Secrets in Shadow: Chapter 7
Title: Secrets in Shadow
Author: Roselani24
Genre: adventure, drama, horror
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A big thank you to my fantastic beta ,laughtersmelody who read and re-read this story, offering endless encouragement and tips. You're awesome, girl! Also a big thank you to my artist, loki_scribe for the beautiful artwork!
Chapter 7
Friday January 13, 1995
Ugh, apparently a marching bad had struck up inside his noggin. Groaning, Peter rolled over. What happened? Where was he? He smelled damp earth and rock, along with another smell that he could only guess at. And why was it so warm? He tried to remember only for his head to flare with pain. The left side of his temple felt like it had been drilled in. It also felt wet and sticky.
He shifted, trying to bring his hand up to rub his face only to find he couldn’t. Ropes cut into his wrists, effectively binding him. His feet were similarly bound. Not good. Peter ordered himself to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good.
First things first. He needed to get a better look at his location and discover who, or what, was there. Second, he needed to get free.
Moaning, Peter rolled over onto his back. The fire in his ribs and muscles informed him that a lot more happened than just nasty knock on the head. But the thought rapidly fled as he took in his surroundings.
It was most definitely a cave, an unexpectedly large one. Peter estimated it was at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet long. One wall had a series of lights hanging from it, much like Christmas lights. On the other wall there appeared to be, for lack of better word, hand built stalls. There were no doors and from his position, he could just make out three figures, one in each. His heart skipped a beat. Could it be?
That’s when he saw the altar. His stomach dropped out and his breath caught. The candles and paraphernalia surrounding it were unfamiliar, but disturbingly reminiscent of pagan sacrificial altars from history. Peter didn’t want to even imagine what was in the bowls or jars. Before he would have scoffed at the items, but his new found knowledge unlocked a well of rising fear. This was very bad.
A noise from what appeared to be the entrance had Peter whipping his head around. Peter could hear movement from the stalls, the rustling of fabric and even fast, quiet breathing of multiple people.
Someone stepped into the room, walking over to the altar and setting something down. Despite the lights, the person managed to remain shadowed, back to Peter. Male, he judged, based on the body proportions and stride. Not Dean, the detective realized. This man wasn’t as muscled.
The man turned and Peter gasped.
Eric O’Brien proudly stretched his arms out. “Welcome Professor Matthews! What do you think? You are sitting inside the lair of the Lost Creek Cutter!”
Peter stared, speechless.
“Oh, come now, Professor Matthews. Surely you didn’t believe me when I told you the Lost Creek Cutter was fictional,” O’Brien said, mocking him with hands on his hips as he stepped closer. “Or should I call you Detective Peter Burke, instead?”
Hearing his real name and position for the second time in a row when it was supposed to be a secret made Peter’s blood run cold. How could he have been so stupid, so blind? He had known something was off with O’Brien but he foolishly let it go.
O’Brien grinned, smarmy and all-to-pleased with the effect of his words. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that supposed to be a secret? Ah, well.”
Peter’s lips thinned into a line. “It was you, this whole time O’Brien. How? Why?”
He may not remember what had happened that had landed him here, but the detective still remembered Dean and how the young man had torn away the veil, allowing him to really see. Only extremely pissed off spirits can leave ectoplasm behind. But O’Brien wasn’t dead. There had to be something missing…Wait, Dean! Where was he?
“Where’s Dean?” he snarled, a wave of protectiveness rising. Peter hadn’t known the kid long, but he respected him, even dared to consider him a friend.
O’Brien sneered and spit in the dirt in front of him. “You mean your little friend? He’s no longer a problem.”
Peter went numb. Nononononononono! “You’re lying,” Peter said through gritted teeth. He didn’t believe it! Wouldn’t. Unlike him, Dean knew what he was doing and what he was up against. There was no way O’Brien had been able to get the jump on him.
The dark haired man retorted, “Think what you will, Detective. But he’s not coming back for you.”
It shouldn’t have stung so much, but it did. Peter swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth. What was he going to do now?
“But you must be wondering why I brought you here,” O’Brien twittered, bouncing on his heels oblivious to Peter’s thoughts. “Here, let me show you.”
O’Brien turned and for a brief moment Peter could have sworn the man’s eyes were covered with silver mist. What the-? He didn’t have time to dwell on it further because O’Brien was tugging on a set of chains.
“Come on girls. Show yourselves to the good detective.”
Three girls emerged from the shadows, filthy and bedraggled; obediently letting O’Brien led them by their chained wrists. Two were undeniably thin, while the third was in much better shape. Peter’s heart seized. Jennifer Stewart, Melissa Fisher, and Chloe Roark. Chloe looked right at him, her blue eyes wide and terrified. To her left was Melissa, who looked even mousier then she had before she was kidnapped. She barely glanced at him, but Peter thought he caught a hint of steel in her face. For a brief moment hope filled him. The eighteen-year-old was still fighting. Jennifer, however, was the opposite. Pale, with sunken eyes, she appeared utterly defeated, almost lifeless.
O’Brien was watching his every reaction, lapping up Peter’s horror with glee. Peter did his best to school his expression, but knew he probably was failing horribly. O’Brien stroked Jennifer’s head with possessive gentleness.
“Aren’t they beautiful, Detective?”
Peter wanted to puke. This guy was certifiably insane! He glared with all his might, wishing to incinerate the man where he stood. O’Brien clicked his tongue. “Nothing to say? Nothing at all?”
“Why are they here?” Peter demanded. His vision wavered and he swallowed thickly. “What do you want with them?”
O’Brien’s lips drew back, baring his teeth in a hideous smile. “All in due time, Detective Burke.”
Peter closed his eyes, the pain increasing in his temple, and willingly sinking into the awaiting darkness. The next time he opened his eyes, his head hurt a little less. Thank goodness for small favors.
Glancing around, his mouth dropped open in shock. Apparently he’d been unconscious for quite a while because Jennifer, Melissa, and Chloe had been bathed, hair plaited, and dressed in blue calico dresses that went out of style back in the forties at least. The three were placed at the edge of each stall, sitting against the crude ends. O’Brien even put make-up on them! The young man however, was conspicuously absent.
Just what sort of twisted game was at play here? Whatever it was, Peter’s gut told him getting free was essential to surviving. With O’Brien gone, Peter took advantage of that time to work feverishly at escaping his bonds.
The girls were sleeping or staring off into space. Melissa was the only girl to make eye contact. The youngest of the three, she seemed to be the strongest and most determined. Strange, Peter thought, Melissa had been held captive here for a month.
All he had to show for the past several hours were a pair of bloodied, raw wrists and his feet gone numb. The ropes tied around his wrists had only loosened slightly, but not nearly enough for him to escape.
