Giggling, Neville swooned. “Are we home yet?” she asked, testing her cheeks with her hands. Is it getting warmer? Why am I so hot?
“Almost, my love. Almost.”
“Good.” Neville nearly whispered, her breath hot. Between her legs her sex felt moist as she leaned over to the driver side of the SUV. She kissed Boris’s neck. Reaching down with her hand, she rubbed his crotch. She could feel him growing hard and she could also feel the Cadillac accelerate. Nibbling on his ear, she pulled at his lobe with her tongue.
“Oh…” Boris steadied the SUV.
Neville smiled, unzipping the zipper on his pants. Pulling out his cock. Exposing his erection.
Boris shifted in his seat. His face red and glistening with newly beaded sweat. Lips trembling slightly. Eyes seemingly larger behind his thick glasses.
Stroking him, Neville took Boris into her mouth. Licking. Sucking on the head of his organ. Rubbing his balls.
Boris groaned.
Neville smiled to herself.
He was keeping one eye on the road and one hand on the steering wheel. With his other hand he took hold of her hair, following her movements, bobbing up and down his shaft.
Neville sucked, slurping saliva pouring out between her lips. She could feel his leg twitching, his slow rhythmic thrusts as she took him farther into her mouth.
He would cum if she kept going.
But she didn’t want to stop.
Shrieking rubber into the drive, Boris parked the SUV and killed the engine. Neville came back up, wiping her mouth, and whispered hotly in his ear, “Fuck me.”
They both rushed out of the Cadillac, stumbling and laughing and undressing as they made their way to the front door.
Chapter 21
Curse
Bobby
Bobby Weeks watched the news. For weeks now, searching the paper for anything out of the ordinary. Whatever that meant. Had Luna owned a computer, he’d search there as well. For nearly a month now he looked for any sign the girl had—changed. Anything bizarre going on at any of the major hospitals in Houston, especially the hospital on the Mainland, the one the girl from Rudy’s Tavern, the sole survival, would most likely be. Every so often, he would look in the obituary section, not that the bereaved would ever include anything detail, right. Cindy Lu is survived by mother, Rosa, and father Ted, and many such and such brothers and sisters. Cindy was a Rice University English major and accomplished seamstress of polka dot print dresses before turning into a ravenous bloodthirsty werewolf. Pointless, but better than doing nothing at all. He’d thought of searching the Mainland Hospital himself on the morning after of the…attack. He thought, at least. Never really working up the courage to actually going. No, instead he came back to Luna’s and festered with dark thoughts, brooding over what a worthless person he was.
Tossing a blue ball from the couch, letting it bounce off the wall and back to his palm, Bobby wondered if today he’d discover a slaughter in the paper, a slaughter which he was the cause of. Not physically, of course. But the bastard cursed he passed on to that girl.
But the moon wasn’t full, how was I to know?
—Does it matter now?
Yes, goddamnit, it matters.
—Then do something.
Like what?
—Find her.
How?
Something thudded against the door. The paperboy, no doubt, finishing off his route on this remote section of Hitchcock. Bobby leapt from the overstuffed couch, letting the blue racquetball to gribble on the floor. Snatching open the door, he search the stoop. Hungrily, he snapped the rubber band and unrolled the paper. Reading. Eyes darting over the headline, over the columns, over the editorials. If it was going to happen, today ought to be the day he’d see it in the news. Slaughter. Bloodshed. All on account of him and last night’s full moon, large and yellow in the night sky, like an ancient sentient race looking down on the earth, bidding the creatures of the night, as Bela Lugosi would say, with its bright pit marked face.
Turning the page, he froze.
Mainland—Authorities are still searching for woman suspected in a killing spree that started at the Mainland Hospital early last night.
Among the slain, Quentin Hammer, a 19-year-old recent graduate of Holy Family Catholic School, who had been at the hospital for routine observation died of wounds inflicted. Along with Pamela Park, a 40-year-old resident nurse who had been assigned over the young man. 4 victims in all were slain. Not all names have been released at this time.
