The Boys Are Back in Town (34 page)

In the dark, the moonlight was not enough for Brian to make out his face, but as the shadow man glanced toward him, the darkness seemed to bleed upward from his clothing. In the glimpses Brian got of him between trees, the two men racing toward the point where they would intersect, he saw the shadow crawl over the man's face and become the mask he had worn the last time they had come into contact.

Then he reached the path.

The shadow man was running past him.

Brian tackled him around the waist with the solid thunk of bone colliding with bone and drove him to the ground, wondering when the fucker was going to disappear, to fade to mist. But he didn't. The shadow man was a man after all, beneath that fluid mask of darkness he wore. They each struggled to get the upper hand. The rapist struck him several times, wild blows to the back of the head, as they rolled on the ground. Brian managed to get leverage, to plant his feet, and he lurched forward as if crawling on top of the shadow man, throwing his left arm across his throat.

The image of Tess O'Brien, half naked and weeping in the haunting moonlight, swam into his mind. Guttural, primal noises filled with hatred spilled from his lips, and he held the shadow man down and struck his face once, twice, a third time, his knuckles stinging, pain shooting up his wrist.

It was only a moment's advantage.

The shadow man clutched his throat, pushed Brian up and off of him, then hit him in the temple with such force that for a second even the moonlight disappeared. Brian tumbled off of him and the shadow man was up in an instant.

He blinked, that night-clad face peering down at him, and in a panic he tried to get to his feet. The shadow man kicked him in the face. Brian felt his lip split, tasted the metallic tang of his own blood, fell backward onto the path. He landed on a thick, upraised root, and it knocked the wind out of him.

The shadow man kicked him in the ribs and Brian heard a crack.

A
SHLEIGH COULDN
'
T KEEP UP,
but Young Will had heard Tess screaming and couldn't afford to wait for her. She urged him on, shouted at him to leave her behind, but he was already gone. His legs pumped beneath him, sneakers kicking up dirt and leaves as he sprinted. This entire week was a blur in his head. He had withdrawn deeply into himself to avoid the reality of what was happening. Had someone asked him a week ago if he would like to have met his future self, to have learned about what his life would bring, he knew he would have said yes.

Now he knew better. He had questions, of course. He just didn't want the answers. It made him sick inside to think that this was where his interest in magic had led, to remember that day in Herbie's when he had turned Brian's orange float into blood. Just the thought of holding
Dark Gifts
in his hands, of the burgundy leather cover of Gaudet's book that felt so much like skin . . . it made him sick.

Will didn't care that the shadow man was cloaked in magic, that he could disappear whenever he felt like it. Mike Lebo was dead. In his bedroom, right now, there were probably comic books spread all over the floor, and Mike would have known the story behind every one. For some reason that knowledge cut Will deeply.

And now Tess . . .

Every step reverberated up his legs. Will bent into his run, arms pumping, the soles of his sneakers slapping the ground and crunching fallen branches and dried-out autumn leaves. As the lakeside path widened before him, he had a better view of the moonlit curve of the water's edge ahead.

The shadow man appeared.

B
EHIND THE WHEEL
of the Buick, the elder Will flinched and drove the heel of his palm against his forehead. He could not hear Tess screaming. The engine roared too loudly and he was too far away. But as each new moment unfolded for his younger self, the memories scarred him. When Young Will saw the shadow man, Will
remembered
.

The tires laid black patches on the pavement as he turned a corner, crushing a mailbox with the Buick's grille.

T
HE SHADOW MAN DARTED
up the path that led from the lake through to Tess's street. Behind him, Will heard Ashleigh shouting. She had seen him, too. But why didn't he just disappear? Why not simply evaporate in a puff of black smoke as he'd done before? Will wondered if it took too much out of him, or if something had gone wrong the last time. Not that it mattered. What was important was that the shadow man was not disappearing. He was running.

Inside, fingers of cold dread began to wrap themselves around his heart, for as fast as he was, Will could gauge the distance, and he knew that if the bastard had a car waiting for him out on the street he would be gone before Will could catch him.

