Notes: Lyrics from Rescue Me by Fontella Bass //lyrics//

Milda walked slowly down the hall, looking around. The house was far grander than any she'd ever been in before. It was how she might imagine that royalty might live. She knew that her sisters had suffered here. She had not been alive during the horrible years, but she wasn't totally unaware of what had gone on. She got flashes--impressions--but it was hard to imagine anything ugly happening here.

She came to the first door on the right and hesitated, resting her hand against the heavy oak. She settled her glasses more firmly, and flipped her hair back over her shoulders. Nana was like a mother to her, but she'd never experienced anything like having a father. She'd talked with Kitten, sharing her warm memories of her daddy, and she didn't exactly envy the little girl, but sometimes she felt wistful. And she wanted desperately to believe in remorse and redemption.

She tapped on the door. A thin voice from inside called, "Come in."

She opened the door, peeking through the crack. As open and honest as her nature was, it didn't quite overcome the natural caution of her feline nature. The man was sitting in a high backed, richly upholstered chair in front of the fireplace. He was muffled up in a silk dressing gown, with a thick blanket over his legs. There were pillows stuffed in around him, as if to prop him up.

He was staring at her. *Damn. I thought I'd lose interest in her as she got older, but she's still beautiful. She looks different, and it isn't just the wig, or the fact that she's grown into her features. It's the attitude. She'd grown hard the last couple of years, but now she looks soft again--vulnerable. God, I'm getting hard already.* At last he said, "Kathleen?"

She gave him a shy smile. "I've been getting that a lot lately. My name is Milda."

"Is that so? You look a lot like my Kathleen."

"I'm sorry, Mister Bernard."

"Please, Mister Bernard? You used to call me Wally." He beckoned to her. "Come closer, so I can see you. My eyes aren't what they once were."

Milda approached timidly. This was The Bastard? This was the man that her sisters hated with such consuming venom? He looked so harmless. "Kathleen couldn't come. We... we don't see much of her. But I can give her a message. I can tell her anything that you want her to know, and maybe she'll decide to come herself."

She'd stopped a couple of yards away. His hands were resting on the arms of the chair. He lifted one hand weakly, and crooked his fingers. "Come closer, little girl. You're not afraid of me now, are you?"

She edged closer still. "No, not really. It's just that the others..."

He frowned. "Others? Have people been talking about me?"

"My sisters--Acacia and Naresha. They were... away when that man came to Nana's house. I don't think they would have come."

Wallace studied her. *I knew she was unbalanced before she left. She's gone around the bend. It won't be hard to have her put away somewhere secure. Somewhere that allows private visits.*

"I couldn't agree more. Kathleen, please. With you standing away from me... There's been so much distance for so long. I can remember when you were a little girl, we used to watch television, or just sit in front of the fire--me in a chair, and you sitting by my feet--sometimes resting your head on my knees." He patted his knee. "One more time?"

"I... I don't know."

"Please, Kathy. I have so much I need to say to you, and it would be easier for me." He let his voice tremble, dipping his head. Milda's tender heart softened even more. She stepped closer, then sank to her knees at his feet, gazing up at him. "Why did you come?"

"Because I think that everyone should have a second chance."

Wallace smiled at her, leaning forward, and took both of her hands in his. "So do I." His eyes glittered. "You have no idea how happy I am to have this chance." Milda felt a stab of nervousness. There was something wrong with his tone. It was far too smug for a man facing his own mortality, and trying to heal old wounds. "I'm so happy that you're back."

"I can't stay." She tried to make her voice firm. "I'll be going back to San Francisco in a couple of hours. I promised Nana."

"The old lady? Lyons told me a little about her. I can't say I'm surprised you ended up with someone like her."

Milda frowned. "Someone like her?"

"Off."

Milda's spine stiffened. "Nana is a wonderful, kind, loving person. She took us in..."

"I'm not going to believe she didn't know you were a runaway, and since she didn't notify anyone, I'm pretty sure that could be considered contributing to the delinquency of a minor. I'll bet an old lady like her wouldn't do well in jail."

Milda could feel the blood draining from her face. "You couldn't!"

