Bad Habits: A Dark Anthology

by Yolanda Olson

  “We need to get there, I want to be on that jet, Victor,” I tell him earnestly, but he merely smiles.

  “Let’s have a conversation in my office,” he says. “I have a proposition for you.” And with that, I follow him through the doors, with Maeve right behind me.

  THE END? Or… not?

  About Dani

  Dani is a USA Today bestselling author of a variety of genres, from romantic suspense to dark erotic romance and even BDSM romance. She loves to delve into the raw, emotional journeys her characters venture on, and enjoys the dark, edgy, and sensual scenes that fill the pages of her books. Dani’s stories are seductive with a deviant edge with feisty heroines and dominant alphas.

  Dani lives in the beautiful city of Cape Town and is a proud member of the Romance Writer's Organization of South Africa (ROSA) and the Romance Writers of America (RWA). She has a healthy addiction to reading, TV series, music, tattoos, chocolate, and ice cream.

  Entropy

  Petra J. Knox

  Temperance

  Moderation in accordance with reason the desires and pleasures of the sensuous appetite.

  Blurb

  Beware of Sister Constance. Don’t look her in the eye, don’t speak a word. And definitely don’t be alone with her.

  Seeing the weakness in your soul, she'll tempt you, then gleefully celebrate when you give in. And give in, you will. She only has your best interest at heart.

  She is havoc. Chaos.

  She is entropy.

  Chapter One

  A familiar sigh escaped Father Devon’s flared nostrils within seconds of seeing me escorted into his office by Sister Harriet. With my hands folded neatly on my lap, I perched on the seat in front of his desk. The Sister’s large form was behind me like a penguin hovering, and I couldn’t help the glee that made the corners of my lips curl.

  “Ah, I see you find this amusing, Sister Constance.” Father Devon leaned back in his leather chair, tossing his pen onto his ledger in front of him. His eyes were glacier blue. He was attractive, with dark hair lightly dusted in more salt than pepper, thick and combed back, framing high cheekbones, a sharp blade of a nose, and a full mouth.

  The parish adored him. The Sisters went gooey in his presence. Babies cooed at him. But I knew that it was only a matter of time before he left our convent doors. I could sense these things from miles away. He wasn’t what they thought.

  “No, Father—” I began but felt claw-like fingers digging into my nape.

  “Forgive the intrusion, Father Devon, but Mother Mary Margret said to bring the insolent girl to you at once.”

  Father Devon’s eyes never left mine. “And what has she done this time?”

  What have I not done today? I wanted to ask.

  “We caught her at the gates talking to the…”

  “Prostitutes,” I supplied when she hesitated.

  “Quiet!” Harriet hissed. “She has been told a number of times to stay inside the gates, Father, and she refuses to obey. I’m almost prone to wash my hands of her!”

  Father Devon’s mouth quirked for one-half of a second, but it was enough for me to know he could tell the penguin behind me was at her wit’s end. I almost felt sorry for her.

  “I see.” He rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly looking weary. It was growing on lunchtime, and he was probably ready to split. As counselor of our school, his office was always busy. “Have her put on breakfast duty for—”

  “Already did that last week… uh, Father,” Harriet said in a rush, forgetting herself.

  He gave her a condemning look but didn’t admonish her for interrupting. “And what came of that? Did she complete her duties?”

  “She put espresso into Sister Bethany’s oatmeal. It took hours to settle the poor soul down.”

  I almost laughed out loud. The old bat was a blast that day!

  His eyes widened. “She…never mind, I don’t want to know.” The Father’s gaze landed back on me again, eyebrow raised. “Sister Constance, are you bored with our parish? You have, what, a few more months until your vows from novitiate to nun. Can you not do as the good Sisters say? You are an adult now, and your childish games need to cease. I understand you’ve been here since you were an infant, but you are a woman now, and the order you take this time next year will not put up with this behavior. Do you understand?”

