by Bryan Smith
Jolene began to drift toward unconsciousness. She spoke again, a groggy but defiant jab at the darkness: “People don’t shrink. I’m not crazy.”
A sound close to her ear snapped her awake.
She glanced down and saw her diminutive husband attempting to climb up one of the cot’s metal legs. Jolene’s eyes went wide and she let out a yelp. Hal cringed. Her shrill shriek seemed to overwhelm his little ears, probably sounding to him like feedback from a wall of amplifiers at a rock concert.
Jolene acted without thinking.
She snatched Hal off the cot leg, sat up, and swung her legs over the edge of the cot. Hal struggled in her grip and almost got loose, but Jolene tightened her fingers around him. Maybe a bit more tightly than was necessary. Hal’s face turned red. He struggled to draw in breath. Jolene eased the pressure slightly. Hal immediately began trying to speak to her again, but she still couldn’t make out what he was saying.
“Oh, just shut up!”
She’d intentionally pitched her voice at a high level, smirking as it achieved the desired effect. Hal’s fat face crinkled, and he surely would have cupped his mutilated hands over his ears had he been able to work them free of Jolene’s grasp.
Jolene smiled.
“Well, shit, I guess this is real.” She gave Hal a slight squeeze, delighting at the way the small amount of pressure made his eyes bug out. “Have to say I like you better this way, you fat sack of fucking ugly-ass shit. You’re easier to handle at pocket size. Although you were pretty damn manageable out in that shed. That was a good time. You know what, though? This has some real nice possibilities.” She nodded. “Yeah. I think I like this even better.”
Hal tried to speak again.
Jolene made a tsk-tsk noise and pinched the sides of his head with the thumb and forefinger of her other hand. “Didn’t I tell you to shut up? I think you might want to obey me, you fucking cocksucker. Unless you want your fat little head squished, I mean.”
Hal’s mouth slammed shut.
Jolene examined the visible parts of his little body with interest, marveling at the minuscule eyes, nose, and mouth. She turned him slightly to see where she’d sliced off one of his ears. She laughed. “Jesus jacked-up Christ on a cracker, this is a fuckin’ trip.” She cast a glance up at the invisible ceiling in the darkness before returning her gaze to little Hal. “I reckon somebody upstairs must like me. I couldn’t have asked for a better present.” She shook her head. “Though I gotta say the way your eyes are glowin’ like that is a mite creepy.” She shuddered before smiling again. “You listen to me, shit stain. I’m gonna put you up to my ear, and you’re gonna tell me how this happened? Got it?”
Hal nodded.
Before she could do that a sound came from outside the cell. It was a metallic sound. A lock turning. Then the corridor lights came on and she heard footsteps clicking down the concrete floor. And voices. A flash of panic sizzled through Jolene. The very strange thing that had happened to her husband still freaked her out, but she did not want to give him up. The opportunity to torture him again, in new and previously unimagined ways, was a dream come true. It was a gift. A beautiful gift from someone, some god the nature of which she couldn’t fathom. And she would not be robbed of it. She considered ducking under the covers again and pretending to be asleep.
But there was no time.
It was a short corridor. Her visitors would be at her cell in seconds. So she leaned back against the cold wall adjacent to the cot, turned on her side, and pushed the hand holding Hal under her pillow.
The footsteps came to a stop outside her cell.
Then Myra Lewis was staring in at her with a strange, knowing smile, her thin lips stretched so thin they looked as if they might snap like rubber bands. With her was a plainclothes police detective and the officer on duty. The detective said something to the officer, who inserted a key into the cell’s lock, turned it, and threw the door open.
Myra muttered something Jolene couldn’t hear.
The detective nodded and the cops departed.
Myra strutted into the cell. She looked as she always did, like an insolent, sneering, rebellious teenager. She was wearing a studded leather jacket, a midriff-exposing black Misfits T-shirt, and tight leather pants. The sight of her filled Jolene with revulsion. The girl looked every bit the corrupting tramp she’d described to her skeptical older son. The little cunt was the realization of her worst nightmares, a harlot who would be the ruination of her perfect, angelic Trey, who had been the one and only good thing in her life for so many years.
