The End of Never (5 page)

He kept his face hard, unable to be read.

He is so beautiful
, she thought.
So strong outside. So fragile inside.

Kraven smirked.
You're beautiful, Alexandra
. His lips never moved, but she heard his voice clearly in her head.

“Stop doing that,” she said.

“What?” The immortal creature laughed shyly at the seventeen-year-old girl.

“You know,” she sighed. “Stop getting inside my head.”

At her feet, Jack whined and turned in circles.

“Oh, my goodness,” Alexandra cried and ran to her bedroom. “My poor little man,” she said, returning to the living room quickly with a red dog leash in her hand. “I can't remember the last time you went outside. Let's go take care of business.” She hooked the leash to the dog's collar and patted him on his spotted haunches.

“You, too,” she said, pulling on Kraven's white t-shirt. “You've got some more explaining to do.”

In the hallway, Jack sprinted to the waiting elevator as Kraven kicked his black boots at the muddy footprints on the carpet. He wrinkled his nose at the perceptible stench of death in the dirt and he gripped Alexandra's hand tightly in his own.

In the dark, steaming-hot attic of Sean Callahan's rented Victorian mansion on a quiet, oak tree-lined avenue a block south of the Collinsworth Academy campus, there was a tired old man whose cracked rib ached in his wheezing chest. Cyrus, a shapeshifter, lay limp and helpless, listening to the raspy sighs of his shallow breath. Within Cyrus's brown body was an angry wolf who waited restlessly to escape the dormant shell of the old man's skin.

Cyrus pondered.
Me reckon dat witch gonna kill me now for not getting dat girl.

Except for the thin, daisy-patterned bed sheet strewn over his fractured hip, the old man lay naked on the wooden floor of the stifling attic, the rough wooden planks rubbing his black and blue skin raw. The wild, ravenous beast within his soul whimpered as Cyrus writhed in pain on the hard floor, his arms and legs bound together by thick, braided rope.

Lying on his back, he stared up at a grimy, wood-framed window, the only source of light in the room, as the sun's rays bored through a century of dust and grime. The light swallowed his aching head whole; with his eyes blinking against the bright sunshine, the old man sucked a deep breath into his bruised chest. A howl of pain pierced the silent room.

Confused by the commotion, a bitty brown mouse scurried across the room toward a hole in the floorboard, with a crumb of moldy bread twice the size of its mouth stuffed into its cheeks. A fierce grumbling escaped the old man's naked belly.

Me reckon dat witch gonna kill dat girl
, the old man on the floor hissed to himself as the pitter-patter of the mouse jerked his head away from the light of the window. Frightened, the furry creature stopped in the middle of the floor and dropped its breadcrumb to the ground. The mouse stared directly into Cyrus's withered, blood-stained face.

“Wee one,” the white-haired man whispered. “Bring you over here now.” He sang the words softly as the mouse raised itself on its brown haunches. “Me ain't gonna be hurtin you,” he promised, smiling at the tiny creature.

The mouse scooted toward the man's face and sniffed the foul breath floating from his mouth. Its nose sniffed closer at the acrid smell of blood and rotting flesh, too close then to turn and escape. The old man's dry, thin lips parted and wrapped around the furry, brown body as his sharp teeth sank into the mouse's warm skin. With a swallow, the vermin passed the man's gullet. Smiling to himself, Cyrus felt a tingle in his broken bones and battered flesh as the spark of fresh meat and blood soothed his beaten body.

Me reckon me might gonna kill dat girl yet.

He closed his eyes and fell fast asleep, the thought of escape lingering at the edges of his evil mind.

5
Nice Day for a Swim

A glance in the bathroom mirror froze Krystal Woodward from moving forward in her pink, fuzzy house slippers. She had noticed that a single, deep age line ran across her forehead.

