Chapter Twenty-One

“Time to come out, Mr. Stiles. We’re waiting.”

Charlie shivered. Nathan Danner’s voice had a ghostly lilt and, beyond that, something more, something that his followers did not share. It was dead-sounding, but neither hollow nor monotone. Instead it was full and rich and masked a malignant core, a creeping malevolence. It was evil that Charlie felt, pure and tan­gible, and it chilled his flesh like a sharp wind and gnawed straight to the bone. He could imagine how it must have affected old man Danner upstairs—he must be certifiable by now. It was certainly having a like effect on the others. Since Danner had shown up, the five of them—Stiles, Hubert, Jessie, Ida, and himself—had each repaired to separate areas of the parlor and sat in impatient silence, saying nary a word and waiting for the time to creep by.

“Mr. Stiles?” Nathan called again. “We need to talk.”

They all looked to Stiles for a response but there was nothing to read. He sat closest to the window, his back against the wall, but he did not look outside. He didn’t acknowledge the voice at all, not even with a flinch or a turn of the head or a shift of the eyes. Not even when they had toppled over his van on the front lawn a few hours back. His gaze was blank and his mind was elsewhere, another time or place perhaps, far away from the pain that his battered body must have been enduring. Charlie could sympathize; he himself felt like death warmed over, and, except for the broken arm, Stiles was much worse off than he.

Jessie moved over to the couch where Bean reclined. She was looking at Stiles as well. “Do you think he’s all right, Charlie?” He shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I haven’t known him very long, so I have nothing to judge his behavior against. He’s got a right to hurt, though, I’ll vouch for that. He’s been through the mill a time or two.”

“I sure hope he’s okay,” she said, looking at him with concern. “I figure that without him, we don’t have a chance in hell.” She looked at Charlie then, and gently touched the injured arm in a sling against his side. “How’re you doing? Hurting too bad?”

The pain reaffirmed itself when his attention was brought back to it. “It’s easing up,” he lied. “The aspirin helped a lot, thanks. But I doubt I’ll be playing the piano any time soon. What time is it, anyway?”

Hubert glanced at his watch again. “A quarter till five. Just a little bit longer. All we have to do is wait.”

“Not quite.” Bean placed one of the Remingtons across his lap. “Now we have to be more alert than ever. Time’s running out and Danner’s not about to let us out of here alive. I figure they’ll storm the place, sooner or later. Before dawn.”

“But how can they do that?” Jessie asked. “We’ve still got Ida’s things in the windows to keep them out.”

Charlie quietly motioned to the recliner near the television set. Ida was resting as best she could. Her eyes had rolled back behind nearly translucent lids and her face had drained of color. Indeed, she looked dead. Only the unsteady rise and fall of her chest told them otherwise. “Those pieces have power just as long as she believes,” Charlie said in a soft, somber voice. “If she doesn’t hold out, neither will they. We have to be ready, just in case.”

“Mr. Stiles,” Nathan called again.

Jessie snorted angrily. “Why doesn’t he just shut up!”

“Mr. Stiles? Listen to this, will you? You may find it amusing.” Then a woman screamed.

The soldier’s eyes suddenly unclouded. He snapped upright, his once-blank face suddenly alive with emotion. Denial. Fear. He turned on the window with the Heckler & Koch at the ready. “Billie . . .”

Danner had her out there, surrounded by his horde, straight out from the parlor window so she would be in plain view. He held her arms behind her back with one hand and pulled her hair with the other, till she bent sideways at a torturous angle and cried out when he applied a little pressure. He was looking past her to the window, waiting for Stiles to appear. “They tell me you know this cow,” he called, “that she means something to you.” Then he smiled and lowered his head over that silken throat and bit into it. Not too hard—just enough to make her scream. Just enough to draw blood. It oozed from the punctures down the taut angle of her neck, down into the cleavage revealed by her open jacket. The vampires ooohed and aaahed, nearly swooning at the sight. And Nathan licked it up with exaggerated gusto, all the while keeping an eye on the window and watching the soldier’s face tighten with rage. “Won’t you come out now, Mr. Stiles?” he said, flicking his tongue at the wound. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

Stiles turned to Charlie and the others. The look on his face was terrifying in its own right, a mask of barely controlled fury. “What do we do?” Jessie wanted to know.

He trembled as he said, “You people watch the doors and windows. Stay ready.” He stood up. “I’ve got to go.”

“What?” Hubert was incredulous, as were they all. “They’ll kill you for sure.”

