The Messenger (2011 reformat) (17 page)

Yes, it would
be sweet.

But...not...tonight.

The Messenger
smelled something better, just around the corner.

His blood
surged from the smell. He was smelling sweet dreams that lay ripe for ruin. He
smelled a woman, a robust woman.

In the back.
Trees shivered in wind. Moonlight lay flat on new-mown grass. The Messenger's
steps left blackened footprints from which tendrils of noxious smoke rose.

He was looking
through a screen.

At her. At
Jane. Oh, yes. Much fodder there. So much meat for my gullet.

Bare tan legs
sprawled off the slatted chair. The Messenger wanted to lick them all the way
up to her fresh sex, his black tongue leaving a sheen of putrid slime. Her
breasts gently rose and fell beneath the semitransparent nightgown. The
Messenger wanted to knead them and suck them out. Then he would mount her in
the hot muck of his domain and just have her, spend himself in her, and then
give her to his mascots.

Maybe that
will happen sometime, he hoped. Who could tell? He hoped that life in this
place would bring her down-to eternal life in his place. Then he would have her
for his whimsy. Until then, he'd have to be patient, for she wasn't soiled
enough.

He could
machinate her, though. The temptation was overwhelming. His hideous hand
reached through the screen, like smoke, and swept through her head. He was
killing her dreams at once, showing her the delicious horrors of his own
abode-an anticipation, perhaps. An invitation. Would she accept?

Probably not.
Her heart was still strong, her resolve still too pure.

I can do this,
though, he thought, chuckling.

She quivered
in the chair, the nightmares he'd bidden infecting her like a virus. When he
ran his bodiless hand down her breasts, he felt nothing, but when he placed it
over her own hand, they fused together. Now he moved her hand to her breasts
and felt the warm, moist skin himself, plucked a nipple hard enough to make her
flinch in her sleep. He moved her hand down to her hips next, pulled up the hem
of the nightgown, then plied her sex, fingers smoothing over the downy private
hair.

He raised his
hand to her throat and watched her hand do the same. He squeezed and her
fingers constricted. She began to pant and shiver.

I could make
you walk into your son's room and eviscerate yourself while he watched. I could
make you walk into your daughter's room and snap her neck.

But not
tonight.

Patience was a
virtue, and so was prudence.

The Messenger
was tired. He knew he must conserve his strength. Besides, there was easier fodder
out there. The easy ones were always the most fun.

When he
slipped away, the woman named Jane took her hand from her own throat and went
lax, gasping. The Messenger was going away now, into some other fissure of the
night. But as he passed another window, something caught his orblike eye. A
glass box, with some sort of tiny creature in it. A toad.

The Messenger
smiled.

The boy's pet,
of course.

The Messenger
looked at the toad and killed it with one phantasmal sigh, and then he was off,
away with the breeze and the cricket trills and the night.

Yes. He was
off for easier fodder.

Annabelle felt
afire, her silken cinnamon hair dancing in the moonlight, which poured in from
the bedroom window. A shining, naked whirlwind of flesh and sensation and pure,
raw desire. Her hands opened flat against her husband's heaving chest; her hips
squirmed over his, coltish legs clenching. She was riding him as though he were
one of the horses of the apocalypse.

Her husband's
name was Mark, a good decent man who focused on his wife as his chief priority.
He worked for a defense contractor, the presentation director, and he'd be
flying to California in the morning, would be away for a week. Annabelle saw it
as her own priority, then, to see that he had a memorable send-off.

The Messenger
did too.

And as for
Annabelle, she was beginning to understand now, that weird flux that she'd felt
in her head for a while: her own conscience melting into someone else's. She
wasn't herself anymore-she was more than herself. She was two, her desires
mingling, her nerves being borrowed, for an ultimate coalescence.

You are part
of me, and I am part of you, she heard the words bubble in her ears.

Not her words.

Annabelle
smiled.

Her nails were
all but digging into Mark's chest, his own hands sliding in sweat over the
curves of her rump and back. His face looked contorted as he staved off his
release, grinding his teeth so as not to climax too fast. All the while,
Annabelle bucked and bucked as the Messenger's shadow form manipulated her from
behind. It was too easy.

"Baby, oh
God," Mark panted. "You're...just...the best."

Oh, we know,
came the shared thought in response.

Her legs
tightened further. Annabelle's desire was cresting in what felt like a wave
about to break. Her breasts bobbled, her moans flew around the room. Just
another minute and she'd be there.

His thrusts
trembled; his face looked absolutely pained, eyes crushed shut.

"Oh,
baby, I can't hold off any."

Mark's climax
released, and his arms snaked around her back, pulled her chest to his during
the last spasms. Then he relaxed in an instant, letting out the longest sigh.

"Honey,
I'm sorry. I couldn't help it. It's just that you turn me on so much I can't
control myself."

Annabelle
leaned up, her smile full of warmth and love. Her hand stroked his face.
"That's okay, dear. It was wonderful for me, too," she consoled him,
and then-

CHUNK!

She rammed the
point of the hunting knife straight down into his heart.

"Yeah,
wonderful. In a pig's ass," she finished.

She'd placed
the oversized Bowie knife under the pillow before they'd started, and had
caught him at the perfect moment of distraction. She remained there, straddling
him. Now before the blooming eyes of her companion. She'd plunged the knife
deep; she kept her hands on its handle and could feel it thumping with the final
beats of his heart. He'd never even had time to cry out.

Beautiful, the
Messenger thought.

