Soultaker (23 page)

“WHY, Bridget?” Jordan was screaming now. “WHY WOULD SHE WANT THAT!?”

Bridget sobbed. “I don’t…know. Part of a process, a…transformation…maybe. I don’t really know. There’s nothing more I can tell you. Please believe me.”

“YOU’RE LYING!”

Bridget’s face was streaked with tears. “No…I swear…”

“I ought to kill you.”

Bridget bowed her head. “If…if that’s what you want.” Her body quaked with the force of her fear. “I submit to you as I would your mother.”

Jordan thought about it. She wouldn’t even need the knife. She could snap Bridget’s neck as easily as she’d snap a twig. Or punch through her chest wall and rip out her still-beating heart. The knowledge was exhilarating—and terrifying. She felt a strange and unnatural energy pulsing within her, something dormant come to full, screaming life, and she felt a strong urge to revel in it. Yet, a part of her was repulsed by it. This was the voice of her conscience, she supposed.

Yes.

Her mother was a goddess, which meant she had some aspect of the deity within her. But she was of the human world, as well. Her humanity had shaped her, not that secret touch of the divine. She had a soul. A
conscience.

Her body relaxed. She let out a deep breath. “I’m not going to kill you.”

Bridget looked up at her. “You’re not?”

Jordan shook her head. “And I’m not killing anyone else, either. You can tell my mother that when you see her. Neither is she. I’m going to find a way to stop this massacre she has planned.”

Bridget gaped at her. “But that’s impossible.”

Jordan smiled. “You’re wrong. This time, you’re really wrong.”

Jordan found the clothes that had been forcibly removed from her hours earlier. She put them on and left the apartment without another word. Lamia’s minions tensed at the sight of her as she emerged onto the landing. They sensed the change within her, felt the power flowing through her, and they parted as she walked down the stairs, allowing her passage as she brushed past them.

Jordan stood in the parking lot and stared up at the clear night sky.

Her smile was a cold, almost dead thing, her voice quiet but hard. “I’m coming for you, Mother. And there’s nothing you can do about it.”

A dark cloud passed over the silver moon.

And somewhere far away, a scream resonated in the night.

Jake awoke feeling sick. The glare of the sun through the open mini-blind slats didn’t help things. Nor did the blare of AC/DC’s “Highway To Hell” coming from the living room stereo. The CD apparently had been left on repeat play mode all night, and though the speakers were in another room, the sound was loud enough to make the hangover ache behind his eyes throb mercilessly. With a groan, he rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with a forearm. He stretched out his legs, kicking a crumpled beer can over the edge of the bed. The vague bad feeling that was always there after a night of hard drinking arrived on cue, and he couldn’t help thinking there was something seriously wrong, something he couldn’t remember.

There’d been a lot of sex. He remembered that much. The kind of sweaty, alcohol-fueled sex that goes on seemingly forever. And there’d been a great deal of drinking.

Kristen, it turned out, was no casual drinker. She matched him drink for drink throughout the night, eventually revealing that this kind of binging was a regular thing for her. He thought it odd she hadn’t mentioned this when he’d told her of his struggles with alcoholism, but she shrugged it off when he pushed her about it. She didn’t see the omission as a big deal. But Jake wasn’t so sure. At times, she seemed to play on his weakness for booze, manipulating his emotions by plying
him with drink and offering up the endless temptations of her body.

In the harsh light of this new day, she didn’t seem quite so wonderful anymore. He felt anger—both at himself and at Kristen—as he reflected on the events of the previous day. So much of it seemed unreal now, like a half-remembered dream. Their instant, mutual obsession made him wince with embarrassment. It was probably unhealthy.

Jake sighed.

There was just one conclusion to draw—he would have to break off this thing with Kristen before it went any deeper, before they could do any more damage to each other’s psyches. And though he recognized this as true, the reality of it hit him hard. He would do what he had to do, but you don’t go through something that intense with a person and not feel pain at the prospect of its demise.

The AC/DC CD was abruptly shut off by someone in the living room.

A short moment later he heard his name: “Jake?”

