Claire sprang back in alarm, putting as much distance as possible between herself and the reptile. Even as she obeyed the instinctive reaction, she realized that she had cleared the space between the snake and the boy; nothing now stood between them. Nick was very pale and still, staring at the small dark head weaving to and fro, the extended fangs. Would poison work in a simulation? Surely not—unless Nick in his fear forgot this was not reality, and expected the mamba's venom to be deadly. Then he might die of a psychosomatic response. She mastered herself and strode forward, once more putting herself between them. "Leave him alone," she snapped.
All at once the menacing snake was gone, and in its place there stood a figure that, while human, was no less sinister: a small, hunched, wizened man, dark of skin and clad only in a loincloth. In his hand was a staff of bone.
"Mamba," said Claire. Fury rose in her. "You're not wanted here. This is Nick's private place. You can't just come in without permission."
"Oh, but I can," the sorcerer said. His shape shifted yet again, and there stood Klaus van Buren. "I'm here, am I not? The boy left one little opening, a mental crack just small enough to creep through, and I used it. Nicholas,"—turning to the cowering child—"it's I, Klaus. I've come to protect you. I always have protected you."
"Stay away," cried Nick. "I don't like you any more."
"Now, now, what lies has this girl been telling you? You really ought not to listen to her. Why, you don't even like her; you told me so yourself."
He was talking to Nick as if he really were still a child, Claire thought. He meant to regress him back into that young and trusting person from the past. "He's trying to control you, Nick," she said. "He wants to use you again—only this time he'll kill you. Klaus doesn't love you and he never did. Send him away!"
But Nick stood rooted to the spot. Claire was reminded of the old stories about birds being so mesmerized by the approach of snakes that they couldn't move.
"There she goes again," said van Buren. "You see? Such nonsense! I've raised you and cared for you for nearly ten years. If I'd meant to harm you, I'd surely have done it before now. But what has Claire Norton ever done for you? Hasn't she been rude and hateful to you from the start? Why would she change her mind about you now? She doesn't care about you, she's just trying to drive a wedge between us. She knows I am here to save you from the greatest danger of all." He turned towards the hallway. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what?" said Nick, swallowing.
"That scratching and snuffling. It's out there, Nicholas. Your worst enemy. It's at the door right now."
"You're making it up," said Claire. "There's nothing there. Or if there is, it's one of your own daimons." Van Buren turned towards her.
"Aha! You're not sure now what to say! Is there something there, or is there not?" Van Buren beamed in satisfaction.
Claire turned on her heel and marched down the hall to the front door. There was a sound of soft hissing and scraping claws at the outer door. She hesitated. "Leo, is that you?"
"No—another daimon has come up onto the veranda. It isn't from the Legion horde; it just came out of nowhere."
Claire stood a moment deliberating, then she turned the lock and flung the inner door wide open. Through the screen door she saw a lean, spotted tan shape standing on the veranda, its long barred tail twitching.
"The leopard!" van Buren declared behind her, with a dramatic gesture. "The slayer of your parents. It has come for you now, Nick!"
Claire spun around. "Stop it!" she shouted. "You sick old monster! Leave him alone!" She turned back to the door. "And you, whoever or whatever you are, you can just leave now because there's no way you're getting in. Leo, can you drive it away?"
The lion came padding up onto the veranda, and the spotted cat turned to face it. Claire held her breath, waiting for the charge and flurry of teeth and claws. But it did not come. The two beasts advanced towards each other, stood for a moment gazing into one another's faces, and then slowly touched noses.
"Leo?" said Claire. "It's one of Mamba's daimons—chase it away!"
Leo looked at her with his lion's eyes. "It's not an enemy. Van Buren spoke the truth, at least in part. This is Nick's own familiar: the guardian daimon who has chosen to watch over him, even as I watch over you. The boy doesn't know him—he has been taught by Mamba from an early age to reject his own daimon. But the familiar knows him, and still wants to help him."
"You're sure? It could be lying to you. Trying some kind of trick."
"I think not. This daimon has opened his mind to me, and there is not a shadow of deception in it. Mamba does not control Nick's thoughts. He may seek to turn the boy away from his familiar, but he cannot prevent the familiar from reaching out to Nick. Tell him to open the door and let his daimon in."
