The Dark Ones by Bryan Smith Page A

hon. It’s just . . .”
    He trailed off and Suzie quirked an eyebrow, waiting for him to finish.
    It’s just that I worry about you, hon. I think you should see someone .
    But Kurt McGregor never finished his thought.
    A heavy crash from the other side of the door made Suzie gasp. She let go of the sink and staggered over to the door. She grabbed the doorknob and hauled the door open. Her husband’s big body was sprawled on the floor. Suzie stared down at him in uncomprehending confusion for a moment.
    Then she laughed.
    “Holy shit, Kurt. I was just thinking about killing you and your stupid ticker went and did the job for me.”
    It was probably just a coincidence, but she couldn’t help thinking . . . maybe she’d killed him just by thinking about it hard enough. Perhaps she’d become strong enough through her decades of psychic struggle to focus and direct her thoughts in a lethal way.
    Yes.
    It made sense.
    She’d submitted herself fully to the forces of darkness in that moment when she’d decided to kill her family. The adversary was no longer the adversary. Now it was a conspirator. She’d shown herself worthy and now it would assist her, starting with knocking off Kurt.
    Perhaps now she wouldn’t have to kill Derek right away.
    This development did open up some interesting possibilities. She could play the heartsick widow and he would have no choice but to play the role of the consoling son. It would be the role society expected of him, and, being the weakling he was, he’d fall numbly into it. He’d put on a good show tonight, but she knew the real truth about him. He was a plastic rebel, a suburban wannabe playing at being tough and nonconformist. Also, his defenses would be down in the wake of his father’s death. Breaking him again was going to be easy.
    A lot of people would be consoling her in the coming days.
    One of them might even be Tom Bell. It wasn’t at all unrealistic. She knew he wasn’t really happy with that witch Lydia, no matter what he said in their private texts and e-mails. The fact that those remained ongoing was proof enough of that.
    She stood there and stared at Kurt’s unmoving form for perhaps another ten minutes. When she was certain he was beyond any hope of resuscitation, she picked up a phone and punched in 9-1-1.
    A low hissing sound emanated from the spray paint can as Kent held the button down and aimed it at the side of Mark Bell’s old Camaro, slowly spelling the word FAG in large, looping letters.
    “Bell is gonna freak when he sees what you’ve done to his car.”
    Kent Hickerson glanced over his shoulder at the person hovering behind him. “That’s the idea.”
    “I don’t know, man. I don’t like these assholes, either. But I’ve seen this guy in action. He’s no joke. He hit this one dude in the parking lot at McDonald’s harder than I’ve ever seen anyone get hit. It was just POW! Like in the movies. One punch. The other guy went down hard. A tooth came out of his mouth.” Brett Hogan shook his head. “I’m just saying.”
    “You’re saying you’re afraid of . . . hell, I don’t know what he thinks he is. Some weird combination of goth, metalhead, and old-school greaser. None of it’s real anyway. Bottom line, he’s a fake. A pathetic phony.”
    “A phony with fists of steel.”
    Kent sighed. “I’m telling you, you’re giving this guy too much credit. High school’s gonna end soon and guys like him always give up their stupid little poses when they have to start dealing with the real world.”
    “When they have to fucking work for a living.”
    “Exactly. Not much call for brawlers in the modern job market.”
    “Well . . . there’s the UFC.”
    Kent chuckled. “Maybe, but his realistic options are limited. He’ll find that out soon enough. Meanwhile, it’s about time he got knocked down a peg.”
    “And you’re big plan to do that is to spray-paint FAG on his car?”
    Kent shook the can again and painted a crude rendering