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(2)
Just as Sarah set down the phone there was the sound of a blow and shattering glass from upstairs. “Terry!” She tore out of the kitchen, raced up the stairs, and burst into the bedroom just as Terry Wolfe brought the golf club down on the glass of a framed Warhol litho. The head of the sand wedge chopped noisily through glass and matboard and took the top of John Lennon’s head clean off. Sarah skidded to a halt by the edge of the bed, turning away to dodge the spray of little glass needles.
Terry turned a face toward her that was a snarling mask of animal rage.
(3)
Mike Sweeney got home just before seven, well before his curfew. He walked his bike around back and chained it up by the garage door, then went inside.
“That you, Mikey? You’re home early. Want some dinner?” Her voice floated from the living room, which was dark except for the blue flicker of the TV. There was already a gin slur to her speech.
Mike stood in the hallway, not wanting to go into the living room, not wanting to see his mother drunk, though nowadays she almost always was. He turned toward the stairs, calling over his shoulder. “I’m not hungry. I’m gonna go study. ”
“It’s Friday!”
“Big test on Monday. ”
“Oh. Okay. ” She sounded more relieved than disappointed that he didn’t want her to cook anything. “If you want something later, we can order. I have some coupons for Pizza Palace. ”
“Yeah. Sure. Whatever. ” He pounded up the stairs and into his room, where he locked his door. He was no longer sweating, but his clothes were damp; his skin still felt feverish and strange, so he stripped the clothes off and headed into the bathroom. He was in the shower for a long time, first just standing under the spray, eyes closed, running and rerunning what had just happened out on the road. It was all so weird, so unreal.
Tow-Truck Eddie tried to kill me, he thought. Twice now. And tonight he had caused the guy to crash his wrecker in a ditch. As the water pounded him he replayed each moment—the way the truck was lying in wait for him, the way the big driver had let him get just far enough ahead so that it would be a good chase. The way the bastard had nearly caught him when Mike had gone back to look. The way he had howled after his truck had been wrecked. It was all so unreal. He took the soap and washed himself and shampooed his hair and used a nailbrush to scrub his fingers. He wanted to be clean, needed to be clean, as if by washing so hard he could sponge away the unreality of what had happened. Of nearly dying. The water was as hot as he could stand it and he lingered under it, loving the feel of the thousands of tiny impacts, feeling his muscles become gradually looser, feeling the tension go, letting his mind drift…
Fugue.
The water rained down on him but Mike Sweeney no longer felt it. He stood there, eyes closed, his skin red from the heat.
Inside the chrysalis the pupa undergoes slow change.
On his face the last of the bruises faded to green and then to yellow and then vanished as if the water had washed them away. The cartilage in his knees that had suffered microtears while he raced uphill away from the wrecker mended itself. Internal bruises from cramps deep within his calf muscles relaxed and the tissues mended.
Transformation continues along predetermined pathways following a biological imperative.
The water pounds down on him, but Mike Sweeney has stepped out. No trace of him exists within the chrysalis of young flesh.
Transformation is inevitable now.
When he opens his eyelids Mike Sweeney does not look out through those blue eyes, and indeed those eyes are not quite blue. Not pure blue. They are blue flecked with red and the irises are rimmed with gold. Mike Sweeney does not see the water, or the steam, or the shower walls through those eyes. They are not his eyes. Mike Sweeney, as he has been, is almost completely gone now.
It is the dhampyr who sees through those eyes.
(4)
Terry bellowed in rage and lifted the golf club like an ax, standing with legs braced wide, his naked body bathed in sweat, his muscles rigid with tension as the club reached the apex of its lift, and then with a ferocious convulsion that carved definition into every muscular inch of his body he smashed the club down on the largest remaining piece. Splinters leapt up around him, adding to the dozen small cuts that bled sluggishly on his calves and feet and thighs. The glass settled quickly into stillness on the carpet, not only adding to the litter but substantially increasing the number of mocking glass surfaces. He raised the wedge again, not even remotely aware that Sarah was standing in the doorway, her face white with shock. All he saw were the thousands of splinters of that picture glass spread out in a fan-pattern on the thick blue bedroom carpet, each polished surface dispassionately reflecting his face and body. Each little sliver was a fun-house mirror, distorting blue eyes and red hair and strong limbs into feral yellow eyes, stiff reddish-brown fur, and the twisted, hulking musculature of something impossible. When his mouth opened to yell in protest, the muzzles of the myriad mirror-image mouths wrinkled to show dripping fangs. If his hand wiped angrily at the tears on his face, the reflected mockery swiped at its bestial face with a furred paw that ended in black talons. A thousand tacit accusations glared at him from the glittering debris.