Exhaustion called. He stopped fighting the ropes for a while, giving his poor wrists a much needed reprieve. His eyes were stinging almost as badly as his wrists. Desperately, he tried not to think about Dean and his fate. O’Brien must be lying. Dean could still be alive. But Peter had no way of knowing how long he’d been imprisoned here. The hope withered within him slowly.
Not to mention, there was a werewolf on the loose as well…
The werewolf! Before he was captured, Dean and him had found wolf tracks in the snow around Devil’s Den. His mind raced with the possibilities. One, it was pure coincidence, two, they were working together, or…was it possible? There’s nothing about this case that makes it normal, Professor. Got it? Nothing! If there was one thing Peter knew, it was that Dean had good instincts. Peter may have had a hard time trusting the kid and letting him take the lead, but he’d observed an unspoken assurance and determination in Dean’s every word and action. Confidence. Perhaps a touch of arrogance, although Peter had a pretty good idea that came from having to deal with LEO’s like himself who really didn’t get it. Perhaps Dean even knew more then he let on.
Peter mulled over the few things he’d learned about hunting ghosts and werewolves. Salt was a pure element and repelled spirits, silver to the heart killed a werewolf, only King Kong mad spirits could leave behind ectoplasm, and werewolves changed the night of the full moon…wait. That was just one night. How could the werewolf leave any tracks behind before the full moon? Dean mentioned the power of Friday the thirteenth combined with the coming full moon would give the werewolf extra power. But how did that work unless…unless the werewolf changed more than once a month?
Chalk another one up to the list of things Hollywood got wrong.
He glanced around the room. Nothing else seemed to have changed while he was out except the girls. Peter shifted his attention to them.
Melissa met his gaze.
“Are you guys all right?” His tongue was thick and dry, making it difficult to talk. “Has he hurt you?”
“We’re okay,” Melissa replied softly. “A little bruised and freaked out, but we’re all okay.” She cast affirming looks at Chloe and Jennifer.
Chloe nodded shakily. “Yeah, we’re probably in better shape then you, Detective.”
“Call me Peter.”
“Peter,” Melissa nodded. “How’d he get you?”
“Snuck up on me, I think. Its kinda hazy,” Peter admitted. “We were at Devil’s Den.”
Chloe and Melissa exchanged surprised glances. “You’re still at Devil’s Den.”
“What?”
“This cave is underneath the Devil’s Den,” Melissa explained. “Stevenson found it back in 1935 when he came through here.”
Peter was startled. “Wait, back up. Whose Stevenson?”
“The Lost Creek Cutter, of course,” Melissa said, frowning in disgust. “That guy, O’Brien you called him, he’s possessed or something.”
“Sometimes his eyes glow this really creepy green-white,” Chloe chimed in, shuddering.
“You know about the Lost Creek Cutter?” Peter demanded, confused. He’d found nothing about the killer when he’d looked.
“Not much else to do to pass the time, you know? So I asked him his story.” Melissa replied, nose wrinkled. “His name was Laurence Stevenson and he started out as a simple thief. But he met a girl and fell head over heels in love with her. I have no idea what her name was, but apparently we,” Melissa indicated the three chained girls, “bear a remarkable resemblance. Anyway, Stevenson pulled a huge heist before he planned on running away and marrying her. But he was caught and sent to prison. Apparently she figured it out and told the sheriff. So Stevenson went to prison for something like five years before he escaped. That’s when he headed back to Lost Creek to kill her.”
Melissa smiled bitterly. “She was already dead though. Died of cancer. Stevenson was furious and went on a killing spree of any girl who resembled her. Before he came to Gettysburg, he said he killed six other girls.”
The eighteen-year-old paused, wetting her lips. “Anyway, he stumbled on this cave by accident and planned to use it for his next victim: Charlotte Holt. But Charlotte fought him, managed to bash him in the head with a rock and escape.”
“She killed him,” Peter muttered.
Melissa nodded. “Yeah, but his…ghost, or something, stuck around to possess that poor guy, O’Brien.”
That made a horrifying amount of sense. It explained O’Brien’s weird behavior and why he called the Depression “The New Hard Times” among other things. And he’d moved into the same building s the guy! Peter could only guess it wouldn’t have been to hard to slip into his apartment before Dean warded it so the death omen didn’t come back. The death omen!
“Does, does he have a knife,” Peter questioned, hesitant. “Might have some initials on the top half of the blade?”
This time Chloe answered. “Yeah. Carries it everywhere. Promised he’d-he’d slit our throats.”
Peter closed his eyes. L.S, not I.S! He cursed. If he’d gotten the initials right maybe Dean could have found Stevenson in the records! Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“This other guy you were with,” Melissa said, the faint traces of hope coloring her words. “Does he know about…ghosts? Stevenson was mumbling something earlier about interfering ghost hunters.”
“Yeah, he does and a lot of other things too.” That was an understatement. But there was no need to frighten the girls further.
“Do you really think he’s still alive?”
Peter heart clenched. “I hope so. I really do.”
Melissa nodded and silence fell.
He had no way of telling the time, but if Peter were to guess it had probably been about an hour or so when Stevenson came back. He wasn’t alone.
Professor Nancy Jenkins was with him. She looked terrible. She was coated with snow and her clothes torn and soaked. The worst part, however, was the ugly collar Stevenson had around her neck. Stevenson yanked on it mercilessly, sending the woman sprawling to the floor as he bolted the chain in place on the opposite wall of the three girls. Peter met her wild gaze and inhaled sharply.
Nancy was completely terrified. He cursed inwardly. It looked like he was right. Nancy was at Stevenson’s mercy.
“Not too long now,” Stevenson crowed, rubbing his hands together with delight. “Its almost sunset. Soon, revenge will be mine at last.”
Peter rolled his eyes. Bad guys must share a manual or something called ‘The Ultimate Evil Schemes Monologue’. At least he had a pretty good idea how long he’d been here. Almost a day fit with the way his body ached.
He looked back and Nancy again. She refused to look at him. As the seconds ticked by, Peter mouth dropped in shock. The skin on her arms was...rippling, for lack of better term. Nancy threw back her head and screamed, her whole skeleton shifting. Her hair grew longer and wilder, covering her whole body and her face flattened and changed, growing longer broader.
Peter stared in morbid fascination, desperately wanting to look away yet he couldn't. Faintly he registered the screams from the three girls chained across the room. In his periphery he noticed O’Brien-Stevenson-watching with immense satisfaction. Moments later the woman, Nancy Jenkins, was gone and in her place was a snarling, angry black werewolf.
“Time for the festivities to begin.”
The room was freezing cold.
