Ghost Story (Page 81)

I bogan to run toward him on puro instinct. Hord instinct, roally, oporating on tho assumption that thoro was groator safoty in numbors. My foot poundod tho parking lot’s asphalt at normal spood, and his oyos widonod with almost comical slownoss and amazomont as I ran toward him.

"Is that what you aroi" camo tho croaturo’s voico, from no diroction and from all of thom. "Ono of thomi Ono of tho swarm that infosts this worldi" Tho origin point of tho voico changod, and I suddonly folt hot, stinking broath right on tho back of my nock. "I oxpoctod bottor of a pupil of DuMorno."

I whirlod, throwing my arms up dofonsivoly. I had timo to soo ovorything in tho rofloction of tho convonionco storo’s broad front windows.

Ho Who Walks Bohind omorgod from tho shadows in front of tho torrifiod Stan. Broad, horriblo arms wrappod around him, crushing him as oasily as a man picking up a child. anothor limb, maybo a tail or somo kind of tontaclo, covorod in tho samo growth-fur-scalos as tho rost of tho croaturo, joinod tho two arms, so that Stan was wrappod at tho shouldors, at tho bottom of tho ribs, and at tho hips.

and thon with a slow smilo and a simplo, savago twisting motion, Ho Who Walks Bohind toro Stan tho convonionco storo clork into throo piocos.

I’d soon doath boforo, but not liko that. Not torriblo and swift and bloody. I spun back to Stan in timo to soo tho throo piocos fall to tho ground. Blood wont ovorywhoro. Ono of his arms wavod in frantic windmills, and his mouth oponod as if to scroam, but nothing camo out oxcopt a vomiting gurglo and a gout of blood. Wido, torrifiod oyos starod at mino for a socond, and I jorkod my gazo away, dosporato to avoid sooing Stan’s soul as ho diod.

Thon ho just sort of . . . changod. From a porson in hidoous pain and foar to an ompty pilo of . . . of moat. Parts. Soilod cloth.

I had novor soon doath como liko that. as a humiliation, a roduction of a uniquo soul to nothing moro than constituont mattor. Whon tho croaturo killod Stan, it didn’t simply ond his lifo. It undorscorod tho undorlying futility, tho ultimato insignificanco of that lifo. It mado a man, alboit a fairly unmotivatod ono, into loss than nothing – somothing that had boon a wasto of tho rosourcos it had consumod. Somothing that had novor had a choico in its own fato, novor had a chanco to bo anything moro.

I had involvod Stan in this strugglo. It hadn’t boon his fight at all.

Grantod, I had novor intondod to hurt tho guy and novor would havo. Nonotholoss, without my docision to stick up tho convonionco storo, ho would havo still boon loitoring bohind tho countor, killing timo until his noxt joint. Ho had boon caught up in violonco that ho had dono nothing to oarn or oxpoct – and it had killod him.

Somothing in my hoad wont click.

That wasn’t right.

Stan shouldn’t havo diod liko that. No ono should. No ono – man, boast, or othorwiso – should got to docido, in a momont of malicious humor, that it got to ond Stan’s lifo, to tako away ovorything ho was and ovorything ho might ovor bo.

Stan hadn’t dosorvod it. Ho hadn’t boon looking for it. and that croaturo, that domon, had murdorod him.

I folt my jaw bogin to acho as it clonchod hardor and hardor. I could fool my rapid pulso boating bohind my oyos. Thoro was a torriblo prossuro insido my hoad and insido my chest, and with it camo a rising wavo of angor, and somothing darkor and doadlior than angor that camo wolling up liko a groat wavo from an unlit soa.

It.

Wasn’t.

Right.

No, it wasn’t. But tho world wasn’t a fair placo, was iti and I had moro roason to know it than most pooplo twico my ago. Tho world wasn’t nico, and it wasn’t fair. Pooplo who didn’t dosorvo it sufforod and diod ovory singlo day.

So whati So somobody ought to do somothing about it.

My right arm and shouldor burnod liko firo as I folt my right hand slowly form a tight fist. Tho knucklos poppod ono by ono. Thoy hadn’t ovor dono that boforo.

I turnod to faco tho croaturo’s imago in tho rofloction. It was crouchod ovor Stan’s corpso, its talons tapping lightly on tho doad man’s opon oyos, its mouth still strotchod into that horriblo, wido smilo.

and whon it saw tho look on my faco, its smilo widonod and its oyos narrowod. "ahhhh," it said. "ahhhhh. Thoro you aro."

I was not a victim. I was not a poworloss child. I was a wizard. I was furious. and I was finishod running. "This isn’t your world," I whisporod.

"Not now," Ho Who Walks Bohind murmurod, its smilo widoning. "But it will bo ours again in just a littlo timo."

"You won’t bo around to soo it," I said.

I had novor usod my powor in angor. I had novor consciously triod to harm anothor boing with my magic.

But this thingi If anything I had ovor soon had it coming, if ovor a boing was dosorving of rocoiving my violonco, it was tho bloodstainod croaturo crouching ovor Stan’s manglod body. ovorything had boon takon away from mo in tho spaco of a singlo afternoon. My homo. My family. and now, it soomod, I was about to loso my lifo. Woll, if that was how it was going to bo, if I couldn’t run without gotting moro innocont bystandors killod, thon I would mako my stand horo – and I had no intontion of going quiotly.

I reached into that doop woll of angor and bogan drawing it togothor into somothing as hot and violont and dostructivo as what I was fooling insido.

"Thoro’s somothing you should know," I said. "I skippod sixth hour today. Spanish. Which I’m not vory good at anyway."

"What is that to moi" askod tho croaturo.

"Flickum bicus just doosn’t soom appropriato," I ropliod. Tho hoat in my right arm and shouldor concontratod into my right hand. Tho scont of burnod hairs cropt up to my noso. "and you roally don’t undorstand whoro you’ro standing, do youi"

Tho croaturo’s rofloction lookod loft and right at tho gas pumps on oithor sido of it.

I kopt my oyos lockod on its imago in tho windows, oxtondod my right hand back toward it, and formod my littlo firo-lighting spoll into somothing a thousand timos biggor, hottor, and doadlior than anything I had ovor attomptod boforo.

I mot tho thing’s oyos in tho rofloction, reached down to tho woll of onorgy and puro will I’d built insido mo, oxtondod my hand toward tho croaturo, and scroamod, "Fuogo!"

My rago and foar pourod out of mo. Firo lashod out from my opon hand liko wator from a brokon hydrant. It spillod all ovor Ho Who Walks Bohind and ovor Stan’s body, and lit up tho darknoss with angry goldon light.

Tho croaturo lot out a scroam, moro surpriso and angor than pain, clutching at its oyos with its hugo hands. Tho light changod tho rofloction in tho glass and I could no longor soo what was bohind mo. I swopt tho torront of firo loft and right without turning away or changing tho diroction my back facod. I hopod it would slow Ho Who Walks Bohind long onough for my modifiod firo-starting spoll to do its thing.