The Beast

THIRTY-TWO

As Bill Elliot parked his Lexus behind a non-descript seventies-era building, Jo opened the door on her side and got out slowly. Dilapidation was the name of the game, all kinds of rot and debris and broken things cluttering the flank of the classrooms, like acne on the face of a plain Jane teenager.

“We can walk around from here to the center part of campus.” Bill was busy rewrapping the scarf he’d taken off at I’ve Bean around his neck. “And you can show me where it happened.”

As she shut her door, she frowned. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing up like soldiers called to a reveille line, and she looked at the lines of darkened windows. But come on, as if all this talk of vampires wasn’t likely to send her adrenal glands into a spiral?

“You coming?”

“Oh, yup.” She headed over to him—and had an absurd wish that he was built more like the Rock instead of one of the boys from The Big Bang Theory. “So you said you were familiar with the school?”

“My mother went here.”

Small world, Jo thought. So did mine.

Their feet shuffled damp leaves out of the way, but did nothing for fallen limbs. Those they stepped over. And when they got to the end of the asphalt, there wasn’t any real difference between the amount of fallen stuff on the grass versus the parking lot.

“What year?” Jo asked as she put her hands into her coat pockets. “Did your mother graduate, that is.”

Shoot, they had no flashlights. Just their phones.

Then again, the moon overhead was bright, with nothing but the occasional cloud wisp to mark the dark, cold heavens.

“’Eighty.”

“When did the school close?”

“Sometime in the late nineties. I don’t know who owns all the land now, but it’s a helluva property. I mean, why hasn’t someone developed this?”

“Not economically feasible. For one thing, the zoning out here isn’t commercial, and second, some of these buildings have to be on the Historic Register, which would restrict their being retrofitted for reuse.”

Bill looked over at her. “I’ve forgotten—you work for a real estate company.”

“Two years next month.”

“Where did you say you went to school? Or did you?”

Williams College. English lit major with a minor in American history. Accepted into the Yale master’s program for English, but couldn’t foot the bill on her own.

“Nowhere important.” She glanced at him. “How did you know where to park?”

“I used to come here to think when I was at SUNY Caldie. My mom had told me about it, and one day I biked out and just went exploring. I haven’t been back in a very long time.”

They made it around the side of the building, and just as he’d described, the open area of the campus rolled out before them—which was, yup, still marked with crushed dead grass.

“Jesus . . .” Bill said. “What the hell?”

“Crop circles, Caldwell style, right?”

Bill proceeded ahead of her, and Jo went some distance farther—before she had to stop and look behind herself.

They were being watched. She was sure of it.

“Hey! Wait up,” she called out.

As she jogged forward and caught up, he said, “I need to come back in the daytime with a camera.”

“Maybe we should just go now—”

“Look at that storage building over there.” He pointed ahead. “The roof’s been torn off.”

“You know, in retrospect, coming during the day would be better. I mean, we can’t really see anything—” She sniffed the air. “Is that pine?”

“From the broken rafters. That damage is new.”

Sure enough, as they went over to the debris and she picked up pieces of splintered wood, the cuts were all fresh, the yellow insides of the old boards exposed. And asphalt shingles were everywhere around the roof-less shed, littering the crushed ground—

Jo’s foot caught on something and she fell to the side, her ankle giving way. As the earth rushed up to her, she threw out a hand and twisted around, saving herself from a total face-plant.

“What the hell?” she muttered as she looked at what had tripped her.

It was not a footprint. A giant footprint. Nope.

“Are you okay?” Bill put out a hand—then got distracted by what she’d noticed. “What is that?”

“I’m fine, and no clue.” She stood up by herself and brushed her slacks off. “Is it just me or does this feel like a grown up episode of Scooby Doo?”

Bill took his cell out and snapped a couple of pictures with the help of his flash. When he checked what had been captured, he cursed. “No, we definitely have to come back during the day.”

Jo got down on her haunches and examined the sunken pattern in the ground with the flashlight in her phone. The imprint was deeper and smudged on one side, as if whatever had made it had been pushing off in mid-run.

Bill shook his head. “Does your buddy—Dougie, I think you said that was his name—have resources?”

She glanced up. “You mean, could he have paid to set this all up?” When the reporter nodded, she had to laugh. “He can barely fund his pot-related munchies. No, he didn’t do this, and as far as I’m aware, he doesn’t know anyone who could.”

“Maybe this was made by a four-wheeler.” Bill lowered himself down, too. “Skidding out.”

Not even close, she thought.

“But what about the roof?” Jo nodded at the topless four walls. “It wasn’t blown off by the wind—there was a little rain recently, but nothing even close to a tornado. And as for an explosion? Nothing is charred and there’s no smell of smoke, which you’d expect to find if it had been a bomb.”

