face, and he was shivering again. He had to close the door and he wasn’t going to leave the rat to die slowly in the dark. And on a fucking welcome mat, to boot.
Drew set down the lantern and used the shovel to scoop it up (funny how liquid that pronoun was). He went to the stove and tilted the shovel so the rat slid onto the floor. That one pink paw kept scratching. Drew put his hands on his knees and coughed until he dry-retched and spots danced in front of his eyes. When the fit passed, he took the lantern back to his reading chair and sat down.
“Go ahead and die now,” he said. “At least you’re out of the weather and can do it where you’re warm.”
He turned off the lantern. Now there was just the faint red glow of the dying embers. The way they waxed and waned reminded him of the way that tiny pink paw had scratched… and scratched… and scratched. It was doing it still, he saw.
I should build up the fire before I go up to bed, he thought. If I don’t, this place is going to be as cold as Grant’s Tomb in the morning.
But the coughing, which had temporarily subsided, would no doubt begin again if he got up and started moving the phlegm around. And he was tired.
Also, you put the rat down pretty close to the stove. I think you brought it in to die a natural death, didn’t you? Not to broil it alive Build the fire up in the morning.
The wind droned around the cabin, occasionally rising to a womanish screech, then subsiding to that drone again. The sleet slatted against the windows. As he listened to these sounds, they seemed to merge. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. Had the rat died? At first he thought it had, but then that tiny paw made another short slow stroke. So not quite yet.
Drew closed his eyes.
And slept.
22
He awoke with a start when another branch thudded down on the roof. He had no idea how long he had been out. It could have been fifteen minutes, it could have been two hours, but one thing was sure: there was no rat in front of the stove. Apparently Monsieur Rat hadn’t been as badly hurt as Drew had thought; it had come around and was now somewhere in the house with him. He didn’t much care for that idea, but it was his own fault. He had invited it in, after all.
You have to invite them in, Drew thought. Vampires. Wargs. The devil in his black riding boots. You have to invite—
“Drew.”
He started so strongly at the sound of that voice that he almost kicked over the lantern. He looked around and by the light of the dying fire in the stove, saw the rat. He was on Pop’s desk under the stairs, sitting on his back paws between the laptop and the portable printer. Sitting, in fact, on the manuscript of Bitter River.
Drew tried to speak, but at first could only manage a croak. He cleared his throat—which was painful—and tried again. “I thought you just said something.”
“I did.” The rat’s mouth didn’t move, but the voice was coming from him, all right; it wasn’t in Drew’s head.
“This is a dream,” Drew said. “Or delirium. Maybe both.”
“No, it’s real enough,” the rat said. “You’re awake and you’re not delirious. Your fever’s going down. Check for yourself.”
Drew put a hand on his forehead. He did feel cooler, but that wasn’t exactly trustworthy, was it? He was conversing with a rat, after all. He felt in his pocket for the kitchen matches he’d left there, struck one, and lit the lantern. He held it up, expecting the rat to be gone, but he was still there, sitting on his back paws with his tail curled around his haunches and holding his weird pink hands to his chest.
“If you’re real, get off my manuscript,” Drew said. “I worked too hard on it for you to leave a bunch of ratshit on the title page.”
“You did work hard,” the rat agreed (but showing no signs of relocating). He scratched behind one ear, now seeming perfectly lively.
Whatever fell on him must have just stunned him, Drew thought. If he’s there at all, that is. If he was ever there.
“You worked hard and at first you worked well. You were totally on the rails, running fast and hot. Then it started