The Night Wanderer (23 page)

On the positive side, it could be a rabid bear. Or a hungry pack of wolves. Or maybe it was a pizza delivery man who psychically knew she desperately needed a mushroom, onion, and pepperoni pizza. Hopefully with some garlic bread and a diet Coke.

Then, just as suddenly, the forest went silent. As if all the furry and feathered occupants of the immediate area had thought better of going about their nightly business in so loud a manner. The wind also thought better of blowing, and the trees thought it a proper time to take five. It was now ominously quiet. Too quiet. If noisy was one, and quiet was ten, this would be a twelve. The same scale could be applied to Tiffany's nervousness. If calm and mellow was one, and a panic attack was ten, again this would be a twelve.

It was so eerily quiet. Right now, she would have welcomed a good solid
thwack
.

As quietly as humanly possible, she crept on her hands and knees to the doorway of the treehouse. She knew this sudden silence was not normal, and that somehow it was related to the two snapping sticks she had just heard. In three heartbeats she debated her options: continuing to hide in the corner, which was not that effective since she was not really hiding behind anything, or investigating and, if necessary, running like she had never run before. Already in her mind she had worked out an escape strategy. The largest limb of the apple tree, almost three feet in thickness, ran perpendicular to the doorway of the tree house. It continued on for about eighteen feet on a downward slope. Near the end, it hung just about six feet from the ground. If needed, she could scurry down the limb as far as she could, jump, do a roll, and end up running all in a few seconds. It was like that old joke she'd heard once:

How fast can you run?

It depends on what's chasing me.

She didn't want to find out how true that might be.

Deciding, she slowly made her way to the doorway, cursing her father for making her run away like this. Cursing herself for not being better prepared. And cursing whatever may be down there. Though currently ambivalent about life and existence, she felt it was far better to be the one in charge of making such a monumental decision than leaving it up to a second party. Especially considering the only protection she had on her at the moment was the two arrowheads Pierre had given her yesterday. Without an arrow to attach them to, and a bow to shoot them with, they were quite useless.

In the pervading quiet, the rubbing of her jeaned knees on the floor and her hands scraping on the worn wood seemed positively deafening. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she made it to the doorway, and using every bit of confidence and bravery she could muster, she forced her head over the edge and looked down to the bottom of the forest floor. There she saw . . . nothing. It was still very, very dark, and though her eyes had long ago adjusted to that darkness of life in the midnight woods, it was all a black blob, with scattered indefinable lumps and shapes. If something was down there, it could be standing directly below her and not be seen.

For a second, however, it seemed like she saw two fireflies in the tree next to her . . . though fireflies were usually white or a pale yellow, and these ones seemed to be reddish. And they were around in the spring, not the fall.

Tiffany listened, her ears almost aching with the effort. But nothing. Blind and practically deaf . . . that did not bode well. What the hell, Tiffany thought, if I'm gonna die, let me face it. At least if she was horribly killed, mutilated, or something like that, she wouldn't be found wearing those atrocious shiny black shoes. Now that would be truly mortifying.

“Hello? Is anybody down there?” The silence seemed to amplify her quivering voice. There was no response. No, wait a minute . . . there seemed to be a slight, barely audible rustle somewhere down there in the black hole of Otter Lake. “I can hear you. You better stop fooling around. This isn't funny.”

“I never thought it was,” came the response from the darkness outside.

TWENTY-THREE

T
RACKING THE GIRL had been surprisingly easy. The night hid nothing from Pierre, and the girl obviously did not bother to obscure her trail. And what signs he could not see on the forest floor, he could find in the air itself. Pierre could smell Tiffany. The man was a born hunter and his whole body was designed to hunt, kill, and feast. His body and senses, now aflame with hunger, latched on to her scent and followed it through the woods like a missile. In a remarkably short period of time, he found her, in this tiny shack in the tree. Sitting there. Occasionally sobbing.

He took position in a nearby tree, to watch. Right now his body, so used to hunting, was waiting for the grisly payoff. So the man patiently waited for the blood lust to calm. If he entered the tree-house now, the girl would have a whole new set of problems. Instead, he sat there, watching, smelling her, listening to her, and biding his time. Once, in a flash of blinding hunger, he had almost leapt across the void between the two trees. But from deep within, where his last reservoirs of strength lay waiting, he held on to the tree. Desperate to maintain control, his hand easily broke a thick branch without scarcely being aware. The loud, cracking noise startled him.

It took time, but eventually Pierre regained control of his body. He relaxed again, for how long he didn't know. His body was now practically a stranger to him. For the moment, he sat in the crook of this tree, watching Tiffany, pondering what to do. The pondering eventually led to wandering . . .

Within hours, Owl wasn't Owl anymore. The man, or creature, Owl didn't know what to call the thing that had changed his life, had left after taking some of the young man's blood and then sharing some of its own.

“You come from a new land, a new people. I am intrigued. I will let you become the first of your kind to join my kind. If you survive long enough, maybe you will return to your home.” With those cryptic words, it disappeared back out the window, leaving behind a barely conscious young Anishinabe man, unaware of what was happening to his body and his very existence.

