The Servants of Twilight Read Free

Joey?”
    “Six.”
    “Only six and already pretty enough to make the ladies swoon!”
    Joey fidgeted with embarrassment and clearly wished he could bolt for the car. But he stayed where he was and behaved courteously, the way his mother had taught him.
    The old woman said, “I’ll bet a dollar to a doughnut that I know your birthday.”
    “I don’t have a doughnut,” Joey said, taking the bet literally, solemnly warning her that he wouldn’t be able to pay off if he lost.
    “Isn’t that cute?” the old woman said to him. “So perfectly, wonderfully cute. But I know . You were born on Christmas Eve.”
    “Nope,” Joey said. “Febroonary second.”
    “February second? Oh, now, don’t joke around with me,” she said, still ignoring Christine, still grinning broadly at Joey, wagging one nicotine-yellowed finger at him. “Sure as shootin’, you were born December twenty-fourth.”
    Christine wondered what the old woman was leading up to.
    Joey said, “Mom, you tell her. Febroonary second. Does she owe me a dollar?”
    “No, she doesn’t owe you anything, honey,” Christine said. “It wasn’t a real bet.”
    “Well,” he said, “if I’d lost, I couldn’t’ve given her any doughnut anyway, so I guess it’s okay if she don’t give me a dollar.”
    Finally the old woman raised her head and looked at Christine.
    Christine started to smile but stopped when she saw the stranger’s eyes. They were hard, cold, angry. They were neither the eyes of a grandmother nor those of a harmless old bag lady. There was power in them—and stubbornness and flinty resolve. The woman wasn’t smiling anymore, either.
    What’s going on here?
    Before Christine could speak, the woman said, “He was born on Christmas Eve, wasn’t he? Hmmm? Wasn’t he?” She spoke with such urgency, with such force that she sprayed spittle at Christine. She didn’t wait for an answer, either, but hurried on: “You’re lying about February second. You’re just trying to hide, both of you, but I know the truth. I know . You can’t fool me. Not me .”
    Suddenly she seemed dangerous, after all.
    Christine put a hand on Joey’s shoulder and urged him around the crone, toward the car.
    But the woman stepped sideways, blocking them. She waved her cigarette at Joey, glared at him, and said, “I know who you are. I know what you are, everything about you, everything. Better believe it. Oh, yes, yes, I know, yes.”
    A nut, Christine thought, and her stomach twisted. Jesus. A crazy old lady, the kind who might be capable of anything. God, please let her be harmless.
    Looking bewildered, Joey backed away from the woman, grabbed his mother’s hand and squeezed tight.
    “Please get out of our way,” Christine said, trying to maintain a calm and reasonable tone of voice, wanting very much not to antagonize.
    The old woman refused to move. She brought the cigarette to her lips. Her hand was shaking.
    Holding Joey’s hand, Christine tried to go around the stranger.
    But again the woman blocked them. She puffed nervously on her cigarette and blew smoke out her nostrils. She never took her eyes off Joey.
    Christine looked around the parking lot. A few people were getting out of a car two rows away, and two young men were at the end of this row, heading in the other direction, but no one was near enough to help if the crazy woman became violent.
    Throwing down her cigarette, hyperventilating, eyes bulging, looking like a big malicious toad, the woman said, “Oh, yeah, I know your ugly, vicious, hateful secrets, you little fraud.”
    Christine’s heart began to hammer.
    “Get out of our way,” she said sharply, no longer trying to remain—or even able to remain—calm.
    “You can’t fool me with your play-acting—”
    Joey began to cry.
    “—and your phony cuteness. Tears won’t help, either.”
    For the third time, Christine tried to go around the woman—and was blocked again.
    The harridan’s face hardened in anger. “I know