The Empty (21 page)

The ill-fitted wooden door opened a moment later, and Ordool entered followed by two young molts, each with thick, powerful legs and tiny noses that twitched continuously. “Spies,” said Ordool with no preamble.

“Messengers!” blurted one of the jackrabbit molts. “Messengers, not spies.” The noses twitched, and each shuffled nervously in his place.

“Where were they?” Tresset moved to inspect the intruders. He could smell their fear, sense their muscles tightening in preparation for flight. What cowards.

“They were over the eastern ridge. Just beyond the abandoned mines,” said Ordool. “I monitored their movement for several minutes before sending Rethis and Frym to retrieve them. They were not coming forward as messengers might, but were stationary, simply gazing down upon our compound.”

Tresset nodded and moved to just before the two. Both molts were several inches taller than Tresset, but this was not unusual. Most everyone was taller than he. But stature was not what made Tresset imposing. It was the very force of his will, of his intellect, of his potential savagery that gained him respect. “Is this true? Were you spying on my compound?” He kept his tone even, controlled, soothing even. These molts had inherited the rabbit’s natural fear, and would need to be comforted in order to be of use.

“No,” said the one on the right.

“Not exactly,” said the other.

“Explain ‘not exactly,’” coaxed Tresset.

“We are messengers,” said one.

“But, we were frightened,” added the other.

“We wanted to wait for an appropriate time.”

“We were afraid of disturbing you.”

“So, we waited.”

“And watched.”

“But, we’re not spies.”

“Just messengers.”

Tresset held up his hand. “Stop. Please. You make my head spin.” He turned his attention to the molt to his right. “You are from Bytneht Noavor’s pack.”

“Yes, that would be right.”

“Bytneht sent us,” agreed the other.

“Did he receive the supplies we provided?”

The two looked at each other. Tresset smelled the dread rising between them and feared they might foul his office. “Do not fear me. Simply answer the question.”

“The supplies were received,” said one.

“They arrived.”

Tresset nodded. “Very good. And you claim to be messengers, so I assume Noavor has a response.”

Their noses twitched; their thick powerful legs became jumpy. They were about to flee. A quick glance to Ordool and the yellow bat shifted to his left, blocking the doorway. He was not particularly strong, but the bat essence had given him a peculiar appearance that many found off-putting. His nose was small and black, his face and body spattered with bright yellow fur. His eyes were wide and round, far from blind as many falsely believed of bats. His arms, though human-like, bore leathery drapes that may one day resemble bat wings, but now only added to Ordool’s macabre appearance. His fingers were long narrow claws capable of opening an animal’s throat with one vicious swipe. Surely, these two would find him fearsome and remain in place.

“Noavor’s response, messengers. That is why you’re here, isn’t it?”

“Y-y-yes, we are messengers,” said one.

“We bring a message,” added the other.

“From Bytneht Noavor.”

“It has to do with the supplies.”

“And with your offer.”

“Yes,” said Tresset, his voice becoming tight as his patience for the two cowards drew thin.

“He thanks you for the supplies,” said the first jackrabbit.

“But…he declines your offer of an alliance,” sputtered the second.

“He says… He says he has no desire to be directed by you.”

“But he means no disrespect.”

“No disrespect at all.”

Tresset nodded. “In that case, I have a reply for Noavor.”

“Yes?”

“Yes?”

The two nearly stumbled over each other’s word.

“Tell Noavor that I am disappointed that he continues in his small-minded ways. Tell him the only hope of reyaqc survival is to pursue legitimacy, to secure a territory, establish our own nation. And that legitimacy can only be achieved by banding together, by creating a sizable force. Tell him that perhaps soon, his pack will need to find a new leader because his days are few.” Tresset paused, smiled. “Did you get that?”

“Yes, yes,” nodded the molt on the right.

“I fear the message may not be well received,” added the one to the left.

“Of course it won’t be well received,” agreed Tresset. “But thank you for showing at least the small courage it took to stammer that flimsy protest.” Tresset returned his gaze to the other molt. “As for you, you are useless.”

