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At first, the congestion of overgrowth seemed like just another vinedraped knot of trees. But the more she stared at it, the more she recognized that there were contours . . . corners.
There was an old iron fence under all that ivy, four-cornered by some big maple trees. And inside of it, also covered with weeds . . . was a graveyard.
Walking over, she discovered that the gate of cockeyed iron points had been forced open. Someone had come through it recently, leaving the vines freshly broken, the leaves just beginning to wilt. And given the thin wedge? It had been someone who was small.
Nyx had to push things much wider to fit her grown-up body through, and in the moonlight, the pathway that had been traveled through the graves was visible, but barely so. The ground cover of weeds and grasses had been trampled by feet that had passed through only once. Another week? A good rainstorm? The distance traveled would disappear completely.
Nyx followed the winding way through the moss-covered markers and imagined Peter, confused and scared, maybe fleeing from somebody, tripping and falling, orientating himself in the moonlight by the stone stanchions and that gate. The fear that kid must have felt? She couldn’t imagine, and had he known where to go? Had he had a safe destination?
She was pretty sure he had just been running scared.
Right into a hit-and-killed accident with a Volvo station wagon.
The trail of disturbance ended at a stone crypt that was choked by vines thick as tree branches. Its marble entry was open a crack, the departure from its interior one that, like the gate, had had to be forced through the braided tentacles of the flora that had claimed the human monument of mourning.
Gripping the thick stone panel, she had to put her back into it, and she knew, as she groaned against the resistance, that Peter must have been riding pure adrenaline as he had shoved his way out. Terror was a true source of strength, the only saving grace you could really count on when things went tits up.
She got her flashlight out and clicked the beam on. There was a short set of stairs that led down to a stained marble floor and a sarcophagus set in the center of the space. As she moved the spear of illumination around, something scampered out of the way—
With a quick jerk, she looked over her shoulder at the graveyard.
Her eyes double-checked the greenery, the gate she’d forced open, the headstones and the trail the pretrans had forged.
Nothing moved. No scents, either.
The pounding of her heart was loud in her ears, and a flush of sweat broke out across her chest. “You’re fine,” she whispered.
Turning back to the crypt, she rechecked the interior and then sideways’d in past the heavy panel. Descending three stone steps, she got a load of the dust. The cobwebs. And especially the footprints across the floor.
Small footprints, with a high arch and tiny toes.
She thought of newborn young and the way parents checked the fingers. Checked the toes.
Closing her eyes, she wondered how Peter had been born in the prison camp. What that must have been like—
“You shouldn’t be here, bitch.”
The click right next to her ear was soft, but she knew what it was.
The safety of a gun being taken off.
The following evening, Rhage ran fast, ran strong, ran . . . too fast, in truth. Too strong.
Later, after the first of the night’s surprises came upon him, he would reflect that he should have known by his sprinting gait what was inevitable. But such portents were not on his mind as he chased after a pale-eyed, pale-haired lesser.
He and his enemy were far from where their footrace had started, back at the blacksmith’s shop behind the Village Arms rooming house. Up on the second floor of that dubious establishment of hospitality, Rhage had come out of a vigorous private session with a woman of questionable repute. Driven there by a desire to even himself out, as opposed to any true sexual need, he had done what he could to release some of his energy overload, and having exercised himself thus, his intention had been to eat and drink, and then set out in search of slayers to further take his edge off. As he’d proceeded down the stairwell, dissatisfied with his lot and itchy under his skin, he had regarded the night out of a window, hoping there was no rain.
Through bubbly glass, he had seen clearly what he now chased.
There was only one thing that had hair like corn silk and the flour-colored visage to match.
The slayer had been speaking with the horse minder, and money had changed hands. For animals to travel upon? Or fresh shoes for those already owned? Though motor carriages were being purchased by humans of late in some number, the Lessening Society had not embraced the newfangled conveyances.
