If you want me, you know what to do.
Had he spoken, or had she imagined those words? It didn’t matter—she knew. She held Jade in her hand, cradled between her breasts. Jade. A man. A small, carved stone. A penis. She could feel it throbbing. She had seen it smile. She had heard him speak.
She brought the thing to the juncture of her thighs, and opened her body for Jade. She gasped and bit her lip, feeling the head of the penis butting against her, seeking entry. For one clear moment she was terrified, aware of the terrible danger she was in, and she twisted away.
“No,” she said. “I won’t let you. You can’t make me.”
But her body twisted back, eager for the penetration, giving the lie to her words, and, knowing herself in mortal danger, feeling both terrified and ecstatic, Sarah jerked her hand up, and stabbed herself with the weapon Jade had given her. She gasped as she felt him enter her, and thought she might faint, and lay very still.
Jade took control, pounding against her, thrusting and withdrawing again and again. Lost, Sarah’s body moved to his command in that ancient, demanding dance. All thoughts were gone, and with them all feelings of terror or anticipation. There was only the moment. There was only the need. There was only the will. The room flew away, and there was nothing left but her body, the world, and that became one tiny, glowing, flickering flame of being, of feeling. She was motion, she was fire, she was water, a tide that rose and fell and rose, and she was torn apart, painlessly, stretched and scattered, her body flung into the ocean. She was the ocean. She was molten, liquid, flaming, searing, and she exploded.
Cast ashore, the waves still lapped at her body, warming her, rekindling her, reminding her in ever-diminishing rushes of the pleasure she had known. Her muscles were water. She could not move. Finally, she opened her eyes.
White ceiling. Sunlight and shadow. The room was empty and silent around her. She turned her head slightly and saw the wrecked wall, jeering at her like an open mouth. Gradually, her breathing and her heartbeat were slowing to normal. Soon, she thought, they might stop altogether, and she wouldn’t ever have to think again. She didn’t want to think. Her hand still lay loosely between her legs. Sarah shifted to a more comfortable position after a moment, withdrawing her hand. She saw what she held.
It was the likeness of a nude, oriental woman, carefully carved from a piece of dark green jade. It was slick, slimy to the touch, covered with—
Self-disgust twisted Sarah’s face, and she hurled the stone figure across the room, shuddering. She heard it strike the wooden floor.
She ached. Moving slowly, afraid she would be sick, Sarah raised herself on her elbows. Her jeans were lying pooled on the floor and her blouse hung open. She had done it all herself, to herself. He had made her do it. She could imagine how it had really been: lying there, masturbating, lost in a fantasy of his devising, at his command. The peace and pleasure were all gone now; even the memory of them made her feel feverish, made her skin crawl and her stomach cramp with self-loathing. Forcing herself to move against the gravity pull of misery, Sarah sat up and dressed herself. She looked across the room at the jade figure, lying now among the chips and shards of sheetrock. Jade had kept her from destroying it, she thought—he had done that much. But what else had he done to her? How much had she lost?
She could still think, she could still move, she could still plan—perhaps it wasn’t too late. She could still destroy the little figure. She wanted to destroy it, to turn her hatred against that one thing and smash it. She wanted never to see it again. Hammer-blows, reducing the thing to green dust, could set her free, she thought.
She meant to stand up and cross the room, to pick up the hammer. She remembered the last time she had risen to do that same thing. Her muscles failed her. She could not rise. She began to shake, and her teeth chattered. She lowered her head in her hands and began to cry.
Somewhere, someone was laughing.
Chapter Fourteen
How long she might have remained like that, weeping and helpless, Sarah never knew. Why didn’t Jade take her? Why didn’t he destroy her? He must be strong enough now, and she too weak to resist. She wished that he would take her, that he would snuff out her consciousness so she wouldn’t have to remember. She was roused from her miserable stupor by a pounding that rattled the back door.
Mechanically Sarah rose, found that her legs would hold her this time, and wiped her eyes and nose with a tissue. Then she walked slowly back to answer the door.
Valerie was there, looking thinner and paler and madder than ever.
“What’s happened?” she demanded, pushing past Sarah into the house. She looked around, almost sniffing the air like a wild animal. “What happened? What did you do?”
Sarah shook her head. “Nothing.”
Valerie glared at her. “Don’t lie to me! Do you think I don’t know? Something happened; I could feel it. I knew it. For the first time I could—I was free, he wasn’t controlling me. For the first time I could think, I could see what he’d done to me. He left, he actually left, and I was myself again. And I knew then—I won’t, I won’t be his anymore; I won’t let him control me anymore.”
Sarah stared at her blankly, unable to follow the torrent of words.
“Tell me,” Valerie insisted, her voice becoming a childish whine. “You don’t trust me, but it’s true—I’m not his anymore. I want to help you, I’m on your side. Look, look what I did. This will prove what I say; look what I did.” She reached into her large leather shoulder bag and pulled out a handkerchief. She held it out, unfolding it almost under Sarah’s nose.
The once-white handkerchief held a squashed, messily slaughtered toad. The remains of Lunch. Repulsed, Sarah staggered back. She looked at Valerie and saw that the other woman had tears in her eyes, and her forehead was beaded with sweat.
“You see?” said Valerie. “I am free. I killed my own, my little Lunch . . . I had to kill a part of myself, but I killed a part of Jade as well. And he doesn’t own me anymore. And I’ll help you.” Suddenly she frowned and looked more sharply at Sarah. “What happened to you? What did he do?”
Sarah shrugged. She wouldn’t admit to anyone what had just happened to her, but at the moment she lacked the energy even to think up a plausible story.
“Tell me, you have to tell me. Tell me and I’ll help you. Isn’t that what you want?”
“Oh, go away,” Sarah said wearily. “I don’t need your help; you can’t help me. If you’ve escaped from Jade, so much the better for you. You’d better run for it—isn’t that the advice you gave me, once? Run for it, before he calls you back?”
“He’s done something to you, oh, what’s he done?” Valerie stared wildly around, and a faint, warning pang struck through Sarah’s haze of misery. Get her out of here.
“Just get out,” she said to Valerie. “It’s not your problem. You can’t help me. I was safer here alone—don’t you know he could use us against each other?” She had a sudden, vivid image of herself, out of control, attacking Valerie, killing her, and she clenched her fists. No. She had succumbed to Jade sexually, but that did not make her his creature. She was not his instrument, she would not kill, and she would not bring him any victims. She would not.
“We can help each other,” Valerie said. “Two of us have to be stronger than one.”
“Not against Jade.”
“Yes. Why not? He’s not invulnerable—I realized that when I killed Lunch.” She sniffed, and blinked, and rewrapped the toad’s remains, placing the small bundle carefully back inside her purse. “We can draw a new circle to protect ourselves, and say all the spells just right, and—”