Soultaker

by Bryan Smith

  Bridget parked her car, got out, and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. The walk across the parking lot seemed an endless slog in her exhausted state, but she finally made it to the building and trudged up the stairs to her third-floor apartment.

  She entered the apartment and threw the door shut behind her. The tiny studio apartment wasn’t as nice as Jordan’s place. There was a lot less room and the building was much older. The threadbare furniture was all secondhand. The carpet had stains no amount of shampooing or vacuuming could excise. All in all, it was a pretty shabby place to live. But Bridget didn’t care. It was just a place to sleep. It was temporary. Greater things awaited her. Soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, she would leave all this behind. Besides, most of Bridget’s discretionary income went to things like clothes, makeup, and salon visits. Looking good mattered more than living in the lap of luxury. Looking good enabled a girl to reach for bigger things. Bridget reflected on that last thought and frowned. The philosophy was an echo from a person who no longer existed. The pre-Lamia Bridget. Bridget 2.0 no longer gave a shit about using her looks to snare a man with a fat wallet. All men were beneath her. She was a woman, after all. And not just a woman, but a follower of the goddess.

  One of the chosen ones.

  She giggled. “And this chosen one is fucking beat.”

  She dropped her purse on the cluttered coffee table. Then she kicked off her shoes, stripped off her skirt and blouse, and collapsed on the couch. She reached for the thin blanket folded over the top of the couch, shook it open, and tucked it over her shoulders. She was asleep within moments. She slept deeply and when she awoke she knew hours had passed. She lay there in a state of semiconsciousness for several moments before becoming aware that something wasn’t quite right. She tried to dismiss the feeling, but it persisted. As she neared full consciousness, she realized another person was in the room. A cold finger of fear tickled the length of her spine.

  Someone had broken in while she was asleep.

  A burglar, maybe. Or a rapist.

  She wondered whether she should play possum. Just keep her eyes closed and pretend she was still asleep. She saw one immediate problem with that. She was a snorer. Every chick she’d ever bedded complained about it, as had her occasional male partners. The intruder had been here while she was sleeping and would know it, too. She didn’t doubt her ability to physically overpower any man. She was of the Circle. Snapping his neck would be child’s play.

  But…what if he has a gun?

  Fear gave way to terror. She wasn’t yet immortal. A burgeoning scream welled inside her. The thought of surrendering the eternal reward promised her by the goddess was more than she could bear.

  A voice she recognized said, “Open your eyes.”

  Bridget relaxed at once. She blew out a breath and stretched her long, lean body. Then she opened her eyes and saw Myra Lewis—Lamia—staring down at her with her usual blank expression. She smiled and tossed the blanket aside. “Please tell me you’re here to have your way with me,” Bridget said.

  Lamia said nothing, but something in her eyes hardened.

  Bridget rolled off the couch and went to her knees before the goddess. She bowed her head and closed her eyes again. “Have I offended you in some way, Dark Mother?”

  “Stand up.”

  Bridget stood and looked the goddess in the eye. She tried not to tremble. As much as she loved Lamia, it was hard to peer directly into that endless darkness. She half suspected anyone attempting to hold that gaze for too long a time would go insane. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. You know my loyalty to you is total. I would never—”

  “Shut up.”

  Bridget flinched. “I have things to tell you. Jordan Harper—”

  The backhand blow sent Bridget flying over the couch. She landed in an awkward heap on the floor and a shock of pain ripped through her body. She cried out and rolled onto her back. Tears obscured her vision for a moment. When she could see again, Lamia was standing over her. The goddess planted the hard sole of a black Doc Marten boot on her bare chest and exerted enough pressure to render breathing difficult. Bridget opened her mouth to beg for mercy, then remembered what had triggered the attack. She closed her mouth and waited for Lamia to speak.

  There was a brief pause. Perhaps a minute elapsed. Long enough for Bridget to feel her ribs grinding beneath the pressure of the combat boot.