  “I do. I apologize, Father,” I said as contritely as I could.

  He gave me a level look. “You’re a smart young woman, Sister, and I know you have it in you to do good. I’ve witnessed it myself.”

  Yes, he had. Several times. However, he wasn’t talking about those times.

  With another sigh, he opened a drawer and took out a legal pad. “Sister Harriet, leave her to me. Come get her in an hour. I shall put her to work.”

  Harriet’s vise on my nape loosened until, finally, she left the room, closing the door behind her. I lowered my head, my eyes open, and waited.

  I heard the scribbling of pen to paper. Curious, I looked up. Father Devon’s dark head was down, focused on his work. Was he going to ignore me? Or was he planning on making me write out five-hundred words on why I was such a “difficult child,” like Mother Superior made me do all the time in school?

  While he wrote, he asked, “What did you and these prostitutes talk about, Constance?”

  “Cocks.” I crossed my arms, growing bored.

  “What about them?” Scrape, scrape, went his pen.

  I shrugged. “Oh, you know, the different variations. Sizes, colors, that type of thing. Can I go now? I really need to use the bathroom, Father.”

  Scrape, scrape.

  What was he writing?

  “No, you may not.” He flipped the paper over and started a new page, still not looking at me. “What else?”

  “About cocks? Why, want to show me yours?” I grinned.

  The pen stopped. Fucking finally.

  As if commanded by God, Mother Margret floated into the room. “There she is. My apologies, Father Devon. This shall not happen again. I will take it from here.”

  The whole time, my gaze stayed on Father Devon’s ice-blue one. I had to give him credit yet again; the man was made of sterner stuff than old Sister Bethany’s mushy stew on Fridays.

  Coyly, I smiled. And with a slight bow of the head his way, I left the room with Mother Margret’s grip digging into my arm.

  “Child, idle child. What shall we do with you? Hmm?” With a sniff, she pulled me along with her through the stark hallways, past the chapel, past the many closed doors of classrooms in session. Our boots clicked and clopped to the sound of Sisters reciting their lessons, the many windows lighting our way with afternoon sun.

  When we turned the corner, a few Sisters nodded in greeting, but their eyes widened at seeing me. I was used to it. Sometimes, when the elder Sisters weren’t present, they’d make the sign of the cross, but usually it was just a rapid departure from my presence, as though I were the bringer of the plague. Then they’d scatter like cockroaches, their lips tightly shut, eyes ahead of them.

  Well, I didn’t want to be with them either.

  Another corner passed, and I knew exactly where we were headed. The janitor’s closet near the storeroom. It was my second home, practically. I was quite intimate with its paneled walls, the kind your mind conjured macabre faces from—open mouths, silently pleading with the observer to release them from the wall, like trapped souls. A room that smelled of Murphy’s Oil and old socks. A wonderfully boring space. But at least Mother Mary Margret did let me leave the light on.

  We stopped at the closet, me still in her grip. She reached inside her habit and pulled out her stupid chain that held all the keys to all the doors here in this place, then unlocked the door.

  “I trust you’ll think on why you are in here yet again, Sister Constance.” She looked down at me, her nose a bit too big for her haggard face. “When I come for you, we will talk about your future here at Our Lady of Heavenly Hope Convent. In fact,
” she paused, seeming to consider something, then nodded, “I have a mission for you.”

  I scrunched my nose at her, totally not expecting her statement. “A mission?”

  “Indeed.” She opened the door, pulled on the light string, and shoved me none-too gently into the small space. “You’ll know all once you’ve had time to think on your behavior.” And with that, she shut the door, leaving behind only the sound of the key twisting in the lock.

  “Huh. A mission.” With a shrug, I turned around and found my little spot in the corner, readying myself for endless minutes of absolute boredom.

  “Good afternoon, Constance.” The soft, deep masculine voice spoke from nowhere and everywhere. There was no direction to it, something that I’d long grown out of finding curious. It had been many years since I’d even wondered about it at all. The voice, the… man, creature, spirit was just a part of anything in my environment, like a dust bunny or a hinge on a door.

