Basilisk (The Korsak Brothers #2)(46)
“Little boy.” She’d been sobbing so hard, I’d barely been able to understand her. “They took me, those bastards.” She meant the guards who stood farther outside the circle, passive and watching. “They took me just as they took you. What do they want? Did they hurt you? Did they. . . .” She had swallowed. “Did they touch you? All of you? Oh God, will they rape me? Will they hurt me?”
Peter’s smile had never faded. “No,” he’d said, running a fascinated hand through her hair. Then he’d kissed her cheek, the same way as we’d seen in movies. That was all we knew of affection, what we’d been taught to fake. “They won’t hurt you.
“But I will.”
And he had. He’d killed her, the lost girl with no name. He took his time too. When he was done, there wasn’t any part of her body he hadn’t toyed with . . . except two. He’d shut down her kidneys, he’d filled her lungs with blood, he’d torn her liver into pieces, he’d twisted her intestines into knots, he’d squeezed her heart with an invisible hand over and over until, after four heart attacks, she had finally died. But her brain and her vocal cords he had never touched. He’d made sure she remained conscious and aware throughout it all and he’d made sure she could scream. She had felt all the pain, all the terror, not a second wasted to oblivion, and she had screamed until her throat bled, spraying blood with every cry. The entire time she had spent dying, Peter had chanted softly over and over, “ ‘Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater, had a wife and couldn’t keep her. . . .’ ”
I hadn’t thought Peter was smarter than me, but I’d always known he was more ruthless. His heart and soul belonged to the Way of the Institute if not to the Institute itself, and he’d not take any cure willingly. The sun was bright behind my eyelids as the memory ended. I felt my fists clench, my joints complaining with the pressure. He wouldn’t take it willingly, no, but he’d take it all the same. I’d make f*cking sure of that and I’d remember those terrified brown eyes when I gave it to him.
Peter, Peter—it was time for you to be my reward.
Breakfast was drive-through. I didn’t mind. The more greasy and loaded with sugar and salt, the better I liked it. Lunch was drive-through too, or to-go, rather. It was a ten-hour drive from St. George to Laramie and we were making it a straight shot, but while much of me was superhuman, my bladder had yet to show signs of being of more than earthly origin. I had to piss the same as anyone else. We took turns, with one in the bathroom and two to stand watch. I didn’t think it was necessary. If Mr. Fried-and-Crispy we’d left back in the motel parking lot improved enough to jump up and tear ass after us, he had nothing to go on now. No license plate number. No description of the car. But I’d heard “better safe than sorry” so many times in the past three years that it could’ve been my middle name.
“I want a taco.”
I was slumped in one bright orange plastic booth with my bag in one hand and a giant Mountain Dew in the other when a hand tugged on my jeans. I was alert—bathroom bodyguard at top form—so I’d seen the kid come across the floor toward me. I hadn’t known what he was doing and I hadn’t known he was going to latch on to my leg. Children weren’t like adults. They weren’t as predictable. They hadn’t gone through all the stages of psychological development that would mold them into the final product. Children were like cats: You didn’t know if they’d bite you, piss on you, or purr. Or demand tacos.
“Taco!”
My hand tightened on the bag; I admit it. I liked food, maybe more than anyone alive. We all have our weaknesses. “No,” I said automatically. If he wanted a taco that badly, I’d give him a dollar to buy his own, but my tacos were my tacos. I’d already claimed them and imprinted on them like a baby duck on its mother.
He scowled, his small face twisting and turning red. With blond hair and an oversized head, he looked about three, but he hit as if he were age eight at least. His hand smacked mine hard and then he tried to wrestle the bag from it. His skin was warm against mine, too warm. “Taco!”
“Oh my God, I am so sorry.” A woman, presumably the mother of the budding Antichrist, rushed over and grabbed him around the waist to pull him back. Her hair was blond too, her skin tan, and she weighed about a hundred and five pounds, which could be why she was unsuccessful. He hung on tight to my hand and shirt, and this time the scream of “Taco!” almost shattered the window and door glass of the fast food restaurant.
Three booths down, Saul, now dressed in more than purple spandex, had buried his face in arms folded on the table and was shaking with not-so-silent laughter, the bastard. The mother pulled again and this time managed to pry the Satan spawn off me. Chimeras I was used to. Normal children who also had the ability to maim and terrify were a new experience. “Sorry, sorry,” she apologized again as he began kicking rapidly at her legs. “He has tonsillitis and it’s making him cranky. He’s having them taken out tomorrow morning.”
I edged out of the booth, my bag of food and my Mountain Dew cautiously hidden behind me. “He doesn’t have tonsillitis.” The screaming became louder. “My father’s a doctor,” I lied without compunction. “I’d have him rechecked before they do surgery.” Again the screaming notched up. She appeared confused, forehead wrinkling, and I tossed a bit of convincing logic to go with the rest. “If he can scream like five hundred demons from Hell, the little shit, I think . . . my father would think if he did have tonsillitis, it’s cleared up now.” That was when I found out where the kid learned to kick so ferociously.