Still he ran on, pushing himself to move as swiftly as he could manage without falling. Several times he nearly lost his footing but recovered only by throwing himself forward and planting one foot, hoping he would not twist an ankle or slide on decaying leaves.

Too long,
he thought.
Not fast enough.

But moments later he had reached the path. Will turned right, and this time he did slide. Earth and leaves moved beneath his feet and he went down on his hands, refusing to fall. Like a runner at the pistol shot he exploded up from the ground and sprinted away from the lake, away from the moonlight, into the gathering gloom where the path was lined on both sides by deeper woods. His chest was tight and the backs of his legs burned from exertion, but he barely noticed. Through the trees he could see the lights of houses coming closer as he raced along that path.

The sound of a struggle drew his attention, and as he came around a slight curve in the path he saw them. The shadow man, just a darker figure torn out of the blackness of the night, launched a heavy kick at someone who struggled to rise from the ground. Whether it was Brian or his own future self, he didn't know. And it didn't matter. He had eyes only for the shadow man.

Young Will ran at him with such speed that though the shadow man heard his approach, he barely had time to glance up before Will slammed into him, both palms out. He lowered his shoulders, planted his hands, and knocked the bastard off his feet. In his mind he could already see what was to come. He would start kicking, just like the shadow man had done.

But his opponent was quicker than Will had expected. The shadow man fell backward and let that momentum take him into a somersault. Even as Will moved in to kick him, he was on his feet again. The shadow man reached for him but Will knocked his hand away and hit him three times in quick succession, a right to the jaw, a left to the abdomen, and another right to the face.

The shadow man staggered backward.

Neither of them had noticed Ashleigh racing up the path toward them. She hurled something, and when it struck a glancing blow off the side of his head the shadow man swore, his voice muffled by the darkness over his face.

Rocks,
Will thought.
She picked rocks up from the edge of the lake.

“Oh, to hell with this,” the shadow man said in that muffled voice. He tilted his head back as if pleading to the sky. “I'm out of here.”

There was an instant in which Young Will was certain the shadow man would disappear, that he had guessed wrong, that there would be nothing but that floating tendril of black mist and he would escape again. But nothing happened. Ashleigh threw another rock, which struck him in the shoulder. He swore again, clutching his shoulder, and a frustrated snarl came from his throat as he leaped forward and backhanded Ashleigh across the face. She went down, the other rocks she carried plunking to the ground.

“All right, then, Will,” the shadow man snarled, that voice so intimate and familiar, and yet too muffled to be recognizable. He beckoned. “Come on.”

To one side of the path, Future Brian groaned and began to stand, one hand clutching his side where he had been kicked. The shadow man glanced at him only for an instant, but it was enough. Or at least Will thought so. He stepped in close and swung his fist.

The shadow man caught it, stopped the punch dead. Will could feel the darkness that covered the man's skin writhing under his touch. Magic. Bile rose in the back of his throat, and his stomach churned with nausea. Then the shadow man caught him in the side of the head with a punch that staggered him, but Will could not back up, could not step away. Not with the shadow man holding his fist.

With a cry of rage and anguish, and not a little vengeance, Ashleigh leaped on his back. Her right arm looped around his throat and she began to choke him.

“Fucking bitch, get off me!” roared the shadow man, clawing over his head, trying to reach her face or snag her hair.

“You want magic, you fuck?” Will screamed. “Eat this!”

He had done so very few spells, really, but all of them had remained with him, ingrained within him, tainting him. Now he conjured a small flame the size of a baseball in his right hand and he slammed it into the shadow man's face, aiming for his mouth beneath that night-black mask that covered his face.

The shadow man screamed. His fingers managed to grab hold of Ashleigh's shirt and he whipped his head and shoulders down, flipping her off of his back. She hit the ground with a little “oh” of pain and surprise.

Then he looked up.

