The Beast of Bodmin Moor Page 20

  Jack’s very stance was that of a panther poised to pounce; dark, sleek, deadly. A thrill of fear skittered through Phin’s veins, fuelling the flames afresh; as lethal as Jack was alluring. Hypnotic breath clustered in ghostly clouds around his head, bathing him in a haze of light. Lazuli pupils, spearing Phin to the spot.

  He was magnificent; somehow more than he’d ever seemed before. Majestic.

  34. Jake

  “…Jack?”

  Fuck, no. Jake hadn’t even expected Phin to follow, let alone find him out here. He’d been too crippled to run, too deranged to change and flee on four legs, so he’d staggered as far as he could before collapsing behind the bins. Thinking himself as ‘safe’ from discovery as possible. Jack—incomprehensibly—had not seen fit to snatch that ‘choice’ away; the very thing he’d been hell bent on in the bar.

  Out here, when that would have been, for once, bloody helpful, he’d point blank refused to co-operate. What the fuck is with the Hulk no-show…had been Jake’s last (ludicrous) thought before Phin’s presence saturated their senses.

  It would have taken Phin much longer to weave through the punters and leave the pub in the customary manner before dashing around to the rear, so he’d clearly come via the bar. The only surprising part of that had, of course, been expecting Phin to use the same exit as everyone else. Rather than disregarding all barriers—both literal and societal—between himself and the dipshit notion he was dead set on at the time. Just as he’d barged through every boundary Jake had done his damnedest to enforce in a futile bid to protect him.

  Having managed to stumble over to the bins, there had been bugger all else he could do. Other than pray Jack might let the fuck up with his grappling hook tantrum. Preferably while the explanation of having had a bit too much to drink would still suffice. The truth (partly), and Phin had already surmised as much. Disaster averted.

  A hope that had been doomed from the off. The blame for that being every bit as blatant as Jake’s absence of fur. The Hulk-hound from hell had refused to play ball, let alone justify himself, leaving Jake to cower behind the bloody bins like the mangy dog he was.

  “Gnnhh…g’way…” He groaned; a plea as pointless as arguing the toss with a post box.

  A post box? That was random.

  Opined the tosspot piping up now with barbs from fuck knows where. In the wake of being, for once in his bloody…existence, wanted.

  “I’m not leaving you on your own in the dustbins, you daftie.”

  “Fck. Off.” Cruel words that corroded Jake’s tongue even as it formed them. He was all out of options. “Go!”

  Not cruel enough. Clearly. As far from paying any heed as possible? Phin dropped to his haunches and reached out with fingertips of flame to pour petrol on Jake’s shame.

  Jack had lost the plot the second he’d scented the girl’s desire; flagrant in the face of all he’d been denied. If Jake hadn’t got the hell out of the pub there would have been a damn sight more excitement than its regulars had bargained for after popping down the Albion for a swift pint.

  Bursting from his own body in a fury of fur and frustration would have been fuck awful enough. Ripping her head off with his teeth? Might have proved a bit too much entertainment for one night. Lifetime.

  But oh, so satisfying…you must admit.

  Never.

  Suit yourself. Like that makes it any less true…just sayin’.

  “Leave me.” Jake groaned.

  Me or Phin? Not that it matters…you’re barking up the wrong tree either way.

  “I…I can’t…leave you. On your own.” The pain in Phin’s voice was more excruciating than the clawing in Jake’s guts.

  Why wouldn’t Phin save himself? It couldn’t be more obvious that he was dead set on not ‘doing listening’. Dead set? Salt in the wound of an irony too brutal for words.

  “Can. Just. Go. I don’t want yonnagggh!” The latter almost choked Jake on its way out. No doubt would have done, had that not been too dipshit, even for Dogbreath.

  Talking about yourself in third person is not the most illustrious illustration of your sterling faculties, it must be said. Quite aside from being a lie so blasphemous your cock should have shrivelled up and died of shame. In penance.

  Shut the fuck up. Someone has to save him. From all three of us.

