Page 31 of Venomous Throne

If I was a man, I would beat her husband until his mouth was too swollen to open.

“You mafiosi, you screw up the workforce, make it impossible for an honest man to make his wages.” The slur in his voice told me everything I needed to hear.

“I think your friend, the bottle, is more to blame,” I snapped.

“Jason, no!” Saveria lunged for her husband.

He grabbed Saveria by the throat, pushing her backwards so fast her shoes lifted clean off the floor, slamming her into the ancient, splintered doorframe. The cracked veneer split. Her head bounced on the wood, and she let out a sharp little gasp, not of fear, but that sick kind of resignation that comes to a person who’s been enduring impact for years. His thick fingers cinched down around her windpipe.

I saw red.

Before my own body could even process the threat, a mass of black and gold streaked past with a predatory economy, just the impression of a long, brassy ponytail and the glint of metal against a tattooed forearm. I lost my footing on the concrete steps, my knees slamming down hard, sending up a shock so clean I didn’t even feel it until the next breath.

When I looked up, a beast inhabiting the body of a man had his hands on Jason. The next second, Saveria was free as her husband sailed through the air. His front crashed into the exterior wall, his face catching part of the doorframe. The beast had him by the neck, one thumb digging into the notch just under his ear, the other hand bunched in the back of his cheap, sweat-slicked tee. Jason’s feet did a grotesque dance, toes scraping at the threshold. He was a big man, at least two-fifty, but in the beast’s grip, he was a sack of flour with no center, every ounce of bravado pissing out of him as the oxygen shut off.

The beast slammed his skull into the doorframe a second time. The thwack was sickening, yet sweet!

I watched as Jason was pulled into the yard.

Saveria slid down the wall in aftershock, staring at her hands as if she’d never seen them empty before.

The next moment drew out in filmstrip slow motion—a pause before the violence resumed. The beast reached down and plucked a brick from the pathetic excuse for landscaping at the edge of the walk. The brick must have weighed nothing in the hands of the true monster. The fiend who surveyed the trembling, gurgling man at his feet like he was a slab of beef to be tenderized before dinner.

The monster looked over his shoulder once, straight at me. A delicious little thrill danced through me at the contact. Jaxon was beautiful. His eyes were a shade darker, almost midnight, with ferocity dancing through them.

I gave him a small nod. Permission? No. It was my blessing.

It seemed I was capable of doling out just punishment after all. I rose, dusting my hands, and stood over the shaking woman.

Up came a brick in an arc, and down it came on Jason’s outstretched hand. The hand that he’d raised against his lawfully wedded wife. Bone crunched, flesh split, the brick thudding against the meat of his palm, splintering his thumb at the root. Jason howled, but not in protest—nothing intelligible, just the guttural, insect-born squeal of someone whose body announced its own limits for the very first time.

But it wasn’t over. The beast struck him again, brick against bone, a brutal efficiency to his movements. With each blow, the hand on the ground became less recognizably human, more pulp and gristle and red. The brick itself, once pale and pitted, slicked over with blood and skin, transformed into something from a serial killer film.

“Don’t forget his other hand,” Saveria whispered.

I winced. The level of torment she must have endured to bring about that decree was one I was too familiar with.

The violence was so swift and unrelenting that Saveria and I could only stand there, mute and helpless, the kind of audience that buys a ticket to horror but forgets to look away.

“Mommy—”

At that sound, both Saveria and I leapt to attention. In the rush of violent justice, we’d forgotten there were little eyes that should never see the macabre display—no matter how righteous the cause. We hurried the children inside.

“I brought cookies!” I said in a rush. “Who likes cookies?”

The kids were too frightened to speak.

Saveria herded them to a seat while I plucked the brown sack from the fridge. In my haste, the handle fell off.

“I’ll fix it, signora,” Saveria rushed to say. Tears trickled from her eyes. “I shouldn’t have said that! It was wrong, very wrong—”

I caught her around the shoulder in a fierce hug. “He was wrong. Don’t put the consequence of his actions on yourself.”

She nodded, tears falling against my neck.

Outside, the hammering ended. I wasn’t brave enough to look out and see what happened. And inside, the promised treats muted the violence. The children ate with zeal. I helped Saveria grab bowls and spoons, placing the soup in the microwave that seemed more likely to explode than warm.

These kids were used to the darker side of life. They didn’t once ask what was happening to their father. And maybe that was relief on the older one’s face.