Caught in the whirlwind of wild thoughts, Bobby let the paper drop to the stoop. Staggering backwards, he fell to the floor.
It happened.
She turned.
…I turned her.
Slaughtered…four…people are dead because of me.
—No, because of the girl. You need to find her.
Crawling back to the paper, Bobby searched for any other bit of information, but nothing could be found. Apparently the upcoming election year superseded suspected killing sprees and late night bloodbaths.
What can I do? he wondered.
How would I even find her?
Collecting the paper, Bobby closed the door and returned to the plush couch, rubbing his arms, comforting what he could of the sore muscles from last night’s turn. Despite what happened at the tavern, the moon held sway over his once a month nocturnal changes. He hadn’t had any other incident. And was thankful for at least that. But what do about the girl? He could track her, some way. Find her…scent. Could he do that? Or follow the headlines. Follow the blood trail. The wreckage in which he was ultimately the cause. But was he really? Was finding the girl really his responsibility? His priority? Okay. He changed into that…and wounded her, passing along the curse. Unaware of course that he even could. Unaware he could transform outside of the full moon. Were the legends all bullshit then? Full moons. Silver. When the wolfsbane blooms, and all that nonsense. Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps what really mattered was finding the real cause of all this mess. Justin, the kid with the silver knife, the kid with the buddy’s packing the bulldog revolver, the kids that shot Rudy. Said they were from Jotham.
—Jotham!
Bobby flung the paper across the living room, sneering as the off-white pages tousled and floated to the floor like weighted grey feathers.
What was it about this girl that he was so suddenly responsible for? No. She could figure things out, just as he had figured them out. And who knows, maybe she’ll come across her own Luna. Some stranger that’ll take pity on her. Or put her out of her misery. No. The real issue he needed to deal with was finding out what was going on in Jotham. The town where his friends died. The town those kids came down from with murder in their eyes. And knowledge, apparently, of what Bobby was. And how to kill him, assuming the silver blade would have even worked.
Who sent them? he wondered.
Who sent them?
—But the girl, Bobby.
What about her?
—You can’t leave her like this.
What am I supposed to do then? Huh?
—You know.
Bobby jumped from the couch. Storming the living room, knocking books off shelves. Kicking pillows. Growling. On the wall he spotted a picture he hadn’t seen before. A framed photo on the wall in the living room. A picture of Luna and him from last Thanksgiving. He’d stayed, longer than he ever had. It was the first time they were together, intimately.
He took the photo, holding it before him.
“Okay,” he whispered. “Okay.”
Placing the photo back on the wall, Bobby went to pack a bag.
“Let’s go find that girl.”
Chapter 22
Morning After
Neville
The world was heavy. Light poured in the through the blinds brighter than any light should allow. Smacking her lips, Neville tasted putrid sour corn husks, dry and chalky on her breath. Her thoughts stretched like worn rubber bands. Snapping back with warning only to be stretc
hed back out again. Stomach rumbling, making gurgling whining sounds. And—
And…
Oh God, I’m going to be sick.
Neville flung the bedsheets to the floor, stumbling her way to the bathroom. Flipping on the light jittering, she fell to her knees in front of the commode. The world spun around her. Skin slick with sweat and clammy. Cold. So very cold. And—
She hoisted her head above the rim, heaving again and again, abs moaning in protest from the sudden violent thrust. Throat burning acid. Giving one last final surge of yellow viscous liquid, somewhat minuscule given the amount of effort it took to get it up, she sat back on the tile floor, panting, yet relieved to feel the world slowing down. Stomach cool, content. Breasts tender, almost too painful to touch. And tired, so very tired.
What is going on? Neville wondered.
Am I catching the flu?
No. This doesn’t feel like the flu.
What then?