Stevenson moved around the altar, emptying the jar and bowls. Squinting, Peter tried to make out what it was the ghost-possessed man was holding. It looked like…flower petals? Then something small and whitish was dumped from a jar into Stevenson’s hand. Rice, maybe? Things typically used in a wedding… Oh no. Please no.
Peter renewed his struggles to escape, finally understanding what the Lost Creek Cutter intended.
The possessed man turned to face him and the bottom of Peter’s stomach dropped out. A mist seemed to surround O’Brien’s whole body, glowing a sickly green-white. The ghost strode towards the werewolf, who snapped and snarled as it strained to back away. A familiar knife appeared in Stevenson’s hand as he viciously sliced the helpless creature’s throat.
The girls screamed in horror as the black wolf collapsed in a spray of blood and whimpers. Stevenson calmly wiped the blood spray from his face and went back to the altar. Using the blood on the knife he began to write something at the top. From his position on the floor Peter couldn’t read it and he wondered if he even wanted to. He wriggled his arms. The knots were loosening more! He kept the elation off his face, keeping his glare steady.
Stevenson finished with the blood writing and placed the knife down at the head of the altar. He turned and went over to Jennifer. The girl immediately started backing away, bleating in fear. Stevenson unlocked the chains from her wrists and then picked her up, bridal style. Peter expected the young woman to fight and scream more, but she fell limp and silent in Stevenson’s grasp.
He laid her down on the altar, stroking her face. Jennifer whimpered, head rolling to the side. Stevenson walked around to the other side, so Peter could see him clearly. The ghost looked up at him with O’Brien’s face and Peter’s breath hitched.
It was like seeing a bizarre Picasso painting of two faces, but Stephen King must have been the commissioner because the second face was hideously distorted and glowing green. Peter thought he knew evil, had fought evil on the streets of New York. The thing looking at him now proved how utterly wrong and naïve he’d been. No, he’d no idea what evil really looked like until that moment.
Two mouths moved, two voices blending. “Bear witness, Detective Burke, as I take my bride.”
Peter just caught a glimpse of the knife in Stevenson’s hand before he lifted Jennifer’s left hand and sliced off her ring finger.
Jennifer arched, screaming shrilly. She was joined by Peter’s angry shout and Chloe and Melissa’s shrieks. Stevenson didn’t respond, holding Jennifer down with one hand on her chest. He placed the finger aside carefully, and then started dragging the knife up the inner flesh of Jennifer’s arm. Jennifer screamed continuously. It tore through Peter’s insides, rubbing him raw with sandpaper precision. Her screams seem to go on forever. He couldn’t move, trapped in the echo of Jennifer’s cry, helpless to do anything.
Finally Jennifer collapsed, unconscious on the altar as Stevenson continued to slice. The blood covered the altar and trickled down the side like spilled paint. Peter couldn’t watch anymore. Closing his eyes, he looked away.
A soft whimper, barely audible reached his ears. Confused, he glanced over to where the werewolf, Nancy Jenkins, had fallen. Peter sucked in a breath. She was alive! Then he mentally slapped himself. Of course she was! Only silver piercing the heart could kill a werewolf.
The soft whimper quickly devolved into a menacing snarl. Peter could see her white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. The wolf was looking at something and it wasn’t Stevenson and Jennifer. Slowly Peter followed her gaze across the room to the entrance Stevenson had come through earlier.
He blinked, straining to focus his eyes. It looked like a…person. As he strained his eyes, the figure moved closer, almost slipping into the light.
So intent on the shadow he wasn’t ready when the werewolf lunged forward with a sharp yowl, landing on Stevenson and sending the possessed man crashing to the floor.
Gunshots rang out and the werewolf tumbled aside with a pained yip. Getting to its feet, it lunged at the shadowed figure. The person dodged to the side, firing again, sending the werewolf tumbling to the side.
“Peter!”
“Dean?” Peter couldn’t say if he was more shocked or relieved as the youth came running towards him. There was s small knife in Dean’s hands that he used swiftly to cut through the ropes.
“Here,” Dean barked, pushing the Desert Eagle into his hands, “Its loaded with silver bullets. Free the girls!”
Peter nodded, scrambling to his feet. It was difficult to stay up. Both of his feet were asleep due to the lack of circulation from the ropes and it was nearly impossible to walk. Meanwhile, Dean charged towards the altar. Stevenson was still on the ground where the werewolf had knocked him.
Melissa and Chloe were straining against the chains as Peter stumbled over to them. Using the butt of the Desert Eagle he struck the circlet the chains were threaded through. But after being tied up for twenty-four hours with no food or water he was not as strong as he normally was. He hit it again and again. On the fourth hit, the circlet broke.
“Come on,” Peter said, helping the girls to their feet. Chloe screamed and the detective whirled around, gun at the ready.
The former Nancy Jenkins was charging at them, teeth bared in a hideous snarl, steam and blood pouring from the wounds she’d received from Dean’s guns. Peter didn’t hesitate. He fired the gun, emptying the rest of the clip. The werewolf dropped like a stone, body shuddering.
An inhuman cry echoed off the walls, and Peter immediately pointed his gun at the threat.
Dean had managed to grab Stevenson’s knife and was dousing it with salt in one of the bowls that held the flower petals. His whole body was shaking as he coughed and wheezed and he could barely hold his gun as he poured the salt. Stevenson was getting up behind him, enraged.
Peter’s heart lurched. The werewolf’s aim had been true and Eric O’Brien throat was torn open. No blood poured from the wound and he guessed that was thanks to Stevenson’s spirit. Instead the blood collected at the edges of the wound, ugly and bubbling. Stevenson’s spirit was almost completely visible over O’Brien’s body, pulsing that hideous green-white and swirling mist.
“Dean, look out!” Peter shouted. His warning was a second too late. Stevenson slammed the youth with a wave of telekinesis, sending Dean flying into the cave wall. The kid crumbled to the floor and lay completely still.
Snarling, Stevenson snatched his knife up from the ground, bringing it high over his head as he descended on the unconscious hunter. He was too far away, Peter realized, and the Desert Eagle was empty.
“NO!”
Stevenson brought the knife down only to lurch back with a screech. The air over Dean flickered and then the soldier appeared. Peter was immensely glad to not be on the receiving end of the death omen’s glare. It may not have been angry before, but it certainly was now.
The soldier held his gun at the ready, and Peter could see the bayonet attached to the tip. Behind him, Chloe gasped. “There’s another one?”
He didn’t have time to answer her. The soldier charged. Stevenson brought up the knife but the soldier didn’t stop its charge. The two spirits collided with a loud crackle. For a brief moment the two spirits glowed like a mini sun, forcing Peter to shield his eyes.
When Peter could see again, he was shocked O’Brien collapsed on the ground, blood leaking from his torn throat. Apparently, whatever the soldier did, it made Stevenson release O’Brien.
