Chapter 38 Black Widow
Black Widow
Karson had been so close she could’ve touched him. Black Death felt a nervous tension slide through her stomach. What if he’d seen her and pretended not to? It would be just like him to turn up when it was least expected, demanding to know why she was in Portland.
It was dark, but the moon banked through a film of clouds and the wharf front was well lit.
The place was heaving with people. And she couldn’t shake the feeling she was being watched.
She fought the instinct to turn and look, or to flee.
It was better to walk normally, as if she was oblivious to her stalker, and slip into the darkness.
But perhaps she wasn’t being followed at all?
She hated feeling so paranoid. But after years of watching him slaughter and crush anyone who stood in his way. It was hard not to.
Black Death drew in a shaky breath. A stiff wind whipped across the water and the scent of the ocean filled her nose. Normally, the scent would soothe her, but tonight, she couldn’t settle her nerves.
She stopped at a coffee stand and ordered. She glanced casually back through the crowd, looking for any hint she was being followed—a fast flicker of movement as they ducked for cover, or someone paying her too much attention.
She couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary. But she felt a cold prickle in her chest. It was nerves she told herself. She was just hyped up on adrenaline.
The game had already begun.
The promise of revenge coiled inside her, like a snake ready to strike. Among a list of possible strategic moves, while she waited for the coffee, she’d already identified the next one. A perfect little murder seemed the logical next step.
The lady handed her a coffee with a friendly smile. She headed back in the direction she had come from. She’d no sooner turned, when a small brown-haired boy hurtled into her legs, forcing her to a halt.
A basketball sized-head stared back up at her.
He wore a navy striped t-shirt that clung to his bulging belly, navy shorts and a plaster across each knee.
Not only was this kid butt ugly, but he was obviously not in control of his limbs.
And he’d placed his putrid little hand on her skirt, a slither of ice-cream snaked its way down the fabric.
She brushed it off quickly, but the ice-cream had soaked into the delicate material and it was soiled. She glared down at the child. His bottom lip began to quiver, he stepped back, his eyes welled. Great, don’t fucking cry. She hated that high-pitched, God-awful sound.
He began to cry like she’d just fucking pinched him.
The sound pierced her ears, and she felt a flare of anger churning inside.
She clutched her coffee cup so tight the scalding liquid tumbled over the top and burned her hand.
For fuck sakes. She kept her face blank.
To the left, two boats were moored facing each other, their masts sat like goal posts begging to be used.
She imagined picking the little bastard up, placing him on the end of her foot and booting him straight through.
The commentator would roar, ‘and she scores,’ and the crowd would go wild; and then there’d be silence, beautiful silence.
“Oscar!” the mother called out, jogging up, clutching at the strap of a hideous black bag slung over her shoulder.
“So sorry!” The woman smiled apologetically, clasping the child’s hand and pulling him a few steps back.
He filed in behind his mother’s legs and peered out.
The mother reached down and stroked his head like she was rewarding his absurd behaviour.
Christ, why didn’t they keep the little bastards under control, or at least discipline them?
Her anger crept like wildfire through her veins.
It always started that way and would swell until it burned red hot, and, if it hit her head, oh if it hit her head, then everyone better clear out of her way.
Because, like a bomb, she would explode.
“Let me get you a wipe.” The mother reached into her bag, scrambling around.
“It’s fine,” she said.
The woman believed her and gave her a tight smile that read something like an apology mixed with relief. The kid stopped crying and stared up. His face was beetroot red but there were no tears, she noticed. The hideous sound was all for attention.
“Please, let me pay for the dry cleaning at least.” The mother glanced at the skirt, her face flushing with mortification.
“No. I’ll sort it.” She forced a smile.
“I’m truly sorry, can I do anything at all?” the mother asked.
“Yes, you can actually,” she answered, glancing down at the ugly little spawn. The mother wasn’t completely unattractive, but the sire she chose must be uglier than a bucket full of dogs’ dicks to produce that thing. “You can keep your legs closed, or, at the very least, use protection.”
“Sorry?” The mother stared at her, blinking a few times in slow motion, as if her eyelashes might clear a thick mind and clarify what she’d actually heard.
“Oh, I think you heard me, and if you can’t control it, I’d suggest you go out and buy a lead, and preferably a muzzle.”
The mother’s jaw hung ajar like a clown at a sideshow. Then she pursed her thin lips together. She boosted the spawn onto her hip, turned, and strode off.
Black Death spent the next half an hour wandering—looking for any signs she was being followed—before she risked entering her apartment.
She left the lights off and kicked off her black heels, padding barefoot across the carpet.
She went straight to the bathroom, turned on the light, and stared at herself.
Her eyes were brighter than a cloudless summer sky, and she liked the look.
She put her finger to her eyeball and took out her piercing blue contact lenses, popping them into a container of fluid.
Then she pulled off the brunette wig and threw it on the chair, shaking her own hair loose.
She went to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, and moved to the balcony.
Staring out into the dark, she watched the crowds meander through the night.
Drunken men in their early twenties, laughed and playfully shoved each other.
One of them was tall, with dark hair, handsome, and fit looking.
