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  "What difference does that make?"

  "They ain't bound to me, Jeremy. Like I said, they wanted to be with me. They love me. They think I'm their precious little boy."

  "So?"

  "So it's about making people see what they think they want to see, ain't it? It's about deception. You tried to deceive me with your fancy lawyer act, but it didn't work, did it? Strikes me you ain't the actor you thought you were."

  In a brief moment of silence, I hear the station wagon drive away. I go back through the house and check. The Lawlers have gone.

  "Looks like it's just you and me now, John," I tell him when I return to the bedroom.

  "They'll be back."

  And then it strikes me, as cocky as he acts, John Wesley's screwed. The confidence and the smart-talk, that's the act, because the reality is he's trapped here. He can't move, can't do anything for himself . . . I know he's not stupid and that there's probably plenty more he's not telling me, but on the face of it, I'm holding all the cards now.

  "Where's the piece of the florin?"

  "Can't remember . . . somewhere round here, I'm sure it is."

  "So it's in the house?"

  "Yep."

  "Then I'll find it."

  "Good luck," he says.

  "I don't need luck."

  ***

  The house is pretty small and clean, so turning it upside-down doesn't take all that long. It's hard work, though, hard and physical. With no sign of the Lawlers returning and John watching the TV in his room, I stop and eat and drink cool, refreshing juice from the fridge.

  After a couple hours, I go back to the bedroom. I'll make the bastard talk. I compose myself outside before I go in, checking myself in the mirror.

  "No good?" he says, voice full of mock concern.

  "Tell me where it is."

  "Or else?"

  "Or else I'll make you suffer, John. In case you hadn't noticed, your fate's in my hands right now. Ain't nothing you can do about it."

  And, just for a fraction of a second, the expression on his face changes. I know I've got him, and he knows it too, even though he tries to deny it.

  "I won't tell."

  "There's no rush. I've got plenty of time. We'll see who lasts longest."

  The only room I haven't checked is this one. I start tipping out drawers and cupboards, emptying bins. I even take the TV off the wall and look behind it. Another half hour's work and I'm done. Still no florin piece. John Wesley just watches me. The whole time I'm working he doesn't take his damn eyes off me.

  "You're getting closer," he says. "It is in here . . ."

  The only place left to check now is the bed. I whip off all the bedding, leaving Wesley lying there butt-naked. Damn, is it underneath him? Under the mattress? I try to roll him over but he's too damn heavy and I can barely get my hands under his sweaty bulk, never mind lift him out the way.

  "Give up?" he says.

  "No way."

  "There's a control."

  "What?"

  "For the bed. Up there by the headrest. There's a control."

  Fucker. I grab the control box – it's like a corded TV-remote – and start jabbing at the buttons. Motors whine and hydraulics groan as the bed starts to shift beneath John Wesley's massive frame. He grins like he's on a fairground ride. Crazy bastard. I lean him forward and check behind, then raise his feet and look underneath. Still nothing, and he's still laughing like a kid. I've had enough of this. I use another button on the controller that lifts one side of the bed and drops the other, and I keep my finger on it until that fat, useless bastard overbalances. He rolls right out of the bed and crashes facefirst onto the floor. It makes the whole house shake. He's out cold for a few seconds, crushed by his own weight. Then his eyes flutter open again and he whimpers for help. I crouch down to talk.

  "Tell me where it is, or you stay down there."

  ***

  No sign of Ma and Pa . . . or whoever they were.

  It's late now. I'm resting in the kitchen, feet up on the mountain of groceries I helped bring inside. I've been sleeping for a while, on and off. John Wesley wakes me up, shouting from the other end of the house.

  "Come on, Jeremy . . . help me out here."

  "You know what to do, John," I shout back.

  All that exertion has given me a hunger. There's a huge pot of spaghetti that's been left on the stove. I heat it up and help myself to a bowlful, then wash it down with more juice.

  "I'm hungry," John yells.

  "Keep it down," I tell him. "You're spoiling my meal."