  Then Lamia said, “I already know of my daughter’s awakening. I am not here to talk about that.”

  The goddess removed her foot and Bridget sucked in a deep, wheezing breath. Then she frowned as she watched Lamia strip off her leather jacket and toss it aside. The cropped Misfits shirt came off next. The black bra after that. Bridget stared at Lamia’s milk white breasts and their jutting pink nipples and felt a stirring of lust. Lamia leaned against the back of the couch and removed the thick-soled Doc Martens. Finally, she peeled off the tight leather pants and was entirely nude. A thick sheen of sweat covered her entire body. A thick drop fell from her nose. She looked paler than usual. Almost feverish. Bridget glanced at the jumble of clothes on the floor and saw they were sopping wet.

  “What’s wrong with you? You look…sick. I thought…”

  Lamia wiped a fresh swelling of sweat from her brow and flicked fat droplets from the ends of her fingers. “You thought what?”

  Bridget frowned. “I…don’t know. I guess I thought you couldn’t get sick.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then…”

  Lamia smiled. “You wouldn’t understand and there isn’t time to explain. You have been a faithful servant. I have made many promises to you. I must now break them all.”

  Bridget’s heart lurched.

  “Wh…what?”

  “Do you remember Moira, dear?”

  The mention of her sister confounded Bridget. Moira had been dead for many years. Bridget rarely thought of her. “I…what about her?”

  “I killed her. Used her body for a time. It wasn’t suitable as a permanent home, but it sufficed long enough. And now the time has come to shed this skin, sweet Bridget. The Harvest must happen today. I am not strong enough in this used-up shell. I require a new host.” She straddled Bridget and pinned her wrists behind her head with strong hands. “Your body is perfect and should serve me well for the next hundred years.”

  Bridget’s head spun. The Harvest was today? Lamia had told the members of the Sacred Circle they would know the exact day and hour of the Harvest weeks ahead of time. But apparently this was just one lie among many. There was no time for Bridget to grieve the loss of all she’d been promised, or to appreciate the depth of Lamia’s betrayal. She was about to die. She now knew no eternal reward awaited her. No bliss of any kind. Just darkness.

  She opened her mouth to scream.

  But Lamia forced Myra Lewis’s mouth open wider.

  Far wider.

  Something long and scaly slithered out, moving too fast to perceive in detail. Then it was inside Bridget. Bridget twitched and convulsed, the back of her head banging against the dirty carpet for several moments as the now-dead body of Myra collapsed to the floor and went still. In a while, Bridget, too, was still.

  Bridget Flanagan, her essence, expired.

  Her body let out an abrupt gasp and sat up.

  Lamia had a new home.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The house felt like the inside of a long-sealed tomb. Some ancient pharaoh’s crypt, maybe. A dead place, devoid of even the hint of life. It was just an illusion, but that’s how it felt. Kristen was somewhere nearby. She was in one of the bedrooms. Jake could just make out her voice from the living room. She was talking to yet another relative, but mostly listening, only on occasion responding with a few clipped words. She sounded subdued. Numb. Much the way he’d felt in the immediate aftermath of his own family drama yesterday.

  Thinking about that caused him to reflect again on his confrontation with Trey. His jaw still stung from the blows he�
�d absorbed. The memory of the hate in his brother’s eyes caused a different kind of hurt, one he knew would last far longer than any physical pain.

  The air conditioner kicked on and Jake welcomed its uneven hum. It made the thick, oppressive silence a touch more bearable. The old window unit sent a blast of cool air his way that felt good on his face. It soothed him inwardly, too, allowing him to banish the bad thoughts for a time. It didn’t matter that the relief was only temporary. He needed a mental respite, however brief. And he needed to gather strength for the hard times ahead. Because more hard times were coming. It was the one thing of which he was absolutely certain.

