Coven

untold.

—YES, promised the voice in his head.

“I love you, Dudley,” she sighed. She spread her legs, offering the slit of her sex like a prize. Its pinkened wet glimmer lured him, and seemed to say, Be a good clown.

He dragged her to the carpet and kissed the prize. Squirming, she grabbed his head, rubbed his face in it.

I love you too, he thought. Till death do us part.

—YES, the great face repeated. —OH, YES.

««—»»

Red pumping over orgies and food.

—We wish we could be you.

Chaos wed to perfection. The perfection was a labyrinth and madness was a sound. Were these memories? Taste: warm copper, salt, meat. Sight: swollen breasts bared, loins inflamed.

Sound: screams.

Lips parted over needle teeth. Something—a word. Supremate. Sleek, white throats gulped gouts of blood.

—

CHAPTER 4

Home for the summer stared him in the face like an empty smile. Wade stepped off the elevator onto the eighth floor of Clark Hall, Exham’s largest male dorm. Home, sweet home, he thought dryly. Some fun summer. Thanks, Dad.

Silence fogged the hall. There was no noise, no rock and roll, no ping pong ruckus. No nothing. At least Jervis would be on for the summer sessions. Jervis took classes even when he didn’t need to—just to be close to his girlfriend. The poor jerk was in love, but at least Wade wouldn’t have to spend the entire summer alone.

Wade had two best friends: Tom McGuire and Jervis Phillips. Jervis was clearly the more eccentric of the two. He was a philosophy nut, worshiping any manner of unintelligible schools of thought, existentialism in particular. On his door hung an eternal portrait of Sartre. Wade winced at it, as usual.

But the door was open a crack. Wade entered and announced, “Howdy, Jerv! I’m back!”

Jervis was sitting in the corner. He was unconscious.

Wade rushed to check Jervis’ pulse, then looked around and gasped. The room had been ransacked. Lamps were knocked over, furniture smashed. The Sony TV screen had a hole in it; in the hole was an empty beer bottle. Bookshelves had been hauled down. Jervis’ stereo system and record collection had been thrown onto the floor.

Then Jervis came to. “Wade. Am I...in Hell yet?”

Wade gaped. Jervis looked in worse repair than the room. Dark smudges like axle grease ringed his eyes. His hair, oily and unwashed, stuck up every which way, while his Lord & Taylor shirt was stained with beer and vomit. He looked skinny, starved. Empty Kirin bottles lay everywhere, all around him.

“You’re drunk,” Wade said.

Jervis burped. “I ain’t drunk. I’m just drinkin’.”

“Jerv, what happened here? Do you owe someone money?”

“Yes, my Existenz,” Jervis mumbled. “I have been forsaken.”

He opened a bottle of Kirin with his teeth. Wade winced.

The bottle cap pried off with ease, along with the side of an incisor.

“Jesus Christ! What happened! Did your entire family die? Did your father’s stocks crash? What?”

Jervis spat out bits of tooth. He emptied half the Kirin in one gulp. “The end—that’s what happened. The end of the world.”

When Jervis got drunk, Wade knew, he became indecipherable with all that existential crap. “Is Tom around?” Wade asked.

“I think he’s down at the shop working on his Camaro. I asked him to drive me to Hell when he gets it running.” Jervis finished the Kirin on the second pull. “Yes, I’d like that. I’d like to go to Hell.”

“Jerv, your whole room is wrecked. I gotta know what happened.”

“Sartre was wrong, you know,” Jervis drawled on. “Existence precedes betrayal, not essence. There is no essence. There’s…nothing” —and with that, Jervis passed out again.

Stepping over empty Kirin bottles, Wade dragged his friend to the bed. Then he took another glance at the damage. It was hopeless. This would take days to clean up.

But what had happened?

He’d have to find Tom. Maybe he knew what had turned Jervis into a drunken, rambling waste.

He stowed his bags in his own room two doors down. Its sameness somehow comforted him. Wade’s room came with every luxury. There was a small kitchen, a fridge, a separate bathroom and study, even a trash compactor. How could Dad expect him to do well in school without a trash compactor?

The red light blinked on the answering machine. But nobody even knows I’m back, he thought.

Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” said a voice on the machine. “This is Jessica. I…oh, shit, I miss you! Please call me!”

Old flames never die. Sure, babe, I’ll call you. Next century.

Beep: “Wade, I know you’re back,” claimed the next voice. “Word gets around when the best looking guy on campus returns unexpectedly. This is Sally, in case you’ve forgotten my voice. Maybe you’ve forgotten my body too, so why don’t you come over right now, and I’ll give you a little lesson in refamiliarization.”

No thanks. Body by Fisher. Brains by Mack truck.

Beep: “Wade! I can’t believe you haven’t called me yet—”

He reset the machine, ignoring the nine remaining messages. It was nice to be wanted, but Wade figured that was their tough luck. Only so much of this handsome devil to go around, girls. Be patient. Chuckling, he locked his room and went out to the Vette.

The campus roads were close to empty. Wade sped past the liberal arts buildings, watching for the famed Exham police, who all seemed to have an affinity for radar guns. Wade’s Corvette was definitely on their Ten Most Wanted List, and so was Wade. He probably had enough tickets from these chumps to paper his dorm room.

The campus glowed green with grass and sun, placated in lazy tranquility. Crosswalks stood vacant, hall entries deserted. This vast emptiness made him feel sentenced; it reminded him of all the fun he’d be missing out on. Summer school, he thought, in disgust and despair. The rest of the world will be partying, and I’ll be stuck here.

Next he passed WHPL, the campus radio station—progressive, not pop, he thanked God—and around the next bend the Crawford T. Sciences Center loomed. Wade felt dismal driving by. Here, he’d not only be retaking a biology course he’d flunked last year but also starting his new job in toilet maintenance. Wade valued his reputation very much—handsome rich kids in Corvettes had appearances to maintain—but if people found out he was cleaning johns for minimum wage, he could kiss the rep goodbye. He pondered this potential nightmare so intently he missed the next stop sign.

A horn blared. Wade slammed his brakes.

A burgundy Coupe De Ville blew by, missing Wade’s front slope by inches. Wade immediately recognized the car as Professor Dudley J. Besser’s, head of the biology department as well as the most miserable ballpopper on the Exham faculty.

You fat hot air bag! Watch where I’m driving!

As the De Ville turned, Wade noticed a woman sitting next to Besser, and sitting close. Did Besser have a girlfriend? Impossible. Only a prostitute or a vision impaired Weight Watchers reject would date that