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He steadied himself and took a deep breath. He closed his eyes, savoring the moment. He had stopped at a hardware store, and in addition to the crowbar had taken a good hammer, some five-inch nails, nylon rope, duct tape, two small rubber balls, and a butane torch. Good enough for a start. His plan was to incapacitate Astrid and Sam as well, if he was home. If not, he would have some fun with Astrid while waiting for Sam. Then he would tie them up, ball-gag them, stuff them in the trunk of the car, and drive them to someplace more private. Someplace where he wouldn’t be interrupted for days.
She’ll start out reasonable, trying to convince me to let them go. I’ll let that go on for a while until the fear builds, until she really understands that she is powerless. And then she’ll scream.
He felt the sharp edge of anticipation as lovely pictures and lovelier sounds played out in his head. This was going to be amazing. This would be the highest moment of his very strange life.
I actually feel nervous. But such an excellent nervousness!
With a lunge he threw his weight against the crowbar. The jamb splintered, but the door did not give way until Drake had kicked it several times.
When at last it did open, he yelled the line he’d decided on after much consideration.
“Honey! I’m home!”
There she was! Right there in front of him: Astrid! The daydream had turned real. After so long, she was right there, right in front of him. A little older, still just as beautiful and cold and disdainful as ever. Astrid the Genius.
“You look good, Astrid,” he said, and licked his lips outrageously, then laughed out of pure joy.
Astrid sat in an easy chair that had been turned to face the door. Just sat there. Sat there in yoga pants and a cropped spandex top, with her blond hair spilling down to her shoulders and her icy blue eyes appraising him.
Gorgeous. Vulnerable. Alone! And still with that smug, I’m-smarter-than-you look in her eyes.
“Hello there, Drake,” Astrid said.
In a flash Drake knew that something was wrong, very wrong. No one ever, upon seeing Whip Hand with his tentacle arm curling in anticipation, said Hello there. No one. Ever. Certainly not Astrid Ellison. But he’d prepared another line, also taken from a movie, and he couldn’t think of what else to say so he said, “Going so soon? I wouldn’t hear of it. Why, my little party’s just beginning!” It was from The Wizard of Oz, a line from the Wicked Witch of the West.
Of course he’d assumed she would bolt. And here she was just sitting. In fact, she seemed to be calmly flexing her muscles, which were actually kind of impressive for a girl who . . .
Then Astrid stood up, and something was very definitely wrong. Astrid had always been tall for a girl, but she now stood well over six feet. And she had been working out. A lot. And taking steroids. A lot. Because even as he stood there gaping, Drake saw her Thor arms still expanding, like someone was inflating them with an air hose. Her thighs were thick as tree trunks and growing thicker, until the spandex yoga pants threatened to tear. It was all made stranger still by the fact that Astrid’s face, the face from so many of his fantasies, remained unchanged except for the way her whole head seemed to be surrounded by shoulders like boulders. Drake flashed all the way back to his childhood: Astrid reminded of him of nothing so much as his old He-Man action figure. But without the boots.
“Why, Drake,” Astrid said in a mocking voice. “Did you think I would run away?” She leaned toward him—toward! “Are you disappointed? You like when people run, don’t you? It’s part of the fun, right?”
Drake licked his lips, and Brittany muttered, “Heh. Heh-heh,” like she was fake-laughing at a joke. But this was no joke. Astrid was not afraid.
Astrid. Was. Not.
Afraid.
Drake shot a glance at the door behind him thinking the unthinkable, that maybe he should be the one running. Crazy!
Astrid saw the glance and said, “You forgot to shut the door, Drake.” She took one step to her right, bent down and grabbed the edge of a solid-looking end table, and with a mere flick of her wrist threw it past Drake’s head.
Bang!
Slam!
The table hit the door and smashed it closed.
And that was when Drake realized why the doorknob had bothered him. It wasn’t bad maintenance: Astrid must have crushed it accidentally.
His head was swimming. This was madness. This was an impossibility! Four long years of greedy anticipation leading to this? He tried to think of some quip, some quote, some anything, anything to say, but this was not a situation he had ever experienced before. No one faced Whip Hand without fear.
And there was something worse than the absence of fear. There was a hunger in those cold eyes, a blue glitter of anticipation. A slight, close-lipped smile tugged at one corner of Astrid’s mouth. Her kielbasa-sized fingers flexed threateningly.
Now, Drake was scared.
He spun and leaped for the door but was jerked back by a hand the size of a ham grabbing his shoulder. Astrid pulled him to her and turned him around as easily as if she’d been moving a chess piece. His face was inches from hers.
“You’ve dreamed of this day, haven’t you, Drake?”
