Page 27 of Wicked Vengeance

“Mrs. Jackson, I need you to call your son.”

I’m not an evil person. I’m not going to hurt this old lady just because her son’s innards will become his ‘outards’ tonight. So I ask politely, like a fucking gentleman. I’m sitting at her kitchen table eating a stale chocolate chip cookie that’s about a week too old for consumption because I don’t want to offend the senile ole’ thing.

“Is everything okay? Is he hurt?” Confusion blankets her features as she looks around the space. This is difficult enough without her dementia making her forget everything I tell her within a sixty-second window.

With a frustrated sigh, I decide I need some backup. The last thing I need is her slipping up and telling him a man is here or something. I knew she was sick, but I didn’t realize her mind was this far gone. It makes me sick to my stomach to be using her like this, but she’s safe. And on the upside– she probably doesn’t even remember her pathetic son, and she won’t miss him after I gut him tonight.

“Can I use your restroom, Mrs. Jackson?” I ask, standing up from the table when she readily agrees and points down the hall.

Shutting the door behind me, I pull my phone out and dial Helen’s number. She has helped look after her for a few years, bringing food for the elderly in our community from Twisted, so it wouldn’t look too suspicious if she were checking on her.

She quickly agrees to the plan, and within 20 minutes, Mrs. Jackson has called her son to come over to take her to the hospital. And within just seconds of making the phone call, she’s forgotten the conversation all together and accepts Helen’s invitation to go to the store with her.

Dax slips in through the back door where he’s been hiding since we decided on this plan earlier. It wasn’t our first plan, of course. I wanted to track him without using the poor old lady, but after staking out his house half the day, it was clear he’s still hiding beneath King’s coat tail like a little pussy.

“Now what?” Dax asks, picking up a stale cookie from the table and quickly spitting it back in his hand.

“Don’t eat the senile cookies, man,” I laugh, taking the plate to the garbage and dumping them inside. “Now, we wait. She told him she fell and needed to go to the hospital. He won’t be long.”

We move into his mother’s bedroom, knowing when he comes in, he will immediately check every room for her. We don’t have to wait long. Fifteen minutes later, I hear the screen door in the front slam shut behind him.

“Mom, where are you?” He calls, panic lacing his pathetic tone.

We stay silent, Dax waiting behind the door as I relax back against the headboard, crossing my feet at the ankles and twirling my blade between my fingers.

The doorknob twists and unlatches, and he rushes inside, searching for his helpless mother. It takes him a minute to register that it’s me instead. Immediately, he reaches for a weapon, but Dax slams the door and tackles him to the ground.

“What the fuck did you do to my mother?” He demands, his eyes darting around the dark bedroom frantically from where he’s pinned beneath Dax.

“Don’t worry, Jackie-boy. Mommy’s fine. She won’t remember anything. If you’re lucky, she won’t remember she even had a son like you.” I crush his hand beneath my boot as I get up, the bones crunching and his shrill scream like a balm, soothing me. I pocket my knife in my jeans and pull out the syringe from my hoodie.

“You’re dead, boy.”

“Now, now. Don’t be rude.” The syringe cap falls next to his face before I snatch his head up by his hair and crouch down, my lips next to his ear. “I haven’t harmed your mother. Yet. Whether or not Mrs. Jackson and I become…acquainted or not, depends on how helpful you are.”

“What the fuck do you want?” He seethes through clenched teeth, spittle flying like a rabid dog.

“You’ll see.”

The needle disappears in the side of his exposed neck, and I watch his eyes flutter as his lights begin fading. I wanted him to feel like my Cherry must have felt when they plunged that needle into her and stole her from us.

When we get him back, Jackson’s going to regret ever fucking with what’s ours.

Dax stands and releases his hold on him, wincing at the pain from his wound and looking me over. “You good, man?”

“No. I’m not.” My hands shake as I reach for the cap and replace it on the needle, the calm facade shattering now that we’ve got him in our hands. “Let’s go. We need to get him out of here.”

We each grab an end, carrying him out the backdoor to the van we have parked outside. Once we toss him inside, Dax climbs in and binds his wrists and ankles, shackling him to the hooks on the floor. I pace outside the vehicle, running my hands through my hair, pulling the loose curls until pain blooms on my scalp.

Keep it together.

Don’t lose control.

Don’t fuck this up.

She’s counting on you.

My thoughts race faster than my heart, which feels like it’s going to explode at any moment. I can’t fuck this up. I want nothing more than to turn him inside out with my blade. But I can’t yet. Our Queen needs us. And we have to get her back. Losing isn’t an option.

---