Bill regarded her steadily. “When you grow up, do you want to be an investigative reporter?”

“I’m twenty-six. By all accounts, I have grown up.” Although rooming with Dougie and his ilk might disprove that notion a little. “I really think we should—”

As she stopped talking, Bill looked around. “What?”

Jo searched the shadows, her heart beginning to pound. “Listen . . . I think we need to go. I really . . . really think we need to leave.”

“Where . . . did my house go?”

As Bitty asked the question from the back of the GTO, Mary leaned forward in her seat—not that the shift of position did anything to change the vacant lot she was staring at.

“Are we in the right place?”Mary got out of the car and held her seat forward so Bitty could join her. “Is there any chance . . .”

Rhage shook his head as he looked across the roof. “GPS says this is the right address.”

Shoot, Mary thought.

“There’s the ivy bed.” The girl burrowed into her coat. “That mahmen planted. And the apple tree. And . . .”

The house must have been condemned and torn down at some point, Mary decided, because there was nothing left over, no piles of splintered wood, no chimney’s cinder blocks, just saplings and weeds growing in its place. The outline of the driveway, such as it was, had survived, but it would not for much longer with the encroaching vegetation.

As she and Bitty walked forward, Rhage stayed a couple of paces behind them, his looming presence a source of comfort, at least for Mary.

And then she stopped and let Bitty keep going on her own.

Under the moonlight, the girl picked her way around the lot, pausing every couple of minutes to regard the barren landscape.

Rhage’s big hand came to rest on Mary’s shoulder and she leaned into his body, feeling the warmth of him. It was hard not to measure the vacant, uninhabited property as evidence of the girl’s losses.

“I remember the house,” Rhage said softly. “Bad condition. Junk in the yard with a broken-down car.”

“What did you guys do with the father’s body?” Mary blurted. “It’s never occurred to me to ask.”

“He wasn’t, shall we say, in good condition when we left.”

“The sun?”

“Yeah. We just left him. The priority was getting Bitty and her mom out. When we came back the following night, there was a scorch mark on the grass. That was it.” Rhage cursed under his breath. “I’m telling you, that male was a madman. He was ready to kill anything, anybody who got in his way.”

“Her X-rays prove it.” As Rhage glanced over, Mary shook her head. “A lot of broken bones—not that she went to Havers when they occurred. Havers said that because she was a pretrans, the healing places still show up until she reaches her maturity. He said . . . they’re everywhere.”

A subtle growling made her look up. Rhage’s upper lip had peeled off his fangs, and his expression was all about protective aggression.

“I want to kill that motherfucker all over again.”

Mary gave Bitty as much time as she needed, staying a distance away with Rhage until the girl wandered over.

“I guess my things are gone.” Bitty shrugged in that big old parka. “I didn’t have a lot of them.”

“I’m really sorry, Bitty.”

“I was hoping . . .” The girl glanced back at where the house had been. “I was hoping that I could bring some of my old clothes and books to my uncle’s. I don’t want to be a burden on him. I don’t want to get sent away.”

Rhage made a small coughing sound. “So I’ll go out and buy you what you want. Anything you need to take with you, I got it.”

Mary shook her head. “I don’t think—”

“It’s okay,” Bitty cut in. “Maybe I can get a job. You know, when I go to live with him.”

You’re nine, Mary thought. Damn it.

“How about we head back?” Mary offered. “It’s cold.”

“You sure you’re ready to go?” Rhage asked. “We can stay if you like.”

“No.” Bitty shrugged again. “There’s nothing for me here.”

They returned to the GTO, resettling into their various seats, the warmth in the car a balm to cold cheeks and noses.

As Rhage turned them around, the headlights swept over the lot, and Mary thought to herself . . . at some point, this kid was going to get good news. The Scribe Virgin talked about balance all the time, right? So statistically, Bitty was really, totally frickin’ overdue.

“I just have to wait until my uncle comes,” the girl said as they drove off. “He’s going to give me a home.”

Mary closed her eyes. And kind of felt like banging her head into Rhage’s dashboard.

And as if he were reading her mind, Rhage reached across and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. Mary squeezed back.

“So lemme ask you something there, Bitty girl,” he said. “Do you like ice cream?”

“I guess I do. I’ve had some before.”

“Tomorrow night, you got any plans? We could go out after First Meal, before the human shops close up?”

On impulse, because she was desperate to keep any line of communication open, Mary twisted around. “Would you like to do that, Bitty? It could be fun.”

When there was a long pause, Mary eased back in her seat and tried to think of another option.

