The Servants of Twilight Read Free Page A

exactly what you are, you little monster.”
    Christine shoved, and the old woman stumbled backward.
    Pulling Joey with her, Christine hurried to the car, feeling as if she were in a nightmare, running in slow-motion.
    The car door was locked. She was a compulsive doorlocker.
    She wished that, for once, she had been careless.
    The old woman scuttled in behind them, shouting something that Christine couldn’t hear because her ears were filled with the frantic pounding of her heart and with Joey’s crying.
    “Mom!”
    Joey was almost jerked out of her grasp. The old woman had her talons hooked in his shirt.
    “Let go of him, damn you!” Christine said.
    “Admit it!” the old woman shrieked at him. “Admit what you are!”
    Christine shoved again.
    The woman wouldn’t let go.
    Christine struck her, open-handed, first on the shoulder, then across the face.
    The old woman tottered backward, and Joey twisted away from her, and his shirt tore.
    Somehow, even with shaking hands, Christine fitted the key into the lock, opened the car door, pushed Joey inside. He scrambled across to the passenger’s seat, and she got behind the wheel and pulled the door shut with immense relief. Locked it.
    The old woman peered in the driver’s-side window. “Listen to me!” she shouted. “Listen!”
    Christine jammed the key in the ignition, switched it on, pumped the accelerator. The engine roared.
    With one milk-white fist, the crazy woman thumped the roof of the car. Again. And again.
    Christine put the Firebird in gear and backed out of the parking space, moving slowly, not wanting to hurt the old woman, just wanting to get the hell away from her.
    The lunatic followed, shuffling along, bent over, holding on to the door handle, glaring at Christine. “He’s got to die. He’s got to die.”
    Sobbing, Joey said, “Mom, don’t let her get me!”
    “She won’t get you, honey,” Christine said, her mouth so dry that she was barely able to get the words out.
    The boy huddled against his locked door, eyes streaming tears but open wide and fixed on the contorted face of the stringy-haired harpy at his mother’s window.
    Still in reverse, Christine accelerated a bit, turned the wheel, and nearly backed into another car that was coming slowly down the row. The other driver blew his horn, and Christine stopped just in time, with a harsh bark of brakes.
    “He’s got to die!” the old woman screamed. She slammed the side of one pale fist into the window almost hard enough to break the glass.
    This can’t be happening, Christine thought. Not on a sunny Sunday. Not in peaceful Costa Mesa.
    The old woman struck the window again.
    “He’s got to die!”
    Spittle sprayed the glass.
    Christine had the car in gear and was moving away, but the old woman held on. Christine accelerated. Still, the woman kept a grip on the door handle, slid and ran and stumbled along with the car, ten feet, twenty, thirty feet, faster, faster still. Christ, was she human? Where did such an old woman find the strength and tenacity to hold on like this? She leered in through the side window, and there was such ferocity in her eyes that it wouldn’t have surprised Christine if, in spite of her size and age, the hag had torn the door off. But at last she let go with a howl of anger and frustration.
    At the end of the row, Christine turned right. She drove too fast through the parking lot, and in less than a minute they were away from the mall, on Bristol Street, heading north.
    Joey was still crying, though more softly than before.
    “It’s all right, sweetheart. It’s okay now. She’s gone.”
    She drove to MacArthur Boulevard, turned right, went three blocks, repeatedly glancing in the rearview mirror to see if they were being followed, even though she knew there wasn’t much chance of that. Finally she pulled over to the curb and stopped.
    She was shaking. She hoped Joey wouldn’t notice.
    Pulling a Kleenex from the small box on the console, she said,