Chapter 35
Instinctive
Of course it would end like this—out in the boondocks at night, on foot, and chased by bogeys.
It was so cliché Cass would have laughed if another hunter was telling the tale at a campfire—suitably embellished, of course.
The real stories weren’t whispered until much later, but the raucous after-dinner fun was for jokes, whoppers, and what Steve called no-shit tales, which were naturally full of highly fragrant bull-pucky.
Nigel seemed relatively unperturbed, but after a few minutes Cass realized he was leading her up a short embankment onto railroad tracks.
The horrible, nagging idea that he’d brought her all the way out here just to give her to the monsters—or get her run over by a freight express—dilated inside her pounding skull.
He wouldn’t. Would he?
“Cold iron,” he said, as if he sensed sudden mistrust. Which was ridiculous, since if he’d wanted to betray her there had to be an easier way than this nonsense. “We might need it. Careful, now, over to my other side… that’s it, love. Keep breathing.”
Of course he’d want her on his left, especially since there was a splash and a low metallic sound; he’d dropped the plastic jug, his right hand now full of swordhilt.
The blade glistened dully as its wielder strode between parallel iron bars, clustered diamond stars overhead watching curiously through wind-torn veils of smoke.
A faint edge of coolness could have been night breeze, or just an illusion granted by their stumbling hurry.
Or, rather, Cass’s stumbles, since Nigel glided along smoothly, his hand warm and sure cupping her elbow.
She wished she could grab his arm again, but he’d need freedom of movement if the bogeys got close.
No time to throw up. She did wish she’d had more than a couple mouthfuls of tepid water, though more hydration might have caused the additional embarrassment of needing a bathroom break.
So far she’d been spared that particular indignity, but any bogey-hunter knew how being under fire made your body get rid of ballast.
Adrenaline made her pupils swell, and the terrain took on sudden detail.
Tabletops and broken peaks frowned, their shadows suddenly full of stealthy movement; smoke-lensed starshine untouched by a city’s light pollution struggled down to inky valleys.
The scent of burning was broken by occasional slivers of balsam, juniper, sage, and flat mineral dampness.
A glitter to their right began to snake closer and closer, and she finally realized it was a river when its other half appeared from the left, undulating gleams winking between masses of black stone and bits of foliage waving on… yes, definitely a breeze.
The wind was rising.
I’ve dreamed this. The sudden certainty was deep, undeniable, and completely unwelcome. She stared ahead, waiting.
And finally, the jumble of indistinct shapes congealed, snapping into a recognizable picture.
The shine of water showed on both sides because a river cut across their path in a deep gorge, and the railway tracks leapt out over empty space on rickety wooden trestles—the entire affair looked made of matchsticks from this angle, and Cass sucked in a sharp breath as a high, screeching cry lifted behind them.
It was startlingly close, echoing between cliffs and steep hillsides covered with scree, low bushes, stunted trees. Nigel’s stride lengthened, and it was official. He was aiming them right for the bridge.
“What are we…” There wasn’t enough breath to protest. If all else failed she could probably toss herself over the side, and that would be better than what the bogeys had planned.
Wouldn’t it?
Only if the fall’s long enough, she thought, and suppressed a bleak, brutally amused laugh.
“Stay with me,” Nigel said—not quite breathless but each word cut short, almost pleading. “And when I tell you, Cass, run.”
Oh, that does not sound good. Her throat was full of thick, dry coppertaste. “We’re running?”
“I’ll hold them on the bridge. The highway’s some distance that way—” The sword gleamed as he made a short movement, indicating direction.
“It will take them time to search either side for traces of our passage, and the iron might keep some things at bay. These tracks are going east, the Sons will find you. They have to be close as well, and hearing this.”
“We’ll both go.” For fuck’s sake. Cass picked her feet up carefully, hoping her sneaker-soles wouldn’t give way.
Her shirt was more holes than anything else, her jeans full of sand, her socks nearly rubbed through at both heels; she was a goddamn mess.
“You’re faster than me anyway.” Her lungs heaved, each word taking concerted effort.
“Please.” For the first time since she’d met him, Nigel actually sounded winded. “This is the best it will get, love. It’s all right.”
