But that's from Julie. She and Chrissy were always rivals, in a way, but still friends."



"Irascible friends, obviously," Kyle said with a smile.



*****



The snowfall was getting heavier as the sun slid beneath the horizon. Shelby was a classic small town, in the sense that everything closed down at six o'clock, save for diners and bars. Shop owners were flipping their signs from 'open' to 'close' as Victor guided the growling Monte Carlo toward the edge of town. The remainder of the sun's radiance, a deep crimson smear upon the horizon turning to purple then deepest black, was reflected in the rear-view mirror beside Kyle's window.



Close-set buildings gave way to winding, stretching country roads, lined with simple barbed wire fencing with the occasional rusted tin mailbox here and there. Mile markers provided the only basis for the addresses of the various farms and ranches, the reflective green signs catching the light of the sedan's headlights.



"No answer," Faster informed from the back seat, setting her cell phone back down. Both her tone and demeanor had softened since leaving the Biederman house, and she acted as if her argument with Kyle had never occurred.



"Well, he's a farmer, right?" offered Victor. "Maybe he ain't done in the fields, yet."



"No tilling in winter," Kyle said. "Aside from that, when the sun goes down, work's done. Maybe he's just out."



"We could always wait," Faster suggested, her words accompanied by a faint grumble emanating from her stomach.



Kyle chuckled. "Are you hungry again?"



"She's always eating," Victor said. "Never seen a girl kill a buffet the way she does."



"You're one to talk," quipped the young woman. "Hey, I run twelve miles a day. This machine uses a lot of fuel."



"We'll grab something to eat on the way back," Kyle said, watching the road. A mile marker flashed on the side of the road, just a few dozen yards ahead of a simple broad, wooden arch. A faded, hand-painted sign was mostly obscured by a layer of virgin snow, but it could still be read to say, "Hammerman."



"Here's the place," he announced, just as Victor was slowing the car. Dirty snow and gravel crunched beneath the tires as the car turned into the long drive. Trees had been strategically planted along the edge of the fenced-in property, hiding the house from the road, but beyond the arboreal line, there was nothing but a small stretch of open land. A good quarter-mile in could be seen a typical ranch home, with a detached barn and shed.



Halfway between the road and house, however, lay a relic of a vehicle, a truck which Kyle could envision his grandfather driving. It had obviously been kept serviceable, judging from the fading tracks in the snow leading up to where it was parked. But the vehicle was in anything but pristine condition.



"Victor--"



"Yeah, I'm stopping," the stocky man answered, pulling the Monte Carlo alongside the truck. Closer now, the three of them could see the shattered glass in the window frames, the slashed tires, the long, intimidating scratches on the passenger-side door.



"That doesn't look good," commented Faster.

<hr pg="4" />"No, it doesn't," agreed Kyle. "Let's take a look."



"Everybody loaded?" Victor asked, slipping his sidearm from beneath his jacket. He extracted the clip to check the bullets, then shoved it back in and worked the slide. In the back seat, Faster produced a pair of slim, matched handguns with polymer frames and polished chrome slides. She gave Kyle an expectant look.



He reached into the pocket of his coat and extracted a compact revolver. "I'm good."



"You know, I figured you for a wheelgun man," Faster commented.



He winked at her. "I'm old fashioned that way."



They popped open the doors and stepped out into the rapidly-growing algidity. The falling snow was light, floating down like the parachutes of mites. The air was thankfully still, crisp and fresh. If not for the circumstances of their investigation, Kyle was tempted to smile and enjoy the scenery.



"Check out the tracks," Victor commented, pointing with the barrel of his ominous sidearm. In his other hand, he held a large, durable flashlight of the type Kyle had seen in police videos. Victor passed the beam back and forth across the ground, although it really was not needed with the brilliance of the moon directly overhead.



"Not exactly fresh," Faster commented, kneeling on the ground several paces from the truck. Kyle wondered how the two more experienced agents could discern tracks from the chaotic morass of shuffled snow. "But seeing as how it hasn't been snowing all day, there's no telling how old they are."



"So they could be from last night," Kyle suggested.



Faster glanced up in thought. "Yeah. Could be."



"What are you thinking, doc?" asked Victor



"Nothing, yet," the anthropologist responded, avoiding the tracks and heading around the far side of the truck. The driver-side door hung open, and this time, Kyle could readily make out the indentations of boots, spaced far enough apart to suggest someone ran from the truck. After about fifteen feet, however, they became obscured, the frosty ground even more heavily scratched and shuffled than it was on the other side of the truck.



"Marks on the hood," Faster said, leaning over the vehicle. "I'm no expert, but it looks like our flayling has a thing for jumping on trucks."



Kyle pursed his lips, focusing on where the trail lead; a small duck pond, presently growing a thin film of ice. A stone bench covered in fresh snow faced the pond, but Kyle doubted that anyone would want to sit there now and look upon the grisly thing floating in the water.



Beside him, Victor grumbled. "Don't suppose you think that's just a dead tree."



Kyle sighed through his nose. "Not a tree, but I'm sure it's dead."



"Faster, take the rear," Victor called, before taking the lead. The lithe woman fell in behind Kyle, both of her weapons held at the ready and panning back and forth in all directions. She scanned all around as she followed the two men toward the pond, eyes and ears trained to detect the slightest movement or sound.



Once at the pond, the body floating face-down in the icy water was obvious. Through the layer of snow upon the corpse, marks of savagery could just be discerned. The man's age was impossible to determine given the conditions, but Kyle had little doubt they were looking upon the body of Fred Hammerman.



"So why attack him?" Faster asked. "It doesn't make sense."



Kyle was silent, looking all around. The scene of the attack upon Billy Biederman and Chrissy Baines lay a good half-mile away, at a crossroads that formed one corner of Hammerman's property. Far too distant to be viewed with the naked eye, especially with the border of trees the elderly man had grown around his property. Unless . . . .



His eyes fell upon the roof of the house, spying a gazebo-like structure atop it. He smiled ruefully. "Biederman said the old man liked to keep an eye on his property," he remarked. "I wonder what he could see from up there?"



The other two followed Kyle's line of sight and smiled to one another. "After you, doc."



*****



The front door was unlocked and opened creakily with a prod of Victor's foot. The former soldier lead the way with his sweeping flashlight, panning it back and forth across vintage furniture upon which Kennedy's inauguration had most likely been watched.



"Lights," Kyle directed.



"Found it," Faster announced, just before a pair of aged lamps framing a flower-print sofa flickered to life with a soft amber glow. Fred Hammerman kept his house cozy and casual, but not overly cluttered. A few days' worth of newspapers lay upon the coffee table. A quick glance told Kyle the most recent edition was that of the previous day.



Across from where Faster stood, her finger still upon the light switch, was a narrow staircase leading up. A quick nod to Victor was all it took to send the man up first, leading, as before, with flashlight and weapon before him. The steps creaked, some sounding as if they were nearly ready to crack as the stocky man ascended. Kyle followed behind, noting a stain of blood upon the wooden knob at the bottom. He remained quiet, however, continuing up.



The second floor consisted of four bedrooms and a large bathroom, all fairly typical, save one. Opening the door, Faster was met with a heavy black cloth and the aroma of various chemicals. "Smells like a damn photolab. I think this is a dark room," she called over her shoulder.



"Leave it alone for the moment," Kyle ordered, urging Faster to return to the corridor. At the end of the hallway lay a folding ladder leading up to the attic space, from which cold air poured out like the heavy mist of a graveyard.



"Nice of him to leave the stairs down for us," Victor commented. "Dude must have been in a hurry."



"I don't doubt he was."



The stairs lead to a musty attic, with boxes pushed neatly against the angled walls. The air was frigid, almost arctic, whistling through a crawlspace opening in the roof halfway down the length of the house. A carpenter's ladder was set beneath it, standing slightly askew of the opening. Victor approached, shining his flashlight upward before taking the first few steps.



"It's a fucking freezer in here," Faster commented, breath crystallizing the instant it left her lips.



"Insulation," Kyle said. "Supposed to keep this place relatively warm, but if that door's been open since last night, it's been sealing in the cold."



"All clear, doc," Victor informed as he stepped down. He grinned rakishly. "You ought to see what's up there."



Kyle nodded, letting Victor out of the way. Before ascending the ladder, however, he knelt beside it, noting the fresh scratch on the wooden floor that indicated it had been moved with some force. Aligning it directly, he stepped up and into the small covered gazebo.



Fred Hammerman had installed a small chair, apparently cannibalized from a bar stool, affixed to a metal base. An arm extending from just above the base of the pole connected to a stand, upon which was fastened an old-fashioned 35mm camera with an impressive, long-range zoom lens.



<i>Dirty old man</i>, Kyle thought, settling onto the chair. It barely creaked as he shifted his weight. Within reach of the chair, hanging from the inside of the gazebo's low walls, was a rectangular plastic bucket. A glass half-full of sloshy liquid proved to be beer when Kyle sniffed it. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter aroma of a stale domestic brew, and returned the cup, letting his fingers dig around. He found a thick plastic case beside the beer. Opening it, he found two containers of 35mm film. Those he slipped into his coat.



Looking through the camera lens, he found that Fred Hammerman took his hobby seriously. Decades before, when the camera would have been sold, it had been top of the line, complete with range finder. It did not take long for Kyle to find the small clearing, just outside his property, where the bodies of the teens had been found. Even with one hand, Kyle was able to zoom in fairly close to the scene.



Stepping down from the chair, Kyle took a moment to check the trap door-like portal that normally covered the hole through which he had come. Confirming a hunch, he found spots of frozen blood on the metal lock.



"Find anything, doc?" Victor asked as Kyle returned to the attic.



But Kyle was occupied with his thoughts. He addressed Faster without looking to her. "You said there was a darkroom downstairs."



"Yeah."



"Let's go."



*****



The room was well-kept and organized, further affirmation of Fred Hammerman's obviously all-consuming pastime. The air was caustic with the aromas of developing chemicals, stinging their senses and leaving a sour, bitter taste in their mouths. A cursory inspection was all that was needed to reveal what Kyle already suspected.



"Nothing, doc," Faster reported. "No film, not even any negatives hanging."



"And no prints, either," Victor said, snapping closed one of several large photo albums. "But it looks like the old fart had a lot of them."



"What do you think they were after?"



"Covering their tracks," Kyle said.



"I take you don't mean the flayling."



Kyle allowed himself a self-congratulatory smirk. "No." 



*****



"Two rooms," Victor announced as he stepped from the motel's office. "Figure me and the doc would take one."



"What, no group sex tonight?" quipped Faster sarcastically, taking the key Victor held out for her.



The stocky man grinned lasciviously. "I could always take that key back."



Faster rolled her eyes. "Dream on, cowboy." She looked about, spying a diner across the street. "Ah, perfect. Come on, time to eat!"



With a low chuckle from Victor and a shrug of Kyle's shoulders, the two men followed Faster across the street, beckoned by the glowing neon signs in the window which advertised "cold beer" and "fresh specials daily." The patronage of the Double J Diner was mainly blue collar, indicative of the town of Shelby itself. A few looks were cast their way, but few paid the trio any more heed than they would any strangers.



A middle-aged woman who was probably as old as the diner itself escorted the three Veil agents to a booth toward the rear, heeding Kyle's request for a little privacy. As soon as they sat, Kyle fished out his phone and dialed. He spoke in a low tone as Victor and Faster stripped off their coats and busied themselves with the menus before them.



"Okay, that's done," Kyle said, wriggling out of his coat as he sat in the booth. He continued, conscious of the curious looks the others gave him. "I made an anonymous call to the sheriff's office, told them Fred Hammerman hasn't been answering any calls. No reason to give Stonesbury anything to question us about."



Victor smiled cattily. "Sneaky. I like it."



"Well, we don't exactly want to advertise ourselves, do we?"



"Nope. Not at all," Faster confirmed, never taking her eyes from the menu. "Oh, nice. Twelve-ounce ribeye with butternut squash mashed potatoes."



"They got a bigger steak than that?" Victor asked hungrily.



The same woman who sat them at their table returned with three glasses of water and a loaf of peasant bread with a knife and butter. She curtly introduced herself as Dolores, and, while not the most endearing waitress Kyle had ever had serve him, her air of efficacy was unmistakable. After taking their order, she departed with quick steps and promise to return with their drinks.



"Okay," Kyle prompted, tapping his fingers on the Formica tabletop. "I want to hear your ideas."



Faster paused, mouth full of bread. Victor frowned. "You're the brains, doc."



"I still want to know your thoughts."



Victor's frown remained for a moment, then he shrugged. "Okay. The only thing I'm sure of is those kids were singled out. The farmer probably saw what happened, so the flayling killed him, too. Or was sent to, if you wanna go on the assumption it was trained."



Kyle nodded, then addressed Faster. "What about you?"



She finally swallowed her mouthful. "I'm with Vic. But I'm thinking maybe that farmer had something to do with it, and that's why he was killed."



Kyle considered her idea silently. The waitress returned with iced teas for the three of them, setting them down quickly along with spoons and straws and a small bowl of lemons. "Dolores?" he asked of the aged woman.



"What you need, hon?" she asked sweetly.



"Are there any animal trainers in Shelby?"



"What, like dog trainers?"



"Sure. Or anything else."



The woman's brow furrowed, but only for a moment. "Well, there's the Pet Palace, out off Breezeway Park. Some of Linda's dogs have gone on to state championships. That what you're looking for?"



