With a movement fast as lightning, he was next to me with hands on my arms, holding them tight to my side. "You act as though you'll have a choice, luv." He bent me back over the pool table. I couldn't move the knife. His voice was a whisper, a hiss of warmth in my face that smelled of wintergreen breath mints. "I'm betting you'll win. She's vicious, but you're strong. We'll all have a lot of fun in bed before I turn over the Herd to either of you." Oh, that was so not happening! I let out a roar of frustration and rage. I brought my knee up sharply and caught him in the thigh. It shifted his position and gave me back a measure of control. I broke away from him by pulling down and away. I took off at a run, heading for the stairs. There had to be a better location for fighting, one where I would have the advantage. It was no good. He reached me before I could go two steps and brought me to my knees. I pulled away again and threw myself into a flying dive under the pool table. I came out near where Monica lay.
"Feisty little thing, aren't you?" Larry laughed.
"Right, then." He was on top of me in a flash. I could feel his body tense and could imagine his mouth opening wide. Instead of the sharp pain that I was expecting in my neck, I heard a sharp thud and a gasp. I didn't wait to find out if he hit Joe's special collar. I plunged the knife up and back into the bulk of his body. There was no response. His body was just suddenly so much dead weight. I scrambled from beneath him and turned on my knees.
In death Larry's face was that of an old, weary man: pale and bloodless, eyes vacant. The knife had caught him right in the heart and one of his fangs had broken off.
The screaming started. Shrieks and moans and thuds sounded in the building above me. I glanced up. It was the wrong thing to do. Monica's eyes shot open and her teeth—sporting brand new needle-sharp fangs—bared. There was panic in her eyes.
"They're dying! No! It's not time yet." Her expression changed from fear to rage in the blink of an eye. "You've killed them!" I recognized the danger too late. Monica shot forward as far as the chains would allow. She caught my leg in a grip of steel. I kicked at her, but she steadily dragged my body toward her. I
grabbed at the table, but she just pulled it along with me.
Her words were a hiss that turned her model features into a monster mask. "You'll pay for this, bitch!"
Her fangs sunk through my jeans and sock and into my calf. I screamed, long and loud. A mind not my own invaded my head. "You'll be the first of my Herd, Kathleen." Monica's mouth was still filled with my leg, but I could hear her voice as clearly as if she was speaking. "You'll pay. Every day of my life you will pay! Feel my pain. Feel what you have done!"
A veil ripped open and my mind shuddered
under the impact of the death throes of the nest. Blinding pain, aching, wrenching sorrow as one by one the dozen voices in my head, in her head, were silenced. There was only emptiness without the hive. There was hollow loneliness, paralyzing fear. I realized that my body was still fighting her without the use of my head. I was kicking, scratching and beating that lovely face. And screaming, I was doing a lot of screaming as she ground her teeth further into my vein, pulled my blood from me as her first meal. I pulled open her jaws with my fingers, but she bit down again, ripping the holes in my leg into bloody gashes. More and more screams echoed in my brain.
I knew—just suddenly knew—that Larry's death had killed dozens of his Hosts. They hadn't tied to Monica yet. They had died with their master and she was alone.
I woke screaming, the afghan I keep at the foot of the bed tangled around my feet from my kicking. My breath was coming in gasps, my heart pounding fit to burst my chest. I wasn't sleeping, but memory took over where the dream had left off. My head insisted on replaying that day's events even as I sat completely awake on my bed.
I managed to get her mouth off of my leg, but she had a grip on my thigh that would end up leaving bruises for weeks, so I continued to beat at her. Monica was fending off my blows with the shackles around her limbs. My mind rang with her
awareness, her terror. So alone! I fought back, fought for control of my own mind. I had to be free of the voices, of the screams.
A sudden buzzing: a soothing, melodic chorus of voices joined Monica's. The words came from multiple minds, thousands upon thousands of individuals. You are not alone, young queen. We are here. We are many.
I felt the unique presences of each of the other nests, responding to the crisis to Monica. Here, then, was the true hive, and I was nothing to them. I was food. I was prey.
