Monsters

To him. Because, now, Chris wasn’t eight. He wasn’t in bed either, or crouched on a staircase, hugging his knees, wishing he were anywhere else. Instead, he stood in a swirl of icy wind and stinging snow, and his was the hand with the hammer now. He hefted it, felt its weight, the handle slick with Lena’s blood. Gore dribbled over his face, bathed his neck. He sucked wet, warm copper from his lips, and it was the best thing he’d ever tasted, and he wanted more.

“P-please, Chris,” Lena said. “H-help me.”

“I can’t help you.” His voice was older, rougher. He liked that, too. “No one can.”

“B-but . . .” Lena’s eyes dripped blood instead of tears. “I d-don’t

want to die.”

“You should’ve thought of that before you Changed. Someone has

to die.”

“Yes, someone must.” It was another voice, a person Chris also

knew well. Jess was suddenly there, silver hair lashed by wind into

a Gorgon’s curls, the snow spinning itself into a long white gown.

“Someone will,” Jess said.

“But not me!” Lena cried. “Why does it have to be—” “You’re already lost, girl.” Jess’s voice was wind. “But you are not,

Chris. Leave this place. This is a fight you will not win here. You don’t

belong in the Land of the Dead.”

“Hell you say,” said his father, who was now grinning down at

another body. This one was jittering and twitching in an enormous

lake of steaming gore. Chris looked and saw that it was Peter, splayed

on his back, his head as broken and misshapen as a Halloween pumpkin run over by a car. “That’s my boy you’re talking about,” his father

said to Jess, “and he belongs to me, with me, my blood.” “There’s a time you must kill, Chris, but also a time to heal.” Jess’s

eyes were black mirrors in which he saw himself doubled: Chris on

the right, Chris on the left, like the twin angels of his nature—his

father and Jess—but he couldn’t tell which was good. Maybe neither

was, entirely. “Leave the thing with a father’s face,” Jess said. “Go

back. It’s not yet your time.”

“The hell it’s not,” he said, and then Chris was swinging—both

Chrises swung, their hammers whickering—but when they connected,

they collapsed into one Chris, one hammer, one desire. There was a dull

chock, and a ripping sound as Lena’s scalp tore. The hammer juddered in his hand, the metal cratering bone before passing to the softer pink cheese of her brain. Lena crumpled. When the hammer pulled free, he

looked up to find that Jess had disappeared.

“That’s my boy.” Scraping a gob of brains from his cheek, his

father stuck his fingers in his mouth. “Yum—”

And then the scene shifted in a quick jolt, as if a hand jammed

itself in his back and gave him a huge push, catapulting Chris from

this horror to somewhere entirely different—and Chris had one

second to think, A nightmare, it’s a nightmare, this isn’t real, it’s not— Chris’s chest suddenly erupted in a spray of raw agony. An electric

blaze streaked through his body, all the connections sizzling to life.

Now he registered that the air was warm—inside, somewhere, not on

the snow—and was aware of the slosh and gurgle of water, the creak

of a spring, the rustle of cloth. The insect-like tick-tick-tick-tick-tick

of a clock. Bed, bedroom, where? He lay on his back, quivering, every

nerve singing. There was a strange pressure on his chest—hand, a

man—and the side of a thumb on his forehead tracing something,

drawing down and across, sketching some symbol like a pen over

blank paper. What followed was a swirl of sounds, whispers and the

guttural murmurs of a dark language, like trees weighed down by

murders of crows all muttering in tongues: Durch das Blut und das

Wasser seiner Seite . . .

Where was he? He remembered cold and snow, the trap tearing

through the trees—Lena, run, run—and then an oily blight moving

through his body, smothering his mind. Water. Something in the water

. . . There was that splashing sound again, close by, and now something wet dragging over his chest. An enormous gust of fear blasted

through him. God, no, poison, killing me, no, no!

“No!” Chris heard himself suck in a sudden, ragged shriek. “No!”

His eyes snapped open at the same instant that the hands on his side

jumped away like startled birds. Someone cried out as he bolted

upright, coming alive to a room full of shadows and too little light, and still screaming, “No! Don’t touch me, don’t touch me, get away

from—”

“Christopher!” An old man’s face swam from the gloom.