  I’d known since I was five that no one other than me could hear Mr. Voice. After years of watching and waiting for someone, anyone, to notice him—how could they not hear him?—I’d finally accepted that he was either a figment of my imagination, or he was a spirit. I thought a few times he was our Lord talking to me, like the burning bush spoke to Moses. But really, I was no Joan of Arc. And what conversations we did have never had anything remotely “godly” about them—no, downright lame most of the time. He was just there. Someone to chat with, someone to pass the time with when I was in confinement, which was more often than not. He was once my best friend, my only friend. Now I just knew it was a part of me.

  But even with that awareness, that the voice was born of my imagination, and the fact that I was older, my mind still kept him around. There was no harm in it, really. As long as I kept it to myself.

  I yawned, already tired from my confinement. “Afternoon,” I mumbled absently. A loose string on my hem caught my attention, and I fiddled with it as my thoughts drifted to what Mother Mary Margret had said about a mission. I’d never left the convent for more than an hour or two accompanied. And alone, the gates were as far as I dared to venture. Others, even a few novitiates like myself, were trusted to leave the convent on errands and such. Never me.

  Whatever the mission was, though, it was probably a punishment, something sure to be grueling and tedious. Perhaps cleaning the—

  “Why do you give in so easily, child? Why do you not fight?” the voice asked.

  I looked up from my now unraveling hem. “What? Fight what, them?”

  “Yes.”

  I shrugged. “All it does is cut the kite strings.” And that was more truth than I’d ever confessed out loud. Always this place wanted to contain me, to tie me down, to enforce rules, rules, and more rules. It was exhausting, but as time went on, they did win. Just like he said.

  “You let them, Constance. You practically hand them the scissors.”

  Rolling my eyes, I crossed my arms. “I have no control here, Mr. Voice. And where have you been all this time?” Now that I thought about it, I was a bit surprised to hear him after so many days and nights of silence. He had been absent for nearly a year.

  “Oh I’ve been here. Watching.”

  “Uh huh,” I said, losing interest already. For some stupid reason, I felt hurt. I looked at the paneling, searching for that one face in the patterns that bared an uncanny resemblance to the Virgin. A few years back, I’d thought of borrowing a camera from Sister Sarah’s classroom and taking a picture of it, selling it to some lame newspaper or magazine. I wonder why I never did.

  “I think it’s time to introduce myself. I am Solomon,” Mr. Voice said almost reverently, like I was supposed to curtsy, like he was of some grand importance.

  When I didn’t reply back, I could’ve sworn I heard him sigh in a pissy huff.

  Since I had nothing better to do, I indulged him—or myself, really. “Great. Glad you have a name.” I went back to my tattered hem, then stopped on a strange thought. “Why the name Solomon?” An image filled my head of a disembodied voice reigning over a cheesy Arabian court, with two women, a sword, and a baby.

  “Is that all you know of Solomon?” the voice said with a laugh, reading my mind.

  Wait. Something was different. A chill absently, lightly, chased down my spine. I didn’t recall the voice ever laughing. Come to think of it, it really never seemed to have a personality.

  “Tell, me, Mr. Vo—Solomon—”

  The knob on the door jingled then, the lock turning. I shut my mouth, listening.

  It was Sister Hannah, humming a hymn. An honest to God good person in this hell hole, she worked the storeroom, waiting on deliveries that came to the convent. She was part of a handful that seemed to overlook whatever it was inside me that made others, well, react.

  “Sister Constance?” her little shy voice asked when the door opened. She reminded me of a Disney movie princess, the one with blood-red lips and super thin eyebrows, the one who befriends the dwarves or whatever. With clear skin and big blue eyes, Sister Hannah even looked like a princess. At least ten years or so older than me, she’d been here since I could remember.

  I looked at her now, waiting. Solomon was silent.

