Releasing her grip, she whispered, There’s no other way.
His face was buried in the pillow as he thought, She’s crazy. What am I going to do? That thought was followed by, Maybe it would work. Maybe.
We must kill her, or we’ll get caught, Kristanabel whispered. Myron turned his head as she freed his ravaged ear, and said, What about the children?
I will take care of the children. I will be like a mother to them. Though she knew the children would have to go too. Kristanabel hated the children.
But first things first, and the first thing was that Blade bitch.
Myron turned over with effort, and the girl slithered to his side. He looked at her, and drew a deep breath as his chest pounded. Would he kill for her? he wondered. What had happened to him?
The long blonde hair. The cold, cutting blue eyes. The soft round body. Those teeth. That was what had happened to him, and he knew it.
There was a knock from the hall. Kristanabel pulled the sweaty sheet over her bare skin, leaving only her hair and eyes out in the dank air. Myron plunged his legs into pants, and opened the door to Max the bellman.
Your order, sir, Max said with a malevolent smile, as he handed the aluminum tray to Myron and turned on his still-military heel, thinking, Oooh, boy. Max had seen much at the Marbol, but little on the grand scale of Kristanabel.
On the tray was a hamburger and fries for Myron, plus rare roast beef between three slices of black bread with brown mustard, lettuce, tomato slices and plenty of onion for Kristanabel. A cold jar of whole dill pickles.
Two dark ales — and a root beer for show.
As they ate cross-legged on the bed facing one another, Myron thought, No wonder she’s filled out so much since she came to live with us. What an appetite. She was like a skinny kitten then. Now she is a cat.
A black cat tinted pale. Fingering his aching earlobe, crusty with dried blood, he looked at her sharp teeth and wondered what lay ahead. She was 17.
And he was sweaty.
* * * *
(One of a series titled The Marbol Hotel.)