The Horror of Our Love: A Twisted Tales Anthology
Author: D. D. Prince; B. Bennett; Jasmin Quinn; N. Heinz; Nikita Slater
Date: 2018-10-15 14:31:11+00:00
Description: What creatures haunt the night?Shunned and abandoned, these villains want for souls. Each with a desire to possess and own. And finally...they will. FIRST BLOOD MOON - Jasmin QuinnGrace is running for her life, running towards her fate. Rescued from one nightmare to be thrust into another by Hawes, a man, a wolf, a demon. Her mate. Or so it is prophesied. Hawes, part-wolf, part-demon, Alpha of his pack. Waiting for his mate to arrive. Waiting to take her innocence, waiting to plant his seed. Waiting to create a God. The world will change on the night of the Hunter's Blood Moon. MASKED - N. Hei
Publisher: Independently published

The Horror of Our Love

A Twisted Tales Anthology

B. Bennett

N. Heinz

DD Prince

Jasmin Quinn

Nikita Slater

Acknowledgments

Cover Art by Nisus L’art.

We are inspired by your beautiful work.

https://www.facebook.com/Nisusart/

Contents

First Blood Moon

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Epilogue

Also by Jasmin Quinn

Masked

Playlist

Acknowledments

Untitled

1. Great Basin College, Nevada

2. October, 17th

3. The Same Day

4. One moment later

5. The Next Day, October 18th

6. Seconds Later…

7. Later that night…

8. Where am I?

9. October 19th, Midnight

10. October 31st

11. Trick or Treat Part I

12. Trick or Treat part II

Untitled

Epilogue

Other Books By N. Heinz

Hollow

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Epilogue

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

DD’s Hollow Playlist

Other Books by DD Prince

Stalked

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Epilogue

Also by Nikita Slater

The Tombstone Tourist

Untitled

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

15. Three Years Later

About the Author

Other Books by Bonny Capps/B. Bennett:

First Blood Moon © 2018 by Jasmin Quinn. All Rights Reserved.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.

Cover designed by Jem Monday Publishing Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Jasmin Quinn

Visit my website at www.jasminquinn.com

First Printing: Sept. 2018
Jem Monday Publishing Inc.

Chapter 1

Grace was running for her life, October’s approaching Hunter’s Blood Moon spotlighting a trail across the snow-touched forest floor. The trees and brambles, insensitive to her flight, tore at her, tripped her, toyed with her. In her terror, she stumbled and slammed hard into the earth with her shoulder and hip, but she scrambled to her feet and ran forward in blind terror. There was no time to check for bruises or cuts or broken bones. No time to think, no breath to scream.

She could hear them crashing through the trees in pursuit, their wicked laughter and lustful voices flitting toward her like a lash, offering pain, promising death. She had nowhere to go, no way to escape. She was in Northern BC, running through the Boreal Forest. Her strides were not quiet footfalls, they were loud, resonating in the night, leading them to her. The faster she ran, the better they could follow, the bigger the risk of her falling and seriously injuring herself, diminishing any chance to fight back. As if she could anyway.

She was weeping now, sobs catching in her throat, then falling like leeches from her mouth, sucking the breath from her, forcing her to slow. This was not how she thought her night would end. Her panicked mind flitted to her boss, the man she loved, Dr. Eric McConnel, or what was left of him after they beat him to death. She felt bile rise to her throat as her memories riveted on the crunching of bone as they stomped him, the blood that poured from his face, his back bent unnaturally so he could no longer defend himself. And her helpless, flailing against enormous arms attached to a drunk, manic biker, screaming and sobbing, begging them to stop; promising them she would do whatever they wanted if they spared Eric’s life. But it was too late – they kept kicking him even after he was nothing but a stump of bloody sinew and shattered bones. Then the one holding her, his evil filtering through in his stench, ripped her shirt from her back as he threw her to the ground. He stood over her, removing his belt, tapping the leather against the palm of his hand before he lashed it across her stomach.

The pain hit her brain like a shot of caffeine, momentarily jarring her out of her grief and forcing adrenaline through her body. She rolled onto her belly away from him, then bounded to her feet. She didn’t stop to take note of her surroundings as she crashed into the safety screen of the forest and fled. The suddenness of her escape afforded her a head start while the three killers sorted out what had happened. But now, 10 minutes later, she was still running, uphill, the snow under her feet causing her to slip, the roots from the trees fucking with her balance, the goddamned brambles tearing at her flesh. Her tears blinding her, her sobs choking her. There was nothing to do but stop. Then they would be on her. They’d rape and kill her or keep her until she died. She felt another sob rip from her lips as a fresh round of tears burst from her.

She stumbled into a small clearing, bending over at the waist, hands on her knees, trying to quiet her weeping, trying to suck air into her battered lungs. Time to face the nightmare. They were still running, drug-induced stamina overriding any sense they had. Maybe they were so caught up in the chase that they’d forgot what they were chasing. Just as she thought they might run right by her, one of them crashed out of the trees like a strawman on fire. He let out a loud howl as he saw her, then ruthlessly tackled her to the ground before she could run again.

“You stupid bitch,” he bellowed as he sat on her, straddling her hips with his knees, his groin pressed against her pelvis. He pulled her hair with one hand as he viciously slapped her face. Her head snapped back and her teeth sliced the inside of her cheek. Blood seeped from a split lip. Then another voice, one of reason, said, “Whoa Brit, don’t ruin her until we’ve had a go at her.”

Brit swivelled his head toward the speaker, his mouth a ragged gash across his face. “Who the fuck are you to talk to me that way, Critter?” He stood up, tall enough to tower over the smaller man, the snarl on his face grotesque.

“Fuck you too, Brit,” Critter said. “I killed the fucking boyfriend! I get her first!”

The third biker, the one who’d been holding her at the camp, the one who laid his belt to her stomach, stumbled up to the pair. “What I’d miss?”

“Critter seems to think he gets her first.” Brit stared down at the smaller man, who didn’t appear the least bit intimidated.

Grace sat up carefully onto her elbows. She had her breath back, could run again, but she caught the attention of Critter, who moved over her. “How about we do this.” He was talking to his mates but looking at Grace. He fell to his knees as his hands moved to her running shoes and he tugged them off her feet. “How about we all fuck her first. You know – I’ll take the pussy, you take the ass and Louie can fuck her mouth. Grace started to shake and blood roared in her ears as he talked, his eyes on her as he reached to undo her jeans. She twisted away from him, rolling onto her belly and trying to snake away with her arms. Screaming, the only sound she heard now. Her screams. Critter caught her before she could get to her elbows, pulling her to him, dry humping from behind as he unsnapped her bra and then reached around her waist and unbuttoned her jeans. They were all there now, on their knees, like jackals, a hand on her breast, twisting her nipple, another shoved inside her panties, clawing at her pussy and Critter, pulling off her jeans, ripping her panties.

Naked, she was naked now.

One of them leaned down into her face, maybe Brit. “Stop screaming or I’ll fill your mouth with dirt.”

“Not dirt.” It was Critter. “With cock.”

“She’ll fucking bite me if I do that.” Yes Brit. Then she felt the belt across her ass, brutally hard. Then another across her back.

“You stop screaming, I’ll stop hitting you.” That was Louie. The fucker with the belt.

Pain shredded through Grace as the lashes rained down on her, but she managed to clamp her lips together, forcing her screams down, dying to whimpers. Then her shaking, her stomach churning and the rise of her bile, spewing out, and onto Brit, who had been kneeling in front of her, pants around his ass, cock in one hand, her hair in the other. “Fuck,” he shouted as he threw himself backwards away from her. His friends laughed wildly.

Critter grabbed her hair, pulling her up, forcing her to kneel in from of him. “You’re not making this easy on yourself, you stupid cunt.” He eyed her as he pulled a joint from a thin case he had in his back pocket, lit it and inhaled deeply. He handed it over to Louis who was standing next to him.

“Come on Brit, you can have her first.”

Brit took a step towards Grace, but then froze in his tracks, staring beyond her, beyond his mates to the dark shadows in the trees. His hands grabbed at his head as he took a step back, his mouth slackened. “Fuck, run!” he shrieked but as he turned, something big and fast grabbed him from behind, it’s claw tearing through Brit’s back, and pulling his heart from his chest. They all scrambled back. The smell of iron invaded Grace’s nostrils, but didn’t completely block out the smell of fur, of wolf. She screamed again, the back of her mind registering the irony. A wolf, the largest she ever laid eyes on, had just ripped the beating heart from a man, from the back. She tried to get to her feet, but her legs wouldn’t hold her and she dropped to her knees on the dirt. She heard screaming, hysterical, shrill, unearthly. She covered her ears with her hands trying to block the horrifying sounds, then realized they were coming from her.

Blood arced in the air, a trail that splattered across her torso, her face. Then a ball came towards her, rolling with an odd cadence, before bouncing off her knee and coming to rest inches from her. She gaped at it, into the dead staring eyes of Critter. She thought she’d vomited everything earlier, but it didn’t matter. Her stomach turned inside out as she heaved. She heard her groans, her whimpers, and she heard Louie’s terrified screams just before he was impaled by the branch of a poplar tree, 20 feet up from the ground.

That was three, which left her… next… to die. The shock hit her like a bullet, crashing into her body, running up through her spinal cord and piercing her brain. And darkness, blessed darkness as the shadowed shape of a large wolf burrowed its nose between her legs.

Chapter 2

Grace thought she was dead even as she woke up. There was no mercy from her brain as every vivid detail of her attack rushed at her from behind her closed eyelids. She whimpered and tried to move, but her body protested, broken, bleeding, bruised. It wasn’t heaven then, so still a version of hell. She stayed still for a minute, breathing shallowly, then forced her eyelids open a sliver, assessing her surroundings. There was light enough to see shadows and dim shapes, the air warm enough that perhaps she was inside. No noise though, not a whisper, not a breeze. She moved one of her hands to the blanket below her, a course weave, dirty and worn. It was the only thing that shielded her body from the rough wooden floor boards.

She moaned as she shifted slightly and then realized she was still naked. She froze again, listening for a nearby presence. Silence. As she inched herself up to a sitting position, dizziness washed over her and her stomach lurched. She embraced it with a note of gratitude that she was still alive, that she could move, feel, breathe. She reached a hand to her head to rub at her temple and grazed her hair, matted in places. She swallowed as she opened her eyes more widely and looked at it, at herself. She was still wearing the blood of her attackers. She didn’t know whether to be sick or thankful that her body hadn’t been further molested.

Then she remembered the wolf, nosing between her thighs before she fainted. What had it been doing? She dropped a hand to her stomach, rubbing it across the welts left there by the belting, then lower. A deep hard voice penetrated the shadows, “If you are going to give me a show, my preference is that you wash the stink of the males off first.”

Grace let out a small shriek as she pushed herself away from the direction of the voice, crawled on the floor until her back was at a wall. Her entire body protested the abruptness of her movements, blood rushed to her head and her sanity tried to flee. She wrapped her arms around her legs and hugged them tightly, willing the trembling to stop. Willing her fragile courage not to unravel. “Where am I?” she asked, her voice reedy and weak, her words hesitant.

No answer.

“Am I safe?” Grace thought she could endure everything else that would come her way if she knew that she wouldn’t be harmed.

A chair scraped and then a form materialized out of the shadows. A man, massive in height, leanly muscled, long brown untidy hair, eyes unnaturally grey. He was bare-chested and footed, wearing pants that settled low on his hips. His presence was startling – it dwarfed the room they were in, blocked the light, diminished her. In any other circumstance, Grace would be awestruck at his magnificence. But instead, his profile induced terror and she sucked in her fear as she shuddered.

“A wolf… a wolf…” she stuttered.

“My wolf.” His voice was deep without inflection, without empathy.

“Your… ?”

He crouched in front of her, legs bent at the knees and splayed, forearms resting on his massive thighs, long, fearsome hands dangling between them. “My wolf.”

“I… I don’t understand. It killed… I was… I thought it would kill me.”

“Looks like it didn’t.” He sniffed the air and grimaced. “You stink.”

“My clothes…” Tears slipped from her eyes.

“Shower first.”

Grace shrank as he gripped her arms, hauling her to her feet without a care for the painful bruising over her body. She tried to stand, but her knees were shaky and she faltered. He seemed not to notice as he tightened his grip and pulled her along behind him. She stumbled but he didn’t slow his gait. He shoved her into a small bathroom, only a shower, a dripping faucet in a yellowing sink, a toilet with no lid, and a cracked mirror.

“I can’t stand the smell of them,” he grunted as he handed her a bar of lye soap. “Wash it off. Make sure you get it all or I’ll scrub you myself.”

He slammed the door behind him and sobs spilled from Grace’s mouth as she gazed in dismay at the bathroom. A small towel hung on a nail and she pulled it to her. It was worn through but relatively clean, enough that she could shower and then dry herself. But it was too small to save her modesty, what shreds she had left. She showered in tepid water, but it didn’t matter. It washed off the horror of last night, at least the physical horror. There was little chance that her brain would forget the brutal death not only of a man she loved, but of her three attackers. If she’d had anything in her stomach, she would have vomited again.

After the shower, she assessed herself in the dirty cracked mirror. Her brown hair hung in limp wet strands clinging to her sallow cheeks. One of her eyes was black, livid bruises across her cheek and a puffy split lip. A scrape on her forehead and nail marks on her neck and chest. She shuddered. A creak behind her caused her heart to flare and she turned to the door. It was opening. He stood there, broad-chested, arms folded across it. “Come out.”

Her heart thudded as she followed him out, as he pulled her into the centre of the cabin and then sniffed the air around her, then closer, her hair, her torso, lower.

“My clothes…”

He turned to her with a snarl on his lips, then wordlessly picked up a small fur from the large bed in the corner of the cabin and threw it to her. She caught it clumsily and wrapped it around her body like a bath towel, feeling a small amount of relief before an unbidden shard of shame sliced through her. For what, she wasn’t sure.

She waited, her stance awkward, not sure what to do. He stood a foot from her, staring at her intensely, eyes sliding over her, again and again. She swallowed. “My name is – ”

“I know your name,” he said, his deep voice like the beat of a war drum.

“Oh,” she responded in a small voice. “What’s yours?”

He didn’t answer.

She tried a different tact. “Thank you for saving my life.”

He snorted his laughter. “I didn’t save your life. I took what’s mine.”

Grace gaped at him as ice slipped up her spine. She evaded almost certain death last night and now she had another threat to contend with. “I don’t understand.”

But he said nothing. Just circled her, eyes roaming over her, nose sniffing. Then he stopped suddenly, his head turning towards the door. Silence. Grace strained her ears, heard nothing but a bird call, the rustle of trees in the breeze. Still he stood rigidly, dark, watchful eyes on the door. Then she heard approaching footstep, the door opened and an older man stepped inside. Grey hair, grey beard, eyes that laughed even when he wasn’t. Looking at Grace, then a smile as he nodded his greeting and said, “Hawes.”

Hawes inclined his head. His eyes flicked back to Grace.

“Is she?”

“Yes. My mate.”

Mate? Grace shook her head slightly and tried to step back but Hawes’ arm shot out and his hand clamped around her wrist. “Don’t move.” He growled. “Mersin is here to make sure you are fit to be mated.”

Grace ignored his command as she wrenched her arm from his grasp and stumbled back a few paces. She gazed around the cabin, looking for a means to escape, but both Mersin and Hawes blocked her path to the exit. “Mated? Are you insane?”

The man called Mersin took a step towards her. “Settle yourself, girl. You’re in no danger from us. Hawes is your mate. It’s destined.”

Grace looked from the old man to Hawes, who stood solid and unmoving, arms crossed. “That’s ridiculous,” she snapped, trying to draw on her single psychology class, trying to remember the lecture on shared delusion.

“It’s not. You’ve had a shock and you’re shaken. I’m here to make sure you’re not injured, that you are intact.”

