Chapter 1

Now

Treacherous footing, made worse by the rising storm, kept Scott Seay moving cautiously. Brandon Russo, his lover and friend, was right behind him, sometimes practically crawling up his back. Brandon’s footsteps masked the sound of pursuit. Scott knew, from his throbbing heartbeat and aching lungs, that they were not far ahead of the danger, but it would do them no good to stop and rest, nor could they move any faster without risking sliding down the side of the mountain.

Scott wouldn’t have thought it possible to get more miserable. He was drenched to the skin; his face was covered with a dozen scrapes and scratches from plunging through the underbrush. His chest ached and the muscles in his calves were screaming bloody murder. On top of all that, he was so petrified he could barely think. And yet, when he stepped into a shallow crevice and mud slid into his hiking boot, he nearly threw up his hands in disgust.

“Jesus Christ,” he swore. They’d come out of the woods on a different path—instead of the welcoming sight of base camp, there was nothing but a single row of parked cars. He came to a halt, trying not to break his ankle, and Brandon plowed into him. They both paused, panting for breath. Scott strained his ears, listening for sounds that were more than the gash of rain falling on leaves.

“Look, look!” Behind him, Brandon was pointing to something out in the blackness.

Nighttime hiking, not recommended, Scott thought, blind and incoherent. He squinted in the direction Brandon had pointed.

The Jeep. There.

“We made it,” Scott said, relief as soothing as a whiskey.

The bushes rustled behind them.

“Run, go, go!” Brandon grabbed at Scott’s hand, yanking him along in Brandon’s wake.

They ran.

Scott scrambled in his pocket for the keys to the Jeep. He couldn’t find them. Running and searching his pocket was fruitless. He tucked his elbows closer to his sides and reached for the last bit of strength he had.

Behind him, Brandon stumbled, went down. Brandon was back on his feet in mere seconds, a thick coating of mud and leaves adding to the wet and brambles already stuck to his coat and face. Brandon wiped one hand down his face, smearing the mud but clearing his eyes. “Go, you idiot,” Brandon bellowed.

Scott ran. Whatever had been stalking them through the night also picked up its pace. It crashed through the woods, louder than the storm’s driving winds and rain. Too much to hope for that it was just imagination run wild; Scott pictured an upright form, covered with thick, matted fur, smashing through branches and leaping over the ditches that had given Scott and Brandon so much trouble.

It was gaining on them.

Running on the flat, gravel surface of the parking lot was both easier and harder; easier because there weren’t branches snapping into his face and roots to trip and tumble. Harder because he was so exhausted, and the gravel slid and slipped under his boot soles. The Jeep. Just a little farther.

Brandon slammed into the Jeep’s side panel with a resounding thunk.

Scott shuffled in his pocket for his keys and found nothing.

“Shit, shit, shit,” he muttered. “Keys…”

Scott tugged on his coat a few times, heard the distinctive sound of the keys rattling.

“It’s stopped,” Brandon said, peering across the parking lot into the trees. Movement in the woods, from rain and wind, was erratic. “It doesn’t want to come into the light.”

Scott’s heart pounded in his temples. He didn’t feelsafer. His hand plunged back into his pocket. Still no keys. Groping through the fabric, he encountered that small hole in his pocket, which had torn much wider. He stuffed his fingers into the hole; cold metal keys stabbed at his numbed fingertips.

“Open the door,” Brandon exclaimed.

“My keys,” Scott explained, shaking the bottom of his coat. The keys jangled inside. “They’re in the lining!”

“I told you to fix that fucking hole!” Brandon yelled.

A snap of lightning took a picture of the sky. The parking lot lights flickered. And went out

Thunder boomed like the mountain coming down.

Brandon reached into his own pocket and pulled out a folded knife, unsnapping it. The blade was barely visible in the darkness.

“It’s coming,” Scott said. He peered into the night, not sure where the attack would come from.

Something ripped at his jacket and Scott screamed…

* * * *

Three weeks ago

Brandon rubbed his eyes; the figures in the accounting book blurred and danced, smudged with black ink, and praise pink elephants and wee little fishes, not as much red these past few months. His Aunt Ginny still insisted on keeping the books in a ledger instead of Data-Point or another, simpler software that would do all the adding and subtracting for him.