“It’s a chance I’ve got to take.” He laid down the machine gun and turned toward the door. Bean and Hubert made a move to stop him. “No,” he said, halting them with his harsh tone. “Don’t try it. Not where Billie’s concerned. You’ll lose.” He noticed that Ida’s eyes were slightly open for the first time in hours and looking at him in concern. He went to her, kneeled by her chair, and took her hand. “How are you holding up, Grandma?”

“I’m a tough old bird,” she barely managed. “But you . . . you be careful. You hear?” He nodded and kissed her, then headed toward the entry hall.

“Don’t worry, Stiles,” Charlie said as he passed. The deputy picked up the Heckler & Koch, extended the stock, and activated the laser sight. “If you can’t get Billie out, or, well . . . I’ll take care of you. Both of you.”

The soldier said nothing as he left the parlor.

He scooted the leaning front door aside just enough for him to slip out onto the porch. The night air immediately wrapped him in a cold embrace, but he was too pumped with adrenaline to notice. What he did feel, however, were the eyes on him, unblinking, unrelenting, and he noted the increased number of undead gathered around the Shady Rest. There were at least thirty surrounding the porch, lining the front steps, and flanking the yard as well. He was the sole white man facing a tribe of late-show Indians, only these natives were long of tooth and glassy of eye. They became a gauntlet at the porch steps that he would have to pass. If only it were the late show, he wished. Tomahawks would be a welcome fate.

“Let the woman go,” he called to Danner.

“Now, now,” scolded the vampire. “This is my game. I make up the rules. Come here. Join us.” When Stiles didn’t move fast enough he tightened his hold on Billie and forced her to her knees. “Come here,” he barked, “or I drain her here and now!”

Begrudgingly Stiles began his walk. He crossed the porch and started down the steps.

Jack-o’-lanterns lined the way, ghoulish grinning faces that could barely hold back their carnal need for sustenance. Despite their master’s orders, some even grabbed for him, tearing his vest and shirt, raking his flesh with dirt-caked nails. One of them lunged too close and in reflex Stiles caught the groping arm and broke it. Then he swung at the accompanying leer and felt teeth shatter beneath his palm and then the whole mob seemed to fall on top of him. His only defense was to cover his head—blows rained down in torrents, hammering him to the ground, blinding him, filling his vision with starbursts and the shifting colors of pain. The mauling culminated quickly when he felt a singular body pin him to the ground and wrap cold arms around him. He could tell from the shape of the wriggling form that his attacker was female; from the scent of leather, that it was Georgetta Stovall. He felt her face burrow into his shoulder and keep moving, closer and closer and he tried to fight her off but he could not keep her teeth from finding his neck.

The pain of the bite itself was sharp but fleeting. It was the feelings and sensations it brought that repulsed him. There was nothing sensuous about the attack. It was an assault, pure and simple, same as a rat bite, only a rat doesn’t hang on and nurse at the wound like a leech. At least she hadn’t hit an artery—she was sucking too hard for that. It was the feel of that cold, soft-lipped mouth, kneading and working, that made him cry out. That, and the vertigo that immediately clutched at his mind. Stiles felt his strength draining, his will gone, his very life being tugged and pulled, stolen away . . .

The cascade of horrific sensations ended abruptly, as did the attack itself. The hands of the mob were suddenly gone and so was the wet suction cup of a mouth, though he could still feel her hands on him and her squirming weight pinning him to the ground. He blinked his eyes into blurred but compliant sight. Georgetta’s livid face hovered just above his own, mouth stained red and teeth bared, squirming to free her hair from Danner’s iron grasp. He straddled the both of them and held her at bay with little effort. “Now now,” he berated her gently. “I said no one touches our guest. Not yet.”

“No!” she squealed, straining against his grasp even as she pulled the soldier up into her embrace once again. “He’s mine! Mine!”

Nathan did not snarl at her, nor did he exhibit any anger at all. He simply reached out and cupped her chin with his palm and gave a sharp little twist, and Stiles suddenly found himself staring into the back of the woman’s head. She rolled off of him, gagging and coughing, gazing at the stars even as she crawled away on her hands and knees. Danner smirked as he grabbed Stiles by his combat vest and jerked him into the air with one hand, dancing him about like a broken puppet. “Where are your guns now, my friend? Where is your ghostly guardian? Come, bring them all on. I’m too powerful for the lot of you!” He shook the man’s limp form again but the response was the same. Stiles just hung there. “Aw, c’mon. Where’s all that pluck and fight?” No response. He sighed, “You’re no fun,” and contemptuously tossed him away. A flick of the wrist sent him nearly ten feet. Stiles tried to hit and roll but his reflexes were as battered as the rest of him. He landed hard, bounced once, and came to rest in a crumpled heap. The rest of the undead all tensed at the sight of the downed man like jackals after a lion’s kill, but they dared not advance. Not without their master’s consent, and he did not give it. He wasn’t through with this one. Not yet.

