Instead there was this hateful tableau of abysmal failure.
Sienna’s hands curled into fists. “Come on, you disgusting old bitch. Rise, damn you.”
A long moment passed. Arlene remained motionless.
Sienna stamped a foot on the floor. “Fuck!”
Still nothing.
Sienna sipped from the nearly depleted absinthe bottle as she paced the floor and considered the problem. The obvious difference between her earlier efforts and what she had tried to accomplish here was a matter of scale. A human being was a far more complex creature than a rabbit or a cat. It stood to reason that calling one back to life—or undeath—might require substantially more psychic juice than killing a mere rodent could produce. This made a great deal of sense and she resolved to up the ante next time, but there was still the question of what sort of animal she should use when she again performed the ritual.
A goat, perhaps?
Hmm…
Goats were often used in Santeria rituals, some of which were similar to what she was attempting. Satanists were also reputed to use goats in their ceremonies, though that was maybe more a product of popular culture myth than reality. Still, the goat sacrifice was a common enough motif in magical ritual to suggest a promising level of potency, maybe even enough to ignite a spark in Arlene.
The only problem was she was a little fuzzy on how she might lay her hands on a goddamn goat. This would not have been an issue back in the old days of Hopkins Bend. Lots of the old families had kept goats and other critters on their property, typically inside little areas fenced-off with chicken wire. Snatching an animal from a place like that would have been a snap, though there was the obvious risk of catching a backside full of buckshot from an ornery property owner’s shotgun. But there was far less of an old backwoods mindset in Bedford. She couldn’t think of anyone who kept goats in town. There were a few farms scattered around the area, but access would be problematic.
Shit.
She was contemplating how she might feasibly sneak onto a farm and make away with an ornery piece of livestock without getting caught when she heard the knocking from downstairs. A frown creased her brow as she lowered the bottle and stared at the open door to the hallway.
The knocking came again, more strident this time. She could hear the flimsy old door rattling in its frame. It wasn’t possible to just ignore the knocking. Whoever this was would feel compelled to investigate the lack of response to all that sound and fury. There weren’t many people around who still gave a shit about Arlene Baker or cared enough to come check on her, but the few who did wouldn’t be easily deterred.
And anyone potentially nosy enough to let themselves in and start poking around would have some very pointed questions for her after getting a look at this room. That Arlene had died after a long period of neglect would not be surprising. Passing that off as a result of natural causes would have been easy—if not for all the accoutrements of black magic.
Sienna put the absinthe bottle down and rummaged through her backpack. When she found what she was looking for, she walked out of the room and started down the hallway at a brisk pace. The knocking came yet again and was followed by a deep male voice calling out for Arlene. At first Sienna thought this must be Delmont, but that didn’t make any sense. The big goon had his own key. And the door wasn’t locked.
The voice called out Arlene’s name again and Sienna raised her voice in response as she started down the spiral staircase. “Just a minute!”
After reaching the front door, she did her best to arrange her features in a way that conveyed a mix of guilelessness and an eagerness to assist. Her face contorted in ways that felt weird as she struggled to get the look right, making her wish she had a mirror in front of her. When she realized what she was going for would just make her seem even weirder than usual, she made her face a careful blank instead and opened the door.
The handsome boy on the porch was about her age. Outfitted in the standard rural male uniform of flannel, jeans, and boots, he had the strapping body of a farmhand and the smile and chiseled features of a teen idol, along with piercing blue eyes that enhanced his dreamy appeal to a nearly absurd degree.
Sienna gaped at him. “Who the fuck are you and where did you come from?”
The wattage of the boy’s brilliant smile increased, nearly making her swoon. “My name’s Bradley Cummings. My daddy is Horace Cummings. We got a farm down the road a piece.” He raised an arm and pointed in the general direction of, presumably, “a piece”. “Daddy sent me to check on Miss Arlene.”
“Oh yeah? And why the fuck would he do that?”
“Boy, you sure use the F-word a lot.”
Sienna smiled. “You got a fucking problem with that?”
A tinge of color rose in the boy’s cheeks as he held her leering, lustful gaze for a long moment. But then he broke the eye contact and glanced nervously at the floor. “My mama makes us kids put a dollar in the swear jar every time we say a bad word. I can’t even say h-e-double-hockey-sticks.”
“Jesus fucking Christ.”
Bradley frowned. “You shouldn’t take the savior’s name in vain.”
“You’ve gotta be goddamn shitting me.”
Bradley was becoming visibly anxious and agitated now. Every profane or blasphemous utterance made him cringe and look like he was moments away from crying. “Please don’t talk like that.”
“Why not? It’s a free fucking country, right?”
Bradley struggled to keep his composure. In a few more moments, he managed to relax. When he spoke again, it was with an obvious determination to move the conversation along. “Are you kin of Arlene’s?”
“We’re cousins.”
Bradley frowned. “I ain’t ever seen you around before.”
“I don’t get out this way often.”
“How’s Miss Arlene doing? My daddy will want to know. He’s awful fond of her. They’ve known each other forever.”
“Well, you can tell your daddy she’s doing awesome, Bradley. Never better, in fact.” Sienna began to edge the door shut. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m doing some work for Arlene around the house and need to get back to it.”
Bradley braced a hand against the door to halt its forward progress. “Why you got your other hand behind your back?”