Having the essence of the mountain lion, Tresset had retractable claws that emerged from just above his fingernails. As well, his teeth were long and sharp. His attack on the jackrabbit molt was swift, bloody, and immediately fatal. “Go,” he said to the remaining messenger as he dropped the dead molt to the blood-spattered floor. “Deliver my reply. Now!”

Ordool stepped away from the doorway, and the frightened molt nearly leaped through the opening and was gone before Tresset could breathe another breath. Spitting a piece of flesh from his mouth he said, “Bring me some antiseptic. And then clean up this mess.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Tracy Taylor was twenty-one and she was hitting the Vegas strip. A college junior from Nebraska, her friends Sasha and Mindy—both a year older and likely four years more experienced—had swept her away, nearly bullying her into the trip. Not that she minded, of course. She was a grown woman now, and it was time for her to experience…things. But Las Vegas scared her. Oh, she would never admit this to her friends. They already thought her too conservative and uptight for her own good. But this was “Sin City.” Certain things would be expected here. Not that these expectations didn’t occur on campus. But this was different. At school, she was there for the purpose of education, and as for relationships, they were more of the long-standing type. Here, well, here she could expect a different brand of education.

It was sometime after eleven p.m. The girls were on the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard and Tropicana Avenue, standing amidst a sea of people, and bathed in the emerald glow of the MGM Grand Hotel and Casino. They’d just left Studio 54, the nightclub in the MGM, and had decided to hit the strip in search of “action.” Tracy had been glad to leave the club. It was much smaller than she’d anticipated, very crowded, dark, and loud. The constant
thump
thump
thumping
of club music had given her a headache worthy of a three-day hangover. On top of that, one of the guys she’d danced with, Dan, she thought his name was, had his hands all over her, constantly trying to coax her up to his hotel room. Eventually, Mindy had lured Dan away and the two spent the next half hour making out in a darkened corner.

Tracy wasn’t so sure that any of this was for her, but was determined to loosen up and have a good time. She was only young once, after all, she should enjoy it. Still, the idea of floating from club to club, making it with some random guy—or guys—she wasn’t sure that was for her. Was that so wrong? Sasha and Mindy seemed to think so. And they were happy, carefree, enjoying the Vegas experience far more than she. Still…

Just because she was in a different setting didn’t mean she had to be a different person.

Tracy glanced across the street to the New York New York, with its faux Statue of Liberty and artificial skyline. The trio had already hit the Coyote Ugly bar in there before crossing the pedestrian bridge to the connecting MGM. Tracy had felt the good-spirited atmosphere at Coyote Ugly was a bit more to her taste than the outright club scene, but Sasha and Mindy were constantly on the prowl, in search of bigger and better. They only had three days and wanted to squeeze every last ounce of excitement out of the city. The three debated crossing kitty-corner to the cartoonish Excalibur, a mock castle with brightly illuminated red and blue spires, and then on to the neighboring pyramid-shaped Luxor. They’d heard there was a hot club there. But instead, they moved north on the strip with the vague notion that they’d make their way to Caesar’s Palace—it was, after all, the most famous place on the strip, it had to be hopping.

There was a sudden stir in the crowd—shouting, whooping. Tracy turned to see a long white limo inching past on the bumper-to-bumper boulevard. Two girls of about Tracy’s age were standing in the sunroof. One of the girls had removed her top to the raucous approval of the crowd. Mindy whooped in Tracy’s ear, lifting her drink in a toast to the floozy. Sasha did her one better and lifted her top, exposing her own breasts to more cheers and roars.

“Great,” muttered Tracy. “Now every creep on the strip will be hitting on us.”

“
Wooo!
”
whooped Mindy.

“
Wooo wooo!
”
agreed Sasha.

Tracy figured she either needed another strong drink or an invisibility cloak—if only there was such a thing.

The girls continued northbound on the strip. There was plenty of jostling as revelers moved about, squeezing between clusters of tourists and hawkers. But the general atmosphere seemed relatively calm. It was just people having a good time. Nothing too drastic. Nothing too daunting. For the time being, everyone was fully clothed, though Tracy suspected that could change at any moment.

She was amazed at how bright it was even in the middle of the night. It seemed every building let off a glow of one kind or another. The Monte Carlo stood austere and majestic to the left, its architecture classic and refined, a subtle contrast to the more brazen feel of Planet Hollywood a bit further on the right, with its bright neon red “P.H.” sign illuminating the way. Rows of Hispanics, both men and women, lined the crowded sidewalk and slapped glossy pictures of naked women into the hands of passersby.

