by Fawn Bonning
Father Carmino’s chin dropped to his chest, even as his arms did to his sides, sending the small cross to the floor with a tiny, tinny clink. His round face contorted into a wrinkled mass, and a sob burst forth, loud, uninhibited, one wrenched from someplace deep. He stood, and the seat which had supported him for countless years toppled, the loose leg coming free at last to clatter on hard wooden planks.
Still sobbing, he collapsed to his knees.
“That’s it,” the caped man spoke, his eyes growing wide and his grin wider. “You’re doing well, Father. Calm yourself. You can do this.”
The Father’s shoulders hitched in one final sob, before he composed himself enough to peer up to the face of the self-proclaimed God. He seemed to tower so terribly tall, his shoulders thrown back in proud defiance as dark, demented eyes glowed in earnest anticipation.
With one last shuddering sniffle, Father Carmino steepled his fingers beneath his nose, watching as the man held his breath till his face turned flush.
Turning away from the eager eyes, Father Camino cast his glance toward the heavens. “Dear God,” he breathed, “forgive this sinner.”
The man’s eyes popped wide. His lips pulled back in a garish grimace and a guttural growl rumbled forth as he lunged with hands fashioned into deadly claws.
And then the claws were flailing at air, the cape flapping as he tried to catch himself. The rosary beads—slick as marbles beneath his leather soles—took his feet out from under him, and he hit the floor with a startled grunt, hit so hard on the flat of his back that the Father felt the impact beneath his own soles.
Father Carmino needed no further sign. Moving as if he’d lost thirty pounds and thirty years, he sprang to his feet and snatched up the broken stool leg. A virile growl spewed forth as he drove it into the creature’s chest with the strength of a thousand men, through flesh and muscle and bone until it bottomed out on the floor beneath him. “HE IS WATCHING, YOU FUCKER!” he screamed. “HE HAS TO BE! HAS TO BE! WHO ELSE CAN SAVE ME!”
Stumbling backward, he pressed the back of his hand to his mouth as he watched the man writhe. He was hissing…as if a serpent vomited up from the depths of Hell. And his legs were thrashing, as if he meant to run from a death he never saw coming. Cramped fingers clutched the wooden stool leg as if he meant to wrench it free.
Despite the horrific scene, Father Carmino stepped closer. “He is listening!” he insisted staunchly. “There is still time. Ask for forgiveness! Repent! The Lord Almighty is merciful! Quickly! There is no penance in the bottomless pit that is Hell!”
The pathetic creature ceased its thrashing, though hands like talons still gripped the wooden stake. Glaring eyes slithered around the room, landing lastly upon the Father.
“Bite me!” he hissed, and then spoke no more. His head fell limp, though his hands held firm, would hold thus until Father Carmino so chose to pry them free.
Father Carmino struggled with the want to throw back his head and erupt into laughter at the man’s choice of words. But he dared not laugh in the wake of the evil which had just unfurled its foul wings in the house of the Lord. A soul had surrendered itself to darkness. There was no tragedy greater. A soul was a precious thing. So very precious.
He released a jagged sigh, feeling a deep sense of longing for something he had lost so long ago. So very, very long.
He studied the wretched creature. Laid out flat on the floor, he seemed thinner than at first he’d appeared. Frail almost. And the hands clutching the stool leg were horribly scarred. He’d been in a fire. And the cape fanned out about him was not as impressive as it should have been, merely a simple costume cape.
Moving closer, he knelt down to peer into the glazed eyes, then reached a finger into the man’s mouth to pry out the fake fangs. Shaking his head, he cast them aside. Nothing but cheap plastic.
His shirt was just as cheap. Not silk. Some synthetic acrylic blend. The tip of a picture was poking from the pocket. He slipped it halfway out to peek. A family photo. He hardly recognized the man without his cape. There was color in his face, a healthy tan. His hair was cut short and he was wearing a white Polo shirt and a handsome grin. The attractive woman beside him had dark hair and blue eyes. The young girl had dimples and daisies on her dress. The small boy had a big smile and was missing his front teeth. The dog was big and black and shaggy. He’d seen that dog before, had fed it several times out in the parking lot before it moved on.
