The Silver Kiss (12 page)

All of a sudden the boy tripped and fell. He cried out in fear. The woman gasped, looked quickly around her in repulsion, but knelt on the filthy floor at his side anyway, laying down her purse beside his tumbled teddy bear? Simon stood in the shadows and watched the scene with a sneer on his face, his hands clutched tightly around the pole.

The boy was crying. He reached out to the woman, and she took him in her arms to comfort him. He burrowed himself into her coat, as if searching for warmth, while she patted him on the back. His head nestled in the hollow of her throat. His arms went around her neck—tightly.

Then she tried to pull back. Her eyes grew wide. She pulled at his arms, but they wouldn't release. She tugged at them harder. They were like a vise. She pushed at his head, but it wouldn't move. It was fast to the side of her neck. She started to scream. “You disgusting beast! You foul little animal!”

Her arms flailed wildly, her legs kicked, but she couldn't remove him. She tried to roll, but he had her pinned on her back with abnormal strength. He wound his hand in her hair to pull her head back more, and she tried to scream again, but it turned to a rattling gurgle as blood came out of her nose.

He moved his chin into her neck with a rhythmic push as if milking her. Her legs only twitched slightly now. Her arms lay useless at her sides. Her life flowed rapidly out of her veins into the small leech astride her.

Simon felt sick. He could almost hear the slurping and gulping of Christopher's gluttony. He couldn't take them gently. He couldn't take what he needed and leave the rest, leave some life. He had to take every drop they had and defile them in the process. He wasn't content with the blood, he wanted to feed on their fear. This woman had been let off easy, though. Simon had seen Christopher do much worse.

The woman's legs gave one last twitch, then lay still. An arm curved up, then fell to the ground with a meaty thud. Christopher dragged his head from her throat. He had his back to Simon.

Now, Simon thought, while he's sated with blood. He descended the stairs, his face grim. He raised the broom handle to waist level with both hands—a sharpened stake—and began a careful advance up the tunnel.

Christopher reached for something in the pocket of his dungarees. He pulled out a knife and quickly slit the
woman's throat to disguise the fang marks. He wiped the knife on her coat, streaking a clashing smear into the wool blend. He stood up, still facing away, and pulled an arm across his mouth.

Simon drew closer, and closer still.

Christopher kicked the woman in the chest and grunted satisfaction.

Simon was almost there. He was too intent on his purpose to see the purse, and it skittered along the ground at his kick. Simon stopped, aghast. Christopher spun around to face him.

“Simon,” he said, and was momentarily shocked, but he altered his tone to pleasant surprise. “How nice to see you again, dear. And so well prepared.” He laughed, but it turned into a shrill giggle. His clothes began to writhe, bulge, and collapse. His face seemed to shrivel. The giggle changed to high-pitched squealing. All at once there was just a pile of clothes on the ground.

Simon dived for it, but a black shape struggled from the neck of the sweater and flapped to the ceiling. He threw the stake at it, but it flittered unharmed out of the tunnel, still squealing.

Simon cursed in every language he knew. He bent and picked up the pair of abandoned Oshkosh overalls, then flung them to the ground in frustration. The despicable boy could have transmuted his clothes too. One of their kind could shift the molecules of anything in close contact. He had left the clothes to taunt Simon.

Simon spat. He had better not linger with this corpse. He glanced over at the woman, shuddering at her grimace of death. There was something under her. Despite his repulsion he went over to explore.

It was the teddy bear, now spotted with blood. Simon picked it up. It was lumpy and hard, not a comfortable toy. There was a rip under one arm, and something pattered to the floor—soil. Simon smiled, then a chuckle rose to his lips. Soil.

Wham! Stars in his head. Blackness. He fell.

“I forgot something,” a small, hard voice said, and the bear was snatched from Simon's hands.

“Thanks for the use of the stick,” called the voice from far away.

His vision cleared before he had finished retching. The clothes were gone, but the stake lay at his feet where it had fallen after the blow. When the dry heaves abated, he pulled himself to his feet, using the slimy wall. He couldn't stay here.

It hurt his head terribly to move, but he did anyway. He had to find a place to hide. At least he had found out something important: if Christopher carried the soil with him, it was his last. He was afraid of losing it, and that was his weak spot. There would be many sleepless days if he lost it, and it would be a long journey to replace that native soil. He would become weaker and weaker along the way. Many things could happen in that time. If someone were to get hold of that soil …

But now that Christopher knew he was here, the wretch would be more alert. It would be harder than ever to trick him, almost impossible. Meanwhile, he'd start plans to move on. I've failed again, Simon thought. I'll never beat him. It was so unfair. With all he'd done, he'd never pay the price.

I'm so alone, he thought miserably. I'll be alone forever. There's no one to share my burden and make it lighter. He thought of Zoë, and the glimmer of life she kindled in him that he thought had been doused for good. It was useless. It could never be. The beast in him would not allow it, but he craved her nevertheless.

“If only. “He sighed.

9
Zoë

I
t wasn't until the first trick-or-treaters came that Zoë realized it was Halloween. When the doorbell rang, she had opened the door, puzzled, only to be confronted by a huddle of little goblins and witches. A smiling man waited for them by the front gate. All the children would be supervised this year.