Sienna smiled as she showed him the hammer. It was a good thing she hadn’t used it to bludgeon anything to death lately. Explaining caked-in blood and bits of bashed-in bunny brains might have been a problem. “It’s like I said, I’m doing some work around the house. Right now, I’m…hammering stuff.”
Bradley’s hand pressed a little more firmly against the door. Sienna was forced to relinquish her grip on the knob as it began to swing inward. “Maybe I should have a look around. Something doesn’t feel right here. My daddy would never forgive me for not laying eyes on Miss Arlene myself if later on it turns out something’s wrong with her.”
Sienna backed away from the door. “Suit yourself.”
Bradley came inside and approached the spiral staircase. He peered up at the shadowy second floor landing before glancing back at Sienna, who had moved quietly closer to him. “She up in her bedroom?”
Sienna’s cover story options were limited now that Bradley was in the house. She realized now she should have tried a little harder to bar entry, but it was too late for that now. She had perhaps been a touch too distracted by the boy’s looks to think straight.
“Sure. But I have to warn you—she’s not in the most talkative mood right now.”
Bradley gave her a strange look. He leaned closer to her, his nose twitching as he sniffed her breath. “You’ve been drinking. A lot.”
“So what?”
Bradley’s expression turned disdainful. “You shouldn’t drink. Mama says intoxicating spirits are one of the ways the devil lures people into his traps.”
“Your mama sounds like a big ball of no fun at all.” She smirked as she put herself closer still to him and tried for the sultry tone of a seductress. “I bet she takes a dim view of sex, too.”
Bradley’s gaze dropped to her chest and lingered there a moment for the first time. Color bloomed in his cheeks and he again made his eyes go elsewhere. Seeing him befuddled pleased Sienna. “You can stare at my boobs if you want. I don’t mind.”
Bradley’s cheeks flushed a darker shade of red. “I, uh…”
She touched his arm, giving it a gentle squeeze. “Don’t be embarrassed. You can fuck me if you want.”
The boldness of this proposition surprised Sienna. Her plans for the day hadn’t included sex with a stranger. Then again, murder hadn’t been part of her original agenda, either. But she had learned that in life it’s important to be flexible and open to new opportunities. It was basic stuff. Surely even Bradley could see what a good idea this was. He must be perpetually horny and frustrated, like most guys his age.
Or perhaps not.
He pried her hand loose and started up the staircase. “Sex is another of the devil’s traps.”
Sienna sneered. “Let me guess. More of your mama’s wisdom.”
“That’s right.”
Anger abruptly displaced Sienna’s lust, burning it away entirely. “And what do you think your mama would have to say about me?”
“She’d say you should stop dressing like a whore of Babylon and get right with Jesus.”
Sienna’s anger intensified as she watched him continue up the stairs. She was no angel and had done many morally questionable things, but that didn’t mean being called a whore to her face was acceptable.
She raced up the stairs after him, again experiencing that queasy feeling as the rotted steps bowed precariously beneath her tread. She caught up to the meddlesome, irksome farmhand just as he reached the second floor landing.
He glanced back at her. “What is that awful stench? It smells like something died up here.”
Sienna said nothing, but her grip tightened on the hammer’s handle.
Bradley let out a gasp of shock as he entered the room at the end of the hallway. Sienna stood just inside the doorway as she watched him stagger in shock toward the bed. Whatever he had expected to discover upon entering the room, it wasn’t this.
He was shaking as he looked back at Sienna with a stricken expression. “What have you done to Miss Arlene? And why are you smiling?”
“You are a very boring boy. You know that?”
Bradley started digging in a hip pocket.
“What are you doing, Bradley?”
He had a cell phone in his hand now. “Calling the police.” His shakiness caused him to fumble his grip on the phone and it dropped to the floor. “You’re evil. Evil.”
He knelt to pick up the phone.
Sienna pursed her lips.
Hmm…
Bradley was on one knee in the exact center of the pentagram she had drawn with her lipstick. She raised the hammer and came at him too fast for him to react. He was staring at the bed and trying to make his thumbs work on the phone’s keypad when the head of the hammer crashed against the crown of his skull.
The phone flew from his hand and slid under the bed. Bradley pitched forward and was on his hands and knees when the hammer struck his skull again. Blood gushed from the gash in his scalp as he rolled onto his back, staining the edge of the pentagram a dark crimson where his head landed.
His eyes filled with tears as he held up shaking hands to ward off further blows. “Please…no…please…”
Sienna knelt next to him. “Yes.”
She raised the hammer and slammed it straight down at his face. The blow broke off several of his perfect teeth and filled his mouth with blood. The next blow pulped his nose and the one after that collapsed an eye socket. His body twitched as she continued to hit him. She liked the sound the flat edge of the hammer made each time it pulverized more bone. His bladder voided and stained the front of his jeans. After a few more blows, she stopped hitting him, sat back, and watched him convulse and gasp for breath.
Sienna had reasons for delaying the coup de grace. For one thing, she wanted to watch him suffer. The sound of his helpless, desperate gurgling fascinated her, as did the bloody bubbles emerging from his mouth. This interest was based in intellectual curiosity as much as anything else. Her mind was like a video camera in those moments, recording and filing away for possible later reference this document of how the human body behaves in the immediate aftermath of violent trauma. But the bigger reason was that prolonging his demise gave her the perfect opportunity to put her reanimation theory to the test. Forget procuring a goat. What could generate more psychic juice than a human sacrifice?