Key Of Valor (Key 3)

But college, New York, and for keeps were all a lifetime away. A million summers away. Right now, he liked being exactly where he was, a little buzzed on beer by a campfire in the woods.

Being so high in the hills only added to the adventure of driving up there with Jordan and Flynn, climbing over the high stone wall like a gang breaking into prison instead of out.

He had to work on Monday. Good old B. C. didn't tolerate malingerers. Vanes pulled their weight, even during summer vacation, and that was okay. But he had the whole weekend to hang out with his friends. To tromp around in the woods, in the wild grass, to know there was no one to tell them not to.

He understood all about responsibility—to family, to the business, to the Vane name. One of these days he would make his own mark—like his grandfather, like his father had. But sometimes a guy just had to get away from all that and have a beer, a couple of burnt hot dogs, and a night around a campfire with good friends.

He didn't know where the hell they'd gone off to, but he was too lazy to find out. He sipped the beer, ignoring the little voice in his head that said he didn't actually like the sharp, yeasty taste all that much. He smoked a cigarette and watched the fireflies put on their nightly light show.

The hoot of an owl was just creepy enough to give him a thrill, and the steady hum of insects added a nice backdrop to his thoughts about how soon he might talk Patsy Hourback into the backseat of his car. So far she was being very strict about limiting their activities to tonsil-diving kisses and the occasional tantalizing handful of breast—on top of her shirt.

He really wanted to get that shirt off Patsy Hourback.

The trouble was, she wanted him to say he loved her first, and that was just way too intense. He liked her, a lot, and he had a serious case of lust going for her, but love? Jesus.

That was scary, long-time-in-the-future stuff. He didn't love Patsy, and didn't see his feelings going in that direction. When he took that fall it would be… later—that was for sure. It would be a hell of a lot later, and with someone he couldn't quite see yet. Someone he didn't even want to see yet.

He had a lot of things to do first, a lot of places to go.

But meanwhile, his just-in-case condom was burning a hole in his wallet, and he really wanted a shot at Patsy Hourback.

He finished the beer

and contemplated having the second of his share of the six-pack. But it wasn't much fun drinking it by himself.

The rustle in the brush made him grin. "That must've been the longest piss in history, especially when you've got that little dick to work with."

He waited for the rude comment or insult, then frowned when the woods settled into silence again. "Come on, guys, I heard you out there. You don't come back, I'm going to drink the rest of the beer myself."

The answer was another rustle, from the opposite direction. He felt a chill creep up his spine, but defended his manhood by reaching for the second beer. "Yeah, that's going to scare me. Jesus, it must be Jason in his hockey mask! Help, help. You two are so lame."

He snorted, popped the top on the beer, and took a long swallow for form. The growl came out of the dark, and was wet and hungry.

"Cut it out, Hawke, you asshole." But the order squeezed out, thin and jumpy, from a throat that had snapped shut. His hand inched along the ground in search of one of the sharpened sticks they'd used to roast the dogs.

The scream ripped through the silence, horrible and packed with fear and pain. Brad shot to his feet, the stick clutched in his hand like a sword. He whirled in a circle, fear gnawing at his belly as he searched the shadows.

For a long, long moment, there was no sound but his own raging heart.

When the scream came again, it was his name.

Fireflies flashed in mad flicks of light as Brad sprinted toward the sound. It had been Flynn's voice, a desperate high-wire sound of terror, of agony, that couldn't have been faked. There was another call, equally urgent. This one from Jordan, from behind him, and it seemed to shatter the night.

Torn, panicked, he spun back. A thrashing sounded in the dark, rushed toward him with a force that couldn't have been human. Suddenly the night was full of sound. The wind roared through the trees, limbs crashed to the forest floor around him. And cries came from every direction at once. As he ran, the summer heat turned to bitter, biting cold and a mist spilled over the ground, rising like a river until it was nearly to his knees.

Fear was wild in his belly—for his friends, for himself.

He burst out of the trees into the high grass that spread beneath the spears and towers of Warrior's Peak.

The moon, fat and full, rode overhead. In its light he saw his friends, sprawled in that high grass. Torn to pieces. Mindless prayers ripped from his throat as he raced forward.

He slipped on blood, and worse, went down on his hands and knees in a gruesome skid near Flynn's body. His stomach heaved as he clutched at his friend and his hands came away wet and warm.

The blood dripped from Brad's fingers in the clear light of that perfect white moon.

"No." He said it softly, in a voice that shook. Closing his eyes, he gathered himself, dug as deep as he could. "No." His voice strengthened as he opened his eyes and forced himself to look again. "This is bullshit."

While Brad stared, fighting grief and fear, Flynn turned his head on his torn neck and grinned. "Hey, asshole. Guess what? You're next."