She said nothing.
“You know,” he said. “I’m starting to get the sense that maybe you just don’t like me that much.”
If she had been feeling more herself, she probably would have tried one more time to keep things from blowing up. There was definitely a potentially dangerous subtext here—she was alone in a deserted place with a guy who was acting suspicious—but she wasn’t feeling herself. Not at all.
“You know what?” she said. “I think you must be psychic, Chance, because you just read my fucking mind. The truth is, I’m trying really hard right now to get rid of your fat ass. I don’t like your creepy eyes, or your creepy questions. Your behavior is making me very uncomfortable, and I don’t want you here. I never want you here. Is that clear enough for you? I want you to get away from me. Right now.”
He didn’t move.
“Are you gonna leave, or do you want me to call the police?”
“The police? Wouldn’t you say that’s jumping the gun a little bit?”
“I don’t know. Is it? You crept into my yard, you spied on me, and now you’re refusing to leave.”
“I didn’t refuse.”
“I don’t see you going anywhere.”
“Why’re you acting like such a cunt?”
He hadn’t moved or done anything overtly aggressive, but there was suddenly a dangerous look in his eyes, reflecting some dark emotion that was worse than normal hatred. For a moment she thought he was about to physically attack her—and she realized, with a sense of profound shock, that a part of her actually hoped that he would.
Not because she wanted to be hurt, but because she desperately—in an almost carnal way—wanted an excuse to hurt him.
Her eyes went to a group of smooth stones surrounding a flower bed near the front porch. Heavy stones. She thought about how great it would feel to smash his head with one until his brains started leaking out.
She took a few small steps in that direction, trying to position herself so she could go for one fast if he made a move.
But then she saw him struggling with, and gradually mastering, his anger, and she knew he wasn’t going to do anything.
A wave of disappointment swept over her, and that was when she knew for sure that everything about her current behavior was out of line with her normal personality. She could be combative at times, and certainly had a temper, but this weird craving for violence wasn’t a natural thing for her at all.
She quickly reminded herself that it was also profoundly stupid. She was a woman, alone, and he was a man who outweighed her by a hell of a lot. She didn’t have much of a chance. Even if she managed to get ahold of one of those rocks it would probably be too heavy for her to use efficiently. Most likely he would end up taking it away from her, and in the heat of the moment he might just decide to beat her to death with it.
All these things were true, but still, she had to fight down an urge to goad him further. She thought about questioning his manhood, calling him a pussy, spitting on him.
Somehow she kept herself under control. Just barely.
Chance glared at her for a moment more, and when he spoke his voice was smooth, and cold with no hint of emotion in it, but his eyes continued to blaze with barely suppressed rage. “I can’t believe how much you’ve changed Simone. You were always stuck on yourself, but I never thought you’d turn out to be this much of a bitch.”
“Okay, now you’re just calling me names. I’m done talking to you. Time to call the cops.”
She turned around and took a few steps towards the house.
“No need for that,” he said. “I’ll leave—never said I wouldn’t—but first we need to talk.”
“We’ve talked enough.” She started up the porch steps.
“I promise you’ll want to hear this.”
“I doubt that.”
“Do you remember a guy named Glen Mason? From high school? Red-headed guy, kinda gangly looking?”
The name instantly struck a chord in her memory. A bad chord.
She stopped just shy of the front door and turned back around.
“You remember him right?” said Chance, a smile spreading out over his face. “He told me the craziest story about you.”
“He was lying.”
“So you’re already denying and you don’t even know what he told me?”
That motherfucker. She gritted her teeth, looked away, and managed to say nothing.
Chance smiled even bigger, eyes full of evil mischief. “Let me tell the story first, and then you can deny it if you still want to.” He paused momentarily, stroking his chin as if trying to remember the details. “So let me see… According to Glen, a few days before his wedding, some of his college buddies took him out for a night on the town in Richmond, and at the end of the night they took him to a hotel, and gave him a room key. Turns out all his pals had pooled their money and hired a very expensive call girl to come give him one last go round before he tied the knot. So Glen was super-excited, of course. His buddies left him there, and Glen went up to the room and settled in, and about 30 minutes later there was a knock on the door. He got up and opened the door, and guess who he sees standing out in the hallway?”
“This is all bullshit.”
“Oh really? I don’t think so. Glen’s always been a pretty honest guy. And if he was making it up, he would’ve told me you slept with him—I mean everybody wanted to fuck you back in high school, and Glen never had much luck with girls in general. It would’ve been a real feather in his cap to nail a girl as pretty as you, even if you were only doing it for money. But from what he told me, the whole thing was actually kind of embarrassing. He said you refunded the money, that you started crying, begging him not to tell anybody back home.”
That was more or less how she remembered the incident. At least the big-mouthed asshole didn’t lie about it.
“So anyway,” said Chance, “when I saw you at the store today, I remembered what Glen told me, and I thought to myself, ‘I bet she’s still keeping that whole thing a secret.’ Especially from certain people. Like your mom. I don’t think you’d ever tell her something like that.”
