Kate Fox & The Three Kings (14 page)

“Can we use your phone ma’am? Please? I need to call momma and let her know we’re headed home,” the petite blonde girl requested, trying the door knob.

“You can’t come in,” I asserted, glancing around for a knife or blunt object in case they tried to force their way through the door.

“Momma won’t be happy we didn’t bring home her favorite candy,” warned the brother to her left, as he pushed past his sister. “And momma loves candy. She’s been waitin’ all year for us to go trick-or-treatin’.” He licked his lips in a way no thirteen-year-old should ever know how to do and jiggled the door knob with unusual strength.

Out of the darkness, Hemming emerged, yielding a trowel from Aunt June’s garden. “I suppose your mother will be sorely disappointed at your lack of procuring,” he rumbled, diving the trowel into the throat of the nearest boy, who struggled at first then went slack, falling to the earth. I gasped as the final brother charged Hemming at an unnatural speed, knocking his large frame off kilter and rolling them both onto the ground. Unfazed by the commotion, the tiny girl on the other side of the door continued to struggle with the lock, and I watched in horror as the dead bolt slowly slid unlocked. I armed myself with the only blunt object within reach: the cast iron skillet in which I learned to make cornbread.

Before she burst through the threshold, I spotted Hemming struggling with the black-eyed boy; he was too preoccupied to notice the girl making her way inside. I knew I had to fend for myself. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, but it didn’t mute my fear. I clutched the skillet handle like a baseball bat, ready to strike as the munchkin lurched toward me with a hiss. My adrenaline propelled me forward at the black-eyed sister, and several things happened at once: my hands were tingling, like all the blood in my body had rushed there. Second, the tiny monster attempted to pounce like a hungry lion on an injured zebra, but I wasn’t injured or helpless. I dodged her attack, which caused her to fall on the floor, and the last thing I saw before my skillet collided with her face was two beady, black eyes full of unbridled hatred, staring back at mine. I smelled rotten, burning flesh coming from under the skillet, and as I went to pick it up, but I drew my hand away because it was scalding. Her short legs stopped wiggling after several seconds, and I knew she was dead.

When I heard Hemming’s howl of pain, I instinctively knew what I had to do.  I grabbed a hammer that I had been using to hang up picture frames of me and Billie and stormed out the now-open door. Hemming dodged the boy’s knife with astonishing agility, but deep red stains marked his crisp white shirt where he had unsuccessfully avoided the attacks. As soon as I stepped out of the pool house, the boy turned with a startling sharpness, and a smile much too wide appeared on his stretched face. I faltered for a moment, struck by his disturbing expression.

“Come with me now. It would be so much easier for you,” the boy said, stalking towards me as though he hadn’t eaten in centuries, and I was the most delicious ice cream Sundae he had ever laid eyes on.

I readied myself for his attack, trying to make sense of his nonsense. “Why in the heck would I do that?” I questioned, wondering why the trio of kids was even here in the first place. “Who are you?”

The boy threw his head back and gave a guttural laugh. “We hunt the Fox,” he sprang forward, knife first. I buzzed with energy and easily got out of his way, pushing him to the ground as he lunged past me. I needed to see him bleed. With one fluid motion, I slammed the hammer to his head, like his skull was the most finicky nail I had ever encountered. After a few hacks, bone gave way to a mushy underbelly. When I realized it was the boy’s brain, a fit of laughter shook my body, starting in my gut and working its way up.

One by one, Hemming dragged their little bodies to the side yard, out of the view of the main house and the street. He didn’t speak for a long time but ushered me inside the pool house and locked the door behind us. Together, we scrubbed the floor, wiping away the remains of the black-eyed girl with lemon-scented Spray & Mop. Hemming picked up the skillet with a pair of oven mitts, revealing a brand in the hardwood that no amount of cleaning would remove. I stared out the window into the side-yard, making sure the kids hadn’t magically sprung back to life, but their small frames still lay motionless in the moonlight.

“The bodies will disappear with the sunrise,” Hemming interrupted, peering over my shoulder at the view.

“As in, a woodland elf will slink away with their corpses after joining us for breakfast?” I wouldn’t be surprised if a yeti hopped out of the freezer at this point. “I just killed two children. CHILDREN.” I whispered, my hands shaking.

