The window refused to open. When he was desperate enough to try, the glass in it wouldn’t break. Whirling around, he looked for escape, and saw himself in the mirror over the dresser. Small, dark, thin as a rail. And terrified.
A lie. Another lie. He wasn’t that boy now, he told himself. Wasn’t that helpless boy of seven or eight. He was a man, full grown.
But when he heard the door slam open, when he heard the stumbling tread of his drunken father, it was the boy who trembled.
FOX BEAT AND KICKED AT THE SPIDERS. THEY covered his desk now, spilled in a waterfall from the edge to the floor. They leaped on him, hungrily bit. Where they bit, their poison burned, and the flesh swelled and broke like rotted fruit.
His mind couldn’t cool, couldn’t steady, not with dozens of them crawling up his legs, down his shirt. He stomped them into the floor, into the rug, while his breath whistled out between gritted teeth. The pocket doors he’d left open slammed shut. As he backed against them, the windows ran black with spiders.
He shook like a man in a fever, but he shut his eyes, ordered himself to control his breathing. As they crawled and clawed and bit, as they covered him he wanted to give in and scream.
I’ve seen worse than this, he told himself. His heart pounded, hammer to anvil, as he struggled for some level of calm. Sure, I’ve seen worse. I’ve had worse, you fucker. Just a bunch of spiders. I’d call the exterminator tomorrow except they’re not real, you asshole. I can wait you out. I can wait till you run out of juice.
The sheer rage inside him won over the fear and disgust until he could bring his heart rate down. “Play all the games you want, you bastard. We won’t be playing when we come for you. This time, we’ll end you.”
He felt the rush of cold that burned as bright as the bites.
You will die screaming.
Don’t count on it, Fox thought, gathering himself. Don’t you fucking count on it. He grabbed one of the spiders on his arm, crushed it in his fist. Let the blood and pus run like fire through his fingers.
They dropped from him, first one, then another. It was they who screamed as they died. With his swollen hands, Fox pushed open the doors. And now he ran. Not for himself, but for Layla. One of the screams inside his head was hers.
As he ran, he bled; as he bled, he healed.
He cut through buildings, leaped fences, sprinted across yards. He saw Quinn standing in the middle of the street, shaking.
“I’m lost. I’m lost. I don’t know what to do. I can’t get home.”
He grabbed her hand, dragged her with him.
“It’s the same place. It’s always the same place. I can’t-”
“Shut it down,” he snapped at her. “Shut everything down.”
“I don’t know how long. I don’t even know how long I’ve been… Cal!”
She jerked away from Fox, and whatever she had left, she pulled into her, and ran to where Cal stood with his howling dog.
“It’s gone, it’s all gone.” He caught Quinn in his arms, pressed his face to her neck. “I thought you were gone. I couldn’t find you.”
“It’s lies.” Fox shoved Cal back. “It’s lies. My God, can’t you hear her screaming?”
He hurtled across the street, up it, then burst into the rental house. Charging up the stairs he felt his fear tearing at him as the spiders had torn at his flesh. Her screaming stopped. But its echo led him to her, had him shoving open the bathroom door where she lay naked and unconscious on the floor.
In the kitchen, Cybil cried out when she heard the front door slam open. She threw her arms up, took a blind step forward. The gray wavered, thinned. And she sobbed as her vision cleared. She saw Gage, only Gage, pale as a sheet, staring back at her. When she threw herself into his arms, he caught her, and held her as much for himself as for her.
Seventeen
SHE WAS WET AND COLD, SO FOX CARRIED LAYLA to the bed, wrapped the blanket around her. A bruising scrape marred her temple, and would undoubtedly ache when she came to. No blood, no breaks as far as he could see on a quick and cursory look. Getting her warm and dry were priorities, he thought. Then he’d make certain, then he’d look closer, look deeper. He’d barely had time to check her pulse before Quinn and Cal rushed in.
“Is Layla- Oh, God.”
“Fainted, I think. I think she just fainted,” Fox told Quinn when she dropped down beside him. “Maybe hit her head. Something happened when she was in the shower. I don’t think there’s anything there now, but Cal-”
“I’ll check.”
“You said… Sorry.” Quinn mopped at her own tears. “Really bad day. You said you heard her screaming.”
“Yeah, I heard her.” Her terror had been so huge, he thought as he pushed her wet hair away from her face. It had reached out and gripped him by the throat, had filled his head with her screams. “I heard all of you.”
“What?”
“I guess our Bat Signal worked. It was jumbled, but I heard all of you. She needs a towel. Her hair’s wet.”
“Here.” Cal handed him one. “Bathroom’s clear.”
“Cybil, Gage?”
Cal squeezed the hand Quinn held out to him. “I’ll go check on them. Stay here.”
“What happened to you?”
Fox shook his head. “Later.” He lifted Layla’s head to spread the towel under her hair. “She’s coming around. Layla.” Relief gushed through him when her eyelids fluttered. “Come on back, Layla. It’s all right. It’s over.”
She surfaced with a wheezing gasp, with her hands slapping wildly, her eyes wide with horror.
“Stop. Stop.” He did all he could think to do. He wrapped himself around her, pushed calm into her mind. “It’s over. I’ve got you.”
“In the shower.”
“Gone. They’re gone.” But he could see in her mind how they’d come out of the drain, slid across the tiles.
“I couldn’t get out. The door wouldn’t open. They were everywhere, they were all over me.” Shuddering, shuddering, she burrowed against him. “They’re gone? You’re sure?”
“I’m sure. Are you hurt? Let me see.”
“No, I don’t think… My head a little. And-” She focused on him. “Your face! Oh God, your hand. It’s swollen.”
“It’s healing. It’s okay.” And the healing pain was nothing against the overwhelming relief. “It looks like Twisse took a shot at all of us at once.”
Quinn nodded. “He hit me and Cal. Grand slam.”
“More a clean sweep,” Cybil said from the doorway. “He hit me and Gage, too. Six for six. Fox, why don’t you go on downstairs? Your pals are still pretty shaken. We’ll help Layla get dressed, then we’ll be down in a few.”
She was ice pale, he noted. It was the first time he’d seen Cybil that far off her stride in the months he’d known her. Quinn was already rising, going to her. Because the room became essentially and completely female again, Fox decided it was probably best for each sector to retreat to its particular corner, take a deep breath before mixing again.
“All right.” But he touched Layla’s face, kissed her gently. “I’ll be right downstairs.”
TIMES LIKE THESE, FOX THOUGHT, CALLED FOR whiskey. He found the single, unopened bottle of Jameson among the wine, and figured it had been Cal’s contribution to the liquor supply. He got glasses, ice, and poured a generous two fingers in each.
“Good thinking.” Cal downed half of his in one swallow, and still his eyes remained haunted. “You healed up. You looked bad when I saw you outside.”
“Spiders. Lots of them. Big bastards.”
“Where?”
“My office.”
“The town was gone for me.” Cal studied the whiskey, swirled it. “I came out of the center with Lump, and it was gone. Like a bomb had gone off. Buildings leveled, fire and smoke. Bodies. Jesus, pieces of them everywhere.” He took another, slower sip. “We’ll need to write this down, get everybody’s deal.”