Malice by Robert Cote

locked him with a glassy stare. Lysander looked away.
    “If you are poor in this life and in the service of the Lord, then in the next you will be rich.” The reverend raised his hands palms up, looking from one hand to the other. “You cannot escape what you have set in motion by your choice to either walk with the Lord or your choice to turn your back on him.” He smiled knowingly. “This Lot’s wife learned the hard way. Disobedience was her sin. But do not think that because she lived long ago that her fate cannot be yours as well. Do not be fooled, Satan himself is among us. Within these holy walls you are safe. Beyond them, you have only your faith to guide and protect you.”
    When Samantha turned to watch Lysander she was surprised to find him listening with rapt attention. Must be the shock from so much talk of fire and brimstone , she thought, bemused. This was Reverend Small’s favorite sermon. She had heard him perform it around the same time last year. His hands had even gone in the air at the same moment the first time around.
    Then something weird happened. The podium Reverend Small was speaking from seemed to fall away. Even the great oak cross dangling from the ceiling with wires behind him vanished. And the reverend, standing there with that fire in his eyes, was no longer wearing his black blazer. Instead, perched on his head was a wide-brimmed felt hat, knotted in the center with a silver buckle, and swaying at his feet, a long black cloak. When Sam was positive that she had completely lost her mind, the reverend’s features began to melt away until they were gone completely, only to reform in the spitting image of Lysander.
    Only problem was that this new Lysander was not the Lysander she knew and—she dare not say the word. This new Lysander came for her; his smiling lips cracking and blackened. His hand tucked behind his back. When he moved she could see something glitter in the light. She wanted to peer behind him, but before she had a chance his arm sprang into the air, and at the end of that arm was a long pointed knife. Samantha gasped. Lysander’s doppelganger lunged with wicked speed, swinging the shiny blade in a shallow arc. It tore through her shirt and stung her chest. Afterward, she would remember the pain above all else—how real it felt, how excruciating. Her initial reaction was to pull away and jerk her shoulder free, but the knife had her pinned in place, jammed in the open space between her collarbone and her neck. Lysander wrenched viciously, trying to tear her open, his wide empty smile gleaming like some hellish carnival clown. He pulled her close to him and whispered: “What do you fear most?” This time it wasn’t his voice anymore. It was deeper. Older. Familiar. The voice was Reverend Small’s, merged with that of her waking nightmare.
    Light danced against the lids of her eyes. She opened them. Sunlight was twinkling off the ring on Small’s hand. She blinked. The reverend was saying something about the hand of God. The blood had drained from her face, and Sam jumped when a hand touched her shoulder. “Sam?” It was Erica, an expression of concern on her tiny face. Droplets of sweat had beaded on Sam’s forehead. She patted her sister’s delicate hand. “I’m fine. I’m just fine.”
    She glanced over at Lysander, remembering the demonic expression of joy plastered across his face as he had swung that knife at her, wondering why he would ever want to kill her.

Chapter 17
     
     
    “Getting cold out there,” Dorothy said and slid into the booth, setting a manila folder beside her. Ted’s diner was busier than usual.
    Alex glanced outside, more in response to her suggestion than anything. A few stray leaves, dried and fallen, were blowing across the small parking lot out front.
    “You know, I’d feel more comfortable if we met at my office,” she said.
    Alex looked at her sideways. “The morgue, you mean?”
    “People come to Ted’s to eat, not to