The Perversion Trilogy: Perversion, Possession & Permission

by T. M. Frazier

  “We can’t be sure until we try. Tell him you’ve had a change of heart since learning Emma Jean is your daughter. And the time to make peace is now. Tell him you want Los Muertos to run security. Tell him anything that might feed his fucking ego and get him on the reservation.”

  “What kind of ritual?” he asks, skeptically.

  I lean over the desk. “A deadly one.”

  Nineteen

  “Gabby, I hate to say this because I don’t want the compliment going to your head…” I say, staring at her reflection in the mirror from behind her.

  “What?” she asks, setting down the tube of mascara in her hand.

  I smile. “You get prettier every day.”

  She blushes and then shrugs and turns back to the mirror, observing her reflection. For the first time since I can remember, she appears happy to see the person staring back at her. “I feel prettier every day.”

  “I think that’s what it is.”

  She looks at me through the mirror. Her expression soft. “Thanks, EJ.” She wrinkles her nose. “Should I still call you EJ? I just realized that it really doesn’t make sense anymore since your name is Imogen and not Emma Jean.” Gabby applies gloss to her lips. Her eyes are heavily lined. Over the past several weeks, I’ve seen her grow stronger. Bolder. More confident. The evidence is in the makeup she’s grown to love and wears every day, even if we aren’t going out. I love watching her shine come back after so many years. It makes me so happy. And…nauseous?

  I grab my churning stomach. “Oh, shit.”

  “Again?” Gabby asks, swiveling on her stool.

  There’s no time to answer. I race for the bathroom and barely make it to the toilet, emptying the contents of my stomach in several loud heaves so violent I wouldn’t be surprised if I expelled a vital organ or two into the white porcelain.

  When I think it’s passed and there’s nothing left to puke up, I slowly stand on wobbly legs and flush. I wash my hands and splash some water on my face.

  “I don’t think Irish food agrees with me,” I groan to a sympathetic Gabby as I skulk back into our room.

  “You’ve been working yourself too hard. All those hours with the tutor or in class, and then when you come home, you’re in the gym for hours with the trainer. You don’t rest enough.”

  “That might be true,” I grumble.

  Gabby stands and opens her arms, and I fall into them, jumping back with a shock of pain.

  “What now?” she asks.

  My hands cover my breasts over my shirt. “Just sore. Probably that time of the month soon.”

  Gabby eyes me suspiciously, then crosses the room to the dresser. She sits and picks up a hairbrush and begins to casually brush her hair. “So, when would you say the last time you had that time of the month was?”

  I fall onto the mattress. “I’ve never been regular. You know that.” I try to recall my last actual period. “But I had something after we got here. Yeah, I did. I think.”

  “Something like a period?”

  “Spotting more like.” As the words leave my mouth, dread pools in my stomach.

  I sit up. My face pales. I reach out and hold onto one of the bed posts to keep from toppling over.

  “Oh, shit.” Gabby runs to my side.

  “What if…” I whisper. I don’t have to finish the sentence. I don’t know how. There’s too many what-ifs. What if I really am? What if Grim isn’t the father? What if it’s one of those men Marco let play with me like a dog toy? Or Marco himself?

  “I think I’m going to be sick again.”

  Gabby races to the bathroom. She emerges quickly, setting a wastepaper basket on my lap. I hug it for dear life. Rocking back and forth on the edge of the bed.

  Gabby sits down beside me and gently rubs my back. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll get a test and figure this out together.”

  “But what if—”

  “Shhhh. It’s too early for what ifs. One thing at a time.”

  “What on earth is the matter?” My mother asks from the doorway. She’s clutching a stack of folded towels, which she immediately drops to the floor. She rushes into the room and kneels before me.

  I swallow hard, but can’t find the words. I look to Gabby, giving her silent permission.

  Gabby gets the message. She clears her throat. “How soon would you say is too soon to come to you with a major life problem?”

  Ma looks from Gabby back to me. She places a reassuring hand on my knee. “You’re scaring the ever loving’ shite out of me, girls. Out with it.”