A few loops of
blood had pumped up, spattering her. Blood dripped off the tingling pinpoints
of her nipples. It felt delicious, but what excited her even more was that this
was just the beginning.

Eventually she
got up, padded absently about the room, bare feet sinking into plush carpet.
Had she ever felt this happy?

You did very
well. I'm proud of you. Let's go over here now.

The seductive
force that flowed through her limbs walked her over to the large, framed mirror
over the dresser. She could see her dappled skin in the darkness tinged by
moonlight. She stared, stared harder, until.

I can see you,
she thought.

I know, and I
can see you.

It took a few
moments for her eyes to adjust but soon she could see the figure standing right
behind her. No details at all, and scarcely any features save for basic shape.

Tall, wide
shouldered, but gaunt somehow. A head larger than the proportion and oddly
angled. It reminded Annabelle of a vise.

And
something...What were they? Two protrusions seemed to curve outward from the
forehead, like horns.

Yes,
Annabelle. You're all mine. Let me luxuriate in you.

When
Annabelle's hands rose, she could see that it was actually the Messenger's
hands raising them. He brought them around, then began to caress her, to adore
the feel of her flesh and the curves of her breasts with her own hands.

Then he
brought the hands lower where they tended to her in the special ways that only
she could know.

But the
Messenger knew too.

Later, when
her bliss was done, she yanked the Bowie knife out of her husband's chest and
began to finish the message.

I

Bacon sizzled,
and eggs over easy sputtered in the aromatic pan. Bread was plunged into the
toaster, and fresh orange juice was poured.

Please, Jane
thought. Let this be a normal, perfectly dull day. She milled about the kitchen
in a pink terry robe, wearing fluffy bunny slippers that the kids had gotten
her for a past Mother's Day. The kids, pajama-clad, busied themselves too,
clanking plates out of the cupboard and setting the table. The sun blared
through the front window, reinforcing Jane's hope that this would be the start
of a regular day with no mishaps, fainting spells, or tragedies. Something
didn't feel right, though.

"Are you
feeling better today, Mom?" Jennifer asked, arranging the silverware.

Kevin clumsily
laid out the patterned place mats. "Yeah, Mom. We were worried
yesterday."

"I'm feeling
a whole lot better" she replied. "Had a whopper of a headache after
Dr. Mitchell left, but I'm great now." She watched a lump of butter melt
in a big nonstick pan. "And now that we don't have to worry about that
anymore, how do you want your eggs?"

"Scrambled,
please," Jennifer requested.

"Sunny-side
down!" Kevin jumped in. "I don't want 'em runny! Yuck!"

"Scrambled
and sunny-side down," Jane acknowledged. "Coming right up."

Kevin rushed
out of the room, assuring her, "Be right back!" while Jennifer sat at
the table.

"Oh, wow,
I just remembered, Mom. Last night I dreamed I was riding a unicorn through
this big sunny field full of flowers."

"Sounds
wonderful."

"Did you
dream?"

Jane forced
herself to think. She knew she dreamed quite a bit but often lost the memory
shortly after waking. Did I? she wondered over the eggs. She stood still,
spatula in hand. Then something-an image, a memory, something very dark-began
to bother her. "Yes, honey, I-I think I did dream last night."

"What did
you dream about?"

More images
formed in the back of her mind, then some memories of sensations. The
sensations were exciting yet unpleasant at the same time. Then her stomach
began to turn. She stood there, motionless, staring at the hood over the stove.

"Mom?"

"My
dreams weren't very good," Jane finally said. Better that than the truth.
What she recalled was terrifying. She'd felt smothered. Some other
consciousness had been inside of her own mind, prowling about at will. The
consciousness seemed entirely bodiless, so how had it been able to touch her?
Something or someone had been touching her, erotically at first but then
violently. The impact of those two opposite notions made her stomach turn even more.
I dreamed that I was being choked, for God's sake, she recalled. I was being
caressed and then choked. Someone was trying to strangle me.

Jane gulped
and shivered. Why would she dream such an awful thing anyway? In a sense,
though, it was understandable. Awful dreams often followed awful genuine
events, and Danelleton had certainly had its share of that lately. But the
final realization made her grit her teeth.

She remembered
who'd been strangling her in the dream.

Myself.

"No, I
had a lousy dream, honey. Dreams are weird that way. You can't figure them out.
After you think about them, though, they seem pretty silly."

"Well,
mine wasn't silly. It was great. I hope I dream about the unicorn again
tonight. I could even smell the flowers in the field."

Jane got back
to the eggs, or at least she tried to until a slow plodding movement snagged
her attention at the corner of her eye. She turned toward the kitchen entrance.
 It was Kevin.

He looked
absolutely morose. He stood there still as a fence post, something in his
cupped hands. A second glance showed Jane that he had tears in his eyes.

She put the
spatula down and rushed to him. "Honey, what's wrong?"

"Oh,
no," Jennifer said when she saw what was in her brother's hand. "What
happened!"

Jane strained
her vision. What is that?

Now Kevin's
tears bubbled up. "Mel's dead."

That's Mel?
Jane thought.

What sat still
in Kevin's hands looked like a small hunk of roadkill but as Jane squinted she
noticed the horned toad's overall features. But there was something else wet and
glimmer that seemed connected to the pet's head.

Its innards.

"Somebody
killed him, Mom. Somebody killed Mel."

"Well,
honey" Jane began. "I'm sure it was just some kind of accident."