In the quiet, Rhage filled in, “Safe Place has my Mary’s cell phone number. If your uncle comes while we’re out, they can call her right away and get you. And we can pick a place that’s close, like, no more than five minutes’ drive.” Rhage glanced in the mirror. “I mean, you take baths, right?”

“I’m sorry?” the girl said.

“Like, if you were in the bath and he happened to come, someone would knock on your door, and you’d have to get dry and get dressed and all that jazz. And that would take five minutes, right? So it’s just the same. Well, except in one case you need soap and a bath mat, and in the other you get sprinkles and a boatload of hot fudge. If you go that way. Personally, I like to mix and match—I prefer to get a couple of milk shakes, a banana split . . . a sundae or two. Then I top it off with a mocha chip in a cone. I don’t know why. I guess that’s like the dinner mint at the end of a meal to me. Know what I mean?”

Mary had to turn around again. Bitty was looking forward, her brows super-high, her little face the picture of surprise.

“He’s not kidding,” Mary murmured. “Even if you’re not into the ice cream, watching him eat all that is something to see. So what do you say?”

“They have your number?” the girl asked.

“Absolutely they do. It’s a requirement for all staff members. And I keep my phone with me and turned on at all times, even when I’m sleeping—and certainly when I go out into the world.”

“And if you’re worried about something being missed”—Rhage held up his own phone—“I’ll give them my number, too. And my brother Vishous made sure we have the best reception and service in the city. No dead zones. Unless you’re around Lassiter, and that’s more of a mental thing than anything about cellular networks.”

“Um . . . Lassiter?” Bitty said.

Rhage nodded. “Yeah, he’s this pain in the ass—oh, shit—I mean, sorry, I shouldn’t say ass around you, should I? Or shit. And all those other bad words.” He poked himself in the head. “I gotta remember that, gotta remember that. Anyway, Lassiter’s a fallen angel who we’ve somehow gotten stuck with. He’s like gum on the bottom of your shoe. ’Cept he doesn’t smell like strawberries, he hogs the T.V. remote, and on a regular basis, you think to yourself, Is that really the best the Creator could do with an immortal? The guy has the worst taste in television—I mean, the only saving grace is that he isn’t addicted to Bonanza . . . have you ever watched twelve straight hours of Saved by the Bell? Okay, fine, it was probably only seven, and it wasn’t like I couldn’t have left—my God, I tell you, though, it’s a wonder I escaped with my ability to put my pants on one leg at a time still intact. . . .”

It was right about then when it happened. And Mary would have missed it if she hadn’t by some stroke of luck picked that moment to turn around again and check to see if Bitty was still listening.

The little girl smiled.

It wasn’t some big grin, and she didn’t laugh exactly, but the sides of her mouth definitely, totally lifted.

“Will you tell me more?” Bitty asked when Rhage stopped to take a breath. “About the other people you live with?”

“Sure. Absolutely. So my boss, the King? Your King? He has a golden retriever named George that helps him around. Wrath’s blind—but he always knows where you are in the room. He’s got crazy senses, that one. He likes lamb, and even though he’d deny it, he seems determined to always finish his vegetables. Like, at meals, you look over—well, see his plates have to all be arranged with the meat, the carbs, and the vegetables in the same place—’cuz, you know, he can’t see. Anyway, I can tell he hates those damn veggies, but he eats ’em. Ever since he had his son, L.W. Little Wrath, you know. The kid’s how old now?” Rhage looked over. “Mary, can you remember?”

But Mary wasn’t really listening to specifics. She was leaning back against the headrest and letting Rhage’s prattle of their lives wash over her.

It was the first time in . . . months that she felt relaxed.

“Mary?”

Turning her head to him, she smiled.

I love you so much, she mouthed in the lights of the dash.

Rhage’s chest inflated twelve times its normal size, and his I’m-the-man expression was so bright on his beautiful face, it was a wonder the entire zip code didn’t light up from it.

“Anyway,” he continued as he brought the back of her hand up to his mouth for a kiss. “We have a cat named Boo. He came with Wrath’s shellan, Beth, your Queen. And then one of our doctors has a retired racehorse? And I don’t want to think about Vishous owning any gerbils. But I’m not going there, and no, I will absolutely not explain that one. . . .”

Mary found herself closing her eyes as she let the stories and his baritone voice wash over her. For some reason, she remembered a different ride in this car, one very early on in their relationship . . . one where they had put the windows down and blared “Dream Weaver,” and she had stuck her head out the window and felt the wind in her face and her hair as they had roared down the road.

It was nice to know, even after all this time, that he still had the ability to carry her away.