“So why can’t I join the club? Why are you a chosen one?”
Bridget sighed. “You can’t join the club because you’re not from here. Lamia chose this place as the site of the next Harvest long ago. And since then all women born in Rockville have been by birth members of her inner circle, whether they know it or not.” She giggled. “And in fact, they very often don’t know it, not awakening to their true nature until late in adolescence. I was an early bloomer. I began to sense my connection with the goddess even before I entered puberty. Anyway, that’s why no amount of pleading on your part can get you into the club. It doesn’t matter that you’re trying to get on our good side to find a way out of this. Even if I believed you were a true convert, it wouldn’t matter. Lamia wouldn’t have you.”
Jordan’s brow furrowed. “Doesn’t this goddess ever bend her own rules? If I could somehow prove myself to her, maybe she’d make an exception for me.”
Bridget shrugged. “Doubt it. But who knows, stranger things have happened. Anyway, you’ll get a chance to ask her yourself. You’ll be meeting her soon.”
Jordan didn’t say anything. The revelation was unexpected and shocking. Before, the goddess had existed to her only as a concept, an intellectual puzzle to figure out. She hadn’t considered, even for a moment, the possibility of an actual encounter with the flesh-and-blood manifestation of this supposed deity. Thinking about it made her heart race and her breath grow shallow. If she couldn’t make these two bimbos believe she was sincere, she didn’t stand a chance of convincing Lamia.
She cast her gaze about the kitchen surreptitiously, moving her eyes without moving her head as she searched for weapons. There was a large-and bloody-carving knife on a chopping block on the counter. Angela had used it to chop lengths of intestine. Jordan recalled the image of the glistening viscera, a long, wet rope of it coiled on the chopping block, and felt her stomach rumble.
Angela’s eyes narrowed. “Why is she staring at that knife?”
Bridget raised an eyebrow. “Yeah, Jordan. Why are you staring at that knife?” She laughed. “Tell you what, we’ll make a contest of it.”
Jordan’s heart skipped a beat and she felt a tightness in her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“I know you have a low opinion of my intelligence, Jordypoo,” Bridget said, “but you should know better by now. You know I’m not the ditzy bimbo I pretend to be. You’re so transparent.” She giggled again. “You’re easier to read than a best-selling novel. What I’m saying is, you’ll never make it in Hollywood.”
Angela laughed. “She’s no Meryl Streep.”
“Marisa Tomei is Meryl Streep compared to this hag-in-training.”
Angela snorted. “That one-fluke wonder. Hell, that’s nothing. You ever see Paris Hilton in House of Wax? That’s some Juilliard School of the Arts shit compared to Jordan.”
Jordan felt something cold and hard settle within her. “You know what, fuck both of you.”
Bridget gave her a mock pout. “Oh, you’d love to fuck me. We’re already aware of that.”
Jordan wanted to lash back at Bridget, but the pure truth of the matter was she was right. She bit her lip and said nothing.
Bridget grinned. “Now about that contest.”
Jordan eyed her warily. “Yeah?”
Bridget leaned across the table and leered at her. “It’s really more of a race. Here’s the deal. We’ll have Angela here count to three. On three, you and I make a dash for the knife. Get there first, you get to live. Get there last, you get to hurt. Sound fair?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Jordan glanced at Angela. “Because I’m outnumbered. Even if I got there first, this cunt would come after me.”
Bridget shrugged. “Yeah, maybe. But it’s the only chance you’ve got. Ready to start the countdown?”
Jordan’s heart was racing. She looked at the knife. She looked at Bridget, felt her mouth go dry at the look of almost feral anticipation she saw there. “No. Please. It doesn’t have to be this way.” She felt moisture well in her eyes. “Look, I’m sorry. I don’t want to die.”
Bridget leaned even closer. Her eyes sparkled prettily beneath the ceiling light. “You weren’t listening like you should. I said, ‘Get there last, you get to hurt.’ I didn’t say a thing about dying. When I get my hands on that big-ass knife, I’ll have Angela hold you still while I cut on you for a while. But I’m not gonna kill you.”
Jordan swallowed thickly. “Why not?”
“It’s like I told you. You have a meeting with Lamia in your future. And you’ll need to be alive for that.” Her smile then radiated sheer madness. Seeing it made Jordan want to curl up in a ball in a dark corner somewhere. “At least for a little while.”
Jordan was shaking. Her breath hitched. A sob worked its way out of her throat, followed quickly by a moan of despair. A part of her felt shamed by this display. She should show some courage, or at least stoicism, in the face of this awful development. Anything to dampen the sadistic glee they were deriving from this.
But she simply couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to die. Not like this. With no one who loved her around to help ease the transition into eternal darkness. With no goddamn dignity at all. “Please…please…I don’t want to die…”
Bridget and Angela laughed in unison.
Jordan dabbed tears from her eyes. “Can’t either of you see how insane this is? Don’t either of you have a shred of human decency left? Why would you want to participate in this…this…evil?”
Bridget smiled. “Aside from being born into it, you mean?” She shrugged. “Frankly, I get off on it.”
“Ditto like a motherfucker,” Angela said.
Jordan groaned. “God…”
Bridget’s tongue darted out, slowly traced the length of her lower lip. “Mmm. To be honest, I just love the way being all evil and shit makes me feel. All hot and bothered, you know?”
A visible ripple of pleasure went through Angela. “Fuck, I’m getting all horny just thinking about it. I sure hope we get to kill somebody else to night.”
Bridget said, “I think you can count on it. And speaking of counting, you should start.”
Jordan sat up straighter in her chair. “Wait!”
Bridget shook her head. “No more waiting.”
Angela said, “One…”
Bridget pushed her chair away from the table and scooted to its edge. “This is gonna be so much fun. You ready to start hurting again, Jordy-poo?”
“Two…”
Jordan looked at the knife.
Any moment now, Angela would utter the final number.
Jordan leaped out of her chair, seized the knife, and whirled around to face her tormentors.
She smiled at their identical thunderstruck expressions.
Angela smacked the table with her palm and glared at Jordan accusingly. “No fair!”
Relishing the feel of the word in her mouth, Jordan said, “Three.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The first thing Stu Walker was aware of upon regaining consciousness was the strange medicinal taste in his mouth. He couldn’t identify it, but a powerful chemical smell clogged his nostrils, too.
Chloroform?
At first blush, the very thought of it was crazy. It made him think of scenes from movies. Guy walking down a street, some black-clad guys pop a white cloth over his mouth, and the poor bastard gets shoved into the back of a black limo. Maybe he’s a superspy, maybe James Bond himself, and he’ll wind up outwitting his abductors. Or maybe he’s just some guy in over his head, a gambler in debt up to his eyeballs. Guy like that, you’ll never see him again. He’ll end up chained to a cinder block at the bottom of a lake or buried beneath the goalpost at a football stadium. Anyone could conjure up a thousand similar scenarios with ease. Because it was so cliche. Any casual observer of popular culture had seen countless variations on it.