“I can maim you,” Christopher growled. “I can disable you and leave you helpless while I find the means.” He sank his teeth into Simon’s forearm and ripped the leather like tissue. He sliced the flesh beneath.
Simon screamed, more in anger than pain. “Damn you!” He clutched his brother’s throat, but Christopher pried him off. Christopher rolled, and flipped Simon over him. Simon’s head was over the edge of the pit.
A branch bent. Leaves rustled. Simon could hear the dirt trickle beside his ear as Christopher’s weight bore down on him. Don’t give, he begged the soulless dead boughs. He’ll know then. He’ll tip me over.
“Simon!” Zoë screamed. He had forgotten about her. She stood above them, beating at Christopher with a branch.
Christopher laughed in his blighted child’s voice, the voice Simon hated so much. The branch broke. Tears ran down Zoë’s face. Christopher began choking Simon again, crushing his windpipe.
Then another voice. “We’ve got you now, Blondie.”
Christopher flung himself off Simon. “What the hell …?” He crouched, ready to fight or flee.
Simon turned, and was amazed to see two boys running from the other side of the park—a big one, vaguely familiar, and a slighter, younger kid behind him.
They panted to a halt in front of Simon. Christopher backed carefully away. “Hassling kids now, pervert?” said the smaller boy.
Simon saw Christopher change his mind about running, a glint of interest in his eyes.
The bigger of the two advanced. “Kenny wants his jacket back, asshole.”
The other followed. “Yeah. He’d get it himself, but he’s still in the hospital.”
Simon, furious at his plot’s collapse, frustrated in his anger, advanced on the boys, eyes blazing. Christopher could get away anytime he wanted now. Where would he go? How many more years would it take to find him again?
The big one pulled a knife from his belt—a cheap hunting knife honed to a brittle edge.
Simon stopped. He recognized the boy now. The fool. What made him think that he could do any better this time? But the smell of liquor drifting to him answered that question. Hunted him down, had they? Hunted the hunter?
The boy thought Simon had stopped from fear. He advanced, waving his knife, and Simon let him, anger raging inside. The lumbering boy was right before him now, but Simon stood his ground. The boy didn’t know what to do. He had anticipated anything other than this. He swung his knife, expecting Simon to duck, but the blade slit neatly across Simon’s face. Simon grinned a berserk grin. His fangs slid down from their sheaths. He licked his own blood.
The boy stepped back, his mouth open. He looked at the knife, and at Simon’s face again, as if he couldn’t believe what he saw. Then his eyes grew wide, and his tongue bulged like an idiot’s. Simon felt his flesh pulling back together and knew what the boy saw before the boy turned and ran.
Simon whirled to face the other boy, who had crept around him during the confrontation, hoping to surprise him from behind. The boy gasped in horror as he saw the curtain of blood down Simon’s face, the demonic leer, and the writhing flesh curling back into itself. He backed away, and a noise came from him like that from a wounded beast. Farther back he went. One step more. Then his arms were flailing, and he was sliding. There was a crash and a scream. He disappeared down into the pit, the hole meant for Christopher.
“You thought you could fool me with that?” Christopher smirked.
Simon moved toward him. I almost did, you bastard, he thought.
Zoë fumbled with her coat, as if burning up.
“I’ll get away,” hissed Christopher. “But I’ll have your girl first.”
He dived at Zoë, fangs bared. But something was in her hand—a crucifix. He stopped and snarled, raising his hands, then he started to shift. Leather wings peeled from his arms.
“Don’t let him go,” Simon screamed.
&nb
sp; She blinked, too afraid to comprehend what he meant.
“Stop him!”
Christopher’s face heaved and rippled. His nose turned up, and he began a mocking chitter.
Simon couldn’t look at Zoë directly. The light coming from her upraised hand hurt his eyes. Yet he ran to her and grabbed the searing cross from her with a cry of pain. He hurled it at the creature that was Christopher, as it rose into the air. The ribbon tangled around the bat. The chittering turned to screams.
The boy emerged from bat, with the ribbon about his head, the cross strapped to his eyes. There were burns across his face, and he tore at his flesh as if trying to tear out the pain. He opened gouging wounds on his cheeks as he struggled over the grass. He couldn’t see where he went. He stumbled blind. He stumbled too far, and he found the pit. He howled. A squelching thud filled the empty air where he had stood a moment before.