"I am not prey!" I shouted my defiance at the collective. "I am not food! " I wrenched my body free. I grabbed a pool cue, brandishing it like a bat as I spit words of defiance at Monica. "And Dylan is not food! I will kill you here and now if you don't release him!"
Monica's face contorted in fury. " No! He's mine. He is my only, my only living . . ." I slammed my fists to my head as the united Thrall hive suddenly spoke directly into my mind. The hiss grew until it seared through me. The sound was bell-like—sharp and loud and repeated over and over. The words frightened me more than Larry and Monica both. You are part of us now. You are ours.
My eyeballs felt like they were going to split open, but I managed to beat down the mental attack, not even knowing quite how. I screamed my refusal in two words— Fuck you!
The shrill sound of a telephone ringing brought me to my senses. I sat up in a panic, trying to focus on the room and then collapsed back into my pillow when the machine picked it up. I shuddered anew at how very close a call I'd had that night. I wasn't theirs. Thank God. But I wasn't free of them either. The hive was a near-constant presence, always in the background, but always there.
I glanced at the small, wind-up alarm clock on my bedside while I waited for my heartbeat to return to normal. God help me, but I'd only been out for three hours. My body hovered right on that border of nausea from too little sleep, and gratitude for any rest at all.
I tried not to dwell on the dream. I knew how it ended without having to relive it. With Monica chained to the wall and the rest of the hive dead, the other queens and I had finally come to an understanding. I would be Not Prey. I could take Dylan—if he would come. I would not kill Monica or any of Larry's Herd who had survived. They would not reveal to the police who had killed Larry, although I had a damned good case for self-defense if it came to that. They would not hunt me down. They would not allow Monica to hunt me down. Monica had fought them. She screamed and
cursed until she was breathless. But the chains held and the bargain was made. The other queens would control her until a new hive was established and would establish the equivalent of a restraining order so that Monica could never come near me without turning into a drooling zombie. Most of the surviving Herd would become Hosts—except Dylan.
Otherwise Monica would go insane. Denver will fall if that happens, I was tersely informed. I wasn't sure I believed that, but I hadn't argued. I was too grateful to be walking . . . limping out of the nest in possession of my own body and soul. I'd found Dylan easily enough. He'd been
unconscious and drained nearly bloodless, with bite marks from a dozen different Hosts. Their corpses littered the floor, creating a macabre obstacle course as I dragged him up the stairs to daylight and sanity.
I had reached the street before I heard one last comment in my head from Monica. Go ahead. Take him. He wasn't a very good lay anyway. Her bitter laugh was part tinkling chimes and part hissing snake.
I looked down at Dylan's pale face and knew. She wasn't lying. Dylan had cheated on me with Amanda, and on Amanda with Monica. It made me seriously consider just dropping him on the pavement to let the paramedics find him. But as much as I hated it, I still loved him. So I'd kept dragging, crying the whole way, until I reached the hospital.
The phone rang again downstairs, but stopped in the middle of the third ring. Whoever was on the line was letting it ring until just before the machine picked up, then hanging up and starting again.
"Asshole." I grumbled under my breath as I forced myself upright on the edge of the bed. My clothing was covered in sweat. The crusty salt on my temples said that I had cried in my sleep, just as I had at the time. I was worn out, exhausted and weary from the memories. I ignored the ringing. I knew who it was. Pretty soon Joe would lose patience and actually leave a message for me. Or not. I didn't really care which. I just knew that right now I was in no shape to talk to him.
I heard the machine beep, then Joe's voice on the line. "Mary Kathleen, it's your brother. I know you're there. Pick up!" There was a long pause. I didn't move toward the phone. This wasn't the time for him to push me. "Come on, Katie. Please pick up. I'm really getting worried." Another pause. I really couldn't deal with Joe right now. I'd probably start bawling and then he'd come over and I didn't want any company right now. I stood and walked into the bathroom. I turned on the cold spigot and splashed my face. I might as well face the day. I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. More precisely—I didn't want to go back to sleep. I was too likely to dream. Besides, the sun was high in the sky, the buzz of the hive had diminished to next to nothing. Anything I planned on doing outside of the apartment I'd be doing in broad daylight until further notice.