  A profanity that proved as pointless as it was painful. A last-ditch hope that Phin might flinch and flounce off in a huff? Every bit as futile as those it succeeded.

  Instead? With infinite tenderness, Phin started stroking Jake’s bloody back. He had to get away from that hand and all it promised. Flee the torment of silken caresses and sorrow steeped words, before he could not. Before Phin was killed by his own kindness. Most of all, Jake had to get the hell away from a compassion he did not deserve.

  If he could just struggle to his feet…Jake could…what? Skip off into the night? He could barely stagger to his hands and knees; his elbows gave out the second he planted his palms on the floor. He could do this. Get up. He had to…For Phin. Get away. From him. For him.

  “Has it happened before? Should I phone for an ambulance?”

  Hell yes. Fuck NO. Pleeease, just GO. “Y’have to go. I can’t…hold…” Jake told the truth—part of it—before adding (further) injury to insult with a glare Phin would be insane to ignore. Jake knew damn well what his eyes looked like; he could see them reflected in drowning brown; which just widened with wonder when Jake levelled him with the death ray lasers.

  Oh, if only. I could have sizzled her slutty ass before she’d sullied his skin.

  You’re as impossible as he is.

  Yup. Two for a pair…Perfect for one another…We’d spoil another couple…triple. Tralala… Take your pick. I have.

  ‘My fated mate’!? F’fucksakes.

  Exactly.

  No way. Over my dead body. I want him too, you cretinous mutt. It’s your fault we can’t have him. What!? Now? Here? Yes, I know we’ve done it before. But not in a bloody carpark, we haven’t. At my workplace. Quite aside from the fact you’ve got your furry arse in a flap. How the hell will you hold it together?

  Duh.

  What’s that supposed to mean? It will ‘work some steam off’? Oh strewth. Fine. Just for the record? That’s a crock of shite and y’know it, you conniving bastard.

  Lunatics, both of them. With Jake cast as the asylum. He might have fully expected to find himself incarcerated in one, but really…this was ridiculous. An opinion that possibly snapped the last slivers of Jack’s patience. A split-second later Jake found himself hovering over a supine Phin, swallowing his surprised yelp alongside kisses he plundered as if to stave off perishing itself. Then proceeded to swallow a whole lot more than that. As agreed. A win-win deal t’die for.

  The rumble of contentment that rolled in Jake’s throat when he’d done savouring his fill might have been mortifying…had Jake not promptly been bludgeoned by a betrayal that swept aside all paltry human frailties.

  “Nooooo!” I will or you will? “No. Had…a…deal. No. NO!”

  Jake had no idea how much of that he snarled aloud. None whatsoever. All of it? None of it? He could scarce breathe, think, move…feel anything beyond the agony wracking his body. Aside from fear. Fury. The jackal’s frustration.

  “Jack!”

  No. He doesn’t want you, he means me, you pillock.

  “No! Phin. Run!”

  “I-No…I…won’t!” Phin insisted, as stubborn as fuck, while clambering to his feet.

  If the laser glare had been invested with the powers it appeared to promise, Phin would have burst into flames where he stood. Calmly tucking himself away. When he was done, he lifted his head. What he saw, made those eyes widen (which really didn’t help matters) while gazing unflinchingly into lightsaber blue. Twin beams mirrored back by midnight pools of darklight.

  I will or you will.

  Christ. YouwillorIwill…Iwilloryouwill…over and over, resounding round Jake’s bell jar brain.
>
  Tick tock… Jack sat, head tilted inquiringly as he waited, spearing Jack with his own bloody eyes. Phin stood; mute determination emblazoned in unblinking brown.

  Jake had but one option left. Act before Jack snatched that away too. Jake ran. He got about twenty yards before the fur hit the fan.

  A distance he was permitted to cover purely so they didn’t scar Phin for life with a flailing claw. Apparently. The mangy mongrel patently didn’t give a flying toss about damage wreaked deeper than flesh.

