Reckoning Page 0,57

hexwork, thin red and blue threads coalescing in steam vapor as they ran through the streets, searching. Little tiny flying things, that same red and blue hexwork, hanging from threads like puppet butterflies. And the black paper-cutout shadows of suckers, blurring through and trailing bright spangled streaks of hatred.

This is a lot of trouble for one little svetocha, don’t you think? I held down my gag reflex by sheer will, again. My sneakers slipped in crud, and a thin cold finger of liquid touched my ankle. Oh, gross. So gross.

I found a residential section, and it took me a good hour to find a car worth stealing. It was a Jeep Wagoneer, spare ignition key left under the front floor mat—don’t ask, some people are just that dumb—and this time I didn’t stop to see if there were insurance papers in the glove box. Because the hunting cries were still rising all over the city in crystal chill columns of hate, the more frequent the closer dawn came. The eastern sky held a faint tinge of gray, but not nearly enough to suit me.

Gran’s owl circled overhead, and with it floating in front of me I penetrated a tangle of side streets and—luck or the touch, I’m not sure—found a freeway on–ramp. 75-86 South; that would take me to 65 South. Then I’d cut west, and I’d be in Houston in a couple days if the car held out, less if I pushed it and drove the whole, what, fourteen hours or so?

Just get clear of the blast zone, Dru. Then hole up somewhere and do some thinking. I’d say this requires some heavy thought, at least.

I jammed the accelerator down. The Jeep picked it up, and the sound of the freeway filled my ears because I had the front windows down. I was never stealing a car without power windows again, dammit.

I wiped at my cheeks, but I found out I wasn’t crying. It was some kind of occasion—everything going to hell and a vampire attack, and for once I wasn’t leaking.

Hooray.

There’s a town near Mobile called Daphne, which is a really pretty name if you don’t know the legend behind it. On the outskirts there’s an abandoned house, set back from the Gulf and slowly sinking into sandy soil. Something underneath the small white frame house is giving way an inch at a time, and the development it was a part of way back in the sixties is a ghost town. Nobody thought that the ocean would start taking nibbles off beneath this particular piece of the shore, but I guess the sea had its own ideas.

All the houses are crazy cockeyed by now, roofs slumping and walls buckling. The whole neighborhood is condemned, and I guess the developer who went out on a limb to convince people this was a great idea ended up shooting himself in one of the homes. Which one, Dad and I never found out.

Sometimes the dead do just leave. It happens.

Johnny Cash’s mournful voice shut off when I cut the engine. The Wagoneer was filthy with dust from the little bit of offroad needed to get here, and for once the Gulf smelled fresh. Just before noon, the sun was up, it was hotter than hell, and even the breeze coming off the water didn’t help. Salt smell filled my nose, I blinked and rubbed at my eyes. Unbuckled my seat belt.

This particular house was familiar. The freshening breeze moaned through half-open windows and whispered through sea grass, and I inhaled deeply. No trouble anywhere, the touch loose and quiescent like a sleeping cat. Gran’s owl had faded out with the dawn. I was grainy-eyed and still smelled of soot and ick, but at least I’d washed the worst of it off at a gas station once the sun was safely up.

It might not even be here. I bit gently at my lower lip as I studied the house. Don’t rush it, even if you think there might be nothing there. Take your time. You’re on your own, no safety net. Do it right.

Same white house, sloping to one side, same broken windows. Same cold breath against the nape when you approach it, your feet crunching on sand and bits of shell scattered from the walk that used to be snow-white. The pavement is cracked; the streets have gaping potholes that could break an axle. I was kind of surprised I’d found it—I’d been navigating on memory and gut instinct alone.

I almost