Grace took another step back. “They didn’t rape me if that’s what you mean. They… the wolf…” her eyes flicked to Hawes as she stammered. “It killed them before…” and then because her legs would no longer hold her, she dropped to her knees, her breath catching in her chest. She couldn’t draw air into her lungs. Mersin knelt next to her, put his hand to her neck and bent her head forward, telling her to take slow shallow breaths. His touch infused a warmth through her, and her stomach settled, her breathing normalized. She pushed his hand away.

“I’d like to go home, please,” she said in a small voice. “I need to call the police. They killed my…” she heard Hawes growl and she looked into his stormy face.

“Your what?” His deep, menacing voice echoed in the room.

Grace breathed. “My friend.” She started weeping then, as she said it. He was all of that and to her heart, more. She thought this research trip, tracking these werewolves in northern BC, was going to be the penultimate step in their relationship. He was older, mature, brilliant. Everything she could have wanted. And he singled her out, invited her here. It was going to be her chance at happiness, the reason she saved herself all these years. It was going to be her every fantasy come true.

“Your lover?” Hawes asked, a hard set to his jaw, a frown splitting his rugged face.

She shook her head. She couldn’t talk.

“Why not?” Hawes crouched in front of her, pinching her chin between his fingers, forcing her head up, her eyes to his. “Why hasn’t he fucked you?”

Grace shuddered and tried to pull out of his grip, but he tightened it.

“No one has fucked you, Grace. You can’t give yourself to a man who isn’t your mate, even your sexy professor.” He added a bitter twist to the last two words.

Grace didn’t know what to say. She’d stepped from one nightmare to another. “That’s not true,” her words were too soft, she needed to dig deeper, she needed her spirit now. If this was to be life or death, she needed to fight for life even if she died in battle. “I’m 23-years-old. And a party girl. You think I haven’t had sex before? You think I’m a nun?” Perhaps she could bullshit her way out of this. Sex was the final frontier for her and even with all the offers she had, she could never consummate. Each time kisses with boys led to petting and intimate touches, she would become repelled, forced to stop before it could go further. After this happened several times, she decided she was gay. Turned out not as the same thing happened with women, although she could never get past the kisses. Women just didn’t turn her on at all.

Hawes’ face was stony, his eyes hard. “You’re lying, Grace, I can smell your innocence. You have not even orgasmed.” Grace felt her face grow warm at these truths. “Your first blood is mine. You are mine.” Then he laughed derisively as he rose. “Tell her, Mersin,” he said as he sauntered out of the cabin like he was a king.

As soon as he left, Grace scrambled to her feet and rounded on Mersin. “He’s insane, Mersin! Can’t you tell? Please, please help me leave. I can’t be his mate.” She couldn’t figure out how Hawes knew she was a virgin. She had no idea how he knew she had never been able to bring herself to orgasm. She thought she was frigid, that something was wrong with her, but she’d never had the courage to seek help. Now Hawes was offering her an irrational reason for her inability to fuck another man, her inability to come.

Mersin shook his head. “Hawes is my adopted son. He’s destined to lead, here on this earth and below, in the depths of what you might think of as hell. And you, dear Grace, are destined to be his mate.”

Grace shuddered. “That’s crazy. You know that, right? You know how mad that sounds?”

Mersin laughed sardonically. “It’s only crazy if you’re a non-believer. You know what Hawes is? You know he’s not a man.”

Grace pursed her lips and looked towards the door, eyes roaming the cabin, looking anywhere but at Mersin. “Yes. I know. It’s why I came here, why Eric came. To study these wolves, not wolves, not men.”

“Say it,” Mersin urged her. “You know what he is. What he did for you last night.”

Grace swallowed. She didn’t want to say it out loud as if saying the words would make it true. But they fell out of her mouth anyway. “He’s a wolf, werewolf. He killed those men.”

“Yes. Those men were sent by his father. Sent to defile you.”

“This doesn’t make sense. Why would his father want me…?” she couldn’t finish the sentence as her stomach knotted, her throat closed at the memories.

Mersin sighed impatiently, “Has no one explained your legacy to you?” He paced away from her. “Obviously not,” he muttered to himself. He turned back to her. “Hawes is the offspring male of a hellhound and werewolf. You are the female offspring of a werewolf and human. On the twenty-fourth night, Hunter’s Blood Moon… “

“What?” Grace sputtered, his words jarring her back to the present. “I’m not a werewolf.”

“No, you’re not. Your wolf is latent. Do you know how rare that is?”

Grace was starting to feel less afraid as her anger grew. “I don’t know… this is ridiculous. Please, get me some clothes and let me go. Or at the very least, call the police.”

Hawes stood in the doorway, agitated. “She’s not listening to you.”

Mersin turned to the towering man. “Give me more time.”

“No.” Hawes strode to the middle of the room, stopping in front of Mersin. “Is she healthy enough?”

Mersin turned his attention back to Grace, his eyes roving over her. He nodded. “She seems so.”

“Then leave. I’ll explain it to her.”

Mersin shook his head. “Give us more time. I can help with her healing.”

Hawes seem to grow taller, his teeth sharper, his eyes darker. “Later, leave now,” he growled. Mersin hesitated then stepped past Hawes.

As he closed the door behind him, she heard Mersin say, “Be gentle with her, Hawes.”

A tremor swept through Grace as she backed away from Hawes, but then her thighs bumped up on the bed, and she sat down with a thump. Her hand clutched at the fur covering her. “What are you going to do?” she whispered as his eyes stroked her.

“Show you,” his tone was as brittle as his strides as he paced toward her, then pulled her up by her arms and into his embrace. He brought his mouth to her ear, “I cannot claim you, Grace, not until the night of the Hunter’s Blood Moon.” He raked a nail down the side of her bruised face, down her neck to the furs. “But you cannot say no to me. I will be the only man you will ever bed willingly.”

She felt a shiver slide up her spine as he bent his face to hers, brought his lips to hers, but fuck if he was going to show her anything. Anger ripped through her at his nerve. She reared back and hit his face with her forehead, slammed it hard enough to send him reeling. A bolt of pain lanced through her head, but she didn’t stop to consider it. She ran by him as his knees buckled, out the door and into the forest. Running blindly again, naked again except for the skimpy little fur-dress she was wearing. She knew she’d dropped him for only a few seconds and her running wasn’t going to get her very far, but she’d be damned if she didn’t at least try.

Chapter 3

Grace couldn’t hear his pursuit and thought she should head downhill towards water. Did water kill the scent? That’s what she’d read about werewolves, what she’d studied. But who knew for sure? No one had ever done a field study. It was all speculation. The day was still, small breezes behind her, fueling her flight. If she could just find water. She bolted through the trees and almost ran off a cliff but managed to skid to a stop at the edge. Water below, about 20 feet down. If it was deep enough, she could jump and swim across. But only if it was deep enough. Did she dare?

Her ears strained to hear Hawes behind her, but there was nothing but birdcalls in the air. Maybe he wouldn’t think her so brave – or so stupid – maybe he was circling around to cut her off. Maybe she knocked him out, or even killed him. A slice of despair clawed through her, not sure why the thought of him dead ripped at her heart, or perhaps it was more the thought of her dead. Gathering her courage, she leapt off the cliff and plummeted feet first into the water. Down, down, down, 15 or more feet. It was bottomless, the water murky and freezing. What did she expect up north – palms trees and blue lagoons?

She clawed her way to the surface, afraid again. Afraid of the water, which was stupid. It was saving her. She started swimming, thanking her father for the all the childhood swimming lessons he insisted she take, her heart knotting again at how much she missed him. Dead now, three years. Like she would be soon if she didn’t get to the other side.

She was a sitting duck in the water, easy to spot if Hawes made it to the cliff edge. One stroke in front of the other, the river, water, lake, lagoon – she didn’t know what the fuck it was. But the shoreline seemed closer when she had been on the ledge looking down. The icy temperature of the water and her fear of Hawes soaked into her – she was getting disoriented. She stopped and bobbed, looking around, spying the cliff’s edge, then turning her back to it. Seeing the trees on the opposite shoreline, not far, 100 metres. She could do that in her sleep, except she was terrified, panicky and exhausted. She took a dozen more strokes before a pain in her side bloomed, then slid down her right leg, to her foot. She was cramping. She stopped her strokes, took deep shuddering breaths, tried to work the cramp out, but the cold was winning. If she didn’t get to the shore soon, she’d die of hypothermia. She gathered her strength, her resolve and started forward, breaststroke, slower but easier on her leaden arms. She was almost to the shore when the bottom reared up fast and she thudded into it. Her stomach and thighs bruising against the jagged rock. She didn’t let this slow her down as she staggered to her feet and wobbled out of the water. The fur was gone, she was naked, wet, hypothermic.

She launched herself into the forest, her shivers increasing. She needed shelter, but it couldn’t be just any shelter. It had to be both warm and safe. She ran blindly for a minute then stopped, looked up into the sky, the sun to her left. She kept it there as she moved forward, but it didn’t help. The trees were endless, there was no where to go, no path to follow. She was drying, still freezing but maybe not hypothermic anymore. The shivering didn’t stop, neither did the goosebumps, the hardness of her nipples. Then she tripped over deadfall, falling hard, scraping her hands and knees, twisting her ankle.

She tried to get to her feet and faltered, fell back down. She wanted to scream, wail, slam her fist into a tree, but she swallowed her frustration down. Falling apart wouldn’t save her, neither would laying in the dirt feeling pitiful and broken. As she got to her knees, her ears caught the faint sound of leaves crunching to her left, forcing her panic. She launched to her feet, her ankle protesting, her heart hammering in her chest. Then she stopped, swallowed her fear. She needed to think, be smart. She was a prey animal, cornered by a predator. She needed to think like one – but what did they do? They stayed in herds, they ran away, they died when they were injured. She sobbed.

Then she saw them, two men, both barrel-chested, bearded, tall – brothers or maybe even twins. They’d been talking to each other, one animated, the other listening and nodding, arms crossed over his chest. As soon as she was in their line of sight, their conversation ceased, heads swivelled. She stopped dead, kept her distance, watched them warily. When one of the men stepped forward, she stepped back. He grinned and said, his voice a baritone, “This is a first. A naked she-wolf in the forest. Are you alone, pretty baby?”

Grace took another step backward, and both men laughed. The one who had spoken to her, the one who was doing all the talking said, “You should stop running. It will only get us excited if we have to chase you. Then we can’t be accountable for our actions.”

Grace stopped. He was right about the running. “I need help.” That was an understatement. She had a twisted ankle, was broken and bruised, pursued by a mad wolf, and at risk of freezing to death.

The other man, the one who had not yet spoken, took off his jacket. It was red, plaid and lined and felt like heaven as he helped Grace pull it on. Her fingers were too stiff from cold to work and so he patiently buttoned the front. He looked down at her, his eyes stroking her with wonder. It was strangely worshipful. “I’m Edon,” he said respectfully. “This is my brother, Macon.”

Her eyes flicked to the other man, Macon, who was watching her with interest, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Who are you running from, fair maiden?”

Grace filtered through the possible answers. She couldn’t tell them she was running from Hawes because it didn’t make sense that they were out here in the forest, two men, looking like lumberjacks, at home in this isolated piece of the world. Nothing made sense. There shouldn’t be murderous, crazed bikers this far north. There shouldn’t be a crazy werewolf claiming her as his mate, claiming she was part-wolf. There shouldn’t be these men in this forest. But they weren’t men, she realized, they were wolves. Were they loyal to Hawes or his enemies? She swallowed. “I need help please. I need to get to a phone.”

“You’re not wearing shoes,” Macon observed. “Why don’t you switch to your wolf?”

“I am not a wolf.” She regretted the words as they slipped from her lips. Both men narrowed their eyes and flared their nostrils. She could almost see their wolf-forms, their ears flattening, the hair on the back of their necks standing up.

“You’re deceitful. Who do you belong to?” Macon again, his words hard, edgy. His eyes were darting around, behind her, beside her, looking for what?

He got his answer as Hawes strolled through the trees towards them like he had been out for a picnic in the countryside. “She belongs to me.” He was still bare-chested, his broadness blocking the sun. His grey eyes seared her with his fury.

Both men turned. “Hawes,” Edon crossed his arms to his chest. “Your mate?”

“Yes.” He walked by the men, clutching Grace’s bicep and dragging her in the direction he came. She stumbled after him, she had no choice. His grip was iron, she wouldn’t be able to wrench herself from it even if she had the strength to try.

“She’s hurt, Hawes. She can’t walk.” Edon again.

Hawes turned towards the man and snarled, literally, hackles up, nose wrinkling, eyes narrowed, snarling. Edon stepped back and lowered his eyes. Grace watched in horrified wonder. Hawes was the Alpha of these men. They were his pack. She thought of Eric, thought how thrilled he would have been to witness such a scene, felt the wetness in her eyes. Dammit, not now, but the tears came anyway.

He dropped her arm and took a menacing step towards Edon. “Have you touched her?” Hawes was taller than Edon, mightier, broader, standing in Edon’s space, snarling over him.

Edon kept his eyes lowered. “I offered her my jacket and helped her into it. That’s all. That’s what you smell, Hawes. She was wet, freezing, she needed warmth.”

“I should kill you,” he growled. Grace looked to Macon, but he stood to the side, watching as the scene unfolded, not glancing her way, no intent to intervene. As Hawes raised his fist to Edon, Grace pushed herself between the men.

“What’s wrong with you?” she implored him. “He was trying to help me.”

He flicked the back of his hand toward her, a careless gesture that made contact with her face, the force flinging her from him, pitching her to the ground like she was ash off a cigarette. He didn’t look at her, but his words were addressed to her. “Take his fucking coat off, Grace. Do it fast and I might let him live.”

Grace scrambled to her feet, her cheek burning, her eyes tearing, her fingers fumbling at the buttons on the jacket. She tore it from her, dropped it to the ground and then turned from the scene, plunging into the trees again. If nothing else, it would distract Hawes from murdering a man who simply tried to help her. She gained barely 10 feet before he was on her, snagging her up in his large hands, carrying her under one arm to the water’s edge, then in, not caring that the water was soaking him through. Once deep enough, he tossed her into the water, watching as she went under. When she emerged, splashing and sputtering, he pulled her too him, sniffing her.

“You still stink like him.” And he threw her again.

This time when she came up, she was yelling, “You sonofabitch! You animal! You’re no better than the assholes trying to rape me last night!”

He grabbed her by the hair, pulling her towards him, shoving her body against his chest. She was shivering and cold again, thought she might die if he didn’t pull her from the water soon. “I never said I was better.” He sniffed her again, threw her back in the water and held her head under as seconds ticked by. She struggled, her hands around his wrist, trying to get his grip to loosen, kicking her legs. She couldn’t breathe, she needed air. Then he brought her up, gasping and sputtering, flailing at him. It made no difference to him. He brought his nose to her, sniffing her hair, her neck, her breasts. Satisfied, he hauled her over his shoulder and carried her out of the river.

Chapter 4

Hawes didn’t stop until they were at his house again. By then Grace was turning blue. The wind had picked up, it was howling through the trees, the blast of cold gusts, relentless. He had to walk at least a mile downstream before a bridge presented itself and he could cross the river. Was this why it took him so long to get to her? Her research on werewolves suggested that wolf packs had wide territories and were ruled by an Alpha. She was still in his territory, she realized. She couldn’t escape him and if she did, that might serve to put her in another pack’s territory.

As he entered the house, he threw her on the bed with little care. She was bruised, scraped, savaged. He stood for a moment in front of her, his hands at his sides, clenching and unclenching, his eyes dark and brooding, piercing her.

Grace sucked in a breath as he stripped his wet pants off. He was magnificent and under any other circumstance she would have been in awe. Tall with hair that flowed down his back, a face with angular features showing his beauty and his beast, granite muscles glistening from the water still clinging to his chest, his legs long and strong and his penis, erect and jutting. Large like him, a well-forged weapon.

