Read Online On the Verge by Garen Glazier - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Garen Glazier
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dawn.
He smiled. This was his kind of place.
I t was a long walk down Broadway from Freya’s apartment to the Frye, but it was a beautiful, crisp fall evening and she found that fresh air and people watching helped clear her head from the craziness that had taken root in her life.
Unfortunately, people watching, as good as it was here, could only distract her temporarily from her desperate thoughts. Only a couple of hours had passed since her life had been threatened by Beldame and she felt queasy from the encounter. It didn’t help that she was dreading her current destination.
She had returned home after that shocking encounter with Beldame to find a note taped to her door. It was from Ophidia. Freya read it with trembling hands. Now that she’d learned what the woman was, the fact that the succubus knew where she lived was terrifying enough. But the note’s request made the knot in her stomach twist even tighter. A meeting, in person, that very night at the Frye.
Meeting one-on-one with an apparent monster seemed like a very bad idea as far as her self-preservation was concerned, but she was desperate for help completing Beldame’s task. She didn’t have any guarantees that the old woman wouldn’t carry out her sick plans, whether Freya collected the colors for her or not. The risk of meeting the succubus seemed worth the potential benefits of figuring a way out of the precarious situation she now found herself in. It didn’t escape her attention, however, that the only reason her life was being threatened by a crazed art collector was because of Ophidia. She couldn’t be trusted, but at this point she was Freya’s only hope.
Her reflections on the tumultuous turn her life had taken almost caused her to miss the right she needed to take onto Marion Street and, realizing her mistake, she turned abruptly without noticing the homeless woman teetering down the sidewalk just out of Freya’s peripheral vision. With a quick sidestep, Freya managed to avoid hitting her head-on but wasn’t able to twist her shoulder out of the way before it rammed into the woman’s chest. Already unsteady, the woman toppled unceremoniously to the ground where she lay in a motionless heap. Horrified that she might have hit her head, Freya stooped over the pitiful woman and lightly shook her shoulder. No response.
Freya shook the motionless woman again, a little more vigorously. Suddenly an arm shot up from within the derelict’s filthy, tattered clothing and a grimy hand grasped Freya’s arm. The woman’s eyes fluttered open, but they were rolled so far back into her head that Freya could only see the whites of her eyes. She tried to pull herself free of the wretched woman’s grasp, but she held fast to Freya’s jacket. Then she spoke, and it was like the distant growling of thunder, deep and subdued.
“The Samhain is coming.” As she spoke the woman buried her blackened nails into the folds of Freya’s pea coat and pulled her closer. She could feel the vagrant’s foul breath, hot on her cheek. The woman’s other hand closed tightly around the collar of Freya’s shirt. She pulled Freya down until her face was nearly touching the woman’s cheek.
“Nightmares ride.” Her lips were cracked and peeling and they trembled slightly as she formed the words as though immense effort were required to push her stale breath out through time-twisted vocal chords.
The woman’s grip pressed Freya down into the lumpy folds of her mildewed overcoat. Freya’s knees dug into the rough concrete as she strained against the hands that forced her down. She felt suffocated by the woman’s smell and by the fear that crept up her own throat making her breathe in short, tortured gasps. Freya’s hands clung to the woman’s gnarled fists in an effort to peel the fingers away from the edges of her jacket. Then, changing tactics, she pressed her hands into the woman’s chest and began pushing away.
The woman’s elbows were locked in
He smiled. This was his kind of place.
I t was a long walk down Broadway from Freya’s apartment to the Frye, but it was a beautiful, crisp fall evening and she found that fresh air and people watching helped clear her head from the craziness that had taken root in her life.
Unfortunately, people watching, as good as it was here, could only distract her temporarily from her desperate thoughts. Only a couple of hours had passed since her life had been threatened by Beldame and she felt queasy from the encounter. It didn’t help that she was dreading her current destination.
She had returned home after that shocking encounter with Beldame to find a note taped to her door. It was from Ophidia. Freya read it with trembling hands. Now that she’d learned what the woman was, the fact that the succubus knew where she lived was terrifying enough. But the note’s request made the knot in her stomach twist even tighter. A meeting, in person, that very night at the Frye.
Meeting one-on-one with an apparent monster seemed like a very bad idea as far as her self-preservation was concerned, but she was desperate for help completing Beldame’s task. She didn’t have any guarantees that the old woman wouldn’t carry out her sick plans, whether Freya collected the colors for her or not. The risk of meeting the succubus seemed worth the potential benefits of figuring a way out of the precarious situation she now found herself in. It didn’t escape her attention, however, that the only reason her life was being threatened by a crazed art collector was because of Ophidia. She couldn’t be trusted, but at this point she was Freya’s only hope.
Her reflections on the tumultuous turn her life had taken almost caused her to miss the right she needed to take onto Marion Street and, realizing her mistake, she turned abruptly without noticing the homeless woman teetering down the sidewalk just out of Freya’s peripheral vision. With a quick sidestep, Freya managed to avoid hitting her head-on but wasn’t able to twist her shoulder out of the way before it rammed into the woman’s chest. Already unsteady, the woman toppled unceremoniously to the ground where she lay in a motionless heap. Horrified that she might have hit her head, Freya stooped over the pitiful woman and lightly shook her shoulder. No response.
Freya shook the motionless woman again, a little more vigorously. Suddenly an arm shot up from within the derelict’s filthy, tattered clothing and a grimy hand grasped Freya’s arm. The woman’s eyes fluttered open, but they were rolled so far back into her head that Freya could only see the whites of her eyes. She tried to pull herself free of the wretched woman’s grasp, but she held fast to Freya’s jacket. Then she spoke, and it was like the distant growling of thunder, deep and subdued.
“The Samhain is coming.” As she spoke the woman buried her blackened nails into the folds of Freya’s pea coat and pulled her closer. She could feel the vagrant’s foul breath, hot on her cheek. The woman’s other hand closed tightly around the collar of Freya’s shirt. She pulled Freya down until her face was nearly touching the woman’s cheek.
“Nightmares ride.” Her lips were cracked and peeling and they trembled slightly as she formed the words as though immense effort were required to push her stale breath out through time-twisted vocal chords.
The woman’s grip pressed Freya down into the lumpy folds of her mildewed overcoat. Freya’s knees dug into the rough concrete as she strained against the hands that forced her down. She felt suffocated by the woman’s smell and by the fear that crept up her own throat making her breathe in short, tortured gasps. Freya’s hands clung to the woman’s gnarled fists in an effort to peel the fingers away from the edges of her jacket. Then, changing tactics, she pressed her hands into the woman’s chest and began pushing away.
The woman’s elbows were locked in
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