Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  “What are you gettin’ at, Gloria? You think I’m swiping your fuckin’ mushrooms?”

  “Aw no.” Her fingers worked the puzzles of her Victorian jacket buttons, unhooking them one at a time, her body puffing out between the lapels as though the jacket had corseted a much larger woman. “You were being so polite. I’d never expected to hear potty language. But now I have.” As she undid the final button, the jacket was flung away by seemingly hundreds of appendages. They snatched at the air furiously creating a shimmering fan of anger. “Too bad. I do so love visitors.”

  Madame Gloria took a step forward, but I was already moving, darting from the gazebo and through the pavilion. The goddess was hot on my heels, her presence announced by the buzzing of her many arms.

  “Stop, girl, I’m just going to strip those words out of you. Strip them right out.”

  I didn’t like the sound of that. “The hell you are!”

  But worse than losing my ability to cuss like a sailor was the thought of those arms coming down on me, tangling in my hair, picking at my flesh. I ran with sloppy abandon, back down the dirt road we’d come in the rickshaw, slipping through the fields of excrement and the path over the canals.

  Serpentine! Serpentine! I commanded myself to weave as I ran, mimicking those commando movies. Fast and low, Amanda.

  I barely escaped her crazy puritanical grasp as I breezed through the jungle and straight into the wall of obsidian.

  I expected her hand to grab hold of my hair and pull me back into her tropical illusion, but no.

  In seconds I was out the other side and the buzzing was gone. I fell to the ground and rubbed at my arms. So close. So very close. But I’d outrun the bitch. Thanks to my Nike Air-Somethings.121

  I never thought of myself as much of an athlete but I’d definitely proved myself capable of a sprint.

  “She let you go,” a guy’s voice said.

  I jerked my head towards the sound and found Tad waiting by the truck, the back of which was laden with sack upon sack of mushrooms.

  “Wha-what do you mean? I outran her.”

  “You mean in those new track shoes she gave you?”

  I shot a glance at the sporty kicks and glowered at the kid. “Bullshit. She was going to strip me of my ability to curse. And believe me, in my social group, that would have hurt.”

  “Okay. You’re right. She wasn’t fucking with you.” The boy laughed then, as though freed of some big lie, or at least of a witness.

  I gasped. “You’re a pottymouth?”

  He opened the passenger door. “I hope you don’t mind the smell. I’ve got a shipment.”

  Apparently Madame Gloria was not only “moderately accurate” in her visions, but in her judge of character.

  113 If you know what I mean.

  114 ’Cause who talks like that? Seriously? Who?

  115 It’s like a little trip through my mind. You know you want to.

  116 I know. I know. It’s really terribly cliché to have so many family issues. But what can I say? I guess it really does take a village to raise a child. One great big fucked up village.

  117 Too far? It felt like I was skating on thin ice with that one. Oh well. Hell it is.

  118 Manners are very important.

  119 You get skinned knees, I get skinless knees.

  120 Damn you, Bell’s palsy—what with all those appliqués to talk about. Slurp.

  121 Dear Mr. Nike,

  Please send me much free swag, c/o Feral Inc. [Editor’s note:

  Address withheld], Seattle, WA

  Sincerely,

  Amanda Feral, Celebrity Ghoul, Nike endorser

  Chapter 17

  On the Hush-Hush, the

  DL, or the QT122

  Looking to spice up your supernatural relationship? Why not treat your lover to some Aural Sex. That’s right, dead things, envelope your sex partner in a shimmering miasma of ecstasy, courtesy of Wicked Wishes (the people who brought you Bunghole Calliope and the Wand-o-Plenty).

  —A paid commercial seen on early morning Supernatural Satellite

  Upon returning, Wendy noticed my distress and darted into the store for chemical refreshment in the form of a gallon jug of rubbing alcohol. Strong shit but effective. The Cleavers had arrived in their gaudy traveling palace and the twins were chatting up Honey, hopefully not discussing a three-way—’cuz … ew, really. Fishhook and Tad took a walk somewhere and Gil found a lonely runaway sleeping in her car and took her behind the store.123

  Scott, Wendy and I went over the incident from beginning to end.