Then he dropped over her, her shoulders between his stiff arms, hands curling into the bedding to support him. His right leg knelt on the mattress next to her thigh, the other foot firm on the floor. His dark eyes traced her face, then her shoulders and her breasts. He dipped down with his head and pulled a nipple between his lips, sucking at it, then biting it savagely. Grace cried out, and then whimpered as he released it. The pain fused with pleasure as it rippled through her.

He brought his eyes to her face again. “You’re my mate. I’m your alpha. I could kill you for what you did this morning.”

Grace dropped her eyes. She was never going to wake from this nightmare. “I won’t run again,” she whispered. It was not a lie. She had no where to run to, at least not now.

He snarled. “No you won’t run again. But that is not the death promise. You allowed another wolf to wrap you in his clothing, allowed his smell to permeate you. You should both be dead.” He brought his nose to her neck and sniffed, stroked it with his tongue, bit it.

“No!” Grace said breathlessly. She was feeling dizzy being this close to him. She couldn’t find her way to being repelled. What was wrong with her? “How can you say such a thing? I might have died if not for his coat. He kept me safe!”

He shifted off her and gripped her upper arms, pulling her into a seating position. He knelt on the floor, shoving her thighs open, shoving his nose to her pussy and inhaling. “You would have died because you ran from me, you fool. If you were not my mate…” He didn’t finish. He stood abruptly, strode from her to a corner, bringing back a fur and throwing it to her. “Wrap it around you.” He paced away. “This is my territory. I am the alpha. There are almost 200 wolves in my pack,” he snarled. “Do you know why it’s so large?”

Grace sat frozen on the edge of bed, holding the fur against her, afraid to move, afraid to talk.

He leaned over her again, his features menacing as his face got so close she felt the warmth of his breath invade her mouth. “Because I am no ordinary alpha. My father is a hellhound.” Then he stepped back and waited for her to deny this, disagree with him.

“Please,” Grace said softly. She needed to know, but she also needed him to stop being so terrifying. She wished she had a dog biscuit and then almost laughed out loud at the absurd thought. “Please just tell me so I can understand. This is not how it should be.”

He stopped his pacing and swung towards her. “Yes, it is. It’s exactly how it should be. The fact that you were attacked in a remote forest this far north is far more implausible than me being birthed as a hellhound. You don’t think leather-clad bikers would just show up here by serendipity, do you? My father sent them. To take your first blood and then wipe you from the earth.”

“Why?” A shudder ripped through Grace at the memory of the bikers.

He walked away from her and pulled on a pair of loose linen pants. Then he sat in a chair, several feet from her, his forearm on the tabletop, his long thick fingers splayed. “Because when we mate, I will become the ruler of three realms.”

Grace leaned her head to one side and stared at him trying to decide if he was insane or serious - or both. “I don’t understand.”

“My father is a demon, a hellhound. Obsessed with my mother. He seduced her, took her, savaged her – she fled when she became pregnant. She had no choice – the spawn of a demon and werewolf is unprecedented. He found her though, four years after my birth. He destroyed her in front of me, then took me to his underworld and raised me there.”

Grace frowned. She knew about werewolves. It was her thesis project for her anthropological studies. But hellhounds! No such thing! That implied that there was organized evil in this world and her rational mind rejected the concept. “What makes you different from a full-blooded werewolf?”

He laughed bitterly from the shadows. “So my mate disbelieves me? Wants proof, does she?” He stood and stalked back to the bed. Grace regretted that she hadn’t taken advantage of his distance to move away from the bed, move further from him.

He towered over her and she craned her neck to see his face. “Just tell me. I don’t need you to show me.”

His eyes raked over her, his nostrils flared. He growled, “You are tempting my restraint, mate. I might not be able to wait until the Hunter’s Blood Moon.”

Grace’s heart thumped, but oddly, her terror had receded. Her reaction was physiological. “My name is Grace. Not mate. I’ll call you Hawes, not psycho werewolf. It’s respectful.”

He narrowed his eyes, his lips quirking, but his voice contradicted any amusement. “You should tread softly around me, mate. I will not kill you, but there is nothing stopping me from savaging you.”

Grace took a little breath. She needed to control the situation. “You don’t need to keep threatening me. I get it – I’m in no position to defy you. Just tell me what I need to know so I can understand what the fuck is going on.”

His nostrils flared, but he sat on the bed next to her. She could sense that he wanted to touch her. “Hell is a realm. Like earth. My father rules it and he would like nothing better than to possess other realms, earth included. His desire is to become the Alpha of all wolves. He intended to do it through me and my mate, claiming our first-born as his own, then killing us and raising the child as he desired. He might have succeeded if he hadn’t killed my mother in front of me.”

He frowned and the grey in his eyes faded as a memory swamped him. “I can stop him by mating you, a woman with the blood of both werewolf and human. That will give me his kingdom and mine and because you are part human, yours. The worlds will bow down to me.”

“Hawes,” she said, picking her words carefully. “It… I… how could this be?”

“It’s been prophesied – when the blood of three beasts is consummated, the Alpha will become the guardian of all kingdoms. Its first male offspring will own these kingdoms into perpetuity. He will become immortal. He will be a God.”

Grace shuddered internally at the implication of this. Nostradamus foretold that the end of the world would occur July 1999. Obviously, it did not. In the 16th century, the father of Presbyterianism, Thomas Brightman, erroneously predicted the conversion of Jews and the destruction of the Papacy. On March 31, 1998 at 10am, God was supposed to come to earth in a flying saucer, according to Chen, leader of a Taiwanese cult. God didn’t show. None of it happened. Prophesies were bullshit. She said as much to Hawes. She expected him to swipe at her, push back, but he grinned savagely.

“You’re a smart one, aren’t you? Foretelling may or may not be bullshit. You wish to find out? The alternative to me taking power from my father is for you to be fucked by another before we are mated. My father sent those bikers to spill your first blood.”

Tremors coursed through Grace as the horror of the night before assaulted her senses. He saved her, Hawes, arriving on scene in time to take her as his.

Hawes was watching her, his eyes intense and unyielding. “Tell me the truth, Grace.” Her name on his lips lulled her. “You’ve never been fucked, never even had an orgasm, have you?” Grace’s face grew warm. He shifted closer to her on the bed, his hand creeping up her leg. “Every time you get close to someone, man or woman, too close, you can’t consummate.” His fingers grazed the bottom of the fur she had wrapped around her, slid under it, cradling her thigh, gripping it as he stared into her eyes. He was magnetic, a man who bent the world to his will. She let out a shallow breath as he moved his face closer to hers. “And you imagined it would be different with this man you were with, this doctor. Except it was fate leading you here, not your heart, not your lust. You have no control over your life events.”

“I do,” Grace whispered. Then he stroked her, a single stroke the length of her vulva, invading her folds, lighting a trail of fire that seared through her. Her eyelids drooped and she cried out as her body jerked towards his hand. A sudden craving coursed through her. Something new, deep, savage, wanting. He could have her, he could do anything he wished to her. She wouldn’t say no. She couldn’t.

Then he removed his hand, sat back. Distanced himself from her, his lips quirking as he watched her crumble in on herself, gasping for air, trying to regain her sense. “What did you do?” Outraged, suspicious, betrayed.

“I showed you.” His grin broadened at her loss of composure.

Grace shuddered. Her alternatives were no alternatives at all. She either mated with a crazed werewolf that she was inexplicably drawn to or she was raped and killed by his father. “Do you hear what you’re saying? A male child born to us will be given eternal power. Even if this prophecy is true, it’s dangerous to give that kind of power to a single man. It’ll corrupt him.”

Hawes scowled. “He will be raised to be a good man, to rule benevolently. That’s the difference between my father and me.”

“Impossible.” Grace started, but then stopped. Everything about this situation was impossible. Why was she arguing? He seared her with his touch, so what? Maybe she was part wolf. Also, so what? Her mother died when she was a toddler, and Grace knew only her father’s family. She had always been interested in werewolves, always wanted to study them, know them. So little information about them because they were reclusive, lived apart from humans. She’d been arrogant, she realized. She thought she’d be the one to befriend them, study them, tell their story. Now she was one of them. Maybe.

Hawes stood and walked to the small, battered dresser pushed up against a wall. He pulled some clothes from a drawer and threw them to her. “Put them on. The mid-day meal is on its way. I wish to eat.”

Grace caught the clothes in her arms and started towards the bathroom, but he stopped her.

“Dress here.”

Grace glared at him but then had the thought that it was a little late for modesty. He’d seen her naked more often than dressed. She slid a T-shirt over her head, his T-shirt, the size of it swamping her, reinforcing how truly big he was. The pants were also too big, but she rolled up the hems and he passed her a rope to thread through the loops and cinch it to her waist.

He grinned as he watched her. One of amusement. A smile that warmed his face and made her heart stutter. It was unsettling.

His eyes lingered at her feet, clouding, then up to her face. “You have no shoes. There’ll be some in the village. One of the women can give you a set.”

A soft rap at the door and as it opened a pretty, young blonde woman entered carrying a basket. She smiled at Hawes, her face lighting up, then her eyes shuttered as they settled on Grace. “That’s her?” the woman asked, her voice demanding, a little angry, disbelieving.

“Mel,” Hawes said, “This is Grace. My mate.”

Mel stared at her openly and Grace ventured a hello.

Mel turned to Hawes. “Did you beat her?” Grace thought her voice was a little too hopeful.

“No,” Hawes replied, his eyes narrowing as he grazed Mel with a heated look.

Mel put the basket on the table and turned toward the door. She paused at the threshold and looked back at Hawes. “There’s still one day until the Hunter’s Blood Moon and I’m alone tonight. I miss you.”

Grace sucked in a breath as a wave of unbidden jealously rippled through her. She might not be ready for any of this to happen, but if she was his mate, if she were the Alpha’s mate, then he bloody well wasn’t going to fuck another woman the day before their ceremony.

“Get out,” she said to Mel, her voice flat and ugly.

Hawes turned to her in surprise.

Grace threw him a withering glare. “You fuck around on me, ever, Hawes and I’ll make you regret the day you mated with me.” She limped over to the table and opened the basket. All at once, she was starving.

She heard Mel huff and storm out, then Mersin’s voice as he entered. “Mel’s pissed. What’d you say, Hawes?”

“Not a fucking thing.” But he grinned.

Mersin smiled at Grace as he caught her eyes, then flicked his attention to Hawes. “I hear there was an adventure this morning.”

Hawes growled. “Nothing important.”

“You should be careful not to alienate the twins, my son. They’re well-respected.”

“You should be careful not to lecture me, father,” Hawes replied, his eyelids half-lowered, a frown creasing his face. “Her ankle’s injured.” He turned to Grace. “Sit down. Mersin’s a healer.”

Grace sat on a chair at the table as Mersin knelt in front of her, throwing her a ghost of a smile before he wrapped his hands around her swollen ankle and closed his eyes. She felt the warmth from his hands filter into her, weaving its way through her pain, soaking it up and scattering it. “What are you doing?” she asked in wonder.

Mersin opened his eyes and stood. “Healing you,” he said simply and watched as Grace stretched her ankle in a circle, the pain gone.

Another thought tore at her. If Mersin were someone who could heal with touch, then the other bits of information were not so far-fetched. The anthropologist in her reared up. “Is that a werewolf thing?”

Mersin smiled as he headed for the door. “Some werewolves are born healers. So are some humans. It’s often generational. Genetic. It’s like any trait – useless if not nurtured.” His eyes flicked over her. “Eat and drink some water. I’ll return later to help heal your bruises.” To Hawes he said, “We have to take her to the village and leave her with the women until the mating ceremony.”

Hawes nodded but his face was discordant. “She can stay here.”

“No,” Mersin replied. “She can’t, and you know it. I see the change in both of you. The Hunter’s Blood Moon is one day from now. If you truly want to lead, you must show your restraint to your people.”

Mersin left without waiting for Hawes to respond.

Chapter 5

Lunch was a quiet affair. Grace was ravenous and as long as she put her mind in neutral, she was able to enjoy the buffet of freshly-baked bread, roasted chicken and sliced apples, which she washed down with water. When they were finished, she broke the silence.

“Have you slept with Mel?” She was past her jealousy now, truly interested in this species. Wanting to know.

Hawes narrowed his eyes. “I’ve slept with many women.”

His words made her angry. “A genetic double-standard then? Women are repelled by a man who’s not her mate, but men can fuck anyone?”

“Women can fuck anyone too, until they’re mated. It is you, human fur-ball that cannot.”

She ignored his little taunt although she simmered inside. “Then once we’re mated, you must be faithful?”

He grinned ferally. “No. As Alpha I can fuck any woman I want, even if she’s mated. Even if her mate is sleeping in the room next to her.”

Her simmering anger erupted. “And do you, Hawes? Fuck any woman you want, even if she’s mated?”

He laughed at her. “Are you trying to understand pack behaviour, Grace, or are you trying to understand me? Do you think once we’re mated, that you will be the only one I will ever bed?”

Grace stood up. “We’re not mated yet, you bastard,” she snarled at him as she paced to the door and flung it open. “Anything could happen between now and then.” And then she yelled into the trees, “Mersin, take me to these women who will guard my fucking virtue. I don’t want to stay here with this asshole.”

Hawes grabbed her by her arm and flung her around to face him. “Do not disrespect me, woman or I will discipline you.”

Grace crossed her arms over her chest and glared at him. “What? How does the big bad wolf discipline his unruly mate-to-be? Nip her?”

Hawes yanked her inside and slammed the door shut, bolting it so no one could walk through. “Where has your fear gone, Grace? You were a whimpering little puppy less than an hour ago and now you’ve become a bold, foul-mouthed bitch!”

Grace wondered that too. She felt her primacy growing as the day slid by, felt a savage and raw hunger. Her emotions were swirling in her, heated and destructive. She was fuming because of Mel. Because of the bitch’s blatant proposition to Hawes in front of her. And furious because Hawes made no promises to stay faithful to her. And justified because, if she let herself believe the prophecy, it freed her of her social constraints. She was angry, now, not afraid. Livid that Eric had died, that it didn’t have to happen. This Hawes, her mate, had let it happen.

“Where were you?” she seethed at him. “Where the fuck were you, mate? When my friend was being pulverized? When I was running for my life, blindly through the forest? Why did you show up just as I was about to be raped and stop it then?”

Hawes grinned ferally towering over her, staring down at her. “You think I’m your knight in shining armour, do you?” He laughed, deeply, derisively. “I wanted to watch, Grace. I wanted to see how it would play out. Wanted to see what you were made of.”

Grace faced him, her hands clenched tightly. “You sonofabitch! You let Eric die!”

He stood inches from her, his eyes piercing hers. “Make no mistake about who I am, pup. Your professor would have died either way. If not them, then me. He thought he could take what belonged to me.”

Grace lost it then, her fist crashing into his face before he could block it. “You goddamn prick!” she cried. “He didn’t have to die. He never laid a hand on me.”

Hawes grabbed her hair, forcing her head back as he wrapped his fingers around her neck. “He had lust in his heart, Grace.” Then he dropped the hand to the rope at her waist, unknotting it deftly. “And it’s time you learned respect for your Alpha.”

Grace kicked out at him savagely as the pants pooled at her feet. He effortlessly lifted her by her waist and hauled her to the bed, seating himself then flipping her over so that her belly was pushed against his groin and his thighs. She felt his erection pressing into her. “Are you kidding me?” she screamed, fury coursing through her. She flailed at him ineffectively, fists flying back at him, feet kicking out. But he held her down, her strength no match for his. Then he swatted her bare ass, savagely, with the open palm of her hand. “Fuck!” She jerked as the pain lanced through her. Her ass had been the last unbruised part of her body.