  And it occurs to me, a guy as big as John junior is going to need a heck of a lot to eat. Maybe I can starve him out?

  "Come on, man . . . this isn't fair."

  "Tough. That's life, John."

  Damn, but this food is good. Back in LA it's a case of grabbing something from the craft services trailer on-set, or picking up fast food on the way back to the apartment. I can't remember how long it's been since I ate a good, homemade dinner like this. I finish the first plate, then go straight back for another. I return to the bedroom with some key lime pie, my stomach feeling like its fit to bust.

  "Come on, man . . ." Wesley says again. Still facedown, he cranes his neck to look up at me. I swear he has tears in his eyes. I throw him the empty pie dish and watch him lick it clean like a dog. He looks up at me again with cake crumbs and grease dribbling down his chin. "Not enough."

  "That's plenty for now."

  "You're killing me here . . ."

  "That's the idea."

  He tries to get up, arms and legs flapping uselessly. Even if he could get a grip on something, he wouldn't have the strength to lift his own weight. He starts screaming and shouting, filling the house with noise. The room's already hot, but it's getting worse with all his moving about. Sweat's dripping off him. He stinks bad. I leave him there and head back to the kitchen.

  ***

  He's crying again. The noise echoes through the house. Jeez, this is pathetic. And I was supposed to be wary of this guy's power? I watch him from the bedroom door, shaking and sobbing on the ground. I reckon I'll break him soon. He's got to weigh more than five hundred pounds, and a body that size has got to need something like five thousand calories a day, maybe twice that. Fucker's gonna start getting real hungry, real fast. It's gonna hurt.

  But it's so hot in this damn house. I've near drunk the kitchen dry and I've stripped to my underwear. I'm sweating almost as much as the big guy. I lay back on a couch, put in my headphones and listen to music to drown out his noise.

  ***

  It's morning. Jeez, that came around fast. Guess I'm still disorientated from the flight.

  I remember watching a documentary on TV a while back about a really heavy guy, probably even heavier than John Wesley. He ate hotdogs for breakfast, as I recall. And eggs. And bacon. And waffles. And pancakes.

  I go through the cupboards and get everything I need, then make the biggest breakfast I've ever seen. He's awake before I'm done, because I can hear him thrashing around again and groaning. I cook the bacon a little too long. I like it crispy. It gives the smell a chance to work its way through the whole house.

  There's enough food to fill a tray, never mind a plate. I carry it through to the bedroom, my mouth watering. "Morning, John," I say as I sit down in the doorway and start eating.

  He's managed to sit upright. He's leaning back against the bed, layers of fat spilling out around his hips like he's melting. He looks exhausted. Broken. "You bastard . . ."

  "Now, now, John . . . no need for name calling."

  "I'm so hungry."

  "I bet you are. Me, I'm just eating for the sake of it here. I went and cooked far too much. I'd be more than willing to share this with you . . ."

  "Yes, please . . . I'll do anything."

  "Anything."

  He writhes in pain. I can see the agony etched onto his face. His eyes and cheeks look sunken. I figure now that it's been starved a while, his massive bulk
has started eating itself from the inside out.

  "Just tell me what you want . . ."

  "You already know. Where's the piece of the florin?"

  "Anything but that . . ."

  Damn. And I thought we were getting somewhere. I pick up my tray and carry it back to the kitchen to finish eating in peace.

  ***

  It's another seven hours until he realizes he's beat and finally changes his mind.

  "I'll do it," I hear him shout. "I'll give it to you. Just get me some food."

  I finish the chicken wings I've been snacking on, then push myself up out of my chair. It's no cooler in here, and the heat's really getting to me. I drag myself down to the bedroom, carrying a tray of leftovers. He's where I left him, up against the bed. "You give me the florin piece, I'll give you food. Deal?"

  He glares at me, eyes full of anger from deep within that pale circle of white flesh. "Deal."

  "Florin first."

  "Whatever."

  I put the tray down in the corner of the room, beyond his reach, and wipe the sweat from my eyes. When I turn back around, he's managed to haul himself up onto the side of the bed. He's sitting watching me.