  “So she’s gonna die?” Wendy stole a glance at the trio and shuddered.

  “Apparently. Don’t tell Mr. Kim. We’ll try to prove the bitch wrong.” I followed her gaze. Honey was regaling the little pervs with an undoubtedly fascinating tale, as Chris and Cathy warmed themselves under a blanket—or something … else. Probably daydreaming about attics.

  “We really ought to ban her from talking to those two,” I said.

  “I agree,” Scott said. “I’ve done a lot of safety checks for Child Protective Services and those two reek of mental institution. I wouldn’t be surprised if that whole family was one big incest factory. Too sweet. Too normal. I’ve been watching.”

  “Hmm. Your cynicism’s making me horny,” I joked.124

  His laugh was deep and guttural, akin to a guffaw but without any of the associated bumpkin-ness that word seems to engender. Wendy rolled her eyes, patting me on the shoulder and wandering off to check on Honey and dinner, presumably.

  A blessing.

  Madame Gloria’s images played across my eyelids in a loop, like a radio station on holiday, only with full-frontal nudity and body fluids. I caught myself running my fingers across my cheek, chasing a rare warmth I didn’t think the rubbing alcohol was entirely responsible for. I was so rapt in the memory, in fact, I didn’t notice the man, himself, until his fingers curled over my shoulders and began to knead where the tension settled. He swept my hair aside and ran his thumbs down my neck and inside the collar of my blouse. The pressure was exquisite.

  “I was worried about you.” His voice was close. The bass tones caught on the tiny hairs of my neck, sending a vibration that echoed through my body; it elevated to a quake as it found its target. I slid my hand from my stomach to my thigh, clawed at thin cotton.

  Scott wore the same cologne as the male body in the vision.

  Grassy. Fresh.

  Clean.

  Everything that the parking lot lacked was in that scent. I closed my eyes and let it carry me away from the painful straps of the lawn chair, away from all the drama of the past few days. The conflict. The bloodshed.

  The discount clothing.

  “Mmm hmm. But I’m here now. I’m fine.” The words stretched out in a sleepy tone I didn’t recognize, or maybe I did but from long before my death, from a time when I could relax and rid myself of all the self-critique and just be.

  “Yes, you are.” He knelt beside me then, I felt the soft pressure of his lips on my eyelids. Heard the tiny pops of the smallest kisses. His hands traced the geometry of my throat, the swell of my breasts. His fingers lingered on the soft tents of my nipples, until they were hard enough to cut diamonds, or at least fabric produced by 10-year-old Guatemalan seamstresses.

  Scott slid his arms around me and rested his head on my chest. “Do you want to find somewhere … quiet?”

  I held his lightly stubbled face and pressed it to me, nuzzling and kissing his warm brow through the soft blond curls. He tilted his head back and searched my face with those sultry eyes, bloodshot and droopy from not enough sleep. His lips seemed swollen from this angle, pillowy soft. They parted in that instant, a question forming.

  I answered with slow sweeps of my lips across his warm mouth, our supple skin barely touching. His warm breath sparked against my cold dead flesh, carrying all the scents I expected and would have to struggle against. If I ever wanted to devour anyone so totally, it was this man. H
e clutched me to him as our tongues twirled and withdrew, thrust deeper, exploring and then….

  A snort.

  Scott’s breath had lost its comfortable warmth. Our lips parted and I noticed a fire dancing in his eyes. In fact, fire was an appropriate description, as steam forced itself from his nostrils; they flared with each exhalation.

  “Just a second.” He took some deep breaths, rolled his head from side to side and rubbed his palms against his jeans. When he looked back at me, his eyes returned to the deep amber that entranced me so.125“You want to get a room or what?”

  “Oh … yeah,” I said. “Four walls and roof will do. Just so you know, I’m no innocent farmer’s daughter. You were turning wolfy just then and I saw it.”

  He raised his hands in surrender. “Caught.”

  “Let’s just be clear from the beginning. This is going to be more than just exercise. We’re both going to have to control ourselves. At least in the supernatural sense.”

