Part 4 (1/2)
Dorian straightened up, threw one leg over the girl, and dragged the blade across the smooth flesh of her neck. The skin parted and blood poured out, spraying a little, glazing his red coat in an even darker shade. His knees pinned down her arms as her eyes widened. She thrashed, the strength of her movements remarkably vital, almost throwing him off her. He kept his hand over her mouth the whole time, smothering her cries, even after her body fell still. Then he climbed off the corpse, took a rag from his sack, and wiped the blood from his blade.
It had been too late for Grace. She was too old for the Purge, and he refused to soil little Bethany with the blood of the tainted.
He stepped away from the body, letting it bleed out on the throw rug. On the way out of the room he walked with less care. There was no one left to avoid, after all, not with older sister dead. He pa.s.sed the family Christmas tree, a cheap store-purchased fake, and stared at it, feeling a moment of sadness. It was all lit up with white lights, but no ornaments hung from its aluminum branches, no tinsel rested on the green vinyl needles. Perhaps they were waiting for the next afternoon to decorate it.
No matter. Too late now.
Up the stairs he went, listening to the swoos.h.i.+ng of his thick pants with each swing of his legs. At the top he veered to the left, down a hallway lit by a single nightlight. He gazed at the walls as he pa.s.sed, looking for the telltale family portraits, pictures that showed Grace and Bethany on their march through time, but there were none to be seen. Shrugging, he stopped at a door festooned with a child's drawings. One of the sketches seemed to show a happy unicorn feeding a carrot to an impoverished teddy bear; another presented a school of fish circling a chest of gold. He pushed open the door.
Moonlight streamed in through gaps in the curtains, casting the bed in the center of the room in an eerie cobalt radiance. Little Bethany sat up in bed, very much awake, dark hair dandling in front of her face, holding the blankets to her chest. Her eyes were wide, twinkling in the moonlight. Dorian strode into the room and slung the empty sack from over his shoulder. He smiled, and the fake beard itched against his cheek, making him twitch.
”Santa Claus?” said Bethany.
”Yes, dear,” replied Dorian. ”It is me.”
The little girl visibly relaxed. ”You bring presents?”
His tools jangled in his pockets. ”I have. Many presents.”
”Can I see them?”
”Have you been a good little girl?”
”Uh-huh.”
”Are you sure?”
”Uh-huh.”
Dorian shook his head. ”I am not so sure of that, Bethany Baker.”
”Why not?”
He sauntered along the side of the bed and sat down on the edge. Bethany retreated the tiniest bit, but not as much as a little girl should when a stranger entered their room. Dorian silently praised himself for the idea of donning the Santa suit. That decision had come about almost twenty years ago, and it was the smartest one he'd ever made.
His hand drifted to Bethany's knee. Once more she recoiled, but again the curiosity showing in her eyes won out. She actually inched closer to him, and allowed her tiny fingers to touch the soft fabric of his gloves. Her mouth dropped into a frown.
”Santa, your suit's wet.”
Dorian nodded. ”That happens.”
”Did you see my sister?”
”Yes.”
”Was she good?”
”No.”
”Did you give her a present anyway?”
”Of course.”
Her eyes drifted to his empty sack. ”Was it the last one?”
”Not at all, my child,” he replied. ”Not at all.”
With his free hand, Dorian shoved the little girl flat on the bed. A puff of surprised air escaped her rosebud lips, and she grabbed hold of his wrist, trying to free herself. Just like her sister, she seemed strong for her age, but Dorian was a large man. He held her down easily, and then climbed on top of her. She whimpered and cried. He took his spool of gaffer tape from his pocket, ripped off a piece, and fastened it over her mouth. With another piece he bound her thras.h.i.+ng wrists together over her head. He wrapped a third around her ankles.
Bethany flogged about on the bed like a snake on hot concrete. Dorian leaned over her, staring into those wide, panicky eyes. They seemed so shocked, so betrayed. He almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
He sat beside her until she calmed down, though her chest continued to rise and fall like a revving engine. When she stilled he lifted her nights.h.i.+rt, festooned with images of dancing princesses, and traced his fingertips around her bellyb.u.t.ton. Her flesh was smooth and warm.
”You have been a bad girl, Bethany,” said Dorian. ”Do you know why?”
Her head shook violently from side to side.
”You have evil inside you, princess. Just like all little girls. You taunt men with your virtue, place dirty images in their heads. You turn men into monsters, because you are a monster yourself. But all is not lost. I can save you. I can purge the demon from your flesh. I can make you good.”
Bethany whimpered.
He took out the knife and pressed it gently against her breastbone. The cutting edge drew blood, and the girl was thrown into another las.h.i.+ng spasm. Dragging the knife downward, he opened a tiny mouth in her flesh. With every breath, with every thrash, the mouth opened, spitting her life's fluids. It dribbled over her ribs, pooling on the flannel sheets.
”Quiet now,” Dorian whispered. ”It hurts more if you fight it.”
He went to work, cutting off her clothes and opening tiny mouths all over her body, allowing them to air out the darkness within. Unlike most of his subjects, Bethany's struggles increased. She became harder to hold still. Her m.u.f.fled screams pierced his eardrums. I must have hit the mother lode, he thought, and couldn't help but smile.
He labored for more than an hour, until his beard, suit, and the entire surface of the bed was soaked with the child's blood. She finally stopped fighting. Her eyes stared blankly at the ceiling, blinking only occasionally. Satisfied, Dorian opened his bag. From it he removed a small, steel bone-saw. He needed it to cut through her ribcage and access the organs beneath.
”The hard part is over,” he whispered into her ear. Bethany's sweat-coated hair smelled salty and sour, making him sneeze.
He placed the saw on the bed beside her, lifted his knife, and drove it into her stomach. It punched through her skin, and he slowly moved it upward, opening a much bigger mouth to match the tiny ones covering her. Her back arched and a pitiful moan echoed in her throat. Her intestines glistened in the moonlight, writhing as she did, like a pile of worms. More blood poured out as he worked. He always misjudged how much of it the human body held. He picked up the saw and got ready to cut in, to fill his sack with the source of little Bethany's evil.
Light suddenly filled his world. It emanated from behind him. In a moment of confusion he paused and dropped the saw. Fingers of cold steel wrapped around his shoulders before he could turn around, yanking him off the bed. He careened through the air and smacked into the wall. His head bounced off the plaster, cracking it. Blood-Bethany's blood-leapt from his clothes in a mist upon impact. Stars danced in his vision while the urge to vomit rose in his gut.
He craned his neck. Two figures stood above him, staring down with hatred in their eyes. Off to the side, standing in the doorway, was yet another, albeit smaller profile.
Dorian's eyes widened as his vision came into focus. It was Grace who stood in the doorway, looking pale and wearing a scarf, her dark hair pulled back, her eyes squinting. She held a phone in her hand, waving it at him, taunting him.
”What the h.e.l.l...” whispered Dorian.
Paul Baker reached down and grabbed Dorian by the furry lapel. The guy was so strong, lifting him to his feet with ease. His fists were large and meaty, his jaw firm. Spit flew from his lips as he bared his teeth. He ripped off Dorian's fake beard with one tug.
”What were you doing to my daughter, you sick f.u.c.k?”
Dorian didn't respond. He wished he had his knife.