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On the back of a motorcycle pushing 120 mph, Thomas ran. Ran through winding roads in pine scented woods, through roads on the coast with salt in the air, down asphalt ribbons that cut straight through the city. Thomas ran with fear in his heart, and the scream of Hunger in his veins. He ran until daybreak, until the road led him back to the house.
Sunlight wrapped the house in silence, and only then did he dare come back, enter the house on silent feet, up the stairs and into his room. With quiet efficiency, Thomas grabbed a duffel bag and threw in a few sets of clothes, the kukri he kept beside the bed, the cavalry saber, the shotgun, the long-bladed knife. Dru’s gift, Maladicta’s gift, those he left under the bed. Thomas left the fine grey suit in a puddle on the floor, and threw on jeans, a shirt, and the leather jacket. The Desert Eagle, with extra loaded clips in his pockets, went into his waistband, hidden by the jacket.
His camera crew stood quiet, uncertain, as he rushed around the room in silence. This wouldn’t have been the first time Thomas left abruptly and armed to the teeth. But they had seen. They had heard something in the night, and now they stood, unsure whether to let him go and risk Her, or to block his path and risk him. Unfortunately for them, before they had formulated the question, Thomas was no longer in the room.
The sun was bright in the morning sky when Thomas threw the duffel bag over one shoulder and started the motorcycle again. Without looking back, Thomas raced away from the house.
*****
Thomas drove with single-minded purpose for hours, stopping only twice for gas, as he strove to get away. Away from Her, away from what had almost happened. It wasn’t until the sun was low in the sky that he noticed a sign beside the freeway. “Los Angeles, 103 miles.”
The motorcycle screamed to a stop on the side of the road and Thomas’ hands shook a little as they released their grip on the handlebars and reached for his cell phone. He hit Alice’s number and waited.
“I’m an hour outside Los Angeles.”
Sunlight wrapped the house in silence, and only then did he dare come back, enter the house on silent feet, up the stairs and into his room. With quiet efficiency, Thomas grabbed a duffel bag and threw in a few sets of clothes, the kukri he kept beside the bed, the cavalry saber, the shotgun, the long-bladed knife. Dru’s gift, Maladicta’s gift, those he left under the bed. Thomas left the fine grey suit in a puddle on the floor, and threw on jeans, a shirt, and the leather jacket. The Desert Eagle, with extra loaded clips in his pockets, went into his waistband, hidden by the jacket.
His camera crew stood quiet, uncertain, as he rushed around the room in silence. This wouldn’t have been the first time Thomas left abruptly and armed to the teeth. But they had seen. They had heard something in the night, and now they stood, unsure whether to let him go and risk Her, or to block his path and risk him. Unfortunately for them, before they had formulated the question, Thomas was no longer in the room.
The sun was bright in the morning sky when Thomas threw the duffel bag over one shoulder and started the motorcycle again. Without looking back, Thomas raced away from the house.
*****
Thomas drove with single-minded purpose for hours, stopping only twice for gas, as he strove to get away. Away from Her, away from what had almost happened. It wasn’t until the sun was low in the sky that he noticed a sign beside the freeway. “Los Angeles, 103 miles.”
The motorcycle screamed to a stop on the side of the road and Thomas’ hands shook a little as they released their grip on the handlebars and reached for his cell phone. He hit Alice’s number and waited.
“I’m an hour outside Los Angeles.”