Van Buren was arguing with Nick. "Do you remember your lessons, Nicholas? Did I not teach you that the so-called familiar is evil? It stands at the door of your mind, barring your way into the daimon realm—and preventing others from entering your mind, others who might do you good. It could not stop me from entering, however, for you left a small gap in your defences for me to get through—and that means you want me here, that you still love me and trust me."
"No! Don't listen to him!" urged Claire.
The boy looked from one to the other in an agony of indecision.
"Nick, I don't want to make things even harder for you," said Claire. "But I promise you I won't let you come to harm. That's why I'm here. You saw me with the lion. That's my familiar, Leo—he's my best friend, who only wants me to be happy and find my destiny in life. Your own familiar is the same. You can go to him, Nick. He won't hurt you."
"He hurt your parents," said van Buren. "He sent a leopard to destroy them."
"Liar! That was Phobetor!" cried Claire. "And you knew all about it!"
"The daimon familiar is your enemy," said van Buren to the boy, ignoring Claire. "The watcher on the threshold, the obstacle to your freedom and independence. He has come again in a leopard's form, to terrify you and keep you prisoner. Resist him, Nick. Send him away forever. Don't listen to the Norton girl. You know she hates you, and wants you to be destroyed. Go on—banish them both from this place, your inner sanctum. You can do it: you have that power."
"I'm—afraid," said Nick.
Claire pounced. "Yes, that's it—Klaus wants you to be afraid, so you won't ever leave here. And meantime, in the real world you'll die—"
"Close the door!" said van Buren. "Close it, Nick, and the Watcher will give up trying to frighten you and go away. Then when it has left you can come and go as you please, in this place that is yours alone."
Slowly Nick advanced towards the door, his face white and his dark eyes huge with fear. He laid his hand on the doorknob, and then paused.
"What are you waiting for?" said van Buren, his mask of patience beginning to slip. "Close the door, boy, and you'll be safe."
Nick still stood motionless. "It's not a leopard," he said. "I can see it from here." He released the knob, took one tentative step forward. Claire started to say something, then closed her mouth again, afraid to interfere.
"What are you saying?" van Buren demanded.
"It's not a leopard, it's a cheetah." The boy stared out the screen door at the lean, spotted beast that stood on the veranda. It gazed back at him with steady golden eyes. "It's Charlie," he whispered.
"Charlie?" echoed Claire.
"My cheetah—my pet cheetah." Slowly, step by hesitating step, Nick went right up to the screen. "I found him when I was eight years old, out on the veldt. He was just a cub. A lion had killed all his brothers and sisters and driven his mother away. Charlie was all alone. Mom and Dad and I took him in and fed him with milk and meat, and raised him. He was totally tame, like a dog, and he followed me everywhere. When he got older we had to release him into the wild. I cried to see him go."
Claire understood. Nick's familiar must have used the helpless little animal for a host, brought him to safe haven with Nick's family. "The real cheetah left you," she told him. "But the spirit, the daimon that brought him to you, will never go. The daimon is your best friend."
The cheetah put its whiskered muzzle up to the wire mesh and sniffed at the boy, and Nick put his hand to the screen. "You see?" said Claire softly. "He won't hurt you. He's on your side—"
But she could not continue, for at that instant Myra's voice spoke to her mind, interrupting her. "Claire! You must come back at once! "
She was startled at the urgency in the other's thoughts. "Myra, I can't. Nick needs me—"
Myra said no more; but abruptly Claire's surroundings faded away, and in their place she had a sudden and vivid mental vision. She saw the downstairs hall at Willowmere, seen slightly from above—the originator of the vision, probably Matilda, must be perching on the carved newel post on the banister—and Myra was standing at the door; it was wide open, and in it stood Claire's father. "I don't care what she's doing, I demand to see my daughter immediately," he was saying.
"She'll be ready in a moment—oh, dear—she's just—"
Claire groaned. Of all the rotten timing! The image faded away as van Buren spoke again, this time to her.
"It doesn't take any black magic, you see," he chuckled. "Just a well-timed anonymous phone call, enough to arouse your father's suspicions that something untoward is going on. Phobetor has been busy ... Well, are you going to go back or not?"
Claire wavered. Again an image formed before her inward sight, crowding out the simulated scene: her father was now bending over her supine body on the couch, calling her name, shaking her by the shoulders, while Myra stood by and made helpless fluttering motions with her hands. "What have you done to her?" he accused. "I can't wake her! Claire—Claire!"
