Master of the Moors (22 page)

"You're going to have to
move," she said coldly. "I can't stay open all night."

"I know, I know." His
vision was starting to blur, black dust pulsing in his eyes. "But
just...just wait for a few more minutes. Please..."

She sighed and returned to the bar. He
felt relief flood over him.

"Thank you. I promise you
won't have to put up with me for much longer." He smiled, but soon
realized she was standing by the window again, peering out, and the
smile vanished. "Are they still out there?"

"I don't think
so."

He wanted to stay here, in
the warmth and safety of the tavern, but knew Sarah would brook no
argument. And although it was a short walk home, he dreaded the
thought of what might be out there waiting for him to brave the
journey.

"I don't suppose," he
began nervously, "there's any chance you'd let me stay here
tonight."

Sarah straightened. "Just
what are you suggesting?"

"Nothing ungentlemanly, I
assure you. It's just that...well, it's hard to explain, but...I'm
a little nervous tonight. Perhaps it's something to do with All
Hallows, I don't know. All I
do
know is that the thought of braving the storm and
what might turn out to be a pack of wild dogs doesn't appeal to me
in the least."

"I'd say they're hardly
wild. And where would you sleep?"

"Oh, the floor, the bar,
anywhere would do me. I'm not at all fussy about that." He gave her
his most charming smile, but then realized in the gloom she
probably couldn't see it, not that he believed it would have made
much of a difference anyway.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I
can't have customers sleeping in here. If I started the practice at
all, I'd have people expecting similar treatment, not to mention
drawing all manner of unsavory conclusions about me, and
that
I can certainly live
without."

"No, no," he protested,
half rising from his chair. "I'll be leaving tomorrow, so no one
need know anything!"

"And if you were to be
seen in the morning they'd think Sarah Laws has a rather unique way
of wishing her customers farewell." She waggled a hand in the air.
"I'm sorry, you're going to have to go."

"But if---"

"Mr. Fowler..."

With a sigh, he eased the
chair back and stepped clear of it. "I wouldn't be any trouble," he
said.

"You're already being
trouble by refusing to accept my answer," Sarah said, and strode
across the room to the door.

"I didn't mean to," he
said. "I'm sorry."

In silence, she put her
hand on the latch and waited. Defeated, Fowler walked to the door
and watched her reach up and unhook the lantern from the nail.
Expecting her to extinguish it and shroud them in darkness, he was
surprised when instead she handed it to him and cracked open the
door. Wind whistled around the jamb.

"Thank you," he
said.

"You can drop it off in
the morning before you go."

He hesitated, met her
eyes. "You're a good woman," he told her. "And I'm sorry you're not
happy."

She gave him a curt nod.
"Good night and good luck, Mr. Fowler. I'll miss your custom
here."

He almost laughed.

"Good night,
Sarah."

He stepped out into the
violent night and hunched impulsively against the battering wind
and rain. When he turned to see if Sarah was still watching, he saw
that she'd already closed the door. He licked his lips and raised
the lantern. The globe of light didn't reach very far, but it was
infinitely better than the dark, even though it didn't help him
determine what might be lurking on the fringes of it.

Do you have dogs?

He prayed she'd been
mistaken; that the storm had whipped the night into such a frenzy
it had only appeared as if hounds were roaming outside. Or perhaps
there really had been dogs out here, scavenging. It was not
impossible that some of the farmers had brought their collies with
them to the hall and set them free before going inside. Maybe
they'd gathered in the road outside the tavern hoping Sarah would
toss them some scraps.

Maybe.

But he couldn't shake the
memory of Grady's words to him earlier:
I
think there were three of 'em.

Them.

Until he'd heard that, he
might not have given Sarah's words---

Do you have dogs?

---a second thought, and
walked home with only self-pity and loneliness nagging at him. But
now every shadow cast by the lantern was a hellish creature
advancing on him, every illuminated raindrop was an eye glaring
balefully at him, and every footstep was another move closer to his
doom.

He began to walk, after
coming to the remarkably sober conclusion that standing here
sweeping his light around was more likely to draw whatever was out
there to him than anything else.

Be calm
now
, he advised himself.
Just keep walking and don't look back. In a few
minutes you'll be home, and safe, and tomorrow you'll never have to
worry about---

Something growled.

Despite the immediate,
overwhelming impulse to run that exploded inside him upon hearing
the sound, he froze, then spun with the lantern. The rain fell like
a veil, a curtain trapping his light, allowing it to shine no
further than he could reach with his own hand. Holding the lantern
out in front of him, certain that was where the noise had come
from, he slowly, slowly began to walk backwards, the wind aiding
him with an invisible hand pressed to his chest.

It was nothing.

Another step back and
something brushed against the backs of his knees. He screamed and
whirled around, but in his attempt to lower the lantern to see what
had touched him, it slid from his wet grasp and shattered on the
ground, the candle fluttering briefly before the wind snuffed it
out.

"Oh God..."

He was enclosed in total
dark, with only his own heartbeat, the moan of the wind and the
hissing of the rain against the road for company. Shivering, he
took tentative steps forward, convinced that the only hope now was
to get home as quick as possible and not to stand around waiting
for what had just happened to happen again. He also retained the
hope that because he could see nothing, maybe whatever was with him
in the dark was equally blind.

