Free Bad Moon Rising by Jonathan Maberry

bones. “No, goddamn it!”
    Newton reached out, gave the ignition a violent turn, and the car coughed itself awake; he slammed it into Drive and pulled away from the curb. He didn’t head home, but instead did a screeching U-turn in the middle of the street, ignoring the bleat of horns, and when he stamped down on the gas the Civic lurched forward in the direction of his office. He needed a good computer and a better Internet connection than the dial-up he had at home. He needed to get some answers, and he needed them now.
    He ran two red lights and a stop sign as he barreled out of town, down A-32, past the dirt road the led down to Dark Hollow—which sent a chill through him despite his anger—past the Guthrie farm, all the way to the Black Marsh Bridge. In his pocket, forgotten in the midst of everything else, the old coin he’d found on the slopes of the Dark Hollow pitch jingled among the newer change. It was a weatherworn dime someone had once drilled a hole through so a Louisiana aunt could put a string through it and tie it around the ankle of her nephew from Mississippi. A charm against evil that Oren Morse had worn until the day he died. A charm that he’d lost just minutes before the town fathers of Pine Deep had beaten him to death.
    With all the residual hot-blood flush in his thighs from where he’d pounded out his rage, Newton did not feel the dime flare to mild heat as he drove. Later on he would remember that dime, and a toss of that coin would decide the life or death of a lot of people in Pine Deep. Including Newton.
    (5)

    “What the hell are you doing up there?”
    Vic’s voice caught him unaware and Ruger stiffened, but he composed his face into a bland smile before he turned and looked down the stairs to where Vic stood on the basement floor, fists on hips, glowering.
    “I smelled cooking,” Ruger said as he slowly descended the steps, making it a slow roll, making it look casual, like Vic’s hard look was nothing.
    Vic looked at him and then up at the near side of the cellar door. “Cooking, my ass. You’re still sniffing after Lois.”
    Ruger said nothing as he brushed by him, making sure to use one hard shoulder to clip Vic on the pass-by. Ruger knew he was a lot stronger than Vic and he wanted to leave a bruise. Like the Indians used to do in the books he used to read. Counting coup.
    “I’m talking to you asshole,” Vic snarled. The bump had knocked him off balance but he recovered cat-quick and gave Ruger a hard one-handed shove that knocked the cold-skinned man into the corner of the workbench. Ruger rebounded from the desk and spun so fast that he appeared to melt into shadows; one moment he was by the desk, the next he was beside Vic with one icy hand clamped around the man’s throat.
    “You don’t lay hands on me, motherfucker…not ever. I’ll tear your heart out and wipe my ass with it.”
    There was a small metallic click and then Ruger felt a touch even colder than his own as the barrel of a pistol pressed upward beneath his chin. “You really want to dance, Sport?” Vic said; his voice was a choked whisper, but the hand holding the gun barrel was rock solid.
    Ruger’s eyes had gone totally dark again and they burned into Vic as the moment stretched itself thin around them. Vic could feel Ruger’s hunger, his power, prowling around in his mind, could feel the shadowy charisma of that stare as if it were a physical thing, but he kept his gun hand steady. Upstairs Lois put a pan in the sink and started the water, each sound clear and distinct. Both men involuntarily shifted their eyes upward, held their gazes there for a moment, and then awareness kicked in and they noticed each other’s look. Their eyes met and lowered together.
    “Take your hand off me, Sport, or I’ll paint the ceiling with what’s left of your brains.”
    For a microsecond Ruger’s hand tightened, but then he abruptly let go. “Like you even care about that bitch.”
    Vic almost reached his