The Serpentine Butterfly

by Addison Moore

  “I thought you’d never show.” I waddle toward his way, trying to do my best to seduce him. My stomach has dimmed to the faintest blue glow, the babies are clearly napping because they’re not trying to pound their way out from the inside, and it feels nice like this, like it’s just Gage and I, alone under a bright autumn moon.

  “I’m not wearing any underwear.” I blow him a kiss. That mask is totally convincing with the full snout, the gaping mouth with a rubber tongue hanging partially to the side. My finger traces over his elongated snout, and I give a nose-wrinkling smile. I turn around and rub my well-padded bottom over his crotch in an effort to get this party started.

  “My entire body is sizzling to have you,” I mewl like a kitten. “I’ve been doing those damn Kegels, and it’s like a sex grenade is about to go off in my vagina. It’s like no matter what I do, I’m about to have an orgasm. The other day my foot was itching, and as I scratched it, the sensation ricocheted deep into that greedy part of me. If I sneeze, I bring myself to the brink. And the Kegels themselves—don’t even get me started on the freaking Kegels! I’m supposed to be doing them all the time, and you want to know what it feels like? It feels like I’m masturbating in public. I almost climaxed the other day in the car—and I was with my mother! This is really just starting to get out of hand. I need someone to put out this fire once and for all.” I try to insert a little grinding action into it, but it’s more Weeble Wobble than it is sexy shimmy. “You wouldn’t happen to have a hose, would you?” I blow him a kiss over my shoulder. It was much easier to seduce Gage when I could actually reach him. Between the fact my body has turned into one solid chunk, and the not-so tiny detail that his mask makes him all of seven feet tall, we’ll be lucky to get the plumbing inserted into the correct fittings. I lift my cape and reach back, placing his hands square on my bare bottom.

  Gage pulls away and carefully places my cape back where it came from.

  “Knew it.” My voice carries over the stream like the wail of a child. “You find me repulsive. You think I’m too massive to make love to. You think my ass has gotten way out of hand. Just admit it.”

  He reaches under his chin and plucks the mask off, only to reveal it’s not Gage looking down at me. It’s a dismayed Marshall.

  “Gah! You touched me!”

  “You touched me. That hard protrusion was my knee, Ms. Messenger. I thought you had a hard-to-reach itch. And, please note, I replaced your clothing where it belongs. What in heaven’s name made you think I was Jock Strap?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—could it have been the costume?” My voice echoes back to me as irritated as it left.

  “And how was I to know that? I simply saw my lovely spirit bride waltz in this evening and decided what better accouterment to don than that of her counterpart?” He gives a slight devilish grin. “Do you like the décor?”

  I swat him over the chest. “That’s for pretending to be Gage.” I swat him again. “And that’s for the lousy décor.”

  He gives a crude chuckle. “I may have enjoyed the deception.” He measures his forefinger and thumb an inch apart. “And the décor was purely your mother’s genius. I did find the clown theme a bit unnerving, considering your phobia of the creatures, but she insisted.”

  “Ex-phobia, or at least it was before tonight. I’m going to have nightmares for weeks.” I lean against the post next to him. I’m at the stage of my pregnancy where standing is simply a spectator sport. “What’s with luring me out to pasture?”

  “I simply wanted to say hello in private. I had no idea you’d be throwing yourself at me. Did you see the aliens? Oh, what fun we’re going to have with them.”

  “Yes. What a joke. And are they ever going to go away? Or is this lifetime experiment in lurking their new undertaking? I’m not sure what I’m more wary of—their presence or this new body of mine. Did you know that my pubic bone is expanding—on purpose?”

  “If two tiny beings are planning to fall out, then I assume a lot of things will be expanding on purpose.”

  A shiver runs through me as Emily’s horror of a birth echoes in my mind. “I’m sure once I meet the twins I’ll be thankful for the experience, but, up until that moment, the day I give birth will be the worst day ever.”

  “Says every mother in existence.”

  “How are there people on this planet?”

