Reading Online Novel

Sweet Ruin(18)



Seeking focus, he reached for his most cherished possession, his talisman, a last gift from his mother. She’d been a Runic demon, one among a breed that could harness magicks through symbols. The talisman had been accompanied by a note that had raised more questions than answers. The runes themselves presented a puzzle he often contemplated.

He dug into his pocket.

Gone.

Gone? He froze. He would never have left it anywhere; had never in all these eons lost it. The nymphs wouldn’t have dared to steal it.

Realization. Only one other person had gotten close enough to him.

Under his breath, he muttered, “That beautiful little wench.” The voyeur had picked his pocket! Oh, she was good. He’d been hard as rock, stretching his trews taut—yet he’d never perceived her hand dipping beside his dick.

What a surprise.

What a bad girl.

He turned toward the courtyard. Bad girls got punished.

If she’d stolen anything but his most prized belonging, he could have grinned.





* * *


Back at her rundown motel room, Jo set Rune’s bone thingy among her other mementos. They lined the top of a picnic table she’d teleported from a park.

She’d stolen most of these items from her shells. Though she couldn’t feel through any of the people, for the most part Jo got to be them.

She’d inhabited a cellist during her concert and had received a standing ovation. She’d served coffee at Café Du Monde (and later she’d punished patrons who’d grabbed “her” ass). She’d crashed a bachelorette party and laughed with other girls, pretending they were old friends from camp.

At a grand southern wedding, she’d been a bride for a day. She’d danced in a candlelit ballroom and had given away her garter as her new husband gazed on with adoration. Later, violins had played into the night as her groom had made love to his bride. He’d looked into her eyes so intently, Jo had pretended he could see her.

Which meant she existed.

That groom’s voice had cracked when he’d made vows to her. I would die for you. I’ll love you alone for the rest of my life. You are everything.

Jo reverently traced her fingers over the dried roses from her stellar concert performance. With those, she could pretend she’d once been admired. With the tiara from that bachelorette party, she could pretend she’d belonged. A dollar-bill tip from Café Du Monde allowed Jo to believe she’d once been just a normal girl.

She straightened the cuff links stolen from her romantic groom. They were her favorites. She could rub her thumbs over them and pretend she’d once been beloved.

With a wistful exhalation, she scuffed across the worn carpet of her room. She would’ve liked to stay somewhere less shitty, but she didn’t have an ID, could never get one.

Because she couldn’t read the application form.

She turned to the banged-up set of drawers. One was filled with Thad memorabilia—scrapbooks and the Thadpack. She opened the drawer, brushing her fingertips over the nylon material. At times, her three years with Thaddie felt like a dream, as if it were just as imaginary as the rest of her life experiences.

She drew out her most recent scrapbook, filled with pictures of him holding up trophies or Eagle Scout badges or community service awards.

Wherever she’d ended up in the Southeast (she couldn’t stray too far from him) she had descended upon the closest library for a computer. Using the text-to-speech feature, she’d learned about his sports, charity work, and honor-roll grades.

She knew when his football team was going to the playoffs and when his . . . mom had won a pecan pie cook-off.

Jo stalked his social media so much she could tell when he was nervous about a big game, or even when he had a crush. Through his online yearbook photos, she’d watched him grow into a handsome seventeen-year-old with an easy grin that said, All is right with the world.

He was tall and strong, a world away from the tiny boy she’d carried everywhere.

Fourteen years ago, she’d made a heartrending choice, but obviously it’d been the right one. Every day Jo stayed away, his life seemed to get better and better.

Yet to spare Thad from grief, she’d suffered, willing each minute of her lonely existence to hurry by. She only slept for about four hours a night, so she had twenty hours each day to kill.

At least in New Orleans, there was the prospect of other freaks!

A knock on the door sounded.

She hissed with irritation. Few dared to disturb her.

When she’d first moved here, she’d been one of the motel’s only guests. After a month of her hunting—crushing testicles and “disappearing” rapists and fight-stealing pimps—the rooms had filled up with women, mostly prostitutes, many with kids.