None of this is fucking all right. Cass didn’t bother protesting again. He wouldn’t listen anyway, just like a man.
A cascade of crunching footsteps, clearly not anything close to human, echoed behind them.
Nigel sped up, which meant she had to as well, and their steps beat rapidly against wooden ties and crushed gravel.
The bridge prowled closer, and the thought of all the empty space not only beneath but between horizontal slats was dizzying.
What if the bogeys caught her before she could throw herself off, or what if she fell only a short distance and broke her leg, crawling through shrubbery while monsters galloped down on her?
Had she dreamed of that, too, or was it just her always-vivid imagination not content to wait, supplying a fresh terror?
Smoke rasped in her throat. Cloaked stars tried to pour faint silver light over wild country, river, the dull gleam of iron rails. Was she also imagining the tracks humming, vibrating with cold nasty glee?
I’d rather fall than be hit by a train, rather be hit than have the bogeys catch me.
An entire taxonomy of horrible death, the kind of list bogey-hunters could argue over when the fire burned low and everyone was a bit drunk, inhibitions loosened and gallows humor rising to shield traumatized soldiers.
“Just a little farther,” Nigel’s left arm circled her waist; he practically dragged her along. “Be ready, and when I tell you, go.”
“No.” It was all she had the air for, a single syllable of negation. If you stop, so will I. Can’t run anymore anyway. She’d been running all her life.
Look where it had gotten her. A big fat out-in-the-middle-of-nowhere, with bogeys breathing down her neck. Which figured.
Before she could really brace herself they were on the bridge, disturbed pebbles plummeting to bounce against the scree-laden decline below, and Nigel still had hold of her.
He leapt twice, carrying her along far less elegantly than a sack of potatoes.
Cass couldn’t help crying out when they landed the second time, suddenly certain the entire structure was going to crumble underfoot.
“Steady.” He set her carefully on something solid, brawny arm reluctantly loosening from her waist. The wooden ties were closer together than she’d thought, but it wasn’t any comfort—the gorge below held only a faint nasty sludge-gleam at its bottom, and the shadows were ink-thick. “Go. I’ll hold them here.”
Cass turned, blinking in the dimness. Wind combed her hair, and the tatters of smoke overhead allowed more faint starlight to move along everything below, describing angles and hollows.
The bridge made a low soft sound, wood and iron resounding to a flowing air like the thickest strings on a guitar the moment after a campfire singalong trails into silence.
It was always nice to have someone along who could pick out a chord or two; Sam and Dean had both known how.
Their beloved Gibson had been left in Las Cruces after that one awful hunt, half the old unit gone, Steve swearing monotonously, Bern clutching his own broken arm.
You drive the RV, darlin’. Not your fault they didn’t listen—move your ass!
Holding a wake for the old squad, names she refused to even think about because it hurt too much.
That had been before Apoc’s time, before Grik’s too.
And Trille had joined just after Grik made it through tryouts, stubbornly refusing to be turned away.
You need medical care, dipshits. Especially if you’re hunting fucking monsters.
Oh, how she missed them. All of them.
Looking southwest, the tracks finished a curve at the base of a ragged almost-mountain before straightening to arrow into the night.
No bright white spot of a train’s headlight, at least, but the slinking forms slipping between pools of distant shadow sparked flinching, frantic loathing.
Bile crawled hot in her throat once more, and she was glad to be empty of anything even resembling food.
“Cass.” Nigel touched her shoulder, a gentle push—he wanted her to go eastward. “As fast as you can for the other side, love, and keep following the rails. You have to go now.”
The hell I do. “I can fight.” Her breath wouldn’t come back no matter how she gasped, probably because her heart was pounding high and thin in her ears.
None of the stimulant bumps Trille dispensed could touch the effect of sheer natural, biological terror.
“Right? That thing I do, and you amplify it.”
“You try to channel now and you’ll burn out completely. Please just go.” The grey stripe at his temple was pure white under the stars, faint blue pinpricks lighting in his pupils to cast a gleam over pale irises. He gave another gentle shove. “This is what I’m trained for.”
Goddammit. Cass shook her head, and set off. Three steps, four. Five.