Death Cycle, page 9
The next tree was only a few feet away, and she amazed herself by walking to it, waving at the Rider as she went.
He didn’t move.
But once behind the gnarled maple, she sagged against the bark and closed her eyes tightly, scolding herself for acting as if she were invincible. Behavior like that was going to make her cocky, and it was only a short step more to complete disaster if she thought she really had the upper hand. Even now he remained in the street, and since the next tree north was more than ten feet away, there was a good chance he could catch her before she reached its safety.
Pacing, she reminded herself: It’s like a race, Roz, and the secret is in the pacing.
The catch was that in a race she wasn’t afraid that losing would mean her death.
Pressed against the trunk, she looked around to find him, saw him where she’d left him.
Waiting … just waiting.
Pushing off from the tree, she took a step out, and the Rider and his bike quivered as the engine roared but the brakes held him back. Smoke still crawled from beneath the tires, but now there was something else.
There were sparks.
They darted through the smoke and sometimes flared into the night air only a few inches above the tarmac, dying before they struck the ground.
She eased her left foot out, drew her body with it, and held her breath when the Rider, without moving, seemed to rear again like an impatient stallion. Then she took a running step to the left, planted her right foot, and instantly threw herself back to the tree.
He wasn’t fooled.
He charged her, made her scream as he swept past her just as she reached the trunk, and a fierce burning exploded across her leg while she scrambled to put the old maple between her and the machine.
He had hit her.
She checked and saw scorched denim, smelled the burnt fabric, and slapped at it angrily as the Rider prowled the sidewalk, softly again, purring, daring her to try it again. She couldn’t look to see where he was, couldn’t take the chance, depending instead on her hearing to locate his position.
Her leg ached, and she hissed when it accidentally brushed against the bark.
Carefully, then, she flexed it, drawing her lower lip between her teeth and biting down, tasting blood, until the pain began to fade.
The engine grumbled, and when it raced, just once to taunt her, she jumped because it sounded as if it were right beside her.
Several deep breaths later she turned to face the tree, braced one hand against it, and leaned out.
He was there.
Not six feet away he waited.
And when he saw her, he charged again.
This time, because she faced him, she was able to duck back before he struck her; and this time she lashed out with the screwdriver, raking its sharpened point across the Rider’s right arm. But the force of the blow jerked the weapon from her hand, spinning it across the tarmac and into the shadows up the street. Though she cursed her clumsiness, there was no yell of pain from the Rider, not even a grunt. Yet she knew she’d done some damage by the way the bike wobbled unsteadily as he tried to turn around in the street, favoring his left side and momentarily losing control.
It wasn’t much, but it was enough.
He was so enraged now that he would follow her anywhere, and she broke from her cover and raced toward the Grove along the sidewalk, keeping the trees between her and the machine.
The engine howled, smoke and flame exploding from the rear as it chased her.
The distance wasn’t long, but it seemed like a hundred miles. She didn’t look for him as she ran, concentrating on putting one foot ahead of the other, desperately trying to ignore the fire that erupted in her leg once more.
You won’t, she thought. You won’t get me, damnit, I won’t let you.
The Rider’s engine bellowed as it pulled up beside her.
She couldn’t help it; she had to see.
He was staring at her.
That faceless visor with nothing visible behind it was looking straight at her as she ran, the trees flicking between them like pickets on a crooked fence. The sight nearly froze her, and she faltered, almost stumbled, then forced herself to look ahead, at the Grove where she’d be able to rest because she knew there was no way that huge machine could chase her into the close-set timber.
Then she saw the driveway and knew she had lost.
Fourteen
The drive was the last on the block, wide and concrete and littered with dead leaves despite the new season.
The Rider angled toward the curb as he paced her, and she realized that the driveway was coming up too rapidly to avoid. He would turn. He would catch her, sideswipe her just as he had done to Melanie the other night. And if he didn’t get her while she was on her feet, he’d keep coming back until she was dead.
It was over, she thought. He had won.
The engine howled in derision the moment the Rider caught her sense of defeat.
At that moment, the one she’d been counting on, she grunted, kicked out, and found another notch of speed that flew her over the drive just as the Rider veered to take her.
He missed by mere inches, the wind of his passing almost shoving her off her feet, and she raced on, propelled by the stench of his machine, and the heat of the engine. Her arms pumped steadily as she plunged headlong up the slope, not looking back. When she reached the top, she dived into the trees, slapping branches aside.
Silence filled the night behind her when she stopped, grabbed a trunk, and held on, panting, sweat dripping from her forehead and snaking down her spine.
She congratulated herself. God, I’m still alive.