She licked her lips, and thought about having sex with him—maybe.
A group of four girls staggered behind them, was one of them his girlfriend?
She couldn’t be sure, not that it mattered.
Her eyes went back to the dark-haired man and she was drawn as if hypnotized to him.
It took her a moment to realise why she was so taken by the man. He reminded her of Karson.
The memory of that night, the terrible night her life came crashing down, rushed back in fragments.
The impact was like a Mac truck hitting her. Her head whirled, everything scrambled around inside. She clutched at the railing to hold herself steady. Her breath became raspy and she could hardly draw in air.
There’s a dark-haired girl screaming. She dropped to her knees, tears plummeting down her face, her chest heaving with each scream.
Then, suddenly, Black Death is standing on the edge of a cliff.
Her legs trembling, her chest so tight it felt like it was going to explode, staring down into the dark abyss.
He’s lying on jagged rocks, one-hundred feet beneath, his leg twisted up at an odd angle beneath his body.
His thigh bone jutting from just above his knee, pale as the moon, stark amongst the gushing pool of red.
His arms are splayed out, his left hand points at the wrong angle.
His chest is flat and she knows his ribs are shattered.
There’s blood, so much blood. Blood gushes from everywhere.
She waited for him to get up, but he didn’t move. He couldn’t move, and then she saw why.
The world whirled away and for a long moment there was nothing but darkness and a rippling, hollowed emptiness. Then the world rushed brutally back, and the pain of her loss was too much. She screamed, a sound more animal than human, a sound of pain and fury.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Blinking, she came back to the balcony and the city lights shimmering below.
But the hollowness, the emptiness, and the pain remained.
Suddenly, her anger surged with such a sudden intensity it caught her off guard.
Her veins scorched red hot. Her hands shook.
She let out a roar and pelted the half-full glass across the room.
It smashed against the wall. The red wine splayed across the carpet.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Keep it the fuck down!” the guy from next door roared, thumping the wall so hard the pictures quivered.
He would need to be taught a lesson.
She marched across the carpet, barely containing her rage, and slipped her heels back on. She stormed from the room, knocked three times on his door. A man, resembling an overfed ape, answered, wearing only black boxers. His stomach hung like a hairy stuffed sausage over the seams.
“What—” He paused, eyed her over with a bold arrogance that belied the harsh construction of his squashed, physical reality. Desire found a place in his eyes, and probably in his pants if she’d cared to look.
She smiled and spoke sweetly, “I'm sorry, I won't bother you again. I promise.”
He stared at her open-mouthed, eyes wide like teacups, and let out a sharp, startled cry. They all did, fucking weak fragiles. She cocked her head to the side, her teeth glinting sharply in the pale light.
He made a garbled sound in his throat and stumbled back slamming into the hallway wall.
In a blur of movement, she stepped in and her lips clamped over his neck. He tasted of sweat, salt, and fear. She paused, hovering over the beat of his artery. It pulsated furiously against her tongue. His horror was her exhilaration.
“No, please,” the man whimpered. His eyes were wide and his nostrils flared. Fear, so much fear.
She closed her eyes and smelled its erotic perfume. An exquisite, excited tremble crawled through her veins, filling her body like a potent mind-altering cocktail, until every part of her body fired to life with feverish primal desire.
He took her closed eyes as a chance of escape and punched into the side of her face, a decent enough hit, but it didn’t have the effect he desired. He tried to jerk back and at the same time reached for the door to slam it shut.
Black Death slammed his head back into the door frame and jammed her palm under his chin, forcing his jaw closed, trapping his scream in his mouth.
She pulled back a fraction, her teeth rearing like a spider’s fangs, and thrust into his skin, piercing his carotid artery.
The blood spurted and pumped into her mouth with each furious beat of his heart.
She allowed her mouth to fill up with sweet red liquid, savouring the divine taste, floating and rolling it across her tongue.
She delayed the final gratification with the same sweet suspension as a slow-climbing orgasm.
She swallowed, and then she was displaced into a world of euphoria.
The blood gave her a surreal high. She craved more, to float higher, her thirst was insatiable, she began to suck like he was a bag of water handed to her after days in a desert.
The warmth of thick ecstasy flowed and seeped down her throat, settling itself in a warm glow in her stomach.
The high was unlike any drug man could ever concoct, and she knew because she’d tried them all.
His legs buckled, she held him up with one hand under his chin.
She sucked and swallowed, sucked and swallowed, until she heard his heartbeat slow, weaken, then finally halt.
She released his throat and let him drop like a limp rag doll to the floor. She licked the remaining traces of red from her lips, savoring the last drop. Older men didn't really satisfy her, now she had the taste for it, she’d need to go hunting for more.
“I told you I wouldn't bother you again,” she purred, looking down at his ash-colored torso sprawled awkwardly on the floor.
He didn’t respond. It was a lesson well learned.
She pulled the door shut and headed out into the darkness of the night, not fully satiated, desperate for someone younger, sweeter. She’d find the young man, fuck him, then wrap her lips around his neck. She smiled at the thought, perhaps she could redeem the night after all.