Deadly Charm Read Online Free Page A

migraine, and I could feel slimy spit gliding down my cheeks like a bunch of slugs.
    Not good.
    Suddenly my poor stomach rebelled. Her Chantilly oh-the-toilet. The sludge that flew out of her mouth. Her green apple Altoid breath. All that laying on of hands.
    One last command from Sister Lou and Company for the devil to come out, and something altogether different exploded out of queasy me. I hurled. In a big way. I’m not talking a dainty little gag. I mean I projectile vomited like a young Linda Blair puking up torrents of split-pea soup in The Exorcist . And they were filming me!
    I wanted to cry out in protest but my retching required total participation. Sister Lou grabbed my braids and continued to rebuke and cast out, laying her iron hand all over my poor head.
    â€œOhhhhh,” I moaned, looking down at a pair of alligator shoes. Very expensive shoes.
    My head snapped up, probably because Sister Lou yanked me by the braids in that direction. Suddenly I found myself standing face-to-face with Ezekiel Thunder, the last of a dying breed of televangelists.
    My first impression: Wowza! Tall, thin, and wickedly handsome, the mahogany-colored dreamboat with a slightly portly belly—probably from too many after-church fried-chicken dinners—looked amazing for a man who had to be sixtyish. Alegend stood before me—a man as well-known as R. W. Schambach or T. D. Jakes. Fiery. Devil chasin’. Sin hatin’. Except for when it came to his personal sin, apparently.
    I remember when, as a frail teenager, I had holy lust for that man’s healing power. That was back when, in the summertime, he would take his tent crusade to small towns, where he would serve up miracles like lemonade. And now he’s singing his signature song to me: “You Won’t Leave Here Like You Came.”
    In Jesus’ name .
    Lord, have mercy .
    He interrupted his song to grin at me with his Hollywood-bright teeth. “How do you feel now, darlin’?”
    My mouth opened, but apparently my voice had gone on silent retreat. In the absence of protest, I got another laying on of hands. Ezekiel Thunder himself smacked me upside the head.
    I stood there stunned.
    Again. Smack! “Be healed in Jesus’ name.”
    I wondered if he and Lou had any concept of the idea of laying on of hands. Maybe slowly? Maybe gently? But no, he, too, gripped my forehead and pushed me back with enough force to slay me himself if the Holy Spirit didn’t. A big, burly man, the catcher, stood at the ready.
    I righted myself and kept standing.
    Then it dawned on me. I’d gone to Rocky’s church so long, I’d forgotten the charismatic rules. I should have been slain in the Spirit at Ezekiel’s touch. If I didn’t fall down, I’d get delivered all right, to the hospital to get care for a closed head injury.
    Talk about not leaving like you came!
    Okay, I repent. They didn’t hit me that hard.
    Finally I leaned back into the catcher guy and let myself fall. A woman standing by draped my already completely covered legs in a piece of silky red cloth.
    Ezekiel Thunder gave me a big smile. Or maybe he was smiling for the camera.
    I lay there thinking how I would kill Rocky. And how as soon as I got home, I’d find a plot of land and claw the dirt to dig my ex-pastor’s grave with my bare hands.
    Somewhere off camera a little voice cried, “Hi-eee.”
    While the cameras followed Ezekiel Thunder, singing like he was God’s troubadour, up to the Plexiglas podium, my attention went to a little guy, a lighter-skinned, preschool version of the man, waving at me from the front row. He nearly stopped my heart with his crooked little smile. There was no doubt. This had to be Little Thunder Boy.
    Suddenly I didn’t care if I’d been exorcised on camera and left for slain, splayed across the floor of a raggedy gymnasium. The brown-eyed cherub, laughing and gesturing for me to get up, captivated