  "Well? Where is it?"

  He doesn't answer, just points down towards his right foot. Man, his lower legs and ankles look so weird. His ankles are barely distinguishable, just another fold of flesh among many. The bottom of his legs look like elephant's feet in all but color, the skin rough and scaly, the width of a tree trunk.

  "Down there," he says.

  "Where?"

  "Around my ankle."

  "Show me."

  "I can't reach. You'll have to do it."

  "Where?" I ask again, because even though I'm right up close, I can't see it.

  "It's on a chain, fastened around my ankle. You'll have to move a little flesh to get to it."

  Shit, this is going to be gross. The smell down here is enough to make my guts churn. I'm seeing parts of this guy's body that he hasn't seen in years. Wish I hadn't eaten so much today. Think I might be ill.

  "What do I do? Where is it . . .?"

  "Here," he says, and he hitches up a heavy layer of skin like he's pulling up his pants. A flap of blubber shifts upwards, and now I think I really am going to hurl. The skin under the flap is red, raw and it stinks like fermenting yeast. I hold my breath and hold my stomach and feel under the flap with the tips of my fingers. And deep inside I feel it: a clunky chain that's worn a groove into his flesh. And there's the florin piece attached. "Take your time," he says, breathing hard and struggling with his weight again, just about managing to lie himself back down. "I ain't going nowhere."

  ***

  I find some pliers but I need to compose myself before I go back inside and cut the piece of florin away from his ankle. I fill up on juice and brunch, because it might be a while before I get to eat again. But it's okay, because I'm almost done here. Can't wait to get away from this place.

  When I next go into John Wesley's room, he's looking better than I feel. I guess its relief on his part. He knows he's beat. No more fighting.

  Stay calm. Stay focused. Stay in character.

  Timed breaths. Make the exhale a few counts longer than the inhale.

  I stay confident, not wanting him to see how tired I'm feeling.

  He's on the side of the bed again, roll of foot-fat already pulled up out of the way so I can get to the florin piece. There seems to be less of him than before, and I'm not fishing around between the flaps of skin for so long. My fingers slip in his discharge and sweat. The chain feels a little looser.

  "You okay down there, sir?"

  "I'm fine," I tell him.

  "You sure? You're looking a little peaky."

  "I said I was fine."

  I tease the pliers under the chain and squeeze hard.

  "I'll tell you something that was fine," he says, "and that's those waffles you made. I mean, I know they was cold by the time I got to them, but man, you have to give me the recipe. I thought I'd tasted waffles before, but they were something else . . ."

  "Thanks for the compliment."

  "Think nothing of it."

  "I won't," I tell him, and I shift my position and squeeze the pliers hard again and manage to cut through the chain. The piece of florin pings off and rolls under the bed. "Shit."

  "What?"

  "Lost it."

  John Wesley moves out of the way to give me more space. I crawl under the bed, but it's lower than it looks and I get stuck. I stretch as far as I can, straining to reach, and I finally manage to touch the precious piece of metal.

  "You got it?"

  "I got it."

  I crawl back out again and stand up, breathing hard with effort. Jeez, that was tough. It's the temperature in here, I swear it is. I stand there next to Wesley, both of us dressed only in our shorts. He don't look as big when he stands upright.

  "I should have taken that thing off a long time ago," he tells me. "Didn't realize how much of an irritation it was."

  I try to talk, but my mouth's dry. He passes me some juice and I drain the bottle fast, the florin piece gripped tight in my hand.

  "Thanks."

  "You sure you're okay? You don't look so good."

  "I don't feel so good," I can't help but admit.

  "I feel great. Can't remember when I was last out of bed."

  Wait.

  This don't make any sense.

  Last night John Wesley could hardly move.

  "How did you . . .?"

  I don't get to finish my sentence. My legs buckle under me and Wesley catches me as I fall. It's an effort for him, but he manages to shove me up onto the bed.