"That's where you're wrong, Kathy. I can. I can do anything I like. You should know that by now."

Now his tone was gloating, and the nervousness was escalating toward fear. "I'm going now."

His hands tightened. "I'm afraid that Lyons won't take you back."

"I don't care! I'll hitch hike back. I'll walk. I've done it before."

"You're home now, and you'll be staying--at least for a few days. I've been looking into private institutions. I can afford a good one, Kathy. One where you'll have your own room... where we can be alone."

The pressure on her wrists was growing stronger, beginning to hurt. Milda's voice rose. "Let go of me!"

He grinned, and his expression no longer held a shred of the uncertainty and mournfulness he'd shown before. It was totally feral. "I have a room ready for you while I'm deciding where you'll go. It's in the back of the house, because the ornamental bars on the window would have looked a little odd in the front."

Milda tugged back. "Let go of me, or I'll scream!"

He laughed, and the sound was chilling. "It never worked for you before. What makes you think it will work now?" He pulled her toward him. "Just like old times, Kathy--you on your knees--where you belong." Milda jerked back hard, but she couldn't find an inch of slack. Wallace chuckled. "Go ahead and fight if you want to. I'm ready for you this time, bitch." He did release one hand, reaching up to brush his scant locks away from his forehead, showing the ugly scar. "This won't happen again." He reached down with his free hand, beginning to open his fly. "How do you want your welcome home, Kathy? I never had your ass. How about that?" Milda screamed.

She was young and healthy, and her shriek rang out loud and long. Downstairs the private detective paused in pouring himself a whiskey, then added some soda. Down in the kitchen, Mrs. Logan turned her radio up louder, then as the second scream floated down, louder still. The song was bright and fast. //Rescue me. Take me in your arms. Rescue me. I need your tender charms...// She turned back to the radio abruptly, spinning the dial through a gamut of electronic squeals and crackles, and the Beach Boys started singing about California Girls. She sat at the table, cupping her hands over her ears, her expression stiff. Upstairs Maggie paused in her pacing, then started again, even more quickly, thinking, *Get it over with, you fucking lecher. Get it over with and lock her away, so I can have a little peace.*

Wallace had managed to open his fly, while keeping hold of Milda. The girl pulled back hard, and managed to pull Wallace off balance, but not enough to escape. She kicked out, drumming her heel into his shin. He cursed, then dragged up on her arm, wrenching it painfully. He bent down and slapped her, then back handed her. "You've forgotten," he grated. "If you fight me, you only get hurt worse." He grabbed the collar of her dress and jerked hard, putting a rip almost a half-foot long across the bust. He hissed, "No brassier! You've developed filthy habits, Kathy." Still holding on to her, he worked the buckle on his belt, beginning to slide it out of its loops. "You're going to have to be punished for that." The unholy glee in his voice was the most horrifying thing Milda had ever experienced.

She knew that the others in the house had heard her. There was no outcry, no sound of approaching rescue. She realized that he'd been telling her the truth. She might as well be alone with him here--no one was going to make a move to stop him, or protect her. A blinding sense of her own gullibility washed over her, mingling with encroaching numbness. She could feel herself beginning to go away. *But I can't! Someone else will be here. I can't leave them to this.* Her next scream was a cry of instinct to the person she had been her protector all her short life. "Casey!" she screamed. "Oh, God! Casey, help me!"

Wallace had doubled the belt in his fist. Now he raised it high and lashed down with all his strength. The leather cracked against the girl's cheek, and a blood red stripe immediately rose to mar her smooth, pale skin. Milda wailed in shocked pain, and Wallace growled, "I shouldn't have done that. Never on the face. Now I'll have to keep you here at least till it fades. But that doesn't mean I can't wear your ass out."

He released Milda, not noticing the ring of bruises that was forming around the girl's delicate wrist. He grabbed the shoulders of the sobbing girl, turning and pushing her roughly, till she sprawled on her belly. He bent down, tugging her hem up and grabbing at the waistband of her panties. Milda's voice rose in a keening wail.

