The Dark Remains - Mark Anthony [97]
Grace turned the corner, and the back of her neck prickled: the sensation of being watched again. She glanced down at the parking lot—
—and her forehead tightened in a frown. It was nearly dark now, but in the light drizzled by a single streetlamp she could see that the door of the black sedan hung open. So Stewart hadn’t been content to just sit and watch her. An indignation rose within her. Didn’t they know what she had been through, what she had survived? Who were they to watch her like this?
By force of will, her anger cooled. They’re just doing their jobs, Grace. Why don’t you make it a little easier for them by getting back to your room?
Cinder-block walls and painted doors slipped by.
She was nearly there when she heard it: a low, snuffling-grunting sound. It reminded her of a dog, its nose stuck in something ripe. The sound emanated from the mouth of a dim passage that cut through this block of rooms, leading to a set of stairs on the back side of the motel. She paused before the opening, peered inside.
The first thing she saw were the shoes, toes up, their polished leather outlines glowing in the green light of an EXIT sign. They were large shoes, expensive-looking. She cocked her head, trying to understand what it was she was seeing. Then the fluorescent bulb overhead let out a staccato burst of light, and in the momentary strobe Grace saw everything.
The Seeker operative—Stewart, given his size—lay on his back, big hands splayed against the cement. A pool of blood slowly crept outward, and something spindly and hairy crouched over him, eating loudly out of the wet pit where his face had been.
A foul scent washed over Grace, metallic but sweet. The ice bucket slipped from numb fingers and clattered to the walkway. One cube slid toward the creature, coming to a rest next to its long foot. It let out a snort and looked up, its short, wrinkled muzzle dripping. Bits of tissue flecked the matted black hair that covered its torso. For a moment Grace gazed into pale eyes that were far too large for the low, pointed head into which they were set. Then the thing blinked—a dull expression, sated—and bent back over its prey, cradling the dead man’s head in long, curving arms as it feasted.
32.
Doors blurred past Grace with horrible slowness as she ran—three, four, five. Her fingers fumbled against the knob, then she was inside. She pulled the door shut, scrabbled like an animal for the dead bolt, slid it into place, then stumbled back. The edge of the bed caught her behind the knees, and she fell onto it.
Travis stepped from the bathroom, two chipped glasses in his hands, each filled halfway with scotch. “Did you get the ice?”
She looked up at him, licked her lips. “I think we’re in trouble.”
He stared at her. Then he set down the glasses, moved to the window, peered out.
“What’s going on?”
“I don’t know.” Her hands twisted the cigarette-burned bedspread into knots. “There’s something out there. A thing. It’s … it’s eating Stewart.”
He turned around, the blood draining from his face. “Did you say eating him?”
Grace gave a stiff nod.
“Shit, that’s bad.”
That was an understatement on any world. He moved to the bed, sat, and put his arm around her. It was stronger than she would have guessed, harder.
“What is it, Grace? What’s out there?”
It was difficult to breathe. She forced herself to fill her lungs slowly, knowing she was hyperventilating. Adrenaline buzzed in her brain, screaming at her in an ancient, wordless tongue to flee. But there was nowhere to go. Be a scientist, Grace. Don’t feel—just describe.
“I don’t know what it was. It was big, almost as big as me. Thin, elongated limbs, and fur. No, not fur—hair. Long, black hair on its body.”
“Was it a feydrim?”
Grace thought of the gray, spindly creature that had once attacked her in her chamber in Calavere. In a way, there