“Stop swearing, Grace,” he warned as he slapped her again, with as much force as the first.

“You fucking sonofabitch!” She bucked against him, tried to hammer him in his nuts, but he grabbed her arms and brought them to her back, securing her wrists tightly between one of his hands.

With the other, he spanked her. Repeatedly. She cursed and raged, and then after a dozen more strokes, she cried and begged. “Stop, please stop.”

He whacked her once more, his breathing jagged, matching her sobs. Then he brought his hand to her ass and rubbed it, forcing a whisper of pleasure into the pain. She whimpered. He drew a finger to her vagina and she jolted from the touch. “You’re wet, Grace. I think you enjoyed it.”

“No,” she snapped, her humiliation goading her anger back to the forefront. “Let me up.”

He didn’t. He drew his fingers through her hair, then fisted it, forcing her head back, forcing her face to his. “We’re going to the village. You will not leave my side, not once, not for anything. Until you are handed off. Keep your eyes down. Do not look at the men. Do not talk to them. If you say anything disrespectful to me, I will beat you. Not privately behind closed doors, but in front of the others. Everyone will expect me to do so.”

Grace didn’t want to cry, but the tears slid down her cheeks anyway. “I hate you,” she said, through gritted teeth.

His eyes flashed his displeasure and Grace thought he might hit her again, but he let her go, pushed her off his lap to the floor and stood. “You will beg for me soon enough, mate. Get dressed.”

Hawes stalked to the door and yanked it open. Mersin was there. “Fix her,” he snarled. “Just her face. Leave the rest untouched, especially her ass. I want her to remember what happens when she displeases me.”

Chapter 6

Grace felt almost whole again after Mersin finished administering to her. Almost, because Hawes had dealt her some vicious blows and her burning ass was a reminder that he ruled her. He led her from the house, turned his back to her and walked down the path towards the village, not considering she might not follow him. Such arrogance and justified, she thought, as she meekly trailed behind him. With each step came a painful tug. With each tug came a bolt of pleasure, of lust that was incongruent with the pain. Desire pooled between her thighs, forcing a deep longing for her mate-to-be that stole her breath from her.

The village was a surprise to her. It was like any other town she’d ever been in. Almost. The houses were roughly-hewn log cabins, but most had gardens, now farrowed as the season had passed. There was an outdoor market where goods were being sold. Pumpkins and squashes and other winter root vegetables littered the tables along with preserves and jams. Butchers and bakers and craftspeople manned tables while groups of villagers chatted to one another. The market extended into a hall which was attached to what appeared to be a large town centre. It was… almost civilized. This gave Grace hope that there might be a means of escape. That she may be able to phone for help. Maybe the women would be sympathetic to her. Maybe they would help her.

But as Hawes paraded her through the throng, as the chatter died down, it was apparent that the women were not sympathetic. The older ones were appraising, the younger, down-right hostile. Grace could see it in their postures, in their eyes as Hawes pulled her by them, his hand clutching her wrist as if she were the Stanley Cup of she-wolves. The men greeted Hawes, never fully meeting his eyes, they seemed respectful of him, not fearful. None gave her more than a cursory glance. They knew better.

The women greeted Hawes too, stared openly at her. She was his mate, they were jealous of her, the usurper of their Alpha. Was Hawes nuts to leave her with them? A slice of fear cut her to the bone. These were full-blooded wolves. She had no defence against them. She stumbled behind him, trying to keep her eyes down, but trying to stay proud at the same time. She wanted to emulate his arrogance. After all, if he was the king, then she was his queen. That had to count for something, didn’t it?

He turned up the walk of a small house. A tall, heavy-set woman stepped out onto the front porch and watched their approach with curious eyes. She was old, at least 60, maybe more. Her weary face was weathered and her short hair, dry and grey. She was dressed simply in a pair of jeans and a long-sleeved sweater that hung loosely on her. Her strength rolled from her, not just physical but spiritual as well. Grace felt diminished in her presence as Hawes stepped up to her.

“Cordea.” He acknowledged her with a nod to his head.

“This is her?” Cordea stepped down off the porch and approached Grace, arms crossed over her chest, nostrils flaring. “Not much to look at it, hey?”

Irritation rippled through Grace. She always thought she was much to look at. Long dark hair, lush and wavy, liquid toffee-brown eyes, nice toned body, reasonably stacked. Sure, she’d been beaten, near-drowned and spanked, but still. Maybe none of that counted here, but Mel, she was pretty fucking much to look at with her blond hair and her big blue eyes. Fuck.

Hawes seemed to sense Grace’s irritation as his hand tightened around her arm. “Keep her here, Cordea. Until the Hunter’s Blood Moon. Keep her safe and get her ready for the ceremony.”

He turned abruptly, walked away without a single word to her and joined a knot of men, folding into the circle like he was the final piece of a puzzle. Grace stood there awkwardly in front of the woman, Cordea, who was still eyeing her up. “I’m Grace.” She ventured. “Thank you for taking me into your home.”

Cordelia gazed into her eyes, no, gazed past her eyes. Assessing her. Knowing her. She nodded and turned. “Come in. Let’s have tea.”

Grace followed her into the house, closing the door behind her. The cabin was cozy, much nicer than Hawes’ shack, with a soft couch and chair crowded around a stone fireplace, a fire smouldering in the hearth, warming the air. Blankets, furs, crafts littered the surfaces. Cordia pointed to the couch, “Sit there. The chair’s mine.” She flashed a smile that softened the lines on her face and then turned toward the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on and we can talk.”

A flare of pain burned through Grace as she dropped her ass onto the plush cushion of the sofa. It reminded her of Hawes and for a reason she couldn’t fathom, she found herself missing him, feeling bereft, hollow, needy. Despite his ill treatment of her, she longed for him, wanted him on her, inside her, fucking her, claiming her. Her desire bounced off her anger and her disbelief, and she whimpered. She was starting to accept the prophecy and that terrified her. She was helpless against his strength and now helpless against nature, against her body’s whims.

Cordea returned with some cups and a small jug with milk, setting both on a well-used coffee table. Then she sat in her chair. “You appear confused,” she said.

Grace leaned forward. She needed to seize this opportunity to find out as much as she could. She needed Cordea to be her friend. “I am confused. He… Hawes… he said…”

“That you’re his mate? That you are part-wolf?”

Grace nodded.

“So where’s the confusion?” Cordea didn’t sound as impatient as her words implied.

“It’s just…” Grace hesitated, then blurted. “This is new to me and I can’t understand it. I’m afraid of Hawes. I’m afraid to be his mate. And this prophecy… how could it be true?”

Cordea chuckled, warm and rich. “It’s true enough. Hawes is my nephew. His mother was my sister. She was stupid and naïve, thinking she was in love with Nordil, clearly a hellhound. She was rebellious though. Not a soul in the world could have made her understand how dangerous he was.”

“And he killed her.”

The blue faded in Cordea’s eyes as she nodded. “Yes. My only sibling murdered. My nephew was stolen.” The whistle of the kettle, merrily incongruent with the conversation, declared that tea was imminent. “Excuse me.” Cordea stood and walked into the kitchen.

The kettle quieted and a half minute later, Cordea re-entered the living room with a faded, cracked ceramic teapot in hand. She set it on the table and picked up the thread of the conversation as she reseated herself. “I thought Hawes dead for the longest time, but 17 years later he shows up on my doorstep. I was overwhelmed.” Her words faded momentarily as she checked the emotion in her voice. “He was damaged, but intact. But he’s fearsome, more so than a mere werewolf.”

Grace sucked in a breath. “How?”

“He’s half hell-hound. His wolf is stronger, bigger, more dangerous. His pack loves him, respects him, but they also fear him. His bites, his claw-marks never heal. And if he kills, it’s rumoured his victims’ souls never rest.”

Grace shuddered remembering the death of the bikers, almost feeling sad for them. Almost. “How could you know that?”

Cordea shrugged. “I’m a seer. Sometimes I know with certainty. Sometimes I think I know but can’t be sure. Sometimes I take an educated guess. Like now, about you.”

“What about me?” Grace asked warily.

“The approach of the Hunter’s Blood Moon is affecting you. It knows, I know that you are becoming fertile, in heat. Your mind and body will take you over and you won’t be able to resist Hawes.”

“I can’t anyway, according your legends.”

Cordea gazed at Grace. “You’re a pretty girl, Grace. You are fortunate to be the Alpha’s mate. The young women here would kill for that honor.”

Grace snorted. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“Ahh, I shouldn’t exaggerate. No one will touch you. It would be a death sentence.”

Grace thought back to the incident in the forest, when Edon gave her his jacket. “Is he benevolent? Hawes? Does he forgive?”

Cordea nodded. “He’s well-respected. He’s a strong leader, organizes his pack, provides for them, watches over them. As his mate, you must be respectful and subservient. He’s your Alpha.”

“I’m not really the subservient type.”

“I think you’re channelling the Hunter’s Blood Moon. I can sense your kindness, your willingness to embrace and conform. Who you are now will pass after tomorrow night.”

“So then, Seer,” Grace said, her voice brittle and a little angry at being dismissed so easily. “This prophecy, a child, a boy who will rule three realms. What’s the truth?”

Cordea shrugged. “Who knows what the truth is. These tales take on a life of their own. Each retelling gets bigger and uglier.”

“As I thought. It’s bullshit.”

Cordea narrowed her eyes. “How can you think that this prophecy has no value. The legend was here before you and look now, you’ve arrived as expected. He’s waited 10 years for you. You’re the exclamation mark.”

Grace picked up the teapot and filled Cordea’s teacup and then hers. She added a drop of milk and then straightened up, teacup in hand. After she’d taken a small sip, she said, “Even if this is true, even if it’s ordained, do you not think it unwise to create a being that cannot be killed, cannot be controlled?” Grace thought she was talking funny, like she was a seer too, of the highest order. Fucking Hunter’s Blood Moon. If she got out of this, if she somehow managed to get home, she would never again leave her apartment during a full-moon phase.

“You mean the child?” Cordea took a drink of her tea as Grace nodded.

“Hawes says that we will raise him well, but what does that even mean, Cordea? First, there is no “we”. Hawes needs me to birth the child and then what? I become unnecessary, an unwanted appendage, someone who will challenge him until he’s had enough. Then who will ensure the boy is raised well? Hawes, who has no empathy, no feelings? Mersin, who cowers under Hawes? You?”

Grace watched as Cordea’s hand trembled slightly, the tea in her cup sloshing over the rim and into the saucer. “You must make him love you.”

Grace grinned almost ferally. “I don’t think he has room for love in his heart. I don’t think he has a heart.”

A quiet rap at the door disrupted the flow of conversation. Cordea looked up but didn’t rise. “Come in,” she called, her voice strained and tired.

Mel stepped into the room. Anger flared in Grace as she saw the pretty blond woman. She tensed, expecting an attack. Expecting the fucking bitch to pounce on her and tear her throat open.

“Ah, you two have met. The wolf’s lover and his wife-to-be.” Cordea’s nostrils flared and Grace understood that the old woman could smell the hostility.

Mel cast her eyes to the floor. “I’ve come to apologize to Grace. My behaviour earlier was inexcusable.”

Grace narrowed her eyes. “Have a change of heart?” She was not quite ready to believe this blonde-haired vixen’s honeyed words. Honeyed? She shook her head. Was she in a fucking fairy-tale?

Cordea swept her hand to the teapot, “Get yourself a teacup and join us, Mel. Then you can grovel.”

Mel did as Cordea told her, rustling in the kitchen for a minute, then returning with a cup, filling it and settling herself on the opposite end of the couch from Grace. “I was jealous, Grace,” she admitted. “You’re so beautiful and it brought out my ugly side. I was his favourite and now… well… once he has you, no other will satisfy him.” She blinked her eyes and a few tears escaped.

Grace bit at her lower lip as she studied Mel. “You’re beautiful, Mel. Why aren’t you mated?” Her disbelief as the words that slipped from her mouth convinced her she was falling for this delusional shit. She was sounding like one of them, a wolf, the alpha’s queen. FUCK!

Mel shrugged and ran her fingers under her eyes. “I think because I thought Hawes would grow tired of waiting for you and formally make me his mate.”

Cordea snorted. “Mel, you’re an idiot.”

“Cordea!” Grace exclaimed, surprised at the woman’s bluntness.

Cordea glared at Grace, staring her down, then turned her attention to Mel. “You’re young and full of silly notions. Hawes is no prize. You would be miserable with him and he would grow tired of you. Go find a real mate, someone that will support you, treat you well, love you forever!”

More tears slipped from Mel’s eyes. She placed her teacup on the table and stood up. “I should go.”

Grace rose and walked Mel to the door. She put her arms around the sad woman and gave her a gentle hug. “It took courage for you to come here and apologize. Even if you don’t think it now, you’re lucky to be free of Hawes. You’ll find a man that will truly love you.”

Mel hugged her back. “You’re too kind to me, Grace. I don’t deserve it, but I think you’re right. I’ve known for a while, just didn’t have the will to walk away.” She grinned. “The man is sexy.”

Grace mirrored the woman’s smile. “I can’t disagree with you on that.” Warmth flooded Grace’s body as she pictured Hawes, naked, his cock erect, kneeling over her on the bed. She sighed softly as she followed Mel out onto the front step. Her mind was less focused, it felt hazy, off-centred. Fucking Hunter’s Blood Moon.

Mel walked down the steps and then turned to Grace. “This is your last night before the Hunter’s Blood Moon. Your last night of freedom. If I can pull the women together, will you come to a party in your honour? We can have it at the hall.”

Grace grinned. That’s what she needed. A party to distract her from her carnal thoughts. And a chance for the women to get to know her, let her show them what a great Queen she’ll be. “What time? I’ll let Cordea know.”

“No!” Mel said quickly. “I love the old woman, but she’s as old-fashioned as bloomers. She’ll not want you to go and then you’ll either not go or you’ll have to defy her. Either way, she’ll tell Hawes. Isn’t it better that you just come? You can say you didn’t know better.”

Grace chuckled ferally at Mel. “Girl, you are someone I could grow to like.”

Mel threw her a warm, genuine smile. “Maybe we can be friends.”

Grace gave her another hug. “What time?”

“After Cordea is in bed and asleep. She’s old. She’ll go to bed early. So 10ish. I’ll spread the word. This will be so fun!” Mel walked away, a lightness to her step that Grace was grateful for.

Chapter 7

As Mel had predicted, Cordea went to bed early. Dinner was simple fare – fresh baked bread, some sort of meat chops, some greens. Over the meal, Cordea answered Grace’s questions about werewolves in general, their behaviour, their social patterns, their transformation. Cordea could still turn into a wolf but didn’t often anymore. She was considered a wise woman and the villagers kept her fridge and pantry well-stocked.

After they’d cleaned the kitchen, Cordea showed Grace her bedroom and excused herself for the night. It was not quite 9 o’clock. Grace sat in the living room, on the couch, in the same spot she sat earlier and thought about all that had happened in the last 24 hours. She’d arrived up north with her professor, Eric. A man she thought she loved but as the memory of his death flitted through her brain, she felt sadness, but not grief. Even the terror of the bikers, chasing her, trying to rape her, was fading fast. The thought of their deaths didn’t even evoke an emotional reaction. And her terror of Hawes was almost gone.

Was it truly the pull of the moon as it rose causing her emotions towards him to soften? Was it the brightness of its shine forcing her desire for him to pulse? Or was it her incremental belief that the prophecy was true? And if that was the case, should she embrace it? She would be mated to a powerful man. He would rule and she would be by his side. All would respect and bow to her. The lure of power was heady and it shuddered through her, fusing with her carnal desire, bathing her in a lust for control, for recognition, for Hawes. Making her needy, wanting, wanton.