"She's all right—she's just meditating—"
"Meditating! She's out cold! You must have drugged her!"
"Mr. Norton, I swear I've done nothing of the kind. There've been no drugs used here. She's all right, really she is! Claire!" Desperation filled Myra's voice.
Again the vision faded. Ignoring van Buren's repulsive, triumphant smile, Claire said, "Leo! I have to go. I'm sorry, but Dad's at Myra's place and he thinks I'm in a coma."
"Yes, I saw it too. Go, Claire. I will stay here."
She flung a glance at the boy who still lingered uncertainly in the hallway. "Nick? You'll be okay. Just don't listen to Klaus: Charlie will protect you, and Leo will stay behind and look after you, too. But if you really want to be safe, then please, please go back to your own body. All right?"
He said nothing, once more looking from her to van Buren and back again. She couldn't blame him for his confusion, but there was little she could do for him. Claire concentrated, willing herself back to the Willowmere house.
Once more through the screaming barrage, the seething hate ... And then she was aware of being lifted, and of cold air on her face. She opened her eyes and found herself in her father's arms. He was carrying her down the front steps of Willowmere, with Myra following.
"She's going to the hospital," Dad was saying. "And if she suffers any lasting effects from this, my lawyer will be in touch with you."
Claire struggled to get free. "Dad! I'm all right. Put me down!"
He stared at her, but didn't release her. "What happened? I couldn't wake you."
"I just did this little meditation exercise, is all. Dad, I'm fine, really." She squirmed around until he set her down on her feet, though he clutched her arm tightly.
"You're sure?" he asked. "I thought you were sick or drugged. We'd better take you to emergency just in case."
Claire shook her head. Hours of waiting in emergency when Nick was still in deadly danger? She couldn't do it. But how could she go back to the simulation now? Her father would think she'd had some kind of relapse; if he saw her go into the trance, he'd be terrified.
"No!" She stepped away from him, breaking his hold on her arm. "I can't do that!"
"Why not?"
"Because—because there's something I have to do here." Claire realized there was no explanation she could give that would ever satisfy him. Least of all the truth. What could she do? He was clearly out of his mind with worry over her, which hurt her deeply; but more was at stake than his feelings and hers. Nick would die very soon if she didn't get him back to his body. She was the only person he seemed to want to trust, and she was running out of time.
She took a deep breath. It would be painful, unbearably so, but there was no alternative. Nick must come first. "I have to stay, and I'm going to stay."
"To do what?"
"I can't tell you."
"Claire, what is the matter with you? You've never behaved like this before. I'm not leaving you here. As your father, I insist you come home with me now."
"I'm seventeen, Dad. I'm sorry, but you can't insist on anything now." She started walking back to the house. He followed.
"Now wait just a moment—"
She turned and faced him again as he came after her. "And Dad—Darren was the name Mom gave to her spirit guide."
"Her what?"
"Her spirit guide. A sort of familiar."
He looked stunned. "What do you mean? How could you know that? Are you saying that your mother told you things she didn't tell me?"
"No, Myra told me. She researched that shaman group out West that Mom went to. Myra talked to the leader, and he told her he and his fellow shamans met Mom and spent time with her." She continued towards the house.
"When was this? You said nothing to me about the cult." His voice had gone very quiet. Dad never shouted when he was angry; he just went very cold and grim.
"It's not a cult, Mr. Norton," Myra said. "Shamanism is about connecting to your destiny."
"You actually believe this?" he asked, incredulity in his voice. "It's a conspiracy. You're all in on it."
Just then another voice spoke from behind them. "Sorry. Am I interrupting something?" it asked.
Nick's voice. It was Nick van Buren's voice—but the words weren't his. Claire froze in mid-step, and turned slowly to see the young man standing there on the driveway in his long trench coat. He smiled—not Nick's smile—and stepped forward.
"You know, you really should pay more attention, Claire. You were warned long ago not to draw other people into this affair. You have only yourself to blame now."
Mr. Norton stared. "What's this? Who is this, Claire?"
Claire said nothing, but stood staring at the stolen body of Nick van Buren.
Myra said, "Why have you come here?"
"Why do you think?" Phobetor replied, looking amused. His command of Nick's features and limbs was flawless, practised; of course, he had controlled Anthony King, and also his newer host, Thorpe. Still, there was something unnatural about his movements—they were too smooth, too coordinated, like those of a machine or a computer-generated image of a man. "You've had your fun, and now it's time we concluded this business. You forced things a bit early by meddling with young Nick, but it would have ended this way eventually."