Kyle smiled. "Just might be."



She smiled back and patted his shoulder, just above the stump. Although she noticed the missing arm, she had enough professionalism not to comment. "Glad I could help, hon."



Once the woman was gone, leaving Kyle to muse quietly, Faster kicked him lightly under the table. "So what are <i>you </i>thinking?"



"Definitions and meanings," he said.



Victor and Faster both stared at him, waiting.



Kyle smiled like a college professor before a pair of students. "Either of you know what 'irascible' means?"



"You mean, erasable?" Victor asked.



"No. <i>Irascible</i>."



He shrugged. "Drawing a blank, doc."



"Me, too," admitted Faster, cutting off another chunk of bread.



"I'm willing to bet not many people do," he said. "It means having the quality of a hot temper. It can also be used to indicate a level of sarcastic anger, as in, 'irascible sympathies.'"



"You read that somewhere?" Faster asked.



"Actually, I did," confirmed the doctor. "On a condolence bouquet at Chrissy Baines' house. Along with some Carolina roses and absinthe."



"Absinthe?" Victor asked. "Isn't that the shit those rave junkies drink?"



"Yeah, but I'm talking about the plant itself. It's a pretty unremarkable bush, with green leaves and yellow berries."



"So, someone's got weird taste in plants," Faster offered.



"Or diabolical taste," Kyle continued. "Certain flowers and plants are like gemstones. Giving them means specific things, if you know what to look for. Now, most of the time, people give flowers without caring what they are. They pick them because they look nice. But absinthe . . . okay, I can see that a plain-looking green in a flower bouquet brings out the color of the other flowers, but that's what baby's breath is for."



"Okay, so what does absinthe mean?"



Kyle met their eyes. "It refers to the torment of love. It can also indicate a desire to separate."



Victor and Faster mulled over what Kyle told them, awaiting more.



"There were also Carolina roses," Kyle went on. "Now, they look pretty nice, and not too many people would object to seeing them in a bouquet. But they mean, 'love is dangerous.'"



Faster chewed slowly, thoughtfully. "Think I get what you're saying. Someone basically sent a nasty message."



"A very nasty message," Kyle confirmed. "Something like, 'this is what you get for being with the wrong guy.'"



Victor perked up. "So, you're thinking one of Mr. Stud's former flames? Kind of a stretch, don't you think? Most teenaged girls wouldn't go so far as to train a freaking flayling to kill him."



"Unless she was already training it," Kyle said. "But right now, I don't want to think that far ahead. At least, we have someone who's really glad Chrissy Baines is dead."



"Okay, so what about the farmer?" Faster prodded.



"I've been wondering about that, too," Kyle said, reaching into the pocket of his jacket. He took out the two canisters of 35mm film. "Found these in Hammerman's gazebo."



Faster touched the cases. "They weren't frozen?"



"No," Kyle affirmed with a shake of his head. "He had them in an insulated case. I get the impression Hammerman spent a lot of time taking pictures in that gazebo."



"Of what?"



Victor suddenly grinned, remembering part of the conversation with Biederman. "That old fucker was watching Billy making out with his girls!"



Kyle nodded with a smile. "That's what I'm thinking, too," he said. "And it's probably why we didn't find any other pictures in Hammerman's dark room."



Faster snapped her fingers. "'Cause the chick didn't want everyone to know she made it with Billy!"



"Seems that way. But there has to be a deeper reason."



Faster shrugged. "Why? Hell, when I was going to high school, having your boyfriend stolen was reasonable grounds for an all-out smear campaign and catfight. Maybe our chick wanted a little more permanent type of revenge."



"Could be," Kyle agreed begrudgingly.



"I don't know, but it sounds plausible, doc," Victor said. "Put a trained flayling in the hands of a pissed-off teenager--"



"Shit," muttered Faster. "I'd call that Armageddon."



Kyle scratched his chin. "Chrissy Baines <i>was </i>Miss Popularity. Prettiest girl, smartest girl . . . there's a lot for other girls to be envious of."



"Still, that ain't much to go on," Victor said.



"No, it's not," Kyle agreed, leaning back as Dolores appeared with their plates. "There's still a lot to do. For now--"



"For now," interrupted Faster, already prepared with knife and fork in hand as her medium-rare steak was set before her. "Eat!"



*****



A motel's bathroom was not the best place to turn into a dark room, but Kyle only needed to use it once. A black nylon drape, coupled with sheets from one of the beds, served to block out the light while he used cheap tin trays to mix the chemicals purchased from a thankfully-open Walgreens. Working with goggles over his eyes and a mask over his mouth and nose &#x2013; both courtesy of Victor's field kit &#x2013; Kyle developed several of the pictures from the rolls of film. His eyes darkened the more he saw.



Victor and Faster were lounging in her room, watching TV and sipping beer when Kyle finally returned with a thin stack of pictures. He tossed them upon one of the beds with a sour expression on his face, keeping one in his hand. "I don't know if I should be thankful Hammerman stuck around to take those pictures, or pissed that he didn't try to help them sooner."



Faster was first to reach the scattered glossies, grinning cattily as she took up one of them. It showed a well-built young man leaning back in the driver's seat while a brunette head was poised over his lap. Another picture managed to capture Chrissy Baines' face in profile as she licked along the shaft of Billy Biederman's erect penis. "Sure looks like she enjoyed what she was doing."



Victor shuffled through the rest of them, a look of anger and distaste clouding his features. "She don't look so happy here," he growled.



Faster's face darkened as well upon seeing the photograph. It showed Chrissy, halfway out the driver-side window, a black tentacle wrapped around her neck and a look of absolute horror upon her pretty face. The other end of the tentacle belonged to what could have been a large cat or wolf, or perhaps even a bear. The details of the creature were heavily blurred, unlike the rest of the photograph.



"Is it the Veil that makes them blurred?" Kyle asked.



Victor shook his head. "No. The Veil doesn't affect technology, just people's perceptions. Even if I took a closeup pic of a goblin, most people would only see an ugly little man."



"So why is it blurred?"



"Did you check the email from Dex yet?" Victor asked. "He'll probably explain it better, but remember, these things are also called displacer beasts. When they want to, they can make themselves look blurry. Makes them hard as hell to hit."



"No, I haven't checked," Kyle admitted. "But I'm sure going to read it now. Especially after this." He held up the single glossy in his hand.



The other two stared at the photograph, lips parted in mixtures of surprise, apprehension, and worry.



"Yep," Kyle said to their silent question. "Two of them."



*****



Kyle was glad he had brought the bottle with him. He did not consider himself much of a drinker, but he knew there were times when a little alcohol could do wonders for his often tumultuous mind. Times like the present.

<hr pg="5" />Victor emerged from the bathroom &#x2013; despite Kyle's cleaning efforts, the smell of the chemicals lingered &#x2013; clad in loose shorts which showed off his impressively muscular physique. Were it not for the fact that Kyle knew he could never possess such an abundance of muscle, he might have been envious.



"You okay, doc?"



Kyle nodded, tapping his hand on the small table. The glow of his laptop screen made his arm look pale. "Just doing some reading."



Victor nodded, taking up the black nylon duffel Faster had brought in for him. "I take it you read Dex' email."



Another nod. Kyle sipped his scotch. "We have any backup we could call?"



Victor chuckled darkly. "Only in extreme emergency situations, doc," he said, setting the black bag upon the bed and unzipping it. "But I think I got us covered."



Kyle watched in interest as a small arsenal was spread out across the bed. A pair of shotguns, numerous pistols, knives, ammunition, and a long, broad, flat black case. "You always carry that stuff around?"



"Yup," Victor confirmed. "Never know what you're gonna run into."



"All right, I feel a little more prepared. Still, we're going up against two flaylings, when your buddy Dex and his entire team of four almost got wiped out by <i>one</i>. I'm starting to wish I had told Malcolm to fuck off."



Victor's laugh was genuine as he began stripping down the intimidating military shotgun. He sat on the edge of the bed, facing Kyle. "I figure I think that at least twice a month," he revealed. "I've been up against some nasty shit since I joined the Veil, but I'm still here."



"Tell me you're at least a little scared."



"Shit. Of course I am. Only a fuckin' psycho doesn't feel fear."



Kyle breathed out. "We need to be really careful."



Victor leveled his gaze upon the doctor meaningfully. "Don't worry about me."



Kyle sipped his drink again. "What about Faster?"



"She's almost as green as you, but she won't rabbit, doc. You can trust me on that. Ain't never met a tougher bitch than that one."



"What's her story, anyway?"



"Honestly, doc, it'd be better if you ask her."



Kyle nodded silently, tapping the rim of his glass while Victor continued cleaning his weapons. Abruptly, the anthropologist stood, grabbing his coat. "I think I will."



"Doc?"



Kyle paused at the door. "I need to talk to her anyway. Don't worry; I can be nice."



Victor smiled rakishly. "You better. She'll kick your ass."



*****



The fantasy had taken hold, merging with the movements of her fingertips across the swelling bud of her clitoris and the stiff, darkened nipples upon tiny breasts. Dawn Faster lay atop the sheets of her bed, wet hair splayed about her and sticking to the still-damp skin of her neck and shoulders. The ripe aroma of arousal swirled with the clean, fresh essence of soap in the air.



In her mind, her lover was languidly passing his tongue across the tingling flesh of her inner thigh, licking slowly up toward the smooth lips of her shaved sex. Not a single hair existed between Dawn's thighs to obscure the sizable pink button she rubbed rhythmically, while waiting for her fantasy lover to engulf it with his imaginary mouth. She pulled on her nipples with her other hand, pinching them sharply and tugging them away from her body. Each time her fingers released one of the stiff, rubbery protrusions, she emitted a gasp of pleasure.



<i>That's it, baby, eat me, eat me . . . </i>she sighed heatedly, pressing one of her fingers against the tight, slick entrance of her pussy. <i>Put your tongue inside me . . . .</i>



Her ministrations sped up, the finger slipping in and out with sticky, wet sounds. She imagined the weight of her lover atop her, his face pressed to her needy sex, arms wrapped around her tense upper thighs. As his tongue thrashed her swollen clit and a finger pumped in and out of her vagina rapidly, Dawn opened her mouth to accept his stiff, engorged cock. She could almost feel her throat opening around the head, the heavy feel of his firmness against her tongue, the silky brush of his balls against her nose.



She pumped faster and faster, two fingers delving now to the limit of their length, frantically pushing her hips against the skilled mouth of her lover. She was close to orgasm, so close, wanting to taste the gritty seed of her lover gushing into her mouth at the same time she gushed into his--



<i>Knock, knock</i>. "Faster?"



She groaned in annoyance, but didn't stop. <i>Just ignore it . . . I'm gonna come, I'm gonna come . . . come with me, baby . . . feed it to me--</i>



"Faster?"



"Fuck!" she exhaled in frustration, jerking her hands away and slapping them to the bed. She glared up at the ceiling, as if looking through wood, plaster and steel and up at the face of a laughing God. "Of course he couldn't have waited another thirty fucking sec--"



"Is this a bad time?" called Kyle's voice from the other side of the door.



"No, I'll be right out!" Faster shouted, jumping up from the bed. Disregarding the smell of pussy that floated like a haze in her room, she threw on her robe, tightening the belt as she opened the door. "What."



Kyle looked sheepish, taking in her appearance in a heartbeat, detecting the trace aroma which wafted out. "Seriously, if I'm disturbing anything, it's not important. I mean, what I have to say isn't important."



Faster couldn't help but smile at the older man's sudden adolescent awkwardness. Her annoyance and frustration faded quickly. "It's okay," she said. "Nothing I can't finish later."



Kyle blushed. It did not take years of studying people to have deduced what Faster had been doing, what he had interrupted. "Uh, right. I just, um, wanted to talk. Make sure we were okay."



Her brow furrowed slightly. "Yeah, sure. Why wouldn't we?"



He shrugged uncomfortably. "After that little argument we had this afternoon--"



"Pfft! Don't worry about it. I'm a hothead. Shit happens."



Kyle gathered his thoughts briefly. "I'm trying to apologize."



Her features softened. "Come on," she said, stepping aside and letting the door open. She sat on the edge of her bed, careless about her robe slipping off one svelte, lean leg. She could still feel the twitching within her needy sex, which seemed somewhat amplified with Kyle in the room.



Kyle closed the door and slipped off his jacket, letting it drop to the chair by the window. He paced as he talked. "You're right, I can be ruthless," he admitted. "It's not something I really thought about before, to be honest. When I was a professor, people called me arrogant and egotistical, but I guess those were just manifestations of ruthlessness. And I suppose, considering all that's happened lately, I fall back on that as a defense mechanism."



Faster watched him as he moved, noting the tension, the wiriness of his body. "Okay," she said simply.



Kyle stopped and faced her. "Just . . . 'okay?'" he asked dubiously. "You don't want to unload on me?"



She shrugged. "Why would I? Look, I've got my own issues. What I said today, the way I stomped out of there like a hurt little kid, that was wrong and I know it. Hell, I should be apologizing to you."



Kyle blinked. "That's true. You should."



She laughed under her breath. "I'm sorry, Kyle."



He nodded sharply, a single nod of his head. "Okay." His gaze drifted along Faster's taut, muscular leg, and he felt a flash of warmth in his groin. He turned to the door, taking up his coat. "Uh, nine a.m."