Perhaps it was this Hunter’s Blood Moon, this closeness to Hawes. The realization that he was the one man in this world that she truly wanted to fuck. She knew it, believed it. And to be part-wolf! The idea was scintillating, electrifying. Even if the trait was latent, the knowledge would allow her to embrace it, explore it, leverage it. She groaned as dampness grew between her thighs. She wanted Hawes, wanted him now. She didn’t know if she could wait 24 hours for him to be inside her. He was there in her mind, fucking her from behind, his large, hard cock impaling her, shoving into her pussy, forcing its length, its width into her, piercing her, filling her up. Holding her waist with his hands, nails digging into her tender flesh. Pounding her virgin cunt, making her his. Taking her first blood.

The dampness was flooding her now, her desire spilling over and she ran her hands down her belly to her pussy, her finger circling her clit, urging it to orgasm. She was there, closer than she’d ever been, the pressure in her belly, in her pussy growing. The need, the wanting. She was on the precipice, the edge of the cliff, her fingers flew faster, she fucked herself with her other hand. But she couldn’t let go. She could not peak, not fly off the edge, no matter her thoughts, no matter her lust. She snarled in frustration as she kicked her legs out and slammed her thighs shut on her hands. Her fingers wet with her desire lingered close to her pussy. Then she brought them to her lips, licked them, sucked them, imagining, wishing they were Hawes’ cock. She felt like she was dying.

It was after 10 now, Grace realized as she looked at the clock on the fireplace mantle. Mel would be waiting and that was good. This party would be a perfect distraction. Get her mind off Hawes, off his hard body, his soft lips, his giant erection. She bolted to her feet. “Enough!” she whispered. She wasn’t sure who she was anymore. Not the anthropology student in love with her professor. A werewolf, an alpha’s mate, maybe a whore.

She hesitated at the door, thought of Hawes again. He would not like that she was leaving Cordea’s house. He worried for her safety. But if he were so worried, why would he saddle an old woman with the responsibility of minding her? A wolf beyond her prime that couldn’t stay up past nine to keep Grace company, to watch over her. He underestimated Grace’s will, thought her weak, servile, obedient. Maybe thought that after last night, she would be too afraid to step out of the safety of Cordea’s home. But the fear? She dug around inside her, searched for it. Nope, not there. The fear was gone, completely.

And her safety? She was not leaving the village. His village, now hers to rule, the benevolent queen. She chuckled quietly. What had happened between this morning and tonight to change her mind about everything? This morning she wanted to go home, she wanted to be rescued. This morning she was in denial. But tonight, she believed. She wanted to stay, she wanted to be part of this community. No, she wanted to lead this community, as Hawes queen. Hawes! She desperately wanted him, wanted him to fuck her, touch her, with his hands, his mouth, his cock. Her pussy throbbed in agreement. She craved him like an addict

She stared up at the night sky as she stepped outside. No streetlights in this village. No electricity. But that hardly mattered tonight. The sky was cloudless and bright, the moon, almost full, forcing the darkness to the shadows, leading her down the road. It was the difference, she knew. She felt its pull. She was one of them. She was part of the prophecy. It overwhelmed her emotions and tears of gratitude slid from her eyes.

The town hall loomed in front of her and she slowed her steps as she approached. No light radiated, not the flicker of candles or the glow of a fireplace. And so quiet. Neither movement nor the murmur of soft voices. Where were the women? Where were the lights? She stopped in the middle of the road and frowned, hurt flitting through her. Maybe no one was interested in attending. Or maybe Mel had been insincere, toying with her. This time her tears were of anger and she swiped at them. These bitches who dared to turn their backs on her! Tomorrow night, she would be their queen, they would bow to her! And she would make them suffer. She turned her back on the building, on the betrayal and started to leave when Mel stepped from the shadows.

“Grace,” she said in an urgent, hushed voice. “Here. We have to keep the lights low so that we don’t attract attention.”

Relief threaded through Grace as she walked towards Mel. She was too emotional, she scolded herself. Too quick to judgement. They were here. They came. They would embrace her, accept her, love her. It’s all she wanted. But as she stepped into the shadows she realized all wasn’t as it should be. A dog stood beside the blond woman, black as a demon, with red glowing eyes and a dark, endless maw for a mouth. So large it’s back towered over Mel. Grace stood rooted to the ground. “Mel?” she croaked, as terror threaded its tendrils through her body.

Mel’s smile split her face, but her eyes were ice cold, filled with hate. “Grace, this is Nordil, Hawes’ father. Nordil, this is Grace, Hawes’ mate.”

Grace gasped. She was too stupid to be the Alpha’s mate! So quick to believe Mel, her desire for female companionship overriding her instincts. And where the fuck was Cordea, the supposed seer? Why didn’t she see this and warn Grace? Or maybe she did see this. Maybe the bitch was in on it with Mel. Maybe they both wanted her gone. “You bitch!” Grace seethed.

Mel’s smiled broadened. “Ah if the shoe fits.” She giggled as she moved past Grace, brushing her arm, unafraid. “I hope you two have a good visit.” She walked off down the road in the direction Grace had come as Nordil padded softly up to Grace and sniffed her.

“Ah, you smell innocent and… “ he paused. “Fertile.”

Grace jolted, took a step back and tried to run from him, but he was faster, stronger, perhaps more motivated. He threw his paws around her and swept her into him. Literally. Then he bounded away and out of the village.

Chapter 8

The journey seemed short but Grace couldn’t know for sure. It was across dimensions, not miles. She lost consciousness as Nordil crossed into the underworld and didn’t wake up until the hellhound dropped her. Her body connected solidly with a hard-stone surface and the pain in her hip and shoulder jarred her awake. Nordil stood a foot from her, his red eyes glowing, his blackness emanating from him like a mist. He was panting, his tongue, black like the rest of him, lolling from his mouth, saliva dripping from it. Grace rolled away a few feet to gain some space and sat up.

“Where am I?” She knew but wanted confirmation. She searched for her fear, the sudden terror that overwhelmed her when she first saw Nordil but couldn’t find it. She should be horrified, hysterical, fighting for her life but her emotions, her desire to flee seemed gone. She was in a large room, his bedroom, she thought as she eyed her surroundings. A fire in the hearth of a large stone fireplace flickered dimly. An unmade bed, a rough-hewn wood table and chairs. Chains on the walls. For what, his women? His victims? His pets? Everything was subdued, the light, the colour, the fire, like an old technicolour film. Faded. Maybe she was dreaming.

“My world,” Nordil stepped across the distance Grace had put between them and ran his wet nose over her, inhaling her.

“Underworld.”

Nordil nodded, still sniffing her. “You’re intoxicating, daughter.”

“Are you going to kill me?” Her words were muted, no real tone to them. Her emotions felt shuttered, forced together and restrained.

Nordil laughed, his jaws cracking open, huge glowing incisors exposed. “No. I might mate you.”

The knot on her feelings burst open. Grace’s anger started in her stomach and burned its way upwards, spilling from her lips. “Why the fuck would you do that?”

Nordil dropped to his belly in front of her, his tail wagging as he grinned. “Because it would fuck up the prophecy.”

“So would killing me,” Grace said flatly.

“Are you suicidal, daughter?”

Grace thought about this. It was a good question. “I wasn’t until last night. Until you sent three animals to kill my friend and rape me.” But her anger was ebbing, her words half-hearted.

Nordil scowled. “Yes. Useless assholes.” He shifted, brought his hind leg up to his ear and scratched it. It was hard to take him seriously when he acted so… so… dog like. “My son should not be my enemy and yet he is. He wants to usurp my position, take my world from me.”

Grace pulled her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around her calves. Her ass was starting to grow numb from sitting on the stone floor. “It’s foretold. Apparently, you can’t fuck with that.”

Nordil glared at her and growled. “Of course you can. I can kill you, I can kill Hawes, I can mate you.”

“You mean rape me.” Grace corrected him.

He growled. “You say tomato, I say tomatah.”

“You’re not my type, father. It seems a bit incestuous to fuck me, doesn’t it?”

Nordil stood up, towered over her, growled menacingly into her face, his incisors an inch from her mouth. “Why aren’t you more afraid of me, bitch?”

Grace curled her lip to emulate Nordil. “I don’t know. I think it’s because I’ve decided I am an idiot and therefore have forfeited my rights to a happy life.” Then she added. “And also because you’re a dog, and I like dogs. It’s hard for me to be afraid of them.” The Grace that she was, the tiny sliver that she had pushed into the corner of her brain, trembled. Use caution, you stupid mixed-breed. You don’t know a fucking thing about hellhounds other than the bullshit Cordea told you. And that old bat, well she can hardly be trusted. But Grace told her old self to fuck off and kicked her to the curb.

“Perhaps I should change forms.” Nordil said.

Grace was surprised. “Can you?”

Nordil sighed and sat down again. “No. You don’t appear to be an idiot, Grace.”

“I trusted Mel.” She reached up and gave Nordil a scratch behind his ear. His fur was warm to touch and a little of the black mist puffed up like dust as she ran her fingers over his head.

“Bad judge of character.”

Grace couldn’t argue with him. “And Cordea, you know her, right? The sister-in-law. Was she in on this?” She kept petting his head, scratching behind his ears. It was soothing to her and apparently to Nordil as he dropped down on his belly and nudged her hand when she faltered.

“That old bitch?” His lip curled and his fangs seemed to extend. “She couldn’t stay awake long enough to plan a betrayal. She fancies herself a seer, but she didn’t see this coming, did she?”

“That’s what I thought!” Grace exclaimed feeling a kinship with the black hound dog. In her mind, she could see him lying on the floor in Hawes’ cabin, in front of the fireplace as its hearth glowed warm, nuzzling the boy, the one she was supposed to bear, the one destined to become a God. He didn’t seem all that bad.

“Did you kill Hawes’ mother?”

“Yes. I was an asshole back then.”

“You’re still an asshole, Nordil.” She removed her hand from his head. “You sent three rapists after me.”

Nordil shook himself. “Yes. What a clusterfuck that turned out to be. Humans are so full of fucking morality. I can enchant them to do my bidding, but they already have to have the evil inside them. You’d think that would be easy to find, but it’s not. Even mass murderers have principles.” He swung on Grace, an angry glint in his eyes. “And you, the fucking virgin Mary, saying no to every man you thought you wanted to fuck.”

“I had no choice,” Grace protested. “I couldn’t consummate. It’s like something wouldn’t let me cross that barrier.”

“You could have consummated, you fucking princess. You could have just sucked it up and did the deed. Did you never think that once you gave in and fucked someone, that it would tip you over the edge? That you would no longer be repelled?”

Grace hadn’t thought that. Not once. Why didn’t she? “Would it have?”

Nordil shrugged. “Who the fuck knows? But it would have been worth a try.”

“You’re just mad because the prophecy is coming true and you don’t want to lose power to your son.”

“You’re living up to your birthright, bitch! Enough of this useless chatter. I’m going to chain you up. Hawes’ will look for you, he’ll come here and then I’ll chain him too. Until the Hunter’s Blood Moon is past.”

“How will you chain me, dog?”

He snarled viciously, his incisors dripping with saliva. Then he barked, loud and deafening and Grace covered her ears with her hands. Two men, demons, appeared and bowed down to Nordil. “Take the human and chain her by the neck. She’s insolent, so it’s okay if you drop her a few times.”

“You’re a fucking prick!” Grace screamed at Nordil as they each grabbed an arm and dragged her to a wall. They did drop her, twice, mostly because she was kicking and thrashing around. Stupid demons couldn’t seem to get a good grip on her. Maybe she was too corporeal for them. One held her down while the other forced the steel jaws of the collar around her neck. To this he added a four-foot chain that was shackled to a welded panel in the floor. Grace had no choice but to sit. The collar was heavy and bit into her neck if she made sudden movements. They left. Grace cried. Nordil smiled as he padded over to her.

“Do you feel like a dog, Grace?”

“I feel like stabbing you in the ear with an icepick.”

Nordil roared his laughter. “You would be hard-pressed to find ice in this hell-hole.” Then his hackles went up and he stilled. “Someone’s here.”

“That didn’t take long.” Grace said as Hawes stepped into the room. Even in the underworld he was stunning. She felt her body respond, her nipples harden, her pussy grow wet. Fucking Hunter’s Blood Moon.

“Mel is dead,” Hawes said flatly.

Grace jerked at the news then cried out as the collar chafed her neck. “You didn’t have to kill her, Hawes! I could have kept her as a pet.”

He barely spared his father a glance as he crossed the floor and crouched down in front of Grace, testing the strength of the chain. “I did have to kill her, Grace. She fucked with you.”

Grace shivered, but it wasn’t of dread, it was of anticipation, desire. She could smell Hawes, his sweat, his musk, his wolf. It was making her horny in a way she’d never been before. Where had her fear of him gone? Where had her kindness, her empathy disappeared to? A woman was dead and all she could think of was fucking this animal. She smiled at him lasciviously, “Why am I not afraid of you?”

Hawes stood up and turned to Nordil, his glare raking the dog. “Let her loose, father.”

Nordil whined and dropped to his belly on the stone floor. He drew his paws over his nose and rubbed at it. Grace thought he was seconds away from showing Hawes his belly. She knew she sure was.

“There will be no second chances!” Hawes thundered. “Unleash her now or I will have you killed as soon as I’m King!”

“Do you think so? Do you think there’s time to get her back to the earth realm?” Nordil may have appeared passive, but his words belied his pose.

Hawes stalked up to his father and grabbed him by the scruff, yanking him up off the floor. “What makes you think I can’t fuck her here? The Hunter’s Blood Moon is the Hunter’s Blood Moon in every realm.”

He released Nordil and stalked towards Grace, intent in his eyes.

“Uh, no.” Grace said as she shifted closer to the wall. “Not in front of your dad. And also, this collar will make it impossible. It might break my neck, especially if things get too rowdy.”

Hawes stopped, stared down at her, undecided. Then turned to his father. “Unleash her now!” he roared.

Nordil whimpered and tucked his tail between his legs as he backed away from the fury that was his son. But he stayed his ground. “I will not, Hawes. You are ill-prepared for the consequences.”

Hawes stalked up to the dog. “I will kill you, old man.”

Grace groaned, her nipples harder than they’d ever been, throbbing painfully. Her pussy, hot, wet, aching. He could fuck her here. She didn’t care if he broke her neck. She needed release. “Hawes,” she cried. “Help me!”

“Look away, Grace,” he said, but she didn’t. He shifted to his wolf. It was a ripple of air or time or dimension or something. One minute a man and then a shedding of the skin starting from the head down through to the feet. A peeling of the outer to reveal the inner. It was magical, awe-inspiring and unbelievably fucking hot! If she could have, Grace would have come in her panties.

Hawes was magnificent in his wolf form. A grey wolf, with patches of white, standing on his feet, claws and canines extended. Power rippling through him. He turned to Nordil and swiped at him with his paw. Nordil’s body sailed across the room and smashed into the solid stone wall. But to his credit, he jumped to his feet and launched himself at Hawes taking him down to the floor. There was nothing but loud growls, barks and tufts of fur flying. Punches, scratches, bites. Grace groaned as she watched, her body undulating with the tempo of the fight. So fucking hot, so motherfucking erotic. Then Hawes threw Nordil at the wall again, this time with all his power. Nordil bounced off the wall and landed with a thud on the floor. He lay there unmoving.

Hawes swung towards Grace, his wolf still stimulated, his hackles still up. He padded to her and wrapped his powerful jaws around the collar, prying it from Grace’s neck. His fangs grazed her neck, puncturing it and the pain seared straight through to her pussy. She moaned. “I don’t think I can take much more of this, Hawes. Why didn’t you just take the fucking collar off me in the first place.?”

He pulled her into his arms and stood up, cradling her body close to his furry chest. Tenderly, almost as if he cared about her as a woman, not just as his mate.

“I couldn’t have done it while Nordil was sentient. Even in wolf form. He’s too powerful.”

