Jem screamed as the collision carried him and Zeb to the floor.He got an elbow up and drove it into Zeb’s ear, and Zeb bellowed and twisted away.Jem kneed him between the legs, and hefeltthe pain of it ripple through Zeb.And then that silverfish came out of the night again, flashing in an arc toward Jem’s throat.
He leaned back.The steel whispered past him.And then Jem bent forward and caught Zeb’s arm.The other man was still turning into the slash, his body twisting as he followed through, but Jem held on.Zeb kneed him in the side, but Jem clutched more tightly, his nails digging into the canvas of Zeb’s coat.They rolled again.Zeb came up on top, but Jem still had hold of his arm.Zeb clubbed Jem on the side of the head, and Jem’s vision split.When it came together again, everything had doubled.Zeb’s coat slid up his arm to expose the muscled flesh beneath.Jem tried to keep hold of the canvas, but his fingers started to slip.As soon as he lost his grip, Zeb would use the knife.
Jem clawed at the fabric.
He felt himself lose his grip.
Zeb pulled away.
But before the other man could get free, Jem stretched up—torso, neck head, everything drawn out as far as he could.
And he bit him.
Skin.Sweat.Then blood.
Zeb screamed.
The other man threw himself backward.He kicked out at Jem.He shoved his head, trying to force him away.The movements were uncoordinated, panicked.And Zeb was still screaming.
The knife thudded against the floorboards.
Jem relaxed his jaw and scooped up the blade.He got himself up on one knee, his other arm raised to block whatever was coming next—a fist, one of Zeb’s big boots.
But Zeb skittered away from Jem, pushing back with hands and feet like a spider.He hit a wall and got himself upright.Blood ran down his arm and painted the back of his hand.In the low light, it was black, and it made a trail of black drops across the floor.Zeb yanked open the slider and disappeared into the night.
Cold air began to filter into the house.
The faint, outside noises of the valley: traffic, and the breeze in the peach trees.
Jem’s mouth tasted like metal and something else—another body.Zeb’s.He got to his feet and started to spit, then stopped himself.He had to rinse out his mouth.He had to get it out of his mouth.He took a step toward the hall bathroom.
At the end of the hall, a fan of light spread across the floor from Wendell’s bedroom.
Jem’s knee was still hot and didn’t want to hold him up, so he limped toward the light.He breathed through his mouth.He didn’t want to close his lips.He didn’t want to swallow any of it.But breathing like that made him aware of it, of how strong the taste was, of it starting to dry on his chin, getting sticky, making the skin stiff.The light was yellow.Steady.He remembered, vaguely, that he’d thought Wendell was checking the weather before bed.
He used his elbow to nudge the door open.And then he stood in the doorway and stared.
The blood started at the threshold, splashes of it, but it got thicker toward the center of the room.The bed was soaked with it.What was left of Wendell—burned, cut, taken apart—was stacked in the middle of the mattress.Pieces of him.In the fall, Tean had used a pair of pruning shears to snap branches at the joints.On the wall, they had written in blood, GROOMER.
His first thought was: Someone needs to help him.
But he was beyond help.He was beyond everything.
And his second thought was:I’ll help you.
And hands that smelled like bleach.
And the fact that this was all his fault.
25
Forty-five minutes had passed, and Tean was still waiting.
Jem wasn’t answering his phone.
It could have been lots of things.It could have been a problem with the Subaru.The Screech—a noise that the Subaru had been making in December—had disappeared for a while, and Tean had convinced himself the situation had resolved itself.Which was, he knew, overly optimistic, especially when it came to cars.Or Jem might have stopped to pick up something to eat.Jem might have gotten a call from someone else, someone who needed help more urgently.He had a younger brother and sister he’d reconnected with; what if one of them needed him?
But none of those things explained why Tean’s calls went straight to voicemail.Or why Jem hadn’t called and told Tean that he was going to be late, that plans had changed, that something had come up.