“You’re wrong,” she lied. “I told mom about it ages ago.”
“Is that so? I doubt it… But even if you did, I bet you didn’t tell the whole town. How would your mother feel if everybody in Reed county knew her daughter was a hooker? Not just a regular old slut, but an honest to god, professional, money-making whore? People around here already see your mom a little different because she was married to a black man—not that I condone that kind of racism, of course, but you know how people talk…”
So this is it. Fucking blackmail.
And she could tell by the leering grin on his face what the price would be. He had never managed to get in her pants in high school, and he clearly intended to rectify that.
She wanted to scream and curse, to tell him to fuck off and die, but that wouldn’t change anything. He would just laugh.
Fucking Glen Mason, that rat bastard…
Ever since that night, she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. Glen had been very nice about it, had promised to keep her secret, and she’d allowed herself to hope that he meant it. If nothing else, she figured he wouldn’t want his wife to find out that he’d been on the verge of having sex with another woman just a few days before his wedding. But deep down she’d always worried he would blabber eventually. It was just too juicy a story to hold in forever. And if he ever opened his mouth, it would only be a matter of time before it got around to her mom—Goldbrook was a small town, people talked.
And if her mom ever heard it, she would know it was the truth. There’d been one particular occasion back in those days when Simone accidentally let her mother find a large pile of cash money.
Simone made up a story about winning the money in a contest, but her mother had never been entirely satisfied, and had even asked if Simone was dealing drugs.
Finding out that her daughter had b
een working as a call girl would answer a lot of questions in one fell swoop. Which was definitely something Simone didn’t want.
Unfortunately, there was no way to avoid it now.
Chance’s threat, which he clearly thought was so clever and devastating, didn’t actually matter because the genie was already out of the bottle. If Glen blabbered once, he would blabber again eventually—might’ve already blabbered to several other people by now.
Chance was looking up at her, grinning from ear to ear. He thought he had her by the proverbial balls, and he was terribly pleased with himself.
She was suddenly unable to bear the idea of him getting away with this.
He has to pay.
The fact that his blackmail attempt had no real power over her didn’t lessen her anger in the slightest. If anything it made her hate him more, because he was stupid enough, and disrespected her enough, to think such a feeble plan might actually get her to sleep with him.
If she’d had a gun she would have shot him stone-cold-dead and buried him in the yard. If she’d had a knife, she would’ve slit his throat and bathed herself in his blood.
But she didn’t have any of those things, and yet still, she found herself walking down the steps, and then walking towards him through the grass. Her whole body was tingling, and she wasn’t sure exactly what she was going to do, but with each step she became more and more aware of an odd sensation building in her throat—a feeling of blockage, like something round was resting on the back of her tongue.
It was a very obvious sensation, noticeable enough that it probably should have made her gag, but it didn’t.
Chance, apparently realizing something was amiss, took a half-step back, the self-satisfied smirk on his face slowly fading.
She walked faster.
At the last second, he put his hands up defensively and tried to sidestep, but she was already too close.
She grabbed his shirt with both hands, moving with the sudden precision of a snake striking, and yanked him towards her until their faces were inches apart. Then she opened her mouth as if to kiss him, and at the same instant, she felt the strange knot that had appeared in the back of her throat contract involuntarily, like a muscle spasming.
A fraction of a second later she reflexively exhaled, and a black cloud of dust, like volcanic ash, emerged from her mouth and billowed into his face.
He pushed her away so hard she almost fell, and then turned from her, screaming, hands going to his eyes.
Simone regained her balance and wiped at her lips. There was a sour taste in her mouth, almost overwhelming, like she’d been sucking on a lemon, and she was numb all over. The sound of blood rushing in her ears was deafening, and everything around her shimmered. It almost seemed as if the whole world was pulsating along with the beat of her heart.
Chance took a few stumbling steps towards his car, and then fell over onto his face like somebody had hit him in the head with a hammer. He lay there for a long time, very still.
A minute passed. She thought he might be dead.
Another minute passed. She stepped closer to see if he was breathing—he was, but not very well.
It seemed that whatever she had done (I spat poison on him I did It happened I can still taste the stuff in my mouth and smell it in the air it happened this is real I’m not dreaming) was probably going to kill him, and she was trying to decide whether or not she should take the trouble to call an ambulance, when he suddenly started coughing and gagging.
She watched, feeling completely detached as he lay there for another whole minute, choking on his own phlegm.
She wasn’t sure if this was a recovery of if he was still in the process of dying, and she found that she didn’t really care either way.
Finally he got the coughing under control, and surprised her by turning over, and sitting up—maybe he wasn’t going to die after all, but he certainly wasn’t well either. His eyes were incredibly blood-shot, and swollen, and there was bloody snot pouring out of his nose, running down his chin.
He sat there for a while, weeping.
Simone watched him, the hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Oh Jesus,” he said between sobs. “I think I’m really, really sick.”