“Terry! For God’s sake!”
He spun, the club still raised, glaring at her with mad eyes. “Get out!” he roared.
“You’re going to hurt yourself,” she pleaded. “Look at you. You’re bleeding!”
“Get out! Get away from me!”
She took a tentative step into the bedroom; her movements slowed by fear for him and fear of him. Until now Sarah never would have believed Terry would ever hurt her, but the closer she got to him the more she doubted. At that moment there was nothing in him that was not polluted by torment—and she did not trust that he really knew who she was. “Terry, come on now,” she soothed, holding her hands out in a gesture of nonhostility, empty palms turned toward him, half to calm, half to plead, the way you would calm a dog.
He stumbled a step back, his big feet crunching on the glass. There were smears of blood on the carpet. He pointed the club at her. “You stay away! You don’t understand!”
“I’m trying to understand, Terry! Let me help, Terry. ” She kept deliberately using his name, calmly, soothingly, hoping that it would in some way anchor him, bring him back to himself.
He jabbed the head of the club at her. It was less a threatening gesture than it was a barrier for him to hide behind. Then he spun and pointed at an old armoire across the room. “It’s all her goddamned fault! She won’t leave me alone. She’s been driving me out of my goddamn mind for a month. Every day…every goddamned day!”
Sarah turned to look. The japanned armoire stood silent and alone between the twin doors to their clothes closets. Slowly, she turned back to Terry. “Who, Terry? Who is she?” She knew he was talking about Mandy, but did not know how to approach that concept.
“Her!” he snapped. “She’s blamed me all these years…all these years. But—damn it to hell, I did what I could. I was just a kid! What else could I do have done? It all happened so…fast! What could I do?” He glared with anger and hurt at the wall. “Why can’t you get that through your head?” He paused, as if listening and then picked up the conversation as if he was replying to a statement. “Well, if you don’t blame me for what happened, then why are you doing this to me? Why do you keep making me see that!” He pointed the club at the broken picture glass.
There was a looking pause and then, “Bullshit!” he snarled, but there was an ocean of doubt in his trembling voice. “He’s as dead as you are!”
Terry stood there and listened just as naturally as if someone were really speaking. Sarah watched in awed fascination, seeing his expression undergo a series of slow changes: at first his face held a challenging look, then his features went slowly blank as if he was hearing new information that was taking som
e thought to digest; then it was indignant disbelief that curled his lips to tight thinness; then a slowly dawning look of profound horror; and finally a sad despair that made his fall into sickness. “No,” he said, and his voice was a hoarse whisper.
“T-Terry?” Sarah ventured.
“But I’m nothing like that!” he cried, arguing with empty space. “I’m nothing like that. ” Tears fell coursed down his cheeks. “I can’t be like that…. ”
“Terry, talk to me!” She might as well have been a million miles away.
“It’s not fair,” he mumbled. “Not fair, not fair, not fair…” Each time he repeated it his voice diminished, sounding further and further away as if somehow inside his own head Terry was moving farther away from Sarah, from the room, and from himself. It was utterly chilling to watch.
There was the faint cry of a siren in the distance.
“Not fair, not fair, not—” Abruptly he lifted his bowed head and looked again at the empty wall by the armoire. “What can I do?” A pause. “I don’t want to do that. I can keep control of it. I never gave in, you know that. I’m a good person! I’ll never be like him. I can stop it!”
Sarah took a small step forward, close enough to touch him if she dared, but she did not. Part of her mind was suddenly screaming at her to run, to get away from Terry before…Before…what? She had no idea what her instincts were trying to tell her, so she slammed the lid down on them. She watched as he reached down and picked up the largest remaining piece of glass from the Warhol lithograph, a triangular spike four inches wide at one end and tapering along eleven inches to a dagger-sharp point. Sarah’s heart seemed to freeze midbeat, but Terry held it between his fingers gingerly, not like a weapon but truly like a mirror, angling it to increase the reflective surface. Just for this moment all he seemed interested in was his reflection—the twisted reflection he apparently saw and she did not. His face was filled with a dreadful fascination, as if he no longer doubted that what he saw was completely real to him and could now, in at least a marginal way, bear to examine it, as if he now understood some of the awful answers.