1. Halloween Night #3
“This whole country runs on it. They put sugar in the bread so you buy more bread. Caffeine in the cup so you can’t get through the morning without one.
They build a burger to light up the same part of your skull a line of powder does, then clutch their pearls when somebody sells the powder straight.
” A slow, satisfied smile. “Every empire worth its name is built on something people can’t stop reaching for.
I just don’t insult anybody by pretending it’s about the flavor. ”
I can’t find the hole in what he says, and that’s what scares me, how reasonable Silas sounds when he’s telling the truth.
Then, as if a timer’s gone off somewhere only he can hear, he straightens, his gaze clearing. “Well.” He claps his hands together, and Jackson startles. “Play date’s over. Time to get you home.”
I gape, disbelieving. “You’re taking me back?”
He slaps Jackson’s shoulder so hard, the big man lurches forward. “I’m not,” says Silas. “Jackson here is.”
Jackson turns to me and grins, the gleeful look of a boy about to stomp on a kitten.
Fucking sociopath. My stomach somersaults as nausea floods through me.
I consider asking Silas not to leave me alone with Jackson, but trusting Silas isn’t really an option.
I’ll tackle this by myself. Carrson spent months training me, shaping me into a weapon.
Hopefully sharp enough to bring down Jackson, although my confidence dwindles as I take in Jackson’s huge, strong frame, at least three times my size.
The bus stops, and we all stand.
“I do appreciate you stopping by,” says Silas as if I dropped in for afternoon tea instead of being kidnapped.
I’m too scared to respond, too busy mapping out all the ways I can escape from Jackson.
We shuffle toward the door in the back. Jackson’s got his hand on the doorknob when Silas asks, overly casual, “Hey, Jackson, sure you don’t want to stay for one more trip?”
Jackson halts with one foot raised. His gaze bounces between me and the Devil’s Dust that Silas now holds outstretched, pinched between two fingers.
Whatever ugly plans Jackson’s been nursing for me since the cornfield are still there, obvious in the way his eyes linger on me.
Yet his attention keeps returning to the powder.
Devil’s Dust promises escape. Euphoria. Oblivion.
Whatever nightmare lives inside Jackson’s head, the drug offers a way out of it.
For a long moment he simply stands there, caught between two hungers.
Me or the drug.
I hold my breath, wondering if there’s a way for me to tip the scales, but before I can act, Jackson steps back inside and reaches for the powder, snatching it from Silas’s hand. Relief rushes through me. My legs go unsteady, the adrenaline ebbing away.
Silas is next to me with his shoulders relaxed and his head tilted. He watches me with amusement dancing in those bright, blue eyes.
A sick feeling churns in my stomach.
Silas knew exactly what Jackson planned to do and gave him the choice anyway, not because he cared what Jackson would pick but because he wanted to see what I’d do with the uncertainty.
Would he have stopped it if Jackson had decided differently?
I don’t know, and that bothers me. Heroes don’t hand loaded guns to dangerous men just to see what happens.
They don’t sit back and wait for the fallout.
Men like Silas call this a lesson because it’s easier than admitting they enjoy the experiment.
Jackson’s a monster, but at least he’s honest. He bares his teeth before he bites.
Silas just smiles.
Anger flares, and I take a step toward him. “You did that on purpose,” I hiss.
“Damn right I did.” He leans in until I can feel the heat of his breath, can smell the faint reek of liquor.
“We’re on the same side for now, sugar, but double-cross me and...
well.” His finger lifts, points directly at Jackson, who’s moved to the couch where he slouches with his chin on his chest, eyes glazed. “I’ll let him off the leash.”
The words are hanging in the air when his expression shifts. There’s a slight furrow between his brows. His head cocks to one side, as though he’s listening to a distant sound, but I don’t hear anything.
Whatever pulled him away passes and the act returns, but it doesn’t fit quite right anymore.
“My goodness!” He claps his hands together.
“Where has the time gone?” Then he’s turning me to the door.
Silas tosses a black ski mask to me. “Put this on.” I tug it over my head, flinching when Silas yanks it down until it covers my eyes.
Hands grip my shoulders, spinning me. There’s the click of a door opening and the rush of cool night air. I stumble down a metal step.
Silas’s voice is in my ear. “Run along now. Quickly. You’re needed inside.” He gives me a gentle shove, and I fall forward, landing on my knees on rough asphalt, scraping skin.
“Go get ’em, tiger.” Silas’s laughter follows me, mingling with diesel smoke as the bus drives away.
Tiger.
Carrson’s nickname for me.
The right word in the wrong person’s mouth.
Laurel Turner. Art by: The Artful Medic