  He sat slouched on the sofa, at a loss as to what else to do. Kristen had family duties she would need to deal with, of course, and he’d help her with these if he was able. But for now—and at least for a few minutes more—he was on his own. He relished the relative solitude and wished it could last longer. Wished again he could be somewhere far from this cursed town.

  He shifted on the sofa and one of his feet kicked a leg of the coffee table. A crumpled Budweiser can toppled over. The coffee table’s surface was littered with empty cans and bottles. An ashtray was filled with Kristen’s cigarette butts. Looking at all the dead soldiers awakened the old thirst again, and in a few moments he craved a drink with a burning intensity that easily matched anything he remembered from his worst pre-AA days. The urge to get up and go to the kitchen to fetch a beer from the fridge was almost too powerful to resist. He thought again of the way Kristen had plied him with drinks as part of perhaps the most unsubtle seduction in the history of sex. There was still a bit of regret attached to this memory. It didn’t say much good about him that his resolve had crumbled so easily. But now the hangover haze had lifted and other, more pleasant memories were coming back to him. A flashing image of Kristen, nude and bent over the edge of the sofa as he thrust into her from behind, made his breathing quicken. They’d gone at it with heedless abandon, in several positions, here on the sofa, on the living room floor, up against the wall, on the hallway floor, on the bed, in the fucking shower…

  Christ.

  It was all coming back to him in a wild, X-rated rush, like a series of scenes from the hottest porn movie ever. An erection pushed against the crotch of his jeans as memory shifted seamlessly to fantasy. He imagined Kristen on top of him again, straddling him on the sofa, writhing against him while thrusting her tongue into his mouth. His hands kneading her soft breasts, thumbs massaging swollen nipples…

  He shook his head to dispel the images before he could get lost in them. These were not appropriate thoughts. Not with Stu dead and Kristen crying softly in a room down the hallway. The craving for a drink returned to fill the void. No. Fuck that. Maybe he’d have that drink later. Maybe he’d have a few of them. But now was certainly not the time.

  Then he thought of something productive he could do to occupy himself until Kristen needed him again. He got up and went into the kitchen, where he looked under the sink and found a box of plastic garbage bags. He shook one open and returned to the living room. He and Kristen had made quite the mess over the course of their wild evening. Cleaning up prior to the inevitable appearance of other Walker family members was the least he could do. The bag soon grew heavy with the weight of empty bottles and cans. A few of the bottles still contained an ounce or two of flat beer. These he poured out in the kitchen sink before dropping them in the bag. This all took maybe ten minutes. The last thing was dumping the contents of the overflowing ashtray into the bag. This done, he began to tie the bag with the intent of taking it out to one of the big garbage cans outside. A sudden sound startled him before he could finish.

  “What the…”

  The sound came again and this time he recognized it as the rapping of the brass knocker against the front door. He twisted together the loops of plastic threaded through his fingers and set down the bag. Then he went to the door and peered through the peephole. A young girl he didn’t recognize stood on the front porch. She appeared to be alone. She was slender, with hair the same dark shade as Kristen’s, but cut in a pixie style. His hand moved to the doorknob, but he didn’t open the door immediately. Though he was sure he’d never seen her before, there was something familiar about her. Something in the set of her features. Frustration gnawed at him. His mind was struggling to make some kind of connection, but it was eluding him.

  The girl let out a frustrated puff of breath and reached for the door knocker again.

  Yet another strident rap on the door, this one close enough—and loud enough—to rattle his fillings.

  “Jake!” Kristen cried from her bedroom sanctuary. “Will you get that, please?”

  “Sorry! I’ve got it!”

  It hit him that this was probably some member of the Walker clan. Which probably also accounted for that nagging sense of familiarity.

  He turned the doorknob and pulled open the door.

  The girl’s lower lip pushed out in a display of youthful petulance. “It’s about fucking time.”

  “Sorry. I was just—”

  He stopped talking because two teenagers with guns were suddenly filling the open doorway. The boys must have been crouching out of view while the girl knocked. Their guns were aimed away from Jake, but that gave him little comfort. The crazy thing was he wasn’t afraid. Not yet anyway. He was too angry to be afraid. This was ridiculous. How many more insane things could happen in one fucking day?