"That sounds like a threat," said Dad.
"He's sharp, your father, isn't he?" Phobetor mocked. "Well, I can see where you get your brains from, Claire."
"Get lost," said Claire. "I've got more important things to do right now than waste time talking to you."
"I'm afraid your plans will have to wait." He reached into a pocket of his coat and drew out something black and shiny. A handgun—the gun that Klaus van Buren kept in his office, no doubt. He pointed it at her father.
All the world seemed to slow to a standstill and shrink down to the space between the two men. Claire could not move. Her eyes were locked on the weapon, the deadly black gun that was aimed at her father—that could take him away from her forever in an instant. There was nothing at all she could do.
"As I said, it's all your fault," Phobetor continued in a light conversational tone. "You can't resist interfering, Flower-in-a- drought. But this is the price you pay."
Claire stood petrified. Nick, she thought. Oh, Nick, please come back! Reclaim your body. Please—
And then something came flying down and struck Phobetor's gun-hand, screeching and flapping. The daimon yelled as the gun went spinning out of his grip and dropped into the snow. The flying thing soared up again and then attacked him once more from above, striking at his face while he flung up his arms to defend himself. It was a falcon—a peregrine falcon.
A woman's voice called out in the night.
The bird flew away from its cowering target and across the lawn. Another figure stood there, tall and upright in a flowing, hooded cloak. It held out one arm and the falcon alighted on it, still mantling its wings and snapping its curved beak in anger. The human figure put back its hood with the other hand. Claire gasped.
"Mom? Mom!"
The woman came forward.
It was Mom: her face was thinner, more angular, the elegant bones showing more than ever before, the hair dyed brown and cut level with her chin. She looked drawn, tense, but also she had a poise and confidence Claire had never seen in her before. As she advanced, the peregrine perched on her wrist spread its wings wide and uttered two shrill cries.
"Mom." Claire realized she was sobbing.
Dad had stooped to snatch the gun out of the snow. As he heard Claire's exclamation he turned, and he too froze. Claire heard him say "Barbara" in a strangled voice. Mom continued to walk towards them. She raised her arm and the falcon took to the air again.
"I have phoned the police," she said, her voice quiet and even.
Claire was released from her paralysis in that moment. She broke and ran towards her mother, ignoring Phobetor, her mind only on the woman before her. Mom turned, and they met in an embrace, clinging to one another, and Claire realized she was saying "Mom, Mom" over and over again, just as she had done when she was a little girl and had hurt herself or needed comfort. She was fully as tall as her mother now, but it made no difference. Above them the falcon circled, crying out.
Her father stood apart still, dazed, like a man who has been struck a powerful blow. In one hand he held the gun awkwardly, but his eyes were on his daughter and wife. He said thickly, "I don't understand ..."
An eerie, wailing cry rose into the night from somewhere in the distance. It began like the howl of a wolf, high and keening, then dropped and trailed away into a jagged sound like maniacal laughter. At the same instant the falcon screamed. But as she stood safe in her mother's encircling arms, it all seemed somehow unimportant to Claire. Mom seemed to feel the same, absorbed in her reunion with her daughter. It was at the falcon's second warning scream that Claire glanced up, and her mother started and stepped back.
Mr. Norton also stared about him, trying to guess where the wolfish cry had come from, but the hand holding the gun remained at his side. Phobetor, who had been standing and nursing his injured hand, took advantage of the momentary distraction to launch himself at the other man. Claire's father turned, too late, and as Phobetor flung Nick's arms around him, pinning Mr. Norton's to his sides, the two men fell to the ground. Claire's mother, meanwhile, whirled and gestured to the hovering falcon. It dropped, striking out with both claws and beak, but the two fighting men rolled over and over in the snow and the bird could not get at Phobetor's host.
As Mrs. Norton stood there, her husband gave a yell. Phobetor had struck him across the face and wrenched the gun from his hand. He sprang up, holding the weapon—then he spun around and fired, not at Mr. Norton but towards the house.
Myra, who had been in the act of easing the front door open—no doubt to get to the phone inside—cried out and fell backwards, onto the floor of the porch.
"No!" Claire shrieked.
