Stray Fears - Gregory Ashe Page 0,82

knife was still three feet away, and I had to close my eyes and fight a sob.

“I don’t know why,” Muriel said, “but you sound like you think you’re in charge.”

“I am in charge,” Richard said. “This was my plan. I was the one that found Zahra. I was the one who put the thorn in her hand. It’s unfortunate that we had to get rid of her.”

“She was becoming difficult,” Muriel said. “Unreliable. What else could you do?”

“If it were up to you, we’d still be fool lights drifting in the bayou. We’d eat a few times a year at most. Do you remember? In a bad year, we might eat only once.”

“It was never that bad,” Muriel said. “You’re exaggerating.”

“It wasn’t like this.”

“No. And I’m not saying it was. But I’m saying you can pretend to be the boss at work, but don’t forget that your game is just a game. I like an easy meal as much as the next, but you’re not lord and master. You should remember that.”

“The boy will be delicious, Muriel. So much guilt and self-loathing and grief, all of it tangled up so he doesn’t know where to start. What I’ve tasted has been very . . . satisfying. He’ll be exquisite.”

I pictured Elien’s hair, windswept. I pictured the shock on Elien’s face the first time we were in bed together. I pictured Elien sorting beans, and Elien with an earbud. Elien, the real Elien.

Holding my breath, I scrabbled forward. My hand closed around the knife. Then I had to stop, trying to listen over the pounding of blood in my ears, trying to keep from puking as the pain turned in my gut.

“—have it your way, then,” Muriel said. “You always do.”

I wouldn’t have time to get back to my original spot. And I would only get one chance at a surprise. I tucked the knife into my waistband, covered it with my shirt, and slumped on the tile. The air warped again, and I heard Muriel shriek. She came around the counter in the elongated form of the hashok.

Her slender claws gripped my ankles, cutting through the jeans and into my flesh as she dragged me across the tile. I screamed. The claws biting into my flesh hurt, but worse was the pain in my back as I was dragged across the kitchen. Then the pain seemed to hit some sort of threshold, and my mind switched off for a moment.

When I came back, my vision was full of pinpricks again. I heard the soft, padding steps of the loafers. Then a slap. Then another.

“Elien, dear.” Slap. “Wake up.” Slap. “Time to finish what we started.”

My sight cleared. I blinked up into Muriel’s oily, hashok eyes. She had no lips, and her mouth was a slash exposing razor teeth, but she grinned when she saw me looking at her. She batted at me once, the tips of her claws slicing my thigh. I screamed in spite of myself, jerking upright. Her grin got bigger as she pinned me to the tile, her nails driving easily into the fleshy part of my shoulder. Arteries, a panicked voice was saying. Did she get an artery? I couldn’t see the wounds in my thigh, but I kept thinking femoral artery, femoral artery. I could feel the wet heat soaking my jeans, spreading under me.

“Stay still, Deputy LeBlanc,” Richard said. “You’re not going anywhere, and Muriel has the ugly habit of playing with her food. Better not encourage her.”

Behind me, Elien groaned and mumbled something.

Another slap, this one louder and harder.

Elien cried out.

“That’s right, dear,” Richard said. “Welcome back.”

ELIEN (7)

For a while, I was floating, and then little islands of reality poked up through the fog: the grit of the tile under my cheek, the smell of wine, the stinging in my neck. As my vision cleared, I tried to make sense of what I was seeing. Shards of glass from the broken bottle. The corkscrew. Directly in my line of sight, the hashok—Muriel—stood over Dag. Dag was breathing harshly; he was covered in blood.

Then a hand covered my mouth, and a weight settled on top of me.

“Is this how it was?” Richard asked in my ear.

His hand smelled like fried catfish; his weight bore down on me. Richard, who liked an extra big slice of cake. Richard, who joked about getting more exercise. Richard, who probably weighed fifty pounds more than me. And he was strong, too, his fingers biting into my jaw,