His body burned as it changed. The fever the measles had given him was nothing to what now wracked his body. It was as if it was being turned inside out. He felt his incisor teeth growing, his muscles becoming stronger and his senses more acute. Between his howls of pain, and his convulsions, his hypersensitive ears could hear familiar footsteps approaching his door. He knew instantly who it was. There was a knock.

“Monsieur, are you all right?” came a young voice.

It was Anne, awakened by his anguished cries. She opened the door to enter. From across the room he could smell her fresh, clean skin. Her hair still smelled of firewood. And he could see her. It was deep into the night in a room with no candle, and he could see her as if it was high noon. But it was what he heard that doomed the girl. He could hear her heart pumping—loudly and strongly. What once had been Owl could
actually feel the blood pumping through her. In fact, it drowned out the pain of his metamorphosing body.

She found him lying on the floor, rolling around in obvious pain. She rushed to his side and knelt down beside him.

“What is wrong? Did you fall out of your bed? I will call the doctor again.” Before she could leave, he grabbed her arm in a steely grip. He didn't know why, or what he was doing. It was as if his body had taken over his mind.

“Please, monsieur, you're hurting me.” Then, as it seemed he must do, he drew her closer. Until he could feel her beautiful hair against his face. He opened his mouth. She opened her mouth, to scream. Only she never got the chance. Somewhere deep inside, what was once the young Anishinabe boy known as Owl mourned the lost life of the young French girl, as the thing he had become feasted.

Then everything went dead.

When Pierre heard the girl almost fall out of the tree house, he decided it was time for action. He rose to his feet and slowly made his way toward the rickety structure. Through its window, he could see the girl moving. She was nervous, terrified in fact, which made her aroma stronger, more enticing. Once more, he kept his body in check. But for how much longer, he couldn't say.

TWENTY-FOUR

T
IFFANY'S HEART LEAPT up into her throat and practically out into the forest. Instinctively, she lurched to the left and hit her head on the doorway of the treehouse, actually seeing stars like in all those cartoons she had watched. Cradling her head, she scrambled to the side of the treehouse, away from the proximity of the voice. She tried to scream, but she couldn't catch her breath. Instead, she merely grunted. A very unappealing, unsophisticated grunt.

She could hear more rustling outside, this time making its way along the tree branch to the treehouse itself. It or he (definitely a masculine voice), or whatever it was, was getting closer. In a few seconds it would be in the treehouse with her. Tiffany had nothing to protect herself with. To put it mildly, Tiffany Hunter was terrified and assumed this to be her last few moments on this Earth.

Suddenly, a large dark figure appeared in the doorway, blocking the sparse stars peeking through the forest. Frozen with fear, Tiffany watched the thing pause before gliding through the small door.

“You realize everybody is looking for you. And you hit your head, yet again.”

Again it spoke. Much closer this time. But there was no noticeable menace in its voice. In fact, it seemed somewhat familiar—a low, melodious tone hinting of faraway places. Tiffany could almost recognize it.

“So this is your sanctuary,” it said. “Serviceable, I suppose.”

That slightly accented, clipped English. The overly formal tone. She knew that voice and that way of talking.

“Pierre? Is that you?”

“It appears so. My compliments. You were well-hidden and somewhat difficult to find.”

Slowly, Tiffany's fear was fading away, being quickly replaced by an annoyed anger. This guy had somehow managed to track her down and then scared the living crap out of her. And here he sat, so calmly talking to her, like this was an everyday occurrence.

“What the hell are you doing here? How did you find me? Are Granny Ruth and Dad with you?” she blurted out indignantly.

“Looking for you. I have my ways. And no.” He then sat down on the floor of the treehouse, his legs crossed in front of him. “I believe your family is quite worried. As we speak, they are scouring the reserve for you.”

“Let them look. I don't care.”

He was silent for a moment, and to Tiffany it almost looked like he was nodding off. But at the last moment, he grabbed the wall and straightened himself up. Even in the darkness, Tiffany could tell the man was not well. His breath was raspy, and at times she could almost swear she could see something glistening in his eyes. Almost glowing.

“Hey, you okay?”

Again he was silent, as if trying to find the energy to respond. “I am fine. I . . . have not eaten if a while. Sometimes the hunger overcomes me. But it is unimportant.” Pierre then cleared his throat and shook his head, as if trying to focus his thoughts.

“Well then, why don't you go home and eat something? My grandmother will cook you up anything you want. You don't even have to ask. Just smack your lips and she'll have a bowl of soup in front of you before you can sit down.”

His voice sounded harsh in the darkness. “No, you don't understand. I'm different . . . I don't need . . . soup. I need . . .”

Tiffany waited, but there was no additional sentence that followed. “Need what?”

She heard him swallow painfully in the darkness. “It doesn't matter. But I think the question of the hour is, what to do about you?”

Tiffany's temper flared. “Me? Hey, dude, stay out of this. This is all my father's fault. He made me do this. If he wasn't such an idiot, I wouldn't be here. My life is crap because of him. He drove my mother away. Now. . . now she's going to have another kid. And he . . . probably drove Tony away. He drove me away. I don't care anymore! Just leave me alone.”