Sick. Cramping. Noxious. Weak, all the time. Tinder. And the list went on, building toward some diagnosis she’d read about before. In one of her magazines, right? Or on the web. Or…in a book. Symptoms…
No.
Couldn’t be.
Her heart pounded.
Skipping every other beat, she patting the tile floor with her palm.
Couldn’t be.
Could it?
Crawling to the sink, Neville opened the bottom cupboard. Staring into the darkness within, she paused. Finally, she reached inside and retrieved a plastic wrapped box she’d placed there soon after moving in.
***
“Honey?”
“Upstairs.”
Neville listened to the muffled footsteps as Boris came up the soft bamboo steps. She stood in front of their bedroom mirror, turning sideways, puffing out her stomach with her abs, touching tenderly on the self-produced hump, humming some whimsical song she couldn’t quite remember the name of.
“There you are.” Boris stood in the doorway, legs and arms crossed, leaning on the frame, some sort of book, old by the look of it, tucked in his armpit as if it were a rolled newspaper.
“Hey, mister.” Neville nearly sang the words, switching sides in the mirror.
“What’s gotten into you?” Boris seemed caught in the fever, giggling slightly himself, almost nervously in tone, the way you’d imagine giving an answer to a teacher you were unsure if it was right. And so pale, oh he looks so pale.
“Nothing much.” Neville ignored his tone, twirling again in the mirror, long sandy hair tossed about as she danced side to side, humming under her breath.
“Nothing? Must be something.”
“Come here.”
Boris obeyed.
Neville fell into his chest and whispered into his ear.
“I’m pregnant.”
Chapter 23
The Sight
Luna
She sat on the wooden porch swing, gently drifting back and forth on noisy chains. The creak and crack sounded near hypnotic. Had eight months really gone by? The mild once-elder summer months had turned cold. Still, the tall pines held their green, stubborn until the first icing would come passing over the area in the bitter weeks ahead. The oaks and ferns had not held out as lucky. The once vibrant greens turned bright yellow, red, and dark orange, as if in death they gave one final triumphant display of life and beauty. Luna swung from the porch swing, wrapped in one of her grandmother’s purple and sage twilled afghans. She’d made hot chocolate, which now kept her hands warm as she gazed out into the woods, wondering where the Sad Man had gone to. Sad Man, such a strange name for someone, something that’d caused so much harm. But he was a Sad Man that much she could gleam from his mind, the rest was locked by something stronger than her own power could penetrate. The Sad Man, sad for everything. His existence. His death. His rebirth. And all the terrible things he did following his resurrection. Sad Man, he was. But he was not her problem.
On the porch, Luna also wondered why she stayed. What else was she going to do…now that Memaw was long gone from this world? With Bobby, maybe. Living perhaps in her Hitchcock home? Or had he moved on without her, given up on her ever returning? Would she return? Could she? And what of John Turner…what about him? Maybe he was gone now too that Ronna had been buried? Doubtful. But maybe.
Along the wood line, the sound of rustling came from a thick gaggle of underbrush.
The mug slipped slightly in her hands.
Is he…back?
Laughing, she watched as two squirrels came darting out, chasing each other over a chunk of acorn. Sighing loudly, Luna took a long delightful sip from her steaming chocolate, gazing upon the playful creatures as they pranced about the yard before disappearing again into the woods.
Lingering, her thoughts darkened again.
Oh Memaw, I wish you were here.
They’d buried her, as John had instructed. Eight months and she didn’t know why she listened to the murderer of her kin, but something about him…there’d been nothing dishonest in his request. Luna had little doubt there had been plenty from her grandmother’s life she was not privy of. People, places, and stories perhaps only the Sad Man would now know.
Sad Man…seemed such a cruel name.
But that is what he is, is he not?
Murderer.
Ruthless.
Savage.
Perhaps.
Perhaps then and not anymore.
Had he changed?
In time…
Did it matter?