Again her mother gestured frantically to the hovering bird. But in the same instant there was another howling cry, much closer this time, and a shape came crashing through the white- clad shrubbery, sending the snow showering outwards like spray. It was a dull brown in colour, mottled with dark blotches, and a stiff bristling mane ran from the top of its head to between its massive humped shoulders. Its head was shaped like a hyena's, blunt-muzzled, broad-eared, with huge fanged jaws hanging agape. Its eyes blazed like white fire in the reflected light as it hurled itself through the air—straight at Claire's mother.
"Mom!" It was not a warning, but a despairing wail. The giant, bone-crushing jaws closed on her mother's shoulder and the beast wrestled her to the ground, snarling savagely. The falcon dived again and again, but the monster merely ignored it, intent only on its prey. Mrs. Norton was too shocked even to cry out. She lay beneath the wolfena's giant paws, gasping for breath.
Phobetor turned to give Claire an evil smile. She faced him, shivering with cold and terror and helpless rage.
"Well, this is a bonus," said the daimon. "The mother, too! She must have traced you both here with the aid of that useful host—" and he fired off a shot at the falcon, but it was too swift and small a target and his bullet flew wide.
"So, Claire, here we are; all the people you love most are at my mercy. One is already down—" Phobetor gestured to Myra's motionless body. Was she dead or unconscious? "Two more to go. You should watch them die first, before I send you back to where you came from."
He was enjoying this, drawing it out, reveling in every moment: Phobetor, fascinated as ever by suffering and fear—the things no daimon could know. "Perhaps you'll come again, revenant," he continued, "but that will be long years from now, when I've already done my work and had my way, and this world is ordered as I want. There will be nothing you can do then. Any new body you're bom into will be designed for mindless slavery." He smiled. "As for the police, they're no use to you—they'll come here and find you all dead, shot or savaged by the dog, and Nick dead too with a suicide note on him."
He patted his pocket. "Yes, there's another one. I knew about that little mouse-spy of yours, though I never managed to catch it. I knew you'd read the note I set out on the desk for the police to find. So I couldn't put everything in that note—that would give the main game away. No, the truly interesting parts are in this one I'm carrying on me. It appears that Nick wasn't content just to kill himself. He decided to eliminate the hated Claire Norton first. After all, she did get his beloved girlfriend Josie sent away and ruined his life forever. So he got his revenge, on her and all her family. Then and only then he gave into his depression and ended it all. Didn't it seem odd to you bright thinkers that I was taking so long to kill Nick? If I'd only planned a straightforward suicide, I'd have done it right away in the house. I'd a much grander finale in mind. One that killed two birds with one stone, as you humans so charmingly put it."
"You're crazy. You won't get away with this," Claire gasped.
"No? Just watch." He turned to the monster dog. "Well, Mamba—the mother first, I think." The beast grinned and uttered another mad hyena-laugh, then opened its huge jaws wide. Mamba's vicious hatred gleamed in its dark eyes.
"Leo!" Claire wailed. "Where are you? Help me!"
"I am sorry—there is no animal I can use— "
"Nick!" she screamed. "Nick!"
As Claire watched, a strange grimace crossed the gunman's face. He staggered, his features contorting as if he were suffering a seizure. His left hand came up and gripped the barrel of the gun. The hyena creature turned to stare at him.
"No!" he bellowed. "Nick, you fool, go back! Back where you are safe! Back!" He screamed, a harsh inhuman howl of fury, as his two hands seemed to fight each other for control of the weapon.
Then, just as abruptly, he ceased to writhe and struggle. His hands steadied and the left one fell away while his face grew calm again. Claire, who had been in the act of stepping towards him, halted. Nick's face smiled at her.
"Oh, no," she whispered.
His gun hand came up, aimed, and fired. There was a spurt of light and an ear-splitting report, a smell of smoke ...
But he had not fired at her or at her parents. Behind her, the hyena-wolf suddenly went rigid. And then as she whirled and watched in stupefaction, the massive creature slowly toppled onto its side, kicked its legs out once or twice, and then lay motionless. There was a dark bullet wound bored between its still-staring eyes.
Claire's knees sagged with relief. Only a supreme effort kept her on her feet.
"What the—" Dad began weakly.
Nick lowered the gun. Then he looked down at it and threw it away from him. Stooping, he offered his hand to Mrs. Norton, who stared up at him in bewilderment.
Claire found her voice again. "Mom, it's okay. He's no threat to us now. He was being controlled against his will by a daimon."