Hemming stared back, breathing ragged, and eventually settled into the couch, not responding to my outburst. “Are you hurt?” I eyed his bloody shirt. The red patch originating from below his collarbone seemed to be the most severe. I loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button, revealing perfectly intact flesh underneath.

He cleared his throat, wriggling free of my grasp, “Only a scratch. I’m fine, Miss Fox.” He grabbed my hand from exploring more, “I will stay here until dawn to make sure no more intruders burden you. In the meantime, I know you have many questions, but I would prefer if we saved those for another time. Then, I promise to disclose all of my knowledge to you, but for now, I’d greatly appreciate pretending that we didn’t just endure Samhain’s offerings. I’d also like something to drink.”

I had many pressing questions, but my stomach growled with a fierce hunger, so I relented and hobbled into the kitchen. I opened the refrigerator, surprised to find it fully stocked. Aunt June must’ve taken my sudden hunger seriously, because an assortment of cold cuts, thick steaks, bay scallops, olives, and fancy cheeses were nestled into the first shelf, followed by milk, ginger ale, pomegranate and fresh orange juice on the second. Hemming reached into the pantry, digging out several bottles of what looked like some kind of hooch. Where did that come from? And more importantly, how did he know the bottles were there? Curiosity got the best of me, and I opened the pantry, revealing an array of cereals, boxes of rice, cookies, and pasta.

I positioned myself on the counter, watching Hemming stir together an elixir out of scotch, vermouth, Cherry Heering, and orange juice, which he clanked around with spoon and served straight up, no ice, in two tall glasses. “A Blood & Sand for the lady,” he handed me a glass. I took a sip, which was delicious—citrusy and refreshing.

I buzzed with energy and knew keeping my questions to myself would be challenging. Still in my Ariel costume, I noticed the skirt had ripped and one of my shells had fallen off. I climbed up to my bedroom to change into satin sleep shorts, rimmed with lace, and threw on a hoodie over my t-shirt. The feeling of taking off the corset was incredibly satisfying, and I decided to ditch the entire concept of a bra altogether for the night.

“Let me ask you one question,” I mumbled, pulling on fuzzy socks. “Only one for tonight, then I swear to take a vow of silence.”

“Just one, Miss Fox, and I mean it. I can’t answer any more tonight,” he relented, going through the cabinets, searching for a snack.

“You know what’s happening to me, don’t you?”

“That is a very complex question we shall save for another time.”

“The answer is yes, then?”

“Yes, I am aware of your current…affliction,” Hemming answered, handing me three oatmeal cream pies wrapped in crinkly plastic. “I will elaborate more later, but it is essential to keep your blood sugar levels elevated by the hour, otherwise you will feel ill.” He started unwrapping a pie for himself, devouring it in two bites. “Hypoglycemia presents with extreme hunger, sweating, and a racing heartbeat. You are symptomatic. Your heartbeat has always been irregular, but the pace has heightened in the past few weeks.”

“How do you know that? Did you strap a heart monitor to me when I wasn’t looking?” I didn’t pause for an answer. “You’re telling me that the only thing wrong with me is I have diabetes?”

Hemming almost spat out his cocktail. “No, Miss Fox, I know your heartbeat because I can hear it, even from standing over here. I own an ice cream shop, not a physician’s practice. I am in no position to medically diagnose you. However, I can tell you that your condition predates medical practice, perhaps even Pangaea.” I opened my mouth to ask Hemming what he meant about hearing my heartbeat from across the room, but he cut me off. “You’ve exceeded your question limit,” Hemming interrupted, and I flung myself on the couch with a big huff of irritation. Hemming joined me, but placed himself on the opposite side and flicked on the television. I had already finished my oatmeal pies, but I heard him opening his last one and snatched it from his hand before the pie met his mouth.

“Murder and thievery in one night?” he asked, one side of his lip twitching.

I shrugged and spoke through a mouthful of oatmeal cream pie, “I need my strength to endure the impending hours of your oppressive silence.”

“What was that?” he asked, but I was certain he understood me perfectly fine.

“Something something, diabetes? Can you hear my diabetes from over there? Can you smell my blood pressure?” I teased, smacking him hard with a throw pillow. He countered my attack by pulling off one of my fuzzy socks and tossing it across the room.

