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hand-to-hand fighter because he was a big man, strong, with quick reflexes and extensive training, but he
had no idea what kind of adversary they faced.
Something hit him in the back, skittered down his jeans, and fell to the street. Matt whirled around to
face the enemy and found nothing but fog.
 What is it? Kate asked. Her voice was steady, but her hand, on the small of his back, was shaking.
Matt hunkered down to look at the object at his feet.  It s a Christmas wreath, Kate. A damned
Christmas wreath. He looked around carefully, trying to penetrate the fog and see what was moving in
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it. He could feel the presence now, real, not imagined. He could hear the strange, labored breathing, but
he couldn t find the source.
As he stood, a second object came hurtling out of the fog to hit him in the chest. He heard the smash of
glass and knew immediately that the wreath had been decorated with glass ornaments.  Let s get out of
here, off the street at least, he said.
Kate was stubborn, shaking her head.  No, I have to face it here.
Matt pulled Kate to him, shielding her smaller body with his own as more wreaths came flying through
the air, hurled with deadly accuracy at them from every direction. He wrapped his arms around her head,
pressing her face against his chest.  It s kids, he muttered, brushing a kiss on top of her head to reassure
her.  Always playing pranks; it s dangerous in this fog, not to mention destructive.
He hoped it was kids. It had to be an army of kids, tearing wreaths off the doors of the houses and
throwing them at passersby as a prank. He heard no laughter, not even running footsteps. He heard
nothing but the rough breathing. It seemed to come out of the fog itself. The nape of his neck prickled
with unease.
 It isn t children playing a prank, Matt. Kate sounded close to tears.  It s much, much worse.
 Kate. He stroked a caress down the back of her head. Her hair was inside the hood of the cape, but
his palm lingered anyway.  It isn t the first time a group of kids decided to play around, and it won t be
the last.
The Christmas wreaths lay around them in a circle, some smashed or crushed and others in reasonably
good shape. Kate lifted her face away from his chest and took a breath.  I can smell it, can t you?
Matt inhaled deeply. He recognized the foul, noxious odor of the gases in the old mill. His heart jumped.
 Dammit, Kate. I m beginning to believe you. Let s get the hell out of here before I decide I m crazy.
She pulled free of his arms.  Is that what you think about me? That I m crazy?
 Of course not. This is all just so damned odd.
Her sea-green eyes moved over his face, a little moody, a little fey.  Well, brace yourself, it s going to
get damned odder. Stay still.
The fog swirled around them, their faces, their feet, and bodies, spinning webs of charcoal gray matter.
As at the cliff house, Matt got the impression of bony fingers, and this time they were trying to grab at
Kate. Without thinking, he caught her up and started to run, the urge strong to get her away from the long
gray tentacles, but the blanket of fog was thick around them.
Kate pressed her lips to his ear.  Stop! I have to try to stop it, Matthew; it s what I do. We can t outrun
the fog, it s everywhere.
 Dammit, Kate, I don t like this. When she didn t respond, he reluctantly put her down and stayed very
close to her, ready for action.
She turned in the direction of her home, her face serene, thoughtful, yet determined. She radiated beauty,
an inner fire and strength. She whispered, a soft, melodic chant that became part of the night, of the air
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surrounding them. She wasn t speaking English but a language he didn t recognize. Her voice was
soothing, tranquil, a soft invitation to a place of peace and harmony with the earth.
The fog itself breathed harder, in and out, a burst of air sounding like a predatory animal with teeth and
claws. The mist seemed to vibrate with anger, roiling and spinning and growing darker. Gray fog whirled
around the Christmas wreaths at Matt s feet, spinning fast enough to lift them into the air. Bright green
wreaths withered and blackened as if all the life was being sucked out of them. The objects reminded [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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