Free Bone Orchard by Doug Johnson, Lizz-Ayn Shaarawi Page B

eccentric, cake-slapping recluse that suddenly snatched a concealed electroshock weapon from the shadows and assaulted his petite young houseguest with it. Best to wait until they were gone.
    The door latched shut with a solid, brass click and the house became a silent tomb. The two of them stood there like gunslingers waiting for the strike of high noon.
    It seemed to Lazarus the perfect moment for the grandfather clock to chime, but it didn’t.
    Now.
    He spun toward the cabinet and reached for the stun gun. His fingers grazed it but a jolt of pain robbed him of success. Kitty had yanked his head back by the hair and leaped onto his back.
    “Don’t you fucking do it!”
    Lazarus flung her to the floor with a bony slap that he knew had to hurt, but if it gave her pause it was undetectable. Instead of shriveling, she retaliated, kicking him in the shin with a beefy, Doc Martens crack. Lazarus yelped in agony, clutching his leg and nearly tumbling to the floor himself.
    “Okay, baby…” Kitty seethed. “Intermission’s over.” 
    She popped up to her feet like a seasoned surfer and dashed away down the hallway. Lazarus limped behind her, pain flaring with each footfall. He didn’t want the little bitch out of his sight. God knew what other toys she might have stashed around the house.
    In the parlor, she dumped the contents of her bag onto the floor. The handcuffs skittered over the parquet and slid under the sofa. They weren’t what she was after. She grabbed the truncheon and flicked it open. The thin steel baton wouldn’t bruise a bone it struck. It would break it.
    “Game-fucking-on.”
    Her anger was a handicap and Lazarus knew it. He pressed his back to the wall outside the parlor doorway and lay in wait. His heart pounded with adrenaline. His leg throbbed. He waited as the heavy boots stomped across the floor. He waited as her shadow preceded her through the arch. He waited until he saw the truncheon in her hand and the expression of utter rage on her face as she walked straight past him. It was raw and beautiful, he thought.
    Pretty poison. What a waste.
     
    Sian primped in the dim light cast by the Fiat’s visor-mounted vanity mirror for nearly the entire duration of the ride back to town. Her cover-up was two shades darker than her actual skin tone and years of overzealous eyebrow plucking and shaping had left her looking like Geri Halliwell circa 1997. Sian even looked surprised while she slept.
    “Not as cool as I expected,” she said finally, not about the eyebrows, but about the visit to the manor house.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” It was defensive. Almost a snap really, but the simple truth was that Dylan totally agreed.
    “Dunno. Just thought he’d be different is all.”
    Sian flipped up the visor and squinted. Ahead of them in the road there was a flash of movement to the right. Dylan saw it too, a stocky gray animal had pushed through the tall grass on the shoulder, hugging the ground in stealth mode. The Fiat’s headlamps caught its black-and-white striped face and froze it in its tracks, nocturnal eyes shining back in the harsh beam of light like two glowing mirrors. It was a badger, waiting for its moment to dart across the road and devour whatever poor, slimy creature it presently held clamped in its teeth.
    “He’s got a frog,” Dylan chirped with glee.
    Sian grimaced.
    The badger held steady until Dylan started flipping his high-beams off and on in an attempt to provoke the animal back into motion. It worked.
    It shot out into the road, the bent legs of the frog springing crazily. Dylan could easily have braked and allowed it to pass safely to the other side. But he didn’t.
    He hit the gas pedal and the Fiat sped up with what little horsepower it had.
    “What are you doing?” Sian asked.
    Dylan’s grin morphed into a cruel smirk. He kept the wheel straight and let the badger seal its own fate. At the last second it hesitated and considered turning back. Dylan