As he watched, they began to sag tiredly outward in four different directions. The animal's legs were still there, mired in the mud like shake-poles. Again it struck the other bank, this time vaporizing one of Wolf's cattle. The wet, sizzling zap of electricity again, seeming almost to part his hair. Jack thought that was what it was.īut he struggled on toward Wolf, pushing a dying, weakly convulsing cow-sheep out of his way to get there. And in the center, looking like an extra in a film about Admiral Byrd's assault on the South Pole, was Morgan Sloat, his thick red face twisted with murderous rage. The snout of what looked like a Chevrolet pick-up truck was on the right, floating three feet above the field where he and Wolf had been sitting peacefully and talking not five minutes ago. The edge of the brick toilet was on the left side of that blistered, tortured patch of air. He was seeing it as if through ripply, badly made glass. and directly into the rest area on I-70 near Lewisburg, Ohio. Panting, his soaked hair hanging in his eyes, Jack looked over his shoulder. Sorry, but I've got to see if I can avoid getting drowned by Wolf's herd before I see if I can avoid getting fried by your doomstick there. 'Wolf' Jack screamed, but thunder exploded across the blue sky again, drowning him out. It had been tied at the nape of his neck, Jack saw, but most of it had come loose. The hair of Sloat's Twinner was long, black, flapping, somehow dead-looking. His hair renewed itself, growing forward, first tinting the rondure of his skull, as if some invisible being were coloring Uncle Morgan's head, then covering it. As he came he did his own werewolf number, changing from Morgan Sloat, investor, land speculator, and sometime Hollywood agent, into Morgan of Orris, pretender to the throne of a dying Queen. Jack stood, paralyzed, as Sloat bulled his way through the hole between the two universes. He was coughing and staggering, seemingly no longer aware of where he was.Īnd the small silver thing in his hand had turned to a small rod tipped with crawling blue fire. Wolf struggled up again, his hair plastered against his face, his dazed eyes peering through a curtain of it like the eyes of an English sheepdog. That's it, he's gone, must be, let him go, get out of here. He could feel the force of that command, gripping his face with invisible hands, trying to turn it.īut the Queen's son died an infant, died, he.
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