#FSBlogfest Entry (Better Late Than Never, Right?)
Finally, got my blog ported over and the first thing I'm gonna post in, oh, three or four months? A fight scene. (What, were you expecting sex? Later, later, first the fight, then the kissing.) A very special thank you to Mireyeh Wolfe (http://m-wolfe.blogspot.com/) for hosting the Fight Scene Blogfest. You're a girl after my own heart!
So, here it goes. This is the first time I've participated in a blogfest, so forgive me if I'm doing it wrong.
This is a bit of a one-sided fight that I cut from an early draft of Preyers. I've always liked the piece and hoped to use it elsewhere; here's the perfect opportunity. The setting is Brooklyn (Prospect Park South) right after the Great Depression and my main character's name is Matilde Royce. Enjoy!
I had a special little evil place in my heart for prostitutes and when the mangy one detached from the shadows between the bar and another rat hole, my lips curled over my teeth. Generally, I found them to be feckless and ignored them, but this one was an exceptionally witless worm.
She fell in behind me, matching my pace, and followed me all the way back to Prospect Park South.
I stopped outside Andrew’s house, its blue rotunda looming in the streetlights like a great, immobile beast. A cat’s green eyes glowed down at me from a window on the third floor of the neighboring mansion; Stephen Dorsey’s cat, Jezebel.
How ironic, I mused.
“I know what you are,” the whore sneered as she came up beside me.
“What is that?” I murmured, not really interested in the answer. I kept watch on the cat, but I could hear the woman’s hands twitching, could sense her eyes darting from one end of the street to another.
“One of them society women’s what you are.” She nodded darkly, knowingly, and elbowed my arm. “You got a thing goin’ with him, uh? Your ol’ rich husband don’t know, uh?
So that’s why she’d waited for me. “By him I assume you mean the gentleman I spoke with in the bar.”
“Yeah,” she confirmed unnecessarily.
“And you care because …?” I asked knowing her answer
“‘Cause I ‘spect you don’t want yer husband knowin’ ‘bout him,” she said with a greedy little chuckle.
“You want me to buy your silence.”
“Yeah, okay. We can come to an arrangement,” she said conversationally.
The cat, bored with the view, disappeared from the window.
I pivoted and headed across the avenue and into the trees and bushes of Prospect Park. My passage left a trail of silence as all animal and insect activity stopped.
She followed, cursing and crashing through the wild brush as I crossed East Avenue and headed for the lake. Her noise was raw and resounding.
Twisted, spindly trees rose up all around us, menacing and eerie in the moonless night.
We came to the edge of the lake, its water black and oily, and I stopped. “Do you have any children?”
“Do you have any children?” I repeated. So much hinged on her answer, though she did not realize that.
She brayed out a laugh and said, “Me?! Noooo, no brats coming from this body.” Then she became still and serious. Her right hand slid to her waist; I’d already seen the dull glint of a shiv. Now she pulled it out and thrust it toward me, a threat meant to make me cower.
“My mother was a whore, like you,” I hissed. My left hand flashed forth, seized the blade and pulled her toward me. My right hand latched onto her throat, pinching her trachea to block a scream. I pushed her to her knees. “And I hated her.” If I hadn’t fed twice that evening, the woman would already be dead. But, my encounter with Ewan left my nerves jangling and I felt vicious and dissatisfied. Killing her would relieve me. But, first, I wanted to toy with her.
She released the knife and clawed at my hand. Her pulse wildly pounded against my fingers and little red spots bloomed in the whites of her eyes as blood vessels burst.
I eased the pressure on her windpipe and she drew in tight, ragged gasps.
The whore clung to my arm, holding herself upright.
I retrieved the knife and threw it into the middle of the lake.
It hit the water with a kerplunk.
Then I wrenched my hand away and let her fall flat on her back. Before she could react, I dropped upon her chest, my knees cracking her ribcage.
Once, again, she fought for air.
Suddenly, I felt like Jezebel, bored with this scene. And, I could hear Bartholomew’s admonishment in my mind, “Don’t toy with your food.” I wasn’t hungry and she was wasting my time.
“I want you to understand this,” I snarled, “so pay close attention. You have no idea what I am. And, there will be no arrangement between us. Forget you ever saw me or that man. If this goes beyond you and me, you will make the newspaper.” I rose and towered over her, an imminent disaster on her horizon. “Is that understood?” I growled.
She nodded vigorously and squeaked, “Yes!”
The sound of her sobs filled my mind as I returned to Andrew’s sedate, Victorian house.