Regardless, Luna knew the Great Willow was where Memaw would want to be, as in life so in death. Eternally embraced with the alien tree she favored so compassionately.
The service had been simple. John had dug the grave. Luna wrapped her body in a thin olive shroud and placed her grandmother upon a wooden bier. Alone, in a feat of terrifying strength, the creature lowered her in so she could rest forever on her back in the Mississippi soil, until decay took her flesh and the earth consumed the remains. They each sprinkled dirt low in the grave. Whispering prayers and goodbyes. A goat had been brought, tied to the Great Willow trunk in a manila noose.
Luna opened the bleating throat, almost automatically, allowing the blood to pour into the open grave. No hesitation. No question asked.
John broke apart the animal’s carcass and burned the remains on a pyre.
“May she come to her place in peace,” Luna had said, covering the grave with dirt.
“We are dust.” John joined her to help seal the grave.
The Great Willow had straighten, somehow. Hadn’t it? Or did she imagine it all? The low hanging gnarled branches seemed to lift upward, as if catching the afternoon sun. It shook its massive branches. Covering the burial site in a lush natural green blanket.
Then he was gone.
And she was alone.
For eight months now.
Solitude, but for the creeping thoughts of some pending event still on the horizon.
There was something there, in the wind, in her mind. A doorway opening. To what? And where did these visions come from? She did not know. Perhaps in death, Memaw was trying to warn her of something.
Her cup now empty, Luna stood to return the mug to the kitchen inside the cabin in the woods.
—Bobby
His eyes burned devilish at the epicenter of her mind. The anger rolled off him in waves of foul odor. He was out there, somewhere. Not in Hitchcock. On the road. Returning. Yes, returning to that horrible place she’d warned him about nearly a year ago to the day. Returning…why? Something must have happened. Something to set him in motion.
The mug slipped from her fingers, shattered on the wood porch. Luna stumbled backwards, taking hold of the banister. As much as she’d pushed her mind these several months, she could only see glimpses, echoes almost of the world outside these woods. But now…now they came with such force she could feel her mind stretching and snapping, boiling within her skull. So many voices. So many futures. Endless possibilities. Endless fa
tes. Endless destinations. Millions of faces spun behind her eyes. Screaming, she lost her grip on the banister and tumbled down the staircase. Laying on the ground, she rolled, clamping her hands over her eyes, her head, moaning and thrashing as if being lashed by some invisible whip.
Heavy footsteps approached.
Daring a glance, Luna watched as John Turner came toward her from the woods, a shadow cloaked in his wooly thick trench coat.
His face was blank, much as his thoughts. She could only glean one thing.
Pity.
He pitied her.
He pitied her?
Another lashing. Blinding flashes of other places and people, of times not yet bygone. Structures unfathomable. Wars unending. Nations falling and rebuilding. Flags faded and rejuvenating. Tongues of familiar breed and those absolutely foreign. People, if you could call them that, absolutely unrecognizable, orange skins and large bulbous eyes and moving about as if carried on the wind. Another lash and another, and she was snapped back to days faded from the memory of modern man, native tribes and colonial skirmishes, huts on fire and fear…something waiting in the dark, unnatural and terrifyingly cosmic…something not of this world. The world caught in a kaleidoscope made of prisms and glass shards of infinite darkness, places that’d burn rationality mad, she dared not look long, for one of those glass shards blinked at her, as if looking upon her with as much speculation as a boy looks upon an ant.
“Wormi…” she whispered.
Luna rolled, ripping at her natural wooly afro.
“Make it stop!” she howled, kicking the dirt and soil free from the earth.
Too much. Too much.
John stooped beside her, cooing with a deep vibrating voice, hushing her as if she were nothing but a teething child.
“Focus,” he said. “Focus on someone you know.”
Luna gritted her teeth, wanting nothing from this monster’s hideous patched together creature, for what he was, and for what he’d done to her family.
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