Darkborn (17 page)

But no books.

Until he took a step forward, and something caught a bit of light. The buckle part of the thick rubber book strap. Just a bit of light, but enough to catch his eye.

He took a breath.

Salvation, he thought.

And he walked straight to the books, hurrying, eager to get the hell out of here, not watching where he was going.

He got to the books, and he picked them up. They felt cold and alien in his hands.

Of course .
 
.
 
. they’d been sitting here, in the dark, in the cold, covered by a thin wet spray.

He turned to leave, still hurrying, taking big steps.

He stepped into something slippery, and one shoe, a brown loafer, slid comically.

Will felt his knee buckle.

What the — ? he thought.

But just as he was going to put down his hands to stop himself, he saw what he had slipped in.

Whalen’s upchuck.

Spread all over Kiff’s demonic artwork.

Will gagged.

He didn’t put his hands down. That would have been too gross. But he was able to stop his legs from moving. Stop them. And then he moved his unsullied foot to another rock and pushed himself up, and away.

The light sputtered.

He took another step, another, hurrying still.

Got to get up to some flat pavement. This is like something from Wonderland. A road gone mad, right by the ocean, and —

He turned and looked back at the pentacle, the circle.

He took another step.

And the shoe, still coated with a tiny veneer of gummy goo, slid on the stone. His leg slid, moved, and —

Went down.

He felt the edge of the stone, and his leg fell into some kind of hole.

He turned around to see what was trapping his leg.

I’ve fallen between the stones, he thought, into the crack between two stones.

But it was worse than that.

He had slid into a hole, a cavern made by one rock lying askew on top of another. His foot hit bottom. It twisted. He felt pain as rock rubbed against his anklebone, trapping it.

The light sputtered. Will looked up at it.

No, he thought.

Please.

No.

I’m all alone.

There’s no one else here. There’s no one for blocks. . I could be on another planet somewhere. Another world —

No .
 
.
 
.

The light sputtered.

And then it went out.

* * *

13

He tried to yank out his leg quickly.

Just get it the hell out, he told himself, and keep moving. The road was only yards away. There were more lights, houses. Just get your leg out .
 
.
 
.

But one tug told him that it was wedged into the hole.

Good thing the tide’s not coming in, he thought.

He looked at the ocean.

Or is it?

As if in answer, a wave splashed noisily only feet away.

He reached down with his hands, palms down, and pushed against the edge of the upper rock. He kicked with his free foot. He grunted.

He felt the skin of his trapped ankle scraping against rock.

It hurt, but he pushed some more, and the pain grew, turning sharper, and he knew that he had torn his skin.

And his foot still wasn’t moving.

I’ve got to twist the leg somehow. Work it out. Try another angle.

After all, it got in there, didn’t it?

It got into this — so it has to come out.

He looked at the hole.

He remembered this hole.

I do? he thought. How could I remember this hole? What on earth — ?

And through his alcoholic haze, he did remember. Getting here, and seeing something move, something fat and gray. Disturbed by their coming.

But now he was alone. And it was dark.

Will chewed his lip.

Oh, no, he thought. Oh .
 
.
 
. no …

He imagined it moving down there, hearing his foot scratch at the rock, and — yes — maybe even smelling the blood.

And it might come a bit closer, its tail snaking this way and that, cautiously, nervously.

But when I didn’t run away, this bleeding thing .
 
.
 
. Why, the rat might .
 
.
 
.

“No!” he yelled, and he twisted his foot, grunting, pulling as hard as he could.

Pushing his hands against the stone.

He felt more skin being torn, the pain sharp, biting, as the skin was peeled away from the bone.

But then his foot moved.

Great, he thought, and now his leg flew up, out of the hole.

His foot came out.

But —

His shoe slid off, back down into the crack.

“Oh, shit,” he said, standing. He rubbed at his ripped ankle and felt the blood. It wasn’t bad, more of a scrape. It would hurt to walk but that wouldn’t be so bad.

He stared back at the hole.

Leave the fucking shoe.

Yeah, he thought, his decision process surely affected by the Old Grand-Dad.

Leave the shoe and get on the subway and keep going.

But they were new loafers. And just how would he explain that to his parents?

We had a wild dance, Mom and Dad. Real wild. Great time, but I lost my shoe.

I’ve got to get it, he thought.

I’ve got to reach in and pull the damn shoe out.

He nodded.

Then he tried convincing himself that it was no big deal.

The rat was probably nowhere in sight, scared by the noise, all their laughing. Yeah, the chunky rat was probably long gone, down to Sheepshead Bay where he can munch on fish heads and dried chum from the day’s party boats.

Will knelt down.

He was breathing hard.

He tried to decide which hand he’d use. Left or right?

