The Paladin Prophecy

PROWLER

Will reached the trail beyond the last house at the end of the street and followed it up a slope to a locked gate at the base of the fire road. Slipping through a gap between posts, he headed straight up the fire road. The sun dipped low in the west, painting the slopes above him in vibrant crystalline light.

Air pumped through Will’s lungs as he followed a series of severe switchbacks carved into the canyon. The road leveled off and ran flat along a ridge before grading up again. Deep thickets of chaparral and dried bramble lined both sides of the road. Sharp sunlight around him faded to dusk. He stopped to look behind him and noticed a strange circle of light farther down the hill, as if the sun’s last rays had shot through a huge magnifying glass. The light looked so intensely bright, he thought the brush might burst into flame.

The weirdest day of my life, he thought. Dr. Robbins shows up right after the black sedan, the Prowler, and just before the fake Belinda. But if there’s a connection—and according to Rule #27 there has to be—what is it?

The test. That had to be it. What if his score had raised a red flag that caught someone else’s eye? Someone whose interest in him wasn’t nearly as positive or benign as the Center’s?

What if that test had set in motion whatever happened to his mom?

Will heard an odd noise, faint and scratchy. Something was moving through the underbrush near where he’d noticed that peculiar circle of light, which had now faded. He heard branches cracking; it was a deer, most likely. These hills were full of whitetails. Then there was more rustling off to the other side of the road. Louder.

Will stopped. The crackling in the brush stopped as well. When he ran forward again, the sounds picked back up, paralleling his progress forward.

What kind of animal reacts that way?

Will stopped again, but this time the movement continued, on both sides, edging closer to the road. Mountain lions? Not likely. They were native to the area but almost no one ever saw them. And they always hunted alone.

He heard a low, guttural snarl.

Coyotes. Had to be. Will saw more movement in the thickets. Branches were shaking on both sides as the pack closed in.

The wind shifted and he caught a nauseating smell: burned rubber or hair, a heavy dose of rotting eggs. Was it coming off these animals? Will picked up a sturdy dead branch from the side of the path. Down the slope, he noticed a clearing where a mudslide had piled against the edge of the brush line.

As he watched, astonished, impressions appeared in the mud. They were blank and round, like bony knobs. And they appeared in a pattern: two, then one; two, then one, with big gaps in between. Like a tripod working its way toward him up the slope. An invisible tripod.

The snarling began again, all around him on both sides of the road. He heard a low gibbering embedded in the growls, dotted with glottal pulses and a guttering wheezy percussion. It sounded like some sort of language—

Cold terror burst in the pit of his stomach. There’s only one way down from here, Will thought, and if whatever these things are cut off the road …

Will spun around and sprinted down the hill. An instant later he heard them crash after him with a wild whooping yowl. As he neared the end of the ridge, a shadowy mass leaped over him from behind and landed directly in his path. Without breaking stride, Will swung the branch with both hands as hard as he could. The branch shattered as it smacked something he couldn’t see, and whatever he’d hit snarled in pain.

The impact threw Will off stride. He nearly fell, but pivoted, pushed off the ground, and kept his legs churning. Whatever invisible nightmare he’d just smashed with the branch wheeled after him. The air rippled. Something sharp sliced through Will’s sweatshirt and raked across his back. A fiery spike of pain spurred him to run even faster down the winding road.

It was getting hard to see. He could hear the things behind him, but he’d opened up some space. Desperate to extend his lead, Will headed into a sharp turn without slowing. As he planted his left foot to veer right, he hit a patch of mud and skidded. He lost his balance, turned as he fell, and—

Wham. He landed on his left side, rolled, then stuck out his hands as brakes, skidding along the road. He stopped on the outside edge of the curve, just short of plunging over a twenty-foot drop into blackness.

Will dragged himself to his feet and limped on. He heard nauseating yawping sounds, the snorting and snuffling of something wet and fleshy; the things weren’t more than thirty yards behind him now and closing fast. With at least a quarter mile to the end of the fire road, he’d never make it before they caught him.

Farther down the road, a blinding light sliced through the night. A deafening throttle roared and a pair of white-hot headlights hurtled toward him, torque screaming. Was it the black sedan? He couldn’t tell.

Will threw himself to the side of the road as the car passed, the heat of a massive engine warping the air. He caught the acrid smell of burning rubber as it spun sideways and curled behind him. But it wasn’t the sedan. Eyes blinded by the headlights, Will could only make out the black outline of the Prowler he’d seen outside the diner and its hulking driver behind the wheel.

Flames erupted from the Prowler’s twin exhausts with a deafening whoosh. A wall of fire shot into the road behind it, and the creatures chasing Will ran straight into it. Their howls changed to revolting high-pitched squeals. Will saw writhing misshapen masses thrashing around, outlined in fire.

The car skidded beside Will. “Get in,” growled the driver. It was the same voice he’d heard—but in his head—outside the diner that morning.

Will threw himself onto the backseat as the driver gunned the Prowler down the road. Will looked back and saw the burning creatures flail off the edge of the cliff, pinwheeling fiery spirals falling away into a void.

The car roared through the open gate at the base of the road and reached the flats in moments. Will crouched down as they weaved through sharp turns at what seemed like impossible speeds. With the driver hunched over the wheel, in the light of passing streetlamps, Will noticed a large round patch on the back of the man’s leather jacket. Inside it were three images and words he couldn’t make out.

Then, in a strip of darkness, the Prowler skidded to a stop.

“Out,” said the driver.

Will leaped out of the car and backed away. The driver remained in shadow, motionless, staring at him from behind black aviator shades. The man’s taut presence and unsettling stillness held a promise of violence.

“What were those things?” asked Will.

“You don’t want to know,” the driver said.

“But—”

“Stow it. You may think you’re dux, mate, but unless you want to kark it early days, next time don’t be such a nong.”

Will couldn’t place the driver’s accent, which was harsh as a blade. “I’m sorry,” Will said. “I have no idea what you just said.”

The driver leaned forward into the light and lowered his shades. He had fierce black brows above a raptor’s piercing eyes. And scars. Lots of scars.

He held up his right index finger. “That’s one,” said the man. Then he stomped on the gas. The Prowler sped off around a corner, the sound of its engine fading quickly into the night.

Will looked around. He was standing fifty feet from the back door of his house. Music drifted through an open window, a woman’s voice backed by a big band with old-fashioned orchestration:

“If you go out in the woods tonight

You’re in for a big surprise …

If you go out in the woods tonight

You’d better go in disguise …”

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