Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,36

it’s always hungry.

The flashlight’s beam hit the compact frame of the pistol, and I threw myself at it. I landed on a root, and I felt the breath knocked out of my lungs, but my fingers closed around the gun’s butt. I came up on my knees, gasping, the world blurry as tears filled my eyes. Something white. And now that it was close enough, I saw the blue flames of its eyes.

I fired. Once, twice, a third time. Then the trigger clicked, and the slide locked back. Dropping the gun, I scrambled to my feet. I was still trying to pull air into my lungs as I fumbled for the shovel.

My ears rang from the shots, and when I got my first lungful of air, I coughed on the gun smoke. But the hashok was gone. I spun in a circle, the shovel over my shoulder.

Gone.

I moved toward Dag, still making those little circles, waiting for the thing to show itself again. When I reached down, Dag took my hand; he was a big guy, and I probably wasn’t much help, but we got him onto his feet. Blood stained his shirt along the chest and sleeve.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I said.

“My gun,” he said.

“Fuck. It’s here somewhere. Just keep your eyes open.”

“That thing is gone.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s gone. You shot it twice in the chest.” With his good hand, Dag mimed two shots. “Center mass. Great job.”

“My dad,” I said, fighting a giggle. “My dad would be—” A laugh, really a cackle, slipped free. “My dad would be so fucking proud.” Another of those awful laughs escaped me, and I had to gasp for air again. “Oh my God, I think I’m having a breakdown.”

“Let me find my gun,” Dag said, “and then you can have your breakdown.”

This time, of course, it was easy to find the gun. Dag grunted as he bent to pick it up, and we started for the house. He was limping pretty badly, so I got an arm around his waist. He smelled like pine sap and sweat and Gain.

Emerging from the woods was like stepping into another world: the bright exterior lights painted everything gold and silver, and the house glowed like something out of one of those cozy domestic magazines where everyone uses white towels and linen place settings.

“Inside,” I said.

“Just get me to my car,” Dag said. “I can drive.”

“You can’t even walk,” I said. “Richard’s a doctor. He can decide if we need to get you to an emergency room.”

When the wind picked up again, flattening the blades of St. Augustine grass, it smelled like the Okhlili and stone and cypress. Branches clattered behind us, and we spun together, Dag swearing under his breath.

Nothing moved in the forest.

“Inside,” I muttered.

This time, Dag didn’t argue.

DAG (8)

My chest and arm were on fire, and I’d done something to my ankle when I fell. I had to lean on Elien more than I liked as he helped me through the French doors at the back of the house.

“Sit,” he said, pressing me down onto a leather couch. “I’m going to get Richard.”

“I’m bleeding.”

“I saw that.”

“I’m going to ruin this couch.”

“It’ll make a great conversation piece.”

He darted upstairs before I could answer, and after a moment of struggling, I gave up and sank back into the cushions. The leather was buttery, which was a term I’d heard used to describe leather before and which hadn’t made any sense until right now. But God damn, this leather was buttery. And it smelled like leather too. I was pretty sure I was currently bleeding on a piece of furniture that had cost more than my car.

The rest of the living room looked equally expensive and tasteful: a few abstract sculptures in dark metals, driftwood art pieces on the walls, a single, monochromatic painting in blue that accented the rest of the room. I’d already known Elien had money when I’d seen the house from the outside, but now I was starting to understand from the inside. I was starting to understand why he always dressed movie-star casual when I saw him: joggers and t-shirts that draped his lean frame elegantly, tennis shoes that probably cost a few hundred dollars.

The soft, padded sounds of his steps made me look back toward the stairs. Elien appeared first. An older man in a t-shirt and pajama bottoms came after him, coiling a pair of earbuds around one finger.

“—listening to Tchaikovsky,” he