A moan from the shape beyond quickly drew Peter’s attention.
“Dean!”
He stumbled over to the young hunter and grabbed his shoulder. Abruptly he recoiled. Dean was burning up. Carefully, Peter rolled him over, paying lose attention to the ribs and shoulders. After a collision with the wall like that there was little doubt that something probably cracked, broken, or was extremely bruised. Dean’s face was covered with sweat, which now mingled with blood from a cut on his forehead. Peter checked it the best he could. It didn’t look deep.
“Is he okay?”
Peter looked up in surprise, having forgotten about Melissa and Chloe.
“Yeah, yeah he should be fine.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean groaned. “What happened to Stevenson?”
“The death omen showed up and they, well, collided. They’re both gone.” Peter shrugged. “And he’s no longer possessing O’Brien.” The rest of Dean’s words caught up with him. “Wait-how do you know who the spirit is?”
Dean didn’t have a chance to respond because the room suddenly plunged to below freezing temperatures.
With a curse, Dean struggled to sit up. “Where’s my shotgun?”
“Here.” Melissa handed him the shotgun. “But what good is it against a ghost?”
Dean offered a lopsided smile. “Rock salt, sweetheart.”
Peter couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Kid got thrown across the room like a rag doll and here he was, grinning like nothing was wrong. He kept a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder, feeling the heat, the shivers wracking his frame, and the rapid, shallow breaths.
“Peter, burn the knife.” Dean was looking at him, dead serious. “I’ll keep him busy.”
“No.” He shook his head. Opening his mouth to argue, he stopped when the lights on the wall started flickering like crazy.
“This isn’t the time to argue,” Dean snapped, all business. He struggled to his feet. Reluctantly, Peter followed. He really, really hated it when Dean was right. “You girls, help Peter burn that knife and check on Jennifer.”
The two girls nodded solemnly, wide-eyed.
“How am I supposed to burn it?”
“Use this.” Dean tossed Peter a Zippo from his pocket. “Now move!”
Peter and the two girls obeyed, darting back towards the altar even as the shotgun blasted behind them. Chloe reached the altar first and checked Jennifer’s pulse. “She still alive!”
While Melissa went to help Chloe with Jennifer, Peter headed toward the bowl where Dean left the knife covered in salt.
The shotgun roared again. Peter ran.
“Peter!”
The cry was the only warning the detective had before a wave of power slammed into him, sending him to the ground. He screamed as his arm collided with the edge of the altar. Water filled his eyes as he struggled to his knees. Cradling his arm close, Peter dragged himself up and towards the knife.
“You think you can stop me?” Stevenson shouted. “I am more powerful than you realize, little hunter.”
The earth shook.
Another shotgun blast filled the air then an odd choking noise. Wildly, Peter looked over his shoulder. His heart stopped. Stevenson’s spirit was holding Dean by the throat, cutting off his air. With a burst of strength, Peter lit the Zippo and tossed it in the bowl.
For a moment it seemed like nothing was happening. Peter silently railed. No, Stevenson wasn’t going to kill Dean!
It was just a small flame at first and then it grew, consuming Stevenson’s form. Stevenson screamed, loud and angry. The air crackled. Stevenson’s form blurred and disintegrated into nothing.
Just like that, it was over. The cave began to feel warm again and the dark, oppressive feeling Peter had since he first woke up in the cave vanished.
Dean dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping. Peter crawled over to him and pulled the brave hunter up against his side.
“Its over,” Peter whispered. “Its over.”
There was a collective sigh of relief.
“Can we go home now?”
“No,” Dean gasped, drawing three sets of eyes. “Blizzard outside.”
“A blizzard!” It made sense, Peter supposed. Nancy Jenkins had walked in the cave covered in snow. He winced. Nancy. He’d gunned her werewolf form down without hesitation. Quickly his eyes darted over to where she fell. He could just see her body where it fell, no longer a werewolf. Logically, Peter knew he had no other choice. That didn’t stop the guilt.
Forcing his mind to focus on the present circumstances, he spoke to Melissa. “Check to see if the snow’s slowed any.”
Melissa nodded and hurried off. He turned to Chloe. “How is she?”
“She’s unconscious.” Chloe sounded shaky. Peter didn’t blame her. Jennifer lost a great deal of blood.
“Dean?”
“’m fine. Take care of them.”
Peter wanted to shout and shake the youth. Dean was anything BUT fine! He was slurring slightly and his whole body was shaking and burning. On the other hand, Peter did have the responsibility of taking care of the three girls too.
“He’s right,” Melissa said, returning. “It’s a blizzard out there. There’s no way we can leave.”
“Then we need to dig in. Melissa, find something to wrap Jennifer’s wounds then bring anything that might be useful over here. Chloe, stay with Jennifer.”
The girls obeyed. Peter carefully shifted Dean back down to the floor. He looked around and spotted his trench coat nearby. Snagging it, he draped it over Dean to keep him warm. The kid needed a lot more than that, but it would do for now.
First, he had to tend to the bodies of Eric O’Brien and Nancy Jenkins. It was harder emotionally then it was physically. Eric and Nancy were both innocents who were attacked by something evil and far beyond their control. He placed them in the individual stalls and covered them with their jackets. It seemed only right. Meanwhile, Melissa was gathering everything she could find and piling it near Dean.
Peter caught her checking on the youth for a moment with a hand on his forehead. Blue eyes met his. “He’s burning up.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Was he sick before?”
“Yes. Its worse now.”
“Brave boy,” Melissa murmured, stroking Dean’s feverish cheek. Peter silently agreed. Brave Boy. Dean was sick, he was alone, and he’d gone out into a blizzard to find them anyway. Talk about courageous. Or foolish, depending on the point of view.
Peter moved back to Dean’s side as Melissa resumed scavenging.
“How’re you doing, kid?”
“’m super,” Dean deadpanned, not moving. The older man snorted, but refrained from commenting. Instead, he asked a question that had been burning in his mind since Dean came to the rescue.
“Dean, how’d you find us? There’s a blizzard out there!” He added, “And how did you know about Stevenson?”
“Donna tol’ me ‘bout Stevenson,” Dean replied. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Said Stevenson tried to kill her friend, Charlotte, back in ’35.”
Peter rocked back in disbelief. “Donna Miller, the librarian?”
“Uh huh.”
Would the curve balls ever stop coming?
“The soldier,” Dean grunted, face scrunching as he shifted, “showed me…the cave. Led me right to you.”
Apparently not. Peter shook his head. “Wonders never cease,” he said.
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Author: Roselani24
Genre: adventure, drama, horror
Rating: PG-13
A/N: A big thank you to my fantastic beta ,laughtersmelody who read and re-read this story, offering endless encouragement and tips. You're awesome, girl! Also a big thank you to my artist, loki_scribe for the beautiful artwork!
