And now a reunion was in the offing. Jordan and her father were on their way to the auditorium, were perhaps outside the building even now.
Lamia couldn’t deny it.
She was looking forward to seeing them again.
A young woman approached her at the refreshments table. “Hello, Bridget. Where’s Angela? I thought she’d be with you.”
Lamia spooned more punch into her glass and looked at the woman, a plumpish brunette named Megan. “Why did you think that?”
Megan smirked. “You’re lovers, aren’t you? Least that’s what I’ve heard on the grapevine.”
“We broke up,” Lamia said. “I don’t know where she is.”
Megan assumed an expression of pity. A not-so-subtle mocking quality was just beneath the surface. “Oh, that’s too bad.” Then her expression brightened and she flashed a phony smile that dripped venom. “I’m sure you’ll find some other dyke to lick your rancid twat soon enough.”
Lamia’s smile never faltered. “You don’t like me much, do you?”
“How did you guess?”
Lamia sipped punched and stared at the woman over the rim of her glass. The temptation to snap the woman’s neck was strong, but she’d hoped to hide in her new host a little longer. She lowered the glass and smacked her lips. “Go away, Megan.”
Megan laughed. “Why? Did I hurt your feelings? And what have you done to yourself? Those clothes look like you dug them out of a time capsule. And what’s with the Bon Jovi circa 1989 hair? Somebody not tell me about a costume party after the Harvest?”
She had wondered when someone would comment on her new look. It was something she had cooked up solely for Jake McAllister’s benefit. Bridget’s familial resemblance to Moira was strong to begin with, but she’d realized there were some things she could do to emphasize it. Some quality time in front of a mirror with a can of Aquanet went a long way toward painting the proper picture. The rest of it was a matter of selecting the proper clothes and applying the right makeup. She wore a denim jacket over a frilly blouse and a tight black miniskirt. The whole outfit screamed ’80s groupie slut, an impression completed by a dramatic application of eye shadow and a thick layer of mascara that emphasized her cheekbones.
Jake would look at her and think immediately of Moira.
Exactly as he remembered her.
She couldn’t wait to see his shocked expression.
“Are you even hearing me?”
Lamia blinked. She’d been vaguely aware that Megan was still speaking, but she’d tuned the woman out. “Excuse me?”
Megan rolled her eyes. “Idiot. I would say all that hair spray has scrambled your brains, but you didn’t have a lot going on upstairs to begin with, did you?”
Something cold and filled with an ageless hatred flexed inside Lamia. It was an instinct she was helpless to quell once it asserted itself. An imperative delivered straight from the primal center of her psyche. She finished the last of her punch and set the glass on the table.
Then she gripped Megan’s wrist and snapped it.
Megan’s high-pitched scream silenced all backstage chatter and temporarily quietened the collective rumble of voices from the auditorium. Lamia kept a grip on Megan’s broken wrist with one hand and slapped the other over the woman’s gaping mouth. She twisted the mangled wrist and Megan dropped helplessly to her knees. Lamia forced the trembling woman to meet her gaze. There was an immediate spark of recognition in the woman’s eyes. She began to whimper.
A man nearby said, “Oh my God. It’s her.”
A breathless female whisper: “Lamia.”
Then there was silence again. Lamia surveyed the faces of those present. Some averted their eyes. Others dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. The chief of police put a hand down his pants to stroke a sudden erection. A few minutes passed and the roar of the crowd began to build again. The building was alive with anticipation. The students would have their show soon. It wouldn’t be what they were expecting, but it would be memorable. Too bad for them they wouldn’t be around to remember it.
Lamia smiled. “I believe this cunt’s husband is present. Correct?”
A tall, slender man in a cheap blue suit stepped forward. “Um…that would be me.”
“Elliot, correct?”
The man licked his lips. He was nervous. Scared shitless. For good reason. He wiped his mouth with the back of a hand and nodded. “That’s right.”
“I’m about to kill your wife, Elliot. You have anything to say about that?”
The man’s eyes danced nervously in his sockets. He was sweating. He looked at his trembling wife and a shadow seemed to pass over his face. He shuddered. “Nothing.” He coughed and straightened his tie. His composure returned and he even managed a small, shaky smile. “Nothing at all, really. Other than wishing it’d happened a long time ago.”
Lamia’s smile broadened as she forced Megan to look her in the eye again. “Hear that, Megan? You’re about to die. On your knees at my feet. And no one in the world gives a damn. Not even your pedophile husband. Oh, yes. It’s true. He’s a baby raper. Carry that pleasant thought to hell with you.”
Megan whimpered again.
Tears spilled from her eyes in a hot rush.
There was a collective gasp from the others in the room as Lamia pushed her fingers through Megan’s pliant flesh and began to peel her face off. That was only the beginning. Megan remained alive for several more minutes as Lamia plucked her eyes from their sockets and pulled out her tongue. She only finished off the woman as she began to go into shock. Lamia then tossed the corpse aside and grinned at the thunderstruck expressions of her acolytes.
“So much for the warm-up act. It’s time for the main event. I’ve waited long enough. A hundred years, to be exact.”
Lamia left the backstage area, passed through a small hallway and began to walk across the mostly bare stage. She reveled in the growing roar of the crowd as she strode toward the narrow gap between the drawn curtains. The curtains began to part and the crowd noise reached a crescendo. There was applause punctuated by whoops and whistles. Students stamped their feet on the floor. It really did feel like the buildup to a rock-and-roll show. But the excitement gave way to a growing confusion as the lack of drums and guitars became obvious.
Lamia approached a podium at the front of the stage and waited for the murmurs of discontent to abate. Then she leaned toward a microphone and said, “I realize most of you were expecting something else. Something fun.” She giggled. “But there will be no more fun for any of you.”
A few members of the audience shouted insults. Most of these emanated from the burnout contingent in the back rows.
Lamia raised her hands and signaled for silence. She didn’t get it, but the noise tapered off enough to again address the students. “Please direct your attention to the doors at the back of the auditorium and those to the left and right of the stage.”
The students twisted in their seats and craned their necks. Lamia grinned at the sea of confused faces as men wearing hoods linked door handles with heavy chains and secured them with big iron padlocks. The tone of the murmurs began to change. Lamia felt a sudden arousal as she detected the first inklings of fear. It was delicious. Intoxicating. And it was only an appetizer. She felt stronger now than she had in a long time. Very soon she would be stronger than she’d ever been. This would be the most bountiful Harvest since medieval times.
Her laughter boomed over the auditorium’s speaker system.
“It’s all over, children. No more studying for exams. No more trying to dodge that bully in the hallway. No more fretting about not living up to your parents’ expectations. These earthly concerns are beyond you now. I know you’ll all be grateful to be relieved of these burdens.”