From the Stars, to the Stars

From the Stars, to the Stars: Chapter Twenty-three

Fear: the susurrus of consequences we're not sure we can survive.

Huckleby runs his tongue over his lower lip, the glistening bit of pink-gray moistening the slug-like flesh on either side. It's as if he's gotten a taste of my fear and now he wants more. He wants it to flow from my pores so he can lap it up like honey.

I stare at the brother and sister standing in front of me, their expressions of self-satisfaction glued to their faces. There they are, their thirst for my fear so clearly in the forefront of their thoughts. It makes them lean toward me, unconscious of even having done so. They may take my silence as a precursor to a faint, or wailing, or an explosion of nonsensical begging, but they would be mistaken.

I think about all the crap Sebastien has already gone through, all the solitude in his life, the loneliness. Huckleby was using me to guarantee the boy who loved me would never again feel connected to anyone. Never mind how Huck planned to ruin his own people just so he can feel like he's worth something.

The anger pulses to life in my stomach, acidic and knotted.

If I was Huckleby's weapon, my weapon would be best if it hit him where it counts most: his pride. I'd use embarrassment.

I heave, shoulders shaking, and heave again, forcing myself to gasp out one giggle then another until I am convulsing with great, suffocating bouts of laughter.

"D-did you-oo-hoo-hoo practice that in the mirror before I got here? Huck's and Hortense's Magical Chop Shop Show? That's hilarious. Just because you think I'm idiot doesn't mean I am one."

Just as I hoped, Horace drops his arm from around Hortense and lunges for me, causing me to lose my balance. "You thought Mel was so simple she'd fall for you and your B.S. puny energy, pathetic social status, and questionable genetics? You didn't have a prayer with Melusine Charis, darling daughter of a noble family, did you? And you know what? Not a single thing has changed. You go ahead and zap me into the afterlife, if you've got enough juice to pull it off. The view up there will be perfect for watching the Solises send you to hell.

With that, Horace Huckleby's energy barrels into my flesh, hot and murky.

Finally, I think, quickly followed by, Oh, ICK! Turns out 'abso-freaking-lutely bonkers' Dionadair energy feels like stagnant marsh water. The energy itself sizzles in my veins, but that 'Huckleby' flavor tastes sludgy and slow. It's like being forced to swallow half the Wetlands.

Huck hikes my arm up behind my shoulder blades and twists me around. His slimy lip protrudes away from his gums, the spit threatening to fly. Every time he exhales, his sickening sly sweet breath mists the baby hairs at the nape of my neck with the smell of rot badly masked by a fruity perfume. A few hairs of my ponytail have caught on Huck's peach fuzz stubble.

I pull away slightly, a girl trying to catch her breath. "Whoa, whoa, whoa," I puff. "Any closer and I'll have enough of your drool on me to make a clone of you—not that the world needs another Huckleby walking around. It might come out of its test tube as 'special' as your sister, and gosh, that'd be no good."

I actually hear the tiny bones of my wrist grinding together, sounding like gravel under tires.

Huck presses closer his paunch—wait, no. Where was his stomach? Shouldn't it be shoving itself into the small of my back by now? And come to think of it, his face had looked thinner, too. The fingers crushing my wrist are spidery and bony, not the chubby nubbins he'd had when I first saw him with the Curiae.

"Do you know how I console myself when the corruption of my world gets too difficult to tolerate?" Huck rasps. "When the depravity of these modern days makes me so ill I nearly vomit?"