Sasha accepted one and read the script aloud, “Hot babes to your room in fifteen minutes.”

Tracy wasn’t in the market for a “hot babe.”

Another ten minutes and they came across a showgirl in a glittery pink and white costume with tufts of feathers on both head and rump. She was offering a free pull on a giant slot machine. Giggling at the ludicrous size of the flashing, flickering contraption, Tracy stepped forward and took a pull. She didn’t win anything—nor did Sasha or Mindy, but the two girls,
“
Wooo-ed
”
anyway.

A block later and Sasha was feeling sick to her stomach. She’d been partying hard since eight p.m. and her system had finally decided to revolt. The three girls seated themselves on the edge of a large concrete planter containing a squat, pineapple-shaped palm tree, two beer bottles, and several of the “Hot Babes” cards. Tracy and Mindy encouraged Sasha to breathe deeply and slowly. She’d be fine; she just shouldn’t overdo it.

There was another commotion in the crowd. Tracy looked up expecting to find another half-naked woman flaunting her stuff, but this was nothing of the kind. The disturbance seemed to be on the sidewalk up ahead. Standing, Tracy saw the crowd parting. There were screams now. Not shouts of raucous frivolity, but real screams. Panic. Fright. Suddenly a figure burst through the throng—a man, naked, and swerving this way and that. At first Tracy giggled, embarrassed, but then she saw the figure more clearly. His face was wrong. The teeth were too long, too sharp, the nose too dark. One ear seemed slightly elongated and more triangular than the other. There was a thin matt of fur on his left thigh, and… Did he have one female-like breast?

And blood.

There appeared to be dried blood on his face and arms. The man seemed disoriented. His blank eyes darted to one side and then another as he twitched involuntarily, his limbs giving an occasional flip and shudder. He was vocalizing, but it seemed gibberish.

“Come on, we’ve got to get out of here,” said Tracy with some urgency. She wasn’t quite sure what she was seeing, but knew it had undesirable potential.

It was then that Sasha chose to empty her stomach into the large concrete planter. Tracy tried to move her along, but the girl was oblivious to all but her own personal agony.

“Come on, Sash. There’s some kind of lunatic over there.”

Sasha replied with another horrific retch that caused both Tracy and Mindy to avert their eyes.

Shouts.

Screams.

General chaos.

Tracy turned. The naked freak had bitten a middle-aged woman just below her left elbow. The woman’s companion, a short overweight man of about fifty, attempted to pull the lunatic off her, but the freak’s jaws held firm. A font of blood sprayed upward. Apparently the guy had bitten through an artery. Another man joined the brawl, then another. Finally, the naked man was pulled free of the now-severely wounded woman. He hissed and spat and jabbered unintelligible syllables in a guttural animal-like voice.

One of the good Samaritans was thrown to the ground, striking his head sharply on the concrete. The naked man held another of his attackers by the back of the neck. The man’s face seemed to go blank—his body shuddered. There were shouts of protests, screams of terror. Panicked tourists ran in every direction. The fifty-year-old man knelt on the ground, attempting to stop the woman’s bleeding. No one came forward to help the other, now-captive, man who seemed close to losing consciousness.

Mindy tugged at Sasha’s arm, attempting to get her up and moving. A frantic woman carrying a young boy of perhaps six years old, plowed into Tracy, nearly knocking her off of her feet. Tracy staggered but maintained her footing. What was a child doing out on the Las Vegas strip at nearly midnight?

Sasha retched again.

People ran this way and that, knocking into one another, shouting, cursing. Others stood, slack-jawed, hypnotized by the spectacle. Still others snapped photographs with cameras and cell phones.

No one helped the man held by the freak.

Tracy had a fingernail file. It was in her purse. She fished through the contents of her bag. Where was that thing? There. No. That wasn’t it. What about… No. In frustration, Tracy inverted her purse, dumping the contents onto the sidewalk. There was the file, beside her lipstick. She snatched the thing from the ground, clutching it like Norman Bates would his prized butcher knife.