I twist my head away. Shoving it. Pushing at it.
The wings flap and scrape my face. The ugly bird grips me tightly, holding on so it can attack. Again. Again.
I feel hot blood pouring down my cheeks.
“Get off! Get OFF!” I scream.
I stare into the empty eye socket. I can see torn veins and muscles deep inside, as if the eye had been ripped out of its head.
Another shrill screech of attack rings in my ears.
I feel dizzy.
This isn’t happening. This can’t be happening.
No way I’m being attacked by a one-eyed bird in the middle of the night in the Fear Street Woods.
But it is happening.
And I can’t fight the bird off. Too strong. Too heavy and strong.
And angry.
I bat at the bird with both hands. Swing at it, twisting my body, ducking my head.
It scrapes my face again. I feel its sharp bill dig into my skin. Blood pours down both cheeks, from my forehead, over my eyes.
Can’t see.
Can’t see through the flowing blood.
I drop to the ground beneath the beating wings.
I drop to my knees and struggle to cover my head.
But I feel the pinch of pain as it digs its talons into the back of my neck.
It attacks again. Again.
I’m whimpering now. Covering my head with both hands.
Helpless as it lowers its head to attack again.
“Get off! Get OFF!”
Helpless.
Is it going to kill me?
4
How long was I in the woods? What happened to me there? Why do I have streaks of caked blood on my jacket?
I can’t answer those questions.
I feel dazed and shaken. And every part of my body hurts. But I can’t answer any questions.
I pull open the door of Nights Bar and smell that familiar beery aroma. I blink a few times, letting my eyes adjust to the low lights.
I squint at the yellow neon Budweiser sign behind the long bar at the front. It says: one-thirty.
I step up to the bar and call to the bartender, Ryland O’Connor, who doesn’t pick up his head from the Biker magazine he is reading.
Ryland is a tall, stocky, red-faced guy, with spiky blond hair, a silver ring in one ear, and crinkled-up eyes that always seem to be laughing. He has three tiny, blue stars tattooed on his right temple. And a long scar on one cheek that he won’t tell anyone how he got.
“Hey, Ry,” I say, my voice hoarse. “I really need a beer.”
He slowly gazes up at me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
I blink. “Oh, yeah. For sure.”
I back up and kiss the brass plaque on the wall by the front door.
The plaque shows the two original Fears—Angelica and Simon—just their faces, young faces, like they’re in their twenties or maybe thirties. Underneath, it says, FIRST SETTLERS OF SHADYSIDE. FEAR MANSION BUILT ON THIS SPOT IN 1889.
We all kiss the plaque when we come into Nights. I mean, just about everyone kisses it. Partly as a joke, and maybe some of us think it keeps bad luck away. I’m not so sure. My friend Galen kissed it one night and his lips got stuck to it. It was horrible. He wound up in the hospital. The weird thing is it happened right after he told me he knew something really important about the Fears. Something dangerous! But I kiss it, anyway.
Ryland slides a bottle of Bud across the bar to me. He knows none of us Night People are old enough. He knows we all have fake IDs. But he’s cool about it.
I tilt the bottle to my mouth and take a long pull. My neck aches. All of my muscles ache, as if I’ve been in an accident or something.
I turn and take a few steps beyond the bar. I see my buddy Shark sitting with Lewis Baransky in a booth against the back wall.
“Hey, Nate—” Jamie Richards calls to me. She’s at a table with Ada, my girlfriend. It seems weird to call Ada that. We’ve only been going out a few weeks. It just sort of happened. I’m not really sure how.
We’ve been friends for a long time. And then, suddenly . . . wow.
I walk over to Jamie and Ada. I lean down and kiss Ada on the lips. She raises her hands to my face—then jerks them away.
She stares at me wide-eyed. “Nate—what happened to you?”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
Both girls are staring at me now. I drop down in the chair next to Ada.
“Your face—,” Ada says. “Is that blood?”
I raise a hand to my cheek. It feels crusty. It hurts when I touch it.
Ada reaches her hand into my hair. “Oh, gross.” She makes a disgusted face. “Dried blood. In your hair.”
Jamie frowns at me. “What happened? Are you okay? Were you in an accident?”
I shut my eyes to think about it. I have a hollow feeling in my stomach. And my brain . . . my mind is a blank.
“You’re totally scratched up, Nate,” Ada says, grabbing my hand. “Look. There’s blood on your hands, too.”