  “I don’t know, but I suppose it has something to do with women like you who are willing to put a stranger’s hands on their bare bottom. You do realize, I could have been a wanderer.”

  “Hey, you gotta start somewhere.” I press my shoulder to his and give a little laugh. “Speaking of bare bottoms, I need to firmly insist you stop stalking my nightmares. I know that you claim you’re not to blame for my pornographic wanderings, but come on—really? Just knock it off already.” I press my determined gaze into his wildfire eyes. “I’m starting to moan your name in my bed as much as I do my husband’s.” He’s actually surpassed Gage in that department, but I’m not here to stroke his ego.

  “My dear love, are you still vexed with those fantasies?” His cheek glides up one side because it’s obvious he doesn’t mind at all. “Come.” He lands his hand over my forehead and closes his eyes. “Oh dear,” he sighs. Marshall’s lips tug into the idea of a smile as he continues to scoff out loud. His brows rise and fall with amusement.

  “You’re watching them all, aren’t you?”

  “Heaven’s no. I don’t have that kind of time.” He removes his hand and shakes it off as if to cool it. “I’m afraid that’s all you, my love.”

  “Trust me—it most certainly is not me.”

  “It’s you, Skyla,” he assures. “Perhaps you’re experiencing a light drive into the future?”

  “Wishful thinking on your part. Besides, I’m not that talented. Can you at least find the shut-off valve?”

  “That I’m afraid I cannot. I’ve no abilities to wander into your mind and disconnect your insatiable lust for me.” His eyes hood over with that cheesy leering grin.

  “You’re the biggest clown of them all, you know that?” We stand there a few minutes just listening to the howls of laughter, the music emanating from the heart of his big bash. The moon sparkles from above, looking far more like a star than its usual dreamy, creamy self. Speaking of dreamy. “I’ve been meaning to ask—”

  “Anything.” Marshall doesn’t hesitate in answering.

  “Tell me what that haunted chess set means. You mentioned you fashioned it from dream stone straight from Ahava. It’s important, isn’t it?”

  “Did it help during the war?”

  “Not particularly— although, I do enjoy seeing the miniature versions of all my favorite and least favorite players.” I think on it a moment. “It has something to do with control, doesn’t it?” Marshall gifted me that chess set while I was still at West, still in the throes of the Faction War. It’s beautiful, the pieces each carved to look like people I know—carved from a gray glassy stone with a similar opacity to jade.

  “Indeed it does reek of control. You’re so close to surmising its meaning on your own. Shall I proceed?”

  “Please.” I rub my hands over my burgeoning belly. “My deductive reasoning skills go down with each passing day of this pregnancy.”

  “Very well. This life—this existence is likened to a sport.”

  “A game,” I flatline. “I’m aware.”

  “Good. A game, as you suggest, has winners. It has losers—allies, enemies—it has someone who is very much in control.” His lips rise with a demented smile. “That would be you, Skyla. The dream stone has properties. You are very much in control of the game, of the players.” Marshall leans in and looks deeply into my eyes as if he were hand-feeding his love to my very soul. “You have the control. The game is yours to play. You, my love, will be and very much are the victor. Don’t be afraid of the game. Don’t be afraid to make your very next move.”

  My gaze stays trained on his for a very long while. His
words ricochet inside me as if they had a life of their own, and they do.

  I glance back at the party, at Marshall’s palatial estate, and that playful side he seems to bring out in me bubbles right to the surface. It feels like home here, and a thought comes to me. “Hey—you said I was the lady of the manor, right? So, technically, this is my home. I think I should move in a little early.”

  “With Jock Strap?”

  “Exactly. That way we can strategize for this so-called game at an intimate proximity.”

  “My bed wasn’t meant for three.”

  “Don’t be silly. You’ll be in the poolhouse.”

  “I neither have a pool nor a poolhouse.”

  “Well, start digging. Soon, you’ll be my cabana boy.” I give a little wink, but Marshall isn’t amused at my stab at matrimonial humor.

  “Correction—I’ll be your husband. Jock Strap can be our cabana boy.”

