Coven

by David Barnett

  It was something like credence, an awareness rather than a conclusion. It would be wonderful to be special, to be loved.

  —Love.

  The woman touched Penelope’s cheek. The warm hand seemed to seal the promise of trust.

  —I’ll protect you, the woman in black promised. —I have something to give you, something you’ve never had before.

  Penelope’s whole world now was the woman’s touch. The warm white hand began to probe her breasts. The sensation was delicious. But what had the woman said? Something to give her?

  —Destiny.

  “Wh what?”

  —I can show you destiny, Penelope. I can show you love.

  “Show me,” Penelope moaned.

  The woman’s blurred face hovered close. The scarlet lips parted. The mouth opened wide, full of teeth like a dog’s.

  ««—»»

  Tom poured the Spatens with the exactitude of a master. “We’ll give Jervis an hour. If he doesn’t show, we’ll split.”

  Wade nodded. No one could remember seeing Jervis all day. Wade had a bad feeling.

  “You’re worried about him,” Tom commented. “You don’t believe he’s over this Sarah thing even though he said he was.”

  “Well…”

  “You think he’s gonna lose it, shoot himself, or climb to the top of the WHPL tower and do a double gainer.”

  Could he picture it? “It’s just not like him to disappear.”

  Was he being unreasonable? He couldn’t cast off the gut feeling, the presage that Jervis’ emotions were too rampant for his selfhood. How close was he, really, to cracking up?

  “Hey, Wade. Here’s an old one.”

  “Please,” Wade pleaded. “I’m in no mood for conservative jokes.”

  “What do Carter and the North Virginia Amtrak have in common?”

  “I’d really rather not—”

  “They both pull out of Rosalynn at five A.M. sharp.

  Wade shook his head. Tom’s jokes were like a Kirby vacuum cleaner: they sucked.

  The inn was packed. They sipped their Spatens like wine poseurs. Beer snobbery was an intricate art. No Bud for these two. Then Wade said, “Wouldn’t it be a riot if Jervis was here and Sarah walked in?”

  Tom glanced behind him. “You psychic?” he asked when he saw who was side traipsing through.

  Sarah Black emerged from the wall of backs and heads, her eyes thinned as if in some harsh assessment. She wore purple high heels, blue leather pants, and a clinging blouse the color of arterial blood. Very short platinum blond hair fit against her head like a flier’s cap.

  “Hey, Sarah!” Wade called out. “How’s it going?”

  “Don’t,” Tom warned. “Don’t start a scene.”

  “How are things in the she devil business?” Wade asked. “Good?”

  She gauged him without reaction.

  “That was really classy the way you dumped Jervis.”

  “This is a mistake,” Tom told him.

  Sarah sniped back: “I didn’t dump him. Things just didn’t—”

  “I know,” Wade completed. “Things just didn’t work out. That’s what girls always say when they dump a guy.”

  “I didn’t dump him!”

  “You dumped him cold for the first new pecker to cross the pike. Why not just admit?”

  Sarah’s dark eyes reflected sheer rage. “What the hell do you know! I didn’t dump him! We broke up because Jervis was no longer compatible with the dynamics of our relationship!”

  Wade chuckled. “That’s a good one. You were just taking him for a ride until someone with more money came along.”

  “I was not!”

  “Oh, and I like that outfit, by the way. I guess Warhol had a rummage sale, huh?”

  Sarah’s cheeks seemed to be wafting heat.

  “Don’t worry, Sarah. It’s not against the law to be an absolutely awful person. You should congratulate yourself on a job well done… Now, see if you can interpret the significance of the following gesture.” Wade pushed his nostrils up with his index fingers and began to make pig noises.

  Sarah shrieked: “I’m getting my new boyfriend to kick your ass!”

  “Hey, I’m shakin’,” Wade said. “I’m leaving town. See?”

  Sarah tromped off, her lips pursed to a tight, red seam.

  “When are you gonna learn to control yourself?” Tom complained.

  Wade shrugged sheepishly. Many patrons were staring at him, brows raised. “I couldn’t resist. She had it coming.”

  Tom ordered two more Spatens. “I don’t understand how Jerv could fall in love with that gold digger anyway.”