“You’re probably gonna die.”
“Did you poison me?! Is that what you fucking did?”
“I want you to get in your truck, and leave my house, and if you don’t I’m gonna go in and call the cops, and tell them that you’re here threatening me, and then I’m gonna go get my mom’s shotgun and shoot your head off with it.”
“My face is burning.”
“Not my problem.”
He looked up at her for a few seconds as if trying to decide whether she was serious or not. Whatever he saw apparently convinced him, because he immediately clambered to his feet, and started stumbling towards his truck.
He made it about halfway there before he stopped in his tracks and started screaming.
He grabbed at his face as if trying to peel the skin off. Streams of smoke curled up from his nose and poured out of his ears.
Then his eyes exploded like grapes, and sparks shot out of the empty holes.
He flailed for a few seconds, running around her yard like a chicken with its head cut off, and then he fell.
Soon the flame inside him burned through the flesh of his face. It was a white flame, hot enough that Simone could feel it all the way over by the porch.
The air smelled like pork roast, and the smell reminded her of how hungry she was.
Eventually she couldn’t resist the savory aroma anymore. She walked over to the body and crouched beside it.
Blackened bones showed through the face where the skin had burnt away. The whole outer part of his mouth was gone and she could see all his teeth.
She could also hear a sizzling sound, coming from within his torso.
His insides are burning too, she thought.
The smell tempted her. Even the bitterness of his burning hair didn’t bother her much, and she leaned in close—as near as she could without scorching herself—to get a purer sample of the bouquet.
Some time later, she heard the sound of approaching footsteps and glanced up.
It was the tall woman from earlier at the video store, standing just at the edge of the forest.
Simone was not surprised by her arrival. On some level she’d felt her presence all along.
The woman approached and sat down Indian style on the other side of the burning body.
“I feel like I know you,” said Simone.
“That’s normal, and I feel the same about you. We are sisters in a way, but in another way, you are also my mother. My name is Myra Calanealoo, and if you’ll allow me, I would like to become your very close friend.”
”I take it” said Simone, “that you know what’s happening to me.”
“Yes. You are meant to be a bride of The Father someday. But before that can happen you have to change, to become more like him, so that you can be one with him.”
“The Father?”
“Our Father is one of the great ones, a serpent of the lands in between, a breather of fire and a creature of the deep waters. Someday you will see him.”
Simone didn’t know what to make of all that. She looked down at Chance again. His shirt was starting to blacken from the heat within his chest. “I killed him somehow. I’m a fucking murderer now, and I’m not sure if I even care.”
“Yes,” said Myra Calanealoo. “You did very well.” She leaned down and sniffed at the corpse. “Does the smell excite you, as it excites me?”
Simone hesitated for several breaths, then gazed into the lady’s strange orange eyes and nodded.
Myra smiled, showing all her teeth, which had begun to gleam as if coated in quicksilver. “Good. Then we will both have a taste when the fire settles down some. I recommend you start with the liver. It’s the very best part.”
BOOK TWO - DARK FIRES
Cha
pter 1 - Smoke
The corpse burned from within under the light of the afternoon sun, sending up a cloud of smoke mixed with steam that made Simone’s eyes water.
And an aroma that made her mouth water…
This tasty smelling pile of meat, formerly a real-life person named Chance Garnett, had been her main squeeze for a short stretch back in high school; a real cutie-pie back in those days; a quarterback who looked like a quarterback is supposed to look—chiseled jaw, big muscles, million-dollar smile. But it hadn’t taken her long to realize all his charms were of the external variety; that he was a vapid, self-involved prick; a diva with shoulder pads.
A little too much like me, I guess. Only room for so much vanity in one relationship.
She’d dumped him without bothering to tell him why, then quickly forgotten he existed.
And now, here he was, sprawled in front of her house, having, surprisingly, found a way to make himself a part of her life all over again. Only now he was a lot fatter, and a lot balder.
A lot deader…
Yeah, that too; a whole hell of a lot deader.
She didn’t really understand how she had set him on fire, but that didn’t give her permission to call this an accident. It couldn’t have been any more intentional. It was no different than if she’d taken an axe and buried it in his skull.
She supposed she ought to be feeling guilty for what she’d done.
Maybe.
Truth was, she didn’t really care that Chance was dead. Fuck Chance. In life he’d been a worthless shitstain.
Her concerns were more about her own situation…
The idea that she might get caught; what people would think when they found out she had killed a man; the actual concept of her as a killer: SIMONE COPELAND WANTED FOR MURDER!!! Like a big poster hanging on the wall of her imagination.
All that stuff was more than a little upsetting.
But Chance? He was a schemer and a sneak.
He was junk.
Nicer, more worthy folks died every day, and nobody paid any attention. Chance had been a waste of good oxygen. Good riddance to bad rubbish. Addition by subtraction.
The DARK Trilogy: Titan's Song Chronicles Volume 1 (Books 1 - 3) Page 10