Vicious Circle

Pain was spreading out from my shoulder in hot filaments, but my arm still seemed to work so I had to ignore it for now. I scrambled to my feet, snatching up the knife again, and glanced around. This was the next hurdle: I didn’t have a bloody clue where I was in relation to the car. I took a look behind me and wished I hadn’t. The two dark figures on the other side of the fence were loping through the undergrowth on all fours, covering the distance at twice my speed. One of them—Po, I assumed, since he was about the size of a rhino—tensed for the jump, and I knew damn well he’d clear the fence like a Grand National winner.

I ran without thinking, got my bearings as I was running and realized that the car was up ahead of me, maybe fifty yards or so, and on this side of the street. There was a sound at my back of something touching down heavily, and nails or claws or something of that general nature scraped on the wet pavement as Po checked his fall and took off after me.

I fished in my pocket for the car keys, pressed and pressed and pressed the stud on the key ring until a cheerful bingly-beep sound from up ahead told me that the car had unlocked itself. At the same time, the sidelights flashed three times: a feature that I’d never even noticed until my life depended on it.

I got the door open and crammed myself inside, pulling it closed behind me. Something slammed against the door at the same time as I palmed the other button on the right of the key fob, locking it again: it didn’t give. The knife, which I’d forgotten I was holding, clattered onto the floor of the car. I left it there; trying to fight my way out of this was going to get me killed in very short order.

Shaking like a bead of sweat in a belly-dancer’s cleavage, I somehow managed to get the key into the ignition, but then I slammed it into gear as I was turning it and stalled dead. Something smashed hard into the driver side window and it starred right across. Involuntarily, I turned my head to look.

It was Po. At least, that was my best guess. Right now it was something out of nightmare, crawling flesh half-congealed into a shape midway between human and something vaguely feline. I was judging mainly by the teeth, you understand, because for some reason it was to the gaping mouth that my eyes were drawn.

The car started up just as the thing outside drew back its clawed fist for a second blow that would probably have punched through the glass and ended up embedded in my face. The car leaped away, clipping the back bumper of the BMW in front with a sickening crunch before lurching out across the full width of the road. I plowed into the pavement, but fortunately missed the wall of the Bank of Scotland by the width of a nun’s chuff. Po was bounding across the street behind me, but I floored the gas and left him standing.

Thank you, nonexistent God. One I owe you.

Seven

IN PEN’S BATHROOM MIRROR, GLIMPSED OUT OF THE CORner of my eye because I was having to twist my head around to an angle that would have challenged Linda Blair, the ragged gash in my left shoulder looked really ugly.

“What in the name of God have you been doing to yourself,” Pen asked, with a certain degree of awe.

“I had some help,” I muttered, teeth gritted. Pain always makes me irritable: I’m sure as shit not the stuff that martyrs are made out of.

My arm had started to stiffen up as I was driving, with occasional lightning strikes of pain shooting from shoulder to fingertips. After a while, I was driving just with my right hand and only using my left—when I couldn’t avoid it—to change gear. And getting my coat off, when I’d finally managed to park the car, find my door keys in the wrong pocket, and let myself in, had been a whole heap of fun. Luckily Pen had turned out to be home, since Dylan was on another late shift. With her help, I was able to peel the coat away from the wound, yelping in anguish as it opened again. My shirt we just cut away and dumped in the waste bin: even Persil wasn’t going to bring it up white again. Then I sat on the edge of the bath, a large whisky clutched tightly in my hand, occasionally biting back colorful expletives as Pen cleaned out the edges of the cut.

Now, examining the results in all their reflected glory, I had to admit that the wound was impressive, in a grim and grisly way. It was a broad slash about three inches long on the very top of my shoulder, exactly midway between arm and throat. Small streamers of ribboned flesh hung down on either side of it, testifying to a serrated blade or a shape that had a lot of separate points and edges to it. A throwing star, maybe, although those two loup-garous hadn’t exactly struck me as being the ninja type. That involves stealth, just to go for the obvious point.