Joe's voice was barely audible over the sound of running water. "Okay, then. Maybe you're out. Call me as soon as you get home."
Maybe. We'd see how the morning went. If
Monica came after me again, I'd probably end up visiting him in a professional capacity.
I decided that just a splash of water on my cheeks wasn't going to be enough, so I took off my travel clothes and stood under the shower. I set the temperature to lukewarm, guaranteeing I would be shivering when I got out. It's amazing how much that wakes me. By the time I brushed my teeth and dressed, I was as ready for the world as I was going to get.
The lump on my skull hurt a bit when I combed my hair, but otherwise I didn't seem to have any serious ill effects from this mornings misadventure. Thank God for a thick skull.
I should probably take it easy. But I did need to shop, and running always clears my head. So I grabbed my black leather backpack, slipped the straps over my shoulders and secured the lower strap around my waist. A glance in the mirror showed my freshly scrubbed face, hair tied in a ponytail, with a still-muscular body poured into loose fitting shorts and a yellow cotton T-shirt. Fortunately, the scars that remind me of my battle with Monica stay nicely hidden under crew cut socks. Some days I can wash my leg without
getting angry. Today wasn't one of those days. I discreetly clipped a knife to the inside
waistband of the shorts. It might chafe a bit, but I was willing to risk it rather than going out unarmed. That I took the precaution, in full daylight, with the hive asleep said something about just how paranoid I was getting. But it's not paranoia if they really are out to get you, and Monica definitely was.
I took the stairs two at a time and was out the garage door without seeing anyone I knew. When I reached the street I did a couple of stretches. It was awkward with the backpack, but I didn't want to cramp up.
I started at a slow jog. The nearest decent supermarket is on Speer at about 13th Street. That's a good long haul from LoDo, and it had been a rough day. Better to take it easy for now. I used to be a night person before my run-in with the Thrall. Now, me and daylight are buddies. I picked up speed, using the run to release the tension that I couldn't seem to shake from the dream. I turned onto Wazee, then picked up Speer near the Auraria campus, where several local colleges were already starting fall classes. I caught a glimpse of the big Ferris wheel at the Six Flags amusement park to my right as I bounded down the stairs to the bike path.
Speer is one of the main arteries through Denver. Day or night, there's always traffic. I was really grateful that they built the bike path low, along the river, putting distance between the pedestrians and fast-moving traffic. Casting a quick glance behind me when I reached the bottom of the second flight, I took my place behind a speeding bicyclist. I didn't want to get rundown by a careless rider. There are a lot of blind curves on the path, but most of the cyclists don't seem to care. They take the path at racing speeds. I've learned that when I hear a quiet command of "Left" behind me, a cycle will be speeding by in the next second, nearly clipping my left elbow. Those are the polite ones. A lot of them won't even mention their presence until they race past.
"Morning!" called a pair of power walkers as they passed by going the other direction. I smiled and nodded.
The path was still steeped in shadows. Traffic was a steady hum in the background, but the quiet murmur of the flowing water and quacking of bobbing ducks almost made me forget about Dylan, Larry, and Monica—almost.
My senses were alert and my brain was utterly my own. The vague smell of car exhaust blended with the flowers and trees growing along the path. It felt good to move. My legs formed an easy rhythm with my pumping arms. I had a light bead of sweat on my brow by the time I reached my exit on Broadway. I could go further on the bike path, but the grocery isn't near an exit, so I'd have to overshoot it and come back to reach it. I went up the stairs two at a time, but just missed the crossing light.
"Can you spare some change, ma'am? Maybe for a donut and some coffee?" asked a tiredlooking man of about forty who was standing on the corner of Broadway. He held a sign that read,
"War Veteran. Anything will help." His blond hair was oily and uncombed and his blue eyes were bloodshot and fuzzy. Probably from last night's bender, if the smell of whiskey that hovered over him like a cloud was any indication.
That's the only problem taking Speer. A lot of the street people live under the bridges and panhandle on the corners until the cops run them off. Still, I removed my wallet from my pocket and handed him a ten.