LITMIR.BIZ

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of fear as a weapon and defense.

      Unlike others who encountered it, Caden had never been subject to terror. What the creature routinely broadcast to him was a sense of bleakness and deeply rooted misery, a longing for something it couldn’t attain. But it was fury that pummeled him now. A primal thirst for vengeance. Hatred so deep it left him gasping.

      “Stop.”

      It wanted death. Craved it. Not for him, but something centuries old and foul. An enemy that stirred listlessly awake, slithering to consciousness after a long, dark sleep.

      The sensations and images bulleted rapid-fire through Caden’s head. Bending double, he pressed his palm to his temple. “You have to…stop.”

      The brutal punishment ceased as abruptly as it began, the sudden void leaving him dizzy after a flurry of physic bombardment. He sucked down a breath, straightening slowly.

      The creature stood before him, unmoving, wings arched high above its back. Then in a burst of motion it shot into the sky, the roar of its wings rolling over him like thunder.

      * * * *

      Will Hanley settled into his easy chair with an appreciative sigh. After a long day riding his tractor he was grateful to relax for a few hours before calling it a night. He still had ten acres to plow in the lower forty, but for now he was content to unwind with the latest episode of Mama’s Family and a cold Coors. Tomorrow was Sunday, which meant he could grab a few extra hours sleep. He’d enjoy the luxury then head for ten o’clock service at the Good Fellowship Bible Church. Pastor Fred had promised a picnic afterward, putting Will in charge of making sure the long tables in the rectory were moved outside. June Sweeting had promised to make her famous Dutch apple pie and he looked forward to complimenting her baking. It had been three years since Grace passed away and he was starting to get lonely.

      The thought of his late wife induced an unexpected wave of melancholy. Pastor Fred had been lecturing him to find a hobby. Something besides haunting the dirt track to cheer on sprints, or camping out in front of the TV. In his younger days he’d enjoyed fishing, but Grace had always tagged along. From their silly Saturday afternoon dates to weekend trips after they were married, it had been their special way of relaxing. Once Grace passed, he couldn’t bring himself to go alone. Too many memories.

      His thoughts tumbled away, scattered by a shrill whine from the TV.

      What the hell?

      The banter between Vicki Lawrence and Ken Berry was muffled by a loud clicking noise. Will was halfway from his chair, grumbling about the faulty reception, when the set suddenly went black. On the back porch, his dog, Misty, launched into a wild frenzy of barking.

      “Misty!” Beer can in hand, he stomped through the kitchen. It wasn’t like her to put up a racket. “Misty, what’s going on?” He yanked open the rear door to find the collie at the top of the steps leading to the yard. Trapped in the square of light from the open door, the hair on her back stood bristled to attention.

      “Quiet now.” Despite the command, her baying grew more aggressive. Frowning, he reached for her collar. “Is something out there, girl?”

      She wouldn’t carry on over a rabbit or a cat, but a raccoon or skunk might have wandered in from the fields. Maybe a fox. That would set her off for sure.

      Switching on the porch light, he blinked against the white blast of illumination. The clothesline where Grace had hung his dungarees every Saturday stood empty several feet from the porch. Tipped on its side, the wheelbarrow he used to haul seed rested abandoned by the footpath to the barn.

      Misty gave a strangled yap and backed up until her hindquarters butted against his legs. The night fell quiet. No crickets, no locust. The dog uttered a small ruff. He kept his hand hooked through her collar, but her strange behavior worked on his nerves. She’d bullet after a raccoon or a skunk, not stay hunkered against him.

      Will set his beer can on an overturned flowerpot. “Come on, Misty.” Releasing her, he trotted down the steps. Immediately, she bolted ahead and disappeared into the darkness. He was still thirty feet from the barn when she snarled. Cold fear crawled up his back. “Misty, come here.”

      A low drone rolled from the sky. Growing in volume, the throbbing pulse set his teeth on edge. It reminded him of an angry swarm of bees, a scratchy vibration that made his skin crawl. Misty’s growl morphed into a whine nearly as loud as the screech from the TV.

      Something moved in the shadows. Will’s mouth went dry.

      “Who’s there?” Dread jackknifed through his gut and into his throat. Fighting panic, he took a faltering step backward. A patch of fluid shadow loomed in front of the barn. Something large and monstrous towered over him, blocking his view of the structure. Two crimson spots bled through the soot of night, rooting him in place. Paralyzed by fear, he gazed up into a pair of malignant red eyes.

      It took a second for the fear to slacken its chokehold enough for him to scream.

      Will spun and bolted for the house.

      Chapter 3

      Quentin glanced at the clock in his room. It was late, going on ten, but not too late to hit the River Café. The place kept longer hours on Saturday nights, and he hadn’t eaten since noon. He’d spent most of the day doing a fruitless tour of the town that had netted little usable information. He also owed his sister a call with an update on his progress. A night owl, she’d be up until midnight at least.

      Without bothering to turn on the lights, Quentin walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. His room faced Main Street, an eerily deserted stretch that had little to no traffic this time of night. The hum of passing cars and the flash of headlights could be seen a block over heading for the Bartow Jones Bridge. All that traffic had once run through Main Street, but the flow had changed with the fall of the Silver Bridge. No wonder many of the businesses on Main Street saw so little trade.

      He was about to turn away when a glint of movement caught his eye. A sleek black Cadillac rolled down the street, a Fleetwood if he knew anything about luxury sedans. A few of his father’s clients liked the prestige that came with the pricey vehicle, but it was an oddity in a town of midsized cars and pickups. Even more unusual, the Cadillac’s headlights were off.

      The car stopped shy of the hotel and sat with its engine idling. Quentin counted off twenty-three seconds until it resumed a slow glide down the road, streetlamps reflecting off its glossy black paint. When he could no longer see it, he switched on a lamp. Whatever the driver’s reasons for prowling in the dark, it was none of his business. He had enough worries juggling Penelope and his family curse.

      The thought of his sister made him move to the bedside table and the phone. While he waited for the call to go through, he glanced around the room. It wasn’t bad, all things considered, though too old-fashioned for his taste. A standing wardrobe, walnut sleigh bed, and writing desk dominated one side; a small medallion-backed sofa and oval coffee table the other. A full-length mirror with clawed wooden feet stood in the corner and a tasseled lamp occupied the edge of the desk. The décor was strictly Victorian right down to the paisley rug over the hardwood floor and the green damask wallpaper.

      “Hello?” Penelope’s voice traveled over the line, tinged with a note of worry.

      “Hi, Pen. It’s Quentin.”

      A rush of breath echoed in his ear. “Thank God you called. I was getting so worried. Do you know what time it is?”

      Time for a rum and Coke, maybe a burger, and then a crash into bed. He tempered the thought and spoke softly. For all her wacky ideas, his sister had a way of whittling under his skin. Twins did that. “Sorry. I probably should have called yesterday.”

      “That would have been nice. Did you get checked in?” The reprimand left her voice as quickly as it came.

      “Yeah. How’s Dad doing?”

      “Grumbling that I’m spending too much time fussing over him.” Her voice deepened, mimicking

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