Once I was at the house, I could only hope that surprise, my own down-and-dirty brand of fighting, the blades, stakes, guns, and daylight filtering through the trees would be enough.
The house came into view, sitting on a bluff high above the creek, high enough to be safe from even the worst flood-stage rains, an early 1900s post-and-beam farmhouse, built around the original log cabin, updated in the late nineties with a state-of-the-art metal roof, vinyl siding, new windows. The grounds still showed the signs of a landscaper’s hand in the placement of trees and shrubs, but likely hadn’t been touched since Thomas was chained in the basement to cure. The area around the house was overgrown with knee-high grass, weeds, oversized trees in need of pruning, all moving with wind and rain, which would stress the security system. It would chirp, moan, buzz, and whine through the storm, and there was a chance that, like any homeowner, he would simply turn the system off. I could hope.
I made my way up the small hillock and moved slowly around the house, studying the windows and doors, all heavily draped or solid wood. They were under a twelve-foot-wide covered porch that circled the house, a porch made of old wood that would likely squeak when I put my weight on it. It wasn’t a fortress, but it was well built. The doors looked securely set into the frame, like the portcullis in a castle wall.
A car was parked in back, a 1987 Cadillac Allanté convertible, top up. I could hear the engine ping from the woods. I could also smell blood and see two lumps in the backseat. I dropped to my elbows and knees in the wet grass, crawling to the car as river and rainwater drained from my boots. Half-hidden from the house by the car, I squatted and duckwalked close. Raised up and looked inside.
Two people—or what was left of them—were sprawled there, heads together as if posed, a man and a woman, both in their twenties, mostly naked, missing throats, covered in blood that looked black in the poor light. The rain let up as I stared, growing softer and fainter. Water trickled down my face. My arms. My spine and thighs. My hair was plastered to me, my velvet jacket sodden and heavy as lead. Their wrists were gouged and slashed as were their inner elbows. The girl’s femoral arteries and veins had been worked over. She had a barrette in her hair and a small tattoo of a blue butterfly on her hip. I felt oddly light-headed, and forced in a breath. Smelled semen. Thomas Stevenson was not squeamish about feeding and raping at the same spot.
I wanted him dead. Something at the core of me went hard and dark and cold. I breathed shallowly, fighting to control my anger. I dropped back to the earth, the faces of the couple the last thing I saw inside the car. The scene was made worse by the fact that they were smiling, as if they had died happy. Silent, I crawled back to the cover of trees and made my way to the front of the house. I was taking this guy out. From inside, I heard a soft sound. A whimper. The sound a young girl might make after her first kiss. Or a woman might make as she died. Rage thumped a gout of adrenaline into my bloodstream. Beast! I thought. Talk to me. My mind was silent, empty, as if her soul had never been part of me. But with the adrenaline spike, I was feeling strength and speed, keener hearing and sight, all Beast-traits that had become part of my own body. That was at least something.
Drawing on that strength and speed, I pried a rock out of the ground—bigger than a football, smaller than a Smart Car—and hefted it, testing its weight and balance, a pitted oval of forty pounds or so. My best bet for getting inside fast was the large window in the front room. I pulled the M4, tucking it under my arm, a finger in the trigger guard. I drew in a long slow breath. Let it out. Drew in another. Beast? She didn’t answer. I bent low, still imitating a deer, and sidled up to the house, feeling exposed out from under the trees. My breath was too fast, my heart raced. The smell of human blood grew stronger as I got closer. The moaning grew more frenzied.
When I was at the edge of the porch, I stood upright, tossed the rock gently into the air, still testing, like a player with a basketball at the foul line. On its third bound, I dropped my elbow and swiveled my body. I launched the ball, half Olympic shot put, half NBA. It flew through the gentle rain. Time slowed so that the rock seemed to float. The M4 was wet and cold in my palms. My vision narrowed, growing sharper. The toe of my boot landed on the porch as I launched myself after the rock.