Free The Wicked Garden by Lenora Henson Page A

streaming down his face.
    Troy gave his son a look that communicated a familiar threat. Zach stood frozen, and then pushed his wide-eyed friend out the door. Troy locked it and turned back to his wife and daughter. Clumsy from drink, he dropped to the floor and climbed atop Ame, who was still trying to catch her breath. He straddled her, pinned her arms above her head with one hand, and began unbuttoning her jeans with the other.
    “Well, it appears that, for once, you’re speechless, Ame. I think it’s time that I shut you up for good, you worthless bitch.” Ame couldn’t speak for sobbing. Troy glared down at her. “You’re a no good witch like your mother. You don’t deserve any better than this.” Then he spit in her face.
    “Mama,” Ame whispered hoarsely.
    Troy felt cold metal against his temple.
    “Get off her,” he heard his wife say in a low, guttural voice.
    Troy’s gaze turned slightly to meet the barrel of the antique shotgun. Then he looked into his wife’s eyes. She had always been wild, and there had been a time when he had delighted in exploiting her special combination of abandon and self-loathing. He had certainly seen Gretchel crazy. But now he was seeing something else. Something that terrified him.
    Gretchel pointed the shotgun at his face. “Get. Off,” she repeated. Her breathing was heavy, but she held the gun steady.
    “Gretch, this isn’t what it looks like,” Troy desperately pleaded.
    “Get off,” she said again, “And get out.” She drew the shotgun up, pulling it tight against her chest.
    “I take it all back. I’ll never hit her again. I swear.”
    “Get out of this room,” she scr eamed, “And get out of this house!” The metal met Troy’s forehead.
    He climbed off Ame and backed out of the room. Gretchel slammed the door in his face.
     
    ∞
     
    Gretchel lowered the shotgun, gently. The calm sense of purpose that had descended on her when Troy attacked their daughter started to dissipate. She was shaking as she helped Ame climb into bed.
    “The gun.... why was it in my room?” Ame asked. Gretchel started to sob. Unable to speak, she just shook her head. “Mom if you don’t do something to change this for us, I’ll never forgive you. You have to fight. If not for yourself, do it for Zach and me.”
    What remained of Gretchel’s heart cracked, and then disintegrated into a fine powder of guilt and remorse.
    Gretchel swallowed, pushing down the rising bile. “I will make it right. I will do everything in my power to make it right,” she said. Power. She had power. She could feel it inside, like a ball of light expanding and pulsating.
    “Lock the door behind me, Ame. Do not open it for anybody but me.”
     
                  The voices started as soon as she began walking down the steps.
    ’Bout time the amulet come off.
    Aye, we be trying to reach ye since the bloody blue-eyed chap left ya cryin’.
    Ye been hiding behind that purple gem. Served ye well ‘nuff, but ye can’t hear a bloody thing.
    Even gie ye a skelpit lug!
    Aye.
    The devil’s bride ‘ill have you finish ‘im off, but dinnae! Dinnae! Tis not your place to take his life. Ye got to break the cycle, love. Nature’ll do ‘em in. Let the elements do the deed this time. Whit’s fur ye’ll no go by ye.
    Finish what ye’ve started, tart. Do it fer yer bairns . Most of the voices in Gretchel’s head were anonymous, attached to nothing and no one she had ever seen, but not this one. This was the Woman in Wool.
    If Troy was still in the house, she would blow his head off. She listened for movement. Everything was quiet. He was, perhaps, just smart enough to stay out of her way.
     
                  Gretchel was digging through the fire safe, looking for the documents she and her kids would need to start a new life. The shotgun was at her feet.
                  Before Gretchel even realized that Troy was behind her, he grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm