“Run, Baz!” Dorian yells.
I take off, pelting across the bridge, reassured by the hollow thump of his running footsteps behind me.
But as I near the end of the bridge, my heart lurches into my throat, my breath chopped short.
There’s something tall and mangled waiting for me on the gravel path. Something assembled from palmetto fronds, rotten logs, and sticks, shaggy with Spanish moss. It’s nearly as tall as I am. Two long arms are pushing outward from the place where its head should be.
I scream this time, and I hold the lighter and the paint can in front of me, just like Dorian did. When I squeeze the can and thumb the lighter, fire spews out in a five-foot-long arc, engulfing the creature. Bits of flaming paint splatter my hand, and I screamagain, partly from the pain, partly because of the monster, and partly because I’m terrified the burning skriken is going to set the forest on fire. Luckily it heads straight for the water under the bridge to douse its tortured limbs.
I’ve stopped spraying the flames, and Dorian is rushing past me, yelling, “Go, go!”
We race along the path. He stays a step or two ahead, though I’m sure he could outdistance me easily. He scans the darkening path, glancing behind us now and then.
Even with my sandals, running on this gravel is painful. I can’t imagine the torture Dorian is enduring as tiny sharp rocks cut the soles of his feet apart. Even if they heal almost immediately, he must be in terrible pain. No use pushing the agony into the portrait, because every step brings a fresh wave. And every slash to his body is another slash in the painting, another wound carved into a thing that’s already fragile. Any second now, it could all be too much. The portrait could disintegrate, and he could die.
“Are you all right?” I shout to him as we run.
“Don’t worry about me.”
“I can’t help it.”
“Just focus on—” He glances back, his eyes widening. “Shit. Keep going, Baz! Don’t argue!”
“Fuck that,” I yell, and I turn with him, ready to face whatever is coming out of the dark.
The monster I sprayed has joined up with the bigger skriken, merging their bodies into a titanic monstrosity crashing along the path after us, tearing up bushes and undergrowth, bending and cracking saplings as they go.
This is more than a “manifestation” of cosmic energy. It’s a half-conscious entity reaching out, clawing at another power sourcethat might help them achieve greater consciousness. I’m the living battery they want. Lucky for me and Dorian, it seems these spurts of cosmic force aren’t limitless. They can only power so many monsters at once.
“It wants you, Baz!” Dorian yells at me. “I said ‘run,’ so you better fucking run!”
“But—”
“Go!” he roars—and I run. Behind me, I hear the hissing crackle of Dorian’s flamethrower. The yellow light flashes weirdly through the forest, fading as I put distance between me and the skriken.
19
Baz
The path seems interminable, and every second, I’m expecting another monster to leap out at me.
A skittering and rustling over my head warns me just in time. I jump to the side just as a spidery skriken drops from above, crashing onto the path. It must have separated from the big skriken so it could follow me. At first, it looks a bit crumpled from the fall, but it snaps its joints back into place and scuttles toward me on stick-legs.
Shrieking, I spray it with everything I’ve got. Pain licks at my hands again, and I almost drop the can and the lighter, but I manage to hang on and keep spraying until the creature crumples, sinking into smoldering embers at my feet.
I wait for a handful of seconds, poised to stream fire again, jumping at every tiny rustle in the gloomy forest.
A soft beat of feet on gravel—Dorian explodes from the dark, his eyes wild. “Keep going. I slowed it down.”
On we run, rounding a few more bends in the path before we break out into the parking lot. Dorian’s Tesla has never looked so welcoming.
As we race toward it, something scrabbles on the gravel behind us. We lunge forward, throw ourselves into the Tesla, and slam the doors, just as a wolf-shaped skriken leaps for my side of the car. The instant it impacts the metal, it screeches and recoils, some of its branches and twigs tumbling loose before reassembling again. Still squawking, it limps away into the night.
“Iron,” Dorian says. “It interferes with arcane energies. Remember, Lloyd said iron, machinery, and pollution work against the old magicks. Creatures like this are stronger when nature is pure and unfettered.” He wrestles the beach bag into the back seat and then glances over at me. “Shit, Baz.” He takes the can and lighter from my stiff fingers. “You got burned.”
I stare at the backs of my hands. Tiny blisters are beginning to rise in a few places, but otherwise the spots are red and a little swollen.
“First-degree burns,” I say. “I’ll be all right.”
