Almost almost almost almost . . . The word had weight and substance; it was in the pounding of his heart and the bright burn in his chest. He had to be almost there; he had to be almost almost almost . . .

Then he heard something new, frantic and rhythmic. Raleigh. Raleigh, on the surface, barking. He followed the sound. With the last of his strength, he surged up, fingers splayed—

And hit a sheet of solid ice.

39

Nonononono! The burn in Tom’s lungs was so bad and his need for air so huge, a great ball of panic tried blasting past his lips in a scream. He pounded a fist into the ice. Pressing right up to the shelf, he kicked and strained, tried to bully his way through to air. Air air air come on comeoncomeoncomeon—

The dog barked again. Where? From his right? He didn’t know. The water was cold enough to burn and black as oil; he was blind and more terrified than ever before—and that brought an awful clarity as well. Think, or he was dead.

Follow the sound, follow the dog; Raleigh, bark again, come on, boy, come on, please . . . Another bark, and this time, he grabbed onto the sound of the dog like a lifeline. With the very last of his strength, he kicked away from the suck and grab of the darkness and walked his hands along the underside of the ice, his gloved fingers futilely scratching, biting, searching for any chink, the tiniest break.

And then, he was done: breakpoint. It was over, and he knew it. He couldn’t hold his breath another second. He just couldn’t. He was finished, and before he could think about it, his throat convulsed and then he was flailing as the spent air rushed from his lungs in a scream—

His right hand shot out of the water and into nothing. Into air. He surged up, his head shattering into empty space and blessed air, and then he was coughing and spluttering, drawing in one shrieking breath after another. Chunks of ice bobbed and smacked against his chest and arms as he thrashed. His lungs wouldn’t work well. He couldn’t get enough air; he didn’t even have the breath to scream.

Got to get out, get out get out get out! Terror bolted into his throat and stayed there. Drowning was his nightmare. More than being shot or bleeding out or getting himself blown to teeny tiny bits— drowning was right up there with burning to death, and he was going to drown; he was going to die. The cold was a giant palm that cupped his body and drew away heat. He was getting weak and so tired. Let up on kicking for even a few seconds and he started to sink again. He heard his arms slap water, but the sound was receding, thinning as panic swamped his brain.

Slow down, slow down, slow down. He was gasping. His head began to whirl. He would pass out if he couldn’t stop hyperventilating, but he just couldn’t get a handle on the rat-panic scrambling around in his head. You’ve still got time, come on, come on, slow down, slow—

Raleigh whimpered.

“R-R-Raleigh.” His lips were numb and he was shivering hard enough to bite his tongue. To his horror, the pain was only a distant pinprick. If there was blood, he couldn’t taste it. “Come h-here, b-b-boy.” The dog whined, and he thought it must be dead ahead. Not too far away. “R-Raleigh, come on.”

The dog responded with a small huff. Was the dog closer? He couldn’t tell. He put out a gloved hand, slapped more water, and then headed for the place in the dark where he thought the dog must be. He breasted the surface, half-swimming but mostly treading water and slapping until his fingers brushed something hard that did not bob away. The edge of the break. He thrust a hand out even further, patting the darkness and then, layered over the ice, a denser mélange of compacted snow. No dog. So it was still far away and he was running out of time.

Reaching out with both hands, he pushed aside snow until he got to the ice, then flattened his palms and dug in. The gloves curled only grudgingly, and he realized the fabric had frozen to the ice. Could he use that? Maybe keep himself from drowning by letting his arms freeze to the ice?

No good. I’ll still die of hypothermia. Have to get out of the water. He scissored his legs as hard as he could. His body popped up, lurched forward like an ungainly seal. Not far. Even without his parka, he was sodden, his clothes waterlogged and very heavy. He didn’t have the strength. But his chest was on the surface now, beginning to freeze to the ice, and that was a start.

He sensed movement. The dog. Moving away? He was so weak he could only whisper the dog’s name. Nothing. Then, the black closed down, and Raleigh snuffled at his ear.

“Oh God.” Tom sobbed out a breath. Slipping one cautious hand from a glove, he reached up until he felt the dog’s ruff. The dog responded by licking his fingers. The urge to grab onto the animal was so great he had to force himself to go slowly. No fast moves, nothing sudden . . . easy, easy . . . and then Tom’s fingers slid up and under the dog’s collar.

The dog didn’t shy away. Tom pulled a little harder and then tensed his right arm. At the sudden tug, the dog began to back away, which was fine, exactly what he needed as he kicked and swam his way through snow.

And then he was out, completely, flopping like a hooked trout onto the ice. Water streamed from his body. He lay on his back, spread-eagled, sucking air as the dog licked water from his face.