“You’ll pay for that,” I promised through gritted teeth as I stood, “Your punishment will be just but fair,” I added, suppressing a giggle.

Long fingers gripped around my wrist, pulling me off balance in my slightly inebriated state. The alcohol played a role, but I was intoxicated by the moment and the lingering adrenaline from a fresh kill. I landed next to Hemming on the couch, so close that our thighs brushed. I longed to touch him, to sweep a single finger across his shadowed jaw. I wanted to bury my face in his neck and breathe in his scent. I needed to run my hands across his broad shoulders, feeling the curvature of his powerful arms and journeying downward to…

“Your intimidation tactics lack finesse,” Hemming intersected my fantasy, poking my side, making me buckle over in a fit of ticklish laughter. “First off, don’t threaten unless you intend to follow through. Otherwise, you’re about as frightening as a baby platypus drinking milk from its mother’s teat.”

“Platypuses don’t have nipples,” I shot back, “Not to mention they’re venomous. They can produce enough venom to kill a dog. You can Google it.”

“I’ll—mmm— take your word for it,” Hemming replied with a raised brow. “Back to what I was saying, if you wish to be truly intimidating, you mustn’t be so predictable. You lack the element of surprise.” He dodged an incoming pillow, “And quite frankly, subtlety.”

I leaned forward to whisper in his ear, but stopped short to meet his lips with mine. His lips were soft, warm and deeply satisfying; his body radiated heat, like a blanket fresh out of the dryer on a cold night. Our kiss was hesitant, more like a question than a declaration. Feeling daring, I lifted a hand to graze the prickly stubble on his jaw and run my fingers through his thick hair, but he didn’t return my touch. I opened my eyes and pulled back to examine his expression, which seemed conflicted. The lights flickered on and off in the background. The corner of Hemming’s mouth twitched as he studied my face, moving his gaze down my body, all the way to my remaining sock, and glanced away. His throat bobbed slightly as he swallowed and smoothed invisible wrinkles from his slacks. The only thing I was conflicted about was the decision to retreat into the depths of my embarrassment or to climb into Hemming’s lap. When several moments passed without a word, I burned with humiliation and scooted away from him. Wasn’t he flirting with me? Had I misread him? I heard Hemming clear his throat but didn’t bother meeting his gaze. All of the blood in my body rushed to my cheeks, and I was sure I looked like a shamed tomato.

“Look at me, Miss Fox,” Hemming warned, and I reluctantly did as he said. “I feel nothing, all the time. It’s part of my curse. Do not fool yourself into thinking I could ever feel an iota of emotion towards you. I am your boss. You are my employee, not even a woman, but a girl. I am helping you, not because it’s how I choose to spend my free time, but because I am obligated. Any time you waste thinking otherwise will result in precious moments of your life you will never get back. Do you comprehend?” His expression was cold and stern, but faltered slightly in the dim light. The pain that seeped through reminded me of my own; the same pain that reflected back at me each morning while I tried to camouflage it with foundation and mascara.

“I understand,” I whispered in surrender and went into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. All I saw was the back of his head. He stared at the television, but he wasn’t really watching the program. “Whatever happened to you—I want you to know I’m sorry.” He turned his head toward my voice without glancing at me. He gave me a curt nod. I moved in front of him, grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. I wanted his full attention. “But you’re wrong about me. A couple of months ago, I was a girl. I let people tell me what to do and how to feel. I never questioned anything, because when I did, there were consequences. I was always scared of making the wrong move or displeasing my stupid foster mother, Joy. They wanted me to feel ashamed for wanting things, like cake and college and the freedom of short sleeves. They should be the ones ashamed, though. Their words and beliefs were poison. I will never be that girl again. She is a stranger to me. I hate frosting-less Pop Tarts, wearing long sleeves in summer, and Brushy Fork, Kentucky. Whatever is happening to me, like this evening’s events, it’s happening to me because I allow it—I refuse to ignore what’s right in front of me. Which is why I know you’re full of malarkey. Good night.”

I
rose
with the sun the following morning, scurrying to the window overlooking the side yard, where the remains of last night’s events were discarded. A glance through the window left me in a panic. The bodies of the black-eyed children were no longer sprawled out, lifeless in the grass. Instead, only a shadow of their forms remained amongst the greenery. I descended down the loft ladder and into the living room with such haste that my socks couldn’t catch any traction when they met the wooden floorboards. Feet overhead, I hit the creaky floor with a loud thud.