Her voice was a soft, playful whisper behind him. "Are you gonna call me," she said. "Or nudge me?"



He turned back slowly, fighting against his own arousal and his duty &#x2013; as he perceived it &#x2013; as the team's leader. "Are you always this flirtatious?"



She shrugged, which made the robe slip open even more, revealing a teasing ribbon of naked flesh from her neck to her navel. While she did not offer much in the way of cleavage, Kyle was still intrigued by the slight swell of womanly flesh high upon her chest.



"Maybe it's a defense mechanism."



He smirked and cleared his throat. "Nine a.m.," he repeated, then opened the door and stepped out.



Faster fell back on the bed with a girlish giggle, biting her lip at the idea of coupling with Kyle, a man whom she found strangely sexy. Automatically, she drew the robe off her body and parted her thighs wide, slipping her hands down across sensitive flesh to a swollen, waiting wet sex. Her fantasy resumed, but this time, she imagined Dr. Kyle Perrin as the man thrusting into her mouth while she pleasured herself.



*****



Kyle paused outside the door of his and Victor's room, taking deep breaths to quell the arousal which stabbed through him. He had not enjoyed a lover since Gina, and that had been weeks before. Faster's teasing only reminded him of both his loneliness as well as his growing sexual frustration.



<i>Was she just teasing? Hard to tell with a woman like that . . . .</i>



He lingered on the walkway, taking a cigarette from his case and lighting up. The nicotine was soothing as it coursed through his veins, helping to ward against the chill. Conscious of the fact that Faster lay a mere thirty feet away, behind a single closed door and by now probably once more nude and masturbating, Kyle tried to divert his attention. He looked down at the cars in the parking lot of the motel below, watching a family on vacation unloading their suitcases and bags. A little boy, eight or nine years of age, was pointing a water gun at imaginary enemies.



Kyle smiled nostalgically, remembering when life was as simple as a game of good guys vs. bad guys. When life was black and white, and there was always Dad to protect him and Mom to hold him when the nightmares came. When the only concerns in the world consisted of avoiding the bullies who wanted his lunch money and the girls who wanted to kiss him.



<i>Now, the only things I have to worry about are monsters and seductresses. </i>He snorted under his breath. <i>Guess things haven't changed much. They've just magnified.</i>



Dropping the butt of his cigarette to the walkway, he ground it out and turned, inserting his key card into the lock of the room and pushing it open. The moment he did, however, he recoiled under the flash of a broad, golden blade.



"Whoa!"



Victor stopped his kata in mid-swing, giving Kyle an apologetic look. "Sorry, doc."



Kyle's eyes fell to the large, impressive weapon the former soldier held in his hand. Attached to a haft a good two and a half feet long was a deadly, crescent-shaped blade, balanced on the other side by a weighted spike. The battle axe seemed to glow faintly with a golden radiance. The inside edge of the blade on both sides was etched in dark ideographs. "What the hell is that?"



Victor grinned. "This is Molly," he said proudly, hefting the weapon. "Get it? Molly Hatchet?"



"Yeah, I get it," Kyle groaned, closing the door. "It's just, uh, I wasn't expecting it."



"That's the idea. You'd be surprised how often this little baby comes in handy."



Kyle regarded the axe warily. "I wouldn't exactly call that 'little.'"



Victor spun the axe lengthwise in the palm of his hand, then went through a practiced series of fluid movements, slicing the air audibly. His muscles rippled with the exertion of wielding the weapon, yet his features registered almost no effort. He was clearly at ease with the axe. "No, little she ain't," Victor said at last. He kissed the flat edge of the blade, then faced Kyle. "How's Faster?"



Kyle suppressed a smile. "Fine," he said, returning the cap to his bottle of scotch. He rummaged through his bag, coming out with a book.



Victor grinned rakishly. "Yeah, she is fine, no doubt about that."



Kyle narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "You two have a history?"



The stocky man seemed to think for a moment. "No, not the way you mean."



"Wishful thinking, then?"



The man's broad shoulders fell. "Something like that. Look, doc, I don't believe in standing in anybody's way. She's been checking you out, that much is obvious. So, if anything happens . . . well, Mal ain't gonna hear about it from me."



"So there is a policy about team members getting involved?"



Victor both nodded and shrugged. "It's one of those unofficial rules. People get involved, they might make more mistakes."



"Good point. And if I'm more or less in charge of this team . . . ."



Victor winked. "Bingo."



The doctor sighed, laying back on his bed and opening the text to the last bookmark. "Any chance I could put you in charge for a day?"



His response was a deep, amused chuckle before Victor resumed his practice.



*****



The following morning saw Kyle stepping from the Monte Carlo in front of the Pet Palace. Victor remained behind the wheel, watching through the windshield. The building was a basic white ranch house that had been converted to its current mode of service at some point in its decades of existence. The muted sounds of barking dogs were carried by the breeze around from the rear of the house, indicating some sort of enclosure. The front porch was dominated by a pair of standing tent signs, one of which advertised pet grooming, the other obedience training, at apparently reasonable rates. Kyle assumed, upon looking to the curtained windows of the second floor, that the owners lived upstairs.



An attractive, middle-aged woman with short blonde hair and a face indicative of daily exercise was just turning from the glass-fronted double doors as Kyle set foot upon the lower step. She smiled in a professional way, a smile she doled out time and again to satisfied and dissatisfied customers alike. "Sorry, sir, but we're closing down for a while. The funeral, you know."



Kyle returned the smile with one of his own. The woman watched her own reflection in his sunglasses as he spoke. "Well, I wasn't sure," he said. "I figured I might as well check."



The woman stepped down almost to Kyle's level, remaining a good inch or two taller. She had managed to retain the bulk of her youthful beauty, Kyle realized. Always a good judge of age, Kyle assessed her at about forty-three or so. "I'm pretty good friends with one of the families," she said, the smile fading. "Tragic what happened. Did you hear about it?"



"Ever since I arrived," Kyle said. "Couple of kids got mauled by some wild animal, right?"



She shook her head with a rueful clucking sound. "You know, we tell them to be careful around here, especially when the weather turns cold and some of those big cats get hungry. And every once in a while it seems, something like this happens."



"Well, let's hope it doesn't happen again, Miss . . .?" Kyle prompted, extending his hand.



"Cross," she responded, gripping Kyle's hand firmly. "Linda Cross." She crossed her arms and leaned back. "Did you just move to town?"



"More like passing through," Kyle said misleadingly. "My friend and I are hunters."



"Ah," she uttered, as if making a connection. "Let me guess: you have a hunting dog that's not used to the area?"



Kyle laughed softly. "I guess you've heard that a lot."



"Maybe once or twice," she confirmed with a laugh. "Well, I'm booked through the rest of the day, but why don't you bring your dog by tomorrow? I've acclimated quite a few hounds and pointers to this area. There isn't much I can't teach."



"Too bad you can't teach some of those big cats, huh?"



Linda Cross managed a laugh despite the hard shadow that crossed her face. "If they could pay for lessons, I would." She glanced back over her shoulder as the front doors opened and closed again. The young woman who emerged could have been Linda herself a quarter of a century before. Aside from the lack of wrinkles and longer hair, the teenager who descended the steps was an almost perfect facsimile of the woman Kyle had been speaking with.



"I assume this is your daughter," Kyle said cheerfully.



The girl regarded him with distaste. "Duh." She rolled her eyes. "Mom--"



Linda gave her daughter a stern look. "What have I told you about being rude, Julie?"



The girl huffed, then forced a sarcastic smile and held out a demure hand. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir," she lilted.



Kyle gave her a brief shake, then slipped off his glasses. "I guess you must have been friends with that boy and girl who died," he said somberly. "My sympathies."



She stared back, eyes dark and hard. "Whatever," she snapped, then marched swiftly around him toward the only other car in the lot, a late model SUV.



"I'm sorry about that," Linda apologized. "She might put on a tough girl act, but she was pretty good friends with those kids. Especially Billy. They were high school sweethearts for a while. This whole thing has hurt her a lot more than she lets on."



Kyle nodded. "She's at that age," he observed.



"That she is," Linda agreed. "She's very stubborn and headstrong, but I was like that, too. Once," she added with a wink.



"Weren't we all?"



"Very true. I just hope she grows up soon. Sometimes, her aggressiveness bleeds off on the animals. They're very excited around her."



Kyle regarded the waiting young woman as he spoke. "Yes, I can imagine that her attitude might affect the dogs . . . or whatever else she trains. She does train, doesn't she?"



"Practically a prodigy," Linda beamed proudly. "Well, we had better get going, Mr. . ." she trailed off with a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't even know your name."



"Kyle Perrin," he said.



She stepped past with a flirtatious once-over. "Maybe I'll see you later, Mr. Perrin."



He watched her head to the car, calling out to berate her peevish daughter. The girl looked annoyed, shaking her head at her bother, but nevertheless opened the passenger door of the SUV to step in. For a heartbeat, however, she looked directly to Kyle, narrowing her eyes in an expression that could easily have been either teen angst, or pure malice.



<i>Hmm . . . .</i>



*****



The service was somber, with the local priest reading aloud from the books of Daniel, Job, and Ecclesiastes while the mourners sniffled and sat in uncomfortable silence. Kyle remained off to one side of the small country church, observing, in particular, Julie Cross. The mention of Billy Biederman had her looking up, as if reflecting, while Chrissy Baines' name made her cast her eyes downward. The priest's regurgitation of Daniel reading the writing upon the wall had the girl setting her jaw and staring hard at the caskets before her. Kyle was not sure if her expression revealed guilt, sadness, or anger. Perhaps a litany of all three.



Standing upon the wooden steps of the whitewashed building, he watched the procession of cars following in the wake of the two black hearses. The number of vehicles slowly ambling along made Kyle think the entire town had turned out to see a pair of young souls on their way to Heaven.



"Sad thing," came the shariff's voice from behind.



Kyle did not register the brief moment's surprise at hearing Stonesbury's words. "Always is."



The rotund man stepped into view along Kyle's right side. "Did a little checking on you," he said in a gruff voice. "Found out you write books about Atlantis and dead religions and that kind of shit. So why the hell are you interested in a wild animal killing in a small town?"



Kyle's lip curled sardonically. "If you bothered to actually read some of my work, you wouldn't be so surprised to see me here."



Stonesbury sucked a tooth. "Maybe. But it kind of makes me wonder what's really going on. Like maybe there's something else."



Kyle shrugged. "You said it yourself, sheriff. The more you ask, the less you'll know."



The portly man grunted, small eyes staring out at the funeral procession. "What's this town going to be like once you're done?"



"Same as it always was. A small town full of individuals who wonder, think, and make their own conclusions."



Stonesbury sighed heavily. "Some of them already are. I've been hearing rumors of witchcraft, if you can believe that."

<hr pg="6" />Kyle nodded. "Not too surprising. Wiccan is often misunderstood. Then again, sometimes it's not."



The sheriff frowned, perturbed. "You saying that there really is some witchcraft going on?"



The anthropologist at last looked directly upon the police chief. His expression was one of patronizing amusement. "No. I'm only saying that people's perceptions and assumptions fall back upon the things they've already denounced when it comes to the unknown. In other words, when an animal attacks and kills two people inside a car, an act that is obviously against any animal's nature, they look for an explanation that is equally as unlikely as the act itself."



Stonesbury shook his head. "You sure you ain't a shrink?"



Kyle laughed. "I've wondered that myself at times."



The portly man stepped around before Kyle, scratching the back of his head. "I'm not going to beat around the bush, Dr. Perrin," he said. "I don't like what's going on around here, but there's not a whole lot I can do about it, I know."



"But."



The chief smiled mirthlessly. "But . . . I want this over and done with. The sooner the better."



Again, Kyle nodded. "We both want the same thing."



Stonesbury did not look convinced, but he accepted Kyle's words for the moment. He started to step away, then paused and looked back. "By the way . . . that anonymous tip last night? Thanks. Fred Hammerman was a friend."



*****



Faster stood beneath a snow-laden elm not far from the gathering of mourners clustered about Billy Biederman's grave. The slender brunette was cracking pistachios, popping the nuts in her mouth and dropping the shells into a paper bag. She did not have to address Kyle to acknowledge his presence.



"Everyone's avoiding her like the plague," she reported as her team leader approached from behind. "I don't think any of the other kids even said 'hi' to her."



"Kids can be cruel," Kyle sighed. He sniffled against the cold air invading his lungs. "What about the families?"



"The Baines weren't too bad. The aunt &#x2013; what's her name?"



"Amanda"



"Right. She actually went to hug the little Cross brat, but Julie backed off. Mom whacked her on the head."



Kyle pursed his lips in thought, watching the proceedings. The priest was reading from the bible, but between the swirling snow and the distance of more than twenty yards, his words were garbled. Not that Kyle needed to hear them; "yea, though I walk through the shadow of the Valley of Death . . . ."



He noticed how Linda and Julie Cross seemed to occupy a little bubble of their own, not far from the casket of the dead boy, holding each other with drawn, forlorn faces. Linda appeared to double as both sentry and parent for her daughter, giving others warning looks if they strayed too close. No one, it seemed, was happy about Julie Cross' attendance. Billy Biederman's former team mates regarded the young blonde with both cold and regretful eyes, while the girls, and indeed some of the parents, looked to be barely containing venomous outbursts.



