One of the chosen ones.
She giggled. “And this chosen one is fucking beat.”
She dropped her purse on the cluttered coffee table. Then she kicked off her shoes, stripped off her skirt and blouse, and collapsed on the couch. She reached for the thin blanket folded over the top of the couch, shook it open, and tucked it over her shoulders. She was asleep within moments. She slept deeply and when she awoke she knew hours had passed. She lay there in a state of semiconsciousness for several moments before becoming aware that something wasn’t quite right. She tried to dismiss the feeling, but it persisted. As she neared full consciousness, she realized another person was in the room. A cold finger of fear tickled the length of her spine.
Someone had broken in while she was asleep.
A burglar, maybe. Or a rapist.
She wondered whether she should play possum. Just keep her eyes closed and pretend she was still asleep. She saw one immediate problem with that. She was a snorer. Every chick she’d ever bedded complained about it, as had her occasional male partners. The intruder had been here while she was sleeping and would know it, too. She didn’t doubt her ability to physically overpower any man. She was of the Circle. Snapping his neck would be child’s play.
But…what if he has a gun?
Fear gave way to terror. She wasn’t yet immortal. A burgeoning scream welled inside her. The thought of surrendering the eternal reward promised her by the goddess was more than she could bear.
A voice she recognized said, “Open your eyes.”
Bridget relaxed at once. She blew out a breath and stretched her long, lean body. Then she opened her eyes and saw Myra Lewis-Lamia-staring down at her with her usual blank expression. She smiled and tossed the blanket aside. “Please tell me you’re here to have your way with me,” Bridget said.
Lamia said nothing, but something in her eyes hardened.
Bridget rolled off the couch and went to her knees before the goddess. She bowed her head and closed her eyes again. “Have I offended you in some way, Dark Mother?”
“Stand up.”
Bridget stood and looked the goddess in the eye. She tried not to tremble. As much as she loved Lamia, it was hard to peer directly into that endless darkness. She half suspected anyone attempting to hold that gaze for too long a time would go insane. “Whatever I’ve done, I’m sorry. You know my loyalty to you is total. I would never-”
“Shut up.”
Bridget flinched. “I have things to tell you. Jordan Harper-”
The backhand blow sent Bridget flying over the couch. She landed in an awkward heap on the floor and a shock of pain ripped through her body. She cried out and rolled onto her back. Tears obscured her vision for a moment. When she could see again, Lamia was standing over her. The goddess planted the hard sole of a black Doc Marten boot on her bare chest and exerted enough pressure to render breathing difficult. Bridget opened her mouth to beg for mercy, then remembered what had triggered the attack. She closed her mouth and waited for Lamia to speak.
There was a brief pause. Perhaps a minute elapsed. Long enough for Bridget to feel her ribs grinding beneath the pressure of the combat boot.
Then Lamia said, “I already know of my daughter’s awakening. I am not here to talk about that.”
The goddess removed her foot and Bridget sucked in a deep, wheezing breath. Then she frowned as she watched Lamia strip off her leather jacket and toss it aside. The cropped Misfits shirt came off next. The black bra after that. Bridget stared at Lamia’s milk white breasts and their jutting pink nipples and felt a stirring of lust. Lamia leaned against the back of the couch and removed the thick-soled Doc Martens. Finally, she peeled off the tight leather pants and was entirely nude. A thick sheen of sweat covered her entire body. A thick drop fell from her nose. She looked paler than usual. Almost feverish. Bridget glanced at the jumble of clothes on the floor and saw they were sopping wet.
“What’s wrong with you? You look…sick. I thought…”
Lamia wiped a fresh swelling of sweat from her brow and flicked fat droplets from the ends of her fingers. “You thought what?”
Bridget frowned. “I…don’t know. I guess I thought you couldn’t get sick.”
“I can’t.”
“Then…”
Lamia smiled. “You wouldn’t understand and there isn’t time to explain. You have been a faithful servant. I have made many promises to you. I must now break them all.”
Bridget’s heart lurched.
“Wh…what?”
“Do you remember Moira, dear?”
The mention of her sister confounded Bridget. Moira had been dead for many years. Bridget rarely thought of her. “I…what about her?”
“I killed her. Used her body for a time. It wasn’t suitable as a permanent home, but it sufficed long enough. And now the time has come to shed this skin, sweet Bridget. The Harvest must happen today. I am not strong enough in this used-up shell. I require a new host.” She straddled Bridget and pinned her wrists behind her head with strong hands. “Your body is perfect and should serve me well for the next hundred years.”
Bridget’s head spun. The Harvest was today? Lamia had told the members of the Sacred Circle they would know the exact day and hour of the Harvest weeks ahead of time. But apparently this was just one lie among many. There was no time for Bridget to grieve the loss of all she’d been promised, or to appreciate the depth of Lamia’s betrayal. She was about to die. She now knew no eternal reward awaited her. No bliss of any kind. Just darkness.
She opened her mouth to scream.
But Lamia forced Myra Lewis’s mouth open wider.
Far wider.
Something long and scaly slithered out, moving too fast to perceive in detail. Then it was inside Bridget. Bridget twitched and convulsed, the back of her head banging against the dirty carpet for several moments as the now-dead body of Myra collapsed to the floor and went still. In a while, Bridget, too, was still.
Bridget Flanagan, her essence, expired.
Her body let out an abrupt gasp and sat up.
Lamia had a new home.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The house felt like the inside of a long-sealed tomb. Some ancient pharaoh’s crypt, maybe. A dead place, devoid of even the hint of life. It was just an illusion, but that’s how it felt. Kristen was somewhere nearby. She was in one of the bedrooms. Jake could just make out her voice from the living room. She was talking to yet another relative, but mostly listening, only on occasion responding with a few clipped words. She sounded subdued. Numb. Much the way he’d felt in the immediate aftermath of his own family drama yesterday.
Thinking about that caused him to reflect again on his confrontation with Trey. His jaw still stung from the blows he’d absorbed. The memory of the hate in his brother’s eyes caused a different kind of hurt, one he knew would last far longer than any physical pain.