1.
The house was very quiet.
The TV was turned off, and the radio wasn't working. Their weekend guests had gone home, warm and satisfied after a good meal and comfortable conversation. The two-lane dirt road that connected their house to Sioux Falls was dark and empty at that time of night. And there was nobody living in the closest house to them, a mile and a half down the street; it had been abandoned and boarded up for a year. They had no neighbors, and folks didn't stop by unless they were invited. So Bobby and Karen Singer might as well have been the last two souls in South Dakota under that clear and starry night sky.
Then the mass of dark clouds suddenly, inexplicably, almost imperceptibly rolled over them – swift, roiling, flickering and crackling with lightning. This was completely contrary to the weekend weather report, the local report that Bobby and Karen did not hear, since they had not watched the news, and their little transistor radio was currently dismantled on the kitchen table, mute and useless. One of the most violent and inexplicable storms of that summer, it was reported afterwards, came out of absolutely, positively nowhere, and unleashed its fury on a small, ten square mile area in a remote rural section of South Dakota.
Karen barely registered the first grumble of thunder. She was deeply engrossed in a Woman's Day article about the "perfect pot roast," thinking very hard about whether or not to add red wine to the gravy, and mentally tallying the current ratio of carrots to potatoes in her pantry. Her little house was peaceful, peaceful and clean and shabby and perfect. It smelled of Lysol and dish detergent and very faintly of grease and gasoline, but as the latter two reminded her of a steady income, they did not bother her. Her husband was tinkering with their little transistor radio in the kitchen, and the patter of rain on the window next to her comfortable rocking chair was a soothing background thrum.
The next rumble rattled the wooden window pane, and sent her empty tea cup shuddering on its saucer. The accompanying flicker of lightning was like a Polaroid flash, and made her look up briefly and hope that Bobby got the radio working so they could listen to the news. Tornadoes weren't common in Sioux Falls, but Karen was from Oklahoma, and knew how unpredictable they could be. She sent a brief and distracted prayer of thanks for their house's safe dark cellar, hoped the Harvelles made it home safely, and returned to her magazine.
The light on the side table stuttered, and the window clattered again. There was a bright flash, and the following crack shook the house from floorboards to attic. This upgraded the elements from "just some rain" to "oh dear, I've got so much stuff in the freezer, I hope we don't lose power," and Karen put down her Woman's Day and called,
"Bobby? Dear? Is there gas in the generator?"
"Yes, love," called her husband from the kitchen. There was a pause, and Karen could hear the scrape and click of her husband's tools on the recalcitrant radio. It was nice that he was so handy. "Hell of a night out there."
"Mm. Yes." Lightning flashed again, and there was another rumble; the lights flickered again. Well, thinking about pot roast was out of the question. Karen put down her magazine. "Sweetie, you want some tea? I'm gonna make some tea." She put her hands on the rocking chair's arms and stood up.
This time, the flash, the bang, and the faltering lights all seemed to happen at once, and Karen jumped in surprise and alarm. Through her sudden spike of adrenaline, she heard her husband swear.
Then the TV turned on by itself.
Karen stared at it. It showed nothing but static, as though all the stations were out, and hissed and crackled at her. Startled, Karen turned around, noting her knees felt wobbly; her heart was hammering, and she told herself firmly, Don't be so silly. It's just a storm.
"Bobby!" she called, and mentally berated herself for the tremor of nervousness in her voice. The lights flickered again. "Good heavens! What was that?"
"Goddammit."
The lights buzzed, then went out completely, shuttering the house in blue-black gloom. Karen could hear, very faintly, the soft purr of the radio from the kitchen. Karen thought, Did Bobby fix it already? Then it occurred to her that the lights were off, but the TV was still on, emanating its pale, pulsing static.
Another boom of thunder rattled the house, and Karen breathlessly felt her way to the kitchen, determining that, if she were going to die of fright, she'd much rather do it in her husband's arms. She shuffled up against Bobby in the dark. He smelled comfortingly of coffee and clean cotton, and the kitchen window over the sink flickered with driving rain like sparks in the flashes of lightning. She could hear the radio, faint, with voices muffled and indistinguishable behind the static.
"Bobby," she said, her hand closing on the soft flannel of his shirt. Then she heard the TV turn itself off, and the lights came back on. She realized she was clutching him a little harder than a thunderstorm warranted, and let go with a self-conscious laugh. "Wow," she said, smoothing the old flannel. "That was weird."
