Feral

by Serafini, Matt

  He extended a gloved hand and motioned to the living area. "Please, ma'am," be reasonable, he seemed to say. "Just have a seat. No one wants to involve the police."

  Lucy thought on this. When she was thirteen, she'd been caught shoplifting a Spice Girls CD, and had gotten as far as the parking lot when one of the employees came bursting out of the door. Turned out, he was willing to take the CD back if she'd give over her phone number.

  Dawn had never forgiven her for giving her number, but what were high school friends for? Any port in a storm.

  The same logic applied here.

  Maybe a trip downtown was best. The story could be that this was all a simple misunderstanding. That she’d come by to give her father documents (that she didn't have). And if the police checked her camera, which was a pretty solid guarantee, they'd have more than a few questions.

  Ones she wouldn't be able to answer. So they'd ask Rory. He didn't need to know that his daughter was planning on sabotaging his life, and that would be the obvious tip off.

  So, no, downtown didn't work.

  Self-preservation won out. She allowed herself to be marched to the center of the room where she slid into one of the oversized chairs. It was hard on her back and stiff on her ass. Good. No sense in being comfortable. Rory didn't have to know she'd found anything. He'd check and see that the papers were still in place and that would satisfy him.

  He wouldn't be expecting espionage from his daughter, and therefore, wouldn’t check her camera.

  You hope.

  "I'll give you some privacy," the guard said. "Just so you know, though, I'll be outside in the hall until your father gets here." He offered a consolatory frown before vanishing behind the closing door.

  How could I have been so stupid?

  Of course, the hotel was going to check on her story. Why hadn't she stopped to consider that? The anticipation of getting back at Rory had overwhelmed her common sense. She was seeing in tunnel vision by the time the elevator spilled onto the 11th floor.

  Now she was a venerable prisoner until Rory came back. Her mind projected all the ways in which their confrontation would go. At first, she saw herself as a self-righteous crusader. She’d get up, ball a fist against his chest and angrily demand answers.

  For everything.

  But guys like Rory were used to having their wealthy asses sucked, which meant a bit more finesse was needed here. And what lie was he going to have in place for the pile of surveillance photos? He'd been caught spying on resort guests. Maybe there was a good reason for it, she wondered. She'd snored her way through the one horrible business class she was ever required to take and, even if she'd paid attention, the purpose of the pen-crossed names would likely be lost on her. Who was she going to show it to? Really, what did it prove?

  It proves that I know dick about business…

  The door clicked and swung open, snapping her back to reality.

  A familiar face lurched forward.

  She tried to smile, then swallowed.

  ***

  Nothing quite like finding out that your daughter was against you.

  "Please, take my friends anywhere they want to go." Rory threw two new hundred-dollar bills through the partition. The cab driver gave an eager nod.

  "I hope that your daughter is well." Darkho extended his hand for a quick shake. "A pity we did not reach our destination this evening, but I believe this has been a fruitful trip, regardless."

  "Indeed," Rory said through a forced grin. "I trust you will be informing Mr. Fane that expectations have been met."

  "Exceeded, where I am concerned." Darkho's mouth was a straight line and his eyes were just as listless. There was no trace of warmth in his face.

  "Good evening then," Rory said and slammed the cab door as tactfully as possible. He marched through the lobby thinking about the deceitful little cunt he'd raised, and imagining her looting through his possessions enraged him.

  At the same time, it heightened his excitement.

  His newest acquaintances had assured him that tonight's debauchery was merely a promise of better things to come, but what he'd received could barely be considered a tease.

  It didn't matter in hindsight, however. Not if Lucy was waiting in his suite. The hotel had prepared her like the best fillet mignon, and the real pleasure would be inside of her.

  Lucy's presence intensified with his ascension to the 11th floor. Jamming a wad of bills into the open-palmed hand of the guard, he pushed him aside without a second thought and swiped his card.

