The Taking

could not push him off, so before he could strike again, she raised her head off the floor and bit his face. Would have gone for his throat. Couldn't thrust her head in at the right angle, had to go higher. Lower teeth under his jawbone, upper teeth sunk in his unscarred cheek.
        He howled and reared back from her, and she held on as if she were a terrier. He flailed on her shoulders, on the sides of her head, glancing blows, thrown in panic, and Molly wouldn't relent.
        He reared up farther, just far enough, and she unlocked her bite, spat him out, shoved him off, levered him aside, thrashed away from him.
        The savage, shocked by savagery when it was committed against him, rolled onto his side, and clasped both hands to his torn face, assessing the damage with whimpered disbelief.
        Spitting out his blood, gagging on the taste, spitting again, and then again before she would allow herself to gasp for breath, Molly seized the flashlight, scrambled to her feet.
        She had seconds, three or four. His shock would be brief, his rage swift, his vengeance brutal.
        Lambs, he had said. The little lambs are mine. Must be more than one child in the room where Virgil had gone. Sacrifices, he had said.
        Phantom bells rang in her damaged ear, and the half-crushed cartilage prickled like glass.
        Somewhere the pistol. She had to find it. Her only hope.
        Carpet, spatters of blood, carpet, dirty footprint, coins that had perhaps spilled from his pockets, all in the questing beam of light, but no pistol.
        Cursing her in a slurred voice, air whistling through his torn cheek with each word, he was on his hands and knees, coming up.
        Hoping to buy time to find the handgun, she kicked at his head, missed. He snared her foot, almost toppled her, lost his grip.
        Carpet, carpet, blot of blood, more coins, carpet, a hand-rolled cigarette-weed, twisted at both ends-carpet, no gun, no gun. He might have fallen on the pistol.
        No more time. She ran to the nearest room, fencing shadows with the flashlight, threw the door shut behind her, fumbled for the lock, hoping there would be one, and there was, just a privacy latch, no deadbolt.
        The latch clicked, and he hit the door hard, shook it by the knob. He would kick it next. The latch was flimsy. It wouldn't hold.

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    55
        
        MANDOLIN AND FLUTE AND TAMBOURINE AND French horn on a bed of holly, encircled with ribbons, formed the motif on the seat of the straight-backed needlepoint chair to the left of the door.
        In the hall, the bitten man kicked the door. The latch twanged but didn't spring, though one more kick would pop it.
        Molly tipped the chair onto its back legs and quickly wedged the head-rail under the doorknob.
        A second kick shattered the latch mechanism, but the bracing chair held the door and resisted a third kick as well, exquisite needlepoint proving a match for savagery, as ought to be the case in a properly ordered world.
        He cursed her, pounded on the door with a fist. "I'll be back at you," he promised. "I'll be back when I'm done with my lambs."
        Then maybe he went away.
        Whether he was waiting for her or not, he was just a man, not something from another world. He hadn't been able to phase through the barricaded door.
        Numerous encounters with threats unearthly and unthinkable had left her unharmed, yet an ordinary man had wounded her. In this fact was a significance that she could sense but not grasp, and once more she felt herself to be on the doorstep of a revelation of enormous importance.
        She had no time to connect the puzzle pieces to which intuition had called her attention. Contemplation required peace and time, and she had none of either.
        The beast she'd bitten had said the lambs, the children, were his sacrifices. To what, to whom, on what altar, for what purpose did not matter, only his intention-and stopping him.
        Her crushed and bleeding ear ached, but it no longer rang. She could hear well enough.
        The only sound was the ceaseless movement inside the walls, the rustle and slither. No voices rose from the whispery throng.
        Through her rolled waves of nausea. Saliva flooded her mouth. She could still taste blood, so she spat instead of swallowing, and spat again.
        Turning from the door, probing with the flashlight, the first thing she saw