“Chris!”

Billie’s cry cut through the miasma of his addled senses. He managed to get to his knees and saw her running toward him. But then she passed Danner. The vampire’s hand snaked out and caught her by the hair, nearly jerking her off her feet and coaxing a painful scream from her lips. It was that scream that fed Stiles’s anger. It drove him to his feet. “Danner! Let her go!”

Nathan pinned her flailing arms and looked her over hungrily. “I don’t know, Mr. Stiles. She’s a pretty one. What if I refuse?”

The soldier was succinct. “Then I’ll tear you apart.”

The vampires all laughed at the wounded man’s audacity. All but Danner. He watched Stiles with a hard-learned wariness. “You’ve already tried that once tonight.”

“Then I’ll just have to try harder.”

Nathan finally smiled and shook his head with wonderment. “What audacity, eh?” he called to the others. “You just can’t help but like him.” He raised his hands and released Billie, who ran to Stiles’s side. She was sobbing incoherently, something about her sons, but Danner was still speaking to his throng. “Shall we tell them what we have planned?” he asked. “Or should it be a surprise? I don’t know . . . perhaps we should put it to a vote—”

“Just get on with it,” Stiles snapped.

“Yes, of course. I believe we should tell him. Then we can savor their reaction.” He approached the two. There were fires dancing in his empty eyes that forced Billie to look away, but Stiles met his gaze and fought it. “Do you remember our conversation in your motel room last night? I wanted you to experience my reality, so to speak. Make you like me. Well, I intend to keep that promise, my friend.”

Stiles did not blink or back down. “Then you must have forgotten what I told you. That I would use it to destroy you?”

“Oh, I remember. And I do believe you. That’s why I won’t stop there. No, I figure if you’re deserving of my gift, you must also be worthy of my fate.” He moved even closer, within whispering distance. “An immortal imprisoned is a tortured soul indeed. I thought about that quite a bit over the last three-quarters of a century. And so shall you. You’ll take my place in that basement cell, my friend, walled in, and you’ll feel yourself waste away, day by day by day, knowing that there will never be an end to your suffering, because you cannot die.” He laughed triumphantly as he walked away, turning only on an afterthought. “But I was once a compassionate man. I know the loneliness of such an existence. So I will allow you company.” He looked at Billie. “She should last a little while. Till the hunger starts to burn.”

Stiles pulled Billie to his chest and turned her so that they both faced the parlor window. He hoped to find a red dot dancing on the back of her head, but there was nothing yet. “Sounds like you’ve been a busy boy with all this thinking and planning,” he replied. “And I hate to disappoint you. But we won’t be able to stick around for your games.” He pulled Billie even closer, tensed himself for the impact, and hoped Bean was a good shot. “Okay, Charlie . . . do it!”

There was no report. After a moment he opened his eyes and looked to the window. The lights were still on but, from this distance, he couldn’t see anyone. “Charlie!” he called. “Do us now!”

“The deputy can’t help you. But maybe I can.” It was Danner’s voice, but not from where Nathan stood. It issued instead from the front porch of the house, and it had aged nearly a century in transit. Stiles had never realized until that moment how much the old man and his eternal twin sounded alike.

George Bailey was just slipping through the ruined doorway and out into the moonlight. He looked bad. His skin was as pale as Ida’s, his features drawn, his posture slouched and unsteady. His limbs shook, either from infirmity or abject terror or both, and he must have been sweating fiercely since his hair was plastered to his forehead and his clothes were drenched and clung to his scarecrow frame. He leaned against one of the porch’s pillars for support while the vampires just stared, not knowing quite what to make of him. He motioned to Stiles and Billie. “Let them go.”

Nathan nodded imperceptibly, and in answer two of the vampires came slowly up onto the porch after Bailey. But when they drew within reach Bailey suddenly thrust out the big rosewood cross that had hung on his bedroom wall. The creatures immediately retreated, hissing and holding their eyes. “There’s still a little fight in me, Nathan,” he said, buoyed by that small victory. “You’ll have to do better than that.”

Nathan’s expression changed from one of mild annoyance to genuine curiosity. “Do I know you, old man?”