Chapter 7
Friday January 13, 1995
Ugh, apparently a marching bad had struck up inside his noggin. Groaning, Peter rolled over. What happened? Where was he? He smelled damp earth and rock, along with another smell that he could only guess at. And why was it so warm? He tried to remember only for his head to flare with pain. The left side of his temple felt like it had been drilled in. It also felt wet and sticky.
He shifted, trying to bring his hand up to rub his face only to find he couldn’t. Ropes cut into his wrists, effectively binding him. His feet were similarly bound. Not good. Peter ordered himself to remain calm. Panicking wouldn’t do him any good.
First things first. He needed to get a better look at his location and discover who, or what, was there. Second, he needed to get free.
Moaning, Peter rolled over onto his back. The fire in his ribs and muscles informed him that a lot more happened than just nasty knock on the head. But the thought rapidly fled as he took in his surroundings.
It was most definitely a cave, an unexpectedly large one. Peter estimated it was at least thirty feet wide and twenty feet long. One wall had a series of lights hanging from it, much like Christmas lights. On the other wall there appeared to be, for lack of better word, hand built stalls. There were no doors and from his position, he could just make out three figures, one in each. His heart skipped a beat. Could it be?
That’s when he saw the altar. His stomach dropped out and his breath caught. The candles and paraphernalia surrounding it were unfamiliar, but disturbingly reminiscent of pagan sacrificial altars from history. Peter didn’t want to even imagine what was in the bowls or jars. Before he would have scoffed at the items, but his new found knowledge unlocked a well of rising fear. This was very bad.
A noise from what appeared to be the entrance had Peter whipping his head around. Peter could hear movement from the stalls, the rustling of fabric and even fast, quiet breathing of multiple people.
Someone stepped into the room, walking over to the altar and setting something down. Despite the lights, the person managed to remain shadowed, back to Peter. Male, he judged, based on the body proportions and stride. Not Dean, the detective realized. This man wasn’t as muscled.
The man turned and Peter gasped.
Eric O’Brien proudly stretched his arms out. “Welcome Professor Matthews! What do you think? You are sitting inside the lair of the Lost Creek Cutter!”
Peter stared, speechless.
“Oh, come now, Professor Matthews. Surely you didn’t believe me when I told you the Lost Creek Cutter was fictional,” O’Brien said, mocking him with hands on his hips as he stepped closer. “Or should I call you Detective Peter Burke, instead?”
Hearing his real name and position for the second time in a row when it was supposed to be a secret made Peter’s blood run cold. How could he have been so stupid, so blind? He had known something was off with O’Brien but he foolishly let it go.
O’Brien grinned, smarmy and all-to-pleased with the effect of his words. “Oh, I’m sorry. Was that supposed to be a secret? Ah, well.”
Peter’s lips thinned into a line. “It was you, this whole time O’Brien. How? Why?”
He may not remember what had happened that had landed him here, but the detective still remembered Dean and how the young man had torn away the veil, allowing him to really see. Only extremely pissed off spirits can leave ectoplasm behind. But O’Brien wasn’t dead. There had to be something missing…Wait, Dean! Where was he?
“Where’s Dean?” he snarled, a wave of protectiveness rising. Peter hadn’t known the kid long, but he respected him, even dared to consider him a friend.
O’Brien sneered and spit in the dirt in front of him. “You mean your little friend? He’s no longer a problem.”
Peter went numb. Nononononononono! “You’re lying,” Peter said through gritted teeth. He didn’t believe it! Wouldn’t. Unlike him, Dean knew what he was doing and what he was up against. There was no way O’Brien had been able to get the jump on him.
The dark haired man retorted, “Think what you will, Detective. But he’s not coming back for you.”
It shouldn’t have stung so much, but it did. Peter swallowed, trying to moisten his mouth. What was he going to do now?
“But you must be wondering why I brought you here,” O’Brien twittered, bouncing on his heels oblivious to Peter’s thoughts. “Here, let me show you.”
O’Brien turned and for a brief moment Peter could have sworn the man’s eyes were covered with silver mist. What the-? He didn’t have time to dwell on it further because O’Brien was tugging on a set of chains.
“Come on girls. Show yourselves to the good detective.”
Three girls emerged from the shadows, filthy and bedraggled; obediently letting O’Brien led them by their chained wrists. Two were undeniably thin, while the third was in much better shape. Peter’s heart seized. Jennifer Stewart, Melissa Fisher, and Chloe Roark. Chloe looked right at him, her blue eyes wide and terrified. To her left was Melissa, who looked even mousier then she had before she was kidnapped. She barely glanced at him, but Peter thought he caught a hint of steel in her face. For a brief moment hope filled him. The eighteen-year-old was still fighting. Jennifer, however, was the opposite. Pale, with sunken eyes, she appeared utterly defeated, almost lifeless.
O’Brien was watching his every reaction, lapping up Peter’s horror with glee. Peter did his best to school his expression, but knew he probably was failing horribly. O’Brien stroked Jennifer’s head with possessive gentleness.
“Aren’t they beautiful, Detective?”
Peter wanted to puke. This guy was certifiably insane! He glared with all his might, wishing to incinerate the man where he stood. O’Brien clicked his tongue. “Nothing to say? Nothing at all?”
“Why are they here?” Peter demanded. His vision wavered and he swallowed thickly. “What do you want with them?”
O’Brien’s lips drew back, baring his teeth in a hideous smile. “All in due time, Detective Burke.”
Peter closed his eyes, the pain increasing in his temple, and willingly sinking into the awaiting darkness. The next time he opened his eyes, his head hurt a little less. Thank goodness for small favors.
Glancing around, his mouth dropped open in shock. Apparently he’d been unconscious for quite a while because Jennifer, Melissa, and Chloe had been bathed, hair plaited, and dressed in blue calico dresses that went out of style back in the forties at least. The three were placed at the edge of each stall, sitting against the crude ends. O’Brien even put make-up on them! The young man however, was conspicuously absent.
Just what sort of twisted game was at play here? Whatever it was, Peter’s gut told him getting free was essential to surviving. With O’Brien gone, Peter took advantage of that time to work feverishly at escaping his bonds.
The girls were sleeping or staring off into space. Melissa was the only girl to make eye contact. The youngest of the three, she seemed to be the strongest and most determined. Strange, Peter thought, Melissa had been held captive here for a month.
All he had to show for the past several hours were a pair of bloodied, raw wrists and his feet gone numb. The ropes tied around his wrists had only loosened slightly, but not nearly enough for him to escape.
