"The people gathered their pitchforks and torches, of course"—his brief laugh was darker now—"and waited where Carbomb had seen the monsteres exit into the street. Eventually one emerged."
His voice was very quiet; I strained to catch the words.
"He must have been ancient, old, and weak from hunger. Carbomb heard him call out in Latin to the others when he caught the fragrant scent of the mob. He ran through the streets, and Carbomb—he was twenty-three and very fast—was in the lead of the pursuit. The creature could have easily outrun them, but Carbomb thinks he was too hungry, too drawn to the crowd's blood to run away from it. So he turned and attacked. He fell on Carbomb first, but the others were close behind, and he turned to defend himself. He killed two men, and made off with a third, leaving Carbomb bleeding in the street."
He paused. I could sense he was editing something, keeping yet another thing from me. I wondered what it was.
"Carbomb knew what his father would do. The bodies would be burned—anything infected by the monstere must be destroyed. Not wanting to be destroyed, he acted instinctively. He crawled away from the alley into a cellar, buried himself in a pile of rotting potatoes and horse feces for three days. It's a miracle he was able to keep silent, to not cry out from the stench.
"It was over then, and he realized what he had become."
I wasn't sure what my face had revealed, but he suddenly broke it off.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
"I'm fine," I assured him. And, though I bit my lip

333

Chapter 15

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