How long had the Vetches and the Gilhoolies been locked in stasis under Joan’s rule? Years? Decades? Centuries? It didn’t seem possible. Hell, it wasn’t possible.
He tried to shut the idea out of his brain. To pretend that it had never crossed his mind that this was anything but a perfectly normal town that just happened to be inhabited by perfectly strange people. That the people of Heaven, Washington, were what he had originally feared, some kind of bizarre religious cult.
But he couldn’t.
There was too much that didn’t fit. And most of what didn’t fit was him. They’d known he was coming-known him by name. They’d prayed for him to come, that’s what the little girl Mouse had said.
Then he remembered-only after she had started to say something else. Summ. Summoned?
They’d summoned him, like some hero or demon out of an ancient story? If that was true, what did it make them? What did it make him?
The night outside was cold and bright; the stars shone down, white like a cleansing fire. He closed the door gently behind him and listened. For a moment there was nothing. And then he heard a rustling in the brush.
And then a cry, high and piercing, so loud he could feel blood trickling from his ears the way it had dripped down the young girl’s leg.
Matt whirled around as a black form exploded from a stand of trees. It was too big to see all at once, moved too fast to make out its form. He saw the black of feathers, the white of claw, jaundiced yellow beak.
Some kind of bird. Some kind of hideous black crow. But bigger than him, wingspan the length of the house, an eye as big as his head. And a jagged beak plunging down directly at his heart.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Matt dived to the ground and rolled, came up slashing at the giant beak with his axe. But in the time it took to swing the weapon through its arc, the bird disappeared. Didn’t jump, didn’t fly. It was there and then it was gone.
Matt stumbled forward, carried off balance by the weight of the blade, then heard the terrible shriek, this time from behind him. He whirled around just in time to see the beak flashing down at his head. Again he dived to the ground, but the hell crow was a fast learner. It tracked his movement with its giant head, then snapped its beak, tearing a ragged gash across his shin.
Stifling a scream of pain, Matt jumped to his feet. Then almost fell, his nearly severed calf buckling under his weight. The bird was on him, the beak open wide, the bright red tongue quivering as it let out another shriek.
Matt wanted to run. He wanted to drop to the ground and beg for his life. He wanted to open his eyes and realize he was still buried under 25 feet of snow, that everything he’d seen and done since the avalanche had been the desperate dream of a man suffocating to death.
Instead he stood his ground.
Stood absolutely still as the beak flew at him. Waited until he could feel the hell bird’s hot breath in his face.
And then he threw himself on the ground. Let himself fall out of the way as the beak passed by him, its knifesharp tip slashing open his shirt.
The bird crashed down next to him, its beak getting stuck in the dirt. The bird let out a muffled squawk and tried to pull free, but it couldn’t.
Matt jumped up on his good leg. The bird’s head was already swinging around, the bill pulling out of the soft ground. Matt whirled around, his axe at the end of his outstretched arm pulling him through the circle, gaining speed and momentum until it ploughed into the crow’s eye.
The bird screamed in pain, and Matt could feel his eardrum explode under the pressure. But he didn’t back away. He threw all his weight against the axe handle, felt it push through the foul jelly that had been an eye. The crow screeched again, but less loudly now. Matt fell forward on the axe handle and heard a crack as the head snapped the thin bones around the eye and plunged into its brain.
The hell crow spasmed violently, then fell over. Matt was nearly pulled off his feet as he held on to the axe handle. He gave it a yank and the blade came free, dripping blood and brains and optic fluid.
Matt leaned on the axe, gasping for breath.
And then heard another sound behind him.
The sound of hands clapping gently together.
Matt whirled around, expect to see Orfamay at the head of a Vetch army.
There was only one man standing there. He had the cocky grin and jaunty posture of a basic cable game show host. He wore a loud checked jacket with plaid golf pants. A lollipop dangled from his mouth.
“Bye bye birdie,” Mr. Dark said. “A ten-year-old with a BB gun couldn’t have done better.”
“You brought me here,” Matt said, his hand clutching the axe handle.
“As I recall, it was a lawnmower engine on bicycle body that brought you here,” Mr. Dark said. “Pity about your bike. You looked so heroic puttering along on it.”
“And if someone else had come down the highway, would that exit have been there for them?” Matt said.
“That’s a good question,” Mr. Dark said. “If there’s an exit and no one takes it, does it really exist? If you try to find your way out of Heaven, will it still be there?”
“You can’t keep me here,” Matt said.
“Of course not,” Mr. Dark said. “I wouldn’t dream of trying. After all, you’re the big hero. Rode into town on his trusty steed, killed the monster and saved the day. I wouldn’t dare mess with Sir Galahad. Even if the big bad dragon looks a lot more like a puppy.”
Matt didn’t want to look back. This was probably just one of Mr. Dark’s tricks. But his eyes betrayed him, casting a glance toward the carcass of the creature he’d killed.
It lay sprawled on the ground like a deflated balloon, ragged feathers spilling off and revealing a layer of black felt underneath. Matt couldn’t stop his hand from reaching down and touching the cloth. It crumbled at his touch. Underneath he could see a flash of pink.
Matt tore at the decaying cloth, pulling away fistfuls of feathers, scraping his fingers against a rusty zipper. It couldn’t be. The bird had been real. It had nearly killed him. He had killed it.
But there was no way to deny what he was seeing, feeling. The thing he had killed was a costume, badly constructed and sloppily sewn. He ripped open a seam and saw the truth of what he had killed.
It was the girl. The one he’d saved at the barn. She lay lifeless on the ground, sightless eyes staring up at him. Blaming him.
“It’s not possible,” Matt said, backing away.
“That’s what they said about putting chunks of cookie dough in ice cream, but just ask any fat girl what she eats when her date stands her up,” Mr. Dark said cheerily.
“It’s a trick,” Matt said, clutching the axe tightly. “I didn’t kill her!”
“You don’t have any idea what you’ve done,” Mr. Dark said. “Just pooted into town on your lawn mower and started swinging that axe. ‘Cause that’s what a hero does, right? Gotta say, my job’s a lot easier when I’ve got heroes doing my work for me.”
Mr. Dark chuckled and he reached down to stroke the dead girl’s cheek.
“Don’t touch her!” Matt shouted.
“Stop me, hero.”
Matt lunged for Mr. Dark. Or tried to. His feet were planted in the ground; he couldn’t lift his arms. He strained, but he was completely frozen. From somewhere he heard a girl’s voice.
“Take this one back,” the voice said. “Take him back to hell and send us what we need. Take him back and let him rot.”
Mr. Dark flashed a happy grin. “I think that’s for you. Bye now.”
Matt strained to lift his axe hand, but it wouldn’t move. Tried to scream but tongue, teeth, jaw were stone.
“Take him back, I beg you,” the girl said. “I give you the gift of blood.”
