For the first time in what felt like forever, all was right with his world.

And then Nora came walking in.

It was to Vic's eternal shame that he never even saw her coming, didn't have a f.u.c.king clue. One second, he was watching his new love dance, a big grin pasted across his kisser; the next thing he knew, Nora was standing beside him with the coldest, craziest expression on her face he'd ever seen. Her breath reeked of liquor, blood, and rage. She hissed at him.

You sonofab.i.t.c.h.

Every drop of strip joint sweat on his body went instantly frigid. Every hair stood on end. He knew what was coming before it came, what she was going to say before she even said it.

Are you gonna take care of this? Or do I have to do it for you?

Tristana was at the far end of the runway, oblivious to the exchange. In desperation, Vic tried to feign ignorance. No chance. She knew, she knew, there was no way around it; denying it only made it worse. He found himself wracking his brain, searching out escape routes that didn't exist. He could feel the terrible killing power of the Change, surging through Nora and radiating outward.

And he knew, in that moment, that it was too late. She would stop at nothing. She had nothing to lose. She would do it right here, in front of everyone, bring the whole place crashing down around their ears-put the cops on their trail, kill herself, kill him-before she would let this violation go unavenged.

You can't make me do this, he tried to say, but he knew it wasn't true.

You OWE me, motherf.u.c.ker, she spat. We were meant to be together, remember? Well, now we are. For better and for worse, in sickness and in health, forever and ever and you f.u.c.king OWE ME THIS!!!

And then she turned and stormed out, leaving Vic to his choices.

When closing time came, he tried his best to pretend that nothing was wrong. Tristana, of course, was way too smart to buy it; and so she followed him around to the back of the club in a desperate attempt to pry loose his sudden, terrible secret. The Mercedes was parked back there in the alley, the trunk ajar and waiting. Nora was nowhere to be seen. She had thought of everything.

He brought them to a halt by the back of the car, making it look entirely coincidental. To his surprise, he found that he was shaking. She asked him what was wrong, slipped deftly into his embrace. He nestled her head against his chest.

Nora stepped out from around the corner.

Just remember, he whispered, that I love you. Kissing her lightly on the forehead. He cradled her face in his hands. She made a soft sound of unmistakable pa.s.sion.

Then he seized her skull, twisting viciously. . . .

And it should have ended just like that.

But, of course, it didn't.

Because Tristana's instincts were strong, and she picked up on tic's intent a split second before he could do the deed. Fear and confusion flared, were instantly incinerated by a single overriding impulse.

Tristana locked her neck, began to fight.

She was much stronger than he'd expected; she kicked and thrashed and raked her nails across his face. It bought her maybe another ten seconds of survival. Long enough for her to twist her head to come face-to-face with him. Long enough to see the tattoo on his bulging forearm, see Nora emerge from the darkness, see it all for what it was.

The look of sorrow in her eyes was matched only by the contempt, in the moment before she died. They fused together to burn into his brain forever, transmitting a single indelible message: You p.u.s.s.y.

And then her neck muscles gave out, with a slingshot bonecracking snap. . . .

And it was done. One second, she was a living, breathing embodiment of all his dreams; the next, she was a hundred and twelve pounds of limp and sagging meat: forever gone, useless in his arms.

It had been years since he'd allowed himself to cry, and it seemed strange to be doing it now. Her dead weight knocked him back a step, as if her flesh knew its final destination, was only trying to help. He kissed her once more, mouthed the words I'm sorry. Then he gently laid her out on the plastic trunk liners that Nora had so thoughtfully provided.

Suddenly, he was being elbowed roughly but indifferently aside. He fell back without protest, though he felt his heart constrict. Nora was there-half-human, half-beast, completely deranged-looming over the body, her features lit from the trunk light below. Without hesitation, she slit Tristana's dead throat, peeling upward in an ugly, brutal swipe. The face came clean away, leaving behind a deathmask of muscle and skull that could have belonged to anyone.

This is mine, Nora said, holding up her souvenir.

Then she reached down with her free hand and slit the carca.s.s from v.u.l.v.a to sternum, viscid tubes and exposed organs flopping to either side. A final desecration. Her last disrespects. Nora dug up under the breastbone to wrench the dead heart free, then helped herself to a big steaming bite.

Savoring the spark. Getting off on it.

You can take care of the garbage, she told him, as she tossed the leftovers into the trunk. Nora stalked off into the shadows.

Leaving Vic alone, moaning over the seeping remnants of his dream . . .

Over the ocean, a storm front was gathering. Already, its dark clouds had swallowed the moon. He felt its imminence in the pit of his stomach. A sinking sensation. Too appropriate for words. Vic wiped the last of this evening's tears on the back of his hand, snuck a glimpse at the clock.

It was twelve-fifteen.

For the first time, it fully occurred to him that Nora had been gone an awfully long time. Nearly half an hour. What the f.u.c.k was that about? Not that he was in any hurry to experience her return-just the thought of her, at this point, made his blood congeal in his veins-but it struck him as strange. She'd told him she'd be right back.

Oh no, said a voice in his head.

