Nocturnal

Tard’s First Time

Out of all Mommy’s children, Tard could hide the best. That was why Sly picked him to watch the monster. It wasn’t fair that Sly made Tard miss out on all the fun, but now Sly was making it better.

If the amberlamps took the monster, Sly said, then Tard could be free to hunt — just keep it quiet so Firstborn didn’t find out. Hunting! Tard had never been hunting. Sly was a great friend.

Tard could hide good because he could look like other things. Right now he looked a lot like part of a gnarled tree trunk. Golden Gate Park had lots of gnarled trees on the sides of the dirt walking paths, trees that twisted into corkscrew-trunk patches with little spaces inside. In those spaces, especially in the dark, no one could see Tard. There was no light in the park other than a half moon filtering through the tall pines that stretched high above.

Tard looked an awful lot like wood, but that didn’t stop his heart from beating so hard, making it difficult for him to stay still. So this was what it was like to hunt. No wonder Sly always wanted to do it.

Tard moved only his eyes, watching the prey move toward him along the dirt path. A teenage boy, a teenage girl. Holding hands. No one would want to hold Tard’s hands, and that wasn’t fair. Why should prey get to do that? He had always wanted to punish the people he saw, the people holding hands, the people kissing.

The boy looked up, looked right into Tard’s little hidey-spot — then looked away. He hadn’t seen Tard. That was because Tard wasn’t Tard anymore, he really was Chameleon.

The teenage couple walked closer. Chameleon’s heartbeat kicked up another notch. So exciting! Would the prey run before they reached his spot? Would they sense him?

He had never killed before. Well, not since he’d been a little boy in the Groom’s Walk, but that had been so long ago. Fear of Firstborn and fear of Savior had always kept him in check, but maybe Firstborn wouldn’t be in charge that much longer, and the amberlamps had taken Savior away.

This was it. Tard — no, Chameleon — was really going to do this.

He held his breath as the couple moved within five steps.

Then four.

Then three.

When they were only a few feet away, Tard reached out cat-quick, one rough gnarled hand wrapping around each mouth.

He pulled them into his dark little fort.