But at the highest note of the wail, the sound broke, and spiraled down, down... ending in a guttural growl. Her hands were spread, pressed on the floor before her, and her fingers curved stiffly. There was a grating sound as her nails dragged over the hardwood floor, leaving pail scratches.

These tiny things somehow seeped through Wallace's growing haze of lust and rage. Screams, pleas, whimpers... All these things were expected, even anticipated. But the animalistic growl and the subtle, gritty scratching sounds were just somehow so wrong, that he froze.

The girl moved, swift and supple. In the blink of an eye the girl had crouched, turning to face him. Wallace gaped. The girl seemed transformed. The gentle air was gone. She was now tensed, almost vibrating with energy, and her blue eyes shone with rage. Her lips were pulled back, baring her teeth, and the low growl continued to roll. He'd spent years intimidating her into acquiescence. He saw no reason why he shouldn't be able to do it now. "Kathy, if you try anything stupid..."

"I'm not the stupid one here, asshole." Even the voice was different, the cadence somehow off, the tone more nasal. "You still fucking can't see what's right in front of you."

"A nasty mouth. That doubles the punishment."

"And here's another example of your pathetic stupidity. You actually think that I'm going to let you lay your hands on me again. I'm gonna kill you, anyway. I promised myself that I'd kill you if I ever saw you again."

Wallace's breath was growing ragged. "How dare you...?"

"Before, I'd have probably done it quickly, but now..." Wallace watched in creeping terror. The girl was changing. The blue faded out of her eyes, leaving them red, and the bones of her face seemed to shift and rearrange. She was flexing her fingers, and her nails... Her nails were visibly growing, turning into needle-sharp hooks. "You messed with my sister, you piece of shit. You're gonna hurt!"

The surreal aura of what was happening had finally stripped down Wallace's lustful arrogance, and he realized that he was in mortal danger. He could see the girl tensing. The muscles in her legs flexed. Her buttocks twitched minutely from side to side, and somehow this was not ridiculous, but bizarrely frightening.

She sprang.

Wallace tried to defend himself instinctively. He stumbled back, lashing out with the belt. One clawed hand darted out, and the strap wrapped around it. Then she whipped her arm back, snatching the belt away. Then Acacia whipped her arm, and struck the man across the face--with the buckle. Wallace staggered back, hitting the chair and falling into it. The belt was thrown, smashing a delicate vase on a side table, and Acacia pounced.

Her knees landed on the man's thighs, pinning him. Wallace screamed, his voice almost as shrill, and even more panicked than Milda's had been. Bernard punched her in the face, but though it rocked her head back, it didn't budge her. Acacia grabbed his shoulders, letting her claws stab in, almost two inches deep. Her head darted forward, and Wallace quickly turned his head to the side. Her incisors and canines, now long and spiky, sank deep into his cheek. She clenched her jaws, then shook her head violently as Wallace continued to scream, beating at her weakly.

Her glasses flew off, the wig slid, falling to the floor. She continued tugging and shaking her head. There was a wet sound, and her head snapped back, a gobbet of skin and flesh caught in her teeth. Blood gushed, running down his neck to begin soaking into his clothes. Acacia grinned at him, teeth bloody, and chewed the morsel of flesh. Wallace started screaming again. He didn't stop screaming as long as he had breath in his body, but that wasn't for long.

Lyons had realized that something unexpected was going on upstairs. He wondered if the peaceful seeming hippie girl had been packing a weapon of some sort. He'd never heard anyone making the sort of noises that he heard now. He raced up the stairs, toward the source of the shrieks.

Mrs. Logan peeked out of the kitchen in time to see the man charge up to the second floor. She went to the phone and picked it up, glancing at the number of the police station. Then she slowly hung up again and sat down. She hadn't reported anything all these years--she decided she'd better wait. Things might still be smoothed over.

When Lyon burst into the room, the scene that greeted him looked like something from a nightmare. Wallace Bernard was stretched out on the floor, face up. The woman crouching over him was obviously the girl he'd brought to the house--the clothing was the same. But the long red wig was pooled by the chair--beside an even redder, moist puddle. The girl's hair was actually a short cap of silky brown and blonde. He could see the shade very easily, since her head was down as she concentrated on ripping Wallace Bernard's abdomen open with her bare hands. Perhaps the most horrible thing about the tableau was that the man's out flung arms and legs were still twitching weakly as the girl tugged a slippery loop of intestine through the gaping hole in his belly. He gasped out, "God damn it!"