<i>What do they know? </i>Kyle wondered. <i>Is it just typical small-town superstition, stemming from the need to blame somebody for a tragedy they can't understand? Or do they know a truth I only suspect?</i>



His eyes scanned the black-clad mourners ignoring the cold in their grief. Walther Biederman stood with his plastic-faced wife, whose frozen smile looked at home upon a porcelain face. The father of the dead boy looked pained, as if he felt some sort of personal responsibility for the death of his only son.



Then he found Kathleen, standing stoically alone, small black hat atop her head supporting a half-face veil through which she watched the world. Her face was blank, but not sullen. She had the look of a child wiser than her years who witnessed an outcome she had already predicted, yet did not understand. Briefly, Kyle wondered just what she <i>could </i>see . . . beside, at the moment, him.



With a self-assured smirk, the waifish girl ascended the slope toward Kyle, her young eyes darting back and forth between Kyle and Faster. Kyle grimaced; beside him, Faster chuckled.



"Should I leave you two alone?"



Kyle frowned upon his team mate. "Please. She's half my age."



Faster stepped back, retreating from the tree. "If that. Watch yourself."



"I would hope you'd have more faith in my self-control than that."



She winked and said, just before turning away, "Why do you think I'm leaving?"



Kyle mumbled under his breath, then returned his attention to the girl who now appeared before him, mere paces away.



"Nice day for a funeral," she said in an uncharacteristically lively tone.



"Doesn't it bother you that your brother is being buried?"



Her features flinched. "That's like asking if I'm even fucking human. Get real, Dr. Perrin. You know not everybody shows grief the same way."



"True," he acquiesced. "So how exactly are you showing it?"



Kathleen did not even blink. "By waiting."



He arched an eyebrow. "For?"



She stared back. "Justice."



Silently, Kyle studied the girl, waiting for clarification. But something caught his eye over the girl's shoulder. Linda Cross, moving slowly to embrace Walther Biederman and holding him close. The man stiffened, reluctantly raising his hands, and then to gently push her back. Kyle watched their faces in profile, registering what appeared to be sympathy and vicarious pain in Linda, and a quiet, dull acceptance in Walther. He stared into her eyes for a moment, then stepped back and went to his wife.



Linda Cross smiled, and nodded. She returned to her daughter.



"Justice," Kyle bespoke at last, his gaze falling back upon Kathleen. "Careful what you ask for."



"Why? 'Cause I might get it?" the girl asked.



"No," responded Kyle, eyes hard. "Because of who might get hurt to get it."



She looked like she might respond for a moment, lips parting slightly. But then she forced a thin smile and lowered her gaze. She reached into her pocket and came out with a torn slip of paper. "Well, whatever," she said, then offered what she held. "I thought you might wanna check this out."



Suspiciously, Kyle took the piece of paper, unfolding it. Written in very meticulous script was a MySpace address. He glanced up in interest, but Kathleen Biederman was already walking away, rejoining her bereaved family.



*****



Smoke trailed from the cigarette in his only hand as Kyle approached the Monte Carlo. Victor and Faster stood waiting, watching their leader-elect approach. No other cars were parked along this particular stretch of road winding through the cemetery. The illusion of exclusion from the world persisted as Kyle stopped a few feet short.



"What's up, doc?" asked Victor with a self-amused grin. He glanced quickly to Faster. "Always wanted to say that."



Faster frowned in annoyance, reading the grave expression on Kyle's face. "Stow it, Vic. This is 'go' time."



The stocky man straightened in readiness. "Yeah?"



"Yeah," answered Kyle before Faster could speak. He settled his gaze upon Victor. "What'd you find out?"



Victor shrugged. "Checked out that Pet Palace place, doc," he said. "Noting special. Bunch of dogs in kennels, your typical training ground out back. If there's any flayling training going on, it ain't happening there. And, like you thought, there's a greenhouse in the back. Couldn't see much inside except a lot of roses and shit I couldn't even begin to describe."



"So, are we thinking this chick's our mark?" Faster asked.



Kyle smoked his cigarette in contemplation. "Best lead we have. But we still don't know where she might be keeping the flaylings."



"I could do some scouting," Victor offered.



Kyle shook his head. "Too much area for one person to cover, no matter how good you are," he said. "No, I'd prefer you head back to the Pet Palace."



Victor nodded. "No problem. What are you two doing?"



Kyle looked to Faster and winked. "Research."



*****



Kyle was focused upon the screen before him with all the drive and obsessiveness of a mad scientist, which, according to many of his peers, would not have been an inaccurate way of describing him. The air in the motel room was thick from the heat pouring out of the vents, but Kyle did not seem to notice despite the beads of sweat on his forehead. His hand flew back and forth across the keyboard of his laptop as he searched various databases for the information he sought.



"You know, I've never seen anyone type with one hand as fast as you do, Bandit," Faster commented as she was in the middle of a stretching routine. She was clad in loose cotton shorts and an athletic top which showed off her lean musculature.



"I've had ten years to get good at it," Kyle muttered. He clicked the mousepad and sat back, staring at the screen with studious eyes. "Hmm."



"'Hmm' what?" she asked.



"I'm checking out Julie Cross' MySpace page. She describes herself as a 'Wiccan Deva.'"



Faster snorted. "Nice."



"Well, teen melodrama aside, she has some interesting things to say in her blog. Listen to this: 'Last night, my ex-boyfriend was killed. The Devil came to take him with fangs and tentacles. He and the Perfect Bitch now burn for all eternity.'" He blew air through his lips. "She makes a lot of references to Chrissy Baines as the Perfect Bitch. Apparently, Julie and Billy were an item all through high school. After graduation, according to her, he cheated on her, they broke up, and he's since been making a name for himself in the stud circuit."



"So he hooks up with the resident princess, and that's the straw that broke the camel's back," Faster uttered as she swiveled back and forth, stretching her obliques. "I can relate."



Kyle did not remark on Faster's comment, though he was sure he would remember it later. "What I find interesting is Julie's description of <i>'fangs and tentacles.' </i>The details of how Billy and Chrissy were killed have not been released."



Faster paused, licking sweat off her upper lip. "That sounds pretty incriminating."



"It does indeed," Kyle agreed. "There's something else. Don't take this wrong, Faster, but you need to brush up on your Googling skills."



"What?"



"Look at this: 'Rancher Claims Cows Attacked By Tigers From Hell.'"



Faster leaned over Kyle's shoulder, making the sweet aroma of sweat swirl around him. "'Martin Taylor reported that one of his cows was slaughtered early one evening before he brought them in from pasture. Taylor, fifty-three, claims he saw two large black tigers with what he describes as 'extra tails' hanging off their backs running away with chunks of meat after he shot at them with his shotgun. He claims to have fired at them several times, but they looked so blurry to him he couldn't get a clear shot. 'It was like they were always in shadow,' the rancher reported. '[There wasn't] anything natural about them. If I had to guess where they came from I [could only say] Hell.'"



She stopped reading and scanned through the rest of the document. "This was three months ago," she observed.



"And less than fifty miles away," Kyle pointed out.



"What is this site?" Faster asked rhetorically, even as she touched the keypad and scrolled upward. "'Strange Times?'"



"It's a newsletter website I like to check every once in a while," Kyle said. "There's actually some very good reporting conducted by these guys. Unlike a lot of conspiracy theory-slash-weird shit sites, they don't just take anything. They like to research it first."



Faster's eyes were trained on the laptop screen, even as Kyle tried not to ogle the outline of her nipples through the fabric of her top. One was inches from the tip of his nose and very clearly defined. Briefly, Kyle imagined taking the thick nub between his teeth and tugging gently . . . .



"Bunch of fucking idiots leaving comments," Faster continued, scrolling beneath the end of the article. She mocked the voice of someone high on marijuana. "'Dude! Hellcats totally exist! Check out my blog! It'll blow you away!'"



Kyle managed a chuckle as he averted his attention from his team mate's breasts. "Yeah, there's a lot of that," he said. "Goes with the territory. But, the point is, it seems these things were seen at least a few months ago. They've been here a while."



Faster straightened and nodded, placing her hands on her hips. "Okay, so how did Julie the wonder-brat get a hold of them?"



Kyle shrugged. "Who knows? Her mother described her as something of a prodigy with animals. Whether from this world or the one beyond the veil, animals are animals. Empathy can still play a factor. I've read about people who could tame a wild lion with a look; some people just have that gift. Then again, maybe she just put out some kitty kibble and happened to catch them on a good day."



Faster worked her jaw, thinking. "Either way . . . damn, we've got two deadly-as-fuck flaylings under the control of a hormone-happy psychotic teenaged girl. Chick could cause some real damage down the line if she gets pissed off enough."



"Given what I saw at the funeral today, I'm guessing it won't take long. The old adage, 'power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely' certainly comes into play here. No one wants to accept anything other than the 'official' explanation that what killed those kids was a random attack by a natural wild animal. So, Julie Cross has a natural umbrella protecting her. As long as no one in Shelby is willing to investigate further, she can basically act with impunity to silence anyone she thinks might be a problem, and the reasons for doing so will become less and less serious. She killed Billy Biederman out of some misguided attempt to punish him for choosing another girl over her. It won't take much for her to decide to kill others just because they give her a 'wrong' look."



Faster blew a puff of air. "Like those kids at the funeral?" she asked, then shook her head. "Christ. She might as well be writing a hit list."



"Exactly. And what's worse--" Kyle agreed, then stopped abruptly, ears picking up a faint sound. His eyes panned slowly upward and across the ceiling.



Faster frowned, looking down upon the doctor. "What's worse?" she prompted.



A faint groaning sound issued from just beyond the ceiling, indicative of shifting weight moving across the upper surface. "Faster," he whispered.



Having heard the sound as well, Faster lifted her eyes, swallowing nervously. "Yeah," she responded, her voice just as soft and strained.



"Get your guns. Now." Even as he spoke the words, Kyle was rising, pushing the chair back and reaching for his coat.



But as the lithesome brunette dove across the bed, her actions bespeaking obvious urgency, the roof caved in amid a shower of pulverized stone, wood, and pressboard. Debris rained down around the nightmarish form of a large black beast which landed perfectly upon four oversized padded claws. Back arched and crimson eyes blaring, the monster roared menacingly, a pair of tentacular arms lashing out in an agitated manner. Severed wires swayed and sparked; blackness blanketed the room save for those few minuscule flashes of brilliance.



The beast lurched forward, fierce jaws gnashing. Leonine teeth clamped around the empty sleeve hanging from Kyle's right shoulder, tearing it free with an audible rip of cloth. The flayling shook its head, as a cat would do when trying to break the neck of a mouse or bird, then spat the empty length of fabric to the floor.



"Jesus!" Kyle stumbled back, his arm tangled up in the folds of his coat as he fumbled for the pocket in which lay his weapon. He fell across one of the beds in the room, then kicked up upon the mattress, scrambling to keep some distance between himself and the baleful monster which threatened him.



The beast crawled forward slowly, weight shifting back and forth with each step it took. Silvery claws curled outward from heavy forefeet as the beast set them upon the edge of the bed, inches from Kyle's feet. Evil vermilion eyes blazed like the desire of a hungry man; a long, thick tongue glided across menacing fangs. The rude odor of sulphur and rotting flesh escaped the gullet of the monster.



A pair of sleek black tentacles sluiced forth, ending in wide, ovular tips equipped with minute suckers and tiny sharp teeth. They hovered over Kyle in a threatening manner, like the the gleaming blade of guillotine. Kyle made the effort to control his breathing as well as his fear, as his fingertips fluttered along the butt of the revolver in his coat.



The beast snarled in preparation for a kill. The way its features twisted reminded the anthropologist of an all-too-human grin of supremacy.



<i>Click. Click.</i>



Human and animal eyes darted quickly to the source of the sound of twin hammers being pulled back upon a pair of weapons of war. Beyond that, Faster smiled maliciously.



"Here, kitty kitty."



The weapons bucked only slightly in her hands, the sound of one round being fired blending into the next, and the next, and the next . . . so quickly and fluidly did Faster pull the trigger that her pistols might as well have been machine guns.



Yet, even with that impressive rate of fire, the black monster shifted and twisted, the form of its body blurring quickly and flashing back and forth, giving the illusion that it lay a few feet one way or the other. Faster found herself trying to get a bead upon a reflection on glass; the majority of her bullets shattered chunks of wood and plaster in the wall and dresser behind the monster.



Save one, at least. The flayling recoiled, falling back hard against the wall, corded, lean body twisting and convulsing in response to the impact it suffered. The leonine head snapped around to emit a vitriolic hiss toward the woman, sending spittle flying from between menacing fangs. The writhing tentacles above the beast's back lashed out with uncanny speed, striking Faster upon both shoulders and sending her flying back, colliding with the wall behind. As Faster grunted and slumped to the floor, the flayling sneered with feral glee.



It turned back to Kyle, once more in preparation for a kill. Instead of a helpless man, however, the monster found itself staring at the narrow steel barrel of a revolver. Its snarl was halted immediately.



"I don't go easy," panted Kyle, and pulled the trigger.



The flayling reared back with a roar of pain and anguish, one of its eyes no longer a glowing crimson orb, but a mass of blackened flesh and gushing blood. A vicious howl exploded in the air, torn from the depths of the flayling's being. But it was as much a bellow of pain and defeat as it was one of menace.