For the first time, Jake realized Kristen wasn’t in bed with him. He drew his forearm away from his eyes and saw her standing in the open doorway. She was wearing one of his shirts like a dress, her face looked slightly puffy, and her hair was rumpled, but she looked as beautiful as ever. He felt another pang of regret as he looked at her, a pang so strong it took him a moment to look beyond her beauty and see the distress on her face.

He sat up fast. “What’s wrong?”

For some reason, his first thought was that something bad had happened with Trey. But that was ridiculous. His brother had spent the night right here, safely sacked out in the guest bedroom. There was nothing to worry about. He was just being paranoid. But he couldn’t help that. Not after all that had happened. He felt dizzy for a moment, as the rest of yester-day’s madness came rushing back. His mother in jail, Trey suddenly in his custody. The police station murders. Thinking
of the traumas his brother had endured made his own troubles seem trivial. And now he dreaded the next words out of Kristen’s mouth, fearing what fresh hell they might bring.

She looked away. He could tell there was something she didn’t want to say. Not good. Not fucking good at all. Jake’s paranoia approached redline status. His breath caught in his throat. He wanted to scream at her to spit it out already. But then she walked over to the bed, sat down, and clasped his hands.

She cleared her throat and took a deep breath. She hesitated one last awful moment, then finally made herself say it: “Your mother is out of jail.”

Jake gasped. “What?” He shook his head. “How the hell did she make bail?”

Kristen’s strained smile was awful. There was no humor in it. “She didn’t. All charges against her were dropped.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

Jake didn’t say anything else for a while. The revelation was so far out of the realm of reason that he just couldn’t believe it. It was yet another in a seemingly endless succession of psychological wallops. He’d chalked up yesterday’s extreme weirdness to the stars being aligned in a once-in-a-billion-years superbad-mojo configuration that dumped a decade’s worth of grief on him in one day. Which was ludicrous, but he couldn’t think of a rational explaination for the endless shit parade his life had become.

Kristen slowly exhaled a deeply held breath. “That’s not all.”

Jake eyed her warily and steeled himself for another blow. “I don’t think I can take any more drama, Kristen.”

Kristen sighed. “I’m sorry. I wish I didn’t have to say it. But…Trey’s gone.”

Jake had a sick feeling, a queasy sense of tumbling helplessly down a steep, bottomless hill. He had a shameful, brief impulse to pack up his stuff, get in his car, and put several hundred miles between himself and Rockville. He dismissed the idea right
away. An irresponsible act like that was a relic of his past, a self-destructive option no longer open to him. He had to take care of Trey. It was his duty. Nothing else mattered as much.

His grip tightened around Kristen’s hands. “Do you have any idea where he went? Was he gone when you woke up?”

Kristen nodded. “I went into the kitchen to make us some breakfast. I turned on the news and heard the story about your mother. There was a note attached to the refrigerator. Jake, he—” She hesitated.

“Just say it.”

“Jake…he’s gone back to your mother. He says you should leave him alone, that everything yesterday was just a big mistake.”

Jake’s eyes went wide with disbelief. “A ‘big mistake’? What the fuck is wrong with him?”

Kristen winced. “Jake, don’t bark at me. None of this is my fault.”

Bullshit.

She had gotten him loaded. Fucked him. Distracted him. If he had been sober—if he had been paying attention—this wouldn’t have happened. Trey would still be safe.

Again, there was that urge to scream at her.

She seemed to sense the building rage within him. Her jaw quivered and she appeared to be on the verge of crying.

He counted to ten, forced himself to calm down a little.

He wasn’t being fair. He could not lay the blame for anything solely at her feet—or at all. This was another of the things he was supposed to have left behind. Blaming others for things that were his own damn fault. He’d allowed himself to be distracted. And, ultimately, it’d been
his
choice to drink last night.

His expression softened. “I’m sorry, Kristen. You’re right.”

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, found his jeans, and began to pull them on. He got to his feet, hopping until the jeans were up around his waist. He scooped a shirt off the floor, pulled it over his head, and sat down again to put on his shoes and socks.

“You’re not going over there,” Kristen said.

It was a statement, but it sounded like a question—with a note of pleading in it. “I damn well am going over there. He’s my brother. That woman, my worthless fucking mother, is a psychopath. A sadist.”