“Where are they?” I shouted into the kitchen, but Hemming was gone.

Billie slumped into the pool house wearing sunglasses sometime later and mumbled that we should go grab breakfast. We ended up at Café con Leche, whose brick front was nestled between a couple of cute shops I had yet to explore. Lured by the smell of potent, fresh coffee, Billie and I hurried in. The interior of the café was quirky: all of the walls were different bright colors and none of the tables or chairs matched. We ordered at the counter, adorned with pastry and cake displays in front of a menu written in chalk.

Billie and I claimed a table by the window and discussed last night’s events as we waited on our breakfast. She insisted I relay my happenings prior to her own briefing. Of course, I omitted the killing black-eyed children portion, saying that Hemming had walked me home and I laid the moves on him. I drifted over every signal he dropped, the play fighting, and his insistence on staying the night. I rounded off the long-winded elaboration with Hemming’s rejection.

“What the fuck?” Billie blurted out, removing her sunglasses, ignoring the waitress who brought our steaming coffee and pastries over. I mouthed ‘thank you’ to her as she shot a worried look between Billie and me. “But he was hard, right?”

“Hard?” I asked through a mouthful of monkey bread.

“Sorry, I forget you’re unfamiliar with the male anatomy,” Billie took a sip of frothy coffee. “Did he have an erection? Was his penis at attention? Was there a tent in his pants?” she rattled off a little too loudly, and I shuddered.

I glanced around the café, making sure no one else had heard her. “Good god, ask the entire neighborhood, why don’t you?” I rolled my eyes. “I don’t know. I didn’t know I needed to keep an eye out. Does that kind of thing happen often to men?” I wondered, then slurped the whipped cream off my coffee.

“Well, yeah. That’s typically what happens when they become aroused.”

“Did you and Caper have…” I gulped. Embarrassed, I lowered my voice, “…sex last night?” I had been holding back the question, because I thought it was an unsavory topic for breakfast.

“Duh,” Billie replied, plunging her fork into a piece of crumbly coffee cake. She had my full attention now. I’d never met someone willing to discuss casual sex.

“And…?” I prompted, wishing she would elaborate.

“And what? What do you wanna know? His penis has an odd curve to it, kind of like a bana—”

“That’s not what I meant!” I blushed. “I meant, do you feel any different, since you, you know…lost your virginity?”

Billie nearly spat her coffee on me. She put down her cup and smoothed out her blouse before speaking. “You’re not serious, right?”

“Well, I heard that once a woman loses her virginity, she changes. It’s like, a noticeable change. She’s different from then on,” I explained, summarizing W.H.O.R.E.’s sex education course. “Did it hurt?”

Billie shook with laughter, wiping tears from her eyes. Everyone in the shop was staring at us now. “Let’s get out of here,” she said when she finally caught her breath. I nodded, and we hopped into her jeep that was parallel parked in front of the cafe.

“Where are we going?” I questioned when Billie drove past our house.

“Think of this as ‘Sex ed. Saturday,’” Billie replied cheerily, lowering the volume on the radio. She peered over at me squirming uncomfortably in the seat, and I stared out the window. “I can tell that what I’m about to say is going to be hard for you to wrap your mind around…It might even be earth-shattering for you. So, just for today, I want you to forget everything you’ve been told about sex and listen to me. And if you don’t mention the Bible all day then I’ll—” she thought for a moment, pursing her lips, “I’ll buy us hamburgers and fries for lunch, from my favorite place. Deal?”

Sure, my compliance could be bought with greasy junk food. “Deal,” I agreed.

“That’s what I was hoping you’d say,” she grinned and tapped excitedly on her zebra  print steering wheel. “Now, first lesson: like men, women have sex before marriage. Perfectly normal, perfectly natural. The future of my father’s farm isn’t reliant on my maidenhood—he’s not trading my hand in marriage for a herd of cattle.”

She paused, waiting for me to say something, and when I didn’t, she pressed on, “Alright, good. I can see that you’re processing what I’ve said. Let’s move on to lesson number two: I don’t know why people use losing-your-virginity-scare tactics. They’re totally not true. But let me go on record and say: my first time didn’t hurt. There was no popping of anything. The only thing worth relaying about my first time was that it lasted all of about 45-seconds behind a kayak rack at summer camp before the start of eleventh grade.”