  The long-legged redhead looked nervous, with fear so thick he tasted it at the back of his throat. It made him as hard as could be, and he stepped toward her with a throbbing bulge that needed freedom.

  I want her to see it.

  "What are you doing here?" His voice was quiet but harsh. She was snooping, and he knew that. One look in her eyes and he knew she'd seen the pictures. She couldn't know what they were in reference to, but it tipped her off to the surveillance system that Anton Fane had insisted they install in the resort.

  He even had his own men monitoring the thing day and night.

  Lucy couldn't have known about them, either. And she couldn't know that they were using the cameras to farm the most unsuspecting vacationers out to Fane—those who weren't likely to be missed.

  She couldn't know these things. And yet, she knew enough.

  The resort dug into its guests' personal lives with such ferocity that it might as well have been the IRS. Fane's men determined who could be taken without notice, but Rory didn't know what they were being used for.

  It couldn't have been good.

  Lucy offered a brazen lie. "I...I heard this was the happening place to be and wanted to see you."

  "Don't lie to me, Lucy. Not now."

  "You lost the right to be an authoritative figure when you tried to fuck me."

  She stood up, a laughable attempt to display independence, and marched. Her tits jiggled with purpose—one final tease. All he could stand.

  His conscience had softened each day for the past year, and now it was only a whisper. The reminder sounded, telling him that this was unthinkable and immoral, just like it had each time the urge stirred. But he'd tamped it down to the point where it was nothing.

  Broadening lust drowned out every rational thought. He didn't give the bitch a chance to mouth off, yanking her like a weightless ragdoll. She winced, an expression so meager and helpless that it made him laugh.

  "I don't know what made you stop by, darling, but I'm glad you did."

  "So you can try your luck again? Diddling your baby daughter? Go ahead and give it another shot. Get used to the fact that you've lost your family...it's only a matter of time before you lose Mom."

  Rachel was no threat. He controlled her through a variety of means, and she wasn’t going anywhere. She'd come to rely on him for security, money, and her miserable management career.

  But Lucy, she was on the verge of independence. Another year and she'd be completely free from him. The time for experiencing her flesh was now or never.

  He smacked her across the eyes, knocking her head to one side with a snap.

  "Come with me," he snarled, dragging her by a dangling arm into the bedroom.

  My arm's going to pop, you bastard. Let me go!"

  He kicked the door and tossed her onto the bed.

  She screamed for help but a quick punch to the gut doubled her over.

  All the times he wanted to smack her face for stumbling home drunk past curfew, times she'd mouthed off, the stolen twenties out of his wallet in junior high. The bitch had it coming.

  All of it.

  "You know how long I've needed this?"

  A flurry of elbows flailed, and he brushed them aside like brambles in the backyard. Her struggle made this all the more sporting, and while she never had a chance, it would make her flesh taste all the sweeter.

  Then she dug a finger into his eye.

  ***

  Lucy w
as a mess of emotions and her sides hurt like hell. It didn't stop her from scrambling to her feet and leaving a crippled Rory Eastman howling in pain.

  Wobbly legs carried her through the living room as quickly as she could force them. The door was a few short strides away and he couldn't get her once she passed through it. There were guests, staff, and cameras to contend with.

  Her mouth tasted of blood and she was certain she had the physical injuries to prove that he'd assaulted her.

  He's finished.

  She grabbed for the door hoping that the camera hadn't been damaged in her tumble. The wall beside her exploded. A puff of sheetrock and insulation stung her face as fingers clasped around the handle.

  Three talons raked across her nose, severing her vision beneath eager streams of blood. She tried to yell but something sprung through the languishing haze and knocked her back to the ground.

  Her head smashed against the hard floor and her eyes exploded into a fuzzy veil.

  Rory's mouth barked down through the fog, and he changed into an animal before her confused eyes. She screamed in junction with the loaded spray of gore that poured off her frayed flesh. Pain was a lit fuse; burning engulfed her shoulder and rocketed all the way to her head.