  He grinned, thickened canines retracting into his gums. “I can do that.”

  “Well, I’m not going to make any promises. If you hear my jaw popping, you better head for the door, or at least spin me around doggy style.”

  He laughed. “You’re a naughty one.”

  “You bet your ass.”

  In the distance, Wendy seemed to be carrying out her reconnaissance of the Cleaver camp. The mister and missus had joined the fun and brought out a triangular box that could only be that horrific determiner of IQ, Trivial Pursuit—hate that game. Unless the questions are about fashion, fads or celebrity faux pas, I’m shit out of luck. They seemed to be accepting of Wendy’s presence. If they weren’t careful with their hospitality, we wouldn’t be worrying about them as suspects so much as how to get their remains out of Wendy’s batting-packed gut.

  I had little hope that sex with Scott would end up in a relationship, but he was warm—so warm—and it had been forever since I’d had a decent lay. Granted, that last time with Martin didn’t end so well—unless you’re looking at it from the perspective of a black widow— but the couple since then had turned out to be horrible lovers. I mean really bad. So can you blame me if I wanted to get a little action, particularly with someone so animalistic? Didn’t think so.

  I slid my hand into his and led him to the dented Winnebago, looking around to make sure the others wouldn’t made a quick return to catch us at it. I left the lights off. No sense in worrying about gray mottled skintones ruining the mood, or worse, reminding my suitor that he’d be experiencing the joys of a taboo.126 As it was, the light through the window cast a shade of pink across my pale flesh that was quite attractive, if I do say.

  He spun me around, lifted me onto the counter and spread my legs with his hips. I clawed at the buttons on his shirt, caught hold of the yokes and tore. A button fired off the fabric and pegged me in the eye— sexy, right? I rubbed at it and decided to spare him the same indignity by tending to my own shirt.

  “You look so hot in this light.” His breath curled hot around the shell of my ear.

  The scent of meat rose off him, nearly sending me into that manic zombie feeding frenzy. I needed to break away.

  “I know, right?” I pushed him back to shake off the tendency, focus and admire the light dusting of golden fur on his pecs, the trail leading south over the hills and valleys of his taut abdomen. I ran my fingers around the tracks of his nipples, coaxing them to points. His body erupted into a shudder, heat rising to his flesh again. He inhaled. Exhaled. Struggled to keep the beast inside.

  I scooted off the counter and slid down his body, lightly teasing his chest with kisses, flicking my tongue against his nipples, trailing it down his stomach until I was in the promissory position, head to hip.

  … and on that note: a quick word on dick.

  Chest hair trimming usually means that you’re not going to come face to face with a big ′70s bush, which is entirely unacceptable. No one—and by no one, I’m talking about me—wants to unzip a guy and come face to face with Barbra Streisand in A Star Is Born. You get me? Of course, there is the issue of finding no patch at all. I don’t know about you, but twelve-year-old boys aren’t sexy, no matter what your neighbor’s pregnant daughter says. As for the big reveal, I’m concerned with two things and two things only:

  That I’m not dealing with a micro-penis. Seriously, it’s going to take more than the eraser end of a pencil to get me off. I don’t mean to be harsh, but I’m pretty sure that’s a medical condition. Men, please consult your physician.

  That the sheep’s been sheared. If your weiner’s got a hoody, it’s not going anywhere near my mouth, let alone the other two spots.

  Are we clear?

  Now, from the bulge in Scott’s jeans I could tell we’d be working with some decent-sized equipment, but you never know about the other concerns until the boxers are down, or briefs, as the case may be.

  I slid his jeans down his legs, helped him off with his shoes—but not socks, the trailer floor was too nasty— and ran my hands up the architecture of his legs, the thick cords of muscle flexed under my grip. Scott grinned above me, clearly proud that his message had reached me. I shook my head and went for the business, the head of which was already peeking over the elastic band of his shorts, straining for relief, and without a turtleneck, I might add. With the briefs down, I could finally get a good look.

