He stood there, the unspoken question too apparent.
Constance favored him with a dainty smile. “You never finished the story, so I chose to find the source of all sources. You’re a bottomless well of creation and your ideas will offer many more children before we’re through.”
“Children?” Sam pointed his bat at the group. “Those things?”
The half-smile came to her face again. He wanted to bash her head in with the bat, but he waited. “Why did you kill the other girls?”
“Your energy belongs to us,” she said. “Your toys always sought to take it away. Besides which, you don’t need them any longer.” A malicious twinkle caught in her eyes.
He could hear the steps of the Nightlids coming down the stairs. Constance laid a hand on his shoulder and with the other she held out her index finger. “Come on Sam, you’ve let me stick it up your ass before.”
From tiny holes in her finger seeped a pale blue fluid. “Let’s fuck one more time.” A thrill went through her glazed eyes.
Sam swung the bat hard. A clawed hand caught the end and tore it from his grasp. Slithering forms fell upon him. The Nightlid children ripped his clothes from his body as he struggled to break free.
In his mind Sam saw a bloody toilet bowl and understood the truth. Those painful bowel movements had been deliveries. All the unseen eggs floating on the vermillion surface, waiting for him to send them to their new home.
He lashed out, but his hands were cinched. He snarled at Constance, “I’ll die before you put those things in me!”
“The eggs have always been inside you, dear,” she said. “I’m just fertilizing them.”
“No!” Sam got a hand loose. He reached up and ripped off his rebreather. His lungs took in the heavy, rotten atmosphere of the sewer. Everything melted in his vision. Clarity returned through a series of whistles. The sound rose on the air from the gaping mouths of the Nightlids.
“The children will breathe for you,” said Constance. Her voice purred in his ear. He felt clean air push into his lungs from out of nowhere.
Constance had lost her gown—she looked like the others now, only bigger—braided muscles running from neck to slimy arms. She stroked his face and moved behind him. The porous index finger slid easily into his asshole and began to saturate his colon with her vile seed. Sam moaned as the pressure built in his abdomen and the taste of shit layered his mouth. The torches guttered and the temple darkened. He sobbed in the failing light and finally, wretchedly, came to grips with love.
It was his first time.
THE DUBIOUS MAGIC OF ELLIOT PRINCE
KV Taylor
Elliot found his prey—or rather, his project partner—under the brightest lamp. Tim leaned against the wrought iron gate, reading a thin paperback in a puddle of light. The guy always had some esoteric little tome; kept one carefully askew on his desk during lectures and sticking out of the pocket of his backpack on the quad, like he was waiting for someone to notice.
Elliot had done that too, back in high school. No wonder freshmen were like babes to the slaughter.
Still, he was feeling charitable tonight. He might ask about the book; it’d probably make Tim’s night. Maybe he’d even let the guy show him painstakingly underlined passages and tell him why they were brilliant.
He sauntered into the light, strangling the knowing smile on his face. Dropped his cigarette, jammed his hands deep into his leather jacket and toyed with the camera in the right pocket. He let his eyes dart to Tim’s book to create some initial goodwill.
Tim shifted his weight from one foot to the other and stuffed his book into his backpack. His face seemed flushed, but it was cold outside, and Tim was always faintly freckled and pink. Maybe he wasn’t blushing, but he looked fucking awkward, either way.
Definitely a passage under-liner. Perfect.
“Cold tonight, man,” Elliot said.
Tim shrugged, hiking his pack onto narrow shoulders. “I’m used to it.”
Elliot noticed, upon closer inspection, that Tim wore only a thin Adidas track jacket. Right, he was from… Boston or something. Somewhere they couldn’t pronounce the letter ‘r,’ anyhow.
But back to business. “Best place to jump the fence is around the side here.”
Tim looked up at him through a fringe of dark bangs. “That’s how I did it last night.”
Elliot tried to stop his face from falling, but didn’t quite make it. “Why’d you come then?”
“Scouting. The groundskeeper came around once or twice…”
When Tim trailed off, Elliot smirked. “Can’t outrun a 75 year-old, shovel-wielding hunchback?”
Tim set his jaw, stood a little straighter.
“Come on, man. This place is amazing. You go in far enough, you’ll come out a changed man.”
Clever little joke. Too bad Tim can’t appreciate it. Yet.
Tim screwed up his face, a comical determination taking over, ending with his eyes. He almost looked angry, and it suited him. Made him less little-boyish.
Elliot just kept smiling. This might be his easiest one yet.
You go in far enough, you’ll come out a changed man.
Tim had used all his self-control in the split second after Elliot said it. Watching the back of that pretty blonde head retreat around the corner, he felt like he’d been rubbed all over with sandpaper on the inside.
Funny to think how a few days ago, he’d been happy about this assignment. Fate handing him the answers, the chance he’d half wanted, half hoped wouldn’t come. Timothy Maclaren and Elliot Prince, slips of paper drawn at the same time. And then, just when it couldn’t get any better, Elliot told him he wanted to start their project with a long night in a dark, secluded spot.
Sure, it was illegal. But Tim didn’t mind unexpected luck, as a general rule. Now he had warring urges to laugh and cry. Cold dread seeped into him, nothing to do with the weather.
He’d do what he had to do, though.
Half a league, half a league
Half a league onward
Right?
Elliot reached through the fence for Tim’s pack, while Tim hauled himself up the wall behind the caretaker’s house and disappeared into the foliage of the nearby oak tree. Elliot peeked at the title of the book in the outer mesh pocket.
101 Great Poems
Huh. He’d expected Kerouac or Hesse or something else that seems brilliant in high school. Something a pseudo-intellectual like Tim would think made him look smart and deep. He had carried Shakespeare himself, back in the day. Fucking embarrassing.
Elliot was about to extract the book for a closer look when a blinding halogen glow cut the night, the spotlight in the caretaker’s yard. He froze for a stuttering second.
The branches of the oak rustled, emitted an audible “Hell!”
The sound startled him into action; he shouldered the pack and raced for the nearest patch of darkness against the wall. When he slammed his back to the bricks, Tim dropped out of the tree in front of him, landing in an awkward pile on the long grass.
Elliot barely suppressed a laugh.
Tim launched himself toward the safety of the wall. When he got there, he was biting at the inside of his cheek, and he had a leaf stuck in his hair.
Elliot couldn’t stop himself, he picked it out and waved it in Tim’s face, laughing silently.
Tim’s cheeks puffed out; he looked away, obviously trying to quiet his own laughter.