As she rubbed and smudged at the chasm with her fingertips, a frenzied state of panic welled in her chest. Within seconds of spotting the unwelcome intruder upon her fresh, twenty-eightish face, she dove headfirst into the cabinet under the sink to retrieve every bottle of disgustingly expensive face cream she possessed. Cajoling the wrinkle into retreat with layers of antioxidant-enhanced, age-defying spackle, she wrapped her mid-thigh-length bathrobe around her whittled, spray-tanned waist and scampered down the stairs of her Buckhead McMansion to the glittering steel and granite kitchen.

Shoving her head into the French-door refrigerator, she scanned the shelves for breakfast. Slipping an orange juice carton from behind a bowl of brown bananas, Krystal got an idea.

She read the time on the digital oven clock: 11 a.m. Having nothing to do that day, she shrugged her slender shoulders as she opened the freezer door.

“Premium Russian,” she read the words off a half-empty vodka bottle as she turned toward a cabinet above the dishwasher.

Filling a clear-crystal glass with her favorite beverage, she reached for the orange juice carton and turned it upside down, shaking out the last few drops into the vodka. Closing her eyes, she leaned against the cool granite counter and gulped.

She sighed and gripped the edge of the counter. For a passing moment, she floated up from the hard ceramic tile, toward the ceiling. Higher and higher she climbed, until a smack against her head forced her eyes open.

She lay still on the tile, her glass shattered around her face. She said simply, “That is good stuff.”

Krystal picked herself up from the floor and walked to her husband's library.

The room smelled like cigars and Polo cologne. She needed to do some research, but he had taken his laptop with him on a business trip to Miami.

She stumbled to the staircase, intending to use her stepdaughter's laptop. At the top of the steps, she slammed, shoulder first, into Taylor's bedroom door. Krystal tried to remember, through her vodka haze, the last time she had even seen her husband's daughter.

“Whatever!” she shrugged and slipped into the molded, white-plastic chair in front of the laptop, which was perched on top of Taylor's glass desk.

A silver picture frame rested next to the computer. Her husband smiled back at her, his arm stretched around a beaming, six-year-old Taylor, who was sitting on a black-and-white speckled pony. Around Taylor's other shoulder rested cozily the tan arm of a striking brunette—Taylor's mother, Katherine.

“The perfect family, how sweet!” Krystal sneered, as a hint of bile and vodka crept up her throat. As Krystal slammed the picture frame face down on the glass desk, a sharp crack echoed through the bedroom. The commotion kicked the screen saver from the monitor, opening up the computer's contents to Krystal's prying eyes.

“You are so stupid, Taylor,” she cooed. “You left it logged on just for me?” the drunken woman asked her absent stepdaughter. She smiled crookedly, delighted.

Clicking into Taylor's e-mail, Krystal snooped at new messages in the inbox. She read messages from Antonio on the screen. Her red nails tapped a short reply to his confessions of love, writing to him,
I do not love you. Do not ever write to me again. Ciao.
Krystal hit the send button and gushed with satisfaction before deleting the evidence from the e-mail folders.

“Now let's get down to business,” she said as she typed search words into the web browser.

The obnoxious crease in her forehead deepened as Krystal glared maddeningly at the glowing laptop screen. “Sixty days for a license? My fat behind!” she screamed at the monitor.

Old acquaintances from the back country of South Georgia owed her favors, and she wanted them to pay up, preferably without any receipts or records floating around.

She slammed the laptop closed and huffed as she went to the open window, where the sheer-pink curtains curled around her smooth, spray-tanned legs. Krystal glanced out at a quiet cul-de-sac of McMansions stuffed like sausages into a sliver of prime Buckhead real estate in north Atlanta. She remembered how she met Mr. Jim Peyton, esteemed Atlanta plastic surgeon.

Only two years ago, she had been the reigning Miss Vidalia Onion Festival Queen from Tombs County, a dry plot of dirt in southwest Georgia, hundreds of miles from anywhere that resembled civilization. Being queen had its rewards. Besides receiving a sparkling, cubic-zirconia tiara and shiny new 4×4 Ford pickup truck, she had earned an all-expenses-paid, three-day, two-night trip to the bright lights and big city of Atlanta, Georgia, for a whirlwind Labor Day weekend, a month after her crowning.