  The nausea passes, at least for the moment. I take a deep breath and set the wastepaper basket on the floor. I don’t even realize my hands are cradling my stomach until my mother’s eyes follow.

  She places both her hands over my own and smiles up at me. “That ain’t no problem, my dear.” She squeezes my hands and shakes her head. “It’s a babe.”

  It’s late at night, but I can’t sleep. I wander the halls until I find the room I’m looking for, getting lost twice in the twisted halls of the castle. When I’m almost sure I’m in the right place I knock softly on what I hope is the door to Callum’s study.

  “Come in,” he answers.

  I push open the heavy oak door. The castle had been updated to look modern and bright, except this room. It was dark and covered with heavy furnishings. The walls were a dark oak matching the formattable desk. Which is where I expect to find him, but when his chair is empty I glance around.

  “Over here,” he says. He’s on the other side of the room, sitting in a high-backed chair with a drink in hand, staring off into the fireplace.

  He glances up at me and offers me a small smile. “Come, sit with me.”

  I take the chair opposite him. Regardless of the roaring fireplace, a chill runs down my arms and legs. I rub up and down the arms of my thick hoodie.

  “Here,” Callum says, pulling a heavy wool blanket from the back of his own chair. Leaning over, he sets it across my lap. “Better?”

  I hold the blanket closed in the front and relax a little into the warmth. Between that and the fireplace, I’m almost comfortable. Almost. “Much better. Thank you. The weather here is a little different than Florida.”

  “It takes some getting used to,” Callum replies, taking a sip from his drink. He crosses his leg over his opposite knee and resumes staring at the fireplace. A few moments of silence pass between us.

  “Listen,” I start. “Are you…” I struggle with finding the right word. “Disappointed in me?”

  Callum regards me for a beat. “Nae, I’m not disappointed in you. Am I still gonna give Grim a beating on for knocking up my little girl?” He nods as if he’s agreeing with himself. “Most certainly. But you—” His expression softens. “I’ll be happy as long as you are happy.”

  His words do more to warm me than the blanket.

  “Happy?” I ask with a burst of a laugh. I look to my hands. If only it were that easy. If only it were Grim’s baby growing inside of me.

  “What’s the matter?” Callum asks, his brows wrinkled with concern.

  I tug the blanket around me tighter.

  “I told Ma what happened to me while I was at Los Muertos. I don’t know if you know…” I trail of. It’s too hard. I’m not going to be able to tell him.

  “Aye, I know, but don’t be cross with your ma. She didn’t tell me. Grim did. A ways back.” He cocks his head to the side. “You know, I’m a daft man at times. I realize now what that look of worry is, and I think my own excitement of having you here has caused me to overlook somethings I’d rather not think about.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “So, your look of worry is because you don’t know if Grim is the father.” He doesn’t pose it as a question.

  I press my hand over my stomach inside the blanket as tears prick my eyes. “I don’t know if it’s him,” I admit. “And chances are, after what…chances are it’s not.”

  “I’m sorry,” he offers.
r />   “Don’t be.”

  “Not for what you’ve been through. You don’t need me to be sorry for you. I know that much about you. I’m sorry for being a shite father.” He sighs.

  I’m about to argue with him when he holds up his hand to prevent me. “You and Gabby are both going to see a therapist the soonest I can schedule it. You need to talk to someone. A professional. You’ve got to work through the past,” he says, his eyes dropping to my concealed midsection. “Before you can make a sound decision about your future.”

  “Thank you,” I manage to say. I don’t know if a therapist would be helpful, but neither is losing sleep while my thoughts go around in a highway of circles with no off ramp.

  “I’d offer for you to see the town priest, but I don’t take you for the religious type,” he says.

  “I’m not, although I’m sure he’s very helpful. But I don’t think I’d feel comfortable talking about all of those things him. The violence and all, with a man of a god I don’t think I believe in.”

  Callum’s laugh surprises me. When he sees me staring, he explains. “You’re in Ireland, Imogen. The priests can be the most violent of us all.”

