“Penelope…” The plaintive, strained tone returned to Cindy’s voice. “Please help me. He kidnapped me. I think he was going to rape me.”
Penelope chortled. “Oh, please. Raymond likes a bit of slap and tickle, but he doesn’t have the cojones for hard-core stuff.” She looked at Raymond again. “What really happened?”
Raymond felt deflated. He’d been caught. Found out. It was all over. There was even a kind of relief in knowing he wouldn’t have to make like some kind of tweed-wearing Rambo. “It was an accident. She came after me.”
“An accident, huh?”
“Yeah.”
Penelope smirked. “I can see that, I guess. And you brought her here, not knowing what else to do. Figured you’d finish her off in private and…then what?”
“I don’t know.”
“Of course not.” She slapped him. “That’s for being such a fucking pussy. You expect me to believe you would’ve offed this chick while she was still awake and talking to you?”
Raymond was silent. He didn’t have an answer for that.
Cindy let out another little cry of pain. “Penelope…please…”
“Shut up.”
Penelope spun on her heel and stalked toward the workbench. There was a clank of metal as she sifted through the various implements there. When she returned, a long iron spike was gripped in her right fist. It was a rusty thing, something Raymond had found in the yard years ago after construction was finished on the house.
It had a very sharp tip.
Cindy saw it and whimpered.
Penelope sat on the lip of the trunk and leered at Raymond. “She’s no use to Lamia like this, so I’ll do what you weren’t man enough to do.” She reached inside the trunk and ripped the flimsy and shredded halter away from Cindy’s body, exposing the girl’s tanned torso. She directed another leer at Raymond. “Look at her. Still a hot young thing from the waist up, Raymond. Sure you don’t want to have a bit of fun with her before I do this?”
Raymond’s face twisted in disgust. He took an unconscious step away from her. “You sick bitch. You can’t be serious.”
Penelope’s eyes gleamed with amusement. “Oh, but I am. Think about it. You can’t tell me you never fantasized about getting nasty with Miss Hot Stuff here. This is your big chance, Raymond. You’ll never get another.”
Raymond had indeed fantasized about Cindy Wells. Her and many other young girls throughout his career at Rockville. The memory shamed him now. His voice was tight as he said, “No. And don’t ask me again, you psychotic bitch.”
Penelope’s leering smile faded. “Very well.” She looked at Cindy and a hint of mirth again twitched at the corners of her mouth. “Time to say good night.”
Cindy moaned. There was terror mingled with the agony in her cries now. “No…please…please…please…”
Penelope raised the spike over her head and slammed it down. Raymond saw the tip of the spike punch through Cindy’s quivering stomach and cringed at the sound of the girl’s scream. It was astonishingly loud in the closed garage, seeming to shred his ears. Nearly as awful was the sound of the spike thunking against the trunk floor after passing through the girl’s body. Penelope yanked the spike out and slammed it down again. Another puncture. Another fountain of blood. Raymond forced his eyes away from the girl’s ravaged body, but what he saw now was perhaps more disturbing. Penelope slammed the spike down over and over. A dozen times. More. At some point Cindy stopped screaming and Raymond knew she was finally dead. But Penelope just kept slamming the spike down. And she was laughing, her mouth open in a broad, almost manic grin. She glanced at Raymond once with delight radiant in her eyes. She bobbed her head, as if in time to a jaunty tune only she could hear. Her formerly white blouse was splattered with crimson.
And in the midst of Penelope’s murderous frenzy Raymond rediscovered his resolve.
Penelope was distracted. She was obscenely absorbed in the act of mutilation.
Raymond quietly opened the Lexus’s rear door. He removed the Glock from its box and loaded it the way the gun-shop clerk had showed him. He moved to the rear of the car again and aimed the gun at the back of Penelope’s head. She continued thrusting the bloody spike into the dead girl’s very still body.
He waited until she was done.
She dropped the spike in the trunk and looked at him. She didn’t flinch at the sight of the gun.
She smiled.
And licked flecks of blood from her lips.
She took a step toward him, swinging her luscious hips seductively. “A gun, Raymond? Really? Put that thing away before I-”
Raymond’s voice was cold as he said, “Not this time.”
Then he shot her in the face.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Bridget Flanagan returned to her own apartment around the time Jordan was waking up in the backyard of an empty house in the Zone. She’d been at loose ends in the wake of Jordan’s departure, not sure whether she should stay there and await Jordan’s return or go looking for Lamia. An attempt at establishing a telepathic connection with her went unanswered, as did multiple calls to her cell phone. It was frustrating, but it happened on occasion. Lamia was very busy preparing for the Harvest and sometimes was not able to respond.
She tried not to worry. Lamia was strong. And she was wise. So she fell a little short in the omnipotence department once in a while. So what? No one could hurt her. No one could stop her. The success of the Harvest was not in doubt.
Yet she was certain the goddess would want to know all about what had happened. Jordan’s brief transformation to the serpent form, for instance. And how she had awakened to her true nature in the aftermath of Angela’s death. These things the goddess would consider vitally important. What most concerned Bridget, however, was the threats the bitch had made against Lamia.
Whoops.
The reflexive contempt she felt for Jordan was still there. She would have to work at suppressing it. Her personal feelings regarding the girl were no longer important. Jordan was Lamia’s daughter. She was to be respected, honored, and worshiped. Lamia would expect nothing less. And in her total devotion to the goddess, Bridget would accept nothing less from herself. For so long she’d been Lamia’s special one. Her favorite. Now Jordan would usurp her place. Knowing this hurt her deeply. But she found some consolation in reminding herself that she remained a member of Lamia’s Sacred Circle, that exclusive group of upper-echelon acolytes. The ones who would also reap the fruits of the Harvest. She and the other women of the Circle would become immortal and serve the goddess throughout eternity. Bridget entered a state of near ecstatic bliss every time she thought of it. How glorious! To live forever at Lamia’s side!
Bridget forced her head out of the clouds. She was tired, having slept only in brief fits throughout the night. Like all other Circle members, she was stronger and more resilient than a normal person, but her energy reserves weren’t bottomless. She needed to rest and recharge. So when Jordan failed to show by morning, Bridget returned home. She remained worried about the threats Jordan had made, but not enough to feel any real urgency. Jordan just needed time to adjust. And even if she did somehow track down Lamia, she wouldn’t be able to hurt her. She was strong, but not that strong. And, hell, for all Bridget knew, Lamia was already aware of her daughter’s awakening.
Bridget parked her car, got out, and slung the strap of her purse over her shoulder. The walk across the parking lot seemed an endless slog in her exhausted state, but she finally made it to the building and trudged up the stairs to her third-floor apartment.
She entered the apartment and threw the door shut behind her. The tiny studio apartment wasn’t as nice as Jordan’s place. There was a lot less room and the building was much older. The threadbare furniture was all secondhand. The carpet had stains no amount of shampooing or vacuuming could excise. All in all, it was a pretty shabby place to live. But Bridget didn’t care. It was just a place to sleep. It was temporary. Greater things awaited her. Soon, perhaps as early as tomorrow, she would leave all this behind. Besides, most of Bridget’s discretionary income went to things like clothes, makeup, and salon visits. Looking good mattered more than living in the lap of luxury. Looking good enabled a girl to reach for bigger things. Bridget reflected on that last thought and frowned. The philosophy was an echo from a person who no longer existed. The pre-Lamia Bridget. Bridget 2.0 no longer gave a shit about using her looks to snare a man with a fat wallet. All men were beneath her. She was a woman, after all. And not just a woman, but a follower of the goddess.