Her left hand batted the perspiration from her eyes, and she saw him, sitting in the street.
The engine rumbled, and the smoke it generated curled around the Black Rider, encasing him in the writhing cloud.
Once more time, she thought, as she pulled the hammer from her waistband; just one more time.
She quickly checked the ground around her so she’d know where to run without having to think, and she closed her eyes briefly, opened them, and glared.
You don’t love me, she told him. You never did, and you never cared. All you wanted was a slave, someone to worship you, and I was stupid enough to fall for it.
You’re disgusting.
The engine whined; smoke drifted.
Disgusting.
Immediately the Black Rider lifted his machine onto its thick rear wheel, sparks flashing in the smoke cloud, the engine roaring its defiance.
For a moment she didn’t think she could do it, but a strength she didn’t know she had eased her away from the tree into full view of the Rider. She laughed, loudly, mockingly, shaking her head as tears blurred her vision. Disgusting.
The Rider charged.
The front wheel slammed down and struck the tarmac in a thunderclap, and like a lightning bolt of blood-red sparks, it shot forward, hit the slope, barreled up, reached the top … and flew.
Roz gaped as she watched the black machine soar through the gap between two enormous pines. Branches snapped away and fell as if they were dead and brittle. Needles filled the air like hail. At the top of his arc, she whirled and ran, using the hammer to clear her way, wincing when the Rider struck the ground and howled after her.
Pacing, she reminded herself. Pacing.
She wound around the trees in a deliberately erratic line, forcing the Rider to shift and shift again, the engine protesting, metal shrieking as the wheels slipped on the needle carpet and slammed against a trunk. When she chanced a look back, she saw him dodging another tree and slamming through a low bush, following her path as if they were connected by a chain. She smiled grimly and raced on, holding her speed down so she wouldn’t lose control, hurdling a low deadfall and pushing through a pair of tangled laurel shrubs, turning again to see him take the fallen logs with no effort at all, turning back and running on, hoping she could find what she needed next.
The Rider gunned his engine and sped on.
Smoke rose through the branches and wreathed the Grove in a shifting gray fog.
Where? she thought then. Where is it?
A rock nearly tripped her, and she yelled, spun, saw the Rider less than twenty yards away, coming near.
She considered delaying him further by a game of hide-and-seek, daring him, then darting behind a tree. There was no room here for him to get up speed once he slowed down, but at the same time he’d be able to maneuver more deftly. If nothing else, she thought sourly, Bart was an expert on his bike.
Then she reached an open stretch of nearly ten yards, at the end of which was the toppled tree she’d found before. She didn’t pause, didn’t think. She broke from the trunk she’d kept between herself and her pursuit and ran, this time throwing pacing to the wind.
The Rider howled and gave chase.
She could hear nothing but that infernal engine; see nothing but the canted tree growing all too slowly out of the dark.
When she reached it, she didn’t hesitate. She turned, screamed when she realized how close he was, and raced under the trunk. She slipped to one knee, and fell forward, racing on, waiting for the sound of the Rider smashing into the blockade he was going too fast to avoid.
It didn’t come.
She slowed and looked over her shoulder, and groaned as the Rider, without losing a bit of speed, tilted the bike over and slid under the fallen tree at an angle that should have had him skidding on his side and falling off. The smoke obscured him for a few precious seconds, and she prayed that it had worked after all.
Then he exploded from the cloud and came straight for her.
The game was over; he was out for the kill.
Roz sprinted on, holding back a sob, and skidded to a halt a scant minute later when she broke from the trees and found the creek in the way. A frantic look to see how far away he was, and she started to leap into the water. Surely this would slow him down, give her some valuable time to lose herself in the next part of the Grove.
But he would find her eventually, and even if she made it to Darwin Manor, he would be there.
She turned then and held the heavy hammer in her right hand. Here is where it would have to be then. If she missed, it was all over.
He came on, ignoring the branches that slammed across his body, leaning forward now over the handlebars, staring at her, coming for her.
She glanced from side to side. There was no place to run.
He came on.
She lifted the hammer over her head.
And time suddenly slowed as the Rider burst from the trees, the jungle cat making its last charge at its prey.
Roz watched it … watched it … feeling the intense heat of the machine, smelling death in the smoke and sparks … watched it … watched …
… and desperately threw herself aside just before it reached her, her foot somehow caught and twisted by its passing, making her scream in agony as she landed on her back and saw the Rider sail over the lip of the bank.
Flying; it looked like it was flying.
But so intent had the Rider been on running her down, that he hadn’t had time to lift the machine and adjust the wheels to make a proper jump to the other side.