  “Love’s a funny thing,” Wade speculated. “It clouds our sense of reason. The Eleventh Commandment: Love makes morons of men.”

  Tom slapped the bar. “I knew you had religion in you somewhere.”

  The Spatens caught up fast; you could only put so much in before you had to let some out. Wade excused himself to the men’s room, which was empty and damp. As he tended to business, the wall provided an engaging display of graffiti. “Eat, drink, and be Larry,” one scrawl read. “West Virginia men are men…and sheep are nervous.” And: “I’d rather have a bottle in front of me than have a frontal lobotomy.”

  Sounds like you need both, Wade thought. But when he turned to leave, he found a frightfully large figure standing in the doorway.

  “Pardon me, brother. You’re blocking the door.”

  “Zat iss correct,” came a succinct, zinging German inflection.

  Wade already knew who it was. This fucker’s huge, he thought, and that was all he thought for some time. Wilhelm Karl von Heinrich loomed, bringing his angular face and blue eyes into the light. He wore tailored gray slacks and a silk shirt that must’ve cost five hundred dollars.

  “You get that shirt at Ward’s?” Wade asked.

  Wilhelm’s face remained a stoic blank. “Herr St. John, you unt me, vee must come to an understahndink.”

  “I understand that you’re possibly the biggest motherfucker on two legs, but that’s about it. I like the accent, though. French?”

  “Unt comedian,” Wilhelm said. “You insult mein girlfriend, and vut it iss you must understant iss zat no vun insults mein girlfriend.”

  Wade took a crack at the accent. What did he have to lose? “Vell zen, mein namen must be no vun because your girlfriend iss unt ahz hole, Herr Big German Mozzerfocker.” And then Wade slammed his fist into the soft of Wilhelm’s belly. Only…there was no soft. What his knuckles impacted felt like padded rock. The German didn’t flinch, or even react, to the blow.

  “So much for the warm up,” Wade said. This guy must have the Berlin Wall under his shirt. Wade pointed to the ceiling. “Stukas! Look!” Wilhelm looked. Wade rammed his fist into Wilhelm’s jaw with a raw, wet smack.

  Wilhelm chuckled. “Unt comedian,” he remarked again, smiling, and flung Wade effortlessly across the bathroom. He crashed into the stall and banged his head against—of all things—the toilet seat. Wilhelm then put a wristlock on him…and twisted.

  “I tell you ziss only vunce, scheisskopf. You ever speak to mein girlfriend again” —Wilhelm’s free hand produced a shiny knife— “unt I will kill you.”

  The knife flashed. Wade could read the words Blut und Ehre! on the blade. Wilhelm gave Wade’s arm another twist and emphasized: “I vill cut your guts out und stuff zem down your sroat.”

  “I think I get the idea,” Wade wheezed, wondering when his wrist would snap.

  “Vee have understalindink, zen, ja?”

  “Ja!” Wade conceded. “Ja-ja-jaaa!”

  A tad more twist on the wrist. The knife turned. “Ja?”

  “Ja, goddamn it! Ja!”

  Wilhelm put the knife away. “Gute, gute, we have undestahndink, but zere iss vun more sing. In zah fazzerland, vee have a special way of sealing unt agreement.”

  Wade rolled his eyes. He knew what was coming.

  “Vee drink to zat agreement, Herr St.
John, and ziss drink iss on me.”

  Wilhelm then thrust Wade’s face into the toilet and flushed. “Gute?” he asked. He pulled Wade up. “Unt anuzzer? Ja?”

  “Nein, nein,” Wade groaned, dripping.

  “Ja, I sink vun more for zah road,” and down Wade’s face went again. This time he was held much longer. Bubbles erupted from his lips. Somehow he managed to think: I am going to drown in a toilet. What a way to go.

  When Wilhelm let go, Wade fell out of the bowl and onto his back, gasping. He coughed up toilet water as his conqueror towered flagrantly above him, hands on hips and smiling.

  “Until vee meet again, Herr St. John—guten Nacht.”

  Wilhelm turned and left. Dripping, Wade struggled to his feet and tried to clean himself up at the sink. Remind me to never insult Sarah Black again, he chastised himself. Wade’s defeat was optimized when he plucked a big pubic hair off his nose.