"Tell me about it." Bobby frowned back at the radio, which was still whistling and rustling on the table. He picked it up and flicked the ON/OFF switch, and with a last fizzle, the sound died. He put it down, looked toward the living room where the TV had turned on, and said slowly, "Eh. I don't like it." He rummaged around in his tool chest, still sitting open on the kitchen table. "You stay put, love. Gonna walk the perimeter." He pulled out his big flashlight and a crowbar. Karen stared at the crowbar and bit her lip.
"Bobby, it's just a storm," she said. There was a double-flash of lightning and a tooth-rattling boom; she jumped and squeaked in surprise, and Bobby chuckled breathily at her when she glared at him.
"Better safe than sorry," he said fondly, dropping an absent-minded kiss on her forehead. "Stay put, love. I'm just gonna check the new flashing on the front porch roof."
"You need a crowbar for flashing?" she asked, suspicious.
Bobby shrugged. "You never know," he said lightly. "Like I said. Better safe than sorry."
Karen was put in mind of the sorts of things that Bill Harvelle had talked about after dinner – monsters and ghosts and hunts and rock salt. This didn't make her feel any better, and she suddenly wanted Bobby to walk out there with more than just a crowbar. "Well," she said nervously, "okay. Be careful."
"I will," said Bobby. He crammed on his feed cap, hefted the crowbar, and grumbled his way out of the kitchen. When he opened the front door, Karen could see the driving rain light up like Christmas tree icicles in the lightning; he was silhouetted against the frenetic light, the crowbar balanced easily on one shoulder. When he shut the door, the thunder boomed and cracked, making it seem as though some celestial power had slammed it closed.
Karen walked around the kitchen table, stared suspiciously at the now-quiet radio, put the kettle on the stove, and took out two mugs and the tea bags. She waited impatiently for Bobby until the kettle sang, listening to the rumble and report of the thunder, watching the blue-white flashes of lightning and hearing the old house clatter and shake.
It shouldn't be taking him this long … should it? Maybe he was in the salvage yard? Or had gone down to the road to check the culvert? It did flood sometimes during a heavy rain, and then she would be moated in, like an enchanted princess in a fairy tale. She allowed herself a small smile at that mental fancy, easily assigning Bobby the role of her knight protector. He'd even look cute in shining armor, bless his heart.
The kettle whistled, and she poured hot water into the mugs, listening hard for her husband's steps on the porch outside. The thunder banged and rattled, and the rain spattered against the window panes. Bobby was going to be soaked. And she had just mopped the floor, too.
And then she heard it behind the heavenly racket: a high, thin, wrenching cry.
Baby? she thought automatically, then telling herself to be reasonable, Bobcat, owl?
Another crack of thunder obscured it, but when that faded, Karen could hear the wail – muffled by the drumming rain and furor, it keened into a crescendo, then sobbed its way down the scale until it was lost in the tumult of the elements.
Karen knew enough about the wildlife thereabouts that she was certain it was not a baby. Owls, wild cats, and other things sounded very much like people, especially at night, especially when your nerves were a little frayed by the continuous wreck of a storm battering your home, especially when your husband was tromping around in the rain and lightning, armed with nothing but a flashlight and a crowbar. She should certainly not fly off half-cocked because some beast had got caught in the storm.
But then she thought of a lost, half-drowned cat, crying alone and helpless in the downpour, maybe even trapped and struggling, and her sympathies smote her hard. She covered the mugs with a tea towel to keep them hot, took her old scratchy sweater from the coat rack and put it on, and followed the cry out to the back door towards the salvage yard. Bobby would grumble about the mess and bother and not wanting the trouble of a pet anything, but Karen knew she could not in good conscience fail to heed a cat's cry of distress – not when she was here, dry, warm, and safe inside her house. He would just have to let her have her way for once. And even if he wouldn't let her keep the cat for good, at least she could do her good deed and save its life.
She unbolted the back door and cringed back a little from the chill and fury of the storm. She should have brought a flashlight and an umbrella. But she gamely stepped out of the shelter of the back porch, wincing back from the stinging, lashing rain.