Ever since I got my period, I had been told that sex was not enjoyable, especially not the first time, since losing your virginity meant breaking your hymen, which was, apparently, a flappy thing inside of a woman. Horror stories of bloody wedding-night sheets were told in Charms class by Mrs. Miller. “Virginity is the one thing a woman’s got to offer a man. Without it, she’s nothin’,” she’d tell the class as we clung to her every word, making notes on the dry erase board.

Billie went over the details of her sex life. She’d only had one serious boyfriend, Ryan, sophomore year of college, and six lovers before that. She felt compelled to break up with her boyfriend because the sex was boring, and sexual compatibility was a deal-breaker for her. After Ryan, Billie participated in a few flings here and there.

We pulled up to “TOYS ‘N’ THINGS” in Port St. Joe a while later, which was attached to a gas station. The store’s windows were blacked out, which I found intimidating and odd.

“Are we at a s-s-sex shop?” I asked, mortified. Billie unbuckled her seatbelt and strolled out of the jeep without answering. When I didn’t move, she stalked to the passenger side door, unbuckled my seatbelt, and jerked me out of the seat and into the sketchy shop of horrors.  

The interior of TOYS ‘N’ THINGS was a repurposed video store—that still sold videos as well as other unmentionables. Each corner of the shop was targeted at a particular type of customer. To the front right, there were penis-shaped lollipops, penis-shaped pasta, penis-shaped piñatas, penis-shaped everything—obviously catering heavily to the bachelorette party host or a phallic-shaped-consumables collector. The back right corner was a bit more private, leaving more room to peruse and inspect. Collections of DVDs were haphazardly strewn in milk crates on a table, featuring titles like
Edward Dick Hands, The Poonies, and Harry Potter and the Order of the Penis
, for the fine connoisseur of visual media. The back left corner was more of a mystery to me: a blow up doll restrained by leather and chains hung from the ceiling and was gagged and blindfolded. Whips, tassels, and packages of risqué costumes lined the walls.

The final corner was the most intriguing, merely due to the overwhelming amount of phallic-shaped objects, ranging from the length of a baseball bat to one described as “fun-sized.”

“Holy dildo mountain,” Billie breathed, admiring the display, which reached the ceiling. She approached the behemoth penis that had to be at least three feet long and started poking at it.

“Stop that!” I warned, stealing a glance at the female cashier who was too busy texting to notice us.

“For pleasure or protection?” Billie asked me, shoving the giant dildo my way, which I dodged. “Imagine diffusing a bank robbery with this thing! It has to weigh at least thirty pounds,” she mused, then shook her head to gather her thoughts. “We’re here for you. To your right. Pick one out.”  

Billie motioned to the shelf labeled “Vibrators” and nudged me forward.

“Why?” I felt a wave of anxiety wash over.  I didn’t want to be in TOYS ‘N’ THINGS any longer. Billie officially embarrassed me to the point of minimal speaking, which was quite an accomplishment.

“Masturbation,” Billie said simply. When she saw my face reach the shade of tomato red, she explained: “Oh, don’t look at me that way. It’s not unnatural or dirty or anything you’ve ever been told. How are you supposed to tell your future lover what you enjoy if you truly don’t know? Do you want to rely on a man to give you pleasure? That gives him a lot of power, you know. Time to woman-up. Or at least have the option to,” she reached for a box on the shelf, “We’re getting this one. It takes AA batteries, so you can steal them from the remote if you run out,” she took the box the cash register and paid for it.

“Thanks?” I clicked through the vibrate settings as we drove away, then I shoved the contraption in my purse and out of sight.

“Mom wanted us to stop by the farmer’s market to get her some stuff for dinner,” Billie yelled over the radio, changing the subject. We pulled up to a crowd of tents downtown, which were arranged around a white gazebo on the green. At one tent, they were selling fresh seafood on ice, everything from red grouper to party packs of oysters. Billie bought three flounder filets and bag of ice and continued to mosey past the tents. Bohemian women sold handcrafted jewelry in the next tent, with offerings of sparkly gems and intricate designs. On our way back to the car, we paused to sample some of the local honey, slurping from little straws.

