"What are you?" she asked.

"Never mind," said the face. It either smiled or grimaced. "But your husband is right. Terris Smith and I have cordoned off a circle here, with these wards. One mile in diameter, exactly. You will not be able to leave. I suggest that you go back to the cabin and get yourselves right with God."

Bill glared down at the stump, swallowing the stomach acid he felt surging at the back of his throat.

"Bill," the face said. Its teeth had become soft, and wriggled like a mouthful of worms. "Bring her back to the cabin. I will be with you before dark, as I told you before. I did not want company, but I believe...Bill, please put that away."

As the thing had spoken, Bill had felt his hand move into his pocket, as if moving independently of his will. Though he was conscious of the action, he did nothing to stop it. He opened the Swiss Army knife with one hand, until the small blade protruded from his fist.

"Bill," said Constance. "No."

He felt himself lunging for the face. Rage burned through his body. He felt nothing and thought nothing. The only imperative was to lash back at this...thing, whatever it was.

Bill felt the knife connect with the wood, biting into the soft stump. He laughed in joyless elation.

"Get back," said the face.

Bill felt the knife snatched from his hands. Pain seared his hand like fire, and he gasped and fell on his ass. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Constance grip her face and stumble backwards before falling on her butt.

And then Bill himself collapsed, holding his throbbing hand. He felt the blood before he saw it, running in a sticky stream from palm to elbow.

"Oh, God," he said.

Instinctively he flipped his hand around to see his injuries. The gash ran down the middle of his palm, from the base of his pointer finger to the first wrinkle of his wrist.

"Bill," moaned Constance.

"I have no hostility toward you," said Septimus Smith. "This is not the worst that I could do, believe me."

Then Bill saw a red blur in the air, like an angry insect flying right at him.

He threw up his hand in self-defense. Another searing pain went through his already-injured hand. Blood dribbled into his eyes, stinging like hell.

Before he could pull his hand away, he saw that this wound crossed the other one, making an X on his palm. Then more blood obscured it and despite himself he found himself on his feet, running to his wife.

"Constance!" he shouted.

He kneeled down next to her, holding his hand in a fist against his thigh. His wife lay on her back, her hands across her face. Blood stained her white hands, oozing out through her fingers.

Oh, Jesus, he thought in a panic. Her eyes.

But he pulled her hands away from her face with his good handa"his right, thankfullya"and saw that her eyes were untouched, both of them whole and wide open, rolling in crazy circles. The only wound had been to her right cheek, which was now covered in blood.

"Oh, Jesus," he said, and dragged her to her feet. With strength from his adrenaline, she weighed nothing in his arms. He could have thrown a boulder ten yards.

"What happened?" Constance whimpered, touching her cheek.

"You're fine, fine," said Bill, grasping her wrist and pulling her arm to him. "Don't touch it, you're okay."

"Not the worst I could do," said the voice from behind them.

Bill turned, still clutching Constance's arm. "What are you doing?" he screamed. "What thea""

"Already healed you," said the voice. "Here's your knife back."

Bill saw a motion above the stump, and realized it was his Swiss Army knife. It hovered in the air as if in the grip of an invisible assailant.

Bill flinched as the knife came toward him again. But it only arced gently through the air, as if the wielder had given it a casual toss. It tumbled through the leaves and came to rest near his feet.

"Now go," said Septimus Smith's voice. "Take the Jeep. It works now. Go to the cabin. Pray that Terris doesn't see you. I will be with you shortly after dark."

Seven.

Bill was numb. But his body moved, and he watched its motion as if he were a scientific observer, locked away in a safe room, studying the actions of a particularly interesting subject.

He took Constance's hand, and led her back through the woods. She seemed to have forgotten about her face, and just stared into the middle distance, her mouth working. Her upper lip was stained with blood. Bill wondered how much she'd swallowed.

They arrived back at the Jeep. Bill escorted his wife into the passenger's seat, making sure she was buckled up.

So this is what shock is like, came his only lucid thought.

He patted his wife's shoulder, feeling the pathetically delicate bones beneath her skin. They were like a bird's bones; brittle enough to be snapped with the slightest pressure. He hoped that he hadn't broken her wrist in hauling her back to the car.

He shut the door and wandered over to the other side of the Jeep. Idly, he looked at the palm of his hand. Of course it was covered in blood. He'd never been so badly cut; the worst that had happened were the typical scrapes and cuts of childhood, and one time he'd gotten a fishhook through his thumb when fly-casting out with his dad in Massachusetts. He'd never even seen this quantity of blood anywhere, outside of a horror movie.

Bill stopped for a moment in front of the Jeep, leaning against the bumper. Suddenly he felt exhausted, as if he'd been awake for three days.

Bill found himself playing with his wounded left hand. He traced his right index finger across the wounds, expecting to feel the wet ragged edges of skin, and also expecting excruciating pain to cripple him on his feet.

He felt nothing but normal pressure when he prodded the wound. No pain at all.

