Prom Queen ｡ Michael Langdon

4 - DEAD BREAKFAST CLUB

     "Miriam!" Michael called out from the front yard of the tiny, Los Angeles house that was in need of a new paint job with neglected garden beds that needed a good drowning. "Miriam!" His voice bellowed with glee and a moment later the front door swung open, the frame banging against the side of the panelled house. 

     "You called, dear?" A short and rather stocky woman appeared, staring down at the two teenagers. Miriam had razor short hair the colour of ink and pointed eyebrows that made her look like she was in a permanent state of hard-boil deviance. But the growing smile that picked up her cheekbones said otherwise. While the woman was dressed in only black and red, there was a warmth to her voice when she regarded Michael Langdon, her ward. But the blond boy with the Devil clutching him tightly with talons—dipping in his claws deeper and deeper with each passing day—was more like a son than a ward. 

     "Yes!" Michael grinned up at the woman. "Am I allowed to be excused from afternoon tea?" The way he said 'afternoon tea' gave Carrie the impression that it wasn't the ordinary afternoon tea one would assume and hope was taking place at a neighbour's house. 

     "Afternoon tea is important, Michael," the woman said, dark eyes shifting to Carrie standing beside Michael, swaying on her heels. 

     "I know, but I wish to go someplace with my new friend." There was a pleading in his voice, a subtext that was directed right at Miriam. Meanwhile, Carrie's heart flared with the words 'new friend'. 

     "A new friend?" she questioned, eyes still trained on Carrie, whose cheeks had started to burn under the woman's strong gaze and Michael's statement. New friend! 

     Michael nodded enthusiastically. "Carrietta Moore, from across the road. Remember?" 

     "Ah, yes." Miriam's eye softened just a touch towards Carrie, remembering a conversation or two she had had with Michael earlier that week about the girl that lived across the road, who was subject to her own horrors and that of her mother. There was a moment of silence, Carrie feeling awkward in her own skin, Michael looking to his substitute mother with bleeding eyes and Miriam caving. "You kids go have fun," she settled on. Michael dashed toward and hugged the woman, arms wrapped around her stocky body with an incredible and touching warmth. Standing just a little away, Carrie saw Miriam's dark painted lips moving, whispering something into Michael's ear; he just nodded along before stepping away.  

     Carrie looked away from the odd family of two that didn't resemble even the tiniest bit of relation to each other to her own house across the one-way street. The windows were already swimming with shadows behind the old, white lace curtains. Her mother would be home soon, no doubt, and expecting her daughter to be home like a good little girl. Margaret Moore would be spitting blood when she returned home to an empty house. 

     "Will you lead the way?" Michael was suddenly at her side, cocking his head to the left, his blond mop catching the dying sunlight. It almost looked like he had a halo. Almost. With rebellion waking in her blood, Carrie turned away from her house and gave Michael a solid nod of conviction. Let dear mother spit blood, Carrie thought darkly. 

     —    

     Carrie Moore wasn't sure if taking Michael to Westfield High was a good idea, but his blue eyes were wide and expressive, and she found herself wanting to take him there. Wanting to do anything he asked of her.

     Michael Langdon had that power, to allure people, to captive them and win them over mind, body and soul. But it was a power that would grow further the older he got, the closer to hell he got.