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I don’t know—sometimes, a girl needs to know how to off a man in an untraceable way. I still didn’t see the issue there.
The only good thing about this place was that when winter came, you could leave your beer outside to keep it cold.
“Why would hundreds of people gathering in a small location, with very little way to get out in case of an emergency, sound like fun? Oh, and there’s children, too.”
Camila Machado wasn’t from this world. She couldn’t be. She was soft but sharp, dark with madness but filled with a radiant light.
“Look at you. Pretty little darkling, all alone in this big, empty corn maze.”
“I want to see you scurry through this labyrinth like the rest of them. I want you to beg me to release you.”
“I’m not scared,” I lied. I was scared. Scared of what he could do to Harkins’ career, my reputation. Scared of a man? Of something made of flesh and bone and weakness? Not so much.
The heat between my legs begged for release, but in the back of my mind, I was officially afraid. Afraid of the Coke can that was going to split me in half. Fuck it, I’d die trying.
“Our little darkling is lost in this big maze. Let’s show her how well the corn keeps the screams from escaping,”
“Tell our professor how badly you want us both to fill you up, to stretch your holes and pump you full of our cum until you leave a trail behind you through this maze.”
I was enthralled by the carnal heat of the moment, that this was no longer just about me, but about everyone’s pleasure, about giving and taking and letting go.
It was so fucking hot, and I couldn’t get the sight out of my mind. I thought I could use what I’d seen, what I knew, to manipulate them into a night we would all enjoy, a night we could all leave behind here.
Then, she killed some kid in a football jersey, and then another. Now, I’d realized fucking with this girl might have been the worst idea I’d ever had in my life.
less bothered by my suffering than the discomfort of realizing I had fucked with a broken woman. Now, I was truly headed for the unpredictable.
“She’s beautifully macabre,” Harkins prosed, describing the wild banshee in front of us. “She’s a fucking psycho,” I corrected him.
She’d always been this way. She was henbane, beautiful but foul in every sense of the word; the closer you got, the more evident it became as its stench invaded your senses. She was wretched, toxic in the worst way possible, but stunningly beautiful from a distance.
