The Night Wanderer (24 page)

If necessary, Pierre could easily throw her over his shoulder and forcibly take her back to the Hunter house. He still had more than enough strength left for that. But such close physical contact, in the condition he was in, would not be advisable. However, he was losing patience. This girl knew nothing about anything, and he was prepared to tell her so.

“You know nothing. You are a young, self-obsessed girl who does not care about those around her. There are a hundred million more terrible and horrible things happening in this world than are happening to you. Circumstances and creatures out there that make your problems so insignificant, it's not worth the calories to speak of them.” He practically spit the words out.

Silence followed. Tiffany, severely depressed only moments ago, was now seething. “Then go back to the basement. Go back to Europe. Just go away. My life is my life and it ain't no concern of yours. For some stupid reason, when God decided to create this stinking world, he made it in such an undependable and insane way that it screws us all up.”

“Such a petulant little child you are. I have not seen my family in longer than you could imagine. I left them all behind so long ago, and I would give anything to see their faces one more time. So don't whine to me. The world is far more complex than in your small, pathetic imagination. I have no time for it.”

Pierre rose and turned to the doorway, but it was then he got wind of the cut on Tiffany's wrist and once more his body struggled with his hunger. At this proximity, the aroma wafted over him, inflaming his blood. He froze, but the rest of his body struggled to break free. The girl could not tell in the darkness but Pierre's eyes sought out and found the congealed blood on her wrist. Its scent instantly told him everything he needed to know about the wound, and the health of the girl. His mind and screaming body were at war. Yet Tiffany was oblivious.

“Look Pierre, I'm sorry you dragged your sorry ass all the way out here looking for me, but this is my home. Not yours, and I'll do what I want.” Like at Gretchen's restaurant with Tony, she was backed into a corner, this time literally. She had two options. She could go with him or not. She chose the latter. She lunged forward, pushing the stranger out the small door. Without waiting to hear him land (she prayed silently the soft layer of moss and leaves would cushion his fall), Tiffany scrambled out the doorway and ran along the tree branch as she had earlier planned. Before long, she was once again disappearing into the woods.

At the foot of the tree, lying on his back, Pierre could see her in the darkness but at the moment, felt too weak to follow her. He had fallen silently, confident that such a short distance would not constitute any real danger to his body, other than a minor branch impaling his right calf. He was, however, quickly reaching the limit of his constitution. Any other time he would have easily heard her coming and dodged. Or braced himself. Or even if by some amazing feat the girl had managed to push him out the door when he was strong, there were any number of ways he could have landed on his feet without making a sound. By now, his hunger was a raging forest fire slowly melting his resolve. He hit the ground with a muffled thud. He wasn't seriously hurt, except for his dignity, but Pierre would have to eat soon or his body would take things into its own hands. At this very minute he wanted to leap to his feet, angry and hungry, and pursue the girl until he found her and took what he wanted.

He had to regain control. Earlier, when he'd first arrived, he had come dangerously close to harming her. His heightened sense of smell drank in her aroma. To him, the perfume she had put on the night before for Tony was as fragrant as if she'd swam in it. He could smell her hair. He could see her veins pulsing with blood. Tiffany did not and would never know how close she came to joining the countless others that had crossed Pierre's path and not left so quickly or easily.

Once, he had almost died. Or, more correctly, been killed. An eternity ago, a man who knew his true nature had tracked him for months . . . or was it years? It was so long ago even he could not properly remember. It had been up in what now was called Finland, but then had been a part of Russia . . . or was it Sweden? Again, the details were lost in the mists of time. The landscape reminded him much of his former home, and it was the only nostalgic pleasure he allowed himself. Once more he was watching the northern lights dance for him on a windy outcropping of rock when he felt the bolt from the crossbow become
wedged in his shoulder. The pain made him snarl, and he turned to see the man he thought he had left behind in Gdansk standing a dozen yards away.

Somehow this hunter had learned to move as quietly as Pierre had, and knew to approach from downwind. While excruciating, the wound was hardly fatal. That's when the second bolt embedded itself in his leg. That forced him down on one knee. Momentarily. Again, it was painful but not life-threatening. It gave him enough time to launch his bleeding but still incredibly strong body toward the man, covering the distance in one leap. The man, however, was ready for him, and quickly raised up what appeared to be a long spear known as a pike, waiting for the man of the night to impale himself. As he landed, he grabbed the tip of the pike, preventing it from entering his body too deeply. However, this action threw him off balance and, already wounded, he fell to the ground.

Suddenly, he felt himself doused with a foul-smelling liquid, a pitch made mostly of oil. This hunter planned to burn him, here under the northern lights. Struggling to his feet, Pierre noticed the hunter raising a torch, preparing to throw it at him. The hunter was smiling in victory. Yet Pierre was not yet ready to admit defeat. He resorted to something he had not done since his childhood. It was so simple and uncomplicated, the hunter was not expecting it.