He rose, hung in the air, and slammed into the water halfway across.
Instantly Roz leapt to her feet, screamed again when her injured foot touched the ground, and nearly fainted as a wash of crimson swept over her vision.
No, she ordered; no, not now!
With teeth clenched and eyes blurring, she scrambled into the creek.
The Rider was trapped under the weight of the machine, and steam rose in billowing clouds from the still-spinning tire, obscuring the sky and moon. She could see him desperately thrashing around, trying to pull himself free, trying to push the bike off his pinned legs; she could hear the engine guttering as the water rushed through and over it; she felt the cold numbness of her foot as she splashed and fell and splashed her way to the Rider’s side.
Then she screamed again while bringing the hammer down on the helmet, again, and a third time. She heard the headpiece crack and saw it split open while steam burned her eyes and the stench made her choke.
The hammer came down a fourth time, and a fifth before she realized the Rider wasn’t moving, and the engine had fallen silent. There was nothing now but the sound of the creek, and her angry, hollow sobs.
The hammer fell from her grip.
She leaned over and grasped her knees, bowed her head, and gulped for air.
The Rider didn’t move.
Then she screamed one more time when the wind took the steam and drove it into the trees, and she was able to see inside the shattered helmet.
It was empty.
Fifteen
She sat on the curb at the foot of her street and wept as a breeze eased over her shoulders. Everything—every muscle, every bone, every inch of her skin—burned or ached or felt torn and shredded. Her hair was matted with leaves and brown needles, her windbreaker had torn open on the left shoulder, her jeans were pocked with rips and tears, and her favorite running shoes were ruined beyond repair.
She wept, and she smiled, and she looked toward the far end of the Grove and saw two figures running frantically toward her down the sidewalk.
She didn’t get up. She just looked down at herself and thought, God, what a mess.
Melanie reached her first, dropped to her knees in the street, and said, “Are you all right? Are you alive?” She was crying.
Kyle dropped beside her and looked her over closely. “He hurt you.”
She shook her head. “I think my foot is dead, it’s so swollen I can’t take my shoe off, but I’m okay. For the most part, anyway.”
Melanie looked over her to the Grove. “Is he… ?”
She nodded wearily.
Melanie grinned.
Kyle slipped an arm around her shoulder and hugged her quickly before letting go. “I should have come with you, you jerk.”
“How could you? I locked the door.”
His answering smile widened her eyes. “I could have broken a window and crawled out, you know.”
“What? Then why didn’t you?”
“Because,” he said simply.
She knew what he meant. It didn’t have anything to do with putting her friends in jeopardy; it had everything to do with fighting her demons on her own. She told them then what had happened, how she’d used Bart’s inflated ego to taunt him and get him so mad that he made stupid mistakes. She also told them how she’d grown too confident and had made mistakes herself. If it hadn’t been for the creek, she never would have made it.
“But he wasn’t there,” she said when she finished. “When I looked inside the helmet, he wasn’t there.”
Kyle nodded. “You beat him. There was no reason for the spirit to stay.”
“What about the bike?” Melanie asked. “Gone,” she said, shuddering at the memory. Absently she plucked at the debris tangled in her hair. “I got out of the water and lay there for a while, trying to see if I was dead or not. When I got up, it was gone. All of it.” She shrugged, then hissed at a flicker of pain that shot through her leg. Her voice lowered, and was touched with amazement. “It was like it never happened.”
They said nothing for a few minutes, not until Kyle offered his help taking her home. She didn’t refuse. Once her parents saw her, World War III was going to break out right here in Ashford, and she needed all the moral support she could get. She had no idea what story she’d finally tell, but she knew they’d never believe a word about the Black Rider. Melanie instantly began throwing suggestions at her, most of them unworkable, a few of them plausible, none of them really good enough to keep her out of trouble.
But it didn’t matter.
Trouble was something she thought she could handle, now. For the first time in her life she hadn’t backed off, hadn’t hidden in a corner. She figured her father would be a piece of cake after what had happened in the Grove.
Using her friends as crutches, then, she hobbled up the street.
And when her father came to the door as they stumbled up the sidewalk, saw them and saw Roz’s condition, he ran out, bellowing angrily for her mother.
“Oh, boy,” Melanie whispered. “You’re gonna get killed.”
Kyle grunted.
But Roz only smiled and winked at her friends. “No big deal,” she said happily. “No big deal.”
Now everything would be perfect … if only she could talk Forbin out of calling her Rosiland for the rest of her life.
Look for the other Midnight Place books by Charles L. Grant
Daughter of Darkness
He Told Me To
Something’s Watching
Charles L. Grant, Death Cycle