Bailey held out the cross. All of the vampires took a step back. Even Nathan flinched. “Don’t you remember this, Nathan? It was my wife’s. It had been her mother’s.”

The vampire leader gaped. “Sebastian . . .”

The old man’s voice grew hot with anger. “And do you remember the last time you saw it? The night I put Lynn Anne to rest, again, after what you’d done to her? It’s the same cross I used to track you down and burn that mark into your cheek that won’t go away.”

Nathan touched the black scar on his face. “Then it is you, brother? I thought you’d be dead by now. I told myself I imagined it when I was behind that wall and I heard the digging and felt . . . Ah, so I was right then. It wasn’t those children who freed me. It was you. You came back—”

“To kill you,” Bailey said icily. “To destroy you once and for all. It’s something I should’ve done seventy-five years ago. This time I’ll finish it.”

The young man in the sweat suit smirked with confidence. “Will you now?” he said. “Don’t be a fool. You were lucky last time. You caught me unaware, and you were young and strong then and you had a mad thirst for revenge to drive you. Do you have that now? No. You are just a bent, wizened old fool. Old. Ancient. Decrepit. I can hear your joints creak from across the yard, Bastian. I can hear your bones crumbling away, and the strain of your heart, laboring to maintain even an erratic beat. You’re a shadow of your former self, Bastian. While I AM your former self.”

“No, you’re not,” Bailey called back. He was sagging against the beam more and more. The cross lowered a bit. “You were never like me.”

“No?” He was coming closer now, toward the steps, even though the cross was still before him. “Don’t I have your body, brother? Your strength, your vitality? And even more—don’t I look as you once did? Isn’t this the face that Lynn Anne fell in love with? Your face?”

“Don’t listen to him, Sebastian!” Stiles called, but the old man’s gaze was caught and held by his advancing twin. Bailey’s hand trembled and lowered still. Nathan no longer recoiled from the cross’s presence.

“Join me, Bastian,” he offered. “I can make you like me. I can give you everything you desire. I can give you your youth. Can you imagine what it would be like to run again, to feel undreamed of strength in your arms instead of numbness or pain?” His smile was seductive, devilish. “You know you want it. Don’t you?”

There was a moment of anxious silence. Then the crucifix clattered to the porch. “Damn you, Nate,” he sobbed in defeat.

Nathan opened his arms. ‘“All is forgiven, brother,” he said. “Come to me.”

The old man walked stiffly down the steps and into his brother’s embrace. He even turned his head to bare his thin, wattled throat. But Nathan was suddenly hesitant. He was sniffing, looking about. There was a pungent aroma in the air around them. “What is that?” he muttered.

Sebastian tightened his arms around his brother’s middle before snapping the deputy’s pilfered handcuffs around his own wrists, locking the two of them in the embrace. Then he looked up into Nathan’s face. The ruse was over. He was smiling. “The smell, Nate? It’s retribution.”

He thumbed the wheel of the Bic butane in his hand.

The flame all but leaped from the lighter and raced with glee up the old man’s gas-soaked sleeves and across his shoulders, encircling the two of them in the blink of an eye. Sebastian Danner said nothing. He simply died. But his brother was another matter. He screamed as the fire licked around him and his thrashing made them look like an insane couple on the dance floor. He hammered at the dead man who held him until the arms came off at the sockets and he was free again. But it was already too late. The flames had spread too quickly, and pieces of Sebastian Danner’s clothes and skin were still stuck to him and feeding the blaze. Nathan staggered backward, screaming and cursing as the fire enfolded him like an orange cocoon. He collapsed on the grass and continued to burn even after he stopped moving.

There was shocked silence. The pop and crack of the flames was the only sound. All eyes were on the fallen master. Except for Billie. She was trying to pull Stiles away. “Chris,” she whispered urgently, “hurry, now’s our chance—”

“No,” he said. He was still hopelessly groggy, despite his bravado earlier, and her arms around him were mostly what kept him on his feet. “I can’t make it. Run yourself. I’ll hold them.”

“Oh, no, you don’t,” she said, throwing one of his arms over her shoulder and pulling him along. “I’m not leaving without you!” They backed away toward the road. If they could get down the hill, maybe to another house . . .

