A day and a half. Sooner or later something would have to give.
Talia crept forward, palms and knees on blazing pavement, around the side of a sagging yellow mattress that inclined against the back wall of the alley. The small movement set her heart beating wildly, and the throb in her head intensified. But it was worth it. From this position, the cast of her strange shadows matched the trajectory of the sun’s waning light, affording her the chance to rest against the musty but soft mattress.
As soon as her head dropped back against the pillowed surface, the world upended, vision blanked, sound roared in her ears as unconsciousness tried to swallow her. She fought back. Blinked hard. Shook her head. Forced the world back into focus. Her gaze darted to the monster.
He had pushed away from the wall and turned to face down the length of the alley, nose in the air, sniffing. Gaze searching.
Talia grabbed at her shadows, eyes wide and dry, fixated on the monster that had scented her. She gathered the darkness tightly to her so her shield would not slip off again.
No resting. Head stays up.
The monster strode the alley’s length, pausing at the gated walkway leading to the apartment commons to sniff, then moved deeper into her corner. He pulled the mattress off the concrete wall, swaying over her position. His pant leg brushed her cheek.
She held her breath. If she were going to die, she wouldn’t need oxygen anyway. Breathe and die. Don’t breathe, maybe die. Every decision was much simpler when reduced to an exercise in logic.
The mattress toppled sideways, twitched aside as the monster strode by her, back to his position at the end of her alley.
Talia held herself upright, the black spots in her vision growing, obscuring sight. Her head full of static fuzz, she was going to throw up.
Okay, now breathe. In. Out. Again.
No way she could remain upright. Gravity, inertia, and the last dregs of the flamingo sunset all conspired to lower her to the ground. But she kept her eyes open.
Just a little longer. Breathe.
Adam and Custo pulled up to a busy intersection. Cars rushed by with bright headlights, windows down, music blaring. The desert deepened with twilight as night-blooming flowers filtered dusky-sweet fragrance over exhaust. Custo parked along the street. Adam jumped out of the car while Custo listened to his mobile phone, face drawn in concentration as he waited for a detailed crime report for the neighborhood.
Adam took in the layout of the intersection. All the day’s untapped energy, anxiety, and tension transmuted into a certainty that lit a fire in his chest. She was here somewhere.
To the north, small single-story houses butted against tall cinder block walls. The houses broke off abruptly at what appeared to be an old strip of stores. A dirty gas station occupied another corner. To the east, an office building of four or five stories. And behind him stood an apartment complex. Large lettering on the side of the building read MOUNTAINSIDE.
It’s an apartment complex, man. Dreadlocks was one cocky son of a bitch.
Adam waved Custo toward the entrance. “You find the super.”
Custo nodded and jogged down the broken sidewalk to the main entrance of the building.
Adam turned down a rear access road for a quick canvass of the area before the day’s light was completely gone. The single large building turned into four, arranged around a yellowing square of grass at the center. A long stretch of his legs took him down its length. The busy street hummed to his left, cars speeding though the intersection without slowing. To his right, beyond a rusted, squealing gate, lay a black hole of an alley.
“Anyone there?” His breath suspended for thick moments, the sound of his own heartbeat dominating the pressure in his head. Nothing. He had to check it out in person, but he wished he’d brought a piece. The talk of demon feed made him edgy.
Adam moved into the press of blackness. “Hello?”
“Shhhh,” a voice hissed.
Adam’s eyes adjusted; the darkness thinned to heavy gray. In the litter of the alleyway, a young, filthy woman lay collapsed on the pavement. All eyes in a narrow white face.
Two months of searching, of studying her face in photographs so that he could be prepared for the moment of recognition. He knew every contour by heart. There was no mistaking the angled tilt of her glassy eyes. The curve of her jaw. The straight, thin line of her nose. Talia O’Brien.
The monster glided forward, closing the distance between him and his prey, a man ducking down the alley to help her.
The Good Samaritan was going to die. Talia had witnessed it many times since Melanie: The inhuman strength, the vicious teeth, the kiss. Then the dark, sick pull as the vital essence was ripped from a person.