  Fuck it hurt. The pain was far worse when Jake didn’t ‘do choosing’. As often proved true in everyday life. Perhaps pain was simply more bearable if walked into willingly. The ‘price we pay’.

  Changing was just a matter of letting go if Jake elected to do it. A passing of the baton, rather than having it wrenched from his grip. Allowing the flame to flare to life until it radiated through his skin, rather than razing him to dust as he stood, steadfast.

  If Jack forced it on him, it felt as if he were being flayed from the inside out.

  Instead of fur flowing like water to ripple over bones that almost seemed to bend to Jake’s will? The jackal exploded from his human self in a frenzy of fury. An agonizing snap of bone and crunching joints. A searing scorch of muscles and straining tendons; stretched teeth shattering tight as the blood boiled in his veins. Jake could only compare it to being set on fire and thrown off a cliff.

  This. Is what Phin saw. Heard. Endured. Fuck only knows how he felt.

  35. Phin

  Jack did not pounce. He stood, splendid, quivering, as if he were being tugged by a non-existent wind.

  All Phin could do was stare, awestruck, at luminous whirlpools of blue. Eyes that seemed somehow lit from within…by the waves of energy rolling off Jack? That didn’t make sense, but other people never did. Phin had given up trying to fathom their whys and wherefores…until he met Jack. Who proved unfathomable, no matter how hard Phin did concentrating on his very own mission impossible. It didn’t help that those inimitable blues were too befuddling to focus beyond; even when they weren’t ablaze with topaz fire. A fact too doolally to be true. Phin had to be doing hallucinating, surely?

  Perhaps he was, but he’d never conjured anything quite so magical, which made it a tad tricky to care. Being hypnotized by Starlite hues was far preferable to the scratchy crawl of insects up wobble-board walls. He watched, transfixed as they flickered, then flared to full beam intensity about a snatched-off breath before Jack turned on his heel and took off.

  “Jaaack!” Phin bolted after him in a scramble of limbs as ungainly as it was useless…but blimey, Jack was fast. He didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder, merely carried on running hell for leather—which he wasn’t wearing—only a white T-shirt and skinny jeans. His legs were just a different shade of darkness, but his top half gleamed like moonlight in the glow of the lamps fixed to the pub walls. The pale beam they cast across the parking bay hadn’t reached Jack’s gloomy hideout behind the bins, where he’d seemed waxen white, rather than pearly gold.

  He was never going to catch up—Jack was whippet-quick—Phin felt like a dopey Irish Setter gambolling along in his wake. He wasn’t about to give up and go home though, even if he was doomed to being left for dust. A resolution that promptly paid dividends when Jack stumbled and fell, crashing to his hands and knees with an unearthly shriek. The instantaneous surge of guilt was scything. Had Jack hurt himself? If he’d broken his bloomin’ leg, it would feel as if Phin had wished it on him, to put a stop to his gallop. He’d better start praying for a twisted ankle, or better yet, a bit of cramp.

  When Phin was about ten yards from Jack a hideous crack of sound pulled him up short. No, a succession of snaps, like the peppering of rifle shots. These made Phin flinch, as did Jack’s howl of pain, but the sight unfolding before his very eyes was…too fast to do working out. Far too befuddling for a brain wired all wrong. It seemed as if Jack’s entire self was wracked by a series of shuddering spasms; jerky snatches of movement that looked agonizing. Phin was about to spring forward to try and do helping when his sight was shattered by a sudden explosion of fragments; scraps of…fabric? They shot skywards, fluttering in the air that shivered above Jake’s huddled form.

  The noises that accompanied all this were more worrying, because Phin could make sense of them. They rang with utter clarity in the confounding clash of stuff assaulting his senses. A cacophony of snap, crackle, popping was followed by a strange grinding grate and deep raspy groans…and a weird squidgy-squelch like welly boots stuck in mud.

