Weaver of Dreams by Brenda Sparks

knew first hand.
    Foster put his beer down on the table and rolled up his sleeve. He looked down at the circular scars that dotted his forearms. He earned those cigarette burns—Evan assured him of that.
    They were his personal war wounds. They proved he survived, to win the war.
    Won the war by killing the general.
    Yeah, he’d killed Evan good. He came home from school one day to find Evan beating on his mama. She cowered in the corner with him standing over her raining blows down on her face. Her blood sprayed out, hit Foster’s shoe. Seeing Mama’s blood enraged the voices. Until that afternoon, they had only demanded he hurt animals and insects.
    But we wanted more. Your mama needed to be avenged.
    He ran to his room and grabbed his baseball bat out of the closet. Foster whacked his step-daddy upside his head so hard he dropped to the floor.
    It felt so good.
    He beat the monster unconscious, over and over.
    Like a Whack-a-Mole game.
    His smashed head oozed blood onto the carpet.
    Pretty, pretty blood.
    “Not as pretty as the little guidance counselor,” Foster murmured.
    He ran a hand over his scruffy beard, enjoying the rough feel of his whiskers before he grabbed his beer from the table. Chugging the remainder of the cold liquid, he slammed the emptied can back down on the table. His body heated as the alcohol warmed his stomach, gave him a slight rush.
    Finally! The buzz had arrived.
    Not as good as the buzz from a fresh kill.
    His cock pushed painfully against the zipper of his jeans making his thoughts return to the pretty guidance counselor.
    She would be prettier lying before you with her head severed from her neck.
    Dead? But she hadn’t done anything.
    She is keeping the boy from getting his scholarship.
    But she just followed the law.
    She should do what is right, even if it’s against the law. Like you did getting rid of your step-daddy.
    He wished they would shut up. That was different.
    Is it? Or is she just a bully, keeping a boy down like Evan did to you?
    “Shut the fuck up!” Foster yelled, his voice echoing off the sparse walls. “Just shut up!”
    He pushed up from the couch. On unsteady feet, he made his way down the hall to his bedroom, bouncing from wall to wall. Man, he wished the apartment would stop tilting. That’s what he got for living in government housing.
    You’re too good to live here.
    “I know.”
    He pushed through his bedroom door and flopped down onto the bed, throwing one forearm over his eyes. Instantly the image of the pretty woman from the news appeared. Her shiny hair and beautiful face teased him. He hardened as he thought about her long lashes and unusually colored eyes. They were like a cat, green but with a hint of yellow.
    Like a demon’s. She’s evil.
    If she’s the devil, then take him to hell.
    God what he wouldn’t give to fuck her. He could almost feel her lips around his dick. He’d fuck her mouth good. Then he’d bend her over the closest table to teach her who was her master.
    You are the master. You have the power. Over her. Over life and death.
    Images of the woman and what he would like to do to her danced before his closed eyes. His fingers fumbled with his jeans, releasing the button. The sound of the zipper pulling down made him lick his lips. His cock sprang free into his waiting hand.

Chapter 14
    Maggie watched the press approaching the front of her school. There wasn’t a friendly face in the bunch. The lights from the cameras blinked like Rudolph’s nose, telling her they were already recording her every move . . .
    Her heart sped up, and her throat constricted. She wiped her sweaty palms down the sides of her pants, hoping no one noticed. Her mouth went dry, not the best thing to have happen when about to speak.
    She couldn’t do this. She just knew she would freeze up on camera. Some spokesperson she’d turn out to be.
    Her legs began to tremble. She knew the reporters could see her shake.
    Were they leering at her? Did they know