Get up, he thought. Get up or you’ll freeze to the ice. Come on, get up, get off the ice, get warm.

Oh, but the dog’s tongue was warm, and so was its breath, and he was so tired. Numb, actually. No feeling in his feet or hands, and so cold he wasn’t even shivering. He just had to rest a few seconds was all.

Don’t pass out. He thought his eyes were open, but it was so dark. The dog nosed his neck and then he felt its paw on his chest. Come on, get up, don’t pass out, you can’t pass out—

He was still thinking that when he did.

40

Ray pulled the trigger. The Browning’s action clicked and snapped— And that was all.

Clearly waiting for the boom, Ray held his stance for a fraction of a second, then blinked and stared, stupidly, at the useless weapon.

“No.” He tossed away the Browning with a fast, quick flick as if the metal had suddenly flared red-hot. Gulping, he stumbled back a step, hands up, palms out. “N-no, no!”

Leopard moved. His right hand flashed, and then the Glock’s muzzle, wicked and black, dug into the nude space just above Ray’s nose.

“Don’t!” Alex and Daniel cried at the same moment. “Stop!”

Daniel shouted. “Don’t do this!”

“Rubeee?” Ray’s eyes, wild with terror, rolled in their sockets, trying to find his wife, but she had fainted in a bright, bloodred lake. “Ru—”

There was a sudden tongue of muzzle flash, and the Glock bucked.

41

The shot echoed and dissolved, shredded by snow and wind. The air became leaden with the reek of burned hair and cooked brain and fresh death—and the Changed, always the fume and choke of the Changed. Sharon still had Ruby’s wrist in a death grip. Blood splashed the big woman from the neck down. Ruby was limp and still.

Stepping away from Ray’s body, Leopard slid his Glock into his waistband as Acne helped Beretta to his feet. Spider still hovered over Jack, whose face was white as milky glass. Only the boy’s eyes showed any sign of life, and they ticked from the ruin of Ray’s head to his brother. Daniel was the color of ash and still as a statue in a swirl of snow, like the dead air at a hurricane’s heart.

Of all people, Sharon broke the silence. “There, you got what you wanted. The choice was made. Doesn’t matter if the boy did it or not.”

Oh, yes, it did. Alex understood why the Changed had offered only that particular weapon. She also realized something else.

Nathan’s rifle had not misfired or jammed after all. If that were true, the barrel would’ve blown apart.

She thought back to Nathan’s reluctance and Jess’s insistence. Piece of cake, really. Remove the bolt action, slip out the firing pin or fatigue the spring, replace the bolt—and no one would be the wiser. She could see Nathan playacting, because she was certain Jess would’ve anticipated that, all things being equal, Alex would try to fight back when the Changed attacked and might even get off a shot.

So the Browning was never meant to fire. The old woman wouldn’t want to risk Alex turning the tables and killing her grandson.

Which means that she knew . Wolf was out there, waiting. Jess knew. Alex had been right about something else, too. This was a test. The Changed must’ve inspected the rifle and known it was useless. They’d only wanted to see what Daniel would do. Why, she didn’t know, but the final outcome—what would happen next—was never in doubt.

“Don’t do this,” she said. Heads swiveled; the eyes of all the Changed locked. “You have the other kids. You have us. How much more do you need? You have enough to last you a good long time. You don’t need to do this.”

“What?” She saw the slow dawn of horror on Daniel’s face as he finally understood. “No.” He looked around, wildly. “Please, let him go, please.”

“Daniel?” Jack’s voice rose, and then the little boy’s head craned around to Spider, who was planting her feet: all the better to keep her balance. Her wound dripped crocodile tears of bloody pus. “Daniel?” Jack said. “Daniel?”

“No!” Alex screamed it, and so did Daniel. She sprang for Spider, but then Leopard’s crew converged. They slammed her, bucking and kicking, to the snow. “He’s just a boy!” she cried. “He’s just a little boy!”

Across the circle, she saw Daniel suddenly churning through the snow, his face contorted in a spasm of love and fury and despair.

“No, please, God, no!” he shrieked. “Nononononono!”

It took five of them to hold Daniel down. It took Spider only a minute.

Part 4 - In the Valley of the Shadow, In the Hour of the Monster

42

“Come on!” Sharon bawled. She hunched over an unconscious Ruby, now sprawled on a braided rug before the guesthouse fireplace. A strong woman and big, not even Sharon could stop the thin, fitful blood-geysers pumping from Ruby’s severed wrist. The rug was slowly turning a deep rust color as Ruby’s arteries emptied. “Come on, come on, come on!”