manor, and Marsh could feel its grip through the double-paned glass.
Kara shivered too. In the reflection, in their nebulous union, he watched her curl closer to touch his cheek with one hand and smooth the ends of his tie with the other. He closed his eyes, wished that Kara would go. He did not want to feel. Did not want to see. Was that so hard to understand?
Then she was jerking away. Her warmth vanished from his side.
“Marsh!” A ragged gasp.
In the windowpane, he viewed his wife’s eyes rounded with pain. Her face was turning blue with the effort of breathing; her neck was swollen, pinched by a strip of cloth knotted against her windpipe. He pivoted to look down.
What the heck?
His hands were reaching for her throat.
5
Eyes of Flame
“Scoot, don’t mess with that thing. We’re not alone.”
“Oh no, the girl’s goin’ schizo on me.”
“I’m not kidding.” Josee eyed the canister. Earlier, despite warning bells that had jangled in her subconscious, she’d been blindsided by an attack. One whiff had triggered the pain. In this brief span of time, though, something had shifted; now, in vivid color, her pupils registered a hostile entity.
Creeping. Green. Oozing into view.
Across the coals, Scooter was cradling the canister as though enraptured with a newborn. “What’d you smell?” he wanted to know. He put his face near the surface. “I can’t smell a thing. Yeah, yeah, okay, now I can, sorta.”
An aftershock spasmed through Josee’s torso. Scrapbook pages from the past: glaring lights, distant voices, a sharp needle prick … and her red gel capsules.
“Scoot, just do what I ask.”
“Hey, it’s all good.”
“No,” she told him, “it’s not.”
“Things’re cool, Josee. No need to stress. Check this out. My ring starts glowing when it gets close to this thing.” He stretched out his arm, brought it in again, while the moonstone throbbed. “Man, you see that?”
“Please, hon, this is no joke.”
“S’okay. What’s the problemo?”
From the canister’s seam, a neon green vapor emerged. Scooter seemed blind to it as it twined up his arm. Josee, on the other hand, witnessed the movement in lucid detail. Coils, shifting and sliding. Fangs, curved and transparent, gathering substance from the emerald wisps.
“You can run,” he said, “but you can’t hide.”
Alongside Highway 99, Sergeant Vince Turney sat in his police cruiser and tried with thick fingers to fetch peanut M&M’s from the bag between his legs. He nabbed a morsel. Yellow, his favorite.
He didn’t deny he could lose a few pounds around the middle, but he’d wolfed down an early breakfast and was feeling the urge to nibble again. He crunched on the candy, dug for more.
Fuel, he told himself. To keep his body going.
Before her passing, his fiancée had teased him that he’d be hitting thirty before she did. In his memory, her voice had lost its humor. “Two or three years, Vince, and you’ll be on the downward slope, slip-sliding away. As for me? I’ll still be young and perky. Just trying to warn you that you’re gonna need more sleep and exercise, not to mention those longevity supplement drinks.” Milly had winked, and Turney had wisecracked that she couldn’t handle any more man than she was already getting.
Of course, after she’d left for her shift at Key Bank, he’d rushed out to the garage to hide his stack of Sobe beverage elixirs.
Not that it mattered. Milly was gone long before his thirtieth milestone.
A teenage driver fiddling with a CD … A twist of the wheel … A median overrun …
For nearly three years, Milly Svenson’s gravestone had graced a hillside cemetery outside of Junction City. Near her parents. At peace and with God.
Here Turney was, still plugging along the career path of law enforcement. Had he missed a turn? Misread the signs? Chief Braddock’s old-school leadership grated against Turney’s sensibilities, as did the job’s brushes with human
Kara shivered too. In the reflection, in their nebulous union, he watched her curl closer to touch his cheek with one hand and smooth the ends of his tie with the other. He closed his eyes, wished that Kara would go. He did not want to feel. Did not want to see. Was that so hard to understand?
Then she was jerking away. Her warmth vanished from his side.
“Marsh!” A ragged gasp.
In the windowpane, he viewed his wife’s eyes rounded with pain. Her face was turning blue with the effort of breathing; her neck was swollen, pinched by a strip of cloth knotted against her windpipe. He pivoted to look down.
What the heck?
His hands were reaching for her throat.
5
Eyes of Flame
“Scoot, don’t mess with that thing. We’re not alone.”
“Oh no, the girl’s goin’ schizo on me.”
“I’m not kidding.” Josee eyed the canister. Earlier, despite warning bells that had jangled in her subconscious, she’d been blindsided by an attack. One whiff had triggered the pain. In this brief span of time, though, something had shifted; now, in vivid color, her pupils registered a hostile entity.
Creeping. Green. Oozing into view.
Across the coals, Scooter was cradling the canister as though enraptured with a newborn. “What’d you smell?” he wanted to know. He put his face near the surface. “I can’t smell a thing. Yeah, yeah, okay, now I can, sorta.”
An aftershock spasmed through Josee’s torso. Scrapbook pages from the past: glaring lights, distant voices, a sharp needle prick … and her red gel capsules.
“Scoot, just do what I ask.”
“Hey, it’s all good.”
“No,” she told him, “it’s not.”
“Things’re cool, Josee. No need to stress. Check this out. My ring starts glowing when it gets close to this thing.” He stretched out his arm, brought it in again, while the moonstone throbbed. “Man, you see that?”
“Please, hon, this is no joke.”
“S’okay. What’s the problemo?”
From the canister’s seam, a neon green vapor emerged. Scooter seemed blind to it as it twined up his arm. Josee, on the other hand, witnessed the movement in lucid detail. Coils, shifting and sliding. Fangs, curved and transparent, gathering substance from the emerald wisps.
“You can run,” he said, “but you can’t hide.”
Alongside Highway 99, Sergeant Vince Turney sat in his police cruiser and tried with thick fingers to fetch peanut M&M’s from the bag between his legs. He nabbed a morsel. Yellow, his favorite.
He didn’t deny he could lose a few pounds around the middle, but he’d wolfed down an early breakfast and was feeling the urge to nibble again. He crunched on the candy, dug for more.
Fuel, he told himself. To keep his body going.
Before her passing, his fiancée had teased him that he’d be hitting thirty before she did. In his memory, her voice had lost its humor. “Two or three years, Vince, and you’ll be on the downward slope, slip-sliding away. As for me? I’ll still be young and perky. Just trying to warn you that you’re gonna need more sleep and exercise, not to mention those longevity supplement drinks.” Milly had winked, and Turney had wisecracked that she couldn’t handle any more man than she was already getting.
Of course, after she’d left for her shift at Key Bank, he’d rushed out to the garage to hide his stack of Sobe beverage elixirs.
Not that it mattered. Milly was gone long before his thirtieth milestone.
A teenage driver fiddling with a CD … A twist of the wheel … A median overrun …
For nearly three years, Milly Svenson’s gravestone had graced a hillside cemetery outside of Junction City. Near her parents. At peace and with God.
Here Turney was, still plugging along the career path of law enforcement. Had he missed a turn? Misread the signs? Chief Braddock’s old-school leadership grated against Turney’s sensibilities, as did the job’s brushes with human
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