Kyle followed through with a quick succession of bullets from his bucking weapon, the small revolver flashing with each round it sent toward the creature. But the flayling blurred itself once more, seeming to shift and waver back and forth so that Kyle was not sure where he should place his shots. Just as the last round left the chamber, the flayling leapt, crashing through the broad window of the motel room amid a shower of shattered glass and fluttering curtains. Its howling faded rapidly as it fled.



With shaking hands, Kyle flipped open the cylinder of his weapon and shook out the empty shells, then tucked the revolver between his legs as he fished out a speed-loader. A push, a twist, a flick and a snap, and the weapon was once more loaded. Kyle stood, apprehensively stepping toward the gaping window. Cheap cloth dragged across ragged teeth of glass, sucked out into the cold night.



"Kyle?"



He did not look back upon hearing Faster's pained voice. "You okay?"



He heard the interchange of magazines, the sound of metal slides falling back into place. "Just dandy," Faster said. "Where is it?"



Kyle chanced a look through the fluttering curtains, glancing left and right along the breezeway of the motel. "Gone," he said, and ducked back inside. Faster faced him, reservedly angry. Both her bare shoulders glowed red; there would be bruises by morning.

<hr pg="7" />"Victor," he said.



She nodded, tucking her weapons into the tight waistband of her shorts and reaching for her cell-phone on the dresser. "On it."



*****



Though the music was subdued, minimizing the aural impact of the strings and keyboard, Victor had heard Sarah Brightman's version of <i>Scarborough Fair </i>enough that he heard it more in his head than through the speakers of the Monte Carlo. He silently mouthed along with the words, partially envisioning his oft-fantasized duet with the famed and beautiful songstress. The beginnings of other, more personal and debauched, fantasies stirred in his libido, but he quelled them for the time being. He was on the case, after all.



Stakeouts were always tedious and boring, taxing senses that were required to remain alert despite the extreme mundanity of the job itself. The mind naturally either looked for other means of stimulation or gave in to lethargy; both of which were anathema to the task at hand. Victor had to remain alert for that one possible instant in which he might observe something of importance.



Not that such an instance seemed to be forthcoming. The whitewashed house that was both home and business for Linda Cross and her daughter Julie had been quiet all evening. Victor had caught glimpses of the teen girl as she sat at her computer near an upstairs bedroom window, then later once she returned from a shower. Victor's brief hope that he might catch a glimpse of nubile teen skin was dashed when she vanished into her closet and emerged in a long, bulky sweatshirt.



He wondered if any of the patrons to the unimaginatively-named Ed's Bar thought him a peeping tom, or perhaps an undercover narc as he sat in the darkened car. A few glances were sent his way as men and women came to and from the establishment. No one paid him second heed upon catching the glaring look he wore.



With such doldrums, Victor was glad when his cell phone buzzed against his hip. At least that was something <i>to do</i>. "Victor."



"Hey," came Faster's breathless voice. "You okay?"



The haggard sound of her voice put Victor on alert instantly. "Yeah. What's going on?"



"We got attacked. One of the flaylings crashed through the fucking roof of the room."



"Fuck!" spat Victor angrily. "How's the doc?"



"Well," she said. "If he wasn't missing an arm before, he would be now."



"Did you kill it?"



"No. It took off. But Bandit says he put a bullet in it's head. I got in a few shots myself."



Victor ground his teeth anxiously. "You want me to come back?"



"Lemme check." Faster's voice was muffled on the other end &#x2013; she was obviously covering the phone with her hand &#x2013; but returned quickly. "Hold on. Doc wants to talk to you."



"Victor."



"How you doing, doc?"



"We're alive and intact. That's good enough for now." Kyle's voice was strained and rough. He sounded like a man that was more aggravated than frightened. "Anything happen over there?"



"Not a fucking thing," Victor reported sourly. "The kid's home alone. Near as I can figure, she's been playing on the computer all night. Took a shower about half an hour ago."



"The mother isn't home?"



"Nah. She took off right after I got here. Dressed to the nines, too. Damn, that's a serious MILF, if you don't mind me saying."



Perturbation was obvious in Kyle's voice. "She was dressed for a date?"



Victor chuckled. "Either that, or the bridge ladies have gotten sexier since I was a kid."



Kyle was quiet for a few seconds before he spoke again. "Victor."



"Yeah, doc?"



"You think you can get Julie Cross out of the house for a while?"



Victor frowned. "How the hell am I supposed to do that?"



Kyle sighed through the phone. "I don't know. Maybe--"



"Wait a sec, doc." Victor watched the house across the street as the front door opened. Julie Cross, dressed in tight jeans and a jacket over her sweater, emerged, turning to lock the door behind her. "Looks like our girl's heading out."



"Really?"



"Yep," Victor confirmed as he watched the teenaged girl pad down the steps and make her way along the street. She stuffed her hands within the pockets of the jacket and hunched her shoulders against the cold. The only destination that lay within sight of her route was a convenience store about a quarter of a mile down the broad country road. "Looks like she's making a store run."



"Good," Kyle said. "I'll be there in five minutes."



"You serious?" Victor asked. "Doc? Doc?"



*****



The patrol car had its lights off when it rolled through the gravel parking lot of Ed's Bar. It slowed to a stop near the edge of the building, before where Victor's Monte Carlo sat. As the front passenger door on the police cruiser opened, Victor stepped out to meet Kyle's approach. The patrol car drove away as the two men met.



"I'm betting we don't have much time," Kyle commented, glancing down the road toward the distant glowing sign of the convenience store. "Is that where she went?"



Victor nodded. "Yeah. Don't know if she's meeting someone or what; soonest she'll be back is about fifteen minutes, I figure."



"Time enough, I hope," Kyle said and clasped Victor's shoulder. "Come on. And please tell me you can pick a lock."



Victor just grinned.



*****



The side door of the home and business creaked open with all the expected creakiness that would be expected of a Hitchcockian thriller. His hand gripping the butt of the revolver, Kyle followed Victor into what was obviously a small veterinary room. The aroma of animals floated in the air like an invisible ghost. A few muffled barks sounded through the walls from the enclosed back deck where the dogs were kept. Through an open doorway, soft light spilled down to the foot of a flight of stairs.



Victor approached the doorway, both hands braced around the receiver of his weapon. The battle axe he called 'Molly' briefly caught the gleam of illumination as it hung strapped to his right leg. He glanced this way and that, then looked back to Kyle with a short nod toward a cabinet on the far wall. Within lay a pair of shotguns and a hunting rifle, and spaces for at least two handguns &#x2013; which lay empty. Kyle's face darkened gravely.



Kyle indicated the stairs with a tilt of his chin, and Victor agreed silently, ascending with quick but surprisingly quiet steps. The wooden steps were aged and slightly warped, but barely creaked with the stocky man's weight. The moment Kyle set foot upon the bottom of the stairs, however, it groaned slightly. As he continued, he moved slowly, carefully placing his weight upon the steps while wondering how a man one and a half times his bulk could move so stealthily.



<i>I'll have to get him to tell me his secret, </i>Kyle thought, watching as Victor reached the second floor and stepped out of sight. By the time Kyle arrived at the landing, Victor was stepping from a room at the far end of the hall.



"All clear, doc. Nobody's home."



Kyle nodded. "You take left, I'll take right," he directed.



*****



The bedroom was cluttered with more than a single lifetime's worth of material hoarding; Kyle figured the Cross family had called this house home for a good two or three generations. The carpet was old and very worn, replaced in patches here and there; the musty aroma of age was just enough to overcome the scent of the animals below. Dressers that looked to be handmade sat against one wall, an armoire against another. No walk-in closets in this home, obviously. The bed was a vintage four-poster affair from the early years of the twentieth century. Kyle wondered wryly how it held up beneath a century's worth of carnal relations.



A quick search through the drawers yielded nothing, as did a brief perusal of the armoire. Kyle checked beneath the bed, pulling out plastic storage bins filled with all manner of old clothing, books, a few adult DVDs and some sex toys. Typical fare for a middle-aged divorcee, he figured. But none of it was what he was looking for.



Then he found the photo albums, set within a small chest at the foot of the bed. There were several, chronicling the Cross family back as far as the late nineteenth century. Tucked away to the side of the stack of books was a manila envelope, looking new. Kyle unwrapped the tassel keeping it closed and slipped out the large glossies as he sat on the edge of the bed.



His face hardened at what he saw. "Victor!"



The stoic soldier emerged in the doorway a few moments later, finding Kyle flipping through pictures. "Find something, doc?"



Kyle did not look up from his perusal of the photographs. Under any other circumstance, he may have found the pictures titillating, even arousing. A hard penis partially engulfed in an eager feminine mouth, as viewed through the windshield of a car. A pair of strong, lean thighs spread wide as a lucky man thrust between them. A blurry hand guiding the ejaculate of an erupting cock toward an outstretched tongue. A woman on all fours pushing back against her eager young lover.



Victor smiled lecherously. "Don't tell me: X-rated pics of that little blonde chick getting railed, right?"



"Nope." Kyle glanced up darkly, holding aloft a single photo. "Her <i>mother</i>."



Victor frowned, stepping into the room to take the picture. "No way."



"Not just with Billy, either," Kyle informed, displaying another glossy. "Linda Cross was doing the boy's father, too. Sort of brings new meaning to the phrase, 'like father, like son.'"



"No shit," muttered Victor, handing the picture back. "So I guess we're looking at the MILF, not the girl."



Kyle said nothing. Eyes hard-set and features as if carved from stone, he took up the stack of pictures and their envelope and headed for the door.



Victor followed after in confusion. "Where're we going?"



"I'm going to have a little talk with Biederman," he announced.



*****



Walther Biederman &#x2013; known as Wally when he was the star quarterback in his high school days &#x2013; closed the bedroom door behind him softly. His face was drained of emotion; burying his only son before the full impact of the loss would hit him left him feeling defensively numb. He shuffled heavy feet across ruffled carpet, making his way to the living room. Through the doorway to the dining room, he could see the mess left by family members and friends who had come for the wake; he would clean it later, he told himself.



"She's asleep," he said in a detached voice, referring to his wife of over twenty years. "Two Ambien and a bourbon chaser." He laughed humorlessly. "I doubt she'd even wake up if a train went through the back yard."



Linda Cross offered a heartfelt look of sympathy as she sat demurely on the end of the white couch. Her form-fitting black dress accentuated the figure she had taken pains to maintain over the decades since high school graduation. "You know I wouldn't abandon you like that."



Walther winced, looking at the floor, the pictures on the wall, the ticking clock. "Linda, I buried my son today," he said, swallowing back bile. "I don't really feel like talking about leaving my wife."



Linda's face remained empathetic. "I couldn't ask that of you now," she said. "After all, you still have your daughter."



He laughed sharply. "Do I? I don't even know who she is anymore."



Linda smiled slightly. "She's seventeen, Wally," she said. "Where is she, by the way?"



He shrugged. "Staying with a friend. I didn't want her to go, but . . . I didn't feel like arguing."



"I understand," Linda whispered, then patted the cushion beside her. "Why don't you sit down?"



Walther did not budge. He kept his hands in his pockets and continued to avert his gaze from his lover. "Linda . . . ."



"Yes?"



He ground his teeth. "I, uh, I don't think we should see each other anymore."



"Wally--" she began in a patronizing tone.



"No," he said firmly. At last, he looked into her dark blue eyes. "It's over, Linda. This whole thing was wrong, right from the beginning."



Sympathy vanished in the face of anger. "'This whole <i>thing</i>?'" she echoed bitingly. "You talk about us like it's a car payment you don't wanna make anymore. And it <i>sure as fucking hell </i>wasn't 'wrong right from the beginning.'"



Walther fidgeted uncomfortably. "Linda, this isn't the time to talk about this. I can't even think straight--"



"Well, I can," she interrupted rudely, getting to her feet. "And since you can't, let me remind you of a few things."



"Linda--"



"No. I'm talking," she snapped, glaring at Walther with a wicked gleam in her eye and a smile to match. "I guess you forgot about that night, twenty-two years ago. The night I gave myself to you."



"I'll never--"



"I made a promise to my mother that I would stay a virgin until I was at least eighteen. That wasn't easy with you, you know. I can't tell you how many fantasies I had about our first time together."



Walther let his eyes fall to the carpet. He did not want to hear her words, but neither could he tell her to stop.



"So that night, in your car after the prom, I gave you all of me. I didn't mind the pain when you shoved inside me," Linda said crudely. "Because I figured the pain was worth it. Worth our love. And it <i>was </i>love, Wally, in case you forgot. You told me you loved me."



He winced again. "We were kids--"



She continued without regard for his words. "The next day, I told my mother I was going to marry you. For the first time since she began her chemo treatments, she smiled. She fucking smiled, Wally!"



He nodded painfully. "I know."



"Then you went away," Linda continued in a flippant, angry tone. "Joined the goddamn military. All I got for a couple of years was letters . . . and then I didn't get anything."



He shook his head sadly. "Don't do this to me," he lamented.



"Don't do this to you!" she shrieked suddenly. "What about what you did to me? After three fucking years, you come back home with some pretty little bimbo you met in the Army, and&#x2014;"



"Don't," he uttered sharply.



Linda cocked her head arrogantly. "Don't what, Wally? Don't point out that you fucked up? Don't point out that you married a fucking psycho bitch who deals with pain with drugs and booze?"



"She's my wife!" cried Walther angrily.