Vic looked at his half-empty gla.s.s of whiskey, then across the table at Nora's drink. She had drained it before she left for the bathroom. She hadn't ordered another.

Oh christ no, said the voice, more emphatic.

He clamped down hard, methodically ran down the list of reasons why panic was pointless, the worst of his options. He thought about the last year and a half spent together: eighteen months in which she'd never once tried to run away. He thought about the permanent shattering of will, her terrible crippling resignation. He thought about the words forever and ever.

He thought about the way she'd looked while gutting Tristana.

He looked at the clock again.

A sickly churn began to cycle in his gut, physical corollary to the voice in his head. A second voice chimed in now, infinitely more practical. Go look for her it said.

He stood, a bit unsteadily. Something slipped from his lap, tumbled to the floor. Vic looked down, struggling to focus. Something shiny lay coiled at his feet. It was fine-tooled and delicate, easily five feet long, with a tiny silver clasp on the end.

Her chain.

Oh G.o.d.

Vic stood paralyzed, unable to accept the evidence of his senses. He suddenly realized how completely he'd been suckered, how very deeply he'd been spiked.

"Oh, f.u.c.k," he muttered, half-falling back against the wall. "Oh, f.u.c.k." Waiting for the dizziness to pa.s.s. The thought of dragging himself another step farther was incredibly difficult: a deep soul-exhaustion settled over and through him like a fog that freezes bone.

But beneath the killing fog was the understanding that she had planned this, she had deliberately done this to f.u.c.k him up; and what was worse, she had waited until tonight. Which meant that she'd known she was going to do this even before she made him kill Tristana.

Which meant that Tristana had died for nothing. No, worse: as an instrument of Nora's revenge.

And she had used his hands to do it. . . .

"You b.i.t.c.h." Feeling the fog burn off, the withering lethargy disperse. "Oh jesus G.o.d you f.u.c.king b.i.t.c.h!" His strength returned in a blood-red tidal wave. Suddenly, it was standing still that had become impossible. Vic pushed off from the wall, fists clenched and teeth bared, his whole body coursing with murderous animal rage. He stormed into the bar, following her trail. It went right past the rest rooms, and straight out the door leading to the street.

Oh, you b.i.t.c.h. You didn't . . .

But as a matter of fact, she did.

Vic did the mental math. She had roughly a thirty-minute lead. He didn't want to think about how far behind the eight ball that put him. He went out the door, moving fast, and did not look back.

Atlantic Avenue ran parallel to the boardwalk, all the way up and down the length of the beach. Hotels loomed huge along the seaward side; clubs and tourist traps hawking doodads or overpriced drinks festooned the inland side of the street.

Nora's trail headed south. There was not much traffic, either by car or on foot. All the trawling young college meat that he pa.s.sed on the street meant nothing to him. They were, to his eyes, less substantial than ghosts.

At the Hilton, Nora's trajectory shifted inward. He practically blew through the gla.s.s revolving doors. The sound of canned Top 40 dogs.h.i.t emanated from Chico's, the hotel lounge; a cow-eyed couple quickly ducked to one side as he barreled through the lobby toward them. He peered through the giant aquarium to the dim-lit interior.

A complete waste of time. Nora hadn't taken off running for a drink with an umbrella in it and a slow dance to the sound of Wilson Philips wannabees. He turned, heading out the door that led to the boardwalk.

And as he ran and he ran, tracking her from one bar to another to another, it didn't take long to figure out that she was leading him on a wild-goose chase. And in the process, leading him farther and farther away from the Seaside Hideaway. Away from his room, his car, all his belongings . . .

. . . including all those credit cards he hadn't felt like carrying . . .

"G.o.dDAMMIT!" he screeched, as he spun on his heel, using every last molecule of strength at his disposal, going f.u.c.k f.u.c.k f.u.c.k you conniving little c.u.n.t! as he pushed himself harder, hoping against hope that she had played the thread too long, was still trying to throw him off the trail instead of doubling back and doing what he would have done . . .

. . . and it took him less than four minutes to travel the mile-and-a-quarter distance: some kind of record for a biped, even without the human and hurtling metal obstacles in his path. He arrived at their hotel, slipped in a side entrance, not wanting to be seen. There was n.o.body at the elevator when he got there. No one to distract him. No one he would have to kill. He thought about how long she'd been gone. Easily an hour and change, more than doubling her lead time since he'd left Viper's.

Vic took a deep breath, tried to keep it in perspective. These things had a way of balancing out. She might have a head start, but he excelled at playing catch-up.

And he had a pretty good idea where ol' Nora might be heading. . . .

The elevator came. There was n.o.body inside. So much the better for the human race. And when I find you, he mused, stepping in. Ooh baby, when I do . . .

He didn't hear the first police sirens till the doors were almost closed. All the way up, he kept telling himself it's okay, it doesn't matter, it has nothing to do with you. Which worked just fine and dandy, right up until he began to hear the caterwauling voices from above.

And all the smells of death a.s.sailed him.

Vic numb. The jumble of screaming, shouting, heaving voices told him less than the stench in the air. He smelled brains-two, maybe three-and yards upon yards of unfurled digestive tract.