The girl's head jerked up as she looked at him, and things slipped from strange into something that had no place in reality. Red eyes, a mouthful of fangs... He hardly had time to think. The thing snarled, "Judas!" and came at him.

He should have drawn his gun on the way up the stairs, but he'd been remembering the meek little thing he'd brought here. He reached for the gun in his shoulder holster, but there was no time to aim properly as she rushed at him. A shot went off, and the girl yowled in pain--but didn't stop.

A crease had opened on the crown of her head, blood streaming down her face, but she didn't even slow. She barreled into Lyons, claws slashing viciously. She caught him on the back of the hand holding the gun, slicing through tendons. His fingers spasmed as he completely lost control of them, the gun thudding to the floor.

The girl swarmed over him, shockingly strong and fast. Now Lyons was screaming, too, as much in protest as pain and fear. This wasn't right. The prey was not supposed to turn on the predator.

In her room, Maggie had been frozen with terror. Self-preservation finally forced her to act. Whatever it was that was happening, it was a threat to her own well-being. She dialed the police and gasped out the address. The dispatchers could hear howls and screams in the background. One of them ordered officers to the scene, with all due urgency. The other told Maggie to lock her door, and wait for help to arrive. She told her to come back and stay on the line. Maggie babbled, "But my husband... I have to go help him." The dispatcher tried to reason with her, but she hung up and headed for the source of the clamor.

As she left her room, though, the noise died down. There was no more screaming, though there were occasional bangs and crashes. Maggie crept to the door. It was standing ajar. She reached out to open it wider, but it stopped, bumping against something. There was some sort of obstruction. She shoved hard, managing to squeeze inside.

She didn't scream. The sight that greeted her robbed her of her breath, and most of her reason. It was the detective who had been blocking the door. He sprawled in a welter of blood. He was staring up at the ceiling, looking surprised. His unmarred face was in unsettling contrast to the gaping wound below. His throat was simply gone, vertebrae gleaming through the ragged hole in his gullet.

Her eyes moved on, farther into the room. When she saw Wallace, she gasped sharply. The only reason she recognized him was because she knew how he had been dressed--and, strangely, the scar at his headline had escaped the abuse. It was the only identifying mark left in the red ruin tha was his face. Maggie whimpered when she saw blood staining her husband's open fly.

There was a third figure in the room, squatted down on the hearth, staring into the cold fireplace. Maggie recognized the bright, streaked hair of her daughter. "Kathy!" The girl's head turned marginally, showing her a bare sliver of profile. Maggie could see the blood smeared over her mouth and chin. She felt her gorge begin to rise, but forced it back down. "What have you done?"

"Balanced a few scales, Bitch."

Despite the horror clutching at her, Maggie felt the old anger and resentment rising again. "You killed him."

"Yeah." She turned her head a little more. Glittering blue eyes fixed on Maggie, and Acacia smiled tightly. Maggie shuddered at the sight of blood on the girl's small, even teeth. "Too bad I could only do it once. And shouldn't that be 'you killed them'? Oh, wait!" She held up one finger, as if making a point. Her hand was slick with blood. "That's right! No one else in the world matters except you, and the man you pimped me to. Shit, Maggie, who's going to spoil you now?"

Maggie's foot nudged something heavy. She glanced down. It was a gun, lying near the detective's limp hand. She bent, smoothly and swiftly, snatching it up. Aiming it at Acacia, she said coldly. "I don't need anyone to spoil me. Now that he's dead, I'll inherit. I can spoil myself."

"Yeah? Yeah, you would think of that. So..." She cocked her head. "Gonna share?" Her tone was sarcastic.