Jolene shook with hatred. “What the fuck are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to fetch you.”
Of all the things Jolene might have expected to hear, this hadn’t been among them. “Fetch me? What am I, a fucking dog? You gonna throw me a stick? Make me do some fuckin’ tricks? The fuck are you talking about, whore?”
Myra chuckled. “Let me ask you a question or two, Jolene.” She came several steps closer to Jolene, with the ease that comes from supreme confidence. Jolene gulped. She wished she could slip through the wall behind her back, just step through it like a ghost. The need to be away from Myra was sudden and intense.
There was something…wrong…something very wrong with her baby’s girlfriend, something she sensed on a primal level. It was palpable, rolling off her like Louisiana swamp stink. Her eyes watered and she began to feel nauseated. How had she never sensed this wrongness before?
Myra was standing over her now.
She smiled again. “Do you like my present?”
“What?”
Myra rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t play dumb. Wait. You are dumb. Still, brains aren’t everything.” She looked Jolene over, appraising her in a slow, frank way that made the fine hairs at the back of her neck tingle. “Hmm, not a bad little body for an aging piece of white trash. It’s much as I remember it.”
Jolene’s confusion deepened. “Remember? What the fuck kind of sick-ass game are you playing here? Why’d those cop bastards let you in here?”
Myra reached into a jacket pocket, brought out a pack of cloves and a Zippo. She sparked up and blew smoke at Jolene. “I own them. Like I own practically everyone else in this town. Now let me ask you another question—do you remember the time you got down and dirty with Moira Flanagan?”
Jolene gaped at the girl. Her heart seemed to stop for a long moment. Her mouth opened, moved as if to form words, but no sounds emerged.
How could the bitch know about that?
Fuck, it was impossible.
Nobody knew about that.
Myra exhaled another stream of pungent smoke. “I remember, Jolene. Because I was there.”
Jolene scowled. “Bullshit. You couldn’t have been no more than a baby.”
Myra smiled. “I remember how surprised you were when I showed up at your door alone that day.” She licked her lips and her eyes shone with a mischievous gleam. “And I remember how easy it was to seduce you. Later you told me how much it turned you on to fuck your son’s girlfriend.”
Jolene’s mouth continued to work, but she still couldn’t speak.
Myra flicked the half-smoked clove away. “But enough of Memory Lane. Let’s get back to the matter at hand.” She giggled. “In your hand, that is.”
Jolene at last was able to push a few halting words through her numb lips. “You…you’re not her. Moira’s dead. You…look nothing like her.”
Myra’s face contorted with sudden anger and her voice boomed out in the cell: “ENOUGH!”
Jolene cringed and whimpered. That voice. Holy Mother of God. No human voice could ever be that loud. What was she really dealing with here? She couldn’t begin to guess. She recognized then how helpless she was. Terror burned in her guts like acid. “Please…”
Myra’s features smoothed out. An almost serene smile touched the corners of her mouth. “You don’t need to be afraid. Now about your husband…”
Jolene sniffed. “My…husband?�
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“You know, the abusive asshole clutched in your grubby little fist.”
Jolene felt Hal squirm in her loosened grip and clenched her fingers tighter around him. “That was…you?”
Myra nodded. “Yes. I did that. It’s my goodwill gesture to you. It’s not the kind of thing I can do too often. Too much of an energy drain this close to the Harvest. But I think it was worth it in this case.”
Jolene shuddered. “What do you want from me?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere.” Myra sat down next to Jolene, draping an arm over her shoulders. “As you’ve seen, I’ve got a lot of power. I can do amazing things to people. I can make most of them do whatever I want them to do. Some people, though…well, let’s just say I sometimes find it useful to find alternate ways of manipulating them. Let me ask you another question.”
“Okay.”
Myra started stroking Jolene’s hair. “Would you say your son Jake is an ungrateful little piece of shit?”
“Yes. Yes, I certainly would.” Jolene nodded.