His hand was trembling as he slid the photo back into the pocket.
He’d given him every chance to save himself. He always did. But some just couldn’t be saved. The good Lord had taught him that long ago. Every day He managed to teach him something new. Today’s lesson had been on irony. He truly did work in mysterious ways. And He always provided. Always.
His eyes were drawn to the soft curve of the man’s neck. The smell of fresh blood was overpowering. It was tantalizing his senses, caressing him like a tender lover, the warm sensual scent whispering sweetly of raptures forthcoming. His lids fluttered as he wet his lips.
Closing his eyes, he bowed his head. “Dear Lord,” he breathed, “thank you for this meal.”
Swooping in, he sank his fangs into the tender flesh.
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Bodark
(Thing in the Storm)
“Jeez, Louise, whose idea was this anyway?” Brushing the snow from her shoulders, Cathy stomped her feet on the mat just inside the front door.
“Don’t look at me,” Debra groaned as she pulled off her gloves and stuffed them in her pocket. Unzipping her jacket, she peeled it off and pulled a hanger from the coat closet. “Four days and nights on the beaches of Brazil sounds pretty good right about now.”
“Oh, whatever,” Melanie grumbled. “You’re a bunch of crybabies.” Pulling off her fur-lined boots, she tossed them across the room where they tumbled to a stop under the table in the kitchen nook. She followed in their path, yanking off her gloves. “Which of you whiners wants coffee?” she asked as she headed for the kitchen.
“Me,” Debra said.
“Me too,” Cathy seconded. “Holy moly, my feet feel like icicles.” Collapsing to the couch, she pulled off her boots and socks, and propped one foot in her lap to begin the arduous task of rubbing some warmth back into it. “God, you’re right, Deb,” she said, keeping her voice low. “What I wouldn’t give to be on a sunny beach right about now.”
“Damn right,” Debra said as she plopped down on the couch beside her. Picking up a throw pillow, she studied the scene imprinted on it; Covered wagons, tumbleweeds, and long-horned steers. “My neon-pink bikini,” she sighed, “a big white floppy hat and oversized sunglasses, a fruity alcoholic beverage dangling in my dainty little hand. Hunky, bronzed gods in Brazilian bikinis all vying for the attention of one hot, red-headed, freckle-faced, fair-skinned goddess.”
“Yeah, right,” Cathy snorted as she massaged her foot. “Dream on. Have we forgotten that this svelte, purring kitty-cat would be lounging next to you in her leopard-skin bikini? That means all the Brazilian gods would be tripping over their Frisbees and volleyballs to capture the attention of this blonde, buxom beauty.” Thrusting her chest out, she struck what she apparently thought was a seductive pose.
Debra smacked a palm to her forehead. “What could I have been thinking? Who would ever look my way with a purring pussy in leopard skin sitting beside me with her bleached-blonde hair, and fake-boobs, and—”
“My boobs are fake!” Cathy shrieked. Stretching out the collar of her sweater, she peered down incredulously. “Holy Toledo torpedoes!” she gasped. “And my hair is frosted, thank you very much,” she said, letting her sweater snap back into place. “And don’t worry, I’d throw any leftovers your way.”
“Really?” Debra gasped, an expression of immense gratitude plastered across her pale, freckled face. “You are too generous, pussycat.”
“Hello. I can hear you,” Melanie said as she shuffled out with two steaming cups o
f coffee. “Face it, we’re not on some damn beach in Brazil. We’re snowed-in in some backwoods cabin in North Dakota, and yes, that’s right, you got it, it’s all my fault.”
“Jeez, Mel, don’t have a cow,” Cathy said. “We’re just goofin’ around.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not in a goofin’ around mood, I guess.” Handing them each a mug, she glanced to the window. “I can’t figure where the hell this storm came from,” she said, folding her arms across her chest. “The forecast said it was going to be beautiful all week.”
Deb put the mug to her nose, breathing in the aroma. “We know. It’s not your fault. Hell, we all agreed on skiing, didn’t we?”
“Yep,” Cathy said, blowing gently on her coffee. “I have to admit, it looked quite appealing in the brochure.”