  ««—»»

  And what happened after that—the vision of teeth—was a smudge in Penelope’s mind. All she could see was that widening, bright red mouth ringed with teeth. The teeth were pointed and long.

  Then came a blur, a vibration. A sudden, nettling pain pricked Penelope’s throat. Then the woman in black got out of the car.

  Penelope couldn’t move. She could see, hear, feel, think, but she couldn’t move. She slumped, paralyzed, at the wheel, her hands upturned in her lap like dead birds.

  —Hurry.

  Someone was coming. A shadow moved across the windshield.

  She fell out on the ground when the door was opened. The horse-killer bent over—the axman—and that was when Penelope first recognized him: Professor Besser, her biology teacher!

  He did not look pleased.

  —Hurry!

  He grunted, threw Penelope over his shoulder, and started walking.

  He was taking her back to the stables. Where had the woman gone? Besser’s feet thudded the dirt floor. Penelope saw lines of stains, blood. Then Professor Besser stopped.

  —Hurry up with her and come right back. There’s much to do.

  Mr. Sladder’s flashlight was on the floor. It was still on. Penelope could see upside down past Besser’s legs. And what she saw…

  The flashlight cast crisp, black shadows on the wall. One shadow was a prone figure—Mr. Sladder with the ax still in his head. Another shadow squatted over it.

  “I’m very tired,” Professor Besser complained. “I need help.”

  —You’ll have help soon, the woman’s slushlike voice replied. But where was she now? Was she the second shadow?

  More shadows converged. Suddenly there was a wet plunging sound, like someone cleaning the insides out of a big pumpkin. Shadows of hands and arms were reaching into Mr. Sladder and pulling things out.

  Professor Besser’s feet started up again. Penelope remained limp over his shoulder as he carried her out of the stables and into the foggy, moonlit fields.

  She was slipping away. Her breasts bobbled upside-down. The fog came nearly up to Besser’s waist. They were passing the utility shed and the chopped down fence. All the while, the stinging throbbed at Penelope’s throat. What had the woman done to her?

  Had the woman bitten her?

  Soon they were past the grazing fields. Penelope’s arms hung down, consumed by fog; he was carrying her into dark woods. Her consciousness seemed to be dripping out of her head, but very faintly she thought: It would be so much better to be a horse.

  Indeed, it would have been. Her carrier took her deep into the forest. Twigs crunched beneath his clumsy feet. Then they came to a clearing drenched in moonlight. A brief hillock stood out, and she thought she saw something there—

  Something black.

  “Here’s your new home, Penelope,” Besser said, trudging across.

  She passed out when she saw what he was taking her to.

  The thing on the hillock was a black oblong box.

  It looked like a coffin.

  —

  CHAPTER 9

  Wade and Tom had left a couple of Spatens later. Tom laughed when Wade recited his encounter with Wilhelm and the toilet dunk. “That’s what I call the house special,” he’d said. “Next time don’t start trouble you can’t handle.” Wade, still damp, agreed.

  Downtown Exham was quiet tonight. Quaint, fake gas lamps lit the cobblestone streets. As they headed for the next bar, Wade found himself still preoccupied with Jervis.

  “He’ll turn up,” Tom said without having to ask. “He’s probably sleeping off a Kirin shitface back at the dorm.”

  Wade hoped so. He caught himself glancing into the gun shop on Huberty Lane. What would he do if he actually saw Jervis in there, buying bullets, buying guns? But that was an absurd idea—besides, the shop was closed.

  “Hey,” Tom exclaimed as a car passed. “Was that Besser’s car?”

  “What?” Wade was off guard. He turned and saw a big maroon sedan cross the town square and disappear. “Who cares?” he said. The last person Wade wanted to be reminded of was Besser, his janitorial supervisor. “He’s so fat he probably can’t even fit in a car, much less drive one.”

  They finished the night at a corner saloon imaginatively named The Bar, which specialized in imported draft like Old Peculiar, EKU Edelbock, and Spaten and Adams, their mainstays. After a few pints, Wade stepped up to the taco bar despite Tom’s warning that tacos never failed to incite horrendous nightmares. As Wade doled on plenty of cheese and chili, he overheard several crim majors whispering about some mishap at Exham’s agro site. He could make no details save for bits of phrases: “deader than dogshit” and “.25 brass all over the fucking place.” Some of the crim students worked security for extra credits; Wade presumed some local rednecks had taken some shots at the agro animals or some such, but he hardly cared. He still felt sidetracked about Jervis, perhaps, but something else too. “Quit worrying about Jervis, will you?” Tom implored when Wade came back to the table.