“So he’s dead?” Grace whispered as she stroked his wolf’s chest, tweaking a nipple.

He bucked under her pinch. “He’s not. I can’t kill him. It’s irrelevant. We’ve got to get to our dimension before the Hunter’s Blood Moon wanes.” He started running, bouncing Grace in his arms, not gentle, but she was getting used to being ill-used.

“Doesn’t that happen tomorrow?” she said, her fingers tangled into his fur to keep herself from slipping.

“It is tomorrow. Time gets skewed between dimensions. We have an hour to consummate or the window will close and we’ll have to wait a year.”

Grace groaned as desire rippled through her. “I don’t think I can wait a year, Hawes. It’s okay if we do it here.”

“It’s not,” he growled. “I don’t want our child conceived in this hellish realm. “I want his first moment of life to take place in the open, under the moon.”

Grace thought that beautiful, so said nothing. Just clung and tried not to moan loudly. The path they were on spiralled upward and he climbed through dark clouds and mist until he came to a fork, at which point he turned left. Then they were in a cave, Hawes still running, then stumbling out, the forest closing around them, the mouth of the cave disappearing. He ran to a clearing and threw Grace to the ground, ripping off her clothes. She leaned up on her elbows and stared at him, her yearning for him overwhelming him. “Please tell me you’re not going to fuck me in your wolf form.” Although if he said yes, she would have likely come there and then.

“No,” he said as he leaned over her, his muzzle close to her neck. Then the air rippled and Hawes in human form was bending over her, his mouth dropping on hers, sucking the breath from her. His kiss searing her down to her toes.

“Oh my fucking god, Hawes! I need you inside me now!”

Hawes’ erection was solid against her leg and she opened her legs to him, urging him to enter her. He bit her neck as he fisted her hair, then pulled her head back so he could stare into her eyes. “Do you understand that this will hurt. The spilling of first blood should not be savage like this. You should have time to recover after I’ve entered you.”

Grace bucked her body. “It’s a fleeting pain from what I’ve read. It’s not a big deal.”

Hawes shook his head. “This is different. It’s different for wolves and will be different for you as my Alpha mate.”

Grace couldn’t stand it. “Do it, Hawes!”

And so he did. He entered swiftly, savagely and he was right. The pain tore through her, wild, ferocious, searing. She screamed. And he stilled, fully inside her, watching her face as tears flowed from her eyes. Her pussy throbbed around his cock, the pain ebbing and flowing. “Why won’t it stop?” she asked tearfully.

“It will. Once I’ve come. My seed will bathe your walls and fortify them. You will never have this pain again.” He was breathless, impatient. His cock seemed to grow bigger inside her aching cunt as he loomed over her.

“Just do it, then,” she moaned.

But he didn’t. He pulled out of her and the pain diminished, replaced again by unrelenting desire that grew in leagues as Hawes dropped his head between her thighs and his tongue between her folds, kissing, licking, nibbling. Bringing her high back, a painful awareness of how pent up she was, how high she was. His touch was electric, overriding her senses. His fingers roved over her as his mouth pleasured her. She was so close. “Please, Hawes,” she moaned.

“You will come with me. It will ensure the seed is planted.” He flipped her on her belly and brought her to her knees. Then he entered again, as swift as the first time, and this time he didn’t stop to let her adjust to his size, to the pain. He thrust hard, slamming into her, his fingers on her cunt, strumming her clit. Her passion was winning over the pain and he was taking her higher, every moment of her life wrapping itself around her ascent. The kisses from boys that never went anywhere, her frustration when she couldn’t masturbate herself to orgasm. The women she’d kissed. Those moments where her eyes raked a handsome man, her belly twisted in desire, but his touch repelled her.

It exploded inside her wiping out the pain, wiping out the death of Eric, wiping out the last two days. She was rippling with the force, her pussy tightening around his engorged cock, then him coming, howling, his seed bathing her womb, her walls. But it didn’t stop the yearning. For a moment she was sated and then it welled up in her again. “Again Hawes,” she cried out. “Fuck me again.”

He flipped her on her back and kissed her voraciously, his tongue in her mouth, claiming hers, sucking, biting, his body dropping to her breasts, devouring them, taking each one in his mouth, sucking until it hurt and then beyond the pain to nirvana. Touching her, scratching her, biting her, bending her to his will. Entering her, fucking her, bringing her up with him, hurtling her over the edge. Again and again.

Him on his knees, his cock in her mouth, his fingers wrapped in her hair, holding her head, forcing himself to the edge of her throat and she, taking him in until she could stand it no more, then struggling away from him and impaling herself on his cock, riding him, his hands on her ass, denting her skin, his strong stomach keeping him off the ground as she thrust on top of him. Her back arched, her breasts jutting up towards the moonlight, a gift for the goddess. Both coming, neither sated. Until finally, as the Hunter’s Blood Moon waned, as Grace came one last time, her uncontrollable desire faded too. She fell against Hawes, her body splayed over him, her arms wrapped tightly around his chest and she slept like Snow White.

Chapter 9

When she woke, the sun was high in the sky. She should have been chilled through, but her body was still heated, its core a radiator. She glanced around looking for Hawes, but she couldn’t see him. She was alone and she shivered at the realization. Had this been a nightmare? Had she dreamed the death of her professor, her trip to the underworld, her wild unfettered lust for a werewolf?

Her eyes grazed her body. No, this was not dream, whether she willed it to be or not. Blood mingled with semen on her legs, still sticky to her touch. Dried cum on her belly. Pain in her muscles, ones unused for fucking, between her thighs, the cheeks of her ass. Hands and knees scraped, her jaw aching from sucking him, her lips tender from his savage kisses. And the fear. The fear that was gone last night, welled up in her again. The Hunter’s Blood Moon was an aphrodisiac. It gave her strength, it made her great. Without it, she was… well… she was just Grace.

Except, even through the fear, the desire for Hawes still simmered. It was no longer overwhelming her. Her mind was back, teasing her pussy as she remembered Hawes’ body, his caresses, his maleness. She wondered if she could bring herself to orgasm now, ran her fingers through her folds, her sensitive clit shrinking from her touch. How many times did she come last night? How many glorious, dizzying times did she fall off that cliff? All her frustration, pent-up desire overflowed each time she orgasmed. It was maddening just thinking about it.

She looked up at the sky to reassure herself that it was daylight, that the Hunter’s Blood Moon was gone. That she was normal again. Maybe not quite her old self, but in control. The silence intruded on her thoughts and her eyes searched for Hawes. Where the fuck was he? She didn’t even know where she was. She struggled to her knees, every muscle in her legs protesting. She let the pain course through her, then ebb. Slowly, she stood, letting a wave of dizziness pass, making sure she was solid before taking a few faltering steps. “Fuck,” she said aloud. It seemed appropriate.

“Hawes,” she shouted into the trees. “Hawes, where are you?” She didn’t know what to do. Walk back? To where? She was disoriented, lost. And naked. The warmth she had when lying on the ground was rapidly dissipating. It was October, it was cold and she thought she was going to become hypothermic again. Then Hawes walked into the small clearing, dressed now, in jeans and warm jacket, leather boots on his feet.

“Where were you?” Tears seeped from her. “I thought you left me.”

Hawes’ eyes narrowed. Whatever happened between them last night, whatever desire they shared, had ebbed for him too. Last night he was her lover, careful and caring for her even through his dominance. Today he was a stranger. “I went to the cabin to get you a fur.” He held it out to her and she snatched it from him, wrapping herself in it. He approached her, gripped her bicep as he sniffed her. He grinned as he stepped back. “You have been well and truly fucked, mate.”

She didn’t smile. “As have you, mate,” she snapped. “And it’s over, right? We’re mated. We can stop all the bullshit?”

“It’s just started, Grace.” He brought his face to hers and mashed his lips to hers, sending a cascade of shivers through her. “Do you want me again?”

“No,” Grace said. But her breathing, her heart, her desire betrayed her. He told her as much as he pulled his hard cock from his trousers and fucked her upright against a tree. Hard, relentless until she came, screaming his name.

Chapter 10

Grace was pregnant. Hawes told her that morning after the Hunter’s Blood Moon. After he fucked her senseless again. Mersin and Cordea confirmed it. It would be a human pregnancy, a 9-month cycle. The baby would be a boy, born sometime late July. The village celebrated their Alpha’s mating, treated Grace like the queen they thought she was. They bowed down to her, brought her gifts, made preparations for the baby, the saviour that would arrive in the summer.

Hawes was back to being Hawes. Cold, demanding, Alpha. He fucked her when he wanted her, which was almost all the time. When she wasn’t near him, she hated him, but when he touched her, she was his to claim however he wished. And he did. Relentlessly. And she welcomed him each time, opened her thighs like a whore. Each time they fucked, she came like it was the first time, a lifetime of unreleased passion spilled out of her, controlling her, owning her. Like Hawes did. It was impossible and unsustainable because it made her insecure and needy.

October turned to November and the snow fell hard. Hawes, as ruler now of his kind both above and below, wielded his power with authority. Both were his to command. Nordil was locked up, not killed as Hawes had promised. It was much better that he live out his eternity chained like a dog, in the bedroom that once belonged to him. Despite her objections, Hawes forced Grace to accompany him to his underworld kingdom. Fucked her in front of Nordil, paraded her around, assigned her hellhound guards both in the underworld and above. She was precious to him. Or rather, her cargo was. She wondered what would happen when the child was born.

Her senses were sharper now. Cordea worked with her to channel the wolf in her. Taught her how to control it so it didn’t overwhelm her. It was intense to be able to smell odors, trails that were days, weeks, even months old. Her hearing was sharper, her sight clearer and she was physically stronger. No match for Hawes, but at least she had stamina.

One day, after they’d fucked and he pulled himself from her, she rolled to her back and stared at him, her eyes lingering on his handsome face, so perfect. “This house is too small for the three of us.”

He stood, his cock half-erect, still breath-taking as her eyes stroked it. She felt her heat grow. She didn’t know if it was the baby in her womb or if her feelings for him were changing, but these days he just needed to enter a room and she was wet and panting.

“The village will build us a new one, in the spring. In the village, where you and the boy will be well-protected.

She sat up, curling her legs under her, her ass resting on her calves, and watched him as paced. Like he was waiting. For the child, she guessed. He had a long wait. She needed reassurance.

“Do you love me?” she asked.

“Do you love me?”

“Yes.” She lied. And then she stopped. Did she love him? Maybe, but there were days she also hated him. “Do you love me?” she insisted.

He sighed, “You’re my mate, Grace. It could not be otherwise.”

She wasn’t satisfied with his answer. It didn’t reassure her. “Are you faithful?”

He stopped his pacing and gazed at her. Conjecture in his eyes. Then he came to her and sat down beside her, raked a nail across her cheek, down her jaw, past her neck until he reached her breast. He rubbed her nipple, then pinched it sending a spasm of pain, then lust through her.

“I want only you, mate. I think of only you. When my cock grows hard, it’s because of you. I need no other.”

Was that a yes? Grace wondered. But his hand had moved from her breast, over her belly, pushing her thighs open, fingers sliding through her folds, touching her intimately. He pushed her onto the bed and brushed his lips across hers, sending a cascade of fire down her spine. Then he fucked her and she let him. How could it be otherwise?

Chapter 11

Christmas came and went without notice or celebration. The villagers’ God was not yet born. July would be their season for celebration. In January, the days grew dark, the nights longer. The winter blew in with a force burying the village in snow. People kept to their homes, hunkered down. Waited for spring. As the new year passed, the baby grew bigger, Grace’s belly expanding. Hawes now left her at home on his trips to the underworld. She was grateful at his absence. A respite from his insatiable appetite.

In March, she sat before a flickering fire, wistful, thoughtful. Wondering if anyone in her world before the nightmare that was Hawes, missed her, questioned her absence. Was Eric’s body ever found? Her heart twisted when she though of her professor. Tall, handsome, dimples when he smiled, which was often. He was never going to be her one and only. She knew that before she left on this trip. But he had sparked her interest, made her hopeful.

Tears slipped from her eyes as she folded her hands across her belly. What would he say about this prophecy? He would logically refute it, but would he believe if he’d witnessed her behaviour during the Hunter’s Blood Moon? Would he have embraced the truth after being dragged to the underworld and held there? And what was the truth anyway? That her womb held a God? No, not a God, a demon. A mixed breed of three different races – what would that produce? What if he inherited her latent wolf gene? Mersin said no, that would not happen, biologically could not happen. And Cordea, all-knowing seer, also denied this possibility. This boy, her boy, would grow and be great. He would be strong like his father in both mind and physicality.

Grace dreaded this, knew it was wrong. This boy would rule three worlds – and if he was like Hawes, the human race, her race, would suffer. The baby kicked out at her as if he knew her thoughts. She rubbed her belly gently, a lullaby for an innocent. He wouldn’t stay innocent though, not under the tutelage of Hawes. The child would grow up hard, difficult. Authoritative, impatient. Who would his mate be? Human, werewolf, demon? Or one like her, a mixed-race? Would the child’s seed produce another God? Would there be many Gods, with their frailties and faults? Incestuous, tumultuous, fighting among themselves, Bacchian. How would it impact their worshippers, their people, their flocks? Would they destroy the world with their need for power, their petty betrayals and jealousies?

She’d thought this often as the winter wore on. Little by little, she realized that this God could not be. This God need not be. She could hide him from the world, keep him from knowing his heritage, keep him from claiming his thrones. It was time, Grace thought as she struggled to her feet. The child inside her, six months now, was growing fast, her time was growing near. She had to act.

She reached for her fur coat and wrapped it around her, her feet encased in flat leather boots laced above her calves, just under her knees. Her hounds were outside, one on each side of the door. They hated it here – they were hellhounds. They belonged in the warmth of the underworld.

“I need you to fetch Hawes,” she said to them as she stood in the doorway. “I’m unwell. The birth might be too soon.”

“We can’t leave you, my Grace,” Epitah said. He was her favourite of the pair. Articulate, smart. If he had fingers, he could play chess with her. He called her ‘my Grace’, always. Not understanding that Grace was her name, not her title. Or maybe he did. The other, Odigar, rarely spoke, but was solicitous nonetheless. She hated lying to them. When Hawes learned of her deception he would surely destroy these two for falling for it. It was Machiavellian of her, but three worlds were at stake and so a few must die to save many.

“If you don’t fetch Hawes and I die or this child dies, Hawes will surely kill you.”

“I could get Cordea or Mersin.” Epitah offered.

Grace shook her head. “They’re old and the cold is making their bones brittle. Neither will be of much use if I go into labour. And do you not think that Hawes will wish to be here for the birth of his child?” She held her hand to her stomach and let out a groan, as if a pain had struck her.

Both hounds backed away from her, tails between their legs.

“If we leave –” Epitah argued, but Grace shushed him.

“You are here to guard my well-being. There are no threats to me except this imminent birth.”

Odigar nodded. He understood. “We need to get Master Hawes.” He nudged Epitah, then turned and bounded away. Epitah threw her a last look of concern, confusion, perhaps suspicion. But he followed the path Odigar had forged.

Once Grace was sure they were gone, she stepped outside and closed the door firmly behind her. She didn’t look back as she plunged into the forest. There was no nostalgia, nothing she would miss. Her body would miss Hawes, but that would pass. She’d find a new lover. She made her way easily through the trees, her feet deft and sure on the snow-packed earth.

She’d learned the forest since the Hunter’s Blood Moon. On the pretence of walking to keep her strong, she and her two guards walked often, almost daily. On one of their walks, they found the clearing where her would-be rapists had died. Nothing left of them but a few bones. Scavenged, eaten. What they deserved, she thought bitterly. But there were still tangible signs, the skull from one of them, dried blood on the tree that had impaled another. Her guards recognized the death of humans. Epitah said as much.