“Sure did,” Debra agreed. “Rustic cabin in the woods. Limitless skiing.”
“Yep,” Cathy continued. “Group dinners at the lodge, complete with rich, eligible bachelors.”
“Christ!” Melanie snapped, thrusting her hands on her hips. “Is that all you ever think about? Is every second of your pathetic life centered around finding the next prospect to hop into the sack with?”
“Jeez,” Cathy breathed, “What climbed up your wazoo? I’m just trying to make you feel better.”
“Okay,” Debra interjected. “Why don’t we all just try to relax. We’ve still got six days and nights to enjoy each other’s delightful company. Let’s try to make the best of it, shall we.”
“Fine, whatever,” Melanie muttered as she headed for the bathroom. Yanking the tie from her hair, she unleashed a mass of dark curls before slamming the door behind her.
“Gosh, what’s her problem, anyway?” Cathy murmured into her mug.
“Well, if I had to guess, she’s feeling guilty because she put on few pounds and didn’t want to put on bikini.”
“That’s ridiculous. The girl is gorgeous.”
“Yeah, she is.”
“What I wouldn’t give for those cheekbones.”
“I’m sure you could get them from the same place you got your torpedoes.”
“Hey, I’ll have to look into that.” Taking a sip of coffee, Cat smacked her lips. “And I want her lips too. She has amazing full lips.”
“I want her skin,” Deb admitted. “It’s flawless. Not one freckle.”
“Yeah. I don’t get it. She’s never had a mud mask or a chemical peel. She doesn’t even use face cream.”
“She’s a natural beauty. She just needs to join a gym for a few months, lose a few pounds, lose the baggy clothes, and then lose her virginity.”
“Oh!” Cathy gasped, “how perfectly crass…yet perfectly correct,” she added, and they both laughed. “I swear she’s trying to get in The Guinness Book of World Records. She’s twenty-three, for Christ’s sake!”
“Yeah. Guess she’s just waiting for Mr. Right. There’s nothing wrong with that. Get it,” she said, nudging Cat’s arm. “Nothing wrong with waiting for Mr. Right?”
Cathy grinned tritely. “Cute. But she needs to quit being so picky. If she’s waiting for Mr. Perfect, she’s gonna be waiting a long time.”
Debra set her mug on the table to pull off her boots. “You’re just mad because you gave it away to the first pimply-faced jerk who bought you a dozen red roses. How old were you, thirteen?”
“Excuse me?” Setting her mug beside Deb’s, Cathy pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “I was fifteen, thank you very much. And it was one dozen Red Beauties, if you must know.”
“Oh!” Deb exclaimed, knocking herself on the side of the head. “Why didn’t you say that in the first place? Red Beauties. That explains it.”
“Yeah? And how do you explain this?” Reaching behind her back, Cat plucked a tumbleweed-adorned pillow from the couch and smacked Deb in the face with it.
“Ow!” Deb whined, feeling along her cheekbone and down the bridge of her nose. “That hurt my face.”
“Not as much as it’s hurting me.”
Deb’s eyes narrowed to thin slits. “No, you didn’t,” she said, and before they knew it they were in the midst of a major knockdown drag-out pillow fight, jumping over furniture and running about the cabin while squealing like piglets.
Only when a pillow ripped, spewing tufts of cotton in every direction, did they both collapse to the couch, holding their stomachs, gasping for breath and giggling like school girls.
Deb glanced over to Cathy who was wiping mascara tinted tears from her face with the sleeve of her shirt. This was more like it, she thought. How it used to be when they were growing up. The three of them had been the best of friends throughout high-school. Inseparable. Sure, they’d drifted apart somewhat as adults, but they still made a point to get together once a year for vacations, and it seemed that no matter where they went, they always managed to have a great time.
Last year had been Mexico, and the year before, an Alaskan cruise.
Now that had been one to singe the pages of the ole diary, she thought with a wry grin. Oh, for just one more wintry night with Lou the logger. What a big polar bear of a man he had been.
