pain. She shouted in horrified triumph as the string emerged from her eye, inch by bloody inch. It kept coming, far longer than she would have thought possible. It hit a snag and she cried out miserably. She gave it a vicious yank, and screamed at the resulting pain.
"Shut the fuck up, you bitch!" her neighbor shouted, pounding on the wall.
"Fuck you! " She screamed back, and fell over, the long bloody thread clutched in her hand. It was out.
Exhaustion filled her like warm water, and she lay on her back on the bloody towel. She could smell her own sweat, and above that, the rank coppery flavor of fear and blood.
The thread lay curled beside her hand. She rose unsteadily and fetched a lighter, and set fire to the thread. She watched, fascinated, as it caught alight. It thrashed in what looked like agony.
"Suffer, you fucker."
Her phone buzzed against the coffee table, rattling against a plate. She picked it up to turn it off, saw who it was, and stopped cold.
The name JYNX blinked at her in bright, poisonous green. She found the connect button with one shaking finger.
Ragged, panting breath, then Jynx's voice, raw and edged with panic. "Sugar? Please come. Something is happening to me. Something bad."
Jynx hung up. Sugar stared at the curled crisp of the thread, then got to her feet and started getting dressed.
CHAPTER TEN
Two weeks ago, the itch had become unbearable. Christian scratched unceasingly, obsessively. He wandered the LA streets, scratching, scoring alongside the other addicts. They fell by the wayside to sleep off their binges; all of them picked, scabbed, encrusted with dirt and blood—but the unceasing deep-seated itch under his skin would not let him stop his nightmare journeys. He staggered on and on, his eyes burning. He spent night after night trolling the seedier side of the LA gay clubs. He encountered rougher and rougher scenes, and found that he liked it, as long as he was on top. The more cruel he could be, the better. His partners, eyeing his lean body, hard blue eyes and craggy features, always let it be known that if he wanted to choke them, slap them, even knock them around, then that was OK. Some of them wanted knives. Christian was OK with that too.
He was unmoored, floating through the underside of a city where everything he had ever wanted was available for one price or another. Money, flesh, pain, blood: the same currencies as Kansas, except here in California, they had actual street value. It wasn't just the strong taking from the weak: it was a constant ebb and flow, a whirlpool of souls circling an enormous drain that ended up in hell.
He awoke that morning in a stinking puddle of rainbow-sheened water. His memory was empty; the previous week was like a black lump of stone in his mind.
His skin crawled with bugs. Every inch of him tingled and writhed, like pins and needles over every inch of his flesh. He jumped to his feet and clawed at his clothes. He ripped skin along with cloth, and found nothing but cuts, scabs, dirt, and that interminable itch. His fingernails, caked with filth, scraped at his flesh, which goose-pimpled in the morning air.
The sun broke over the hills, painting the streets with mellow gold. A few joggers ran past, carefully not looking at the screaming thrashing man as they veered to the opposite side of the road. Birds scolded the sun fiercely, then flew on toward the day's errands. The streets below began to clog with traffic like cholesterol.
His breath stuttered out on agonized shortened breaths. He muttered to himself, kicking off his torn jeans and tattered loafers. He stood in the brisk, polluted air, and suddenly the itching stopped. He panted, the pale concave bowl of his belly jumping as he sucked in air.
He blinked, and his arms were veined with thick, black, twisting threads. They pulsed and wriggled like fat black worms just beneath the surface. He filled the air with hoarse, guttural screams. A fire-spot
"Shut the fuck up, you bitch!" her neighbor shouted, pounding on the wall.
"Fuck you! " She screamed back, and fell over, the long bloody thread clutched in her hand. It was out.
Exhaustion filled her like warm water, and she lay on her back on the bloody towel. She could smell her own sweat, and above that, the rank coppery flavor of fear and blood.
The thread lay curled beside her hand. She rose unsteadily and fetched a lighter, and set fire to the thread. She watched, fascinated, as it caught alight. It thrashed in what looked like agony.
"Suffer, you fucker."
Her phone buzzed against the coffee table, rattling against a plate. She picked it up to turn it off, saw who it was, and stopped cold.
The name JYNX blinked at her in bright, poisonous green. She found the connect button with one shaking finger.
Ragged, panting breath, then Jynx's voice, raw and edged with panic. "Sugar? Please come. Something is happening to me. Something bad."
Jynx hung up. Sugar stared at the curled crisp of the thread, then got to her feet and started getting dressed.
CHAPTER TEN
Two weeks ago, the itch had become unbearable. Christian scratched unceasingly, obsessively. He wandered the LA streets, scratching, scoring alongside the other addicts. They fell by the wayside to sleep off their binges; all of them picked, scabbed, encrusted with dirt and blood—but the unceasing deep-seated itch under his skin would not let him stop his nightmare journeys. He staggered on and on, his eyes burning. He spent night after night trolling the seedier side of the LA gay clubs. He encountered rougher and rougher scenes, and found that he liked it, as long as he was on top. The more cruel he could be, the better. His partners, eyeing his lean body, hard blue eyes and craggy features, always let it be known that if he wanted to choke them, slap them, even knock them around, then that was OK. Some of them wanted knives. Christian was OK with that too.
He was unmoored, floating through the underside of a city where everything he had ever wanted was available for one price or another. Money, flesh, pain, blood: the same currencies as Kansas, except here in California, they had actual street value. It wasn't just the strong taking from the weak: it was a constant ebb and flow, a whirlpool of souls circling an enormous drain that ended up in hell.
He awoke that morning in a stinking puddle of rainbow-sheened water. His memory was empty; the previous week was like a black lump of stone in his mind.
His skin crawled with bugs. Every inch of him tingled and writhed, like pins and needles over every inch of his flesh. He jumped to his feet and clawed at his clothes. He ripped skin along with cloth, and found nothing but cuts, scabs, dirt, and that interminable itch. His fingernails, caked with filth, scraped at his flesh, which goose-pimpled in the morning air.
The sun broke over the hills, painting the streets with mellow gold. A few joggers ran past, carefully not looking at the screaming thrashing man as they veered to the opposite side of the road. Birds scolded the sun fiercely, then flew on toward the day's errands. The streets below began to clog with traffic like cholesterol.
His breath stuttered out on agonized shortened breaths. He muttered to himself, kicking off his torn jeans and tattered loafers. He stood in the brisk, polluted air, and suddenly the itching stopped. He panted, the pale concave bowl of his belly jumping as he sucked in air.
He blinked, and his arms were veined with thick, black, twisting threads. They pulsed and wriggled like fat black worms just beneath the surface. He filled the air with hoarse, guttural screams. A fire-spot
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