“Christopher, stop! It’s all—”

Get out, got to get out! Chris reacted on instinct and raw panic.

Lashing out, he felt his left hand hook cloth. There was a startled

squawk, and then Chris was yanking the old man close, reeling him in,

his arm slipping around the man’s neck, his eyes skipping to a wink of

metal at the man’s left hip. Chris’s hand darted; in a flash, the gun was

in his fist, and he was jamming the muzzle to the old man’s temple:

“Get away from me, get away from me, get away!”

“No, Chris, no, no!” A chorus of voices, boys and girls. Rasps

of metal against leather, the sounds of handguns being drawn,

the unmistakable clack of a rifle bolt. The voices were still jabbering, overlapping, everyone talking at the same time: “Chris, don’t!”

“Chris, it’s all right!” “You’re safe, Chris, you’re safe!” One boy, louder

than the rest, booming from behind the rifle: “Put the gun down, put

it down, drop it, drop it!”

“No, Jayden!” It was the old man, his voice surprisingly strong.

“Everyone, stay calm! Give him a moment to—”

“But I’ve got the shot,” Jayden sang, “I’ve got the shot!” “Jayden, no!” The girl’s voice was familiar, and then Chris had it:

Hannah. “Chris,” Hannah said. “Please, put the gun down!” “All of you just stay back!” Chris cried, except the words now came

in a harsh, grinding choke. A lone candle gave off a thin, uncertain

light, but it was enough for him to see that he stood in a tangle of

linen and down comforter, half on, half off a bed—and that he was

completely naked.

“Where am I?” It wasn’t a dream. Hurt, I was hurt, bad. I was bleeding, I felt . . . He’d felt that black creep through his chest, squeeze his

heart. I felt myself die, I was dying, I was . . . No, he couldn’t think about

that. Get out, he had to get out! He still had the old man by the neck, but his eyes jumped from face to face—Jayden, Hannah, two other boys—and then the long rectangle of this room, with its slanted ceiling and trio of windows. Attic or second-story. Bedroom. A closed door,

the way out, was to his left, but the others were blocking his way. There came a series of muffled barks, and then someone, at the

door: “Are you all right? Is he okay? What’s happening?” “No, no, wait—” Hannah made a grab, but a little girl suddenly

squirted through.

“Chris?” The girl’s face was pinched with anxiety. Her blue eyes

widened, and he understood what he must look like: naked, in a

frenzy, a gun in one hand and an old man in a chokehold. By her side,

a dog, smaller than a shepherd and with sable markings, watched

him through a black mask. “Chris, it’s all right,” the little girl said.

“Remember me?”

“Y-yes.” Chris gulped against a sudden wave of vertigo. No, can’t

black out again. He fought to clear his head. “You’re . . . you’re Ellie.” “Right, and this is Mina, my dog.” Relief flooded Ellie’s face. “We

kept you warm, remember? We rescued you. You’re safe now.” “Safe?” He heard the whip of his fear. His arm tightened around

the old man’s neck. “I’m not safe. Leave me alone, all of you. Just stay

away!”

“Christopher.” The old man wasn’t fighting but instead stroking

the arm Chris had locked around his neck the way you might soothe

a frightened animal. “Christopher, I know this is confusing. You’re

scared. Put down the gun before you hurt someone.”

“No.” But Chris felt the scrape of panic falter. He was starting

to lose it, his weird strength dribbling away. “Who are you people?

Where am I?”

“You’re safe,” Hannah said from a swirl of shadow—or that may

have been his vision beginning to dim. “Chris,” she said, “let us help

you.”

“Help?” His laugh was weak and strangled. “You tried to kill me.” I have to get out of here. He took a swaying half step. His legs were suddenly wooden. The gun was growing unbelievably heavy, as weighty as a boulder, and he understood that in two or three seconds, he would faint. “Please,” he groaned. “Let me go. I don’t want to hurt

anybody, I don’t—”

With no warning at all, his strength fled as if he’d been unplugged.

His knees buckled. From somewhere distant, Chris heard the thud as

the gun hit the floor. There was nothing in his hands now, not even

the old man.

“You tried to kill me, y-you t-tried . . . oh God . . .” His eyes rolled;

there was no more light and nothing to see, and he was hurtling fast

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