A snarl and what felt like
a light punch across his thighs sent him to his knees with a wail
of terror. He swiveled until he was sitting down, his feet tucked
beneath him and roared, "Sarah, help!" in the direction of the
tavern. The fact that all the lights were out didn't discourage
him. He had only just left her; she might still be
awake.

The puddle in which he sat
grew warm, and despite the paralyzing fear, he considered that most
unusual. With an absurd surge of embarrassment he wondered if he
had urinated in his pants. He reached down. His pants were torn
almost all the way open at the thighs.

So were his legs.

His probing hands had
alighted on what he'd assumed was a strip of ragged material from
his pants, drenched in warm liquid. But when he'd tugged on it, hot
fiery pain lanced through him and he screamed. He released what he
feared now was a strip of his own flesh and tentatively ran his
hands over the wound. It was deep, and wide and he realized the
warmth pumping from it was his own blood.

Oh Jesus I'm going to die!

Even though he knew he'd
been hurt, and hurt badly, he attempted to rise and paid for it
with a wave of pain that almost knocked him unconscious and briefly
re-ignited the memory of the lantern-light in his eyes. He lay on
the ground, motionless, and tried to summon the energy he would
need to crawl back to the tavern, because despite his panic, he
realized that was what he would need to do if he was to have any
hope of surviving. It was closer than home, and once inside, Sarah
could summon Doctor Campbell to come fix him up. Then, Fowler would
tell them what he and Grady had seen and use Grady's advice that
they get some men together at daybreak and hunt down these
creatures once and for all. It was a plan, and it made him feel a
little better. With great effort he flipped himself over until he
was lying on his stomach and, teeth gritted, he began to crawl, the
wet ground tearing at his open wounds.

He stopped when something heavy
pressed against his back.

No...

A low rumbling growl that
might have been the thunder had it not been so close to his ear
signaled the application of more weight, this time on the backs of
his legs, forcing his wounds to grind against the roughened surface
of the road. He whined, the rain tapping hard against his skull.
"Please
stop
..."

Sharp things pierced the
flesh just below his shoulder blades. The creature was standing
atop him, as if he were a pedestal. He could hear it's staggered
breathing, and he turned his head, if only to catch of a glimpse of
his killer, a glimpse of the Beast of Brent Prior.

What he saw was a thing of
nightmare, a liquid shadow with white fire for eyes and sharpened
bones for teeth, an image even the devil in all his madness could
not have designed. As he watched, stricken with fear, it lowered
its angular head toward him, nostrils flaring. Fowler was distantly
aware of other sounds, other growls coming from all around
him.

Grady was
right
, he thought and now his bladder did
let go.

There were others, their
eyes burning in the darkness like the eyes of jack o' lanterns,
nails clicking on the road. He lowered his head and whispered a
prayer into the sodden earth.

***

Tabitha, astride her
brother's back, unleashed a scream of rage as she dug her nails
into his neck. Even her assault, however, was not strong enough to
divert the course of his punch, but at the last second, Neil leaned
away from it. Donald cursed in frustration. The disappointed crowd
began to jeer.

Kate managed to break
through the fence of Merrivale boys, who were shaking their heads
in disgust. "Can't even hit a blind boy," one of them called out
and turned his back on the fight.

Donald grabbed his
sister's wrists and wrenched her off his back, then, intercepting
the blow she swung his way, gave her an openhanded slap across the
face that sent her reeling. "You
mind
yourself," he roared, bringing a
hand to his cheek then inspecting the blood her nails had
drawn.

It was silver.

"What---?" he said,
frowning, but before he got a chance to finish his sentence, a fist
crashed into his mouth, mashing his lips against his teeth and
cracking his nose. He gasped and staggered away, his mouth filling
with something he dimly realized should have been blood but tasted
like dirt. When he looked up, outraged, he saw Neil standing before
him, absently massaging his knuckles as he prepared to strike
again.

Word spread quickly and
the crowd returned, but this time the chaperones were ahead of
them.

Donald lunged for Neil and
they went down in a tangle of fists and curses. Neil kicked and
flailed and launched a volley of blows into the side of the bigger
boy's head.

"Get him off the lad!"
someone barked amidst the excited cries of the
spectators.

"I'll kill you!" Donald
said, and aimed another punch at Neil's face. The adult hands that
locked themselves around his chest and hoisted him off the fallen
boy foiled him. "Let me go, you bastards! Let me
go!
" But his request was
ignored as the chaperones forced him through the crowd and toward
the door.

Kate and Tabitha rushed to
where Neil lay, blood streaming from his nose. Once more
disappointed, the crowd began to disperse and after a few moments,
the band recommenced their music. In seconds, it was as if the
altercation had never happened.

"Are you all right?" Kate
asked, as her brother rose. She watched him bring a tentative hand
to his nose, and wince.

"I'm fine," he said and
ran a hand through his hair. "I'm going home."

Tabitha glanced at Kate,
who shook her head. The message was clear:
Better leave him alone for now
. She
nodded and began to move away. Neil's words to Kate stopped her.
"Is his tramp of a sister still here?"

Kate closed her eyes, and
when she opened them again, they were filled with sympathy. "No,"
she said, looking at Tabitha. "She's gone."

A moment later, she
was.

***

"Are you sure it's yours,
lad?" asked the old man.

Neil nodded. "Yes. I was
minding it for Grady and it must have fallen out of my pocket when
I ran in out of the rain."

"Odd of him to give you
something like this to look after."