“Good. I can see you and I are on the same page now.”
Jolene closed her eyes and savored the feel of Myra’s fingers gliding through her hair. All of her previous anger and fear dissipated. She’d badly misjudged this girl. Something about her touch made all the bad feelings go away. She shivered when Myra’s fingertips brushed the back of her neck. A little erotic tingle went through her. It felt nice. More than that, it felt…familiar.
Myra leaned close and whispered into her ear. “I’m getting you out of here, Jolene. In more ways than one, I’ll be your liberator. But I’ll be expecting a favor in return. There’ll come a time when I’ll ask you to help me hurt Jake.”
Myra’s other hand settled on Jolene’s knee.
The girl’s breath was nice and warm on her earlobe. “Will you help me with that, Jolene?”
“Yes. I’ll do anything you ask,” Jolene sighed.
Myra smiled. “Of course you will.”
She gave Jolene’s knee a squeeze, then got to her feet.
She held out a hand and Jolene let the girl pull her off the cot.
Then, arm in arm, they walked out of the jail.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Bridget’s gaze was riveted to the knife in Jordan’s hand. “You cheated.”
Jordan sneered. “Think I give a shit?”
Bridget smiled. “Guess not. The concept of fair play’s for chumps anyway. Should have done it myself.”
Jordan glanced back and forth between Angela and Bridget. Though possession of the knife gave her a theoretic advantage over them, her elation didn’t last long. The other women possessed amazing, unnatural strength. She wasn’t at all certain she could win against either of them, unarmed or not.
Against the two of them working in tandem…
She shivered.
“Look, she’s getting scared,” Angela said with a chuckle.
Bridget locked eyes with Jordan. Jordan’s throat felt thick and her heart fluttered. “I see that. She’ll pee herself any second now.”
Jordan’s expression hardened. “Shut up.” She brandished the knife in a general way. “Keep your fucking mouths shut. You think I won’t use this? Okay, maybe I am scared, but I’ll do whatever I have to do to get out of this.”
Bridget covered her mouth. She looked as if she were attempting to suppress hysterical laughter. But Jordan knew the truth—the bitch was just mocking her again. Bridget’s hand came away from her mouth and she laughed heartily. “You’re so cute, Jordan. You with that knife, so big in your scrawny little hand. You’re a child playing at grown-up games.” She licked her lips. “So it’s time to start treating you like a child. You’ve been extra naughty. So I’ll be bending you over my knee for a spanking in a minute.”
Angela leered. “Oooh, now you’re just turning her on.”
Bridget giggled.
“Go. To. Hell,” Jordan seethed.
The mirth vanished from Bridget’s face at once. Her expression now was cold and unforgiving. “I’m tired of indulging your pathetic rebellion.” She glanced at Angela. “Get the bitch.” She looked at Jordan. “Now.”
Jordan gasped and took an unconscious step backward. She waved the knife again. “Stay back!”
Angela rose from her chair, stretching to her full height, which was just an inch or so shy of six feet. She cut a very impressive figure, with long, lean legs, a flat, concave stomach, and toned and gleaming muscles. She was the sort of woman people had in mind when they used the term “Amazonian.” She stood still for a moment, smiling softly and holding Jordan’s gaze, intimidating the smaller woman with her physicality. Then she began to approach Jordan, slowly, with a slight sway to her hips.
Jordan was unable to suppress a whimper. The hand holding the knife shook visibly. She was sure it would tumble to the floor any moment. “Stop.” Her voice was a hoarse, desperate whisper. “Stay right there.”
Angela just kept coming.
“I’m about to take that knife away from you, little girl.” There was something hungry in her expression. Something eager. “And I’m gonna put it in a real uncomfortable place.”
Jordan’s body was close to betraying her. Her knees were shaking and the world around her had become soft-focus. The floor felt slippery beneath her, almost insubstantial, as if it could swallow her like quicksand. She felt unspeakably weak, like a failing wisp of a thing, barely alive.
