Palming the Ruger, with one half-frozen finger caressing its trigger, Max scanned the motel office. Frost haloed the glass, but he could see well enough. Empty. His lungs were blazing with spiked blue flames ignited in the howling storm. He’d run the length of the Rendezvous’s back lot after seeing Vera disappear. The pain inside him stirred; a predator sensing a weak quarry’s vulnerability, it began to hunt. Max had to slow to a deliberate walk. Around the corner, he passed vacant room after vacant room. The sense of desertion was undeniable. An Old West town shuttered against the coming gunfight.
I’ve read too many novels, he told himself.
Were people watching him? Without thinking he’d removed the gun from his belt. The sight of it in plain view shocked him. He pocketed it. He kept his hand down there, anticipating. The worst thing would never surprise him again. He had no magical protections out here in the open.
Inward, the pain lunged. Quick, breathless attack preceded an unhurried clawing and chewing at his guts.
He entered the building.
The warmth of the room flowed over him like bathwater.
The revolver held deep in his parka’s pocket, he surveyed the check-in area. Yes, there were signs of a struggle. Pens scattered on the carpet. A calendar flung and displaying its ruffled months.
Overturned chairs and spilled coffee. No bloodstains. No bodies. An absence of ax gouges in the furniture.
He tried the door leading to the living quarters.
Locked.
Now what?
He could call out to Vera. What would that get him? Maybe she would come downstairs and open the door. Or maybe someone else would.
Max took the chalk stick from his pants pocket and drew an X on the door, and then he drew a circle around the doorknob and shaded it in. If it was the Pitch holding Vera captive, he hoped this was enough to keep them at bay. They shouldn’t be able to open the door. Not without great effort. Though it was possible White- side could do it.
Max needed to get the stone from Vera’s room.
He searched the pegboard behind the desk, until he found a second key that matched the number on her unit.
He took it.
His shoes squeaked on the freshly fallen snow. The sidewalk and parking lot were smoothed over by a Sahara of drifts. Under the drive-up awning, along the path that wasn’t exposed directly to the sky and wind, he saw a single set of large footprints heading in the direction of the highway and slightly angled toward the center of town. It wasn’t much to go on. But if Vera was correct, then that’s where the man with the ax had gone.
Max pulled his hood tight and squinted into the chilled inferno of the storm. Like so many particles of ash floating up from Hell, he thought. He looked toward the dim lights at the town center. Dots of color played hide-and-seek in the murk.
He saw not a living soul.
And he was running out of time.
One hand on the room key and the other on his revolver, he marched off to find the Tartarus Stone.
Before it was too late.
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