  He glowered at the juvenile home invaders. “Do me a favor, assholes, and save it for another day. I’ve got enough shit on my table for now.”

  One of the boys piped up. “We’re not here to rob you. We just need to talk to you. You’re Jake McAllister, right?”

  “Yeah. What do you want with me?”

  His hand tightened on the doorknob. He weighed the advisability of simply throwing the door shut in their faces. Shutting and locking the door would take hardly more than a second. And even if they were here for some nefarious purpose, he doubted they’d shoot their way in. This was the middle of the day in a nice neighborhood. Gunfire would bring the cops running in minutes. So, yeah, a quick door slam seemed the wisest course of action.

  “What’s going on here?”

  Kristen’s voice, behind him.

  Jake groaned. “It’s nothing. Stay back, okay?”

  “Stay back?” He could hear her getting closer, curiosity apparently overriding the urgency in his voice. “Is it Uncle Don? I’m expecting—”

  She pushed his hand off the doorknob and opened the door wider. She gasped. “Oh my God.” She flashed Jake a terror-stricken expression. “Jake, is it…them?”

  “Them?”

  She put a hand to her chest and stumbled back a step. “It’s them. The bastards who killed my brother. Oh my God.”

  One of the teenagers said, “Dude, what is she talking about?”

  Jake glowered at him. “Her brother was murdered last night. Tortured and murdered. And now here you are waving guns around. Connect the fucking dots.”

  Both boys looked aghast at the implication. The taller of the two said, “Oh. Shit. Look, I’m sorry. I know this looks bad, but you’ve got to believe me when I say it just can’t be helped. We did not torture and murder anybody last night.”

  “Or ever,” said the other one.

  “Right. Or ever,” the tall one continued. “We sure as shit shot a bunch of motherfuckers yesterday, though. But that’s only because they were trying really fucking hard to kill us.”

  “Which we sort of took issue with.”

  The tall one nodded. “Right. We’ve been through a lot, Mr. McAllister. And it’s not over. A lot of people are in danger. It is extremely important that we talk to you.”

  Jake was aware of Kristen trembling next to him. He grabbed one of her hands and held on tight. “I sympathize, guys. I really do. But we’ve got major problems of our own to deal with, and this sounds like a matter for the police anyway.”

  The shorter kid gave hi
s head an emphatic shake. “Uh-uh. Fuck the police.”

  Something stirred in the back of Jake’s mind. He peered more closely at the boys. There was something familiar about them, too. Then he had it. He couldn’t breathe for a moment. He’d seen their faces on the late news last night. They were Trey’s friends. That surely had something to do with why they’d come to see him. But Jake wanted no part of them. They were wanted for several murders. Maybe they were telling the truth and maybe not. It didn’t matter. They were fugitives and he wanted them gone, pronto. Let them sort their shit out elsewhere. It wasn’t his problem.

  “Look, guys—”

  “Oh my God.”

  Jake glanced at Kristen. She seemed a little less on the verge of falling to pieces. She was staring intently at the girl on the porch. “Kristen? What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head, her features set in wonderment. “She looks so much like you. Can’t you see it?”

  Jake looked at the girl. It wasn’t something he would have noticed on his own, but a closer study of the girl’s face did reveal some similarity. They had the same strong cheekbones and full lips. He and the girl also had the same shade of dark brown hair. And the eyes…

  Fuck.

  The similarity was too strong. He didn’t know the girl and had never seen her before. But given the hyperpromiscuity of the McAllister clan, that meant nothing. Factor in an absurdly high level of infidelity and the strong possibility of a familial connection became a probability. She was almost certainly the product of some sordid one-night stand or back-door rendezvous involving a McAllister male and some poor woman. But he couldn’t dwell on it or allow himself to get sidetracked.