  Twenty

  It’s been months. I’m starting to think Marco isn’t going to reply to the chief’s request for him to show his face on the reservation, and we’ve had no luck in finding him. According to sources, he’s not in the Los Muertos compound and hasn’t been since the day I challenged him to a fight we never got a chance to finish. Yet the violence in Lacking continues to grow with each passing day, which makes me believe Marco couldn’t have gone far and that he’s still in control of Los Muertos.

  “The bastard bought it. He’s here!” Sandy exclaims out of breath. “The chief just sent me a text.”

  I grab my jacket and head for the door. “Where?” I ask.

  “On top of the hill, by the far wall.”

  We run to the van that’s already parked in the back. Haze is behind the wheel. The second we close the doors, we take off.

  We get to the hill, and I draw my gun as we slowly creep up the side. It’s not until we get to the top that I realize there is no need for my weapon.

  The chief is standing behind Mal and Marco, who are buried up to their necks in an ant pile, groaning and screaming as they’re eaten alive by the tiny insects.

  “It can’t be you,” Marco whispers as realization sets in, followed by disappointing rage. He growls and waves his head violently from side to side but gives up when he realizes there is no escaping the trap he’s been buried in. “No! You’re dead!”

  I smirk. “The Grim Reaper doesn’t die. But you do.”

  Marco mutters something incoherent.

  I kneel before him and press my gun to his forehead. “Ants? A bit dramatic, don’t you think, Chief?”

  “Not dramatic. This is nature’s jail,” The chief explains. He looks to my hand. “No. No guns.”

  “What?” I ask, standing up while Marco and Mal turn their heads from side to side, trying their best to flick off the invading ants but only angering them further.

  “You cannot shoot someone on these lands. It’s tribal law, and I forbid it.”

  “And you think death by fire ants is a better idea?” I raise an eyebrow.

  “It’s more creative,” the chief mumbles. “But no, your issue is with Marco. Mal will die by fire ants. You will use your hands to take down your enemy as a warrior. There’s no glory in guns.”

  “It’s faster,” Haze argues.

  “Touché,” the chief agrees, “but rules are rules, son. Rituals. Holy places. All those things.” He widens his stance and crosses his arms, and I know he won’t budge. I could just shoot Marco in the head. Ask forgiveness, not permission. But, I can’t do that to the chief, and there’s something thrilling that makes my mouth water as I think about tearing Marco limb from limb.

  Marco spits, “I’ll kill you, motherfucker.”

  I take off my jacket and hand it to Haze. Sandy takes my gun.

  I look to the chief, who’s smiling.

  I open my arms wide. “By all means. Dig the motherfucker up.”

  Two of the chief’s inner circle work to dig Marco free of the ants. His black eyes never leave mine. He stops flinching as the ants continue their assault on his face.

  Once Marco is free from the pile, he slaps the ants from his skin, then wastes no time, roaring at me like a crazed lunatic.

  “I should’ve mentioned,” the chief calls out. “The ant bites promote a surge of adrenaline before they bite enough to actually kill.”

  I duck, escaping contact with Marco’s fist.

  Marco isn’t fighting me as a man. He’s crazed and bloodthirsty. A demon who doesn’t care if he goes down, as long as he takes me with him. That makes two of us.

  He manages to land a few blows and me several of my own until we’re wrestling down the hill. We crash into Sandy, who falls over us. Marco lunges for Sandy, pulling his weapon from his waistband. He swirls it around and aims it at my head. I push my head against the barrel of his gun as victory dances in his eyes. “This is it, Grim. It’s over for you.”

  “Marco! Help!” comes a shout in the distance.

  Marco’s gaze shifts to where Mona is standing on top of the hill with Rollo by her side. She’s not in distress as her yell indicated. In fact, she’s the opposite. She looks cool and calm as she raises her hand and gives Marco the middle finger.

