Richie did so, peering intently into the shadows. “I can’t see anything. Not in this light.”
“Step a little closer. Put your face right up against the trunk.”
Richie glanced at him uncertainly, then did as he was told, pressing his cheek against the rough bark, staring up into the branches. “I still can’t…”
The demon drove the pointed end of his stick through Richie’s neck with a furious lunge. Richie gasped in shock and pain as his windpipe and larynx shattered. He tried to cry out, but his voice box was gone and the blood pouring down his throat was choking him. His fingers clawed at the tree as if to tear the bark away, and his eyes bulged. He thrashed wildly, trying to break free, but the demon pressed firmly on the wooden shaft, keeping Richie pinned, watching the dark blood spurt from his ruptured throat.
Feeders raced from among the trees and began throwing themselves on Richie, tearing at his convulsed body, beating past his futile efforts to protect himself, anxious to taste his pain and fear.
Then the bark of the tree, wet with Richie’s blood, began to split apart in long, ragged fissures, and parts of Richie were drawn into the cracks. His hands and knees went first, pressing into the trunk as if into soft mud as he struggled to escape. His scream of horror came out a strangled cough, and then more of him was sucked slowly, relentlessly from view. When his head was swallowed, all sound ceased. The demon yanked free his pointed stick and stood watching as Richie’s back bucked and heaved in a last futile effort to break free.
A moment later, Richie Stoudt was gone completely. The feeders melted back into the night.
The demon waited for a time, watching as the tree began to ooze what it didn’t want of Richie, the bark splitting further and deeper as the blood offering did its work. Within its prison, the maentwrog was feasting, gaining the strength it needed to break free, readying itself for the demon’s summons.
The demon looked down. One of Richie’s work boots lay on the ground. The demon reached down and picked it up. He would carry it to the riverbank where the water turned rough above the dam and leave it where it could be found. Let people draw their own conclusions.
Humming, he collected his canvas sack and disappeared back into the trees.
CHAPTER 13
Nest pushed open the screen door off the porch just in time to hear the big grandfather clock in the den strike the half hour between five and six. As she paused in the silence that followed, Gran materialized out of the shadows of the kitchen, a thin, gray apparition gripping a pot holder.
“Dinner’s in an hour, Nest. Go wash up. We’ve got company coming.”
Nest caught the screen door as it started to swing back on its, springs and eased it quietly into place. She could feel the sweat, warm and sticky on her skin beneath her clothes. “Who is it?” she asked.
“Someone your grandfather invited. You’ll have to ask him.” Gran looked less than pleased. She gestured with the pot holder. “Go clean up first, though. You look like something the cat dragged in.”
She disappeared back into the kitchen. Nest could smell pot roast cooking, rich and savory, and she realized suddenly how hungry she was. She went down the hallway past Gran and the good smells and glanced into the den in search of her grandfather, but he was not there. She took a moment longer to listen for him; then, hearing nothing, she continued on to her room, closed the door, popped Nirvana into her CD player, stripped off her clothes, and headed for the shower. She tried not to look at herself in the mirror, but ended up doing so anyway. The girl looking back at her was skinny and flat-chested. She had bony arms and legs and looked as if she would disappear altogether if she turned sideways. She might have been half-pretty if her face hadn’t been breaking out so badly. As usual, Nest didn’t much care for her.
She spent a long time in the shower washing and soaking. Then she dried, dressed, and stared out the window into the park. She thought about Pick and the big oak tree, about her friends and the magic she hid from them, about the maintenance man and Wraith, and about the feeders. She thought about Two Bears and the dance of the spirits of the Indian dead, now less than six hours away. She wondered if Two Bears could see the feeders. He had seen Pick clearly enough, so shouldn’t he be able to see the feeders as well? She had never met anyone who could see the feeders besides herself and Gran. Pick said there were others, but not many and they all lived elsewhere. Pick said only a handful of people could see the feeders, and that was because you had to have some connection with magic. Maybe Two Bears could do magic, she thought. Wouldn’t he have to be able to do magic in order to summon spirits?