The Tindalos Asset by Caitlín R. Kiernan

Author:Caitlín R. Kiernan [Kiernan, Caitlín R.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Adult
ISBN: 9781250191151
Google: h0ORzAEACAAJ
Amazon: B082RTC3QS
Goodreads: 49247277
Publisher: Tor.com
Published: 2020-10-13T05:00:00+00:00

10.: Monday Evening Kaiju Genderfuck Pas de Deux

(Atlanta, January 10, 2011)

“They sent you here to kill me,” whispers the siren, the coiling and uncoiling collage of silt and shadow pressing down upon you, crushing and pinning you to the hotel bed. She’s bleeding, but you can’t remember why. Her lips are pressed to your left ear with a fearful intimacy, and her breath is the breath of a salt marsh and her wrath is the still quiet before a hurricane makes landfall. “They sent you here with your pet to murder me. They baited a hook, and I bit like a starving mackerel. They sent you here, because they were afraid to come for me themselves.” And how you have tried shutting your eyes. How you have tried so very, very hard. And how you’ve tried all the fancy mental defenses and psychological gymnastics that came with your training—dissociative virtual relocation, concentrative self-hypnosis, think-aloud initiated autogenic-neurofeedback et alia. Grasping at straws, you have trotted out that bag of tricks, all to no avail. You are alone with her in this dingy room off Ponce de Leon Avenue, this room that stinks of disinfectant and mold and tiny bars of soap—and of her, because she is fast eclipsing everything in the world that is not her. Bending low above you, she is plucking all the cosmos asunder and remaking it to suit her secret needs and the secret needs of the powers she serves. Where is the hound? you think, and then you say the words aloud, “Where is the hound?” But your voice has been diminished by the sheer undeniable weight of her, collapsed like a Styrofoam coffee cup sunk fifteen hundred meters down, like the moment of a submarine’s implosion. “Yes,” the siren hisses through needle teeth and baleen, “where is the hound? Shouldn’t I already be dead by now? Shouldn’t I be over and done with by now? Wasn’t that the plan? Well, I know the day I die, and this isn’t it.” Helpless to do otherwise, you stare straight into her bottomless eyes, and she smiles and stares back into you, finding you hardly even deep as a handful of piss. It isn’t coming, she tells you, this time without even moving her lips. She is the ocean’s ventriloquist, and you are, at best, a skillfully carved driftwood marionette. If it were coming, it would be here by now. If it were coming, you wouldn’t be in this fix, this mess you’re in. And when they find the dispatch that I’ll make of you, Ellison Nicodemo, and when they ask you why you have failed them so completely, you will teach them of the soul cages and the merciless justice of drowned gods. Now the siren kisses you, and something living that is not a tongue slides across her lips and moves slimy across your lips and between your teeth and slithers down your gagging throat. It will make a den of your belly. It will make a burrow of your soul.

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