"Are you kidding? You've been nothing but a fucking annoyance since your daddy squirted you into my belly. I should have aborted you, but he wouldn't let me. That's why he moved us out to that godforsaken hellhole--so I couldn't get to a clinic." She bared her teeth, and an unbiased observer might have noticed that, as much as Acacia would have denied it, there WAS a little of her mother in her.

There was the sound of approaching sirens. Acacia scowled, then said, "Get out of my way, and I'll go. I'll let you live."

Maggie laughed. "And worry about you coming back? I'd never have a peaceful moment." Her eyes narrowed. "And they're close. You wouldn't get away." She lifted the gun, cocking the hammer back. "And you'd tell, wouldn't you?" Acacia smiled slowly. "You'd tell, you slut, and ruin my life!"

Acacia stood slowly. "You know, Bitch, you're right." Her hand drifted behind her as she spoke. "And that... oh, that would be hard on you, wouldn't it? Just imagine having to go to prison." Her fingers closed around the handle of the poker that hung in the rack of fire implements. "Just think of it--no designer clothes, cold showers instead of baths with imported oils, all that starchy prison food. Mam, you'd pack on the pounds."

"Shut up!"

"And they won't allow you to have more than a few bucks at a time in prison. That's what I've heard. But don't worry--I'm sure you could find some nice butch dyke to make you her girlfriend. A little sex, and she'd probably keep you in smokes and candy. But I forgot--you're a frigid bitch, aren't you?"

Maggie lifted the gun. "You can't talk if you're dead."

"With the things I've seen, Bitch," Acacia snarled, "I wouldn't be so sure of it." She started toward her mother.

Maggie fired. She'd never fired a gun before. The roar nearly deafened her, and the recoil knocked it out of her hand, sending a jarring shock up her arm. Acacia thudded back against the mantle, blood blossoming on her right shoulder. Maggie watched in horror as she straightened, bringing her hand from behind her back. The girl stood flatfooted for a moment, swaying slightly, the poker held stiffly. "Maggie, Maggie, Maggie..." she whispered. "You have to do better than that!"

Maggie turned. She was going to run back to her room. She was going to lock herself in, as the police had advised her. She was going to wait for the men she could hear kicking down the front door to come up and hopefully shoot this lunatic. She was going to be star witness at the trial and make sure there was no plea of insanity, and then she was going to spend the rest of her life in luxury, without even the annoyance of silent reproach from the child who had earned it for her.

She was going to do all that.

Wallace Bernard was a rich and powerful man. Three patrol cars had been sent. The half-dozen officers were directed to the scene of the crime by a pale faced, hysterical woman in the uniform of a housekeeper. They had heard a shot as they made their way into the house, and the approached quickly, guns drawn. Four of them spread out to search the house, and two entered the room cautiously.

After a moment off scanning, they holstered their guns. One of them whispered, "Jesus Christ!" The second was making gagging noises. "If you puke in this crime scene I'll have your ass, rookie!" the senior officer snapped. The young man managed to make it into the hall before he emptied his stomach. "Go call in, and tell them we have four DBs, and there may be others or wounded, for all we know. Go!"

The rookie hurried away, grateful to escape the scene of carnage.

The senior officer scanned the scene, noting the victims--two male, two female. There was one of each near the door. The man looked as if he had been mauled, and the back of the woman's head was a pulpy mess. There was no mystery as to how she had died. The poker lay beside her, the end thickly smeared with blood, brains, and hair. The male lying in the middle of the room looked as if he'd been savaged by a pack of wild animals. His face was more-or-less gone, and he'd been disemboweled. He heard more sirens approaching, and mentally told the paramedics that there was no need to hurry.

The other body was sitting up, back propped against the wall, arms hanging limp, chin on chest as her head drooped. The cause of death wasn't immediate, but she was slathered in blood. He holstered his gun and went to her, wanting to get an idea of cause of death. He gingerly gripped her hair and lifted her head.

Blank, staring blue eyes gazed up blindly. "Shit," he murmured sadly. *She can't be more than sixteen or seventeen, and so pretty. What a fucking waste.*

She blinked slowly.

The officer fell to his knees beside the girl, yelling, "Hennessey! Johnson! Get the medics. Get 'em up here now! We have a live one."