Exhaustion called. He stopped fighting the ropes for a while, giving his poor wrists a much needed reprieve. His eyes were stinging almost as badly as his wrists. Desperately, he tried not to think about Dean and his fate. O’Brien must be lying. Dean could still be alive. But Peter had no way of knowing how long he’d been imprisoned here. The hope withered within him slowly.
Not to mention, there was a werewolf on the loose as well…
The werewolf! Before he was captured, Dean and him had found wolf tracks in the snow around Devil’s Den. His mind raced with the possibilities. One, it was pure coincidence, two, they were working together, or…was it possible? There’s nothing about this case that makes it normal, Professor. Got it? Nothing! If there was one thing Peter knew, it was that Dean had good instincts. Peter may have had a hard time trusting the kid and letting him take the lead, but he’d observed an unspoken assurance and determination in Dean’s every word and action. Confidence. Perhaps a touch of arrogance, although Peter had a pretty good idea that came from having to deal with LEO’s like himself who really didn’t get it. Perhaps Dean even knew more then he let on.
Peter mulled over the few things he’d learned about hunting ghosts and werewolves. Salt was a pure element and repelled spirits, silver to the heart killed a werewolf, only King Kong mad spirits could leave behind ectoplasm, and werewolves changed the night of the full moon…wait. That was just one night. How could the werewolf leave any tracks behind before the full moon? Dean mentioned the power of Friday the thirteenth combined with the coming full moon would give the werewolf extra power. But how did that work unless…unless the werewolf changed more than once a month?
Chalk another one up to the list of things Hollywood got wrong.
He glanced around the room. Nothing else seemed to have changed while he was out except the girls. Peter shifted his attention to them.
Melissa met his gaze.
“Are you guys all right?” His tongue was thick and dry, making it difficult to talk. “Has he hurt you?”
“We’re okay,” Melissa replied softly. “A little bruised and freaked out, but we’re all okay.” She cast affirming looks at Chloe and Jennifer.
Chloe nodded shakily. “Yeah, we’re probably in better shape then you, Detective.”
“Call me Peter.”
“Peter,” Melissa nodded. “How’d he get you?”
“Snuck up on me, I think. Its kinda hazy,” Peter admitted. “We were at Devil’s Den.”
Chloe and Melissa exchanged surprised glances. “You’re still at Devil’s Den.”
“What?”
“This cave is underneath the Devil’s Den,” Melissa explained. “Stevenson found it back in 1935 when he came through here.”
Peter was startled. “Wait, back up. Whose Stevenson?”
“The Lost Creek Cutter, of course,” Melissa said, frowning in disgust. “That guy, O’Brien you called him, he’s possessed or something.”
“Sometimes his eyes glow this really creepy green-white,” Chloe chimed in, shuddering.
“You know about the Lost Creek Cutter?” Peter demanded, confused. He’d found nothing about the killer when he’d looked.
“Not much else to do to pass the time, you know? So I asked him his story.” Melissa replied, nose wrinkled. “His name was Laurence Stevenson and he started out as a simple thief. But he met a girl and fell head over heels in love with her. I have no idea what her name was, but apparently we,” Melissa indicated the three chained girls, “bear a remarkable resemblance. Anyway, Stevenson pulled a huge heist before he planned on running away and marrying her. But he was caught and sent to prison. Apparently she figured it out and told the sheriff. So Stevenson went to prison for something like five years before he escaped. That’s when he headed back to Lost Creek to kill her.”
Melissa smiled bitterly. “She was already dead though. Died of cancer. Stevenson was furious and went on a killing spree of any girl who resembled her. Before he came to Gettysburg, he said he killed six other girls.”
The eighteen-year-old paused, wetting her lips. “Anyway, he stumbled on this cave by accident and planned to use it for his next victim: Charlotte Holt. But Charlotte fought him, managed to bash him in the head with a rock and escape.”
“She killed him,” Peter muttered.
Melissa nodded. “Yeah, but his…ghost, or something, stuck around to possess that poor guy, O’Brien.”
That made a horrifying amount of sense. It explained O’Brien’s weird behavior and why he called the Depression “The New Hard Times” among other things. And he’d moved into the same building s the guy! Peter could only guess it wouldn’t have been to hard to slip into his apartment before Dean warded it so the death omen didn’t come back. The death omen!
“Does, does he have a knife,” Peter questioned, hesitant. “Might have some initials on the top half of the blade?”
This time Chloe answered. “Yeah. Carries it everywhere. Promised he’d-he’d slit our throats.”
Peter closed his eyes. L.S, not I.S! He cursed. If he’d gotten the initials right maybe Dean could have found Stevenson in the records! Stupid, stupid, stupid.
“This other guy you were with,” Melissa said, the faint traces of hope coloring her words. “Does he know about…ghosts? Stevenson was mumbling something earlier about interfering ghost hunters.”
“Yeah, he does and a lot of other things too.” That was an understatement. But there was no need to frighten the girls further.
“Do you really think he’s still alive?”
Peter heart clenched. “I hope so. I really do.”
Melissa nodded and silence fell.
He had no way of telling the time, but if Peter were to guess it had probably been about an hour or so when Stevenson came back. He wasn’t alone.
Professor Nancy Jenkins was with him. She looked terrible. She was coated with snow and her clothes torn and soaked. The worst part, however, was the ugly collar Stevenson had around her neck. Stevenson yanked on it mercilessly, sending the woman sprawling to the floor as he bolted the chain in place on the opposite wall of the three girls. Peter met her wild gaze and inhaled sharply.
Nancy was completely terrified. He cursed inwardly. It looked like he was right. Nancy was at Stevenson’s mercy.
“Not too long now,” Stevenson crowed, rubbing his hands together with delight. “Its almost sunset. Soon, revenge will be mine at last.”
Peter rolled his eyes. Bad guys must share a manual or something called ‘The Ultimate Evil Schemes Monologue’. At least he had a pretty good idea how long he’d been here. Almost a day fit with the way his body ached.
He looked back and Nancy again. She refused to look at him. As the seconds ticked by, Peter mouth dropped in shock. The skin on her arms was...rippling, for lack of better term. Nancy threw back her head and screamed, her whole skeleton shifting. Her hair grew longer and wilder, covering her whole body and her face flattened and changed, growing longer broader.
Peter stared in morbid fascination, desperately wanting to look away yet he couldn't. Faintly he registered the screams from the three girls chained across the room. In his periphery he noticed O’Brien-Stevenson-watching with immense satisfaction. Moments later the woman, Nancy Jenkins, was gone and in her place was a snarling, angry black werewolf.
“Time for the festivities to begin.”
The room was freezing cold.
