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Authors: Cassandra L. Shaw
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TMI,TMI,TMI , I chanted in my mind. Watching other people fuck is just sick.
Clyde Jones started to jerk and grunt. His hand flung out and snatched up a knife from the table beside the bed. He threw his other hand onto the woman’s shoulder, dug his fingers into her flesh in a cruel grip making her cry out.
Long red tresses flew as she tried to turn, the movement emphasizing the bones of her shoulders and ribs. “Have a care Sir.”
“Shut your mouth whore.” The silver of the knife glinted in the air as he rammed the blade into her back. My scream met hers in a symphony of shock, horror, and pain. She thrashed and screamed—again and again.
I threw myself forward, desperate to help. Locked in the ether, I couldn’t move. I sobbed at my inability to save her, at the futility of trying. I can’t step through time. I’d alter the past and become imprisoned in another time. Things I instinctively knew must never happen.
Clyde’s arm lifted and thrust, lifted and thrust, and the blade sliced into her over and over. With each stab of the blood covered knife, he pumped his hips harder.
With a last jerk of his hips, he moaned in satisfaction.
My eyes rolled around, trying to focus my mind, trying to escape this nightmare, trying not to see the woman’s hemorrhaging wounds, her slumping body in its desperate struggle for life.
He grunted, “Whore,” pulled out and shoved the bloody woman’s body to the floor. He snorted in obvious derision when she landed twisted on her side with her legs spread.
Gory knife in hand, still sporting a purple moisture slick erection, he turned to me, sneered, and sprang.
Red covered blade aimed for my throat.
Chapter 6
Swung in a madman’s blood covered hand, the blood slick blade flashed through the air in a neck slashing arc. In a moment of holy-fucking-shit, instinct threw me backwards.
The dimensional fabric stretched and groaned behind my back, but didn’t tear. Something tackled me side on, and together we fell. Under the assault of my falling body, the dimensional fabric strained and split.
I twisted my face in panic as the knife and madman warped as if viewed through water poured on glass. Clyde and time flickered. A whoosh of air. The glint of metal millimeters from my neck.
Broken arm down, I hit the floor and squealed.
“Angel!” someone yelled.
I rolled to my side, pulled my knees and arms into my chest, and cursed the laws of physics that demanded sore bits, like the buttery side of toast, always landed floor first. I gave myself a mental body check. No stinging or bleeding throat. Good. No warm pee patch in my shorts—amazing.
Sweat beaded my face, and cold chills shimmered down my back. My rolling stomach wanted to hark up the lunch I hadn’t eaten. But I wouldn’t. I hate throwing up. And no dead bastard, especially Clyde, was making me spew.
Viggo kneeled beside me on the floor. He brushed the hair from my face, studied me with a worried scowl and babbled in loud ancient that ended with the word Amon.
Tyreal lifted me to a sitting position and held me. “Angel, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”
His body warmth soaked into me. I looked into Tyreal’s black eyed concern and burst into tears. Never in the many years I’ve jumped time have I become trapped or held against my will. Who knew I could be seen and attacked in time gone?
No one highlighted that small print when I signed up for this gig. I needed a lawyer. I was so suing the universe. If this is the gig Satan toasted my coffee maker for, I’m surprised the whole house hadn’t exploded.
“Clyde’s a murderer,” I sobbed into Tyreal’s hard and slightly onion scented shirt. “I saw him f-f-fucking someone from behind, and I couldn’t break the connection—I wanted to pull out—but couldn’t. I’m not a pervert. Something trapped me, making me witness his depravity.” I sobbed a few times. “He stabbed her. Stabbed the woman, over and over and over
TMI,TMI,TMI , I chanted in my mind. Watching other people fuck is just sick.
Clyde Jones started to jerk and grunt. His hand flung out and snatched up a knife from the table beside the bed. He threw his other hand onto the woman’s shoulder, dug his fingers into her flesh in a cruel grip making her cry out.
Long red tresses flew as she tried to turn, the movement emphasizing the bones of her shoulders and ribs. “Have a care Sir.”
“Shut your mouth whore.” The silver of the knife glinted in the air as he rammed the blade into her back. My scream met hers in a symphony of shock, horror, and pain. She thrashed and screamed—again and again.
I threw myself forward, desperate to help. Locked in the ether, I couldn’t move. I sobbed at my inability to save her, at the futility of trying. I can’t step through time. I’d alter the past and become imprisoned in another time. Things I instinctively knew must never happen.
Clyde’s arm lifted and thrust, lifted and thrust, and the blade sliced into her over and over. With each stab of the blood covered knife, he pumped his hips harder.
With a last jerk of his hips, he moaned in satisfaction.
My eyes rolled around, trying to focus my mind, trying to escape this nightmare, trying not to see the woman’s hemorrhaging wounds, her slumping body in its desperate struggle for life.
He grunted, “Whore,” pulled out and shoved the bloody woman’s body to the floor. He snorted in obvious derision when she landed twisted on her side with her legs spread.
Gory knife in hand, still sporting a purple moisture slick erection, he turned to me, sneered, and sprang.
Red covered blade aimed for my throat.
Chapter 6
Swung in a madman’s blood covered hand, the blood slick blade flashed through the air in a neck slashing arc. In a moment of holy-fucking-shit, instinct threw me backwards.
The dimensional fabric stretched and groaned behind my back, but didn’t tear. Something tackled me side on, and together we fell. Under the assault of my falling body, the dimensional fabric strained and split.
I twisted my face in panic as the knife and madman warped as if viewed through water poured on glass. Clyde and time flickered. A whoosh of air. The glint of metal millimeters from my neck.
Broken arm down, I hit the floor and squealed.
“Angel!” someone yelled.
I rolled to my side, pulled my knees and arms into my chest, and cursed the laws of physics that demanded sore bits, like the buttery side of toast, always landed floor first. I gave myself a mental body check. No stinging or bleeding throat. Good. No warm pee patch in my shorts—amazing.
Sweat beaded my face, and cold chills shimmered down my back. My rolling stomach wanted to hark up the lunch I hadn’t eaten. But I wouldn’t. I hate throwing up. And no dead bastard, especially Clyde, was making me spew.
Viggo kneeled beside me on the floor. He brushed the hair from my face, studied me with a worried scowl and babbled in loud ancient that ended with the word Amon.
Tyreal lifted me to a sitting position and held me. “Angel, what the hell happened? Are you okay?”
His body warmth soaked into me. I looked into Tyreal’s black eyed concern and burst into tears. Never in the many years I’ve jumped time have I become trapped or held against my will. Who knew I could be seen and attacked in time gone?
No one highlighted that small print when I signed up for this gig. I needed a lawyer. I was so suing the universe. If this is the gig Satan toasted my coffee maker for, I’m surprised the whole house hadn’t exploded.
“Clyde’s a murderer,” I sobbed into Tyreal’s hard and slightly onion scented shirt. “I saw him f-f-fucking someone from behind, and I couldn’t break the connection—I wanted to pull out—but couldn’t. I’m not a pervert. Something trapped me, making me witness his depravity.” I sobbed a few times. “He stabbed her. Stabbed the woman, over and over and over
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