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Authors: Cherie Priest
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the wall behind me and he shoved. I heard the boards crack and felt the skin along my spine begin to bruise. He was all hot breath and the stink of someone else’s blood. He was all tremendous size and an imbecile’s strength, with claws and a voice.
“What’s this?” he breathed, and it was a hiss against the side of my head. With one big hand he pushed me back even harder, and with the other he grabbed at the gun but I held it fast and tried to reach the hammer with my thumb. “Is this all you’ve learned?” he asked, still trying to wrench it away.
“I’ve learned much,” I growled back. I had nothing profound to tell him. I only wanted to distract him enough to cock the revolver again—one more shot, at such a close range. Anything to push him back.
“All your following, and watching, and waiting—and you think you’ll stop me with silver?”
I twisted underneath him and moved my body so the gun was aimed his way again. I pushed it as close to his heart as conditions would permit, but I missed. Even in the missing, the kick of the firearm pushed him enough for me to duck away.
I was small, and I was fast. I was stronger than he thought, and I grabbed the hammer back again—another shot, into that tree-trunk-thick torso.
He threw his arms up and howled that dreadful bellow but I knew I hadn’t hurt him much. It was for show, the way he cried. It was to intimidate me, and for a moment I felt a spark of triumph because he felt the need to frighten me. The triumph passed, and passed quickly.
He grabbed my wrist and hit it against the boat’s rail. I held the gun firmly, but he hit me again and I dropped it—over the side and into the Tennessee. I let it go and he held me up by the one arm as I struggled. “Silver is no enemy of mine, little sister.” He growled it at me, his hideous and misshapen mouth making the words obscene. “It is the metal of the moon, and the moon is my mistress—or didn’t you know? She holds no harm for me. And neither do you .”
He finished speaking, and with it, he lost his interest in me. He flung me—not overboard but back against the wall, and through it. I fell so fast and met so little resistance that I was perplexed when I found myself on a floor, half on a divan and surrounded by glass, wood, and water.
In one short burst he’d cast me through the window of a cabin and I was cut, I knew. I was terribly dazed, and I was bleeding, surely. But I didn’t feel it. I pulled my feet up underneath myself and rose, hanging onto the divan, and the table, and using my hands to walk as much as I was using my legs.
I’d lost the gun, but I had the rosary still, tied around my hand and useless except for it made me feel stronger.
He hadn’t killed me, though he could have—or maybe he couldn’t. He said the silver meant nothing, but something had repelled him. Was it the rosary? Did the beads and the cross provoke him? I know what the folk tales say about other beasts of the devil. I know how these things are supposed to work. I’ve been researching them for years. I’ve been doing my best, and my worst, to understand.
But I hadn’t learned enough. I hadn’t learned how to kill him; I’d only learned that I must kill him, because there would be no stopping or redeeming him.
God might have disagreed with me—but as of that moment where I was staggering in the unoccupied cabin, trying to gain my balance and my bearing, He’d never told me so.
XII.
People were starting to come out of their cabins, wandering into the rain, wondering what that godawful noise had been. They were milling about, walking along that edge of panic—when the unknown is something yet uncertain, but bound to be terrible. I imagined they were right, but I didn’t believe it would do any of us any good to embrace a frightened frenzy.
Two of the young men from supper were out on the deck—I told them about the mud drums, and how they make such a horrific noise that unseasoned
“What’s this?” he breathed, and it was a hiss against the side of my head. With one big hand he pushed me back even harder, and with the other he grabbed at the gun but I held it fast and tried to reach the hammer with my thumb. “Is this all you’ve learned?” he asked, still trying to wrench it away.
“I’ve learned much,” I growled back. I had nothing profound to tell him. I only wanted to distract him enough to cock the revolver again—one more shot, at such a close range. Anything to push him back.
“All your following, and watching, and waiting—and you think you’ll stop me with silver?”
I twisted underneath him and moved my body so the gun was aimed his way again. I pushed it as close to his heart as conditions would permit, but I missed. Even in the missing, the kick of the firearm pushed him enough for me to duck away.
I was small, and I was fast. I was stronger than he thought, and I grabbed the hammer back again—another shot, into that tree-trunk-thick torso.
He threw his arms up and howled that dreadful bellow but I knew I hadn’t hurt him much. It was for show, the way he cried. It was to intimidate me, and for a moment I felt a spark of triumph because he felt the need to frighten me. The triumph passed, and passed quickly.
He grabbed my wrist and hit it against the boat’s rail. I held the gun firmly, but he hit me again and I dropped it—over the side and into the Tennessee. I let it go and he held me up by the one arm as I struggled. “Silver is no enemy of mine, little sister.” He growled it at me, his hideous and misshapen mouth making the words obscene. “It is the metal of the moon, and the moon is my mistress—or didn’t you know? She holds no harm for me. And neither do you .”
He finished speaking, and with it, he lost his interest in me. He flung me—not overboard but back against the wall, and through it. I fell so fast and met so little resistance that I was perplexed when I found myself on a floor, half on a divan and surrounded by glass, wood, and water.
In one short burst he’d cast me through the window of a cabin and I was cut, I knew. I was terribly dazed, and I was bleeding, surely. But I didn’t feel it. I pulled my feet up underneath myself and rose, hanging onto the divan, and the table, and using my hands to walk as much as I was using my legs.
I’d lost the gun, but I had the rosary still, tied around my hand and useless except for it made me feel stronger.
He hadn’t killed me, though he could have—or maybe he couldn’t. He said the silver meant nothing, but something had repelled him. Was it the rosary? Did the beads and the cross provoke him? I know what the folk tales say about other beasts of the devil. I know how these things are supposed to work. I’ve been researching them for years. I’ve been doing my best, and my worst, to understand.
But I hadn’t learned enough. I hadn’t learned how to kill him; I’d only learned that I must kill him, because there would be no stopping or redeeming him.
God might have disagreed with me—but as of that moment where I was staggering in the unoccupied cabin, trying to gain my balance and my bearing, He’d never told me so.
XII.
People were starting to come out of their cabins, wandering into the rain, wondering what that godawful noise had been. They were milling about, walking along that edge of panic—when the unknown is something yet uncertain, but bound to be terrible. I imagined they were right, but I didn’t believe it would do any of us any good to embrace a frightened frenzy.
Two of the young men from supper were out on the deck—I told them about the mud drums, and how they make such a horrific noise that unseasoned
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