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She quickly scrambled up to a sitting position, folding her arms over her bare breasts. “Don’t you dare touch me!”
“You don’t mean that. . . .”
“You can just watch your goddamn TV and leave me the fuck alone.”
He chuckled. “Now you’re gonna get it,” he singsonged, and she glared at him.
“I’m really mad,” she said.
“Are you?”
“Yes!”
A challenge. Charlie quickly worked his magic, sending out his sexual pheromones. She tried to resist; she really did. But it didn’t take long for her to crumble, and he sent his mind back to the Donatellas again to increase his enjoyment as he mounted her. The terror on Chandra’s face . . . Marcus begging for his wife’s life . . . Kristina in the background, crying and wringing her hands and saying he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t, it was all a game, and then blast, blast, shooting them both in the back of the head and Kristina screaming and screaming and screaming until he grabbed her by the hair and screwed her hard against the wall again while she clawed at him like a wild woman. She lost it a little after that, went into this weird state of denial where she would not admit to herself that she’d watched him execute her friends. She simply would not believe it, and though every time they had sex, he would press his lips to her ear and croon to her that she was his, that she was part of it now, that she had helped kill them, too, she would say it was sorcery. Nothing had happened.
Her denial worked like an aphrodisiac on Charlie. When he thought about her burning, liquid warmth . . . and that cool refusal to accept the truth . . . he felt like he could burst!
He came back to the present with a bang. Realized he was jamming hard and fast into his date, and she was in the throes of a mega-climax and was screaming like she was going to die of pleasure. Well, all right! Finally. A real response. He gave a couple of last, good thrusts and then came himself, filled with expanding pleasure, distantly thinking that it was good, but maybe not quite good enough....
Another reason to wait to kill her. Had to make sure his semen wasn’t anywhere near her when she met her maker.
He propped himself above her on his elbows and stared down at her. “Good?”
“I hate you,” she said peevishly, her chest still heaving, her eyes glistening.
He smiled and sent her his swirling sexual thoughts. Then he put his hands lightly around her neck. “I’m gonna kill you,” he whispered in her ear, “with love. . . .”
He was still inside her, and he hardened again, moving more tenderly. She tried to resist, she really did, but she couldn’t, of course. Soon enough her hands were clawing his arms and she was moaning.
“Oh, yeah,” he said, watching the conflicting messages on her face as she futilely fought his magic love potion. She came again, and with both regret and relief he pulled away from her, staring at the ceiling, wondering how soon he could leave.
He wished he could have had sex with his mother before he killed her. And he wished he’d actually killed that other mother, the one who’d been so sorry she’d adopted him, but she’d beat him to it.
He felt anger lick through him again, just thinking about that bitch. He’d seen the look on her face. How sorry she’d been that she’d ever let him in her house. And he’d heard her on the phone to her friends, talking about him, about how he wasn’t right. Saying she should have known better. “After all, he’s from that strange cult,” she’d said softly into the receiver, but he’d been able to read lips from an early age. He could read her. He’d pulled her in with his power and screwed her sideways, and she’d looked up at him through glazed, horror-struck eyes, and then . . . and then she’d run off and killed herself! Bitch! Damn, but it pissed him off.
Afterward, her husb
and hadn’t known what to do with him, the adopted son he didn’t want. He kinda thought maybe he should put him in foster care, but Charlie wasn’t having any of that. He left three days after her suicide. He’d always known he had a special power, but now he knew what to do with it. There were other women, lots and lots of other women, just aching for what he could give ’em. And he gave it to them—the best they’d ever had in their miserable lives—and for a few years he moved back and forth across the country, doing just enough work to get by, stealing from the parade of women he serviced whenever he needed to, sensing there was some purpose out there that he hadn’t yet discovered.
And then he’d felt the irresistible pull—deep in his organs—from Mother Mary. She’d called to him from Echo Island, and he’d had one helluva time negotiating his way to her, all the while hearing her laughing in his head, but also her begging: Come to me. Save me. I’m here. Waiting for you.
He’d gone to the island—he damn well could hardly do anything else—and she’d started spinning her spell, wrapping him in it. She wanted off the island. There was work to be done. She needed him to help her. But Charlie wasn’t really interested in helping her. All he wanted to do was screw her and maybe learn something about where he came from, but she wouldn’t touch him, and she wouldn’t give him much beyond his father’s name. Good old Pops, the bastard. He would take care of him in time, too.
Charlie had boldly told his mother that he was the only one who counted, and she’d cackled her amusement and said he was an ignorant ass, just like his father. “There are more,” she’d then warned him with a thin, cold smile. “More?” he’d asked. “More of us that are stronger than you,” she’d assured him. “The ones we need to conquer.”
He didn’t believe in the “we” part of her plan, but he let her go on because he still thought he could get past her defenses and give her a heaping dose of Good Time Charlie, but it didn’t happen. And then he caught her writing things down, things about him and them and what needed to be done. She was sly, hiding her words away, but he knew about them, and he also knew he had to find them. He didn’t want anything written down that somebody else could find, so he started searching through her things the moment the light died in her eyes and she was staring through blank, glassy orbs toward the ceiling. He found nothing but her herbs, which she’d dried and put in jars. He was getting really pissed at her—what did you write, bitch?—when warning bells went off in his head. Someone out there. One of them, the ones she’d talked about. He could feel the prickle of her search for him as if it were tangible against his skin.
Who? A lover who hadn’t yet revealed herself to him? He tried to send her a mental message, but she didn’t respond. He’d tried off and on ever since, but whoever it was was biding their time. Playing coy.
Choking sounds woke him from his reverie, and he saw that his date’s eyes were bugging, her hands plucking frantically at his taut fingers circling her neck. He had somehow grabbed her neck in his reverie and was squeezing and squeezing, and squeezing a little more. Immediately, he released her.
She gasped and spit and shrieked, “You goddamn maniac! Get the fuck out!”
“I didn’t mean to do that,” he admitted honestly.
She slapped at his hand when he tried to smooth her hair. Then she slapped at his arms and head, until he had to pin her arms down before she did some real damage. It was time to move on. Loose ends needed to be taken care of. Twisting away from her, he grabbed up his clothes, dragging them on.
“What are you doing? Where are you going?” she demanded.