The doors slid open on ten. Blood and meat had graffitoed the corridor walls directly across from Room 1019. She hadn't even kept it contained to their suite. But then again, why would she? She was a bright girl. She'd sought maximum impact, in the shortest possible time.

He elbowed aside a hurling coed and came to a stop in front of the door. "Holy s.h.i.t," he hissed softly, surveying the carnage. He saw shreds of Navy white, mostly stained with Navy red, put the jigsaw pieces together in his mind. Three squids. She had picked up three sailors, brought them back to her place for a groovy g.a.n.g.b.a.n.g.

Well, they'd gone off with a bang, all right. Actually, more like a groovy ka-BOOM!!! He almost laughed when he thought about it; in fact, one split second later, he did. He found that he couldn't help it. It was just so f.u.c.king perverse.

He realized that he should be very upset-that li'l Nora was already gone-and moreover, that he was standing in the middle of Setup City. He had to admire the beauty of how she'd spiked him; and besides, he needed a place to put all this fresh psychotic energy.

A storm was coming, that much was for certain. And the cops would be here any second. Vic hoped she'd be listening to her dashboard radio.

The elevator doors opened. Vic smiled.

It was time for a Change.

33.

It was just past midnight when the front door to 716 Raymire Street exploded in a shower of oak and leaded gla.s.s. The sky to the east had clouded over forebodingly, peals of distant thunder rumbling down the windswept, empty streets.

The door was heavy and strong, painstakingly stripped and refinished. It gave way practically on the first blow, sent long shards of destruction raining down on the patterned Italian tile of the entrance hall.

Syd came roaring in through the wreckage, his every move crackling with murderous intent. The house was dark and still, but otherwise amazingly unchanged: its warm wood floors and cool white walls almost exactly as he'd left them, another lifetime ago.

He roamed from room to room, spreading annihilation in his wake as he smashed and gouged and tore his way across the face of what was once his home. All the while howling out her name.

Calling for Karen, in a voice no longer human. Because Syd had changed; oh, yes, indeed. As he'd fled the mountain, a wildfire had lit in his soul: fueled by the sudden revelation of further betrayal, unchecked by sanity or reason. Mental tinder, ignited by the spark of betrayal, magnified a millionfold until it burned out of control in his brain. The fire spread through his body, raced under his quivering skin.

By the time he reached the house, it was a raging inferno.

And it would not stop until it had consumed all in its path.

A ceiling fan spun lazily in the living room, blades slowly slicing the air. He had hung it there himself, the week they moved in. Syd yowled, vaulted skyward, did a manic slam-dunk. The fan came down, trailing hot sparks and live wire.

"KAAHHREN!!".

His voice was harder than nails: an unhinged and inchoate asylum of sound. He moved into the dining room, upending the heavy deco table they'd found at a flea market on her twenty-fifth birthday. The table flew through the air, exploded into splinters and shrapnel against the hutch that still housed the wedding presents: china and tsatskes, nuptial relics. The hutch came next, tipping free from the wall, disgorging its contents to shatter on the floor. The walls grew great gaping holes, as his misshapen fists lashed out again and again. Forensic foreplay, warm-up to the main event.

All the while, calling her name.

Upstairs, a flurry of footfalls: panicked-sounding, crazed. Syd growled and spun, loping down the hall, ripping rungs from the banister as he vaulted over it. Taking the stairs three at a time.

A pajama-clad figure stood paralyzed at the second-floor landing, a nine-iron quivering in one upraised hand. One glimpse of Syd and the pajama-man fled for the bedroom, golf club clattering to the floor.

Syd hit the landing, hot on his tail. Seeing Vaughn Restal, Doug-the-dweeb, Phil-from-New-York all rolled into one: one screeching, scuttling everyman who had ever snuck behind his back and slithered between her legs. The fear in the air was napalm perfume, pointedly fanning the flames.

Pajama-man reached the master bedroom, slamming the door. A split second later, Syd landed full force upon it. The door folded and fell inward, careening off its hinges. Pajama-man fell back, screaming.

More screams, erupting from the darkness: pitiful animal shrieking sounds. A low growl spilled from Syd's lips as he bounded over the threshold. He found Karen there, huddled in the middle of the bed.

The same bed they'd once shared.

The one she shared now with this sniveling little s.h.i.t . . .

The comforter was gathered coc.o.o.nlike around her. He remembered it well, down to how much it cost. But not like he remembered her. It had been two and a half years since last they'd spoken. Even in shock, she looked very much the same. Perhaps her hair was a little bit longer; her pupils larger, huge and br.i.m.m.i.n.g with fear.

As he approached the bed, her boyfriend rallied, launching a desperate counterstrike. Syd snarled and backhanded him, felt the satisfying crunch of shattered meat and bone. Pajama-man crashed to the floor in a heap, his jaw dislocated, retching up blood and teeth.

Karen screeched, vaulting off the bed to shield her wounded lover. Syd s.n.a.t.c.hed her leg, pulled her kicking and screaming toward him. She scrabbled and thrashed, clawing at the floor. Her nightgown rode up, exposing the bare flesh of her b.u.t.tocks.