  Still got the florin piece. I'll get my breath back then get out of here . . .

  "You should hold up a while," he says. "Build up your strength. Let me go and fix you something to eat."

  ***

  When I next wake up, all I can see is me. Lots of me. More me than I remember seeing before.

  John Wesley's in the doorway, snacking on a salad. He looks like he did in Levi's picture. His hair's grown back. Strange.

  Man, I'm hungry. I reach out and grab a handful of food from the side of the bed . . . candy, cake . . . whatever I can find.

  "Problem with you, Jeremy," he says, "is you're too focused on your own performance to know when you're being acted off the stage."

  "What you talking about?" I ask, cramming food into my mouth.

  "Remember the tarot card?"

  "What about it?"

  "The devil represents our addictions and dependencies, didn't you know that? That and deception. That's what Levi was trying to tell you."

  "I don't understand." Truth is, I'm too hungry to care.

  "You were too busy playing an act to stop and consider that everyone else might be acting too. Mr. and Mrs. Lawler . . . me."

  "Huh?"

  "Tell me, how far would you go to get a role?"

  "As far as it takes."

  "Yeah, me too. You didn't see it though, did you?"

  "See what?"

  "My physical transformation. I've been method acting, friend, and now we've swapped places and you haven't even noticed. From the moment you walked into this place you thought you were better than you are. You paid too much attention to the cat, drank all that juice . . ."

  "Juice? What about it?" Just the mention of the stuff sends me crazy. Need more. Need much more.

  "I left it with my helpers, ready for when someone like you came by. It changes your metabolism, in case you hadn't noticed. Seriously, Jeremy, take a look at yourself. You've doubled in size since you first walked into this room. You'll be twice as big again by this time tomorrow."

  It's hard to concentrate on what he's saying 'cause the TV's on too loud, but I'd rather listen to the TV than him. And my guts ache too, but not because I'm full, it's because I still feel half-empty . . .

  "Get me some food?"

  "Sure thing. I'll make you something before I l
eave."

  "You're going?"

  "Yep. Things to do, people to see, places to go, covens to own."

  "You can't . . . what about . . .?"

  "You? Your meals? Don't worry, friend, it's all in hand. The folks will be back in a while. They won't remember much about me, but they'll take good care of you."

  Still hungry. I'm really damn hungry. I can't reach the rest of the food in here but Wesley sees me struggling and helps out. He balances a tray on my gut and it smells so good I can't help but dive in. So hungry . . . Still got one hand closed tight. Can't eat fast enough without it. Wesley takes it in his. Don't know how my hand got to be so big?

  And there, right in the middle of the palm of my massive left hand, is the piece of florin.

  "Here," he says, doing his best to help. "Let me hold onto that for you, friend."

  The Story of Sean McSorley by T.W. Piperbrook

  The man behind me had been following me for over an hour.

  I’d been watching him in the rearview mirror while I dipped low in the driver’s seat of my Mustang. Even without looking, I knew he was still there. He thought he was clever, but he was no better than the rest of his kind. Witch hunters are all the same.

  They all think they can outsmart me, but none of them ever succeed.

  That’s the reason I’m still alive, and the reason I’ll inherit the coven.

  On the seat next to me was the letter I received from Levi, our coven leader. The letter contained instructions on recovering my piece of the gold florin. Once I retrieved it and defeated the guardian warlock, I’d be one step closer to taking over, one step closer to being chosen as the new leader. When my task was complete, I’d depart for Ohio, where the coven would gather and the initiation ceremony would commence.

  But that would come later.

  First I needed to take care of the man behind me.

  I cut the wheel and turned down Boylston. To my right I passed a cluster of clubs: The Estate, Whisky Saigon, and Liquor Store. I knew them all intimately. For the past two years, I’d worked the night shift as a bouncer in the Boston area. With my shaggy hair and tattooed biceps, I fit in perfectly with the college crowd. Security was the perfect guise—it kept me occupied and helped hone my skills. In a dark club full of music, laughter, and dancing, my powers went unnoticed.