She stood there now. This had been as far as she’d wandered with the hounds. She didn’t want them to know about Eric or the camp. So now, in late March, she had to gather her bearings, try to retrace her steps. If the camp was still there, then she could flee in Eric’s SUV. As long the keys were still where Eric left them. As long as it started.

It took hours to find the camp, even with her heightened senses, because the traitorous snow obscured the trail. She was frantic when she finally stumbled upon it. The hellhounds would have talked to Hawes by now. He would know she was gone. He would follow her trail and find her. Panic was making her clumsy and stupid. She had to move quickly.

Like the bikers’ remains, Eric’s body was nothing but a pile of bone and bits of fabric. She choked on a sob, swallowed it. Crying could come later. The camp was as it was in October, untouched. The SUV parked off to the side. A tent – just one, caved in on itself now, but the keys would be there. She remembered Eric telling her that he put them in the pocket of the tent. Told her not to forget or they’d be stuck here forever. She’d laughed and felt a ripple of satisfaction when he said, “That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?”

Her heart thudded in her chest as she crawled into the tent. She was so close now. So close to freedom. The keys were still in the pocket, freezing her fingers as she grabbed them. The SUV unlocked. Why not? Who was there to steal from them in this isolated wilderness. She slid into the seat and her trembling fingers fumbled the key into the ignition. Nothing happened when she turned the key. The battery was dead. She tried several times, her stomach dropping to her toes. The baby kicked.

That was it then. Two plans, the first failed. The second one could not. She touched her hand to her womb and whispered softly. “I’m sorry, child.” She slid out of the SUV and trudged away. Not in the direction from which she came, but west, uphill. Towards the setting sun. There was little time now and she started running as fast as her girth would allow. She knew where she was going, what she needed to do. And her hearing, sharpened now, picked up the sounds of pursuit. Hawes would be on her in minutes. But she was close. She could make it.

Then she was there, the trees opening up for her, a clearing and a cliff. She approached the edge at a dead run and then stopped and turned around as Hawes burst into the clearing. In wolf form. He stopped too, his eyes shocked as he saw her teetering on the ledge. “What are you doing, Grace?” Heat and ice stoked his voice – anger and fear. He was in a crouch, his body taut, ready to leap.

“We can’t allow this to happen, Hawes. I can’t let this happen. It’s wrong to make a God.” She stepped closer to the edge, loose rocks and dirt crumbling under her feet. She swayed. Hawes leapt and wrapped his arms around her, but it was too late. They were falling.

* * *

They landed hard, 20 feet below, on a solid bed of rock. But Hawes cushioned Grace in his arms, his wolf absorbing most of the impact. They lay stunned as Hawes shifted to human form grateful to be alive, grateful they were both alive. In that moment he forgot about the child in her womb. The boy was secondary to Grace’s life. In that moment of almost losing his mate, he knew love and understood Grace’s fear of the future.

Epilogue

The child played near the hearth. It was a cool night. October, the night of the Hunter’s Moon. His toy was a train, which he ran along the carpet. He made soft little choo-choo noises as he played. Hawes watched from the couch, his lips curving indulgently. Each time he laid eyes on the miracle in front of him, his heart swelled. The boy was like his mother, had her beauty, had her softness and had… well… had her grace.

To think he almost lost them both four years ago. What would his life be without Grace, without this child? She came close to death the night she leapt from the cliff, from the premature labour, from loss of blood. Cordea and Mersin saved her and the child. She fought to live and he was glad for it. He never left her side, and when she opened her eyes, he cried. It was the first time his tears fell, and they seemed foreign and awkward, but he couldn’t hold them back, his heart was so full.

He handed her the baby, so small and fragile and she held him in her arms, cradled him to her breast. Hawes watched as her eyes softened then moistened. Her hands trembled as she tugged at the little fingers that curled into fists. She kissed the child’s head, then looked to Hawes. “He’s beautiful,” she whispered, then the tears fell. He held her while she sobbed, held them both, his strong arms circling them, infusing his strength into them. His family, his world.

The child rallied quickly. He had the blood of the wolf and hellhound in him. The boy’s growth and good health gave Grace the strength she needed to gain her own recovery, but the difficult birth rendered her unable to conceive again. Despite Hawes’ love, his forgiveness, she couldn’t let go of what she almost did, what she could no longer give him. It showed in everything she did and said, to Hawes, to the boy. Every day was a challenge for her, to be better than the day before. To be a better mate, a mother, a lover.

He moved them out of the forest, into the city, for the sake of them all. He freed Nordil to rule the underworld in his absence, recruited Edon, the wolf he almost killed that first day, to lead his pack. His obligation was to his family, to his son. He carried the unbearable weight of responsibility to raise the boy well, ensure he grew into a good man so that when he stepped into the role as leader of the three realms, he would rule benevolently.

Grace came into the living room then, carrying cocoa and crackers, placing them on the coffee table, then curling up in Hawes’ arms. He pulled her to him, kissing the top of her head and licking the shell of her ear, a promise of what was to be after the boy was asleep. She giggled and tucked her body into his embrace. Enough to make him rigid, enough to make her wet. He could smell her readiness and had to restrain himself from fondling her.

“Little one,” Grace called softly.

The boy looked up at his mother, his dark eyes studying her. “Time for bed?” he asked as if he knew the intent of his parents.

“Not quite. Come have a drink of cocoa and a cracker.”

He walked over to his parents, climbed onto his mother’s lap and wrapped his arms around her waist, clinging to her. “I love you, mama,” His eyes stroked her face and she hugged him to her as Hawes squeezed them both.

Then they separated, the boy kneeling on the carpet so he could sip at his drink. “Tell me again how I was born?”

Hawes lips tugged downward. The child never tired of the story and each retelling made Grace weep. The boy always listened intently, his eyes glued to his father’s face as Hawes told him of the day his mother and father fell off a cliff to the rocks below. How Hawes cushioned Grace’s body to save her life. How the fall had caused premature labour and the child was born three months too soon. It was a blessing,” Hawes always finished the telling of it. “To have you in my arms and my heart earlier than I expected.”

The boy listened closely, his sharp intelligent eyes roaming between his mother and father as Hawes spoke. He took a last drink of his chocolate and crawled up into his father’s lap. “Papa, I have this dream about my birth. Someone trying to kill me.”

Hawes stared down at him. The child, the boy, the product of the prophecy. What should he tell him? What did he need to know? That his mother threw herself over a cliff with the intentions of killing herself and the boy. That Hawes saved her life even as she begged him to end it. That she was distraught when she woke, horrified at what she almost did and Hawes forgave her because she gave him something he had not known before. She gave him love.

Finally, he said, “Fate kept you safe and alive, in the care and love of your parents.”

The boy narrowed his eyes. “Why?” His voice was like Hawes’, strong, emphatic, challenging.

“Because that’s what fate does.”

The boy stilled for a minute, his eyes clouding as he thought. Then he smiled at his father, love, adoration, reverence. “So fate is my friend and protects me from those who lie to me, those who try to kill me.”

Hawes smiled back as he ran a soft hand down the child’s round cheek. “And me, son. I would kill anyone who tries to harm you.”

The boy nodded, extracted himself from Hawes’ arms and walked back to the hearth, sitting beside his train, holding it in his hands. “Then why does she still live?” he asked softly, so softly.

The End

Also by Jasmin Quinn

Other books by Jasmin Quinn (Available on Amazon)

Running With the Devil Series

The Darkest Hour (Book 1)

Secrets inside Her (Book 2)

Black Surrender (Book 3)

Without Mercy (Book 4)

Hard Lessons (Book 5) (Release Date: October 25, 2018)

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Masked

Copyright © N. Heinz, 2018

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Authorized for use in The Horror of Our Love Anthology, 2018

Playlist

Sinking Inside Yourself, Hammock

It's Ok, You're Ok, Bonjr

A White Demon Love Song, The Killers

Nothing Compares 2 U, Sinéad O'Connor

Creepy old Music box, When Memories Break

Sh Boom Life Could Be A Dream, The Coasters

Acknowledments

Masked is loosely based on The Phantom of the Opera with a mixture of 90’s horror movies, and more than a few references to pop-cultural themes.

Thank you to my fellow authors who participated in this project: Dee, Bonny, Nikita, and Jas! We had such a fun time dreaming up our stories and laughing along the way. It’s been an honor to work with you all!

Thank you to my readers, your support means everything! I love each and every one of you!

Thank you to my family and everyone who has encouraged me along the way!

“Man is not what he thinks he is, he is what he hides.”

― André Malraux

Great Basin College, Nevada

September 4th, 1990

“Ms. Vale, is it?” a rough voice asks as I try to take my seat without notice.

Life can be a dream, sweetheart.

My first day of college and I’m late, that silly song playing in my head again. “Yes, sorry, professor…” I trail off as I’m met with the most piercing blue eyes I’ve ever seen.

Hello, hello again.

Lost for words, all I can do is stare at the man before me. Black hair hangs just before his shoulders like obsidian silk. But it’s those eyes that transfix me, haunt me even, right where I stand. And then, lastly, when he turns I notice the oddest thing…half of his face is covered in a black mask. He picks up on the moment, a slight snarl forming around his teeth. “You may call me…” he stops, and I don’t miss how his fist tightens in anger. “I’m Mr. Winchester, now, please take your seat.” His eyes flash to the window. “Today we’ll be discussing human behavior, take out your notebooks.”

Unzipping my bag, I attempt to pull out a notebook and pen, but before that can happen my elbow knocks my plastic cup of coffee over. The tan liquid bleeds into the white linoleum floor, and I rush to stand up.

Mr. Winchester has already crossed the room, causing me to jump in surprise. “Shall I add clumsiness along with tardiness to your dizzying attributes, Ms. Vale?” He hands me a few napkins, his thumb lingering on the pulse at my wrist.

A chill runs down my spine at his boldness. “Thank you, sir,” I apologize shakily. “I’m sorry, it was an accident.”

“Accidents are always unfortunate,” he says darkly, leaning in. “What do you think, Ms. Vale?”

There’s an odd glint in his eyes, and his true meaning isn’t lost on me. “No, and to think that way is a bit cynical if you ask me,” I fire back, suddenly feeling hostile. I mean, who is he to make that kind of judgement on a person he’s just met? It’s obvious he’s used to people judging him along with whatever might be hidden under that mask.

His lip curls in apparent displeasure. “Clean up this mess,” he orders, briskly walking away and back to his desk.

Even if he is a mega asshole; I can’t help but admire his beautiful, mysterious face.

A thing of dark beauty.

After cleaning the stickiness off the floor, I finally take my seat. It’s then that I realize I’ve garnered some interest and more than a few stares. Instead of letting it bother me, I assume my initial task and pull out a notebook. I’ve been waiting too long to get into this college to let something like this break my spirit.

“Hey, I’m Jesse,” the guy beside me whispers, and I immediately notice his black flannel and hazel eyes. “What’s your name?”

“Hannah,” I whisper back, biting my lip in nervousness.

He smirks. “Nice to meet you, Hannah Vale.”

“This isn’t tea time, Ms. Vale,” Mr. Winchester snaps from his desk. “Be quiet or get out.” His eyes are even bluer when he’s pissed.

“Sorry, Mr. Winchester,” Jesse mumbles under his breath, sitting back in his chair. “It’s my fault.”

Feeling somewhat embarrassed at being called out for a second time on my first day, I remain silent. Gazing down at my notebook, I feel my face heat to scorching levels. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my pen and prepare to take notes, but when I glance up Mr. Winchester is staring directly into my eyes.

What did I do to make him so mad?

The fire in his eyes is intimidating yet baseless. Being late is one thing, but it shouldn’t warrant this kind of reaction. Maybe tardiness really, really ticks him off. I need to remember that for the future, so I can avoid this kind of altercation. I came to this school to learn, after all, not to squabble with my teacher.

“Attention staff and students,” a nasally female voice says over the intercom, startling the classroom. “There’s a tornado warning in effect until five this evening, all classes are canceled for the rest of the day.” The intercom pops and then crackles.

There’s an audible sigh and then groan throughout the classroom. “Well, looks like you’re getting off easy today,” Mr. Winchester sighs, shuffling his papers before standing. “Class dismissed.”

The sky had looked rather gloomy this morning as I’d rushed from my dormitory to get a cup of coffee. Hopefully, this is nothing more than a precaution. Either way, this day isn’t shaping up the way I’d hoped.

“Crazy, huh?” Jesse, the guy sitting next to me, asks. “So much for our first day of college, right?”

I stand, gathering my belongings. “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply, a tendril of my own brown hair blocking my view as I pick up my bag.

“So, ah, you want to maybe go out and get some coffee sometime?” he asks sheepishly, tucking a hand in his jean pocket.

I stare into his eyes for a beat, gauging how to let him down gently. He seems sweet, but that’s not what I’m here for. I need to stay focused on my goals, and he would only be a distraction.

“Ms. Vale, I’d like to speak with you privately,” Mr. Winchester says, saving me from a response. “Now,” he adds, coming to stand in between Jesse and me.

“Okay,” I affirm, looking away from Mr. Winchester and towards Jesse. “See you around.”

Jesse appears flustered but covers it up an instant later. “Yeah, see you later,” he offers, cracking a half-smile.

Once he’s left the room, I turn to Mr. Winchester. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Don’t call me sir,” he demands, his ice-blue eyes flashing cold.

The man obviously has it out for me. “Well, um, what should I call you then?”

“Ethan,” he says softly, contradicting his previous tone. “You may call me Ethan.”

“Listen, err, Ethan,” I tell him, refusing to be intimidated. “I think we got off on the wrong foot, and I apologize for being late my first day. There’s really no excuse.” I smile pleasantly.

His eyes focus and follow my lips. “What is your excuse, Ms. Vale? I’m dying to know.”

I swallow, not really wanting to tell him the truth. “I’m not from around here,” I reveal with a sigh. “Actually, I’m just getting settled in. I guess, you could say, my excuse is an ordinary one…lack of sleep. Mixed in with some nervousness, and well, there you have it.”

He smiles for the first time. “Predictable,” he agrees, stalking closer. “And where are you from, Ms. Vale?”

“You can call me Hannah,” I tell him, deciding that I don’t quite like how my last name rolls off his tongue. “You know, since I’m calling you by your first name and all.”

“Where are you from, Hannah?” he asks again, a slight edge in his tone.

A bizarre yet appealing edge.

“Black Mountain,” I reveal, wondering at his intense curiosity. “It’s a little town In North Carolina, not much goes on there.”

His black hair gleams as he stands directly under the ceiling lamp, mere inches from being in my personal space. “I wouldn’t have guessed that, Hannah,” he whispers softly. “Your accent is almost undetectable.”

Why is he whispering?

“Really?” I ask, taking a step back. “I guess, I never noticed.”

He takes up the space I just retreated. “I notice everything, Hannah Vale.” The way he says my name sets off an alarm inside my brain.

There’s something oddly fascinating about Ethan Winchester.

And also something… lethally dangerous.

October, 17th

There’ve been two murders since school started last month, and at this point I can hardly sleep at night. And not your everyday murders either, but bloody, grisly murders that will be remembered forever. At least in my mind. On top of that, the news is freaking everyone out, literally, and now a curfew has been issued throughout town.

Lately I find myself walking around on eggshells, spooked by my own shadow.

Just the other day, I thought someone was stalking me. The sensation of being followed accompanied by an eerie whispering almost had me walking smack dab into a light pole, and it hadn’t even been night time.

There have been ravens flying about my window at night, scratching at the glass. I can still hear them…

Caw, caw!

“Hannah!” a male voice calls, and I turn to see its Jesse from Psychology class. “Hey, are you okay?” he pants, slightly winded as he catches up to me.

Classes are over for the day, but there are still a healthy number of students milling about the courtyard. “Hey, yeah, I’m fine,” I answer automatically, taking in the scent of his cologne. “Why, what’s up?”

