she should think that. She cradled the receiver that she was still holding for some reason and took one step toward him up the stairs, because he had started down.
She didn’t want that. She felt some deep insistent knowledge that told her to keep him right where he was.
She heard Amy gasp and David’s startled cry, and Luke did too—the sounds stopped him openmouthed on the stairs, and Claire’s first thought was for Luke and her second was for the baby who had tugged on her finger this afternoon. She ran to Amy’s bedroom and scooped her up, the baby instantly awake, startled and staring up at her, while behind her Amy screamed and things were bumping, breaking, falling, some stop-time wind of destruction swirling at her heels as she ran to Luke and shoved him in his room.
Second Stolen reached for the man and drew herself up, her breasts pressed flat against him. She almost laughed. The man did not know what to do with his hands. They fluttered over her back like frightened birds.
The man was afraid of hurting her. He did not know what to make of her embrace.
She listened for the door, heard it slide open and knew the others were inside.
She felt a wild communion with them compounded of blood and hate, not knowing that in part the hatred was for them—for the whippings, for First Stolen’s use of her, for a life stolen which she could never truly miss but which lingered dimly still somewhere far beyond her waking consciousness—and not caring, because this was life now, this hunger, this blood beating in the veins of the man who held her
.
She felt rather than saw them enter the room and then heard the man’s woman gasp.
She was staring at the sliding doors. At them. At her people.
She pulled him tight to her. And bit down.
At the very last moment the man resisted, pulled away, and instead of the soft flesh of his neck her teeth found only bone but that was all right too, she knew she would have him anyway and bit down harder, grinding her teeth into the collarbone, working her way
into
him, her eyeteeth sinking into the back of the bone, tasting the salt drool of blood and swallowing as he screamed and took her head in his hands, trying to push her, shake her away.
But the man was soft. Not strong.
Her teeth hooked the back of the bone. She pulled.
At the same time she let go, using his weight.
There was a sound like a tree limb snapping as the man fell to the floor, screaming and clutching the splintered halves of bone pressed together pale and bloody glistening wet outside his body.
Second Stolen looked up and saw Eartheater and Rabbit beside her. The others were busy with the woman.
All except First Stolen, who was turning the corner toward the stairs, going for the child. His ax in one hand, claw hammer in the other.
Eartheater and Rabbit were looking at her, waiting. Rabbit was grinning.
She heard the man’s woman shriek.
“Mine,” she said and bent down over him.
He saw a glimpse of her upside down from the floor, of Amy, his wife, his partner, the flesh he knew so well that it was almost
his
flesh though his own real flesh was screaming now, burning, throbbing so thateach new heartbeat was something to live through, to stay conscious through, to get beyond and by, Amy being hauled back into the kitchen by three filthy boys in rags and a ratty-haired girl in some sort of cracked, pale yellow
(impossible)
skin
. Amy struggling, screaming, while the woman (their mother? a family?
No.) while the woman followed, pointed to the sink with a hunting knife. And the others dragged her forward
.
He saw this and in that instant tried to feel his way into Amy’s mind, to reach into her and pour out strength and hope to her even though he himself had no strength, the pain had drained it, but to reach out and somehow protect her, armor her with the huge grateful armor of his love. He felt for her, but she wasn’t there. She was alone, cut off from him by some terrible black wall of fear.
In the
She didn’t want that. She felt some deep insistent knowledge that told her to keep him right where he was.
She heard Amy gasp and David’s startled cry, and Luke did too—the sounds stopped him openmouthed on the stairs, and Claire’s first thought was for Luke and her second was for the baby who had tugged on her finger this afternoon. She ran to Amy’s bedroom and scooped her up, the baby instantly awake, startled and staring up at her, while behind her Amy screamed and things were bumping, breaking, falling, some stop-time wind of destruction swirling at her heels as she ran to Luke and shoved him in his room.
Second Stolen reached for the man and drew herself up, her breasts pressed flat against him. She almost laughed. The man did not know what to do with his hands. They fluttered over her back like frightened birds.
The man was afraid of hurting her. He did not know what to make of her embrace.
She listened for the door, heard it slide open and knew the others were inside.
She felt a wild communion with them compounded of blood and hate, not knowing that in part the hatred was for them—for the whippings, for First Stolen’s use of her, for a life stolen which she could never truly miss but which lingered dimly still somewhere far beyond her waking consciousness—and not caring, because this was life now, this hunger, this blood beating in the veins of the man who held her
.
She felt rather than saw them enter the room and then heard the man’s woman gasp.
She was staring at the sliding doors. At them. At her people.
She pulled him tight to her. And bit down.
At the very last moment the man resisted, pulled away, and instead of the soft flesh of his neck her teeth found only bone but that was all right too, she knew she would have him anyway and bit down harder, grinding her teeth into the collarbone, working her way
into
him, her eyeteeth sinking into the back of the bone, tasting the salt drool of blood and swallowing as he screamed and took her head in his hands, trying to push her, shake her away.
But the man was soft. Not strong.
Her teeth hooked the back of the bone. She pulled.
At the same time she let go, using his weight.
There was a sound like a tree limb snapping as the man fell to the floor, screaming and clutching the splintered halves of bone pressed together pale and bloody glistening wet outside his body.
Second Stolen looked up and saw Eartheater and Rabbit beside her. The others were busy with the woman.
All except First Stolen, who was turning the corner toward the stairs, going for the child. His ax in one hand, claw hammer in the other.
Eartheater and Rabbit were looking at her, waiting. Rabbit was grinning.
She heard the man’s woman shriek.
“Mine,” she said and bent down over him.
He saw a glimpse of her upside down from the floor, of Amy, his wife, his partner, the flesh he knew so well that it was almost
his
flesh though his own real flesh was screaming now, burning, throbbing so thateach new heartbeat was something to live through, to stay conscious through, to get beyond and by, Amy being hauled back into the kitchen by three filthy boys in rags and a ratty-haired girl in some sort of cracked, pale yellow
(impossible)
skin
. Amy struggling, screaming, while the woman (their mother? a family?
No.) while the woman followed, pointed to the sink with a hunting knife. And the others dragged her forward
.
He saw this and in that instant tried to feel his way into Amy’s mind, to reach into her and pour out strength and hope to her even though he himself had no strength, the pain had drained it, but to reach out and somehow protect her, armor her with the huge grateful armor of his love. He felt for her, but she wasn’t there. She was alone, cut off from him by some terrible black wall of fear.
In the
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