Gingerbread Man

on to her. Kept her close to his side, tried to keep her warm. She didn't pull away, but he wasn't sure if that was because she'd forgiven him or because she needed his body heat. Every now and then he drew her to a stop, and listened for a moment. There was something—some sound—every time, but damned if he could distinguish the creak of a limb in the wind from the hurried footsteps of a squirrel. It all sounded alike to him. Rustling leaves and snapping twigs.
    They walked on. They were both getting colder with every yard they trekked. If they didn't find shelter soon, he wasn't sure they'd make it.
    "I felt a r-r-raindrop," Holly said unnecessarily.
    He glanced down at her. Her lips were pale and she was shivering again. He didn't have a clue where the hell they were. They'd topped a small hill, and he looked around, then looked harder at what seemed to be lights coming from the top of a bigger hill just ahead. And then he realized he was seeing that crazy old actor's house, its windows alight.
    "There," he said, pointing. "Come on, we'll go there."
    She glanced up, following his gaze to the hulking mansion, which seemed to list slightly to one side. "Reggie's place," she said. "F-f-finally. God, I hope he d-doesn't mind. N-n-no one goes to his p-place uninvited."
    "Tough."
    "B-but—" She turned toward him as she spoke, and then she just flew backward. The wet ground beneath her feet crumbled, and she fell, hit the sloping hillside, and tumbled all the way to the bottom.
    "Jesus! Red!" Vince ran, stumbling, after her. She lay still at the bottom, and he dropped to his knees and pulled her into his arms. "Holly? C'mon, talk to me." The rain was falling harder now. As if they needed more problems.
    Lightning crashed and the wind blew even harder.
    She opened her eyes slowly. They were unfocused. Her lips barely moving, her voice barely audible, she whispered, "I’m... ok-k-kay."
    "No, you're not." Dammit, she'd hit her head again. It was bleeding. And her voice was slurred. He should have been holding on to her more tightly when they stopped at the hilltop. With a surge of guilt, he scooped her up, and carried her up the steep incline toward the isolated house of the eccentric hermit, which was farther away now than it had been before. And the storm cut loose with all its fury.

TWELVE
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    THE STORM WAS brutal, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do to protect Holly from its fury. Pounding rain soaked the carpet of fallen leaves, making them slick. He carried her as fast as he could manage without falling and dumping them both. She was no longer conscious. But he was pretty sure she was alive. Bending over her as well as he could, he trudged toward the house. Yellow light spilled from its myopic windows, and the house seemed to hunch against the rain like an old man, dressed in fading goth. It tried to be imposing, like something out of one of its owner's old films, but instead it was just sad. The wind sucked up piles of leaves, then coughed them out again in great gusts. And he bowed into it and walked onward, uphill, to the pinnacle, the crown.
    He'd heard sounds again and again in the dark woods, before the storm had cut loose. Footsteps, maybe. Maybe just deer and rabbits having a laugh at his expense. Who the hell knew? There could be an army trailing his ass now and he wouldn't know it.
    Finally, he was at the top of the large, wet hill. Face-to-face, in fact, with the wrought-iron fence that surrounded the place. Every four feet, like clockwork, a rabid-looking iron bat perched atop a fence pole, snarling down at would-be intruders. Christ. It was supposed to be intimidating, but the effect was ruined by sections that no longer stood perfectly upright. They tilted inward here, outward there. He grabbed hold of a bar, gave it a shake, but, despite its lopsidedness, the fence was solid. Thirty yards of weed-choked lawn stood between it and the back door. He looked at the length of the damn fence he was going to have to walk to get to the front. Holly slid lower and he hiked her up, kept on walking.
    Rain beaded on her face, and dripped steadily from her hair. It was pelting her cheeks, her eyes, while the wind whipped her hair, and it didn't even faze her. She didn't even flinch. Vince was cold right to his bones. His feet had morphed into frozen concrete blocks. He couldn't feel anything from them except their weight. His knuckles— those he felt. They throbbed and howled. His face burned and he