  As she drifted toward unnatural sleep, her attacker dipped its snout forward and sniffed. She glanced at it before the void came.

  The wolf snarled, looking back at her with one good eye.

  ***

  Sondra Gleason, what remained of her, leaned over Allen. Her damaged eye looked runny with milk, but managed a scrutinizing glare, regardless.

  Up close, Allen realized just how much destruction he'd done her face: most of it had been ripped clear, and the patches of skin that remained were the color of rot.

  "You're living in my parents' house," she said. The voice wasn't feminine, human, or alive. In looking at this thing, it was hard to tell what sex it had ever been in life.

  "You're a killer, Allen. Did you get my parents, too?"

  When he didn't (couldn't) respond, Sondra moved in closer, and rotten vapor wafted across his face. With an arthritic groan, she hefted herself up over him, clamming her bloody thighs, gnawed ankles and all, against his hips.

  Her limber body collapsed onto him.

  "You're lost to everyone now...everyone except us."

  Skeletal fingers raked her shredded chest, skipping up and down her rib cage like a string instrument. "Your soul is down here with us already. It's waiting for your disgusting body to catch up to it...and it will. God died in you the moment you killed me."

  Allen's body twitched, taken in a spasm that would've sent the undead girl bucking free, had she really been there. He flung upright and a sweaty, tattered sweatshirt fell off his bare chest. His breathing was heavy and stilted. That terrible taste on this tongue once again, complete with food jammed down in between his teeth.

  He was going to need to teach the wolf to carry floss at all times, or at least have some waiting for him when he woke up.

  Yeah, that'll work fine.

  The cozy clearing beside the babbling creek was a sight for sore eyes. The way the trees hung, ensconcing him in a private hideaway. He felt safe here, secure.

  Rippling water splashed against him and he turned in time to see Elisabeth rising from the pond. Her wet skin shimmered beneath errant moonbeams. Her eyes looked momentarily green when reflected in the dark, then turned to blue as she neared, staring down with a mixture of affection and mischief.

  "You were dreaming," she said softly, standing over him like an inverted V. Drops of water scaled her thighs, sprinkling his face and mouth. "What was it about?"

  Allen was hypnotized by her aesthetics. No better view to help melt away the tension of his most recent nightmare.

  "Her."

  "You mean the one you killed?"

  "I didn't kill anyone," he said. That wasn't true, and he couldn't sell that lie to anyone, let alone himself. He didn't bother back pedaling the statement.

  Elisabeth's breasts rose and fell with frustration. "You've killed two people, Allen...and that's okay. You don't answer to the world now."

  "Do I answer to you?"

  "To no one. You know that."

  His mouth tasted like spoiled hamburger. What he wouldn't give to have cigar mouth instead.

  "You're not used to that taste," she said as he licked the roof of his mouth, smacking his tongue in misery. "That will come in time."

  "Stop saying shit like that."

  "What? That you're no longer human? You are not. Why should I waste any time trying to paint you a romantic portrait? You are a changed man and it is for the better."

  "Better? Waking up feeling like every bone in my body has been broken and healed? Chunks of flesh caught in my teeth. Dried blood plastered to me like snot. And what about those guys who came after me? They were going to kill me. But I'm supposed to feel awesome because you say so? I might get used to scabies too, but that doesn’t mean I want them. You're not making a very good case for the fucking favor you did me."

  Elisabeth stood and watched. Her eyes narrowed, then bugged. She chewed on her lower lip and then raised her eyebrows—a bunch of false starts indicating that she wanted to speak, but needed to find a strategic way to do it.

  Lie to me again...I dare you...

  "Those...men were acquaintances of an old friend. It is regrettable that they tried something like that, and I'm glad they're dead. He undoubtedly knows this, though. He shall try further retaliation."

  "More danger? This really is a gift, Ms. Luna."

