But the tracks didn’t belong to a rodent, and no bird could knock tiles off the roof. I held up the lantern, my throat feeling exposed and vulnerable in the light. If it was out there, watching, I was an easy target.
I studied the tracks from under the eaves of the portico. They seemed to go everywhere and nowhere. It was impossible to single out a footprint in the mud and darkness. All I could tell was that they were large.
Very large.
A cry came from the jungle and I leapt. An owl. But it was startling enough to make me dart the rest of the way to the barn, panicked, the lantern light flickering wildly, until I threw open the barn door and closed it behind me, sealing myself inside.
Total darkness. The wind had extinguished the lantern’s flame.
I could hear only the rasp of my breath and the steady drip of the leaky barn roof. Smell only the earthy, damp hay. My eyes fought for a glimmer of light to lock on to. Nothing but blackness.
I felt my way to the wall behind me, pressing my back into the wood. Holding tight to the shears. I told myself not to panic. There was no reason the monster would have gone into the barn. The laboratory was more likely, where it could smell the caged animals, or the kitchen with its mix of odd scents.
Get the rifles, I told myself. I’d been in the barn enough to know where the tack room and gun rack were, even in the darkness. I’d never fired a rifle, but I understood the interlocking parts, the burst of gunpowder. Odds were Montgomery kept them loaded. I would aim and pull the trigger. Even if I missed, it might scare the monster away.
But my feet wouldn’t take me to the tack room. The wall against my back was safe. Standing still was safe. I had an overwhelming premonition that if I moved, I’d be dead.
I would count to five. Five breaths to return to reason.
One.
I gritted my teeth. Listened to the sound of my own breath.
Two.
Beneath the familiar smell of hay, I detected a pungent odor. And yet it, too, seemed familiar. I’d smelled that lingering scent before, recently even, though I couldn’t place it.
Three.
A rustle in the darkness. My breath quickened. I told myself the barn must be full of mice. But I knew better. My hand tightened on the shears. The tracks hadn’t led to the barn, I was sure of it. Wasn’t I? I’d been so frightened that I’d barely been able to process what I’d seen. But there was that smell, stronger now, as if its source were closer. With a gasp, I recognized it.
Damp fur.
Four.
I squeezed my eyes shut. Something crept closer. I heard it in the sigh of the rafters. The shifting straw on the ground. It was too late for guns, I realized. There was something in the barn with me. Something big. Its presence melted into the darkness as if it belonged there. Fear clutched the soft parts of my throat. I told myself there was a logical way to go about this. The chest would be the largest target in the dark. Thrust the shears low, below the rib cage, where they would do the most damage. Duck low to avoid claws and teeth.
Something brushed my hand, something hard but gentle, shocking me so much that I dropped the shears. They clattered into the darkness.
Five.
I leapt for the tack room. I hadn’t a choice. It was instinct now, not logic. I felt a rush of air behind me, like something running. The hairs on the back of my neck tingled. I couldn’t hear anything but the pounding of my own heart. I found the doorway and stumbled inside, feeling blindly along the walls for the smooth metal row of gun barrels. My hand found only wood. Empty holsters.
They’d taken all the guns.
My hip collided with the corner of the worktable and I winced. I could hear my fear deep in my throat, a panicked whine like a dog’s. I ran my hand over the table, looking for a knife, a hoof pick, anything. My hand settled on a box of matches. I fumbled to strike one against the rough side, and with a spark it burst to life.
I held it high, fingers shaking, eyes searching wildly in the dim light for my pursuer.
Nothing.
I was alone, with only the smell of the match’s burning sulfur and the lingering scent of wet fur.
THIRTY-TWO
I TOLD ALICE, WHEN I returned to the room, that I had found the beast and it was nothing more than an unusually large rat. Eventually she managed to fall asleep, but my eyes wouldn’t close for a minute. We both lay on my bed, the monster’s broken claw hidden in the curve of my palm. I put my arm around her, brushing her hair gently like my mother had done for me when I’d been frightened.
Hounds bayed in the distance. The men were returning.
I sat up, easing Alice’s head off my lap, and tiptoed to the door. I’d lit every lantern I could find to chase away the darkness. I squeezed the broken claw to reassure myself the terror of the night hadn’t been my imagination.