By Colleen Foley
I'd explained as Seth drove. We were back
at the cemetery, wending our way through rain-sloppy paths to Marie
Laveau's grave. The storm started as we'd arrived, a fabrication of the
priests, no doubt.
Every muscle tensed, just enough, as I ticked
off reasons, in my head, for destroying him. The bottle. The zombies.
Seth's poor goddamned mother. The manipulation and murder of so many
innocent people. That fucking dog. My...rape.
Cold, comfortable rage knifed into my gut. I let it in, let it bloom, and kept it contained, let it anticipate its release.
It was time to end this.