Racing away from Tombs County with the windows down and the wind in her long, bleached blonde hair, Krystal swore she would never come back to that tiny speck of dust on the map. Less than three weeks later, she had stumbled into the path of Dr. Jim Woodward when she threatened his receptionist to set an appointment with the busy doctor. As Onion Queen, she had also received five thousand dollars, intended for the recipient's use as college tuition, but Krystal decided the funds would be better used as payment for breast implants.

Cold and bare-chested in the handsome doctor's examination room, she noticed he did not wear a wedding band. They were married a month later and honeymooned in Costa Rica, a fresh new pair of enormous fake breasts joining the happy couple.

Krystal pushed down the windowpane and considered how grateful she was that men could be so stupid.

Next to the window, the top of a white, lacquered bedside table overflowed with her stepdaughter's collection of nail polish and magazines. An actress with pearl-white teeth and perfect, glowing skin winked at her from the top of the pile. Beside the face, a blurb promised an article inside the slick pages about herbal remedies for cellulite.

As Krystal snatched the magazine and tucked it under her arm, a folded sheet of paper fell from inside the glossy pages. Kneeling to fetch the scrap, she realized what lay atop her precious, pedicured toes. The scrap of paper was a photocopy of a newspaper article from her hometown newspaper, with yellow-highlighting accentuating the opening lines:

The committee of The Onion Festival Queen will rule upon revocation of Krystal Hunt's crown in the coming month. Now known by her married name, Krystal Woodward, she has been the subject of allegations that she bribed a judge for her crown three years ago.

Krystal shredded the black and white photocopy and she angrily threw the shreds of paper into the air. Flakes of the page fell to the white carpet as she rushed to her stepdaughter's bulging, walk-in closet. Meticulously organized by color, season, and designer, the closet's contents would make a stylist swoon. Spiked heels and wedge leather sandals neatly lined the shelves next to rows of stacked handbags of suede and faux fur. In a corner in the back, zipped garment bags hid the jewels of the collection, full-length gowns of silk and lace worn by Katherine Woodward as a young Atlanta debutante. Taylor adored her mother's gowns, still at seventeen bringing them out to play dress-up when she was alone at home.

Krystal snatched an armful of hangers from the rack in front of her. Throwing a stack of garment bags over her left shoulder, she stomped from her stepdaughter's bedroom and down the curved staircase. Gripping the iron banister to steady her wobbling feet, she glided slowly to the first floor, her head swimming from rage and a vodka breakfast.

Her breath was labored by the time she hauled the load through the glass French doors in the kitchen to the backyard patio. Krystal threw the mountain of clothing into an open, stone fire pit. She panted. With her hands on her hips, she stared at the pile of bright pink and yellow silk.

The vodka bottle waited on the granite counter in the kitchen. Stealing a swig, she poured half the bottle on the dresses and turned on the gas line to the fire pit. The red-tipped match glowed yellow and singed her fingertips before she threw it on the clothes.

Smoke smoldered. Krystal poked at the pile with a pool net. Flames ripped through the silk, and a puffy cloud of gray smoke floated past the roof. As she saw the smoke drift up and away, she decided that it was high time Taylor lived somewhere else.

At the same time, not far away, Taylor Woodward was riding in a black BMW, making a promise to herself. The wild strands of her long blonde hair licked at her face as the breeze blew in through her open passenger window. The teen knew her stepmother, Krystal, would be home. Where else would she be? Krystal did not have a job and the tanning salon did not open until noon.

“Put that out,” Benjamin ordered, but her mind raced with images of how to dispose of the wicked witch waiting for her at home. Not until she raised her empty fingers to her mouth did she realize Benjamin had batted the cigarette from her hand. It rested on the window sill of his mother's car.