Chapter 16 #2
I’ve just stepped over the threshold when I see it—a shadow on the porch, a man peeling away from behind one of the pillars.
“Dizzy Lizzy,” the man says, baring all his teeth. “God, it’s good to see you.”
My stomach is in free fall.
Fucking Brendan Hayes is standing on my mother’s porch.
The fear leaks from my limbs, leaving nothing but raw irritation in its place.
“Aren’t you going to invite me in?” His voice is like dirty oil. All I want to do is shove him down the steps, run inside, and take a scalding-hot shower.
But the only move I’ve got left is a roll of the eyes. “I’ve asked you not to call me that, Brendan.”
“Aww, don’t be so sensitive.” He steps closer. He’s dressed in a pale pink golf shirt tucked into khakis, like a complete tool. He looks like he hasn’t slept in a week. Good.
“How did you find me?”
Now he’s the one rolling his eyes. “Come on, Dizz. You’re still using my account. The deliveries all pointed to one address.” He spreads his arms, indicating the house. Me. My all-encompassing stupidity. “Honestly, sometimes I wonder how you even managed to get this far without me.”
“I’m doing just fine, thanks.”
“Are you, though?” He takes another step toward me, but I hold up my hand.
“If you’ve got something to say, say it and get the fuck out.”
“Look, if this is about the credit card…” He sighs and shakes his head. Like, poor, dumb Lizzy knows not what she does. “I’m not pressing charges. I’m not even mad. I get it.”
“I very much doubt it.”
“Sure, you had a little breakdown. Needed some me-time. I just wish you would’ve told me. We could’ve gone somewhere together. Somewhere…” He scans the house, judgment creasing his face. “Nicer.”
“We never went anywhere together. You barely wanted to be seen with me.”
“Come on. Don’t be like that.”
“This isn’t some breakdown-induced getaway, Brendan. This property belongs to me and my sisters. And if you don’t leave, I’ll—”
“Call the cops? And tell them what, exactly?” His demeanor shifts from condescending to threatening, a subtle change but one I pick up on acutely.
“That you stole my credit card? That you continue to commit fraud with it? That you used it to play a childish prank in an attempt to jeopardize my career? Not a chance, by the way. I’m being promoted. ”
“Good for you. Have a nice life.”
“New York is making you mouthy. I’m not sure I like it.”
There it is again. The threat simmering beneath the smile.
Whatever. I’m not afraid of fucking khaki-wearing Brendan.
A literal cult of serial killers is after me.
Demons from the bowels of Hell could very well burst through the barrier and rip me and my sisters to shreds.
I’ve got ghosts in the house, a box of ashes that used to be the mother who abandoned me, and twenty-six years of bottled-up trauma.
Like, how did I ever let this little worm—and his little worm—get under my skin?
“Oh, fuck off, Brendan. Or I’ll call the partners and tell them how you need a smooth jazz playlist just to get it up. If you think I don’t have that shit on video, you’re dumber than I thought.”
That shuts him up. But only for a second.
Jabbing a finger into my face, he says, “I have the leverage here. Remember that.”
“Aww. I bet you say that to all the girls. Is that how you conned your housekeeper into sleeping with you? Does she know you only have a hard-on for Kenny G?”
Surprise flashes in his eyes. I’m about to get all smug about it too, but his energy shifts again, and this time it hits me like a tidal wave.
He wants to hurt me. Physically. But for whatever reason, he’s holding himself back.
He glares at me another second, and then he’s all fake smiles again. “Be seeing you around, Dizz. Take care.”
He heads for the stairs, but misses the first one and trips all the way down, windmilling like a champ before landing on his ass. I send a silent prayer of thanks to the house, slamming the door before he’s even on his feet again.
Victory.
It doesn’t last, though. Once I’m inside, alone in the quiet stillness, the cheap thrill sours, and all the earlier aches and pains swirl into a tempest of pure, white-hot rage.
No, Brendan didn’t lay a finger on me. But I know the pathetic truth. He hurt me anyway.
I think back to the days of the witch trials, the days when hunters were seen as heroes, and wonder… what the fuck has really changed?
They’re all the same. The vile men who killed Calista, trying to sacrifice her in some sick power play for magic they could never earn themselves.
The men who killed my mother, very likely for the same reason.
Nathan Killroy, sniffing around with dollar signs in his eyes, telling me how complicated grief can be, as if he’s the expert on my emotions.
Fucking Brendan, constantly criticizing my lack of ambition, my so-called ditziness, never introducing me to his friends or taking me out on proper dates, stringing me along while carrying on with his housekeeper.
The long, endless list of men who continue to hurt women every day—sometimes with violence, other times with a subtle grinding down of our confidence, our bodies, our power, our sense of self, our ability to take up space and breathe and fucking exist without being harassed.
The world protects them because the world belongs to them, and it always has, probably since the very first dick-swinging cave man stomped out of his hole, pissed on the ground, and declared himself king.
They count on us to stay afraid. To stay silent.
But there’s one thing the men who rule the world haven’t counted on, and right now, that little ember of truth gives me hope.
The Bonnivarde witches are back. And this time, we’re not fucking around.