  The assessment: a little on the long side of average and veinier than a designer dildo. A trimmed patch completed the look.127

  “Are you sure?” I asked. Sex is a huge trust thing for a woman, but a blowjob from a zombie has to be the biggest act of trust ever. He nodded eagerly.

  I was fairly certain I wasn’t going to chew off his dick, so I went down on him.

  Scott closed his eyes and let out a low moan as I toyed with his manhood, rocking it across my tongue, the insides of my cheeks.

  That’s when I heard the first clue of what I was in for.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “Suck it. Suck that big dick.”

  I should have stopped right there, and I did pause. Nothing is more distracting than porno talk. It’s laughable in the movies, but when you hear it in real life? It’s just weird. But, I didn’t stop; I kept going. In fact, I even took off my bra while I blew him. Quite a feat, considering I was in a squat rather than on my knees—um … did I mention the floor?

  Rather than wrap it up with a quick summation, like I’d normally do, let’s stay with this. Play it out. I’m gonna need some advice when it’s over, anyway.

  Scott guided me up by the shoulders, wrapping me in a tight embrace and pressing his lips into mine. His fingers dug in the band of my panties, pushing them down and searching my folds, exploring.

  His eyes were red with passion or transformation, one or the other, but they locked on mine as he whispered, “You want it, baby? You want it deep inside you?”

  “Um.” I did, yes, however, to say so might reinforce his pottymouth. In the end I just let him guess and it didn’t take him long to make a decision.

  His cock slipped between my lips, the tip gliding against my engorging clit. He tried to open me up with his other hand, withdrew from the arid hole and, unperturbed, spat into his palm, greased up his dick and tucked it inside of me in a graceful fluid movement.128

  He started thrusting, deeper, grinding his hips against me. He lifted my thighs, forcing me back onto the counter. I met each push with a lift of my pelvis, rising up, forcing him further inside of me.

  “Unh unh. You feel that?” he asked, teeth chattering between the words, canines longer and thicker than before.

  “Um … yeah? Of course I—”

  “Yeah? That’s me fucking you, baby.” He cut me off, lifting my knees higher, directing his cock like an orchestra. “Fucking you wide open. Getting in there good.”

  “Okay?” The talking was really turning me off, and I was almost there. Something had to be done.

  “Am I hittin’ your spot? I mean really hittin’ it.
Hit-tin’ it right?”

  Enough with the porno talk, I decided. I pressed my hand across his mouth. He mumbled into my palm.

  “Just fuck me,” I said.

  He did. And for the first time since I died, I had an orgasm. The muted throbbing from our rhythm gave way to a rolling shudder so intense that I curled over and screamed, heaving an unconscious lungful of the breath from my mouth. It scrolled through the air, tendrils seeking the warm dampness of human lungs. Scott’s lungs. I pinched off his nose, and sucked as much as I could of the virus back in—the rest would need some time to dissipate. My little porn star was going to have to hold out for air.

  His thrust became more fervent, his fiery eyes widened and his breath blazed against my hand. He seemed to be enjoying the experience a bit too much. When he did come, his body convulsed as though a grand mal seizure was passing through it. He shook and his jaw slackened. He slid out of me and onto the floor, unconscious.

  I prodded him with my toe, fearing that I’d been too slow in shielding him from the breath and half expecting him to turn zombie on the spot.

  And then I realized what I’d done.

  I remembered the kid on the news that died strangling himself for a high when he masturbated. I thought of the lead singer of that band, rumored to have done the same.

  Erotic asphyxiation.

  That’s what I’d done to Scott and the freak had truly gotten off on it. But I’m pretty sure that wasn’t on the books as a method to kill a werewolf.

  “Wha-wha-what was that?” He twisted on the floor. Writhed might be a better word. It wasn’t at all sexy as chunks of filthy moss stuck to his naked skin with each roll across the disgusting carpet. His socks were similarly spotted and streaked; all he needed was a frame and an art critic.

  “Oh God. Are you okay?” I reached down and helped him to his feet. Settling him in to the booth before hunting down my underwear.

  “Are you kidding? That was awesome.”