Page 16 of Her Dreadful Will
Her brows puckered and her lip quivered. “I’m not sure what you want.”
“I’ll show you, if you can promise to be brave. And we’ll have to be quick—your caregiver will be looking for you soon. First, an illustration.”
He raised his hand and his thin fingers flexed crookedly, like the broken talon of a bird. Rot crawled up the boards of the fence, a dark stain spreading. Blisters of scabrous white bulged along the twigs of the bushes, bursting and drooling yellow pus down their woody stems. The grass along the fence shriveled, turning as black as the dog’s trembling body.
“This is what’s happening to your mind, love. Time, the agent of chaos, creeping in and souring it all. But for you, I can turn it back. Reclaim some of the mental faculties you have lost. I can’t make you young again, but I can ease a little of your body’s decay, too, so you can care for yourself without being so dependent on others. Think of it as rewinding the tape.” His bony wrist swiveled, his palm angled to the sky, and the corruption sucked away, leaving the grass green, the fence undamaged, and the bushes as whole and hardy as before.
Florence’s brain stuttered, struggling to understand what she’d just seen. She fought the fog, clawing it aside. “What do you want from me? No one helps out for free.”
“Clever woman.” He winked at her, and then his gaze traveled to the half-open gate, to the prone figure on the blanket. “I want you to watchherfor me. And if I ask you to do something for her, ortoher—you have to do it. No questions.”
Florence pondered. There was something scandalous about the two of them standing there, staring at the naked girl, plotting and bargaining. She liked it. She also liked the idea of the chaos being cleared from her mind—of being able to remember TV show characters for more than a few minutes, or being able to hold plot points in her mind for more than a few pages of a novel. Being able to pluck important words and names from her memory at will.
“You have a deal, boy,” she said. “And I won’t speak to anyone about you, or your unnatural godless powers.”
He smiled. “Of course you won’t. Who would believe you? They don’t see you like I do, Florence. To them, you are past your senses, past your usefulness—you’ve had your time, and you’re lingering here pointlessly, waiting for the end. But I see who you really are—what you can still be.”
Reaching for her again, he placed his fingers along the side of her face, with his thumb just below her eye. He caught her gaze and held it as a strange, sickening vibration rolled through Florence’s body, buzzing in her brain like a thousand yellow jackets. The buzzing concentrated along the right side of her face, centering to painful points beneath the dentist’s fingertips. And then, slowly, the pain drained away, and the vibration disappeared. The dentist’s eyes turned black—sclera, iris, and all—for a handful of seconds before he let go and stepped back.
His chest heaved under his charcoal T-shirt, and he stared at his hand for a moment before meeting Florence’s eyes again. “Well? How do you feel?”
She picked up the sprig at her feet and looked at the bushes by the fence.
“Rhododendron,” she said triumphantly. “That’s what they’re called.”
She smiled at the green-eyed boy, and he sent back a conspiratorial grin.
“Perfect,” he said. “And thank you for that infusion of power. I’ll put it to good use—well, topracticaluse. Whether it’s goodor not is a matter of opinion.”
Florence noted the way his eyes shifted back to the girl, an undeniable hunger darkening his features.
“Is she alive?” she asked him.
“She is. Just—very deeply asleep.”
“Then you should put her dog back inside and close the gate, and quit staring like a peeping Tom.”
Startled, he whipped around, and for a second Florence thought she’d angered him. A pink flush tinged his cheeks, but he only said, “You’re right.”
Kneeling, he reached out to the dog. “Come.”
The black dog—Doberman, Florence thought with delight—rose stiffly and approached the dentist.
“I apologize for the indignity,” he told the dog solemnly, cupping its muzzle with tattooed fingers. “Go protect her.”
With a chuff and a growl, the Doberman stalked back through the gate, and the dentist swung it shut and latched it.
“Good boy,” said Florence. “You did the right thing.”
His lip curled. “Only because I plan to do very, very wicked things to her in the future. And when I do, she’ll be a willing participant.”
Florence should have been shocked by the words. Women of her generation, here in the Deep South—they didn’t speak that way. But she felt unusually free and wicked today, so she didn’t mind the boy’s bold admission of his lust.
He offered Florence his arm, and they moved toward her own house together. Her joints didn’t pain her quite as much now, and she could flex her fingers, curl them, control their movements more precisely.
“You want me to watch the girl,” she said. “How will I contact you about what I see?”
“Your tooth.” He patted the pocket where he’d stowed the necklace. “It’s a scrying tether. Links me to your mind, lets me speak to you and see what you see.”