On this stone outcropping, the ground was littered with fist-sized chunks of rock. As Pierre rose to his feet,he felt his hand encircle such a rock, and acting on instinct, he threw it at the hunter with the torch. Propelled by his unnatural strength, the rock became a lethal projectile, hitting the shoulder holding the torch with such force that both the rock and the bones shattered. Dropping the torch, the hunter stumbled back, crying out in pain, forgetting for the moment there was a sheer cliff behind him. Almost immediately, gravity reminded him.

Alone once more, Pierre stood atop the precipice, bleeding. It would take three or four nights for his wounds to heal completely, but he would live . . . if that was the correct word to use.

Slowly, Pierre got to his feet, brushed himself off, and removed the branch piercing his calf. It came out with a sickening wet sound. Though far from being healthy, his leg would repair itself in remarkable time. It was his pride that stung worse. He had been bested by a sixteen-year-old girl. That alone told him much. Everything he had come home to do must happen tonight after all. He had hoped for another day of preparation, but it was becoming increasingly obvious the timetable had to be moved up. But first, the girl had to be dealt with . . .

TWENTY-FIVE

T
IFFANY RAN THROUGH the forest, her Nikes ripping with every step. They were definitely on their last legs, if shoes had legs. If it was possible, she felt even worse than she did earlier. Tears stung her eyes, and she battled against the branches, swinging at them, breaking them in a blind rage. The emotion brought on by the last couple of days welled up inside her and the forest around her was paying the price. Now she had just pushed a man out a treehouse, maybe hurting him badly. So she continued to run, her adrenaline allowing her lungs and legs to make it all the way down to the lake before she began to tire.

Tiffany hadn't realized she'd been heading to the lake, or to here, where fishermen would come to load their boats in and out of the water. It was about a mile away from the sandy section where Pierre had given her the arrowheads. That was only last night. That seemed so long ago.

There, with no place else to go, she sat on a large granite rock that lay along the shore of the lake, pouring out tears. Like the drumlins, it had been left behind by some long-forgotten glacier and the rock had endured much in the 14,000 years it had sat there, both above and at times below the water. One more teenaged rear end on top of it was hardly worth commenting on. So Tiffany sat there, looking out at the calm lake, watching the stars twinkle. Slowly the tears began to subside, and her emotions became more manageable. Tiffany remembered her science teacher telling her that the light from those stars started its journey toward Earth long before she was born.

The water was cold—a dozen or so degrees above freezing. A few minutes in the water and hypothermia would take over, slowly draining the warmth from her body. Even a short swim would end tragically. Shivering, she could already feel the dampness of the evening soaking through her clothing. She heard it was like falling asleep. Or was that freezing to death? It didn't matter. Being dead wouldn't be that bad, she thought, not when being alive hurt so much. So she sat there, for the better part of an hour, pondering dark and brooding thoughts. Then slowly, almost subtly, she began to cry once more. At first it was just a trickle of noise and sadness, but it gradually built until her whole body shook with pent-up frustration. How could things have got so miserable and so horrible on her? She didn't deserve this. It wasn't fair. Tiffany sobbed and sobbed, until she felt empty, and there was nothing left in her to sob. Afterward, she felt marginally better but still confident life sucked.

Warned by an unknown force, Tiffany quickly looked behind her, swiveling on the rock. Something she didn't understand or wasn't even conscious of told her to turn around as quickly as possible . . . only there was nothing there. Still, she felt as if she was being watched. Tiffany scanned the darkness but still she saw nothing. That should have reassured her that there were no monsters in the murky forest—not that she would ever admit to believing there were monsters in the dark—but instead, it made her more nervous.

For a moment, like back in the treehouse, she could have sworn she saw two red spots of light. It was almost like they were looking at her. Slowly, egged on by her own curiousity, she took a step toward the strange lights. She could feel the gravel shifting beneath her feet as she got closer. By now, Tiffany was only a few feet away . . .

“Feel better?”

For the second time that evening, Tiffany's heart imploded and exploded at the same moment. And for the second time in a few days, she found herself knee deep in the cold crispness of the lake, getting a soaker of all soakers. Splashing around on the uneven rocky floor, she managed to turn around without falling.

Pierre L'Errant stood on the shore, calmly watching her make a fool of herself, as she struggled to keep her balance. Her heart still racing like a chainsaw, and trembling with anger, Tiffany struggled to find the right words to express her current state of mind. However, once again, she could only manage a short, frustrated grunt.

“Don't you find that wet and uncomfortable?” he asked, sounding slightly amused.

“
Will you quit scaring me!
” Tiffany had finally found her voice. Upset, she splashed ashore, getting herself even more wet but not caring. In the few short seconds she had been in the water, her legs were already close to going numb. As she neared the shore, she sent a kick of water in Pierre's direction and scored a hit. A small airborne wave landed along Pierre's right pant leg. He showed no reaction, other then a mildly raised eyebrow. Visibly angry, Tiffany managed to stumble ashore. Pierre offered her a hand, but she refused. Instead, she took a vengeful swing at him, a long, swooping overhand right that obviously lacked skill. Pierre leaned out of the way, easily dodging the blow. Off balance and overextended, Tiffany fell on the rock, sliding down to its bottom.

“Not a very effective way of defending yourself,” said Pierre.