baby blues. “It’s like—a dungeon.” She stretched her hands open, ran them down her sides, her thighs. What a kick. This pesthole was actually getting her hot.
Better strike while the moment was prime.
Tony pulled her to him, grabbed another taste of her mouth. She breathed into him, mounting passion. He let his hands burn across her thin shoulders, down her back, around to her belly. Sasha was ready to melt. He pulled back from her suction-cup mouth and grinned and baited the hook:
“You wanna do some lines?”
She nodded, eyes wide. Eager. He was more than happy to oblige. He brought out the gold cigarette case and let her roll a crisp bill while he dumped out some skullflush and cut it into sharp lines. As dim as the light was, she didn’t even notice that it was pale green instead of white.
Ever since last night’s Apocaliptic slaughterhouse and this morning’s news updates, he’d been thinking it might be wise to hang on to this particular product for a bit longer. Long enough, at least, to find out more about it, run another test or two. On the proper subject, under more controlled circumstances.
She coughed after she did the first line, fanned her nose like someone who had eaten too hot a bite of food.
“That’s not coke,” she said.
He smiled placatingly. “It’s a new kind. Little cruder, yeah, but it’s gonna be cheap as hell. You gotta do more to get the same kick, but it’s worth it.” He held it up, and she dived in for more. Lies were easy when someone wanted so much to believe in you.
Sasha’s eyes were watering after the fourth line. “Don’t you want some?”
“You know me, I don’t touch it. It’s just for special friends.”
Happy to be one of the anointed few, she bent over to hoover the last two lines. Straightened up. Staggered on her high heels. Her nose gushed, and she wiped at it with her palm. She stared at the residue staining her hand, then looked at him. Blank-faced.
“Tony?” she whispered. “Tony?” Slivers of fear were starting to emerge as her nose flowed away. “What did you give me?”
He didn’t answer, only peered intently at her growing panic. Her revulsion at just how badly she was messing herself. Sasha lurched backward into a wall, slid down, and left a trail in the clinging slime. Pleading up at him with her eyes.
There wasn’t the euphoria that Trent had experienced, or had seemed to. Of course, Trent had been in a party mood to begin with. But Sasha just looked plain frightened. Disoriented. Like her eyes were trying to keep pace with a spinning room and losing. She scrabbled away from him across the floor.
“What did you give me?”
“What’s it feel like?” he asked. “What does it feel like?”
She spluttered mucus; it streaked her hands, her blouse, her hair. Could she even see him anymore? He couldn’t tell.
“Feels like . . . like . . . falling,” she quavered. Then her head tilted up as if sensations had overtaken her, spirited her from the room. “I’m back—back in the womb. . . .”
Man, this was some heavy-duty stuff.
“. . . This is before I was born. . . .”
Tony felt like Carl Sagan discovering a new universe. Fascinating stuff. He watched as she groaned, writhed, wept. Slimed herself with mildew from the brick walls and concrete floor. Not exactly what he’d want to bury his bone in anymore, but hey, anybody could function in that capacity. This was a rare diversion.
And then something else entirely started to take over.
This was the sort of thing that popped your eyes right out of their sockets. The sort of thing where, if there was the slightest doubt that your faculties were operating at full capacity, you surrendered and said no way. Because this just didn’t happen.
But there it was, and he was straight as a priest —she was changing.
Her whimpering cries grew throatier, deeper. And as he stared, facial bone structure crackled and flesh rippled and stretched, then sprouted fur. Pale blond,
Better strike while the moment was prime.
Tony pulled her to him, grabbed another taste of her mouth. She breathed into him, mounting passion. He let his hands burn across her thin shoulders, down her back, around to her belly. Sasha was ready to melt. He pulled back from her suction-cup mouth and grinned and baited the hook:
“You wanna do some lines?”
She nodded, eyes wide. Eager. He was more than happy to oblige. He brought out the gold cigarette case and let her roll a crisp bill while he dumped out some skullflush and cut it into sharp lines. As dim as the light was, she didn’t even notice that it was pale green instead of white.
Ever since last night’s Apocaliptic slaughterhouse and this morning’s news updates, he’d been thinking it might be wise to hang on to this particular product for a bit longer. Long enough, at least, to find out more about it, run another test or two. On the proper subject, under more controlled circumstances.
She coughed after she did the first line, fanned her nose like someone who had eaten too hot a bite of food.
“That’s not coke,” she said.
He smiled placatingly. “It’s a new kind. Little cruder, yeah, but it’s gonna be cheap as hell. You gotta do more to get the same kick, but it’s worth it.” He held it up, and she dived in for more. Lies were easy when someone wanted so much to believe in you.
Sasha’s eyes were watering after the fourth line. “Don’t you want some?”
“You know me, I don’t touch it. It’s just for special friends.”
Happy to be one of the anointed few, she bent over to hoover the last two lines. Straightened up. Staggered on her high heels. Her nose gushed, and she wiped at it with her palm. She stared at the residue staining her hand, then looked at him. Blank-faced.
“Tony?” she whispered. “Tony?” Slivers of fear were starting to emerge as her nose flowed away. “What did you give me?”
He didn’t answer, only peered intently at her growing panic. Her revulsion at just how badly she was messing herself. Sasha lurched backward into a wall, slid down, and left a trail in the clinging slime. Pleading up at him with her eyes.
There wasn’t the euphoria that Trent had experienced, or had seemed to. Of course, Trent had been in a party mood to begin with. But Sasha just looked plain frightened. Disoriented. Like her eyes were trying to keep pace with a spinning room and losing. She scrabbled away from him across the floor.
“What did you give me?”
“What’s it feel like?” he asked. “What does it feel like?”
She spluttered mucus; it streaked her hands, her blouse, her hair. Could she even see him anymore? He couldn’t tell.
“Feels like . . . like . . . falling,” she quavered. Then her head tilted up as if sensations had overtaken her, spirited her from the room. “I’m back—back in the womb. . . .”
Man, this was some heavy-duty stuff.
“. . . This is before I was born. . . .”
Tony felt like Carl Sagan discovering a new universe. Fascinating stuff. He watched as she groaned, writhed, wept. Slimed herself with mildew from the brick walls and concrete floor. Not exactly what he’d want to bury his bone in anymore, but hey, anybody could function in that capacity. This was a rare diversion.
And then something else entirely started to take over.
This was the sort of thing that popped your eyes right out of their sockets. The sort of thing where, if there was the slightest doubt that your faculties were operating at full capacity, you surrendered and said no way. Because this just didn’t happen.
But there it was, and he was straight as a priest —she was changing.
Her whimpering cries grew throatier, deeper. And as he stared, facial bone structure crackled and flesh rippled and stretched, then sprouted fur. Pale blond,
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