Stevenson moved around the altar, emptying the jar and bowls. Squinting, Peter tried to make out what it was the ghost-possessed man was holding. It looked like…flower petals? Then something small and whitish was dumped from a jar into Stevenson’s hand. Rice, maybe? Things typically used in a wedding… Oh no. Please no.
Peter renewed his struggles to escape, finally understanding what the Lost Creek Cutter intended.
The possessed man turned to face him and the bottom of Peter’s stomach dropped out. A mist seemed to surround O’Brien’s whole body, glowing a sickly green-white. The ghost strode towards the werewolf, who snapped and snarled as it strained to back away. A familiar knife appeared in Stevenson’s hand as he viciously sliced the helpless creature’s throat.
The girls screamed in horror as the black wolf collapsed in a spray of blood and whimpers. Stevenson calmly wiped the blood spray from his face and went back to the altar. Using the blood on the knife he began to write something at the top. From his position on the floor Peter couldn’t read it and he wondered if he even wanted to. He wriggled his arms. The knots were loosening more! He kept the elation off his face, keeping his glare steady.
Stevenson finished with the blood writing and placed the knife down at the head of the altar. He turned and went over to Jennifer. The girl immediately started backing away, bleating in fear. Stevenson unlocked the chains from her wrists and then picked her up, bridal style. Peter expected the young woman to fight and scream more, but she fell limp and silent in Stevenson’s grasp.
He laid her down on the altar, stroking her face. Jennifer whimpered, head rolling to the side. Stevenson walked around to the other side, so Peter could see him clearly. The ghost looked up at him with O’Brien’s face and Peter’s breath hitched.
It was like seeing a bizarre Picasso painting of two faces, but Stephen King must have been the commissioner because the second face was hideously distorted and glowing green. Peter thought he knew evil, had fought evil on the streets of New York. The thing looking at him now proved how utterly wrong and naïve he’d been. No, he’d no idea what evil really looked like until that moment.
Two mouths moved, two voices blending. “Bear witness, Detective Burke, as I take my bride.”
Peter just caught a glimpse of the knife in Stevenson’s hand before he lifted Jennifer’s left hand and sliced off her ring finger.
Jennifer arched, screaming shrilly. She was joined by Peter’s angry shout and Chloe and Melissa’s shrieks. Stevenson didn’t respond, holding Jennifer down with one hand on her chest. He placed the finger aside carefully, and then started dragging the knife up the inner flesh of Jennifer’s arm. Jennifer screamed continuously. It tore through Peter’s insides, rubbing him raw with sandpaper precision. Her screams seem to go on forever. He couldn’t move, trapped in the echo of Jennifer’s cry, helpless to do anything.
Finally Jennifer collapsed, unconscious on the altar as Stevenson continued to slice. The blood covered the altar and trickled down the side like spilled paint. Peter couldn’t watch anymore. Closing his eyes, he looked away.
A soft whimper, barely audible reached his ears. Confused, he glanced over to where the werewolf, Nancy Jenkins, had fallen. Peter sucked in a breath. She was alive! Then he mentally slapped himself. Of course she was! Only silver piercing the heart could kill a werewolf.
The soft whimper quickly devolved into a menacing snarl. Peter could see her white teeth gleaming in the candlelight. The wolf was looking at something and it wasn’t Stevenson and Jennifer. Slowly Peter followed her gaze across the room to the entrance Stevenson had come through earlier.
He blinked, straining to focus his eyes. It looked like a…person. As he strained his eyes, the figure moved closer, almost slipping into the light.
So intent on the shadow he wasn’t ready when the werewolf lunged forward with a sharp yowl, landing on Stevenson and sending the possessed man crashing to the floor.
Gunshots rang out and the werewolf tumbled aside with a pained yip. Getting to its feet, it lunged at the shadowed figure. The person dodged to the side, firing again, sending the werewolf tumbling to the side.
“Peter!”
“Dean?” Peter couldn’t say if he was more shocked or relieved as the youth came running towards him. There was s small knife in Dean’s hands that he used swiftly to cut through the ropes.
“Here,” Dean barked, pushing the Desert Eagle into his hands, “Its loaded with silver bullets. Free the girls!”
Peter nodded, scrambling to his feet. It was difficult to stay up. Both of his feet were asleep due to the lack of circulation from the ropes and it was nearly impossible to walk. Meanwhile, Dean charged towards the altar. Stevenson was still on the ground where the werewolf had knocked him.
Melissa and Chloe were straining against the chains as Peter stumbled over to them. Using the butt of the Desert Eagle he struck the circlet the chains were threaded through. But after being tied up for twenty-four hours with no food or water he was not as strong as he normally was. He hit it again and again. On the fourth hit, the circlet broke.
“Come on,” Peter said, helping the girls to their feet. Chloe screamed and the detective whirled around, gun at the ready.
The former Nancy Jenkins was charging at them, teeth bared in a hideous snarl, steam and blood pouring from the wounds she’d received from Dean’s guns. Peter didn’t hesitate. He fired the gun, emptying the rest of the clip. The werewolf dropped like a stone, body shuddering.
An inhuman cry echoed off the walls, and Peter immediately pointed his gun at the threat.
Dean had managed to grab Stevenson’s knife and was dousing it with salt in one of the bowls that held the flower petals. His whole body was shaking as he coughed and wheezed and he could barely hold his gun as he poured the salt. Stevenson was getting up behind him, enraged.
Peter’s heart lurched. The werewolf’s aim had been true and Eric O’Brien throat was torn open. No blood poured from the wound and he guessed that was thanks to Stevenson’s spirit. Instead the blood collected at the edges of the wound, ugly and bubbling. Stevenson’s spirit was almost completely visible over O’Brien’s body, pulsing that hideous green-white and swirling mist.
“Dean, look out!” Peter shouted. His warning was a second too late. Stevenson slammed the youth with a wave of telekinesis, sending Dean flying into the cave wall. The kid crumbled to the floor and lay completely still.
Snarling, Stevenson snatched his knife up from the ground, bringing it high over his head as he descended on the unconscious hunter. He was too far away, Peter realized, and the Desert Eagle was empty.
“NO!”
Stevenson brought the knife down only to lurch back with a screech. The air over Dean flickered and then the soldier appeared. Peter was immensely glad to not be on the receiving end of the death omen’s glare. It may not have been angry before, but it certainly was now.
The soldier held his gun at the ready, and Peter could see the bayonet attached to the tip. Behind him, Chloe gasped. “There’s another one?”
He didn’t have time to answer her. The soldier charged. Stevenson brought up the knife but the soldier didn’t stop its charge. The two spirits collided with a loud crackle. For a brief moment the two spirits glowed like a mini sun, forcing Peter to shield his eyes.
When Peter could see again, he was shocked O’Brien collapsed on the ground, blood leaking from his torn throat. Apparently, whatever the soldier did, it made Stevenson release O’Brien.