  “Oh, and will we get married on the thirteenth as well?” I tease.

  “Why would we do that? Everyone knows it’s bad luck.”

  I belt out a laugh that shatters the silence around us effectively as blown glass.

  “Why is it always so easy with you?”

  “Because we’re simpatico. Our lives were designed to dovetail into one another. Don’t think for a moment that everything about your life isn’t about design, Skyla. If I were you, I’d keep an eye out for the coincidences.”

  “Coincidences.” I tilt my head just so. “Did you glean something new at that meeting you had with my mother?”

  “Perhaps.” He leans in and dots my forehead with a kiss. “Perhaps it was something I already knew.”

  “Did you see her?” I nod as her name gets hitched in my throat. “Sage?”

  His entire person softens. “I did, my love—and your father, too. I’m proud to say, we have a lovely young lady.” He brushes his thumb over my cheek with a warm sweep. “She’s just like you.” He clears his throat. “I’d best get back to my guests. Agent Moser and Killion asked for a tour of the house. I can’t ever imagine what they expect to find.”

  “I’d hide the whips and chains if I were you. And good Lord, don’t show them the mirror!” I shout as Marshall dissipates into a translucent version of himself, gifting his glory to the woods as he becomes one with the evergreens. The Paragon fog slowly seeps into the forest like silent probing fingers, and I’m suddenly all too aware of the fact I’m out in the middle of nowhere all by my lonesome.

  The moon shines down on the clearing where Marshall stood just moments before, and a whistling wind explodes through the forest like the cry of the damned. The faraway noise of the party is drowned out, and, for a moment, I turn to look at the stream with the white kiss of the moon riding over its back. There is something golden about solitude—about the need to have a complete moment of silence to rein in your thoughts, and apparently, your orgasms.

  A dull howl comes from deep in the woods, and my ears perk in that general direction. I’m not too sure I’ll be so eager to lift my cape for the next werewolf I see. I’m lucky that it was just Marshall and not some homicidal, horny-as-hell serial killer.

  Another yelp ensues, only this time it’s followed by intense hissing of some kind. Crap. I should have known Halloween is no time to go exploring the concept of solitude.

  My heart bucks unnaturally as blood pumps through me in wild, spastic spurts.

  “Help,” an anguished female voice carries from my left, and I hesitate before heading in that direction. First, I’m in no condition to “help” anybody, and, second, I’ve never really been a help to anybody to begin with.

  A horrid animalistic cry emits from that same corner of the haunted woods, and my bones turn to glass. One more step and my body will make good on its promise to shatter with fear.

  “I hate my life.” Each word is drawn out with more agony than the last, but there is something in that tone, something in that sardonic drawl that I’ve heard more times than I’d like to remember.

  “Chloe?” I say it just loud enough, maybe too low, but, hell, who am I kidding? Do I really want her to answer?

  “Messenger?” It comes out more of a victory than a question. “Please, you have to help me. I can’t do this alone.” Her voice is breathy.

  “Who are you decapitating now?” I stalk my way toward the edge of the stream where her demonic bellows emanate from.

  Another hard moan evicts from her.

  “Come on.” I hold back a laugh. “It can’t be that hard for you to chop off a head. What’s the matter? Can’t hack your way through a couple of vertebrae, Chloe? A little connective tissue getting you down?” A high-pitched squeal echoes near an umbrella oak, and I head over. There she is, sprawled over the ground with her back leaned up against the trunk, her puppy fur coat spread underneath her like a blanket. Chloe has her legs parted, bent at the knees. Her fingers press white into the earth as her face wrinkles with pain.

  “The only one who’s dying here is me.” She pitches her head back and lets out a blood-curdling scream.

  “Oh God! Are you having the baby? You’re having the baby! I’ll go get help! My mom is here. I swear, I’ll find her and bring her right back.” God, my mother is going to thrive in this medically bare environment. I’m sure there’s no ideal birth next to a kiddie pool other than the backwoods of Marshall’s llama farm. Normally, I wouldn’t lift a finger to help Chloe, but there happens to be a completely innocent child lodged between her legs at the moment.