“Holy shit,” Billie’s mouth dropped mid-slurp.

“Yeah, it’s good. What flavors do you want?” I finished off the last bit of sticky sweetness, handing a few quarters to the beekeeper and selecting several more straws in various flavors, like peach and raspberry. When Billie didn’t respond, I followed her sight line to a tall, dark-haired couple perusing fresh vegetables from across the circle.

The fact that Hemming was with an attractive woman, chatting quietly and looking quite familiar with each other wasn’t what caused me drop all of my honey sticks. It was the fact that I knew the attractive woman he was picking out spaghetti squash with. Hemming spotted me the instant I spotted him. He hesitated for a moment, but then grabbed the woman’s attention and they made a beeline for us.

“Miss Fox,” Hemming greeted me, bending over to pick up my honey sticks from the ground. “Miss Moon,” he nodded toward Billie, who was still scowling. The woman flicked her violet eyes between Hemming and me, with an unpleasant expression gracing her face and perfectly manicured hands on her hips. “You’ve met my sister before,” Hemming placed his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “But I’m not sure you’ve been properly introduced. This is Helen,” he nudged the woman forward, and she extended her hand with reluctance.

“Pleasure,” Helen smiled through gritted teeth, waiting for a handshake.

“Your sister?” Billie scoffed at Hemming before I could ask.

“In the flesh, Raggedy Ann,” Helen replied, giving Billie a once over.

Billie clenched her fists like she was debating on whether to scratch Helen’s eyes out or punch her in the throat. I studied the similarities between the siblings. They both had the same, almost-black hair, olive skin, angular jaw, and crooked nose. Where Hemming’s eye was brown, Helen’s were violet. I pegged them both around the same age.

“You’re twins,” I shot a quick glance between Hemming and Helen, piecing together my arrival to Apalachicola. Helen said she had arranged my departure from Brushy Fork, whatever that meant, and I realized Hemming had dealt with me after she delivered. But why, and for what benefit of theirs?

My fragmented thoughts pierced my core with shards of betrayal. Hemming studied my expression, and I met his gaze with all of the hatred I could muster.

“Billie, I need to talk to Hemming about the ice cream shop, since I just got my spring schedule, I’ll, uh, need to work a different shift,” I was surprised at how easily I could lie to the one person I trusted. “Helen knows where I live, so she’ll take me home,” I wrapped my arms around Billie’s neck, “Thanks for today,” I whispered then gave her a smile, which she reluctantly returned after she studied my face, then stopped to survey Helen and Hemming before turning to go.

“Call me if you need me,” Billie said, her tone apprehensive, grabbing jingling keys from her purse. I nodded and watched her leave.

“What is going on here?” I demanded, leading Hemming and Helen away from the tents.

“Oh, well, let’s see. I’m currently wishing we were better strangers,” Helen said through a coy grin. “But, on the other hand, also impressed at what a little deceiver you were with your cousin back there. If you had those cajones a few months ago, I could’ve gotten you away from the Jesus freaks a lot sooner.”

I attempted to take Helen in stride, urging myself to take a deep breath. “Yeah, you never really elaborated on the escaping bit, particularly your hand in it,” I inched closer to her as we paced down the wooden walkway over the sand dunes to the bay. Helen pursed her lips as Hemming sat down under an empty pavilion, on top of one of the picnic tables. I stood in front of them as she took a seat next to her brother. Both siblings exchanged looks like they were trying to decide where to begin.

“Hemming and I knew your father,” Helen started. “We struck a deal with him, that involved your protection should anyone jeopardize your safety,” she began.

“At the expense of what? What was the other end of the deal?” I demanded.

“Calm your tits,” Helen waved me off. “Like I was saying, a portion of the negotiation involved protection—keeping baby Fox safe, should mommy and daddy, grand mommy and grandpoppy fail at doing so,” her tone was unbelievably condescending. My lip quivered in response. “The day after your grandparents died in that fiery car crash, we went to procure you from their humble abode, but you’d already been snatched up by a Blood of Christ serpent. We had no idea where they could’ve taken you, especially since someone did a nice job of making sure everyone thought you were dead with the placement of the third body at the scene,” Helen arched a brow at Hemming and continued.