  "No. That was the last time you will ever have to worry...about anything."

  "I'm worried now, Elisabeth. I've got weight on my conscience for the people I've killed..."

  "One of whom was planning to kill you."

  "I wish it mattered. I killed two people. You're telling me that I'm something I don't even believe exists, and all you keep saying is that it will be better. I don't feel like a part of reality. I'm too scared to sleep for fear I'll be visited by walking, talking corpses of women I knew. And you did this to me."

  "Tell me about your dreams."

  "They're weird, but vivid. A few nights ago, I saw Molly. Remember the girl from dinner?"

  "I remember."

  "She was mangled. Then there was my mom, and I'll die before I ever think about that again. There was this other woman, too...a blonde...she wasn't dead, or didn't appear so anyway."

  Elisabeth had dipped her feet into the brook, rinsing off the pines that were glued to her soles. Her body froze at mention of her.

  "What other woman?" she asked without looking.

  "Not sure. Blonde, like I said. She was sitting on top of a pile of skulls."

  "That is impossible." Elisabeth's features hardened, and she did an awful job of masking her concern. "Describe it in more detail. Where was she? What did she say?"

  "She didn't say anything. She was inside a church, and she was motioning for me to come to her."

  "She beckoned to you?" Her brow creased. "I do not recall the last time this has happened."

  "Who is she?"

  "Our...queen, for lack of a better word. Her name is Alina, and she has marked you from the beyond for reasons that are unknown to me."

  "The beyond? Like the grave?"

  "No. Alina's alive. The first wolf. She uses the beyond to commune with the living and the dead from every corner of the world, and the realms outside it."

  "Why has she marked me? What does she want? How does she even know who I am?" He unleashed a torrent of questions, stopping abruptly when she raised a finger against his lips.

  This, the slightest touch, juiced him.

  "Do not worry about that. Alina forms a connection to those with the utmost potential. It is what brought her to me all those years ago. If she has marked you, Allen, it is not because you've been chosen or prophesized about...nothing so grandiose. Rather, she recognizes the darkness in you. She realizes that you've allowed yoursel
f to be shackled to the human world, but that you itch to be rid of its confines. She wants you to stop fighting it and embrace who you are, just as I do."

  "You said you didn't know why she marked me..."

  "Because it has not happened to anyone in some time that I know of."

  "None of this makes me feel any better, this is a fucking nightmare you've thrown me into."

  "Do not think like that, Allen. Alina only wants you to give in to the wolf."

  "But why am I seeing all this? Victims, relatives and now you tell me there's a queen? Just saying it out loud sounds ridiculous!"

  "It is our curse...the varcolac's mark. Until you give yourself completely to the wolf, to accept its place, your humanity will be haunted by the animal's victims."

  "I'm going to see these people forever? Tonight I can expect a visit from the gypsy I killed?"

  "It will fade. The sooner you come to terms with yourself, the sooner it happens. Your soul struggles with the transformation that your body has already accepted. Think of these nightmares as echoes of your former life. Your conscience, I suppose. You are outside of everything: the society that you used to belong is no longer of concern. Your people will shun and fear you. Some of them will even hunt and try to kill you."

  "And that's a good thing? I don't want people to fear me..."

  "Think about what you're saying. You act like any part of the humanity is worth ascribing to."

  "It is."

  "Oh? Which part?"

  "All of it."

  Her laughter was ice in February cold. "Humor me, then. Which part of humanity will you miss most? School? Working toward obtaining a worthless piece of paper that tells you you'll get a higher paying job when you graduate?"

  Allen didn't answer.

  "Surely you're not talking about the 40 hour work week? It's getting longer every year, Allen. Morning commutes, miserable faces. So many people slaving away at jobs they can't stand so they can afford the glorified pine box called home. That's living? Endless bills? Spending all of Saturday tending to your lawn so that you can order takeout, drink beer and pretend like things aren't as bad as all that? What kind of life is that?"