The Dark at the End
MONDAY Chapter 7
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Rasalom barely recognized the face in the mirror. His right cheek and ear had been severely burned. They were healing but would remain scarred. The disfigurement did not matter in and of itself. He was not vain. And once the Change began and he was transformed, the scars and loss of a hand would not matter. He would be renewed.
But until then, these scars would attract attention. He did not like the idea of people staring.
Well, it would not be for long.
Then again, it might be a very long time if he did not locate that baby. He had to return to the mainland - now.
He left the bathroom and made his way through the front room, feeling stronger, and somewhat steadier on his feet, but still nowhere near who he had been forty-eight hours ago. He needed to lean on the furniture.
"Where are you going?" the cow said as he passed her.
She remained on the floor beside her dead dog, caressing the fur of its carcass. How long would she stay there? Until it rotted?
He didn't answer her. Instead he opened the front door and stepped outside. The air was icy but still, and the sky a speckled black dome. With so little light pollution here, he could make out the crowded stars and dust lanes of the Milky Way arching above him.
If his plans held, all this would change - day would become night, and the stars would mutate into new formations.
The South Fork of Long Island glowed faintly straight ahead and to his right. He raised his arms to each side, spreading them like wings. He stood swaying, a human cross, then willed himself to rise.
Nothing happened.
He tried harder, but remained earthbound.
Unease filtered through him. Was it because he was still so weak?
He lowered his arms and stared at the stump of his left wrist. Or had the loss of his hand affected his mastery over gravity? Through the years he'd used that mastery judiciously and with caution - it wouldn't do to be seen floating in the air - and had found it of limited use. An occasional convenience. But now, when he needed it, it had deserted him.
"What are you doing out there?" the cow called from behind him. "Come in here right now before you catch your death of cold."
No, he would not catch his death from a cold or any other infection. Viruses and bacteria had no chance against his immune system. But a too-low body temperature could stop his heart like anyone else's.
Perhaps it was just as well he couldn't lift in his weakened condition. The ability might fail him while airborne. He needed more strength.
He could go back inside and begin slow work on the cow with a knife. No one would hear her screams as he fed on her agony and fear. But he saw no guarantee that would be enough. He would most likely have to take the boat back to the mainland anyway. That meant witnesses. And if evidence were found in the house, he would be subjected to the inconvenience of a police investigation.
All reasons why he rarely harmed anyone himself. So much better to induce someone else to commit an atrocity.
Patient ... he must be patient.
He returned to the house.
But until then, these scars would attract attention. He did not like the idea of people staring.
Well, it would not be for long.
Then again, it might be a very long time if he did not locate that baby. He had to return to the mainland - now.
He left the bathroom and made his way through the front room, feeling stronger, and somewhat steadier on his feet, but still nowhere near who he had been forty-eight hours ago. He needed to lean on the furniture.
"Where are you going?" the cow said as he passed her.
She remained on the floor beside her dead dog, caressing the fur of its carcass. How long would she stay there? Until it rotted?
He didn't answer her. Instead he opened the front door and stepped outside. The air was icy but still, and the sky a speckled black dome. With so little light pollution here, he could make out the crowded stars and dust lanes of the Milky Way arching above him.
If his plans held, all this would change - day would become night, and the stars would mutate into new formations.
The South Fork of Long Island glowed faintly straight ahead and to his right. He raised his arms to each side, spreading them like wings. He stood swaying, a human cross, then willed himself to rise.
Nothing happened.
He tried harder, but remained earthbound.
Unease filtered through him. Was it because he was still so weak?
He lowered his arms and stared at the stump of his left wrist. Or had the loss of his hand affected his mastery over gravity? Through the years he'd used that mastery judiciously and with caution - it wouldn't do to be seen floating in the air - and had found it of limited use. An occasional convenience. But now, when he needed it, it had deserted him.
"What are you doing out there?" the cow called from behind him. "Come in here right now before you catch your death of cold."
No, he would not catch his death from a cold or any other infection. Viruses and bacteria had no chance against his immune system. But a too-low body temperature could stop his heart like anyone else's.
Perhaps it was just as well he couldn't lift in his weakened condition. The ability might fail him while airborne. He needed more strength.
He could go back inside and begin slow work on the cow with a knife. No one would hear her screams as he fed on her agony and fear. But he saw no guarantee that would be enough. He would most likely have to take the boat back to the mainland anyway. That meant witnesses. And if evidence were found in the house, he would be subjected to the inconvenience of a police investigation.
All reasons why he rarely harmed anyone himself. So much better to induce someone else to commit an atrocity.
Patient ... he must be patient.
He returned to the house.
