New Title 1 by F. Paul Wilson Read Free Book Online Page B

talons speared the sand to either side and the web between them closed off his wind. The pressure eased from his chest but the talons tightened, encircling his throat as he struggled for air. And then Jack felt himself yanked from the sand and held aloft, kicking and twisting in the silent air, flailing ineffectually at the flint-muscled arm that gripped him like a vise. The popping of the vertebral joints in his neck sounded like explosions, the cartilage in his larynx whined under the unremitting pressure as the rakosh shook him like an abusive parent with a baby who had cried once too often, and all the while his lungs pleaded, screamed for air.
    His limbs quickly grew heavy, the oxygen-starved muscles weakening until he could no longer lift his arms. Black spots flashed and floated in the space between him and Scar-lip as his panicked brain’s clawhold on consciousness began to falter. Life . . . he could feel his life slipping away, the universe fading to gray . . . and he was floating . . . gliding aloft toward—
    —a jarring impact, sand in his face, in his mouth, but air too, good Christ, air!
    He lay gasping, gulping, coughing, retching, but breathing, and slowly light seeped back to his brain, life to his limbs.
    Jack lifted his head, looked around. Scar-lip not in sight. Rolled over, looked up. Scar-lip nowhere.
    Slowly, hesitantly, he raised himself on his elbows, amazed to be alive. But how long would that last? So weak. And God, he hurt.
    Looked around again. Blinked. Alone in the clearing.
    What was going on here? Was the rakosh hiding, waiting to pop out again and start playing with him like a cat with a captured mouse?
    He struggled to his knees but stopped there until the pounding in his head eased. Looked around once more, baffled. Still no sign of Scar-lip.
    What the hell?
    Cautiously Jack rose to his feet and braced for a dark shape to hurtle from the brush and finish him off.
    Nothing moved. The rakosh was gone.
    Why? Nothing here to frighten it off, and it sure as hell wasn’t turning vegetarian, because Hank’s arm, the one Scar-lip had thrown at Jack, was missing.
    Jack turned in a slow circle. Why didn’t it kill me?
    Because he’d stopped Bondy and Hank from torturing it? Not possible. A rakosh was a killing machine. What would it know about fair play, about debts or gratitude? Those were human emotions and—
    Then Jack remembered that Scar-lip was part human. Kusum Bahkti had been its father. It carried some of Kusum in it and, despite some major leaks in his skylights, Kusum had been a stand-up guy.
    Was that it? If so, the Otherness probably wanted to disown Scar-lip. But its daddy might be proud.
    Jack’s instincts were howling for him to go— now . But he held back. He’d come here to finish this, and he’d failed. Utterly. The rakosh was back to full strength and roaming free in the trackless barrens.
    But maybe it was finished—at least between Scar-lip and him. Maybe the last rakosh was somebody else’s problem now. Not that he could do anything about Scar-lip anyway. As much as he hated to leave a rakosh alive and free here in the wild, he didn't see that he had much choice. He'd been beaten. Worse than beaten: he’d been hammered flat and kicked aside like an old tin can. He had no useful weapons left, and Scar-lip had made it clear that Jack was no match one on one.
    Time to call it quits. At least for today. But he couldn’t let it go, not without one last shot.
    "Listen," he shouted, wondering if the creature could hear him, and how much it would understand. "I guess we’re even. We’ll leave it this way. For now. But if you ever threaten me or mine again, I’ll be back. And I won’t be carrying Snapple bottles."
    Jack began to edge toward the trail, but kept his face to the clearing, still unable to quite believe this, afraid if he turned his back the creature would rise out of the sand and strike.
    As soon as Jack reached the trail, he turned and started moving as