The house would have appeared abandoned if not for the meticulously maintained lawn and rose bushes. It looked polluted and sunken into the ground. A mess of shabby roof tiles and flaked paint was lined with soggy rain gutters. Hank stared at the door, suddenly unsure of himself. He hadn't spoken to Deanna Montgomery since it had been revealed that her daughter was the Descended Lamia. A child killer. And worse. A horrible fucking monster. He rapped twice, staring at his shoes. When the door groaned open and distrusting gray eyes peered out, he did the most natural thing he could think of. Hank held out a cigarette.
"Gotta minute?"
Deanna smiled through a grimace. She opened the screen door and stepped out. Hank took a tentative look at her. She had lost weight since he'd seen her last. Her dark, sunken eyes sat back in her skull. Hank caught a smell, not exactly body odor but something that caused him to glance inside. She followed his gaze, squinting.
"Not a good time," she said. "I don't know what to say."
"Nor do I. I'm sorry for not coming by sooner if it makes any difference."
"There was nothing to say."
"Yes, there was."
"What? Sorry but not only is your daughter never coming home but she's a killer of little babies?"
Hank recoiled. The remark had meant to be sarcastic but was punched with horrible sadness. He felt a tightness in his jaw. Deanna bent to a small love seat and plucked a lighter off the cushion. She lit her cigarette then held out the match so Hank could light his own. Their eyes met as he puffed the cherry to life
"Has she come home?"
"No."
"Are you lying?"
"Why would she come home? She knows the police are looking for her. She knows what she did."
"She has to sleep somewhere. Stephanie hasn't reached out at all?"
"Maybe you should check the sewers. Wasn't that where you found her anyway?"
"Where did she go after that night?"
"What night?"
"The night we brought her home!" He all but screamed.
Deanna fumbled a drag from her cigarette. Her hands were greasy and trembled.
"She talked with the police for a few minutes then said she'd go get a check-up at the hospital the following morning! She was tired and wet and filthy! They took her at her word. After all, she wasn't accused of anything! She was a missing teenager! How were we supposed to know?"
"Hecate knew."
"That lying bitch. It's all her fault. Is that how you found out?"
"About Lamia?"
"Yes."
Hank nodded. There was a loud pop inside like popcorn being cooked on a stove. Hank glanced around Deanna's shoulder.
"I'm cooking," she mumbled.
"Hecate gleaned the truth of Stephanie the same time we did. In fact, I'm betting she put it together before. I saw her face down there. She was terrified of Stephanie."
"That's horseshit! How could she have not known?"
"I don't think she had a clue as to what Stephanie was doing with the children."
"They were in on it together, Hank! They planned her disappearance!"
"You're right. The abduction was fabricated. I still don't know why and Hecate hasn't said. I think they were hiding from somebody. But the other stuff, no, she was appalled in the sewers. She was genuinely scared."
"Are you saying the Descendant bitch feels betrayed? I'm her mother! How do you think it sits with me?"
A shuffling sound behind her caused her to move in front of the screen door. Hank frowned.
"Do you have company?"
A light inside, just past the hallway flickered twice. Hank got the sudden urge to urinate. A deep, unsettling pit settled in his bowels.
"Deanna?"
"No, it's nothing. Probably the cat."
She wouldn't meet his eyes. Her hands shook now with each drag. Hank stepped around her and opened the screen door. When he got inside, the stench was more pronounced. It was like rotten meat. Hank took the steps two at a time until he reached the second floor. The wood creaked under his weight. He noticed the windows had all the blinds shut. Trace amounts of light peeked out from underneath. Another creak came from his left and he squinted towards the bathroom. The light was off. the door partially closed. He stepped in and checked behind the shower curtain. Nothing. There was a rustling from a bedroom in front of him and he swore there was a low, guttural growl from inside.
"Did you get a dog?"
Deanna didn't answer. He looked down the stairs and she stood transfixed, staring at him with mouth ajar. She looked like she was in the middle of shrieking yet no sound came from her.
Oh my god, she's here.
Hank swung the laundry room door wide while reaching into his waistband for his weapon. The cold steel was a comfort but barely. He turned towards a second bedroom at his right, peering in and checking underneath the bed. Deanna was cursing and shouted something but Hank barely heard her.
"Lamia!"
A loud bang caused him to lunge forward. Then an eerie silence save for the dripping of a bathroom faucet caused the hair on his arms to stand up. He turned his head for only a second just as a blur rushed forward from the back of the hall. Hank hadn't time to so much as scream before Lamia threw her body into him. He was weightless for a frightful few seconds. When his back struck the stairs and he bounced like a ragdoll upside down, he thought he would die. Hank was sure the next sickening crack would be his neck. A piercing pain lanced up his hip and shoulderblade. He came down hard on his elbow, his head banging the bottom step. His vision blurred but he heard Deanna gasp and the knock knocking of Lamia's feet as she bounded down the stairs. The screen door slammed open.
Hank lifted his head, got to his knees. There was jabbing pain in his back and hips. Deanna screamed something else as he stumbled up and all but fell outside. He looked up the driveway to see Lamia pointing his Glock at him. Her eyes were glassy and faraway. She had cut her hair short almost boyish. Her face looked the same except thinner.
"Stephie!" Deanna screamed.
Lamia spared her a glance. Then she pulled the trigger. Hank flinched but there was no bang. There were no parts of him being blown off into bits and blood. He got to his feet. It's the safety! She doesn't know about the safety! He bounded up the drive, praying that Lamia didn't disengage the safety latch before he could reach her. When he got within ten paces, Lamia dropped the weapon and raced up the sidewalk. Hank stumbled to his sedan, threw the keys into the ignition, and jolted forward. It was too late. Lamia had cut across the street, ran to the back of a neighbor's house, and jumped the fence. Hank sped to the intersection, made a sharp right then slowed on the next block. There was no sign of her. He rolled the car to a stop and leaned forward against the steering wheel. The throbbing in his lower back was relentless and he grimaced as he pulled the emergency brake and got out. As he dialed the police, he bent and vomited into the gutter.
