“Not officially. But the report said the blood trail was cold. Like…unnaturallycold. And someone said there were scratch marks on the alley wall. Deep ones.”
I swallow. “Thanks, Trish.”
“You still think it’s your two-faced monster?”
“I know it is.”
She exhales. “Then you’d better be careful.”
“I always am,” I lie.
I hang up and toss the phone onto the couch like it’s radioactive.
“Another victim?” Kursk asks.
“Yeah,” I say, my voice rougher than I want it to be. “Behind the bowling alley. Same M.O. Cold blood. Deep claw marks. They couldn’t save him.”
His jaw flexes. He goes back to sharpening the spear, the rasping metal-on-metal sound a lullaby for the doomed.
“I have delayed too long,” he mutters. “I should have been watching the storm drains. The beast nests in dark, damp places.”
“Hey,” I say, stepping closer. “You didn’t know. We’re not gods.”
He looks at me then, eyes burning gold, like I’ve said something sacred. “You take this burden as if it were your own.”
“I saw it, Kursk. The first night. I saw what it did. And I know what it’s capable of.”
He nods. “Then we hunt.”
I throw together a quick pack—thermos of coffee, flashlights, two protein bars, and one small canister of pepper spray I sincerely doubt will help, but makes me feel less naked. Kursk straps the spear across his back, though the magic illusion keeps it invisible to anyone else. He doesn’t bother changing clothes. I offer him a shirt. He scoffs like I handed him a wet diaper.
I drive.
He watches the road like it’s a battlefield.
“I do not understand this vehicle,” he mutters as we turn down Main Street. “It has no creature to pull it, yet it obeys.”
“It runs on gasoline.”
“This is a spirit?”
“No. It’s fossil fuel. Made from ancient, compressed organic matter.”
His eyebrows rise. “You ride the bones of your ancestors into war. Impressive.”
I smother a laugh. “Yeah. We’re all about guilt-based transportation.”
We reach the alley behind Walnut Falls Bowling. Police tape flutters in the breeze, and the area’s been cleared. One cop car remains, probably for show. I park around the corner and kill the lights.
Kursk’s eyes scan the area.
“There,” he says, pointing to a storm drain near the dumpster. “Do you feel that?”
I do. A chill. Not wind. Not air conditioning. Somethingwrong.Like the temperature dropped ten degrees in a circle around that drain.
We move forward.
Quiet.
