"Esme! Esme! Get your ass down here right now!"
Zoë frowned from her spot at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of black coffee that was more sludge than liquid. Who the fuck is Esme?
"Esme!" her father's voice echoed the call.
A muffled sound came from upstairs. "Coming!" The voice that replied was an alto, low and surprisingly rich for a girl. It was definitely not Jon's.
Zoë looked up from her mug just as footsteps, surprisingly light, descended the stairs. She was expecting a friend of her mom's, maybe. A cousin she'd never met. Did they arrive late last night?
Her jaw dropped.
Standing in the entryway, looking around with a confused pout, was a girl. A stunningly hot, Mediterranean-looking girl or even woman with a cascade of dark, curly hair, deeply bronzed skin, and a body that looked airbrushed.
She was wearing nothing but a tiny scrap of lacy black panties and a thin sheen of sweat covered her exposed skin.
"What the hell?" Zoë sputtered, nearly dropping her mug.
"Zoë, language," her mom said, barely looking up from the mail. But then she saw who Zoë was staring at and let out a deep, long-suffering sigh. "Esme. Really? Again? What have we told you about walking around like that?"
"Just put on a robe or something," her dad grunted from behind his newspaper, not bothering to look.
Zoë's head whipped between her parents. "A robe?! She's... who is that?"
"Zoë, I am not doing this with you this morning," her mom snapped, her voice tight with annoyance. "It's your sister. Your adopted sister. I know you don't like her but I know you know that she's... free-spirited. Please don't make a scene. Not today."
Sister? The word felt like a slap. "Esme, honey, come here," her mom said, her tone softening as she beckoned the girl closer, the brief flare of frustration already gone, replaced by resignation.
The girl—Esme—walked into the kitchen. Zoë couldn't help but stare. Her C-cup breasts, which Zoë could see were pierced, jiggled with every step. She had a tiny waist, slim hips, and an incredible bubble butt that seemed to move with a life of its own.
As her mom started talking—something about chores—Zoë watched, mesmerized in horror, as the girl lifted a hand. A delicate pointer finger traced the outline of her full, pouty lips suggestively as she listened intently.
A voice echoed in Zoë's head, clear as day, sounding exactly like her (their?) bratty younger brother Mikey.
...and a bit of a tease, sometimes accidentally...
Zoë blinked hard. What!? The finger slipped into Esme's mouth and Esme's fat lips closed around it.
"Esme Francesca Gibson, get your finger out of your mouth when I'm talking to you," her mom chided, though her voice lacked any real heat. Zoë got the sense that her mother thought this was nothing new.
Gibson? Zoë's blood ran cold. Oh God. Oh no. This is really my sister!?
The girl—Jon?—flushed, yanking her finger away as if it were burned. She stared at it, her brow furrowed in that familiar, confused way. Perfect, clear-coated nails...
"Honestly," her mom continued, "you'd think after all we went through to bring you into this family, and paid for your university you'd show a little more respect. You're not Zoë, you don't get to mope around all day."
Zoë winced. The casual cruelty still stung, but the implication was worse. They were treating this... this Esme... as their child. As the spoiled first born that could do no wrong. As Jon.
"Now, go get dressed," her mom ordered. "Put on something decent. Mikey and his friends are coming over later, and I will not have you parading around like this in front of them, do you understand me?" She huffed, not waiting for an answer.
"Remember you're taking them to the laser tag place first, then you'll bring them all back here for cake and some Xbox. You'd better be ready."
At the mention of Mikey, Esme's pretty face twisted into a genuine grimace of disgust. Zoë heard it again, that phantom voice, dripping with leering approval.
*...would often walk around the house naked or in that underwear girls wear to make their boyfriends happy...
And then, a new fragment, in that same awfully familiar voice:
...and be fun and play Xbox with me...
Esme looked down at herself, as if just now realizing her state of undress. Her gaze traveled from her pert breasts down her slim torso to the wisp of black lace. A look of pure, undiluted panic flashed in her eyes. It was a look Zoë recognized instantly.
That was definitely Jon. Somehow she just knew.
Zoë saw his (her?) throat work, saw his mouth open as if to scream, to protest, to beg for help. But the scream died. His features suddenly went slack. Zoë got the sense that "Esme" freaking out would not be cool and therefore wouldn't be permitted. The pout returned, automatic and lazy. His eyes, however, in that moment were still wide, swimming with a silent, desperate 'no!' even as his lips formed the words.
Zoë watched, horrified, as "Esme" just shrugged, the movement causing a delightful jiggle.
"But I get way too hot and sweaty otherwise," he complained as a drop of sweat coalesced on her prominent right nipple. The voice was that rich alto—a total mismatch for the her flirty, mindless expression. It was the voice of a confident woman, and it was decidedly not Jon's.
Zoë finally dropped her mug. It shattered on the tile floor, spraying coffee and ceramic fragments everywhere.
They all turned and looked.
Zoë suddenly remembered last night, walking down the hallway and overhearing Mikey. She also thought of Athena and how Zoë had never told her but she'd always thought that her "studies" of the occult were bullshit. How wrong she had been. She needed to get to the bottom of this and fast.