  Most doolally of all, were the images being beamed to Phin’s boggled brain. The very darkness seemed to shimmer; as if Phin were seeing sound waves, which wasn’t all that odd when he’d always felt colour. He could taste and hear it too, which p’raps explained why he found new situations so scratchy—it was tricky to tell which was being weird—Phin, or the world itself. Familiar things and people were far more comfy, he didn’t have to fear appearing freaky, nor fret about being deemed so.

  The spookiest part happened when the shivery air settled; stilled to reveal a strange shadowy shape that was not a jot Jakeish. Figuring that the shimmer must have boggled his eyeballs, Phin scrunched his lids tight…then prised them apart. Nope. Exactly the same. Except, the shadowy form was starting to unfurl.

  He watched riveted, with eyes wide—wider—breath abated…then blinked. Twice. Neither made a fig of difference, Phin still found himself staring into twin pools of luminous…blue.

  “Foxy?” Phin wondered, barely above a breath, but he heard. He cocked his head to one side and twitched his tail a tad; as if it wanted to do wagging but wasn’t sure if that was the right reaction. Why was he uncertain if Phin was friend or foe, all of a sudden? Perhaps finding him here, when Foxy had only ever seen Phin on the moor?

  Phin often couldn’t place peeps if he encountered them out of place. Not just folk he’d only met a few times. He had walked straight past Mr. Neil in Waitrose with nary a glimmer of recognition. Even after he’d tapped Phin on the shoulder, which proved a smidge sticky. He’d asked if Phin had done forgetting him. On purpose. Oops.

  Phin was so surprised to see Foxy here that he quite forget to do counting. Not a jot of ‘one and one makes’…well, anything crossed his mind. Nope, Phin was too busy rustling up daft questions. Scraps of which he actually wondered. Aloud. In English, not being fluent in Fox. Nor Coyote, or Jackal, for that matter.

  “How did you…? Where…?” In his own defence? There was no one else to ask; Foxy was here and Jake was…not. Oh.

  That was when the penny farthing dropped—on Phin’s head—which was very much how the clatter-crash of realization felt. Phin had gone loopy. He’d either not cottoned onto the fact staring him full in the face. Or he’d hallucinated said fact into fruition. Two facts that added up to an impossible sum. One and one did not make one. Not even all-for-one-and-one-for-all pulled that off, and Jake was not a Musketeer moonlighting as a foxy friend. Did it matter what he was?

  It sure as shapeshifters did, if Phin’s shrieking instincts were wrong. In which case, Jake had fled and left him, or fallen off the face of the planet. Both of those were bad things. Jake morphing into Foxy before Phin’s very eyes? Was not. It was a world away from bad—albeit a skewed sort of too perfect to be true one—but that had never stopped Phin before, so why start now? He liked this one way Too Much.

  Dropping to his haunches seemed the po-lite thing to do, being a tad taller than Foxy. He did howling, so he was unlikely to get a crick neck, but towering over him wasn’t considerate when Phin could half his own height in an instant. After resting his forearms on his knees, he held out a tentative hand, so Foxy could snuffle it if he wished.

  He should surely recognize Phin’s scent? It was arrogant to assume Foxy might think ‘oh I know him…he’s that tall bloke from up the moors’ when most humans probably looked much of a muchness.

  Phin was aware that suspecting his Foxy friend from the moor was al
so his very foxy friend going by the name of Jake, was barmy bonkery.

  Something that would—at the very least—be considered the stuff of doing hallucinations. On the whole, Phin couldn’t care less. He was too busy hoping that he was right. If he was, then Jake had not vanished in a puff of shimmery air, pass the sick-bucket cracks, and welly boot-squelches.

  If he was wrong, then Jake had Gone. P’raps forever. He’d told Phin to Go—who didn’t do listening—so Jake had scarpered instead. ‘I don’t want you’ had been a definitive statement. Rather than an attempt to drive Phin away, to stop him seeing..this.

  While he never wanted Jake to do hurting (it had sounded lots more painful than that), Phin couldn’t think of another reason why said sight should perturb him. Nor its consequences.