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Read Online [Oxrun Station] The Bloodwind by Charles L. Grant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Charles L. Grant
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don't understand you. I . . . what are you —"
The man's face was deep red with rage, and he cut her off with a vicious chop at the air, his other hand leaving the chair and reaching back for the doorframe. "You know damned well what I mean."
"I don't, Ford," she said, suddenly afraid, aware that Stephen and Greg were moving slowly toward him around the outside of the room. "I haven't the slightest —"
"You thought you'd lost, so you . . ." He looked around helplessly, enraged momentum slowing him, but not calming. "Well, you won't get away with it, Shav ers, not by half."
"Get away with what?" Constable said. "What are you accusing this woman of, Danvers?"
"You'll see, you'll see," Danvers sputtered and backed into the corridor. "Just come outside, the lot of you. Just come outside and see what the precious little lady has done to her betters."
"Greg?" She reached for him and he took her hand.
"Now!" Danvers demanded. "Right now, so you can talk to the police."
6
It was the silence more than the cold that caused tremors to skitter along Pat's arms, that snapped her head in small jerks from one face to another, that made her wish someone would scream.
They had followed Danvers timorously, half afraid he would turn on them with some sort of weapon, yet too curious to remain behind in the safety of the building. They'd taken the stairs to the lobby — moonbright and glittering and snaked across with shadows—and out the side door to the parking lot. There wasn't enough room for all of them on the narrow stoop, so several had stepped down to the pavement, several more to the wide concrete apron that surrounded the blacktop.
And no one spoke.
The frantic whispering was choked off, Constable's irritated grunts smothered, and Danvers had suddenly reined in his imprecations and accusations, his arm- flailing melodramatics that called down retribution from the gods of his nightmares. They stood in small groups and kept their own counsel, pale images of themselves under the gooseneck lampposts that rose from each corner of the lot. The snow a foot deep on the ground seemed imbedded with mica, the stars distant and harsh. There was muffled sound from the Union, but no one listened. They watched, instead, as two patrol cars flared their rooflights and turned faces purple, the snow bloodstained, the air far colder than it ought to have been.
The parking lot was small, holding at most two dozen cars nose-in around its perimeter. Now it was virtually empty, and on the far side, alone and in half-shadow, was Danvers' vehicle. An old one, simply black, far beyond its prime though all of them knew it had been lovingly treated. Now it had changed, and as soon as Pat saw what had been done she pressed a fist to her mouth and turned her face to Greg's arm as though denying the sight, denying the presence she felt lurking in the trees.
There was very little left that had not been destroyed. Windshield and windows had been smashed inward, shards and powdered glass glittering on the seatcovers ; the hood and trunk had been battered and crumpled, the doors dented so deeply the paint had cracked and flaked off to the ground; the grille was twisted from the center outward, headlamps and taillights shattered to dust, and the hubcaps had been wrenched off and folded in half, tossed into the snowbank brown with slush. All the tires were flat, though there was no sign of slashing. The only sound a faint dripping from the radiator's ruins.
DiSelleone spoke first: "Jesus . . . Christ." It was less than a prayer, more a horrified whisper.
Danvers had moved to the center of the lot, arms limp at his sides, his oversized head lowered in defeat. A broad-shouldered patrolman —Pat recognized him as Fred Borg—had left the warmth of his vehicle and was talking with the professor quietly. A small crowd of students, drawn by the spinning lights, had started to gather on the pavement, in the snow, but they too were silent, were staring, their
The man's face was deep red with rage, and he cut her off with a vicious chop at the air, his other hand leaving the chair and reaching back for the doorframe. "You know damned well what I mean."
"I don't, Ford," she said, suddenly afraid, aware that Stephen and Greg were moving slowly toward him around the outside of the room. "I haven't the slightest —"
"You thought you'd lost, so you . . ." He looked around helplessly, enraged momentum slowing him, but not calming. "Well, you won't get away with it, Shav ers, not by half."
"Get away with what?" Constable said. "What are you accusing this woman of, Danvers?"
"You'll see, you'll see," Danvers sputtered and backed into the corridor. "Just come outside, the lot of you. Just come outside and see what the precious little lady has done to her betters."
"Greg?" She reached for him and he took her hand.
"Now!" Danvers demanded. "Right now, so you can talk to the police."
6
It was the silence more than the cold that caused tremors to skitter along Pat's arms, that snapped her head in small jerks from one face to another, that made her wish someone would scream.
They had followed Danvers timorously, half afraid he would turn on them with some sort of weapon, yet too curious to remain behind in the safety of the building. They'd taken the stairs to the lobby — moonbright and glittering and snaked across with shadows—and out the side door to the parking lot. There wasn't enough room for all of them on the narrow stoop, so several had stepped down to the pavement, several more to the wide concrete apron that surrounded the blacktop.
And no one spoke.
The frantic whispering was choked off, Constable's irritated grunts smothered, and Danvers had suddenly reined in his imprecations and accusations, his arm- flailing melodramatics that called down retribution from the gods of his nightmares. They stood in small groups and kept their own counsel, pale images of themselves under the gooseneck lampposts that rose from each corner of the lot. The snow a foot deep on the ground seemed imbedded with mica, the stars distant and harsh. There was muffled sound from the Union, but no one listened. They watched, instead, as two patrol cars flared their rooflights and turned faces purple, the snow bloodstained, the air far colder than it ought to have been.
The parking lot was small, holding at most two dozen cars nose-in around its perimeter. Now it was virtually empty, and on the far side, alone and in half-shadow, was Danvers' vehicle. An old one, simply black, far beyond its prime though all of them knew it had been lovingly treated. Now it had changed, and as soon as Pat saw what had been done she pressed a fist to her mouth and turned her face to Greg's arm as though denying the sight, denying the presence she felt lurking in the trees.
There was very little left that had not been destroyed. Windshield and windows had been smashed inward, shards and powdered glass glittering on the seatcovers ; the hood and trunk had been battered and crumpled, the doors dented so deeply the paint had cracked and flaked off to the ground; the grille was twisted from the center outward, headlamps and taillights shattered to dust, and the hubcaps had been wrenched off and folded in half, tossed into the snowbank brown with slush. All the tires were flat, though there was no sign of slashing. The only sound a faint dripping from the radiator's ruins.
DiSelleone spoke first: "Jesus . . . Christ." It was less than a prayer, more a horrified whisper.
Danvers had moved to the center of the lot, arms limp at his sides, his oversized head lowered in defeat. A broad-shouldered patrolman —Pat recognized him as Fred Borg—had left the warmth of his vehicle and was talking with the professor quietly. A small crowd of students, drawn by the spinning lights, had started to gather on the pavement, in the snow, but they too were silent, were staring, their
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