than half crazed with rage and hatred, I didn’t think they were so
reckless-or stupid-that they would sacrifice most of their community in
a single assault like this.
They’d been loose for two to three years. Plenty of time to breed.
A
Orson was on the floor, surrounded by this quartet of goblins, which
now began to shriek at him again. He was turning worriedly in a
circle, trying to watch all of them at once.
One of the troop was at such a distance and angle that I didn’t have to
worry that any stray buckshot would catch the dog. Without hesitation,
I blew away the creature on which I had a clear line of fire, and the
resulting spray of buckshot and monkey guts would cost Bobby maybe five
thousand bucks in redecorating costs.
Squealing, the remaining three intruders bounded from one piece of
furniture to another, heading toward the windows. I brought down
another one, but the third round in the shotgun only peppered a
teak-paneled wall and cost Bobby another five or ten grand.
I pitched the shotgun aside, reached to the small of my back, drew the
Glock from under my belt, started after the two monkeys that were
fleeing through the broken window onto the front porch-and was nearly
lifted off my feet when someone grabbed me from behind. A beefy arm
swung around my throat, instantly choking off my air supply, and a hand
seized the Glock, tearing it away from me.
The next thing I knew, I was off my feet, lifted and tossed as though I
were a child. I crashed into a coffee table, which collapsed under
me.
Flat on my back in the ruins of the ffirniture, I looked up and saw
Carl Scorso looming over me, even more gigantic from thing is angle
than he actually was. The bald head. The earring. Though I’d dialed
up the lights, the room was still sufficiently shadowy that I could see
the animal shine in his eyes.
He was the troop leader. I had no doubt about that. He was wearing
athletic shoes and jeans and a flannel shirt, and there was a watch on
his wrist, and if he were put in a police lineup with four gorillas, no
one would have the least difficulty identifying him as the sole human
being. Yet in spite of the clothes and the human form, he radiated the
savage aura of something subhuman, not merely because of the eyeshine
but because his features were twisted into an expression that mirrored
no human emotion I could identify. Though clothed, he might as well
have been naked; though clean-shaven from his neck to the crown of his
head, he might as well have been as hairy as an ape. If he lived two
lives, it was clear that he was more attuned to the one that he lived
at night, with the troop, than to the one that he lived by day, among
those who were not changelings like him.
He held the Glock at arm’s length, executioner style, aiming it at my
face.
Orson flew at him, snarling, but Scorso was the quicker of the two. He
landed a solid kick against the dog’s head, and Orson went down and
stayed down, without even a yelp or a twitch of his legs.
My heart dropped like a stone in a well.
Scorso swung the Glock toward me again and fired a round into my
face.
Or that was how it seemed for an instant. But a split second before he
pulled the trigger, Sasha shot him in the back from the far end of the
room, and the crack I heard was the report of her Chiefs Special.
Scorso jerked from the impact of the slug, pulling the Glock
ff-target.
The teak floor beside my head splintered as the bullet tore through
it.
Wounded but less fazed than most of us would have been once shot in the
back, Scorso swung around, pumping out rounds from the Glock as he
turned.
Sasha dropped and rolled backward out of the room, and Scorso emptied
the pistol at the place where she had stood. He kept trying to pull