'Praying for the Devil?'
With the war between the vampires and Varúlfur more brutal and blood-thirsty than it has ever been, Megan Garrick has been forced to seek sanctuary with the one person she hoped she would never have to turn to.
By her side i...
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Author's Note: Hello dear Chapelites, it's been a long time since I've visited Whitechapel, I know. Possibly a long time for many of you too. I never really meant to abandon Harper's bonus chapters, but, at the time, I think I was already writing Hedoschism and needed to focus on that, and so, the next chapter of Harper's pre-vampire life went unwritten. However, having struggled a bit recently to get back into writing again, I thought I'd re-visit Harper and catch up from where we left off before. If you would like a little reminder of when we last saw human Harper, please feel free to go back and re-read the previous two bonus chapters (I LOVE re-readers!) and familiarise yourselves with what our favourite 1920's mobster was getting up to. I've really enojyed writing him again, particularly as it's allowed me to investigate his relationship with his mother in a bit more detail. Martha Cain is a total first-class witch. I hope you hate her just as much as I love her ;-)
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I always remember the first time I realized I hated my mother.
It was my fifth birthday and my folks had arranged a small party at the house. It was nothing special, just a few family people and some of my father's favorite happy-clappers from the Church – the ones that smiled too much, the ones that had those saccharin-fucking-grins plastered over their stupid, sanctimonious faces.
My mother hadn't wanted to throw the party. I heard her rowing with my dad about it, something about how she didn't want those snooty-ass bluenoses from the Church in our home. I didn't care who was gonna be there. I just wanted the party and the cake and to be center-of-attention for once, which sounds fucking lame I know, but when Martha Cain was around, it was hard to get noticed. She always got noticed, and she sure as Hell got noticed that afternoon at the party, when Henry Wilson Miller – one of those previously-mentioned sanctimonious pricks from my father's Church – stuck his hand up her skirt and made her sing like an angel in the food storage, right there up against the jars of sugar and sacks of flour.
I remember it to this day – the way his forehead glistened from grease and sweat, the way he still smiled, just like he did at Church, only then with his tongue between his teeth panting like he was a dog, the way his hand moved between her thighs. I was five, but I knew – I knew what she was doing was wrong, that what he was doing was wrong. They didn't know I was there at first. They were so caught up in their business that they didn't know someone was watching.
I mean, fucking stupid, right? If you're gonna do your dirt, at least be fucking smart about it. At least, be aware of your surroundings. Know who is watching.
After a while – I don't even know how long I was watching, seconds, minutes – my mother turned her head and saw me standing there wearing my best clothes, the ones I always wore to Church and, for a moment, just for a second or two I guess, she just looked at me. She looked at me, while this guy had his hand inside her underwear, and I swear – I swear to this damn day – that she smiled, like her mouth just turned up at the corner, kinda like a smirk.