She wasn’t so sure about any polar bear men in the forecast this time around, though. By the looks of the major blizzard raging outside, there was a good possibility that the three of them wouldn’t be stepping another foot outside the cabin all week. But if she had to be holed up with two people for a week, she wouldn’t have picked anybody in the world other than Cat and Mel. Although she wished Mel would cheer up. Sure, she had been the one pushing hardest for the skiing expedition, but all three of them had made the final decision together.
She looked to the window at nothing but swirling snow.
It made no sense. It was supposed to be sunny and clear. Could those hair-brained weather men have all been wrong? A blizzard of this magnitude didn’t just materialize out of thin frigging air.
Melanie came shuffling out of the bathroom in an oversized button-down sleep-shirt to her knees and a pair of baggy gray sweatpants, and in just as foul a mood as when she’d entered. “What the hell happened out here?” she grumbled, looking at the scattered pillow innards. “What are we, twelve?” she chided, shaking her head as she headed for the kitchen.
“No,” Debra shot back. “Just trying to have a little fun, considering the grumpy company.”
“Oh, my God, Cat!” Melanie hollered back from the kitchen. “You shouldn’t let that bitch talk about you like that.”
“Yeah, I love you too,” Deb laughed. “But I hate every frigging weather-man who ever lived. Looks like we’re in for the night.”
“Yeah,” Mel countered from the kitchen, “I think it’s safe to say dinner at the lodge is cancelled. Sorry girls.” Opening the cabinet, she perused its contents. “Looks like either chicken noodle soup or a can of corned beef hash. Wanna take a secret ballot or toss a coin?”
“What the heck, let’s really splurge and make ‘em both,” Deb shot back.
“Oh, boy. Sounds like a party,” Cathy said, plucking a glossy brochure from the coffee table and spreading its flaps wide. “Who needs fillet mignon with parsley potatoes, basted tomatoes brushed with garlic butter and sprinkled with oregano, and French onion soup covered with a blanket of Swiss cheese,” she read from the itinerary.
“Oooooh,” Debra groaned. “You’re such a bitch.”
“And screw nasty chocolate-drizzled, cream-layered napoleons, too,” Cathy continued.
Deb moaned even louder.
“And all those tall, dark, handsome ski buffs with Colgate smiles can take a flying leap,” she said, tossing the brochure over her shoulder. “Who needs ‘em, right Deb?”
Debra clunked her head back on the couch, her eyes squeezed shut. “I hate you,” she moaned, sounding as if she’d just been punched in the gut. “And I prefer medium height with sandy blonde hair, if you must know.”
“Yeah, we know. Blue-jeans and blue eyes, tight buns and a sweet southern drawl as an extra bonus.”
“Oh God, here we go again,” Mel muttered to herself. Squatting at the cabinets, she rummaged through the cooking vessels, pulling out a medium-sized pot for the soup and a large cast-iron frying pan for the corned beef hash. Placing them both on the stove, she opened a drawer. “Hey, things are looking up,” she hollered as she pulled out a box of snack cakes. “We’ve got complimentary Ring-a-Dings for dessert.
“See! What did I say?” Cathy chirped. “It’s party time.”
“Yeah, right,” Mel mumbled as she rummaged through the drawer. “This much excitement should be illegal.”
“Ring-a-Dings for dingalings,” Cathy chimed cheerily.
“You got that right,” Melanie groaned. “Christ, I can’t find a friggin’ can opener. There has to be a can opener here somewhere, doesn’t there?” Slamming the drawer shut, she flung open another. “How can there not be a can opener?”
“Just relax,” Debra said, rising from the couch to shuffle into the kitchen. “It has to be here somewhere. Just take a deep breath, would you. You’re wound tight as a bedspring.”
“Well, just whose bedsprings are we talking about?” Melanie asked, moving aside so Deb could have a go at the drawer. “Because if we’re talking about your worn out springs, then I’m loose as a goose.”
“Screw you.”
With a resigned sigh, Cathy leaned back on the couch to cradle her mug. Propping her feet on the coffee table, she peered out the window at the falling snow. It wasn’t just falling. It was coming down in torrents. No, not coming down—blowing sideways. They’d gotten back just in the nick of time. This was definitely going to put a damper on their skiing plans. No bout adoubt it. “Shit!” she blurted suddenly, nearly spilling her coffee as she shot to her feet.