She felt eyes on her. “Oh God, they see us—”

“Just keep moving,” Stiles said firmly, gathering a momentum of his own now, turning and almost pulling her along. He chanced a look behind. The creatures had left their master and become a wall of white, yawning faces, their eyes intense and wanting as they came steadily forward. Danner was already forgotten, and without his coherence the communal whole was breaking up, and each cell had its own will and its own hunger, and about thirty other competitors for the same meal. It was that adversarial aspect that kept them from charging outright. They were watching each other as much as their prey, which worked to Stiles’s and Billie’s advantage. It gave them an extra few seconds of flight, got them that much closer to the open road.

Billie suddenly dug in her heels and dragged them both to a halt. She was looking ahead while he peered behind, so she was the first to see the movement out in the road. “Oh, God,” she murmured, pointing. A shadow had extricated itself from the surrounding night and now wandered into the dim glow of the security light. She could make out a small figure against the light, a child, and as he approached he struggled with his unwieldy burden and held it up for all to see. The huge cross was an impressive sight to behold, even with the two lumps on the crossbar where Tommy Whitten’s hands had melted. The boy braced the trunk of it against his hip like the flag-bearer in a marching band and came on ahead.

Billie was hesitant to let herself believe. “Del?” she barely whispered. Even Stiles didn’t recognize the boy at first. He was ragged and dirty, his jacket stained with makeup, his face reddened from the fire he’d started, his eyebrows and bangs singed away. But that wasn’t the difference in him. It was the way he held himself, straighter, taller, even with the weight of the cross. Perhaps it was his expression. There was a calm, yet steely resolve etched there that seemed out of place on an eleven-year-old. He held the crucifix out even further, directly at Stiles, until the soldier realized it was meant for the chalky wall of faces behind him.

The horde ceased its advance. The faces were pinched into sneers but they averted their eyes from the cross.

Mother ran to son and hugged him tight, though he struggled a bit to keep the massive symbol visible to all. “Thank God you’re all right,” she sobbed gratefully. “I was so worried! Where’s your brother?”

Del avoided her gaze. “Please, Mom. Not now.” He broke away from her to confront the vampires, but she was still left shaken. She had seen enough of his expression to know. She wouldn’t let herself believe it. “Delbert!” she called after him, “Delbert, where is he? Where is your brother!” and she tried to get to him and shake it out of him, but Stiles caught her first and she all but collapsed in his arms.

“Stay close to me,” Delbert called to the soldier. “I think I can get you back to the boardinghouse.” He moved forward a step or two in the mob’s direction, goading them into retreat. But they started pushing each other into his path like children on a playground. Those who jumped or were pushed too close got a searing jab from Del’s holy weapon but their wounds did not stop them. The boy’s advance was blocked. He looked over his shoulder at Stiles, frustrated. “Stalemate.”

“Retreat then,” Stiles told him. “Maybe we can get to a house down the hill and—”

The gunshots rang out almost in unison, taking Stiles and his allies by surprise, and at least six of the huddled undead fell in reply, their torsos perforated with fatal doses of silver. But the gunmen were still unseen; no one could tell where they had fired from, and a wave of confusion and panic swept through the rest of the creatures. They turned on each other in a mad scramble to get away without knowing which way to go. The mystery guns barked again, and this time Stiles could see the two cones of muzzle flame in the darkness. Charlie and the others—it had to be them! They had outflanked the vampires and hemmed them in on two sides, firing from a distance so the spread patterns were larger and encompassed a greater target area. After even a short barrage the mob was halved in number. The remainder pawed and trampled one another in blind panic as the rain of silver forced them back toward the Shady Rest, up onto the porch where they broke down the door and rushed inside . . .

The house! Stiles’s jaw dropped. How could they get past the cross on the door and Ida’s . . . Oh, Lord. “Ida!” he yelled, starting after them.

“Stiles, wait!” Bean’s voice managed to slow him. The deputy hurried out of the shadows at the yard’s edge, the Remington under his injured arm while he reloaded with his one good hand. He called out, “Hubert, they’re coming your way!” before turning back to the soldier. “Ida’s gone,” he said. “Right after you went outside. Just gave out all of a sudden. It was only a matter of time after that. We decided to make our move while they were preoccupied.” He started toward the house but then caught sight of the two bodies near the front porch, one a smoking piece of charcoal and the other still burning. “Bailey . . . Danner was still upstairs when we snuck out the back. I didn’t know that he had this in mind.” He looked apologetic for a moment, then gestured furiously to the other side of the lawn and continued the pursuit. Jessie answered his call and followed along as fast as she could, the Mossberg still smoking in her hands and the Uzi pistol slung over one shoulder. Bean yelled back to Delbert, “Watch the front, boy!” before he and the woman disappeared around either side of the house. Almost immediately there was more gunfire.

