Blood Games

    Vivian lowered herself to the floor on the other side of Cora.

    Abilene sat cross-legged near Cora’s feet. Gazing between the uprights, she could see Jim down below lashed to his post like a prisoner of Indians about to be tortured or burned at the stake.

    Or like a witch waiting for the same kind of end.

    A male witch is called a warlock, she thought.

    She wondered what that made Batty.

    And felt a tremor as she remembered Batty’s threat to kill them all. Get me plenty a fresh items for m’stock. Including one of Finley’s breasts. I’ll cut me this one right off.

    This is all bad enough without thinking about that, she told herself.

    I broke Batty’s arm. He can’t hurt us. She can’t. It can’t. Unless with magic…

    Forget it.

    Just worry about Hank.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

    The windows at the front of the lobby, which had been rectangles of dim gray a short while ago, now were nearly black. Abilene watched them through the gaps between the uprights of the balcony railing. She tried to watch the door, too. She knew just where it ought to be, but she couldn’t see it.

    I’ll see it if it opens, she thought. It’ll let in darkness, but that’s bound to be brighter than what we’ve got in here.

    She doubted that Hank would enter the lodge from the front, anyway.

    Sometimes, she scanned the long room below her from the foot of the stairway to the fireplace at the other end. Not that she could see the stairway or the fireplace. All that she could really make out, down there, were the vague shapes of the support beams. Probably a dozen of them. A few were visible against the lesser darkness of the windows. She could distinguish the others, just barely, because they seemed to be a shade lighter than the wood of the walls and floorboards. A very slight degree of a shade lighter, so that they almost seemed not to be there at all, and appeared to melt away if she tried too hard to see them.

    She didn’t like looking at those posts. Didn’t like it at all. The way they shifted and vanished. The way she kept expecting someone, hiding among them, to slide into view and scurry from one to another.

    Every so often, when her nerves needed a rest from the vigil, she looked at Jim.

    Some time ago, he’d slid down the beam and sat on the floor.

    She could see him there, now, his legs stretched out. Only his bare skin was visible, blurred and dusky. His head hung forward so that his dark hair concealed his face. Where his cut-off jeans covered him, he didn’t appear to be there at all. He looked like a torso and legs, as if the section from just below his hips to partway down his thighs had been severed and thrown away.

    Not a pretty idea, she thought.

    She wondered if he would be all right down there.

    He’ll be fine, she told herself. Hank won’t do anything to him. The creep’s after us, not his brother.

    Unless he figures out, somehow, that Jim has thrown in with us.

    He’s got no way of knowing.

    Besides, Finley’ll shoot him the moment he shows up.

    Finley, some time ago, had stopped leaning against the banister and sat down. She was silent at Abilene’s left, the shotgun across her thighs. The tan of her safari shirt and shorts matched her skin so well in the darkness that Abilene couldn’t tell where her clothes left off and her skin began. As Abilene was looking at her, Finley turned her head. In the blur of her face were muddy white eyes. A row of teeth, as dim as her eyes, showed for a moment when she smiled.

    I wish we could at least talk, Abilene thought.

    She reached over and gave Finley’s knee a brief squeeze.

    ‘Don’t get fresh,’ Finley whispered.

    That brought a smile to Abilene, but either Cora or Vivian went ‘Shhhhhh.’

    Abilene turned her head toward them.

    Cora’s right leg was still extended, its bandaged foot almost touching Abilene’s thigh. Her left leg was bent, its knee raised. She had let go of the railing and eased herself backward so her head was on Vivian’s lap.

    Both of Cora’s legs seemed to end high up her thighs. Like Jim, she looked as if the tops of her legs and her pelvic region had been lopped out. But her shorts were skimpier than his, so less appeared to be missing.

    The shorts, Abilene remembered, were red. For a few moments, she couldn’t recall the color of the tank top. Yellow or… no, pink. Pale, faded pink. The fresh blood on Cora’s back had been bright red on pink. Now, the shirt was a shade of gray somewhat lighter than the skin of Cora’s chest beyond the low scooped neck and around the shoulder straps.