“Wait a minute,” she'd said, trying to cover her fluster, and raced to find her mother's stash of Three Musketeers bars.

The chocolate bars, and a bag of cookies she'd found in the back of a kitchen cabinet, had lasted through the first wave of tramps, monsters, and ghouls. Now she was down to the three jars of pennies her father kept on his dresser top. The pennies earned her some hostile looks. She was glad that the children were mostly young. If they hadn't been, she'd have been sure to gain a trick or two tonight.

In between visitors she had changed into a long black evening gown of her mother's and combed her black hair carefully around her face. I hope the added atmosphere will take their minds off the lousy treats, she thought. It still needed something, however. She went to the hall closet and rummaged through her jacket pockets. She pulled out the small mottled box, opened it, and tied the crucifix Lorraine had given her around her neck with its red ribbon. Her reflection in the hall mirror pleased her, yet she touched a finger to the pendant sadly.

They hadn't spoken in two days. In fact, Zoë hadn't even seen Lorraine at school except for once in the hall yesterday, and Lorraine had turned on her heel and walked away. It was a relief, actually. She wouldn't have known what to say, how to explain.

I have to apologize, she told herself, just as she'd told herself over and over yesterday. But no matter how often she said it, she still couldn't seem to do anything.

“I'm such a jerk,” she suddenly said out loud, and snatched up the phone.

The number jabbed automatically from her fingers, then she waited, almost holding her breath. The third ring was cut off short.

“Hello?”

“Diane.” A reprieve, she thought. Time to ease into it. “Is Lorraine there?”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Zoë. She's spending the night at her mother's.” She didn't sound sorry at all. “She won't be back till tomorrow morning.”

“Well, thanks, Diane, maybe I can call her there.”

“I'm not sure that's a great idea, Zoë. It's their last night together for a while, you know. Monica probably wants Lorraine to herself tonight, not chattering forever on the phone. Be considerate, babe.”

Like you care, Zoë thought. “Well, okay. Thanks.”

“No problem. Bye.” Diane hung up.

“Yeah, no problem,” Zoë mumbled. Now, where was her phone book? She found it in the drawer and flicked through to find the number, but when she found it she started having second thoughts. Maybe Diane was right for once. Maybe she shouldn't call. I might not see her again, she thought. I can't let her leave on these terms. But Lorraine wouldn't be spending Halloween with her mother if I hadn't been such a turd, Zoë decided. She probably doesn't want to talk to me. She snapped the phone book shut.

She already missed Lorraine dreadfully. I don't want to be alone, she thought. She reopened the phone book tentatively and leafed through, looking for someone else to call. She realized that most of the girls she had listed were Lorraine's friends really, there was nobody she kept up with herself, and anyway, anyone in touch with reality would already have plans. As she leafed through the giltedged pages, she ran across Carol's number. Maybe she'd call her mother's friend. Carol is always kind, she thought, and I was pretty intense the last time I saw her. But the line was busy. She shut the book again and tossed it back into the drawer.

Zoë was looking through her parents' records for some spooky organ music, when the next group came. Among them was a nasty little girl in a nurse's uniform, who poked her tongue out when she saw the pennies being tipped into her bag. She's lucky to get anything, Zoë thought. It's that or popcorn, and I know which one I would prefer. She found the record she was looking for after they left.

The doorbell rang again, and Zoë dispensed more pennies. The organ music seemed to be quite effective—eyes blinked, and bags were held out hesitantly. She hammed it up a bit with the witches' lines from
Macbeth
, as she dropped the pennies into the bags. Eye of newt was much more interesting than copper coins.

The second jar of pennies was now half empty, and the groups arrived farther and farther apart. Zoë was getting sick of the organ music, so she turned the stereo off.

The bell rang again, and she opened the door.

Simon.

She slammed the door shut. Her heart pounded in her chest.

He knocked this time.

“Go away.”

“Please.” She heard him faintly, muffled by the door. “Please let me in.”

“Go away, or I'll call the police.” She shot the dead bolt home, trembling.

“Why?” The voice was louder.

“You know why.” She leaned against the door, as if helping the locks to hold. Oh, God, I wish Lorraine was here, she thought.

“You would have told the police about me already, if you were going to.”

“How do you know I didn't?” She hadn't, though. What could she tell them—she felt herself blush—that she had stupidly walked down a dark alley, at night, where there had been a murder, and seen a boy eating a bird? If she was crazy enough to go there, would they believe what she saw? “How do you know they're not waiting for me to let them know if you turn up?”

“Zoë, I've lived the darkest lie of all.” His voice was sad. “I can recognize a lie.”

Why did she believe him? “I can call them right now.” She groped for a reason. “I'll say you're trying to break in.”

“But I can't come in unless you invite me.”

She heard a catch in his words, something like anguish. It didn't stop her from stepping toward the phone. His statement was absurd.

“It was just a bird, Zoë. You could see the feathers, surely?” It sounded as if he was kneeling by the mail slot now, because his voice was clearer.

She froze. He knew exactly what was bothering her, as if he had read her mind. She pictured again his beautiful face smeared with blood. Yes, she had remembered the feathers later. She had seen no body, no human body, only crushed feathers.