  “Can’t help it,” Wade admitted. “I can’t shake this gut feeling that something’s happened to him.”

  “I’ll tell you what. I’ll stop by the campus drunk tank on my way back to the dorm, just to be safe.”

  “Good idea. Maybe he got trashed, busted.”

  But that wasn’t it either. Something itched at Wade. And what he never noticed was that the same car had driven by the saloon a half dozen times. A big maroon sedan, like Besser’s.

  ««—»»

  Penelope found she could move a little now. She could move her head up, she could move her fingers and toes. She looked down the side of her body. She was naked. She’d been laid out on her back in some strange, dim light. Was it a floor she lay on? A table? It was warm here, and humid like a steam room. She could see with great clarity, and there was another feeling, something internal. A sharp dazzle seemed to radiate along her boneline. Had someone given her drugs? It felt strange but not unpleasant.

  None of this made sense, yet even that did not occur to her. She’d been assaulted tonight, abducted, and inexplicably paralyzed, but amazingly she felt no fear. She felt giddy, happy even. One of her arms she could move. She guided her hand to her neck, to the faint stinging. It felt like a bump with a hole in it, and right next to it was another hole, which didn’t sting at all. All she knew was that she had two holes in her throat and she didn’t care. She even giggled at the revelation.

  Next she moved her hand across her chest; a pleasant tingle followed. The feeling spread in a wishbone from her breasts to her sex, glittering along the inside of her thighs and up her belly. Her breasts felt impossibly large. When she squeezed them, a painful yet prurient pressure gusted to her genitals. In her sedate confusion she finally realized what it was.

  She was horny. Inexplicably and irrepressibly horny.

  She kneaded her own breast, feeling the swollen nipple. Next her fingers walked down and rubbed the little button of her sex, then plucked it, twirled it, as though it too were a nipple. The sensation was delicious. Sud
denly her mind filled with the most lewd imagery, a recollection from that video of her father’s, Little Oral Annie, but at once it shifted slightly, to Little Oral Penelope. In her mind she saw her mouth stuffed with erections, one after another, balls slapping her chin. She sucked and sucked, and one after another, each penis slid out of her mouth at the crisis-point, emptying lines of sperm into her face. She let the bitter sauce run warmly down her breasts, as her hand raced at her sex. An inexplicable feeling was mounting in her—more images assaulted her: massive, veined penises whacking in and out of her vagina like mindless pistons of meat, then tremoring, then filling her to overflowing with more delicious, wet heat...

  Something clicked.

  The images abandoned her, replacing the unbidden lust with an edgy curiosity. What had that sound been? And, more importantly…

  Where am I? she thought. A house? A basement? Where exactly had Professor Besser taken her?

  She seemed to be lying in a narrow, dark room whose confines were etched very dimly in orange and silver light. And what were those things above her? She turned her head, looking up. Shelves? she thought. They looked like butts of bottles in a wine rack, so maybe she was in someone’s basement. The things in the rack glinted like glass in the dim, orange light.

  Voices suddenly rang in her head like bells.

  —Penelope!

  —Penelope! We promised you a great destiny.

  —Oh, you’re so lucky! We wish we could be you!

  —We love you, Penelope!

  The voices were a madness in her ears. They blurred from side to side like stereo. They were the woman’s voice, the woman who’d been in her car, the woman in black.

  —We have a great silver lord, and you’ve made him very happy!

  —Yes!

  —And now it’s time for us to fulfill our promise.

  The slush voices blanked, replaced by a vast, amplified silence. Penelope could hear her heart, her eyes blinking, her blood as it pulsed through her veins. Her breasts and sex throbbed in the remnants of her sexual fantasizing.

  Distantly a door opened. A bent block of light lolled across the floor. The orangish hue disappeared altogether, leaving only what she guessed must be moonlight. A figure came into the room, tiny in the distance and crisply black. It cast no shadow.