He had arrived. Those lights were his now. So much was his.
Jason turned. He looked at his sprawling, all-white Mediterranean-style home and his three-quarter-acre yard. The grounds were surrounded by ten-foot-high hedges, stonework, and poplar trees. Iron torches with flickering electric lights were mounted on the trees, house, and cabana and gave the small estate a Greco-Roman look. He had had those put in, replacing the garish spotlights that had been buried about the property.
A small pool in the center of the yard was lit by candles floating on miniature wooden barges. Jason looked at the tents arrayed around the pool. The sheer fabric blew lightly in the soft early-evening breeze. The tents were supported by columns and surrounded by statues that had been used on his show. The meats and vegetables roasted on open fires in stone pits. The waitstaff, dressed in Philistine attire, offered beverages in real silver goblets. He knew that guests were chatting with each other but looking at him and smiling. Actors and actresses. Agents and managers. The press.
They were his now, too.
Life was good.
Jason closed up his phone. He tucked it back into his white dinner jacket. It was time to return to his guests.
Suddenly, something leaped over the hedge, landed on the actor's back, and pounded him face-first into the lush green grass. Jason's spine and both of his lungs were crushed. In the moment of life that remained he saw a monstrous golden thing jump to the ground in front of him, jag suddenly to the left, and launch itself at Lizz Hirsch-Horn, his Delilah.
At the same time, the hedges and walls of the estate were being breached on all sides by other giants, some of them nine and ten feet long and standing five feet high at the shoulder. They flew down into the perimeter like dark angels, drawn by the smell of meat and the shimmering water of the pool. They tore into the fresh game that was standing around the yard, bounding one way and then the other, thick claws and fangs savagely pulling down prey by an arm or leg. Some cats would twist their prey by the head to break its spine, while others simply left it crippled where it fell so it couldn't get away. Then they would turn on another victim. Half the forty-odd guests were down in a matter of seconds.
The initial charge was followed by the choked screams and panicked flight of a disoriented mob. Guests who had been networking seconds before were now trying vainly to survive. The flame pits filled with stumbling waitstaff and panicked producers, the tents were splashed with the blood of actors and agents, and the pool filled quickly with reporters and managers who sought safety in the water. But the cats followed them in. Some of the saber-tooths jumped while others slid into the pool like crocodiles. The water turned cherry-red as the cats bit into their victims and shook them violently from side to side. The guests flailed and gurgled, groping hands and looks of wide-eyed terror occasionally bursting through the surface. Before long the cats climbed back onto the tile, dripping water and blood from their dead prey. The bodies were dropped on the edge of the pool while the cats pursued the few who had managed to get as far as the driveway.
Soon everything was silence. As the flickering fires threw distorted shadows on the hedges, the cats speared the party-goers with their fangs and began carrying them through the hedges to the valley whence they'd come.
He watched from a hilltop that overlooked the preying ground. On either side were two golden warriors whose yellow-white eyes, like his, were focused on the attack. A brown creeper clung to the back of one of them, using its long, curved bill to dig insects from the fur of one of the subordinate animals. Their fur rippled in the wind, the three of them sniffing the air as it gusted by. They ignored the strange smells, of which there were many. Only the familiar ones mattered, and one in particular.
Like the smells, the landscape itself had changed. The hills were different. They were smoother, with many caves above ground and creatures dwelling inside them. There was more water than before, clear and bright and collected in small ponds like the one below. There were tiny fires everywhere, including lights that moved through the sky-
Suddenly, he detected something on the wind.
His great silver head turned slowly in the direction from which they'd come. It wasn't a smell he'd sensed but a presence. He'd sensed it before only it was nearer now, more powerful.
More dangerous.
He didn't wait for those below to finish. They would follow soon enough. Moving quickly and resolutely, but not with haste or fear-never with fear-he strode down the hill followed by the two at his side.
Soon they would be home. He could smell that too. And when they reached it, they would make a stand against the thing that hunted them.
Death.
Chapter Sixty-Seven
The Chumash believed that Death was dangerous company, a tangible thing that stayed behind after it claimed a victim. They believed that it inhabited minerals and also infiltrated living things, piggybacking itself on the soul or in the mind. Sometimes it lulled the host outright, sometimes it drove them mad before killing them.
In the end, of course, Death always won.
Grand didn't believe that. But as he rode in the noisy chopper with the dead saber-tooth, he felt more than just the loss of the cats. The scientist was sitting in a sling-seat near the door and the animal was lying on the canvas, trussed and uncovered. Yet there was still a sense of menace about it It was almost as if the saber-tooth could rise again.
If a cat has nine lives, how many would a saber-toothed cat have?
The scientist looked around the cabin. Gearhart was riding in the cockpit. He had the copilot's headset pressed to one ear. There was only one guardsman in the back and he was looking out the window.
Suddenly, Gearhart turned and shouted into the rattling-loud cabin. "Professor!"
Grand slid from the sling and went to the cockpit.
"We've got a new destination," Gearhart said.
"Where?"
"The Hollywood Hills," the sheriff said. "There's been another attack."
"When?"
"Within the last half hour or so." He offered Grand the headset. "Lieutenant Mindar wants to talk to you."
Grand switched places with Gearhart. The severed tail of the saber-tooth swung and bounced on the sheriff's left hip as he moved. It almost seemed alive. Grand looked into the cockpit as he slipped on the headset and adjusted the microphone. This was the first time he'd used one of these while standing up. Usually he was sitting in the pilot's seat of his small plane.
"This is Jim Grand."
"Professor, this is Lieutenant Sam Mindar. Did Sheriff Gearhart tell you about the attack?"
"Yes. Do we know how many cats?"
"No. The police are talking to someone who apparently arrived moments after it happened. The person saw large animals and the police found gold fur on the hedges. They're organizing a search of the hills right now."
It took a moment for all of that to register. The Hollywood Hills were to the southeast of their position. Depending on where the saber-tooths struck, they were within ten miles or so of the La Brea Tar Pits. They must have kept moving through the night. Perhaps the females had broken off to rest.
"The LA Chief of Police wants to divert your Chinook to help with the air search," Mindar went on. "Sheriff Gearhart also said you know where the cats are heading. I need that intel now. They're moving into a densely populated region and they have to be stopped."
"I agree," Grand said. "But they have to be stopped with tranquilizers, not bullets."
"Professor, I've discussed this with Sheriff Gearhart. Sedatives are notoriously unpredictable-"
"I understand," Grand said. "Keep your guns as backup. I'm not asking for guarantees, just a chance."