He stood up and snatched his keys off the nightstand. He looked down at Kristen, who was still on the bed, her legs curled beneath her and a worried look on her face. “No way am I letting him stay with her. I’ll drag him out of there if I have to.”

Kristen had a worried look in her eyes. Jake thought he knew what was coming, but let her say it anyway. “I guess I understand why you want to do this. Hell, I’d probably want to do the same in your shoes. But you’re not looking at this rationally. He’s there of his own free will. You might get in trouble, real legal trouble, for something like this.”

Jake nodded. She was right. He knew he was rushing headlong into probable disaster. But knowing this on an intellectual level changed nothing. “I’ve gotta go, Kristen.”

“I’m going with you.”

“Kristen—”

She bounced off the bed, found her own jeans, and stepped into them. “Don’t even start, Jake. I’m part of your life now. I want to be there for you.”

Jake watched her for several moments without speaking. He was surprised by her resoluteness. They would be entering hostile territory today. No one was saying it, but there was a remote possibility of violence. Yet she seemed utterly unafraid. Also, that “part of your life” stuff bothered him. The sensible thing to do would be to disabuse her of such notions right now.

She smiled.

And Jake sighed, knowing he didn’t have the heart to go there yet. “Okay. Let’s get going.”

They left the house and drove across town to the Zone, Jake exceeding the speed limit by at least fifteen miles an hour the whole way. Several times he nearly had an accident, Kristen gasping sharply each time.

She shuddered as Jake turned the Camry down a narrow road leading into the Zone and slowed down. “I think I just saw my life flash before my eyes.”

Jake smirked. “You were never in danger. You were merely witnessing an expert display of high-speed precision driving. Richard Petty, eat your heart out.”

Kristen rolled her eyes. “Right. Precision driving. I confused that with suicidal recklessness. My mistake.”

Jake turned the Camry down another narrow road and drove all the way to the end. A sudden attack of shame assailed him as they neared his childhood home. Again, he was struck by the difference between the ramshackle dump at the end of the lane and the much-better-kept lawns and houses of his mother’s neighbors. He winced at the sight of the rusted-out old Camaro up on blocks in Jolene McAllister’s front yard. The lawn still hadn’t been mown. Shards of broken brown glass reflected the early morning sunlight. The place embodied all the worst assumptions of snooty urbanites about white trash slobs living out in the boonies.

Jake parked at the curb. “Well, here we are. Home sweet hell.”

Kristen kept her expression neutral as she scanned the trash-strewn yard. “This is…”

Jake laughed without humor. “Don’t spare my feelings, Kristen. This is a dump. A redneck wasteland. And this is where I come from.”

She touched his arm. “I’m sorry.”

“Yeah. So am I. Fuck it. Let’s go.”

They got out of the car and began to stroll across the yard to the front door. Jake kicked a Miller Lite bottle out of his way. It skittered across the lawn and exploded against a stack of mud-encrusted old bricks. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the ground, ninety-nine bottles of beer…”

Kristen surprised him by picking the tune up: “…pick one up, throw it in the trash, ninety-eight bottles of cheap-ass beer on the ground.”

Jake surprised himself with a laugh that felt real.

Kristen put a hand on his shoulder as they stepped up onto the porch. “You shouldn’t feel so bad about this, Jake. You got out of here. You made something out of yourself.”

Jake didn’t reply.

He jabbed the doorbell and stepped back.

He heard voices inside the house. Jolene and Trey. Then he heard the lock turn. Jolene pulled the door open and stood behind the still-closed screen door. She wore her usual uniform—low-slung, tight denim cutoffs and a skimpy pink tank top. The grin on her face was new, though. Jake couldn’t remember ever seeing his mother look so smug.

She chuckled. “Well, look at this. It’s my backstabbing son come to say howdy.” She turned to Kristen. “And he’s brought his new whore with him.” She looked Kristen up and down, licking her lips in a lewd way that made Jake’s stomach churn. She caught Jake’s sickened expression and her grin broadened. “Aren’t you going to congratulate me for beating that bum rap, baby?”

“I’m not your fucking baby,” Jake said. “And you ought to be in goddamn jail. Where’s my brother?”