She laughed. "Yeah. And yet, you still fucked me. You fucked me because she wouldn't give it up as much as you wanted. Because she doesn't blow your cock the way you like it, not like I do. You know, if I was your wife, you wouldn't go a day without--"



"It's over!" he shouted, eyes blazing. "Wanna know the truth? Sure, my wife has some issues, but she isn't the psycho bitch here. <i>You </i>are!"



Linda bristled, fuming quietly for a moment. "Is that so?"



He nodded firmly, finding his strength. "Yeah."



She regarded him with cold, clinical eyes. "Billy sure didn't think so."



Walther blinked, shocked. "What?"



"Oh, didn't I mention it?" she quipped sarcastically. "Damn. I thought for sure you knew I was fucking your son."



"What!"



Linda laughed, tilting her head back. "Oh, he was such a stud. I bet you were pretty proud of him, getting all the girls, just like you used to, and taking them out to that spot at the edge of Fred Hammerman's farm. The son always walks in the steps of the father, right? And I gotta say, he was quite the young cocksman. It felt almost as good having him inside me as you."



Walther stared at his erstwhile lover in shock. "Y-you . . . and Billy?"



"Mmm," she murmured, lifting her hands to caress her breasts through the snug dress covering them. "You know, he introduced me to something I never thought I would like. Even though you always said I had 'just enough,' Billy showed me the joys of a good tit-fuck. I actually got off from it, too--"



"You. Fucking. Whore!" roared Walther, advancing a single step, balling his fists.



She smirked arrogantly. "I don't recall ever charging you for it, honey." Her words were like poison-laced honey dripping from the tarnished spoon of her tongue. Her hands caressed upward between her legs, and she wantonly parted them, revealing the lacy frill at the tops of her stockings . . . and the small holster lashed to the inside of her right thigh. Deftly, she removed a tiny handgun. "But I guess I'll take my payment now."



Walther stared, shocked, dumbfounded, and more than a little confused. "Wh-what? Linda--"



"We were supposed to be together, Wally," she said with self-assured finality, casually pointing the weapon at Walther's chest. "You made a promise to me, to have and to hold, till death do us part."



Adrenaline inspired by fear made his hands tremble. "You're insane."



For the briefest of moments, Linda Cross' eyes vibrated and her smile faltered. "I thought I was crazy in love, once," she said through her teeth. "Never bothered you then."



"Look. Put the gun down, okay? We can talk about this."



She shook her head, appearing almost sad. "It's too late, Wally. It's obvious how you really feel. And I know that I have to take responsibility for my actions, my mistakes. It's suddenly clear now, after what happened to Billy."



Walther swallowed nervously. "What are you saying?"



Linda's face drained suddenly of emotion. "Don't worry, baby, you'll see your son soon."



The short muzzle of the pistol flashed brilliantly, accompanied by the sharp, echoing <i>snap</i>! of exploding gunpowder. Walther Biederman stared for a moment longer at the woman before him, who had been his first love, his first promise. He felt something thick, warm and heavy in his throat, which he tried to force down. But there was something blocking it.



Linda's eyes panned down from his face to his chest, and he followed, looking down at the growing crimson stain soaking through the layers of cotton he wore. Shaky fingers rose to touch the warm, matted fabric, and he pulled them away, staring at blood.



His blood.



"Jesus . . . ."



Linda stood as Walther's legs gave way and consciousness became less palpable than a dream. He fell back, unfocused eyes staring upward. Blood bubbled in the back of his throat, seeping out to his lips. She watched it all dispassionately, regarding the man before her as she might a wounded dog.



The shattering of the front door startled her, making her spin about, bringing her weapon to bear. But the man who appeared rushed her with imposing speed, grasping her wrist with such force that she grunted in pain as the bones popped out of place. The tiny pistol fell to the floor, and in short order, Linda Cross found herself held fast, an arm around her neck and her own arm locked painfully behind her back.



"H-he was gonna kill me!" she sputtered, the practiced alibi being the first thing to come to mind even before she focused on the other man who entered the house. She narrowed her eyes in confusion and wonder as she looked upon the one-armed man in his black pea coat.



"I doubt that, Miss Cross," Kyle said calmly, stepping past her. He squatted beside Walther Biederman, who yet fought for life. Rolling the man onto his side, he briefly watched as frothy blood poured from the man's mouth, then extracted his cellphone. "Faster, are you on your way?"



"Should be there in about two minutes, Bandit."



"Good. Biederman's down. Shot in the chest."



"Got it covered."



"Hurry." He snapped the phone closed and slipped it into his pocket. He grabbed Linda's little pistol from the floor, then stood, facing the helpless woman in Victor's powerful arms. Slipping the diminutive automatic into his coat, he came back out with his revolver. Never taking his eyes from Linda's, he cocked the hammer and slowly, deliberately, raised his arm.



Linda gasped, trembling in fear, staring first at Kyle's dispassionate face, then at the barrel of the deadly weapon he held. She squirmed against Victor's powerful grip; he pushed her arm up behind her back just a little higher, making her flinch with pain and cease her struggle.

<hr pg="8" />"I don't feel like wasting time," Kyle said in a calmly threatening voice. "And since you've already tried to kill me once tonight, I don't feel like being nice, either. Where are they?"



Linda looked confused and frightened. "What are you talking about? I've been here all night!"



Kyle's eyes darkened menacingly. With deliberate and clear intent, he pressed the barrel of his weapon against the blonde woman's forehead, making her gasp, eyes flashing wide. "Victor, you might want to move your head, in case the bullet goes all the way through."



Linda shuddered with fear and desperation, feeling the man behind her shifting. The fact that he took Kyle's words seriously was just as terrifying as the feel of cold steel against her skin and the cold, ruthless eyes beyond. She felt the tears flow from beneath her eyelids, dripping down her cheeks.



"One more time," Kyle intoned. "Where are the flaylings?"



"Y-you mean the tentacle cats?"



Kyle's lip twitched with amusement upon hearing her name for them. "Whatever you call them," he said. "Where?"



She expelled a heavy breath. "I'll show you."



"Of course you will."



*****



Kyle looked upon the pair of county vehicles arriving on the street before the Biederman house with interest. Behind them was a local ambulance, essentially a cargo van painted orange and white. The two EMTs which emerged, however, carried themselves with the professional aplomb typical in inner city paramedics. Kyle hoped they had the skill enough to save Walther Biederman's life.



Faster approached from one of the cruisers, looking upon the older blonde woman seated on the house steps, hands cuffed behind her back. "I asked the sheriff to park a unit outside the Pet Palace, and to call us the moment he sees anything."



Kyle sucked a tooth in contemplation. "What about the rest of these guys?" he asked, indicating the three deputies standing beside the police sedans.



"What do you mean?" asked Faster.



The anthropologist shrugged. "Seems to me we could use a little backup."



"No can do, doc," Victor said. "Too much of a risk."



"Of what?" asked Kyle, perturbed. "What about the risk of us getting killed?"



"We can't do it, Bandit," Faster said emphatically. "Hey, call Malcolm if you want on this, but he's gonna tell you the same thing. Veil Society bylaws. No non-members can be called in to participate in an active investigation."



Kyle looked back and forth between them, clearly nonplussed. "Is there a goddamn handbook I haven't been given?"



"Think about it, doc," Victor said. "Worst case scenario number one: some of these podunks end up as flayling chew toys."



Kyle ground his teeth. "They're lawmen," he offered. "They should know the risks inherent to their profession."



"Maybe," Victor allowed. "But think about worst case scenario number two: they find out the truth. Wasn't too long ago that you found yourself face-to-face with a real friggin' zombie, and that's all it took to open your eyes."



Kyle fumed silently for a moment, but he was thinking, turning the words over in his mind. "All right," he said at last. "I understand what you're saying. We can't risk the little people discovering our dirty little secret."



"Something like that," Victor agreed. "Hey, doc, I don't like it sometimes, either. But we all got rules to live by, and this is one of them."



Kyle inhaled deeply, seeking to calm himself. "So, no backup, no witnesses, no secrets revealed."



"Yup."



Kyle grumbled under his breath. "I sure as hell hope it's just the two of those damn things. Otherwise, I'm going to be royally pissed for not having written my will."



*****



Linda Cross did not speak a single word on the drive through town. Faster kept a close watch on the woman as the two of them sat in the back of the Monte Carlo, while Victor drove and Kyle occupied his usual position in the front passenger seat. But as they passed the whitewashed building which was both home and business to the woman, she finally spoke.



"You told me you were just hunters."



Nearly all attention was focused immediately upon the mature woman, but only Kyle spoke. "We are."



She scoffed indignantly. "So, what, you just want to kill them? Without knowing anything about them? That's so typical. Kill it because you don't understand it."



"You make a lot of assumptions, Miss Cross," Kyle said patronizingly. "Maybe we understand more than you do. Or do you think large black cats with tentacles are some kind of natural mutation?"



Linda was silent a moment, mulling over her thoughts, before she spoke again. "I've heard of stranger things."



"So have I," said Kyle, turning in his seat. "The difference is, I've seen them. More than that, I've spent most of my adult life researching them. Believe me when I tell you that I understand more about evolution than most people you will ever meet."



"Guess that makes you an authority," she shot back acidly.



His eyes burned into hers. "As far as you're concerned, yes."



The dark road was devoured beneath the car's headlights in relative silence, with only the droning hum of the engine filling the air. Victor's eyes spied the convenience store in the distance, its bright lights a harsh beacon in an otherwise inky landscape.



"Hey, doc, this is the same road."



"Same as what?"



"Where the brat went."



Kyle frowned, thinking. Before he could speak, however, Linda's voice drifted out from the back.



"Slow down," she said. "You'll miss it if you're going too fast."



Victor glanced to the rear view mirror, spying Linda's slack, angry face. "What am I looking for?"



"Gate on the left," she said. "It's a gravel drive at mile marker one-six-three."



Kyle felt an intuition and decided to act upon it. "Julie knows about them, doesn't she?"



Linda's eyes blazed briefly. "Don't you bring her into this," she hissed.



He studied her face, the expressions playing across them, the turmoil in the mind behind. "Does she know you were having sex with her ex-boyfriend?" he asked with casual rudeness.



"She has nothing to do with this!" snapped Linda.



"Oh, I think she's got a hell of a lot more to do with this than you want to admit," Kyle growled. "Maybe you've convinced yourself that those flaylings just happened to go prowling one night and poor Billy ended up becoming their meal du jour, but you should know better, especially if you're the one who trained them."



Linda erupted in an hysterical fit of thrashing and screaming. "Shut up! Shut up! SHUT UP!"



Her outcries were abruptly silenced by a sharp, fast slap of Faster's hand across her face. Linda listed to her side, eyes rolling back, mouth clamped shut. Kyle frowned upon the brunette.



"What?" asked Faster rhetorically.



Kyle said nothing, turning back around. The sedan was turning off the main road, tires crunching upon loose gravel. The headlights paint the trees framing the bumpy dirt road in pale hues of brown, green and white. Crystalline snowflakes danced in the light ahead of a large, closed wooden gate that had been chained and padlocked. A faded and tattered notice of foreclosure was stapled to the gate.



"Place's been abandoned for years," Linda informed. "Couple of kids inherited it from their parents and ended up making meth. After they were arrested, the place got closed down."



"Convenient place to train flaylings," Kyle remarked.



Linda narrowed her eyes, staring at the back of the doctor's head. "Why do you call them that?" she asked suspiciously. "Like you already knew about them or something. What, are these things some kind of government experiment? Genetic engineering? A couple of them happened to get loose, now you guys have to clean up the mess?"



Kyle chuckled darkly. "Damn it, Vic, she figured us out," he said flippantly. "Better make sure we don't spill the beans about who really shot JFK."



"Or where Elvis has been the past thirty years," responded Victor.



"Not to mention where we're keeping all those captured aliens," Faster chimed.



Linda brooded in angry silence, tugging ineffectually on the handcuffs that secured her wrists before her. She glared at Faster beside her, who only smiled back with a thinly-veiled threat of further physical assault.



"Suppose I could get the bolt cutter out of the trunk," Victor suggested, indicating the chained gate before the car.



Kyle mulled over their options. "No. We walk."



"Wonderful," bemoaned Faster.



*****



Pale light floated in the frigid air like the dust of pixies who had fled in favor of a safer haven. Bordered by ragged wooden walls, Julie Cross sat in the barn, surrounded by the musty odors of age and industry. She petted the head of the large black cat laying upon her thigh, listening to the faint but agonized murmurs of the beast. Although the supernatural animal was three times her mass, it seemed to regard her as a mothering, nurturing figure. A savior.



"I'm sorry," she whispered through dried, cold tears, looking upon the congealed mass of blood and destroyed tissue that occupied one of the beast's eye sockets. The trio of bullet wounds in its side had stopped bleeding; the sticky morass clinging to the short, ebony fur, however, remained gruesome evidence of how much blood had already escaped. "I never wanted you to be hurt. I should have sent you both."



The flayling's remaining eye opened slowly, piteously. It mewled painfully, turning its head to look up upon the girl. The tentacles sprouting from its back lifted lazily, swaying like tired serpents.



"Shh," soothed the girl, scratching blood-matted fur. "It wasn't your fault. But momma's gonna make it better, I promise." She took up the large revolver which lay upon the frozen ground beside her. It had been her father's, left behind as so many things had been when he disappeared years before. It felt heavy and cold, vicious and imposing. But there was something elegant about it as well, something inherently beautiful in its construction and gleaming finish, which still captured the light after years of inactivity.