A moan from the shape beyond quickly drew Peter’s attention.
“Dean!”
He stumbled over to the young hunter and grabbed his shoulder. Abruptly he recoiled. Dean was burning up. Carefully, Peter rolled him over, paying lose attention to the ribs and shoulders. After a collision with the wall like that there was little doubt that something probably cracked, broken, or was extremely bruised. Dean’s face was covered with sweat, which now mingled with blood from a cut on his forehead. Peter checked it the best he could. It didn’t look deep.
“Is he okay?”
Peter looked up in surprise, having forgotten about Melissa and Chloe.
“Yeah, yeah he should be fine.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” Dean groaned. “What happened to Stevenson?”
“The death omen showed up and they, well, collided. They’re both gone.” Peter shrugged. “And he’s no longer possessing O’Brien.” The rest of Dean’s words caught up with him. “Wait-how do you know who the spirit is?”
Dean didn’t have a chance to respond because the room suddenly plunged to below freezing temperatures.
With a curse, Dean struggled to sit up. “Where’s my shotgun?”
“Here.” Melissa handed him the shotgun. “But what good is it against a ghost?”
Dean offered a lopsided smile. “Rock salt, sweetheart.”
Peter couldn’t stop himself from rolling his eyes. Kid got thrown across the room like a rag doll and here he was, grinning like nothing was wrong. He kept a firm hand on Dean’s shoulder, feeling the heat, the shivers wracking his frame, and the rapid, shallow breaths.
“Peter, burn the knife.” Dean was looking at him, dead serious. “I’ll keep him busy.”
“No.” He shook his head. Opening his mouth to argue, he stopped when the lights on the wall started flickering like crazy.
“This isn’t the time to argue,” Dean snapped, all business. He struggled to his feet. Reluctantly, Peter followed. He really, really hated it when Dean was right. “You girls, help Peter burn that knife and check on Jennifer.”
The two girls nodded solemnly, wide-eyed.
“How am I supposed to burn it?”
“Use this.” Dean tossed Peter a Zippo from his pocket. “Now move!”
Peter and the two girls obeyed, darting back towards the altar even as the shotgun blasted behind them. Chloe reached the altar first and checked Jennifer’s pulse. “She still alive!”
While Melissa went to help Chloe with Jennifer, Peter headed toward the bowl where Dean left the knife covered in salt.
The shotgun roared again. Peter ran.
“Peter!”
The cry was the only warning the detective had before a wave of power slammed into him, sending him to the ground. He screamed as his arm collided with the edge of the altar. Water filled his eyes as he struggled to his knees. Cradling his arm close, Peter dragged himself up and towards the knife.
“You think you can stop me?” Stevenson shouted. “I am more powerful than you realize, little hunter.”
The earth shook.
Another shotgun blast filled the air then an odd choking noise. Wildly, Peter looked over his shoulder. His heart stopped. Stevenson’s spirit was holding Dean by the throat, cutting off his air. With a burst of strength, Peter lit the Zippo and tossed it in the bowl.
For a moment it seemed like nothing was happening. Peter silently railed. No, Stevenson wasn’t going to kill Dean!
It was just a small flame at first and then it grew, consuming Stevenson’s form. Stevenson screamed, loud and angry. The air crackled. Stevenson’s form blurred and disintegrated into nothing.
Just like that, it was over. The cave began to feel warm again and the dark, oppressive feeling Peter had since he first woke up in the cave vanished.
Dean dropped to the floor, coughing and gasping. Peter crawled over to him and pulled the brave hunter up against his side.
“Its over,” Peter whispered. “Its over.”
There was a collective sigh of relief.
“Can we go home now?”
“No,” Dean gasped, drawing three sets of eyes. “Blizzard outside.”
“A blizzard!” It made sense, Peter supposed. Nancy Jenkins had walked in the cave covered in snow. He winced. Nancy. He’d gunned her werewolf form down without hesitation. Quickly his eyes darted over to where she fell. He could just see her body where it fell, no longer a werewolf. Logically, Peter knew he had no other choice. That didn’t stop the guilt.
Forcing his mind to focus on the present circumstances, he spoke to Melissa. “Check to see if the snow’s slowed any.”
Melissa nodded and hurried off. He turned to Chloe. “How is she?”
“She’s unconscious.” Chloe sounded shaky. Peter didn’t blame her. Jennifer lost a great deal of blood.
“Dean?”
“’m fine. Take care of them.”
Peter wanted to shout and shake the youth. Dean was anything BUT fine! He was slurring slightly and his whole body was shaking and burning. On the other hand, Peter did have the responsibility of taking care of the three girls too.
“He’s right,” Melissa said, returning. “It’s a blizzard out there. There’s no way we can leave.”
“Then we need to dig in. Melissa, find something to wrap Jennifer’s wounds then bring anything that might be useful over here. Chloe, stay with Jennifer.”
The girls obeyed. Peter carefully shifted Dean back down to the floor. He looked around and spotted his trench coat nearby. Snagging it, he draped it over Dean to keep him warm. The kid needed a lot more than that, but it would do for now.
First, he had to tend to the bodies of Eric O’Brien and Nancy Jenkins. It was harder emotionally then it was physically. Eric and Nancy were both innocents who were attacked by something evil and far beyond their control. He placed them in the individual stalls and covered them with their jackets. It seemed only right. Meanwhile, Melissa was gathering everything she could find and piling it near Dean.
Peter caught her checking on the youth for a moment with a hand on his forehead. Blue eyes met his. “He’s burning up.”
He nodded. “I know.”
“Was he sick before?”
“Yes. Its worse now.”
“Brave boy,” Melissa murmured, stroking Dean’s feverish cheek. Peter silently agreed. Brave Boy. Dean was sick, he was alone, and he’d gone out into a blizzard to find them anyway. Talk about courageous. Or foolish, depending on the point of view.
Peter moved back to Dean’s side as Melissa resumed scavenging.
“How’re you doing, kid?”
“’m super,” Dean deadpanned, not moving. The older man snorted, but refrained from commenting. Instead, he asked a question that had been burning in his mind since Dean came to the rescue.
“Dean, how’d you find us? There’s a blizzard out there!” He added, “And how did you know about Stevenson?”
“Donna tol’ me ‘bout Stevenson,” Dean replied. He swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. “Said Stevenson tried to kill her friend, Charlotte, back in ’35.”
Peter rocked back in disbelief. “Donna Miller, the librarian?”
“Uh huh.”
Would the curve balls ever stop coming?
“The soldier,” Dean grunted, face scrunching as he shifted, “showed me…the cave. Led me right to you.”
Apparently not. Peter shook his head. “Wonders never cease,” he said.
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