Mrs. Norton reached out slowly and took the proffered hand. Nick and Claire both helped her up, then Claire turned and said, "Myra! We've got to help her. She was shot!"
Together she and Nick hastened towards the porch where Myra lay. Mrs. Norton followed. Claire turned back to look at her mother as she ran. "Did you really call for the police?"
"Yes, I really did," Mrs. Norton replied, gasping a little for breath. "I thought it best not to take any chances. Darren told me there was suspicious activity going on, so I dialled 911."
"Good—then there'll be an ambulance and paramedics on the way, too." Claire ran to Myra. Nick knelt on her other side, his fingers on the woman's pulse.
"She's alive, but she's bleeding a lot. She took the bullet in her upper arm," he said.
"I can make a bandage," offered Mrs. Norton. She pulled her scarf off. "Pressure—just apply as much pressure to the wound as you can and the bleeding should stop."
Claire was aware of her father standing behind them, bewildered. "Didn't this man just try to kill us?" he asked, gesturing to Nick.
"He was being controlled," Claire replied. "He couldn't help it."
"Press here, Claire—hard," her mother said. As Claire took over for her, she stood and went to her husband. "Ron, I'm so very sorry. I couldn't explain it, and I can't now. I could hardly believe any of this myself. But they are real—these creatures I told you about. The spirits that are hosted by animals."
He just stared at her, exhausted and confused, his face drained of all its strength. She held out her arm, and the falcon flew down onto it. "Call twice," she said aloud, and the bird uttered two piercing cries. "Now, fly to the top of the tower," she instructed it. The falcon sprang from her arm and soared straight up to the turret, where it perched looking down at them. "Now fly to Claire, Darren," she whispered.
And the bird glided down from the tower, swift and soundless, to settle by the girl's feet.
Barbara Norton turned to her husband. "No bird could be trained to do that," she said quietly. "Will you believe your own eyes, Ron, if you won't believe me?"
Claire averted her eyes from her father's face. His world was shattering to pieces around him—just as hers had done when she had learned who she really was. Nothing would ever be the same for him again.
Myra moaned softly. "It's okay," Claire said, turning back to her. "My mom called the police. An ambulance is coming." She could hear a siren wailing through the night, drawing closer. She looked up at Nick as another alarming thought struck her. "Oh, no—Nick, the police! That gun is your uncle's; they'll trace it to him—and to you. Your prints are all over it—and they'll do tests, find gunpowder on your hand, stuff like that. You've got to go now! This whole thing's a frame-up." He stood, uncertain, unwilling to leave them. "I'm glad you came back," she told him, speaking rapidly. "You saved us all. If you ever did anything wrong in either of your lives, you made up for it tonight. Now, go!"
But still he gazed at her. "I remembered—just now. After Klaus left me in the simulation so he could come here and take over the hyena-wolf—I let Charlie in. He ran to me, the way he always used to, and when I put my arms around him I remembered. It was my fault that you drowned. I knew about the witch hunters, and I should have guessed they'd hear about your familiar and try to hurt you. I didn't come in time—I should have come sooner. Tried harder."
Claire gaped up at him. Myra, her parents—everything seemed to recede into the background. "What are you saying?" she whispered. "Tried what, Nick?"
"It was my fault," he said, still in that dazed voice. "I was too late. I should have saved you from them." A tear welled from his eye and slid down his cheek. "Morley and King caught you, and killed you, and I couldn't stop them. But if I'd left you alone— if I hadn't made those plans for us to ran away—none of it would have happened. I swore I would never fail you, and I did."
In her head, another voice echoed down the centuries. My Alice, I will never fail you, never. I give you my word.
"Will?" Claire choked. "Will?"
The sirens came screaming up the long driveway and lights flickered through the trees. The emergency vehicles were here. Her father still stood motionless, but her mother hurried down the driveway, calling out to the paramedics in the ambulance, pointing to the porch where Myra lay. The medics ran forward with stretcher in hand—and then they paused, exclaiming at the sight of the monstrous animal lying dead in the bloodstained snow.
Claire sprang down the steps. "Here—quick!" she cried. "This woman's been shot, and she's bleeding. Help her!" The paramedics immediately raced up the drive, forgetting the dead beast.
When Claire turned to accompany them to the house, she saw that Myra still lay where she had fallen, but there was no one else on the porch.