A whirring hum started at the back of Ryan’s head, the gradually building drone like a drill boring into his skull.
Evening grunted and dropped to his knees.
“Evening.” No response. The light flickered and dimmed, but the buzzing intensified. Ryan ground his teeth . “Lach, what the hell is happening?”
The man swayed forward, planting his palms against the ground to keep from crumpling altogether.
So much for not interfering. Ryan gripped him under the armpits and tried to haul him upright. The whine whistled higher, then exploded with a roar. A strong wind ripped through the clearing, blowing the hair back from his face. The light died abruptly, snuffed by an invisible hand.
Ryan glanced to the sky.
He had the presence of mind not to scream when the Mothman winged into the clearing.
Caden’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but exhaustion and cold crippled his movements. A smattering of moonlight penetrated the tree canopy, barely enough to illuminate the ground. The arm wound left him disoriented. Bleeding freely at first, it had finally begun to slow, the sleeve of his jacket stuck fast to his skin by coagulated blood. At least the bullet hadn’t ripped through muscle and tissue. The damage would be minimal if he could get to a hospital.
Drained, he leaned his good arm against the scarred trunk of an elm in an effort to stay upright. A few minutes. That’s all he needed to gather his strength. A few moments of rest and he’d move on.
“Can’t hide forever, Flynn.”
Lyle was close. Caden had lost track of how long he’d been running, dodging and hiding among the trees. He was starting to think Mason was part bloodhound. Wearily, he pushed forward. The beam of a flashlight swept across his path. A bullet blasted into the elm, splintering the bark.
Caden crashed to the side, tucking and rolling through a snarl of brush. He grunted when his injured arm struck the ground, the pain bringing him close to blacking out. Another bullet whistled over his head.
“Nowhere to go.” Lyle’s heavy footsteps crunched through the leaves, drawing nearer.
Caden froze.
“Come out of there.” The light found his hiding place.
He blinked against the beam. How pathetic to be hunted and penned like an animal. “Lyle, we can talk about this.”
“Out here. Where I can see you.”
He stood slowly, the pain of gaining his feet drawing his jaw into a clench. He slogged through the thistles, a bloody hand clamped over his wounded arm. Lyle had used four bullets but two remained in the gun. This time there was no chance of Caden running or dodging. He played the only card he had left. “Lottie wouldn’t want this.”
Lyle faced him, one hand gripping the .38 at waist level, the other slanting the flashlight from his shoulder. All he had to do was pull the trigger for a gut shot.
“You didn’t know her. You wouldn’t know what she’d want.”
“I know she wouldn’t want you wasting your life in a jail cell, and that’s what’s going to happen if you shoot me.”
“Shoot you?” Lyle guffawed, his laugh tweaked with sarcasm. “Nah, I’m not gonna shoot you. I got better things planned.” He motioned Caden ahead of him, back the direction they had come. “Start walking.”
Biding his time, Caden did as instructed. He glanced over his shoulder, gauging the distance between them. Too far away to make a play for the gun, too close to miss being shot if Lyle pulled the trigger. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the igloo.”
“Why there?”
“Because that’s where I have everything I need to finish the job.” Lyle’s face was implacable, an unforgiving mask, twisted by tentacles of insanity. “I lost my heart the day my sister died. I’m gonna cut yours out as payment.”
Ryan ground his teeth and clamped his hands over his ears, trying to block the incessant droning. The damn sound was going to drive him insane if it didn’t ease up. He whirled away from the creature, stumbling beneath a wave of terror. What had Caden told him? The Mothman projected emotion, wielding fear as a weapon. Nightmare images plundered his mind—his body, broken and discarded in the clearing, his intestines leaking from his gut in a pulpy, blood-soaked string.
Stop!
He squeezed his eyes shut and gulped for air.
Lach Evening touched his arm. Immediately, the droning ceased and the images vanished. As if an invisible hand had been squeezing the life out of him, then abruptly released its hold.
Breathing heavily, he straightened. Fear fired along his nerves, but without the same mind-numbing constriction as before. Enormous red eyes met his gaze head-on when he turned. He’d never seen a color like that—a chaotic fusion of blood, crimson, and char.
It has no face.
Beside him, Evening said something in a language he didn’t understand. Lach had recovered most of his poise. A measure of strain still showed in his black eyes, but otherwise he appeared composed.
Immune to the bombardment of projected fear.
Ryan chanced another glance at the creature. Made his gaze travel from its eyes to its wings, then the bony structure of its mid-section. It towered over them, its upper body hunched slightly forward. Its flesh—if flesh it could be called—appeared rubbery and pliant. Half bird, half man, it was hard to believe the monster had once resembled someone as striking as Evening. Time and Earth’s prehistoric atmosphere had warped it into the nightmare that stood before him. Too bad Evening’s people hadn’t figured out a solution for the problem until after it was too late for the Mothman.
Something foreign touched his mind. An inquisitive exploration that lasted only a second. A flicker of sorrow for the creature’s fate passed through him. The last of his fear melted with the fading probe.
“It accepts you,” Evening said.
Ryan jerked in response. “What?” Had he been tested in some manner?