  The entire episode is only a fraction of a second, but it’s all I need. Marco refocuses his attention on me, but he’s not quick enough. I lunge forward and knock the gun from his hands. I land on top of him, and I swing my fist with all of my force against his head. I’m not punching him. I’m punching through him. His skull cracks under my knuckles, but I’m still not done. Over and over again, I pummel the fucker. Blood splatters on my face and in my eyes, and I don’t care. I throw blow after blow until Marco gurgles through the blood, until the gurgles cease and so does Marco.

  Power surges through me as the life force drains from his body. I’m disappointed that it’s over so soon, but regardless that he’s dead, I’m not done killing him. Not yet. I scream and rage and continue to pummel him, crazed with power and revenge and adrenaline.

  “Enough,” Sandy says, pulling me off Marco.

  I spit on Marco’s body. “Now, you really are Los Muertos, motherfucker.”

  I look up to the chief. “Are the ancestors satisfied?”

  “What? Oh, the gun thing?” the chief shrugs and waves his hand dismissively. “That’s not really a thing.” He pulls a large barreled silver gun with a wooden handle from under his jacket and pumps a single bullet into Mal’s skull. “Thank god. His shrieking and wailing was giving me a fucking migraine,” the chief says, rubbing his temple with the butt of his weapon.

  “Then, why?” I ask, still out of breath, covered in Marco’s blood.

  The chief smiles. “I didn’t want to rob you of the satisfaction of killing him with your bare hands. Feels good, doesn’t it?”

  Sandy and Haze are both chuckling as I glance down one last time at what’s left of Marco. I slowly raise my eyes back to face the chief. “It feels fucking amazing.”

  “Good, then it worked. You can thank your girl,” he says. “She knew it would be better this way.”

  “Tricks,” I say her name on my lips. I ball my fists, waiting for the anger of her interfering to come, but it doesn’t. Instead, I throw my head back and run my blood covered fingers through my hair.

  And I laugh. I laugh so long and hard my ribs ache and my chest hurts. I drop to my knees in the dirt as the sky opens up and the rain washes Marco’s blood from my skin.

  “What the fuck is so funny?”

  I’d answer him if I could, but I can’t just yet. All I can think about is my girl, who although, thousands of miles away…

  Is still up to her old Tricks.

  Twenty-One

  I’m lost in thoughts of Grim when I should be concen
trating on the work in front of me. I wonder how he is. What he’s doing. If he misses me as much as my heart aches for him. I love it in Ireland, but as happy as I’ve been here, it doesn’t make me love or want to be with Grim any less, but it does complicate the situation more because now I won’t just be leaving a place when the time comes.

  I’ll be leaving my family.

  “Having troubles?” My mother asks, glancing at the empty page on my desk. Her eyes drop to the biggest complication, my large rounded stomach, or more directly, the baby growing inside. “Are you feeling ill?”

  “No, I…we are fine. It’s just that I’ll never get this right,” I complain, staring down at my text book. Gabby and I are both finishing our basic education courses. Soon, we will both have high school diplomas. I’ve found out that as excited and eager as I am to have an education, there are some subjects that give me the urge to toss the text book into the fireplace.

  “It’s math. No one ever gets it right,” my mother says, “I’ll go fix you a snack. Be back in a moment.”

  She passes my dad on her way out the door. I smile up at him, but his frown makes me worry. “What is it?”

  “This is for you,” Callum says, handing me a small box. “Came from a messenger just now.”

  “What is it?” I ask.

  “I don’t—”

  I cock my head and give him a look that says really?

  He puffs out his cheeks and blows out his breath. “Fine. Yes, I opened it. Yes, I know what is inside, and yes, most importantly, I know what it’s not, which is anything that can harm you. At least, I hope not. You happy, my darling girl?”

  I noticed over the last several months, that when talking to me or Gabby, or my mother, Callum, even when angry or upset, always ends his sentences with an endearment. A cushion to the blow. A reminder that he can be both upset and still love. It’s one of my favorite things about him. My other is watching Callum get flustered. Not being used to having two teenage girls to care for, it’s a daily occurrence that always ends in giggles from the three of us and Callum storming off in a cloud of Irish swears.