A rumbling issued forth from the flayling, and it turned its head away, licking thick lips with long, languid swipes of its tongue. Julie could feel the heat of tis breath through the denim of her jeans. Gingerly, she traced her finger along the edge of the open, panting mouth, admiring the cruel fangs. Feeling a fresh batch of tears swelling beneath her eyes, she pressed the muzzle of the pistol against the creature's head, just behind its ear.



A sound beckoned her, and she looked up, seeing first the deep red eyes through the layers of shadow. The other flayling stepped forward, emitting a low, guttural growl, its head bowed low, nostrils flared. The tentacles upon its back swayed back and forth in agitation. Gleaming silver claws extended and curled, scratching the ground.



"Do you want him to keep suffering?" Julie asked in a pained voice. "He's dying!"



The second monster padded closer, keeping its baleful eyes upon Julie in a silent warning until it approached close enough to nuzzle it's mate. A loving tongue slipped out, caressing the matted head of the beast in Julie's lap. The teenaged girl removed the pistol, looking forlornly upon the larger-- and unwounded &#x2013; of the two creatures.



"You don't understand," Julie continued, vision blurred by the saline tears washing over her eyes. "They deserved to die! Billy, that prissy little whore, even that old farmer! They all deserved it!"



The flayling hissed menacingly, its anger evident. The short fur bristled, tentacles writhed and snapped.



Julie winced, turning her head. "Please," she bemoaned.



An angry growl issued forth from the large flayling, even as the wounded one uncurled itself with some effort, laboriously getting to its feet. Julie flinched, feeling the dry nose of the unnatural feline grazing her ear, her neck, sniffing her scent. She trembled in fear, forgetting the pistol beside her.



Peripherally, she felt and smelled the sulphuric stench of the flayling's breath as its jaws opened wide. She squeezed her eyes shut, shaking with hopeless resignation.



*****



Reaching the barn as per Linda's instructions, Kyle peered through the warped wooden slats of the pedestrian door beside the larger, gate-like opening which had apparently remained closed for several years. He saw only the movement of shadows around the silhouette of a kneeling figure, gritted his teeth as he heard and watched the attack.



Jerking back, Kyle brandished his pistol, glancing back sharply to see that Faster was doing the same. Beside her, Linda looked alarmed and fearful.



"What's going on?" the woman bleated. "I-is it Julie? Oh my God! Julie!"



Kyle winced at the shrill scream erupting from Linda Cross' throat. "Shut her up!" he ordered, then jerked open the door. Without looking back, he darted inside, leading the way once more with his revolver. But in the space of those few heartbeats, the scene had changed. There were no moving shadows, and no kneeling silhouette. Only a body laying upon the ground, twitching, arms and legs writhing with chaotic movements.



Kyle knew he could not afford to sacrifice his vigilance in favor of concern for the girl. Still, he approached her cautiously, turning this way and that, searching the shadows and finding too many for his liking. "Julie, can you hear me?" he called aloud.



The only response was a choked, wet gurgle.



<i>Fuck</i>! He swept both his gaze and weapon back and forth, hearing a rustling here, a scratching there. Chancing the moment, he knelt upon frozen ground beside the girl and looked over her quickly. Blood darkened her neck and the jacket she wore; fabric from the garment lay all around, much of it saturated sanguinely. Julie had one hand pressed to the base of her neck. Her face was pale and blank, evident of shock.



"Hang in there," he whispered anxiously, then returned to searching the shadows. He thought he heard the sound of hot breath not too far away.



"Julie? Oh, my baby girl!"



Kyle snapped his head around, watching as Linda ran ahead of Faster, swinging her handcuffed arms back and forth. The Veil agent behind her looked angry and perturbed, her features betraying the sense of failure she felt at having let go of their prisoner. Before Kyle could do anything further, however, the shadows erupted from the wall before him, a nightmarish form of inky blackness leaping out, a single red eye blazing with feral, deadly intensity.



He grunted as he was knocked back, the monstrous tentacled cat leaping upon him. Shoulders pinned to the cold ground, breath forced from his lungs, Kyle squirmed impotently beneath the weight of the flayling atop him. He fought for breath, staring up at the ruined face above his. Part of his mind was clinically amazed that, after taking a bullet to the head, the beast was still as ferocious as it was.



But as the wounded flayling's tentacles flashed downward toward Kyle's head, there came a flurry of movement and a cacophonous battlefield roar. Like a human battering ram, Victor charged from the rear of the barn, slamming his weight into the flayling's side. While the nightmarish cat had the advantage of weight, it was weakened by blood loss and pain, and Victor's assault was just enough to hurl the deadly cat to the ground.



Despite its wounds, however, it remained a deadly and agile opponent, rolling easily onto its feet. It snarled desperately at Victor, then whipped its head about, the single eye finding Faster sprinting up behind. It hissed in defiance, trying to move so as to keep all of its foes in view.



"Where's the other one?" called Kyle, keeping his weapon at the ready and stepping beside Linda, who cradled her wounded daughter to her bosom. The older woman's face was contorted by anguish. She seemed oblivious to the world around her.



"Maybe it's flown the coop," Victor suggested as he squared off against the flayling. He brandished his gleaming axe in skilled hands, his attention focused on the beast before him.



"I doubt it," Kyle muttered, searching the shadows once more. <i>It's here, </i>he thought. <i>It has to be here . . . .</i>



The wounded flayling backed toward one of the walls, finally able to keep both Victor and Faster in view. The brunette leveled her weapons upon the monster, whose visage shimmered and blurred. <i>Like it's teleporting back and forth, </i>she speculated. <i>Maybe that's exactly what it's doing.</i>



"Victor?"



"Do it, babe," he responded, even as he took a threatening step. That brought the flayling's attention to him, but Victor did not rush the beast as it may have expected. Instead, as the flayling snarled, tentacles whipping and snapping, Faster's pistols opened up with blazing flashes of murderous light. Instead of aiming for the center of the shimmering body, however, she panned her pistols back and forth, pulling the triggers with incredible rapidity. Her gamble paid off.



The flayling howled in pain as bullets bit into already traumatized flesh. Although the bulk of Faster's shots missed their target, resulting in an impressive explosion of wooden splinters and ice from the wall behind the convulsing monster, enough of the thirty bullets unleashed found their mark.



"Go!" she shouted, quickly ejecting the magazines of her pistols and slapping them both into one hand. At her shout, Victor charged forward with another roar, swinging the axe down and low, sweeping it upward beneath the monster's chin. The flayling could just barely register what was happening before the powerful blade split its skull in twain.



"One down!" shouted Victor in triumph, spinning about even before the dead monster's corpse slumped to the ground.



"One to go . . . ." mused Kyle, looking around anxiously. Rafters creaked above them in the suddenly quiet barn; only Linda Cross' muffled, choked sobbing competed with the sound.



Faster's pistols rang as the slides locked into place, chambering fresh rounds. Like Kyle and Victor, she too cast her eyes to the shadowed steeple of the barn. Her heart pounded, partly from elation at the fact that half of their threat now lay dead, partly from the fact that <i>only </i>half of their threat lay dead.



"It's trying to toy with us," Kyle said in a harsh whisper. "Trying to spook us."



"Doing a good fucking job," Faster whispered back.



"Get close," Victor directed, backing toward Kyle. Faster moved in as well, but she was further out, along the far wall.



Which made her the choice target.



It was Kyle who heard the sounds from above &#x2013; creaking wood, then a snap, a shuffle, accompanied by agitated breathing. He followed the progression of the noises, moving through the rafters above, then down . . . only at the last moment did he see the blurry piece of shadow descend--



"Faster!"



She reacted instantly, somersaulting to the side, just as the shadow took form, leaping from the darkness behind her. Though its claws and gnashing teeth missed their mark, a lashing tentacle, slashed through the jacket on the brunette's left side, slicing skin and muscle beneath. Faster cried out in pain, stumbling to the ground.



The flayling did not pause to attack Faster again; its tactic, apparently, had been to strafe through the group, and to this end, it charged with full ferocious speed toward Victor and Kyle, roaring and hissing. With only a pair of bounding leaps, its powerful legs hurled it through the air. Claws flashed like razors, fangs snapped like a bear trap, tentacles lashed like whips.



Kyle was only able to get a single shot off from his revolver before he found himself shoved to the ground. In the next instant, the flayling had collided with Victor, who let himself be carried back by the incredible momentum of the charge. He grappled the monster, clutching about its neck to keep the monster from biting his own. Slamming into the ground, man and monster tumbled across frozen earth, smashing through the wooden wall of the barn amid a flurry of virgin snow from outside.

<hr pg="9" />Kyle jumped to his feet, watching the apparently suicidal battle Victor was engaged in through the jagged wooden opening. "Faster, you all right?"



"I'll live," she groaned, pushing to her feet. She caught sight of the melee outside. "Jesus! Is he fucking crazy?"



"He's gonna be fucking dead if we don't help him," Kyle growled, ducking through the hole in the wall. Faster followed.



Outside, the glacial air was rife with fresh snowfall that fluttered down around Victor and the flayling. The former soldier was on his feet, shifting the axe back and forth before him. A fresh wound was evident upon his right thigh, where fabric had been ripped away; he seemed not to notice. A warrior's grin glowed upon his hardened face.



"Come on, bitch, let's see what you've got," he taunted the monster.



The flayling bellowed once more, focusing all its attention upon Victor as any animal would do in preparation for a kill. With an explosion of snow behind it, the monster lurched forward, tentacles flashing at blinding speed. Victor deflected one with the haft of his axe, but the second clamped down hard upon his left shoulder, sinking through leather and cotton into corded muscle. Victor winced in pain, finding himself pulled toward the beast. He planted his left foot on the ground, but the snow made it slippery. He roared in pain as the flayling sunk its fangs deeply into his thigh.



But the fight would not be taken from him so quickly. Gripping the tentacle stuck fast to his shoulder, he jerked it taught and slashed down with the axe, severing the supernatural limb. Blood spurted from the writhing stump, and the flayling released its lock on Victor's leg, leaping back even as it slashed with deadly foreclaws. They found their mark, raking the stocky man's chest and abdomen. Victor collapsed back against the side of the barn, clutching the fresh wounds.



Kyle did not bother himself with the condition of his team mate. The wounds could have been superficial or fatal, but the important thing at the moment was stopping the flayling. As the monster reared back, shifting its attention to Kyle, the doctor snapped off the five remaining rounds in his weapon.



He felt the fleeting sense of satisfaction as the first bullet hit home in the flayling's neck, eliciting a thin spurt of blood that splashed upon the snow. But the moment was gone in another instant as the creature blurred itself, phasing back and forth surreally beneath the delicate snowfall. None of the remaining four rounds found a home in anything other than frozen ground.



But then, Faster was there, diving through the hole in the wall and rolling onto her feet, creating a cloud of snow around her like the shroud of an avenging angel. Her weapons exploded once more, creating a panorama of destruction which deluged the flayling with bullets. The monster roared and howled, trying its best to avoid the deadly hail. But too many found their mark; Faster had learned quickly how to deal with a flayling.



Still, despite the wounds to its body and limbs, the beast refused to die so quickly. With a last defiant bellow, it pounced from bloodied snow and onto the startled woman, burying her beneath a stark white flurry. The single tentacle flailed in the air; claws curled into flesh. Beneath, Faster winced in pain, pulling reflexively upon the triggers of empty weapons pressed into the body of the beast. For a moment, the flayling seemed to sneer triumphantly, even as blood dripped from its gaping maw. Lips curled back from dagger-like teeth, it lowered its head in anticipation for the taste of blood.



<i>God, no, this can't be it, </i>Faster thought fearfully, struggling under the weight of the creature. <i>I'm not supposed to die like this . . . .</i>



The single shot shattered the air. Faster gasped at the sound, even as the flayling seemed stunned by it, staring down upon her with those fierce, blazing red eyes.



<i>What the hell? </i>Faster thought, but then she saw it, the fresh welt in the side of the monster's head, the trickle of blood seeping down along the ebon jaw, dripping onto her own neck.



Another explosion, another wound, this one creating a pinkish cloud on the opposite side of the flayling's head. The monster flinched, emitting one last baleful howl into the algid air before it toppled to its side in the snow. Limbs and tentacles twitched for only a moment or two before the beast lay still, the powdery scape around its head turning red.



"You okay?" Kyle asked Faster, standing stoically over her. Smoke trailed from the cylinder of his revolver, evaporating into the chilly air.



She winced, sitting up. Her shoulders throbbed hotly from where the monster's claws had bit into her. Her wounds, however, were mostly superficial. "I'm fine."



"Victor?"



The stocky man had propped himself against the wall of the barn, and despite the grim look on his face that bespoke a defiance of death, his wounds had obviously taken their toll. "I'm alive," he grumbled.



"Stay that way," Kyle said. "That's an order."



The former ranger nodded and managed both a weak salute and a rakish grin. "Yes, sir," he rasped, flecks of blood decorating his lower lip.



Kyle glanced back to Faster as she stood laboriously. "Get him to the car," he ordered, looking to the body of the large black cat laying in the snow. As both he and Faster watched, the corpse shimmered, then began to fade. Within seconds, nothing remained, not even blood.



