Filaria - Brent Hayward [55]
There was that gang, encircling him, and the girl, once again showing a thin ridge of teeth from under her upper lip. Azure eyes sparkled yet she looked a little unsure. Taken aback?
She was breathing fast.
Phister knew that little time — if any — had passed. He also knew, with a twinge of shame, that he had already forgiven the girl for the pain she’d caused him, that he would fall for her, over and over again, if only for doses of her undivided attention.
Experimentally, he shook his head. The agony was not quite as much as he had feared. “Who the . . . What was that?” There was a tingling in his limbs and he was sure he felt myriad movements inside his veins, as if a miniature army were invading him, marching to certain victory.
“You tell me,” the girl whispered, eyes glittering. “Tell me everything that happened.”
“Where was I? And who was that . . . lady?”
“Lady? You went somewhere? What did you see?” The girl’s fingers touched the flank of the car. Phister’s eyes followed them. She sure had beautiful hands. He imagined those fingers resting on him.
“Your, uh, reaction,” she said, “was pretty intense. I mean, it’s supposed to . . . You, freaking out like that . . . The trick . . .?”
Over her shoulder, the others looked on, expressions also wide-eyed and somewhat shocked, incongruous on their previously tough faces.
“I did make the hunter vanish,” the girl continued, with a gesture, searching for words. “That thing, it’s a device, older than your car. But when most people see it, have it pointed at them, they have only a quick flash, nothing they can put their finger on.” A narrowing to those eyes, hardening the look she’d levelled at him. Behind her, glances were exchanged between a stocky boy and a slender girl in a white dress. “You’re different . . .” Her voice was cold. “So tell me now what you saw.”
To Phister’s surprise, bubbles of anger rose in him, making him feel stronger. “What you did to me hurt. I didn’t like that.”
The girl leaned in even closer, hissing with that sweet-smelling breath. “Tell me what you fucking saw.”
Expecting McCreedy to kick his shin under the dash, warning him to be cautious, Phister tried to remain brave. He replied carefully, “Not much. It was all pretty vague.” The old man did not budge. “Some lady. Her and me, in a quiet room.” And truthfully, as from a dream, details from the odd intrusion into his reality were fading; he could no longer recall the expression on the green woman’s face or what it had truly been like to feel confident and healthy in that other pristine time and place. He could not remember contentment. He did not need to lie about that.
Now McCreedy said, “Okay. Great gag. What about the fucking food you promised us?”
The girl wheeled on the driver, a blur of speed, one of those long fingers, heavy with rings, nearly touching McCreedy’s face. The fingernail was like a blade. Bracelets jangled loudly. “I heard you call me a bitch, you piece of shit. Lucky I don’t have you killed right here and now.” She took a breath, tried to smile again, but her aplomb had vanished.
McCreedy was not intimidated. He folded his arms over his chest and glared. “I need food. You told us you could get us some food. That’s why we’re here with you. Not for conversation or fucking parlour tricks. Me and the boy are starving.”
After a moment, the girl withdrew her hand. She let it rest on Phister’s shoulder, just as he had imagined.
“Well, this particular bitch has a name. It’s Cynthia. And I thank you to call me that from now on, since I’m about to be hospitable to you two. Since I am going to feed you. Since I’m letting you live.”
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