He wiped his hand against his side, not worried about his shirt, which was another gift from his father. A nice rust-colored Columbia button-down that cost at least seventy bucks. Oh, well.

He looked at his hand again.

The wounds were healed. The only thing that remained were scars, raised and jagged and a dull pink.

"Wow," Bill said. "Healed."

He gave his hand another wipe, getting most of the blood off of it. He wondered if Constance's cheek had healed just as fast.

"Constance," he said. "Aw, man."

He climbed into the Jeep. His wife was leaning against the window, staring out into the forest.

"My hand is healed," he said. "It's fine."

Constance said nothing.

The keys were in the ignition. Bill twisted them and the Jeep started without a problem. Bill put it in neutral and revved the engine a couple of times, everything sounded normal.

And the face still stared at him from the pine tree.

"Thanks, I guess," he said, and put it in reverse, making a three-point turn before rolling down the trail back toward the cabin.

Eight.

As Bill carried her through the door, she started to talk.

"My cheek doesn't hurt," she said. "There's blood, but it doesn't hurt."

Bill brought her into the kitchen, which contained a cheap white plastic patio set. He eased her into a chair. Constance's face, despite the blood, was as white as the plastic.

He turned to the small sink, where there was a manual water pump. Some of the numbness in his limbs had worn off, and he felt aches in his forearms and fingers. The water was ice-cold, but he forced himself to scrub. As the dry blood dissolved, he could barely see the scars.

"Just relax," he told his wife. "Gonna get you cleaned up."

Bill rooted around in the backpack he'd brought in from the Jeep, and brought out a blue microfiber towel. It was another one of his father's expensive presents which would be ruined before the day was out. Great.

He wet the towel, wishing the water could be warmer. Over the sink he noticed a window, small and dirty, but big enough to let in a view of the forest. Bill took one look at the trees, and drew the dusty, colorless curtain across the glass.

He turned to his wife, kneeled down beside her.

She didn't react as he wiped away the blood.

"You're right," he said. "The cuts are gone."

"Scars," said Constance.

And then, she turned to him and smiled. It was genuine; there didn't seem to be any madness or stress in her face. Bill was shocked; he'd expected her to curl into fetal position and weep until he could get her out of the woods.

But then relief replaced shock. Maybe she would rise to the occasion. He hoped she would continue showing this resilience. It would make life easier for both of them.

"Guess we have a matching set," Constance said, pointing to his hand and then to her cheek. "Does it hurt?"

"No," he said, wiping the blood from her cheek. Another surge of rage went through him when he thought of the utter balls of the man, or magician, or whatever the fuck he wasa"trapping them and then marking them like they were cattle.

Constance smiled at him. Half-hearted, but better than nothing.

Some less-than-cheery plans raced through Bill's mind. He promised himself that he would kill the man as soon as he could. Cold-bloodedly, mercilessly. Put the knife through his white clown's neck, let him bleed; then maybe flay him when he was still alive.

"There," he said, having swabbed most of the blood off of her cheeks. "Would you like to change out of that sweatshirt? Blood all over it."

Constance yawned. "No," she said, and rubbed her eyes. "Tired. Sweetheart, I want to take a nap."

"What?"

Her eyelids fluttered. "I am very, very...will you let me? Will you watch while I take a nap?"

"You're going to sleep?"

"I'm sorry, honey...so sorry..." Again her eyelids fluttered, and she leaned forward, scraping the chair's legs against the floorboards. "Please. There's a bed in here, right?"

Bill frowned. But he had to admit to feeling tired himself. The thought of a few hours shut-eye, regardless of their situation, was strangely seductive.

He said, "All right."

He put his arm around his wife, careful not to squeeze her too hard. She leaned against him as he guided her out of the chair, and brought her to the small curtained alcove that held the bed.

He lay her down on the old diamond-patterned quit, adjusted her legs. There were two sleeping bags in the car, and he thought he should probably get them. They'd be much cleaner than the blanket on the bed.

But Constance had already gone to sleep. Her mouth hung open, and through it came her characteristic huge, hissing breaths.

"Ah, shit," said Bill, rubbing his face.

He watched her for a minute, fighting the urge to lie down next to her. That would be the worst thing he could doa"fall asleep on guard duty. Needed to stand sentinel like he'd promised.

Soon she started to snore.

Bill drew the curtain around the bed alcove, and staggered back into the kitchen. His limbs ached. Now that the adrenaline had worn off, he was left feeling hollowed-out, as if someone had scraped his insides clean with a dull knife.

He pulled a can of warm Coke out of his backpack. He didn't taste a thing as he poured half of the can down his gullet, feeling his body grab at the caffeine and sugar greedily. There was food in the Jeep, and he knew he'd be ravenous later, but for now all the provisions had to stay outside..

Bill stared at the curtained window, and despite the infusion of Coke, he felt his eyelids drooping, too.

"No," he said.

But he sat at the old table, his limbs heavy. Within a minute, he had leaned his head against his hand and fallen fast asleep.

Nine.