Del looked at Stiles. “Well? Aren’t you going to help them?”

“In a minute,” Stiles said. “I’ve got to be sure first.” Supporting Billie, he headed across the yard to where Nathan Danner had finally collapsed.

The body was still burning long after Sebastian Danner’s had gone out. Indeed, the gasoline that fueled it initially had already been consumed, along with his clothing and hair and flesh until he looked like an anatomist’s mannequin of the muscular system. But still he burned, hotter and brighter than ever, and Stiles couldn’t get too close for the heat. It reminded him of hydrogen peroxide poured into an infected wound; the chemical would react with any corruption present and bubble and fizz angrily as it purified. It was exactly what the fire was doing now. Reacting to the corruption. Purifying. Growing hotter and brighter as it burned away the layers that housed his demonic core. “Is it over then?” Billie whispered, hugging herself close to him. “Is it really over?”

“Yes,” he soothed, kissing her lightly, “it’s really—”

The fire flared suddenly, whether from a sudden breeze or a bubble of gas in the entrails. It licked out and seared his vision and left it imprinted with a ghostly orange haze. He stumbled and grabbed at his stinging eyes, blinded, and felt a wave of intense heat rush past him.

And he heard Billie scream.

Stiles chased the spots from his gaze, only to find her cowering on the ground a few yards away, shielding her face to the fiery abomination that loomed over her. Nathan Danner was still the same apparition as a moment ago, still sheathed in angry flames, but now he stood upright, defying every natural law. He no longer appeared human; the face was skeletal, covered only in a thick gauze of blackening muscle, and the eyes bulged without benefit of lids to hide them. When they abruptly popped and melted from the heat, even the empty sockets seemed to stare with evil intent. The lipless smile was much too large for any human mouth, and the teeth clicked and worked as if attempting words, but all in vain. It emitted only harsh exhalations as its lungs dried up and turned to ash. The monstrosity took a shambling step toward her and a gaunt hand reached out, a charred skeleton’s hand with a flap of loose muscle hanging like moss from the wrist, and it caught Billie by the shoulder. She squealed and tears filled her eyes as it burned through the jacket to the flesh beneath. That angry gust of air came again as it pulled her closer, and this time it somehow formed the word blood.

Stiles loosed a maniacal cry that echoed through the night, taking the both of them by surprise, and when he launched himself at the undying creature it was with a wide-eyed, slobbering rage. His own pain and limitations were forgotten as he pistoned a vicious kick into the Danner-thing’s side and knocked it away from her. “Fight me!” the soldier roared, crouched and snarling like a wild animal.

The fiery creature drew back, its eye sockets trained cautiously on both of them. It was wary of the man; it needed to feed desperately, for only blood could put out the flame, only blood could bring back the power as it had twice before. But the man would fight too much, too long. It needed the girl, needed her now . . .

It moved for Billie again, lunging, but Stiles drove it back with ferocious abandon, pummeling it madly, filling the air with the sharp crack of bone on bone. He ignored the heat and the pain, even when the creature’s jaw muscles came loose and stuck to his fist like melted plastic, still aflame. He continued to fight. And the Danner-thing continued to burn.

The flames were brighter now, especially within the rib cage and in the very skull itself. The sockets were no longer dark; they now blazed with soul-eating fire. And it drove what was left of Nathan Danner berserk. From somewhere, perhaps from the blackened core of his very being, Danner finally found a voice, and it screamed with an indefinable rage as it charged Stiles in desperation, catching him by the throat and hauling him into the air.

Stiles knocked the hand away, tearing the thing’s forearm loose at the elbow, and then dropped back to the ground. Immediately he torqued his body into a hard spin and his leg lashed out and dug a heel into the Danner-thing’s head and, like a cigarette flung against a wall, the skull exploded in a shower of sparks. The body remained standing. It crouched and shifted its weight, even took a step toward them. But then the flames suddenly flared up and consumed it, and the resulting blaze lit the hilltop for miles around.

Stiles didn’t know how long he stood there, watching the fire, waiting for it to die so he could scatter the ashes. The rage gradually spent itself; it left him dazed, disoriented, barely on his feet. He wasn’t sure where he had been or what he’d done, and the returning waves of pain would not permit him to remember. He was shocked to realize that the sun was already peeking over the Indiana horizon. Daylight . . . he’d thought he would never see it again. He squinted at its brightness, reveled in its warmth.

“Chris?” Billie asked softly, touching his shoulder.

He turned to her and smiled. But he wasn’t conscious when he hit the ground.