"As if it never existed," commented Kyle.



"That's how it always happens," said Faster.



He nodded curtly, then met her eyes. "Victor," he prompted meaningfully.



"On it," she said back, then went to the stocky man, kneeling down as he raised his arms. With some effort, she helped the wounded warrior to his feet, looping one of the man's arms around her neck. She paused, regarding Kyle with a frown as the anthropologist started to step back through the hole in the barn wall.



"What are you doing?"



He looked back briefly. "Closing the case," he said, then slipped through.



*****



<i>Like fallen angels, </i>Kyle thought as he looked upon the scene before him. Linda Cross rocked back and forth, holding the body of her daughter against her. The faint sounds of the woman's weeping were like an ode to the consequences of misguided intentions. From the way the daughter's arms hung limp, and given the copious amount of blood which had flown from her wound, Kyle knew the girl was dead. His hard heart nevertheless twisted in his chest.



Linda brushed her daughter's forehead with her lips, ran a hand matted with blood through sticky, tangled hair. She spoke as if to herself, though she was aware of Dr. Perrin's presence.



"I never thought anything like this would have happened," she lamented.



Kyle stopped a few paces away, holding the revolver against his leg. "Didn't you?"



Linda winced, body wracking as she sobbed. But she recovered quickly, sniffling back her tears. "They were so smart," she said, the words riding the ragged whispers of her breath. "Not like any dog I'd ever trained. "They came when I called them, they learned every trick I could think of in half the time . . . I thought . . . I thought . . . ."



"You thought what?"



Linda huffed loudly. Her numbed eyes stared out into nothingness. "I thought they would make me famous," she said. "A new species, something never seen before. 'The Amazing Tentacle Cats.'"



Kyle looked upon the woman dispassionately. "You showed them to Julie."



Linda nodded. "Of course I did. They took to her right away, but there was something . . . I should have seen the signs. Whenever she was angry, they were, too. She always had a gift with animals. A sort of empathy."



His eyes fell to the dead girl. Her eyes were closed, the face becoming pale as the blood settled. "So you figured she'd help you train them, keep them in line. But she used them, instead. To kill."



Linda blubbered, sobbing quietly over her daughter. "Not my baby girl," she sputtered, clutching the corpse close to her bosom.



Kyle drew in a breath, torn between sympathy and a realization of karmic vengeance. He exhaled, watching his breath turn to vapor in the frigid air. "You can't stay here," he said. "You'll freeze to death by morning."



"I don't care."



He ground his teeth, smacked the pistol against his leg. "I don't want to force you to leave."



Linda lifted her head, eyes red and swollen, cheeks glistening with tears that were already beginning to crystallize. She glared upon him with fierce defiance as her right hand shifted beneath Julie's corpse. "I'm not going anywhere."



Kyle raised his weapon just as Linda produced the large hunting revolver. They pointed them at one another, resulting in a standoff.



"There's nothing left to fight over, Linda," Kyle said. "Your daughter's dead. The flaylings are dead."



"So is Wally, and I killed him," Linda said pointedly. "You wanna take me in, just so I can stand trial? Maybe I'll get life in prison, or maybe I'll end up in a psycho ward. <i>My fucking daughter's dead!"</i>



Kyle's eyes glared back, dark and uncaring. "And who's fault is that?"



Linda said nothing for a long moment, the pistol shaking in her grip. Her face finally contorted with pain. "Mine," she admitted, then placed the muzzle of the weapon against her chest.



"Linda--" warned Kyle, lowering his pistol.



"Too late," she said simply, cocking the hammer.



*****



A trail of blood-darkened snow followed Faster and Victor as the pair finally reached the Monte Carlo. Victor had winced and groaned in pain throughout the trek, much as he would have liked to play the part of the stoic soldier who could handle anything with a grimacing smile. The brunette propped him against the car, then fumbled with the keys for a moment before jerking open the passenger door. She guided him into the seat, then headed to the trunk in search of the field kit.



Just as she brought out the heavy plastic case and set it on the ground before the open car door, a sharp report sounded from the barn. The abrupt sound seemed to carry further in the still cold night than it should have.



"Doc?" asked Victor.



Faster gritted her teeth, opening the case. "He knows what he's doing."



Victor nodded slowly. "He's a good man, you know."



Faster nodded, extracting gauze and a wound salve. "Goddamn better be," she said.



The stocky man chuckled, even though it caused him pain. "Just make me a promise," he rasped.



"Sure." She applied the salve to the wounds on the man's chest and stomach, then unrolled the gauze.



"Make nice with the guy if I die, okay?"



"You're not gonna die," Faster snapped. "Shut up about that."



"But if I do--"



"You're not!"



Their eyes met, both sets quivering. Victor coughed blood, wiped his mouth. Faster expelled a heavy breath.



"If I do," Victor said again.



Faster bobbed her head in ascent and continued to tend to his wounds. "All right. But you're not gonna fucking die, Vic. Not now. Not fucking now."



*****



A dark cloud hovered over Kyle as he stared through the window in the hospital hallway. The man in the room beyond lay peacefully asleep, his pain mitigated by morphine. A tube inserted in his throat helped to provide oxygen to the single lung that remained functional. Beside the hospital bed, a young woman clad in black held her father's hand, red-ringed eyes keeping a close watch.



"Sorry to hear about your friend," came the grumbling voice of Sheriff Stonesbury. The portly man stepped up beside Kyle, holding a styrofoam cup into which he periodically spat.



Kyle nodded his thanks. "Victor's a strong man," he said. "He'll recover."



"Hmm." The sheriff mused, then sighed heavily. "Guess this didn't turn out the way you expected, did it?"



Kyle pursed his lips. "Not really. But we got the job done."



"How you figure that? I got three dead kids and a man shot by his lover, who, it turns out, shot herself through the heart. And not a goddamn thing about a wild mountain lion. Just how do you figure you got the job done?"



Kyle turned his head slowly, leveling his gaze upon the tired-looking chief. "Because there's no one left," he said.



Stonesbury scoffed, shaking his head. "I got half a mind to drag you in, no matter what your 'connections.' Too much weird shit's been happening around here, and I haven't seen a single goddamn thing in the way of an explanation."



Kyle faced the man directly. "How much of an explanation do you want?" he asked baitingly.



"Well, how about the goddamn truth?"



The anthropologist smirked. "I'd hate to do an impression of Jack Nicholson right now."



Stonesbury frowned, insulted. "You saying I can't handle the truth?"



"Yes. I am."



The sheriff stepped away in a tiff, passing his hand down his face. He whirled back around, jabbing a blunt finger at Kyle. "I don't want this shit happening in my town again!"



Kyle nodded again. "I think I can assure you that it won't."



"You <i>'think</i>.'"



Kyle shrugged. "You want absolutes, go to church," he said flippantly, looking back through the window. Kathleen Biederman was talking to her father, her face forlorn but still maintaining a sense of optimism.



"Fine," the sheriff said, stepping away. "But I sure as hell hope that the last I see of you is a pair of goddamn taillights driving away."



Kyle looked back to Stonesbury and smiled. "On that, we can agree."



*****



He watched the morning snow as it drifted down from the blanket of the sky, smiling at the simple, yet complex, way in which nature comforted those who dwelt within her. The lighter flared for a moment, burning the end of the cigarette as he inhaled. The tightness in his throat was welcoming, almost as much as the sweet flood of nicotine through his blood a few moments later. It felt to Kyle Perrin as if ages had passed since he last lit up.



Automatically, he checked the latest text message from Faster, informing him that Victor's surgery had gone well. He had been airlifted to a better hospital, and just in time, it seemed; aside from the numerous wounds he had suffered, it appeared they had become almost instantly infected. The parting shot from the flaylings, Kyle mused. Advanced antibiotics, however, and the Veil Society's impressive health plan both seemed to assure Victor Cortes' recovery.



Kyle was glad for that.



His own wounds, while superficial, bothered him a bit. His shoulders itched and ached where the flayling had pounced upon him. Still, he remained healthy, and the wounds would fade with time and treatment. All in all, he could consider his second mission with the Veil Society a success.



"Got another smoke?"



He looked up at the sound of the girl's voice. Kathleen Biederman regarded him with a small, unaffectionate smile as she stepped around the bench in the hospital courtyard.



Kyle thought a moment, then shrugged. He would normally be adverse to supplying a minor with a cigarette, but the situation was anything but normal. "Sure," he said, handing her the case and his lighter. He watched the girl's face in profile as she took out a smoke and tucked it between her lips, then lit up. She smiled that little smile of satisfaction that came with such a simple gesture of gratification.



"My dad's gonna make it," she said at last, handing back the case and lighter. She smiled crookedly.



"I'm glad," Kyle said, shifting and sitting up. "Do you feel that vengeance has been satisfied now?"



The girl grimaced. "Maybe," she admitted, then smiled again, albeit painfully. "Were they really demons?"



Kyle pulled on his cigarette, then blew a plume of smoke. "No."



Her head sagged. "Didn't think so," she whispered.



Kyle studied the young woman's face for a moment. He licked his lips carefully before he spoke. "A long time ago," he said. "When I was an undergraduate student, I went to a lecture. I'd heard of the man before, but his work had been ridiculed by the scientific community. Still, he had a following, and most universities were willing to humor the man. There were about a thousand people in the audience listening to him, but when he started talking about ancient civilizations and the existence of Atlantis . . ." Kyle laughed under his breath. "People started walking out. Maybe a couple hundred of us were left by the end. He didn't seem too surprised.



"I went up to him after it was over," Kyle continued. "He'd made some good arguments, presented some compelling evidence. But I still wasn't convinced. I wanted more. And then he said the one thing that did it for me, the one thing that mattered."



"What was that?" asked Kathleen, staring at the ground.



Kyle smiled. "He said, 'Science is a religion, not an absolute. You have to have faith in order to believe.'"



The girl frowned, tilting her head to look up. "What's that mean?"



"It means," Kyle said in a patronly tone. "You can't always rely upon what you can see and touch. Because that leads to assumptions, and the assumptions aren't always right. No good scientist ever only followed the logical path of evidence. They looked for all potential explanations, no matter how outlandish."



The girl mulled over Kyle's words, making use of them. "So . . . they weren't demons, but . . . they weren't natural, either?"



Kyle leaned back, puffing smoke. "That would depend on your definition of 'natural.'"



Kathleen was quiet for a while, smoking her cigarette. Kyle watched her closely.



Finally, she flicked her half-smoked butt away, watching it dance across salted cobblestone. She sniffled loudly. "Right now, I just wanna make sure my dad's gonna be okay."



Kyle took one last drag, then flicked his cigarette away. "Maybe you should be with him, then."



The girl breathed in and nodded. "Yeah." She stood, started to move away, then paused and looked back. "Hey. Thanks. You know, for saving my dad and stuff."



"Was the wait worth it?" he asked bluntly.



She frowned for a moment, then realized what he was referring to. "Not really," she said. "But I guess it wasn't supposed to be."



Kyle said nothing. He watched as Kathleen Biederman made her way to the hospital doors and vanished behind tinted glass. Only then did he turn back around and try to convince himself that he was enjoying a good day.



Epilogue



Despite his penchant for experiencing all things intellectual, Dr. Kyle Perrin had never spent much time in museums. He understood the basic and varied flavors of impressionism, cubism, realism . . . but their impact was lost upon him. He considered himself a philosopher by nature, yet the qualities of art were a bit too esoteric for his tastes. He chalked it up to too much time spent in empirical thought.



The gallery of the museum was a cool, silent tomb devoted to the works of both local and world-renowned painters, most of whom had already passed on to their final reward. The high, blank walls set a neutral background for the varied works, while soft spotlights brought out some of the finer nuances of brush strokes and other details. Still, despite the fact that Kyle knew he was gazing upon something of artistic and historical importance, he could not fathom why a distorted representation of a woman &#x2013; he assumed it was a woman &#x2013; walking through multi-colored rain was supposed to have some kind of impact upon him.



"Always one of my favorite pieces," commented the smooth, deep voice from behind.



Kyle did not turn at Malcolm's words. "Can't say that I'm surprised."



Malcolm Benedict stepped into the younger man's peripheral vision. "I hear Victor's making a speedy recovery."



Kyle nodded. "Yes, he is, although the nurses aren't entirely happy about it. Apparently, he can't keep his hands to himself."



"Sounds like Victor, all right."



The two men stood in silence for a few moments, as random patrons of the museum made their way through the gallery.

<hr pg="10" />"You're angry," Malcolm remarked at last.



"Not for the reasons you think," Kyle responded. "But yes, you could say I'm angry."



"I take it you aren't upset about Victor's brush with death."



Kyle did not respond for the time it took to inhale a deep breath. When he did speak, he turned his head and met Dr. Benedict's eyes with a cold challenge. "You sent the three of us on a highly dangerous mission, with no preparation and no backup. Now, for an agency as widely influential and resourceful as ours is supposed to be, I find that more than a little suspicious."



Malcolm said nothing, musing quietly over Kyle's words. He scratched his short grey beard and paced away, turning back after a few steps. "You're absolutely right."



"I didn't think that was in question," Kyle said dryly.



The older man chuckled. "No, of course not." He rubbed his hands together and seemed to make an internal decision. "I think it's time I showed you something."



Kyle arched a single brow in interest. "And what's that?"



Malcolm Benedict smiled knowingly. "The Library."



<i>-finis-</i>