As if he were trying to figure out which one he’d be less likely to need the rest of his life.

But, Will thought, speed is called for here. Do it fast. Snatch the shoe, yank it up, and we’re home free.

He leaned forward. Now even the stone was black in the darkness. There was no moon, and the stars were washed to a yellow dullness by the clouds and smog.

He took another breath.

He stretched his hand into the hole.

Deeper, deeper, his fingers bunched together.

Lest he touch something he didn’t want to touch. And further.

But he felt nothing.

He didn’t even touch the ground. It’s deeper than I thought.

Will moved his hand back and forth in the hole. He opened his fingers — just a bit. He felt nothing. The shoe was still lower.

He leaned forward, pressing his shoulders tight against the stone, letting his face press against the speckled concrete, until, finally, his fingers scraped at something.

Sand.

Great. I can feel the bottom.

Now, where the hell is my shoe? Where the hell — ?

He felt the tip of the shoe. And he flailed at it with his fingers, trying to move it closer, until he felt the open end and the heel .
 
.
 
.

Until he could close around the shape and bring it up, and .
 
.
 
.

And it slipped from his fingers.

He grabbed it again, a practiced hand now. Squeezing the shoe tight.

He pulled it up.

When something slid across the back of his hand. Slowly. Like a cold wet strand of spaghetti.

He wanted to scream.

He wanted to jerk his hand up.

But then I’ll drop it again and I’ll have to start all over —

He held on, feeling the tip of the shoe hit some rock, turning it, easing the shoe over.

The snakelike thing slid off his hand.

Will heard a chirp.

Almost like a bird. Then again, another chirp. And —

Bristly things touching his fingers, poking him. Hard, bristly —

Oh, God.

He yanked his hand out hard, not caring if the damn shoe fell back in.

He yelled.

A low, guttural sound, a scream of revulsion.

But the shoe came flying out, up into the air.

Will rolled back from the hole.

And for the few seconds he sat there — watching the hole, watching if the rat would climb out, disappointed, hungry — he thought he heard something.

Thought
he heard it .
 
.
 
. because he knew it couldn’t be real.

Couldn’t be.

I’m just hearing this because I’m scared. And it’s cold and my heart is beating a thousand times a second.

My ears are ringing.

So I’m not
really
hearing this, he thought.

But it sounded like .
 
.
 
. clicking.

Clicking, chattering .
 
.
 
.

The sound of teeth, hundreds, thousands of teeth, clicking, chattering, quietly at first, then louder and louder, until it was a chorus of chattering, clicking
teeth
.

“Oh, God!” Will yelled. He brought his hand up to his ears.

He heard his name.

He took his hands off his ears.

“Will, what the hell’s taking you so long?”

He turned. And he saw Tim .
 
.
 
. Tim’s shadow, at least, up on the road.

Watching him.

“I — I —”

Well, what was it? he thought. What is my big problem?

“I got stuck. Between two rocks —”

“C’mon, dork. Everyone’s waiting.”

Will nodded. He slipped his foot into his shoe.

Stopping for a second, thinking that his toes would meet something. But they didn’t.

Then he picked up his books and ran up to his friend.

* * *

14

The rattling of the subway train did little to ease Will’s queasy stomach or his confused mind.

What happened back there? he wondered.

I fell into a rat hole. I cut myself.

He reached down and touched his ankle, the thin crust of blood now meshed with his dark blue socks.

But what of the chattering, the clicking?

Sounding so much like teeth.

The wind. Must have been the wind.

Or a rat’s nest. Or —

Who the hell knows .
 
.
 
. after half a bottle of bourbon?

The subway wheezed into the Brighton Beach station. Tim had been sitting on the other side, watching the dark ocean and square apartment buildings roll by. But when the train stopped, he got up and came over to Will.

“What’s the matter with your leg?” he asked.

Will looked up, smiling. “Nothing.”

The train lurched forward again. Tim sat down. “I can’t believe I gave up getting my rocks off to hang out with you dorks,” Tim said, grinning. Will smiled back.

Then Will asked, “Do we have to go to Coney Island? Shit. It’s getting late.” Will paused, licked his lips. “It’s a stupid idea.”

Tim turned and looked out the window.

Kiff was laughing at something that Whalen said, which, of course, set Narrio off again.

If a transit cop comes in here, he’s going to haul our asses right off this train, Will thought.

“Why not?” Tim said, still looking out the window. They had a clear view of the lights of the apartments, the houses ending at the blackness of the sea. “It’s early. The dance would have another hour to go — at the least.” Tim turned and looked at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Will nodded.

But he did anyway.

And all too soon, they were at the Coney Island station. They went screaming down the stairs, hooting and yelling.