Flash Marriage To The Ruthless Predator

Isolde turned from the mirror, her movements no longer drifting but sharp and efficient. She knelt and pulled a large, dust-covered storage box from beneath her bed. It was filled with forgotten childhood things, remnants of a life before the fog.

Her fingers bypassed dolls and photo albums, closing around a worn teddy bear with one missing button eye. It had been her mother's last gift.

She turned the bear over. Her training, the muscle memory that had lain dormant for four years, took over. With a firm, practiced twist, she pulled the bear's remaining glass eye from its socket.

Tucked neatly in the hollow cavity was a micro-camera, its tiny lens still gleaming. A relic from another life, a contingency her mother had insisted upon. She had risked a highly dangerous, secret excursion three months ago to replace its specialized, military-grade solid-state battery. It was still perfectly active.

Working quickly, she used a nail file from her vanity to pry the backing off a heavy, vintage silver brooch. In less than a minute, she had the camera secured inside, the lens perfectly concealed within the filigree.

A sound from the hallway. The soft, muffled thud of heels on the thick runner carpet. Approaching her door.

Isolde's hands didn't shake. She closed her fist around the brooch, the metal cool against her palm.

With her other hand, she swept a half-finished children's puzzle off her nightstand. The thousand pieces clattered onto the rug. She dropped to the floor amidst the colorful mess and began pushing two mismatched pieces together with a focused, childlike intensity.

The lock clicked, the bedroom door swung open without a knock.

Angele stood there, a plate of freshly baked cookies in her hand. Her eyes, sharp and suspicious, scanned the room, searching for any sign of abnormality. She glided across the room, her heels sinking into the plush carpet, and stopped directly in front of Isolde, casting a long shadow over her.

"Is your head still hurting, little sister?" Angele asked, her voice a sickeningly sweet syrup.

Isolde's head snapped up. She dropped the puzzle pieces, and a line of saliva trickled from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes fixed on the plate, wide and hungry. She scrambled forward on her knees, her dirty hand reaching for a cookie.

Angele recoiled, pulling the plate back with a look of revulsion. "Don't touch me."

Then, her hand shot out, grabbing Isolde's wrist. Her grip was like a steel trap. The sweet facade dropped, and her voice became a venomous whisper. "What did you see in that hallway, Isolde? Tell me. Now."

Pain radiated from Isolde's wrist, a grinding pressure on the delicate bones. She fought the instinct to rip her arm away, to break the hold. She kept her eyes wide, empty, and utterly blank.

She let out a happy giggle and pointed a trembling finger at the plate. "Cookie," she demanded, her voice a childish shout. "Want cookie!"

Angele stared into her eyes, searching for a flicker of understanding, a hint of the fire she thought she'd seen the night before.

Isolde gave her nothing. She began to thrash on the floor, kicking her feet like a toddler denied a treat, her cries for "cookie" growing louder and more frantic.

The last of Angele's suspicion finally dissolved. It was impossible. This pathetic, drooling creature was no threat. She was exactly what she appeared to be: a broken, useless fool.

With a final sneer of contempt, Angele flung Isolde's arm away. She tilted the plate, and the entire batch of cookies smashed onto the rug.

"Here are your damn cookies," she spat. She ground the heel of her shoe into a chocolate chip cookie, crushing it into the expensive fibers of the carpet. "Stay in your room, you little freak."

Angele turned and walked out, slamming the door behind her.

Isolde stopped thrashing. She sat up, her movements fluid and silent.

She calmly brushed the cookie crumbs from her nightgown. Her expression was placid, but her eyes were as cold and hard as chips of ice.

She opened her hand. The brooch was safe. She carefully pinned it to the inside of her collar, adjusting it until the tiny lens had a clear, unobstructed view.

Then she rose and moved to the door, pressing her ear against the wood, listening. It was time to go hunting.