Fabric or dark conjuring, the shadow that covered his face was burning away with the magical flame Will had struck him with. The flesh beneath was unharmed, but as that sorcerous fire consumed the mask of magic the shadow man had worn, Will froze. Even in the moonlight, the face his spell had revealed was unmistakable.

“Nick?”

The expression on seventeen-year-old Nick Acosta's face was part sneer and part grin, that white crescent scar across his left eyebrow gleaming in the moonlight.

“Hello, Will,” Nick said.

In that moment, when Will was too astonished to act, Nick reached for him almost as though he meant to embrace him, and then he drove his fist up into Will's stomach. With a grunt Will doubled over, even as Nick brought a knee up into his face, shattering his nose with a spray of hot blood.

His face exploded with pain, he couldn't breathe, and his heart was filled with despair as he sank to his knees.

“Screw this,” Nick said, grinning at him, hands outstretched in a theatrical flourish. The magical darkness that had cloaked him in shadow seemed to melt off of him now, revealing a black shirt and blue jeans beneath.

“I got what I came for.”

Nick turned and fled toward Little Tree Lane. Will sucked painful breaths into his lungs and forced himself to rise, wiping the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, but he knew that he didn't have a chance in hell of catching up to Nick . . . to the shadow man.

T
HE MEMORIES SEARED
themselves into Will's mind. So vivid were they that, one hand on the wheel, he clapped a hand to his nose expecting to catch the flow of blood from it.

Nick. Fucking Nicky Acosta.

None of it made sense.

But it didn't have to.

It simply
was
.

W
HEN
N
ICK RAN OUT
between two of the houses on Little Tree Lane, he was feeling more than a little pissed off. He had a little checklist of things to do, and Will and Brian were getting in his way, screwing with him. Dealing with those guys was not on his list, but they weren't giving him a choice. On the other hand, he could still taste Tess's mouth on his lips, and the scratches she'd made on his lower back stung wonderfully. He'd broken at least one of the older Brian's ribs, shattered Will's nose, and clocked Ashleigh pretty good, too.

So maybe the night wasn't a total loss.

He wasn't sure what to do next, but that was a matter to deal with later, after he was out of here. He'd shown up for his date with Tess in his father's Jetta, but instead of leaving it in the O'Briens' driveway, he'd parked it right out on Little Tree near the path to the lake.

The Jetta was waiting for him. The street was quiet. Down at the end of Little Tree, cars rolled by. He had to assume that someone in one of the houses had heard Tess screaming, but so far he heard no police sirens. As he ran between the houses and into the front yard, he heard the creak of a storm door and ducked his head to hide his face.

So much for that bit of magic.

The car door was unlocked. He fished out his keys and tugged it open, then slid into the Jetta. Nick slid the key into the ignition and turned it, the engine purring quietly, the radio coming on, some sappy ballad he didn't know. A slow, satisfied smile crept over his face, his heart still drumming excitedly in his chest. He dropped the Jetta into gear and at last glanced up, just in time to notice the headlights that bathed the inside of the car.

Metal and fiberglass crumpled as the other car struck the Jetta from behind. The collision thrust Nick forward, the steering wheel jutting into his abdomen and lower rib cage as his head whipped against the windshield. The glass cracked and a bloody contusion erupted on his forehead. His foot came off the brake and the Jetta rolled, propelled from behind by the other car. His body twisted around the steering wheel, fireworks in his head from the impact. He blinked, tried to grab the wheel, but his vision was blurred and out of focus and he could not think straight. It was, in that moment, as though he were drowning, far underwater and without the ability to know up from down.

The engine behind him revved and he blinked several times, clearing his vision enough to see the thick-trunked oak tree just before the Jetta veered into it, driven by the vehicle behind it. All of the side windows exploded in a shower of tiny glass shards and Nick was thrown forward again, his head striking the windshield a second time. This time his skull hit the glass hard enough to splinter it, making it bow outward in the shape of his head.

On the radio, Celine Dion seemed to mock him. He slipped into merciful darkness, swallowed by blood and ache and concussion. Idly, he wondered if this was death and if Celine Dion would sing him all the way down to hell.