Theta Waves Thursdays: Act 7

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theta waves dragon v3 copyTheta Waves Thursday

Where each Thursday, I post an act from my new and ongoing serial story: Theta Waves. It’s been a couple of months since Phoenix was released, so instead of starting there (anyone who enjoys a Thea read has already grabbed it up for free but if you didn’t, you can go over to just about any ebook retailer and download it for FREE), I’m going to begin with Dragon: Episode 2.

 So settle back, prepare yourself for a typical tale that has all the darkness you’ve come to expect from a Thea read, but with a little added steam.

 Looking for more freebie goodies? I’m amassing some over at Gimmesome. Go get some!


She assumed it was the john from the boutique, but she couldn’t be entirely sure. A black hood covered his face, with eye holes that let her see each time he blinked. She tried to move, and realized she wasn’t lying on a bed comfortably waiting for the euphoria to recede, but was tied to a chair with her hands behind her back. She almost laughed aloud at the irony of her situation. Maybe her last thoughts shouldn’t have been of Ezekiel at all, Karma had a way of twisting humor back into a girl’s face. He’d saved her last time from exactly the same position, with almost exactly the same kind of man in front of her.

It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the entire room, for the blurring at the edges of her vision to sharpen. The decorations looked like what she imagined Anne’s room in the Tower of London had been like. There was a linen fold paneling, and a four poster bed. Except in the corner, atop a stretch of plastic drop cloth, stood a hewn out block of wood that must have served the other Boleyns as a neck rest as they lost their heads.

“I don’t plan to use that right away,” he said.

“I don’t suppose I can convince you to not use it at all,” she said.

She was willing to bet that this particular john fed on fear as much as he fed on the fantasy of killing famous women.

He chuckled darkly. “For this particular fantasy, I don’t exactly require you to stay in character.” He backed away to sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her. She squirmed beneath his gaze, knowing that those eyes would be the last human thing she would see. Her eyes trailed off toward the block again. It was filthy, covered in old blood. He’d done this before, plenty of times. He obviously had enough money to pay for this particular fantasy once before if not repeatedly.

“Did you know that rumor has it that Anne was a witch,” she said.

He said nothing to that, but he did reposition himself on the bed.

“Henry always accused her of bewitching him.”

“I’m not interested in being Henry,” he said.

“Then what is it you’re interested in besides killing me?”

He shrugged. “I do have a few other proclivities,” he said.

She didn’t want to imagine what those were and why he hadn’t pulled her to the block yet if that was his intent. He obviously wanted to let the tension build before he swung the blow. She looked around for an ax, and realized there wasn’t any.

“Her executioner used a sword,” she said, remembering her history.

He crossed his arms over his fat chest. “Indeed,” he said. “But that’s where the history lesson ends,” he said.

She realized then that although the real Anne had gone to her death almost meekly and accepting, that her execution had been swift and meted out with some modicum of justice and, warped as it was, that this man in front of her had no such intention. He wanted her to be terrified. He wanted to chase her. He wanted to run her.

She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry there was nothing to move. Even the muscles in her body had begun to ache: withdrawal, she supposed. She didn’t usually suffer it so quickly after a smear, but ever since she had taken the three at once that Ezekiel had given her, it was all she could think about, all her body craved.

He must have noticed her trembling.

“I see you’re finally starting to understand,” he said. “Are you ready for me to untie you?”

She nodded meekly and he got up from the bed, trudging in his thick boots over to her chair. He went behind her and she felt the ropes coming loose.

“I know a few things about fear,” she said.

“Me too,” he said, coming round to face her. “I know that the adrenaline that’s pumping through your body right now is making you shake.” He looked down at her without blinking for a long moment. Probably savoring it.

“I know more than that,” she said. “I have a particular skill in that area as well.”

That had his attention. He knelt in front of her. “And what would a tiny girl like you know about causing fear?”

“You couldn’t have picked a better victim,” she said. “This Anne Boleyn in front of you is also a witch.”

He lay back on his heels, chortling. “You spitters do say the funniest things.”

“I can prove it. I can take you on a ride scarier than any haunted house you’ve ever been in.”

“Child’s play,” he said.

“I can take you on a ride more fearful than any adrenaline rush you got from killing these poor girls. From killing me.”

“If that was true, I might let you live a little longer.”

“It’s simple then,” she said. “All you have to do is cut your finger. Put it in my mouth.”

She looked at him. And waited.

“That doesn’t sound very terrifying.”

“Trust me, it can be. And if it isn’t, what have you lost?”

She couldn’t see his face, but he did seem to be considering. He stared off over her shoulder where the block lay in the corner.

“You deliver, and you gain yourself a few hours.” He stood, looking down at her. “In the end I’ll get what I paid for. Understand?”

She nodded. “A few hours extra seems a fair enough deal.”

“You won’t find the sword, you know.”

“I’m sure you have it well hidden,” she said, nodding at the bed. “You might want to sit down.”

He chortled. “That good is it?”

“That good and better.”

He undid the clasp from her neck, and maneuvered the links so that one of them shifted out. This he jammed into his finger and, looking at it for long moment, he watched as the blood burbled to the surface. Then, without ceremony or delay, he shoved it into her mouth. His fingers tasted like onions and tequila. She would have gagged if she wasn’t already falling down into the vision.


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Thea Atkinson is a writer of character driven fiction.

Posted in Theta Waves Thursdays

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