Angela said, “Why don’t you save us both some trouble? You know you won’t be able to do anything to me. Don’t embarrass yourself. Hell, you’re almost down for the count already.” She was within a few feet of Jordan now. She held out her hand. “Just hand it over.”
Jordan’s grip tightened on the knife. She bit her lip hard, and some of her strength and focus came back. Just enough, as it turned out. Animal instinct drove what happened next—she slashed at the extended hand, and the sharp blade cut a deep trail across Angela’s open palm. Angela shrieked as blood gushed out of the wound.
Bridget said, “Shit.”
Jordan pressed her new advantage, moving in to slash at Angela again. The blade opened a deep cut just below the woman’s collarbone. She stumbled backward, blood pouring over her breasts. Her eyes were wide with pain and fear. A part of Jordan thrilled at the sight of it, a savage, primal piece of her psyche she had never been in touch with before. It scared her, but she also knew she needed to embrace it to have any hope of getting out of this place alive.
Angela was holding her hands up for protection.
A torrent of words spilled through her trembling lips, panic-driven cries for mercy.
Jordan loved it.
Reveled in it.
The big, bad bitch was begging.
Jordan slashed her with the knife again, a strike that went deep into the meaty part of a forearm. She had to dig the blade out. Angela screamed some more and staggered backward. Then there was a loud squeal, the source of which wasn’t immediately apparent to Jordan. Then Angela tumbled over something and landed hard on the linoleum. The squeal came again, and Jordan saw that Angela had tripped over the beach ball creature. The thing that had been described to her as one of Lamia’s “minions” opened its wide mouth and displayed rows of sharp, jagged teeth.
Then it took a chunk out of Angela’s left calf.
Angela spasmed on the floor, kicking her leg in a desperate attempt to dislodge the creature, which again chomped down on her leg.
Bridget shot up out of her chair. “Stop!”
Angela tried to rise, but Jordan kicked her in the stomach. Driven again by that savage, unforgiving part of her psyche, she dropped to her knees next to the fallen woman, raised the knife high above her head, and slammed it down. The blade punched through Angela’s chest wall, impaling her heart and stopping it cold.
Jordan watched the life fade from her vanquished foe’s eyes.
A shudder of revulsion made her stomach lurch. The knife slipped from her hand. She pitched
forward, her open palms slapping against the floor. Then it came, an awful tide of bile that filled the back of her throat before exploding out of her wide-open mouth. Fluid mixed with partially digested pieces of Todd splattered against the linoleum. The sight of the vile remains of her neighbor made her stomach heave again, and her entire body spasmed as she sprayed more vomit on the floor.
She became aware of a presence close to her. Bridget. The knowledge should have frightened her. She had to defend herself. She knew it, but for the moment she was incapable of doing anything about it. She was shaking harder than ever, her body beyond her control. That sick weakness returned, engulfing her. Sweat bloomed on her brow and a chill swept through her. She ached all over. She was so miserable she didn’t give a damn what happened to her.
She even prayed for her own death.
She turned her head a little to the right, glimpsed Angela’s lifeless, sliced-up body, and experienced another ripple of nausea, but this time it was a less violent dry heave. There was nothing left to throw up. Her eyes filled with tears again. She’d only meant to defend herself. What the hell had possessed her?
Bridget knelt next to her and placed a hand on her back.
Jordan’s breath caught in her throat.
Bridget stroked her, a soothing, sensual touch.
“That…feels nice,” Jordan said.
“Mmm.” Bridget’s hand moved up between her shoulder blades. “Let me guess. Something came over you. You didn’t feel like yourself. But it felt good.”
Jordan shuddered again. She sat up slowly and allowed the other woman to embrace her. “How…how did you know?”
Bridget smiled. “You felt the touch of the goddess. She was inside you.”
“But…how? You said—”
Bridget shushed her with a finger across her lips. “Never mind all that. I was wrong. Wrong about everything.” She smiled ruefully and shook her head. “This will sound nuts to you, but hear me out. I think there’s some things about yourself, about your origin, that you know nothing about. You’ve been lied to about your early life, I imagine.”
“But—”