But al of that was just so much background noise. Because I couldn’t take my eyes off of the
filthy, decomposing bodies that were shambling to the wal s, climbing the fence, and flinging
themselves at an invisible barrier over and over and over … trying to get at us.
We made it to Gran’s without wrecking the car. Things got better the farther we got from the
cemetery. By the time we stopped the car, even most of the ghosts were gone, with my baby
sister waving bye-bye to them through the back window.
I got out first. Then Ivy. It was a long time before Mom climbed out, and I could see a huge wet
spot on the back of her dress where she’d been sitting. She moved like she was a hundred
years old, climbing out of that car. She closed the door gently, and stepped back with a sad
expression.
My father drove away with a squeal of tires that left black marks on the concrete driveway. I
watched him go, waving from the front step as though he were just going to park the car. But he
never looked back. He kept driving down the road. And final y, my mother burst into tears.
I sat bolt upright in bed, shivering from a cold that had nothing to do with the temperature. My skin was
covered in gooseflesh and felt as though it would crawl off of my body. My heart was pounding in my
chest; my breath came in rapid gasps.
stil hurts me every time I let myself think about it, which is every time I have the dream.
I glanced at the clock on the bedside table: 3:15. I’d slept through the alarm and was overdue for a
feeding. Never mind that I wasn’t hungry—in fact, I was again a little bit nauseous. I wondered if maybe
that was a warning sign. I didn’t want a repeat of the incident with Dr. Scott, so I’d eat … or rather
completely—despite the fact that the smel of it was fil ing the house. Wel , it was certainly hot enough
to eat now. Besides, I wasn’t going back to sleep.
When I’m stressed I have nightmares. Three particular nightmares. They’re based on memories, and
no matter what I do, I can’t seem to keep them from playing out completely. The adult me is a helpless
observer to the worst things that happened to me as a child.
It sucks.
If I went back to sleep now I’d drop right back in where I left off. So no. Throwing back the covers, I
sat up on the edge of the bed. By the light of the moon I padded into the kitchen. I was reaching for the
light switch when I saw a shadow moving outside. I froze. Listening hard, I could hear the rustle of
leaves and what might have been a careful footfal on the wooden steps of the back deck.
Stealthily as I could manage, I slid over to where my bag was stil sitting on the breakfast bar.
Reaching in, I drew Bob’s gun and checked it. Loaded. Good. Clicking off the safety, I rose and edged
gently across the carpeted floor to the edge of the French doors leading out onto the back deck. By the
silvered light of the nearly ful moon, I could see a shadow squatted down near the base of the house,
near the kitchen door.
My vision shifted as it had that morning, into a sort of hyperfocus. I could see every stitch in the black
knitted ski mask the prowler wore, every mark in the gray and black camouflage pattern of his clothing.
Quietly as I could, I turned the key in the lock of the door in front of me and reached down to lift the
brace bar that served as a second lock, blocking the door’s movement. I cringed at the soft metal ic
noises I couldn’t help making. With the bar out of the way, I hit the latch and slid the glass door gently
aside, never taking my eyes off the man, who had set a handgun onto the floor of the deck beside him
and drawn a wrench from inside a black backpack. An unmistakable smel fil ed the air.
I needed out of here. Now.
I clicked the safety back on, thrusting the gun into the waistband of my boxers. A gun would be worse
than useless right now. I could hear the hiss of gas escaping. I burst through the door and ran forward,
kicking his gun off of the deck and out of reach before slamming into him, sending both of us tumbling
down the wooden stairs to the hard concrete sidewalk below.
He started to swear, and we rol ed together, struggling for supremacy. I was strong for a human, even
before the bat got to me. Now I was stronger. But he was a match for me, not just in power but also in
skil and pure, unrelieved viciousness. He went for my eyes, forcing me to rear back. I hissed, flashing
fangs, and my power started to rise, making my skin glow a pale greenish white and cast an eerie light
over the shadowed corner we’d rol ed into. That made him pause for an instant. Less than a second,
but it was enough. I put everything I had into a punch to his jaw, just as spotlights came on al over the
grounds and David shouted from the main house that he’d cal ed the police.
The man lay limply beneath me, his jaw at an angle that practical y screamed “broken.” His pulse,
however, stil beat strongly in his neck. He’d be coming back around soon. By then I wanted to be far
away from the cottage and my assailant safely tied up.
David was coming toward us, holding a shotgun with the authority of a man who had hunted most of
his life. He looked at me as though he’d never seen me before. And, in a way, he hadn’t. I didn’t doubt
that Dawna had told David and Inez about my condition, but hearing about it and actual y seeing the
reality are two completely different things.
I spoke, and happily, it was my normal voice. “Don’t shoot. We’ve got a gas leak.”
He started swearing but backed away. Not just from the guesthouse, but from
Celia? The cops are on the way.”
It was a loaded question. I knew it. But he needed some comfort now, too. “I’m fine.” Actual y, I wasn’t.
I hurt like hel where blows had landed. I’d lost Bob’s gun somewhere along the way. But more than that,
I couldn’t tear my eyes off the pulse beating beneath a smal mole on the man’s throat, where the ski
mask had pul ed away to expose bare skin.
I could smel blood, fear, and sweat, and the glow around me grew brighter, casting harsh shadows.
My stomach growled, and I felt actual pains from the hunger, as if a wild animal were trapped in my
bel y, trying to claw its way out.
I forced myself to my feet, stumbling a little.
My attacker must have been playing possum, because he chose that instant to strike. The movement
was almost too quick to see. His leg moved with a blur of speed, aimed directly at the knee that held
most of my weight.
I went down with a scream of pain, my head slamming against the concrete hard enough to make me
see stars. He rol ed, then lurched to a standing position, grabbing for his pack.
I made a clumsy lunge, unable to do much more with a dislocated knee that was in unrelieved agony.
I couldn’t catch him. I did manage to grab the dangling padded strap of the canvas pack. He let it go,
running ful out in the direction of the beach. David started to take a shot, then thought better of it.
Thank God. The last thing we needed was a gas explosion.
Sirens and lights were coming closer on both of the cross-streets. The cops would be here any
second. I dropped the bag, then limped over to the gas hookup, thinking I could just tighten the valve
again. Unfortunately, he’d done more than just loosen it. It was broken. We’d need to get the gas
company out here.