  “No!” she roars to life. The whites of her eyes flash like flames. “You will not leave me, Messenger. It’s too late for that. This thing is coming right fucking now! The contractions are right on top of one another.” She lets out another harrowing cry as if to prove her point. “I wouldn’t wish this on my worst enemy”—she pants while looking right at me—“not even you, Messenger.”

  “Wow, this must really hurt like hell,” I muse mostly to myself. Carefully, I drop to my knees beside her.

  “Pull my dress up.” She helps with the feat I wasn’t about to participate in. “Take off my underwear—please.”

  It’s true. I had imagined myself taking off someone’s clothes tonight, yet Chloe’s granny panties were not anywhere near the list.

  I tug at her dress until it’s nesting below her slightly inflated boobs. After witnessing what Grayson had to offer, both Chloe and I are basically still flat chested. To my surprise, Chloe really does have a pair of granny panties on. They’re so huge they balloon right over her stomach.

  “It looks like you’re in on Victoria’s grandma’s secret.”

  “Oh, shut up, Messenger. You know they’re comfortable.”

  Okay, so I might have a pair or twelve myself, but only because there is no such thing as a comfy thong. Women who say they’re oh so comfortable are fucking liars, and trying to look hot in a G-string during your last trimester is just wrong.

  “I totally get the granny panties,” I say, pulling them off and wincing. There she is, the dark Bermuda Triangle that is Chloe Bishop’s flytrap, the place where she’s lured Logan to wallow in the mire more than once, and poor Wesley just long enough to get herself knocked up. “Did you ever have sex with Ellis?” I ask, bunching her panties up and tossing them to the side. If I’m going to be staring at her pink parts, I may as well be apprised who’s been there before me.

  “Who the fuck cares?” she groans so hard, so painfully long that a primal fear resonates in me.

  “Oh, that’s right. You have. You broke his heart before I ever landed on this overgrown rock.” I make a face at the thought of Chloe defiling poor Ellis before I could get here to save him. Her body lurches, and I scoot back, giving her room to shoot this kid out like a missile if need be. “Chloe, I really think I should run and get some help. Childbirth takes a very long time—this might take hours. Trust me, you really would be more comfortable in a hospital bed.”

  Chloe starts to pant and mumble incoherently for a second before cle
aring her throat. “I am witty, feel shitty and bright,” she bellows it out in song—badly, might I add. “And pity you’re not me tonight.”

  “Oh, is that what happens when you go into labor? You break out into show tunes?” Bastardized at that.

  “It’s coming!” Her legs widen as she bears down.

  “Stop!” I shrill into her so loud she actually ceases from pushing and looks up. “I can’t deliver your baby in the woods! It’s not sanitary! For one, this is where bears shit. And two, it’s just not safe. This could kill you!” On second thought. “Next time you feel a contraction, go ahead and push with it.”

  Chloe lets out an agonizing cry, and her face turns a dark shade of demon as if she’s struggling to take the dump of a lifetime.

  Chloe lies back in the dappled moonlight. Her girl parts bloom like a rose, expanding into a round bulbous nightmare as if it were one giant zit about to pop all over my existence. Something about this does not feel right. I distinctly remember an entire flurry of doctors and nurses rushing around, collecting pots and pans and surgical equipment while Emily was at this stage of the exploding vaginal game with baby Ember. And all I have handy are my ridiculous wicker basket and a belly that’s beginning to glow.

  “What is that?” Chloe stops her panting long enough to focus on my talented children.

  “Oh, it’s a Fem thing. But that’s good. It can take your mind off the pain. Just stare at my belly, and hopefully, this entire nightmare will revert, and you’ll be back to your nasty self in no time.”

  “Okay.” She nods stupidly into my stomach until her head rolls back, and she grunts a wild series of moans that sound as if I’m hacking her to death all over again. Hell, when I was actually killing Chloe, she didn’t make this much noise. “It’s here. I have to push!”

  Chloe bears down, and a clear, plastic-looking cap begins to swell out of her vagina.