Winterwood by JG Faherty Page B

He remembered the cat’s foul breath, stinking of blood and raw meat and old, rotten flesh. He remembered the way he’d pissed himself that long-ago night and wondered if he’d do it again.
    Terror heightened his senses to those of an animal. He smelled snow and chimney smoke and gingerbread and his own sweat. He tasted the winter night on his tongue, a taste so very different from any other season, bitter and almost metallic, like gaseous blood. He experienced exquisite needles of pain in individual teeth as freezing air rushed over old fillings and across receding gums.
    Through it all, the diesel-truck growl of the Yule Cat bounding behind him, drawing closer every second. A race he knew he’d never win, but that didn’t matter.
    They just need to get into the house. We have presents there. Anna will remember what to do with them.
    Still, the will to survive remained too strong for him to just stop and let the beast rend him to pieces. Dying was not something he wanted to do, although he’d been prepared for it since the moment he made the decision to summon the Yule Elf and go to Winterwood.
    A wave of hot, putrid air washed over him, letting him know his manner of death was about to be decided for him and it wouldn’t be pleasant. Despite the inevitability of getting caught, he dodged to his right, turning down a side street in the futile hope of finding a house with lights on or someone with an early morning job getting into a car.
    Instead, an icy puddle waited for him.
    His feet slipped away from the road and he went airborne. His body twisted around, giving him an unwanted glimpse of the Yule Cat only ten feet behind him. Then he hit the ground hard on his shoulder and thigh. Explosions of pain went off throughout his body and the air whoosh ed out of his lungs. Brightly colored stars clouded his vision while he slid across the pavement before coming to a stop against the curb.
    By the time his sight cleared, the Yule Cat stood over him, ears pinned back, eyes narrowed, lips drawn back in a snarl. It held one paw up, and again Anders found himself traveling back in time.
    The cat raising its paw, exposing claws as long as a boy’s hand. Shreds of bloody cloth hanging from them.
    The cloth was brown. I didn’t notice at the time, but now I remember. Only one person had been wearing a brown jacket that night, Otto Spreckels. Although he hadn’t thought of his old friend in more than seven decades, Anders saw him clearly now through the reverse lens of time, a skinny boy with teeth like a horse and hair that refused to stay combed. No one had ever found his body or that of Heinrich Meier. No one had looked for them, either. There’d been no need. Everyone knew what happened.
    There’d been no celebrating in Kappelsbad that year.
    A massive blow to his ribs sent Anders tumbling across the road. So intense was the pain that it constricted his throat, rendering him unable to scream. He grabbed at his side and felt warm liquid already seeping through the torn cloth.
    The Yule Cat lifted its paw again.
    So like a verdammt cat, toying with its food.
    â€œFinish it, you fotze . I’m not afraid of you, and I’m not afraid to die.” Anders wanted to say more, to antagonize the monster into delivering a merciful death blow, but he couldn’t capture enough air for the rest of his words. Instead, he lay there, sucking in wheezing breaths befouled with the bestial odors of the cat. The paw lifted higher, and Anders closed his eyes.
    Please, Gott, let this be the end.
    â€œIt’s not often I hear those words spoken.” A jingling of bells accompanied the unexpected voice. Anders opened his eyes and found the Yule Elf staring down at him from atop his goat.
    â€œYou.” Anders fought for more air. “So, you’ve come to have the last laugh. Go ahead, say it. You warned me.”
    â€œYes, old man, I did, and you didn’t heed it. ’Tis