  “I thought you were in here.” She put the key in the pocket of her habit, then softly smiled. “I need your assistance, dear.” Holding the door open with one hand, and the other waving me onward, I stood up and followed her out. “Today has proved a bit too busy for me. I’m sure Mother Superior won’t mind if you help me out today.”

  I nodded, pleased with this reprieve.

  Most people, I imagine, would be surprised at how busy our convent was. Of course, the Sisters always had some type of occupation to fill our “idle hands,” but ours really was like a factory or a business. The various charities, the books and merchandise, etc., kept us busy like a hive of black and white bees.

  Not that I was a part of it. Nor did I have any interest in the workings of it. It simply was my home in all its flat and boring glory. Only so often did they need my assistance. But I didn’t mind helping Sister Hannah out when asked. Like I said, the woman really was nice.

  Aside from her and Mother Superior, I was left pretty much alone. After being the troublemaker for so long, it was well known in the convent that Sister Constance was a nun in name only. They should have named me Charity. That was what I was, after all.

  We made our way through the swinging door and out into the delivery room. In the back, toward the yawning bay doors, was the Sister’s small office. And over the next hour, in there we sat, me affixing labels to empty bubble-wrap envelopes, she clicking away on the computer.

  When the buzzing of the delivery room sang, she told me to go see to it. It was Jack, the UPS man, who had been delivering here for at least two years. Young, handsome, charming. Also a nice person. In a world with so few of them, the nice ones always stood out to me.

  I made my way over to the counter and considered him while he opened the sliding door on his truck. Just because I was dedicated to our Lord and Savior, didn’t make me ignorant of the ways of men. Our friend Jack here had the hots for the good Sister. But like I said, he was a good man. And it was just too bad, really, that the two had no chance together. One, she’d never pursue it. And two, he’d never dip his toe into that particular pool. Society’s frown on sacrilege was just too loud, too deep, too harsh. It was something I thought about a lot over the years, actually. The blatant desire that was there for all to see, juxtaposed by a blinding will to fight it, to hide it, to hold it back. Both were a visible thing. One of my talents, I guessed…. the ability to see people’s true self. The self God was said to shun.

  Such a shame these two couldn’t heed their desires.

  Jack came striding over, humming something under his breath. His smile faltered a bit when he saw me, as if disappointed, but then he recovered, his eyes friendly and full of honest charm again. He held up his boxy-tablet thingy. “Ah, afternoon, Sister. I have a few thi
ngs today, just need Sister Hannah’s signature on this.”

  I folded my hands in front of me, like the good girl I was, and led him to Sister Hannah’s office. She looked up when we entered, and when she saw Jack, the longing that showed in her eyes after the heated blush of her cheeks ran its course was so loud, I was surprised no one came running into the room to investigate.

  As it was, it was still just the three of us in this small space.

  “Well, I am here too, child,” Mr. Voice said in my ear. I wasn’t surprised. I had a feeling he’d show up again so soon after appearing out of the blue earlier.

  I didn’t bother to respond to him, just acknowledged him with a pass of my hand. He was very chatty today, and I wondered why, but I pushed it aside for later.

  A thought was brewing, one that sprouted from that place inside me the convent wanted to burn to the ground. A veritable garden of devious delights and hungry seedlings that begged to be fed, writhing in want in the dark—and it was always dark. But it was resilient, my garden. Made of strong shoots of steel, with carnivorous thorns and thirsty roots. And no matter what the Church tried, nothing could kill its fruit.

  I shut the door behind me, locking it. While Jack handed Hannah his tablet for her signature, I grabbed one of the folding chairs against the wall and set it up at the door, then took a seat and faced the room.

  The show was about to begin.

  “How are you today, Sister?” Jack asked her. He watched her with soft eyes, his hand going to his nape to rub gently at the short brown hair that reached the collar of his uniform.

  I watched their body language, a language that was truer and spoke clearer than any tongue could ever possess.