It was surprisingly cold for a June night. Lightning flashes illuminated the hulking wrecks of cars and trucks, and reflected brightly off the steel-sided sheds and garages. There were several deep, muddy rivulets choking and gurgling through the yard, and the sound of water striking water was almost as loud as the rain hammering against the metal sheds. She stumbled over tussocks of weeds, slipping in the muck, trying to shield her eyes from the driving rain. She ducked into the scant shelter of the low eaves of the rusty garage, ever hearing the petulant wail wind up, stutter, and die down into low snagged sobs. Crazy scary how a cat can sound, she said firmly to herself, wrapping her soaked sweater more tightly around her shoulders.
She followed the cry around the other side of the garage, her feet sinking into the wet earth and mud, and staggering a little when the ground gave beneath her. She steadied herself on the garage wall; it was slick with water, and cold. She was getting very wet. Rain drenched her shoulders and legs, and her hair was dripping. She wiped it out of her eyes and blinked, her eyes growing accustomed to the darkness. She rounded the corner, then stopped dead next to the shell of an old truck, staring, her heart hammering.
Sitting naked in a mud puddle, soaked and shaking in the dark driving rain, was a baby boy, little dimpled hands clutched into fists, crying his heart out.
It was 1980, and although Karen was not what anyone would have labeled a Liberated Woman, neither was she by any means a coward. She had no issues with the sudden swell of motherly instinct that made her step fearlessly down the slick slope into the darkness toward the baby. He turned to her, lifting his arms and raising his voice into a pleading wail, and she reached down to him, grasping his small hands. They were cold and slippery. Tiny fingers clutched at her own, and she smiled down into his frightened little face, wanting nothing more than to warm and comfort him.
Karen saw that he was little – younger than her youngest niece, probably less than a year old – with pale skin and dark hair, and eyes that seemed brighter than they ought to have been in this unlit corner of the salvage yard. He took in a shuddering breath and stared up at her, his little rosebud mouth pouting down, and her heart melted. She put her hands firmly under his arms and pulled.
He ought to have been easy enough for Karen to lift, but something made him very heavy, something wrapped around him, dragging against her leg, some sort of dark cloth or –
Lightning flashed, and she saw them, dark and drooping from the baby's naked back. She jerked away on a peal of thunder, certain she was dreaming, or had mistaken a coat or blanket for something else. But then the baby, denied her proffered comfort, let loose a shrill shriek, and flared the black wings out, spraying water and mud all over her. They stretched, trembling and glistening in the darkness, wider than a man was tall.
Karen felt suddenly faint.
Wings.
That's why he weighs so much, she thought, remembering her mother telling her, a long time ago, about cormorants that had to dry their wings after a dive because they got too heavy to fly. He can't fly, he's soaked –
She gave another shaky step back, her head spinning, wondering if she were dreaming. The baby stretched out his arms imploringly; his little hands were shaking, and the wings fluttered clumsily. He raised his voice in a plaintive wail, and a flash of lightning illuminated the large black appendages, wallowing sluggishly in the mud.
Karen thought, Bobby. Bobby will know what to do. She ought to go get her husband. She should leave – go inside – find him – bring him out here to handle it. She took another step back away from the baby, and he stared desperately up at her, his arms falling into the water. She shook her head. Any more rain like this, and he would get washed away …
Then she felt it: a prickling on the back of her neck as though she were being watched.
She turned, and in the dull glow from the garage safety light, she saw reflected two red eyes, and heard a low growl. Coyote, she thought, heart hammering; then, Or something bigger. She could hear her own breath, short and panicky, and under the clatter of the rain on the wet ground, the faint sounds of something large moving around in the wreckage.
The baby sobbed, and Karen turned back to him. He was staring past her, to where she had seen the eyes, heard the growl. Whatever it was out there, it was watching that baby, and Karen was pretty certain its intentions were not benevolent.
Lightning flashed again, and Karen shut her brain off and let her heart make the decision. She stepped, slipping a little, back down to the baby, put her hands under his arms, and heaved up. The wings dragged behind him, limp and heavy. Cold little fingers sought her neck, and before Karen knew it, a small, wet face was pressed into her sweater.
She cradled the shaking body close to her, noting how one of the wings flapped weakly, while the other one tucked itself close in. The baby was very heavy and very cold, and his wet skin made him slick. Karen looked back over at the dark corner past the garage. The two red eyes were gone, but she still felt uncannily as though something was watching her from the shadows.
Clutching him close, she turned back toward the warm light of the house and ran as fast as she could, hoping she was only imagining canine growls in her wake.
