There existed an enduring misconception that the monstrous must also be moronic. It was so pervasive even Shelley's articulate Frankenstein's Monster, arguably the most intelligent of the novel's cast, had to be revised for the screen as a lumbering dolt incapable of speech. The concept was more digestible. 'Monsters' couldn't resemble normal people in intellect, emotion, or manner. The belief signaled a failure in logic, the sort which allowed real monsters like Ted Bundy to operate for years, winning friends and affections. The woman who was not Cricket...not his Cricket...was guilty of the same error.
She'd never been afraid of him, but he knew the taste of her fear. Her greatest and most common worry was the inevitability of losing her mind: a peculiar strain with a flavor similar to pears on warm pumpernickel topped with honey. Aquaphobia tasted like jackfruit. Claustrophobia: menthe a l'eau. His favorite, anatidaephobia, or the fear of rubber duckies, left an aftertaste ironically resembling duck confit with juniper and peppercorn. This creature and the frisson of fear she'd experienced landed on his palette as an oversugared berry gelato. Too simple and too sweet to stomach, each of her inconsistencies suddenly made sense.
Gears turned behind eyes darkened by want - by lust or by hunger, it was hers to guess. He wanted her to hit him. She'd have struck first, and by breaking the lamp, would darken their corner of the Midway. He'd be forced to change. No one blamed the Lion for doing what it did, particularly in self-defense.
How rich might her blood be, how tender the flesh, how musical her cries.
Anticipatory thoughts courted the macabre. Pleased, a sound woke, rolling in his chest like a bear stirred from hibernation. Tugged nearer, he kissed the stolen mouth of his dearest friend while the imposter summoned the courage to act, although his interest had depleted to a pittance. The restraint of a seasoned hunter kept his palm soft as it closed around her neck.
Pumpernickel, pear and honey. Two familiar voices and a carbuncle's cranky yammering followed.
He couldn't split his attention. Cressida2 must have seen them. James guessed the imposter was a sort of trickster fae, but without certainty, he couldn't predict how she'd react, and he didn't care to give her the chance. He'd always preferred Scorched Earth responses, anyway. The hand framing her neck became a garrote, so tight the flesh beneath his fingers whitened from lack of blood flow.
"Fine evening," he called to the 2.5 passing behind them, enthusiastic as an old cat shooed from his sunspot. "Wait. Please." The pretender's feet left the ground. "Got a bit of business." With the effort required to hoist a bag of rice, he hurled her back into the tent support. The side of his body pressed into the hanging length of her to keep her from kicking. She could scratch. He had an extra hand to make her more uncomfortable if she tried. Jaime's fingers dug, compressing her carotid - she had a few seconds to cooperate before her world blackened. "The glamour. Drop it," he drawled, as one does with a dog refusing to give up a tennis ball. A forward lean brought his face closer to hers again. Drained of all fondness or warmth, the hollows around his eyes began to darken. From the elbow, a coat of rime began to ascend towards the hand constricting her throat. This was politeness. She had a small window to avail herself of it.