He scratches the back of his head, seeming unsure. “Well, I called your name several times, but you never even acknowledged me,” he answers, knocking a strand of dark auburn hair from his forehead. “It’s like you were in a daze or something.”

“Oh, wow,” I laugh, squinting my eyes against the sun. “I must’ve been in my own head again, sorry about that.”

“So, I’m assuming you heard about Edward Turner,” he says softly, a hint of sadness in his tone.

Just his name alone is enough to send chills up my spine. “Yes, I heard,” I answer quietly, looking away and towards a row of green bushes. “I just met him a week ago, and now, just like that, he’s gone.” I try to keep my voice even.

“I can still picture everyone running out of Mr. Taylor’s class screaming,” he murmurs, clearly shaken by the memory. “I had no idea people were capable of something so sick.”

He doesn’t need to say anything else. The news of finding Edward’s decapitated head on his desk had spread like wildfire. “How are you holding up, Jesse?” I ask, realizing that he’s more than a little shaken.

He swallows, gazing into my eyes, and it’s hard to miss the fear there. “It’s just,” he pauses, shoving his hands in his pockets. “Two murders in such a short period of time, it’s crazy.”

“I know,” I agree.

“My uncle was really good friends with Jared Shaw, too.”

The librarian, God, how could I forget. He was the first murder.

I’d also met him a short while before he was killed. In fact, I still recall walking into the library that day to escape the rain.

Slightly damp and out of breath, I dried my feet off before entering the Elko Library.

“Welcome, may I help you find something?”

I turned in the direction of the soft spoken yet distinctly male voice. “No, thank you,” I answered, making eye contact with a very handsome man. “I’m just trying to catch a break from the rain, really.”

“Ah, yes, I see,” the man chuckled, placing a cup of something steaming hot down on the front counter. “Would you care for a cup of hot tea?” he asked gently.

“Um…” I glanced up at the wall clock, realizing I had plenty of time. “Sure, thank you, I’d appreciate a cup of something warm. Do you have coffee? I don’t want to be a bother.” I smiled, hoping he couldn’t see straight through my wet, white shirt.

He grinned, but there was something off about it. “It’s no bother at all, dear.”

The front door whooshed open, bringing in a wet breeze. Stacey Walters and Amanda Tracey walked through the door, both equally drenched. I’d met them at school, and they both seemed equally determined to recruit me into their popular circle of friends.

“Hey, Hannah,” Amanda greeted, glancing between me and the librarian. “What are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” I replied, jerking my chin in the direction of the rain splattered window. “Trying to stay dry.”

Stacey sashayed up to the front counter, her blonde curls bouncing with every step. “Good afternoon, Mr. Shaw.”

“I’ll be right back with your coffee, Hannah,” Mr. Shaw intoned with a thin, strained smile.

I didn’t reply but could’ve sworn I saw a shadow pass directly behind him.

“Hannah,” Jesse says urgently, shaking my shoulders with enough force to bring me back to the present. “Hannah, you did it again.”

“I’m sorry,” I apologize, snapping back to reality. “I did it again. It’s just-I was remembering the day I met Mr. Shaw.”

Jesse lets go of my shoulders and leans in to hug me. “It’s understandable,” he whispers into my hair. “Everyone is freaked out right now; it’s natural to be worried.”

Instantly, I want to pull away from his embrace. Not because I dislike Jesse, but rather because I’m not fond of being touched. It’s nothing personal; it’s just that my father kind of screwed me up during my childhood. He always made me feel like I wasn’t good enough, like I was unworthy of anything, including compassion. “Honestly, I’m okay,” I tell him, untangling myself from his arms. “Just a little out of it, right now.”

He says something else but it’s then that I feel another pair of eyes on me, and I know before looking up who those eyes will belong to.

And sure enough, I’m right.

From his classroom window, Ethan Winchester is gazing down at Jesse and me with contempt written all over his handsome, rugged features. Even after that first day, he still has it out for me. There are times; I could swear the man actually hates me. The way he looks at me, its like-

“Want to go to a movie, you know, get our minds off all the craziness?” Jesse asks, turning my attention back to the attractive young man standing in front of me. “You seem like you could use a distraction.” He cracks a small grin, and I can only imagine how his smile must affect regular girls.

I can tell Jesse was popular in high school, probably the bad-boy slash heartthrob.

“Maybe some other time, I need to get going,” I tell him, gazing back up at the window to find Ethan is no longer standing there. “See you around, Jesse.”

He masks his disappointment with a lopsided grin. “No problem, see you tomorrow.”

Tomorrow, yes, maybe tomorrow I can think about what I’m going to do next.

The Same Day

A shiver takes hold, and I almost sneeze as I walk down a leaf sprinkled sidewalk. The smell of wind mixed with bark has me feeling all sorts of lonesome. Although the sun is shining, it frequently goes in and out of hiding behind strands of murky rain clouds.

I can’t bring myself to go back to the dormitory just yet, even though I could probably do with some sleep. The weather is too nice today, albeit a bit chilly. Fall has just started, and I’m pretty sure it’s every woman’s favorite season.

Taking a walk through town seemed like the perfect thing to do, so here I am, walking down First Street. There are a fair number of people out and about, walking like me or getting groceries. Some are even movie-going, despite all the tragedy.

I’m momentarily distracted from the current situation until a news van pulls up across the street, right next to Red Velvet Bakery. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in the past month, it’s that the media are a different breed of people.

Ruthless vultures.

“Excuse me, young lady!”

Oh, shit, and they’ve spotted their next victim. Not today.

“Miss, can we talk to you for just a moment?” A well-dressed woman asks, checking her microphone for sound. “I’m sure you’re aware of the recent murder at Great Basin College, are you a student there?”

I just keep walking, but the persistent lady keeps stride with me even after I turn onto the next street. To make matters even stranger, a raven appears on the sidewalk, keeping pace with her for a few moments before flying off again.

Her voice is shrill, and she won’t stop firing off questions, most of which I can’t answer.

Suddenly she stops. “Aren’t you concerned about your safety?” she asks, her tone deceptively sweet. “Miss, please, answer the question…”

Taking in her perfectly done makeup and pink dress suit, I smile coldly. “Yes, I am. Now can you please leave me alone?” I snap, not caring for her pushiness.

“And there you have it, folks,” she says, whipping face-front to the camera. “The college students of Great Basin are literally in fear for their lives.” She pauses, making a dramatic face. “Mary Ward here, reporting live from Elko, Nevada.”

“Do you enjoy making a profit off other people’s pain?” I ask, angry that I’ve fell into her trap.

“Pain?” she parrots, cocking her hip to the side. “Oh, you young people are so dramatic!”

She stares me down while her crewman begins to walk away, but the camera is suddenly ripped from his hands.

Crack! Crash! Clatter!

“Oh, my God,” I whisper, covering my mouth with my hands as I realize who just threw the camera.

Ethan stands next to the shocked reporter, his striking face half-masked. “You people disgust me,” he says furiously, stalking towards me and seizing me by the arm. “Let’s go.” His eyes are electric blue.

“You think you’re some type of bigshot in this town?” Mary, the reporter yells, angry and panting. “That camera will be paid for, Ethan!”

Seems they know each other but I say nothing, allowing Ethan to drag me away from the bizarre scene.

“Get in,” he orders, practically shoving me inside his parked car. “Now!” he yells when I attempt to pull away.

A few people pause to stare, and the last thing I want is another scene, so against my better judgment, I get in. “What the hell is your problem?” I ask as he gets in and slams the door. “I didn’t need your help back there.”

He grins ferociously. “Oh, trust me, I know you don’t need my help,” he says angrily. “You’re the only woman in town who doesn’t want a piece of me, the freak of Elko.”

What the hell?

“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask, confused by his aggressive behavior.

“Every walking body with a pussy wants to fuck me, be with me,” he reveals sharply, leaning forward in his seat. “But not you…you’re too good for that, aren’t you?” He touches my face gently. “You’re not like the others.”

Is he serious right now, or is this some kind of prank?

I mean obviously he’s hot even with the mask and whatever he’s hiding underneath.

“I think you’re very attractive,” I whisper stupidly, clutching my purse in vain. “I’m just-

“Shhhh,” he soothes, placing his thumb over my lips to silence me. “You’re as untried as a virgin sacrifice, aren’t you?”

“A virgin sacrifice?” I sputter, taken aback. “What the hell…” I reach for the door handle and yank with shaking, sweaty fingers.

Instead of trying to stop me, he laughs manically. “That’s it, run, Hannah, run.”

No one notices as I run past them, or if they do, I can’t tell. My vision is only in front of me, my heart close to exploding. The slightly cold air puffs up and blankets my face in clouds of fear. I don’t know if he’s behind me, but somehow, I think so. And the farther away I run, it’s like he’s already won.

Finally, as I expect, he catches me, tackling me to the dirt with bone crushing force.

Where are we?

He’s breathing heavily on top of me, and I take the opportunity to crane my neck up and glance around. Although winded, I can see the back of a Grocery Store. Sam’s Grocery, the one that’s been abandoned for years, according to Stacey.

I know there have to be people not too far away, so I scream. “Help me, somebody, anybody, please help me!” The words just barely escape, my lungs on fire with fear.

“No one is coming to save you, Hannah,” he taunts, lapping the side of my neck like an animal. “You’re helpless, completely at my mercy.”

How can help be so near and yet so far away?

The sky mocks me as the sun fades away behind traitorous clouds. And the cold ground beneath me only makes this harder, more fucking sad. Just when I think I’ll cry, I don’t. I fight back with a renewed surge of strength.

“Get off me,” I grunt, shoving at his sinewy, muscular chest. “You fucking pervert, get off!”

“I’ve never taken a woman against her will,” he reveals, his leather mask brushing up against my face lovingly. “Until you, Hannah, you’ll be my first and my last.”

One thing’s clear. He’s crazier than I ever imagined.

One moment later

Ethan Winchester is a madman, a raving lunatic. And he proves this further by covering my mouth with his hand and then biting into it, his own flesh. Like some kind of rabid wolf, he rips into his right hook.

Dark, dank blood pools from his skin, dripping into my mouth. Against my will, I swallow, almost gagging. Growling and practically frothing at the mouth, he flips me over onto my stomach like a rag doll, my head spinning from the intensity.

A thought occurs to me in the back of my mind, that his strength is more than normal, almost superhuman.

“Think only of me,” he orders, yanking my hair and head viciously until my backside hits the warmth of his chest. “You’ll only have me, you understand, Hannah?”

My scalp tingles with pain. I can’t nod with how tight he holds my hair in his crazed grip, so I say nothing. Instead, I look up at a sky that seems to welcome and damn me all at the same time. I should be saying a prayer, but all I can think about is how the clouds resemble screaming ghosts and the air smells like rain.

“You understand, I know you do,” he says with a self-assured, deranged tone. “You’re going to do everything I say.” He shimmies and rips my pants down until they’re around my knees. “That’s it; take what I’m going to give you…eternal life.” I almost choke with fear.

His pants whoosh from behind me, the chilled air causing goosebumps up and down my arms and legs.

Oh my God, this is it. I’m going to lose my virginity to a complete psychopath.

But then, there’s a voice that saves me. A voice coming from not too far away and they’re saying something. Breathing, heavy breathing and biting. Wait, maybe there isn’t a voice, and I’m just imagining things.

“Hannah!” the voice calls, sounding distant and stretched. “Hannah!”

“Fuck,” Ethan curses, quickly pulling me upright and adjusting our clothes with deliberate yet gentle hands.

He even wipes my lips with his shirt-sleeve, slowly, almost as if I’m a small child.

A complete paradox to his earlier, violent administrations.

“It’s that little prick again.” Once we’re both standing and fully clothed, he grips my chin. “Say nothing, or I’ll kill him, got it?” He avows.

“Got it,” I nod numbly, wondering who he’s referring to.

As I turn, a shadowy silhouette approaches, but it doesn’t take long to figure out that it’s Jesse walking towards us like a knight in shining armor.

What’s he doing here?

“I thought I saw you come this way,” Jesse says slowly, taking in the scene. “What’s going on? Why are you guys behind the old abandoned grocery store?” The accusation isn’t missed.

“Taking a walk, what does it look like?” Ethan snaps, still standing directly behind me.

“A walk?” Jesse echoes, disbelief coloring his tone. “Back here?”

“That’s right,” Ethan says silkily, inching closer until his erection brushes up against my back. “We were hoping for a bit of privacy.”

Jesse flinches at the innuendo, but I can’t bring myself to put him in danger by verbally disagreeing. “I need to get going,” I say suddenly, swallowing back my nerves. “See you guys tomorrow.”

Ethan lets me walk away, but I know, I just know, this is far from over.

“Hannah, wait!” Jesse calls. “I’ll walk you back.” His boots shuffle, crunching against dirt and gravel.

Glancing back, I see Ethan backing away, a murderous gleam in his eye. I want to warn Jesse, but it seems he’s letting us go, for now.

After a few minutes of awkward silence, Jesse finally asks, “So, what happened back there?”

I tense, almost tripping over a random pebble. “Nothing, why?” I ask, feeling lost and on edge.

“I mean, it’s pretty obvious Mr. Winchester has the hots for you,” Jesse accuses, but the twinkle in his hazel gaze is more playful than hateful.

His observation makes me sick to my stomach but also sends a wicked thrill through me.

Maybe I’m losing my mind, right along with the rest of this town because what I should be doing is running to the nearest police station. Ethan Winchester is a maniac with serious problems, a devil who nearly forced himself on me only moments ago.

I laugh nervously. “Nah, he was just being friendly,” I say, shocking myself.

It’s odd, but I don’t feel the need to wash myself.

“Are you sure you’re okay, Hannah?” Jesse asks as we stop right before the movie theatre. “You seem stressed, even more so than when I saw you earlier.” The wind picks up, and he lightly pushes a piece of my hair back in place.

“I really wish you would stop asking me that,” I say irritably, watching a few cars go by out of the corner of my eye. “I’m fine.”

He puts his hands up in surrender. “My bad, I’ll stop asking you that. It’s just with everything going on,” he sighs, pausing. “Do you ever think maybe Mr. Winchester; just maybe he’s got something to do with the murders?”

Yes, and I still do. Now more than ever, but I don’t say that. It’s like there’s something silencing me, something taking root in the darkest recesses of my brain.

An inky, slithering poison travels in my bloodstream now, but it doesn’t want to kill me.

It wants to control me.

“Seriously?” I ask, meeting Jesse’s tense stare. “No, of course not, I mean, that’s just crazy. After all, he’s a trusted member of the Elko community, right?”

Jesse scoffs. “Yeah, but that doesn’t mean he’s not capable of doing…the unthinkable. Seemingly normal people commit murder all the time.” He takes a step closer, whispering, “Plus, there’s something kind of cagey about him, the way he’s all scarred under that mask but pretends to be above society.”

“True,” I agree with a nod. “Anything is possible.”

“Bingo!” he shouts with a grin. “Ding, ding, ding! We have a winner!”

I smile despite myself, the sun finally peeking through clouds. “I think you’ve been taking your psychology notes a little too seriously,” I laugh with him.

“You’re beautiful like this,” Jesse praises, his face now only inches from mine. “I like to be the reason you smile.”

Jesse is a sweet boy and quickly becoming my only real friend in Elko, Nevada. “You’re too nice to me,” I tell him softly, still smiling. “Thank you for making me smile, I needed that.”

“Anything for you, Hannah, anything at all.”

I don’t respond, only watch instead as yet another raven flies over.

Caw, caw!

The Next Day, October 18th

“Hannah, wake up!” Lydia yells, shaking my shoulders. “Guess what?”

I sit up straight, fear in my throat. “What, what’s wrong?”

Oh, no.

Please don’t let it be another murder.

“There’s a party tonight!” she declares with a little too much enthusiasm. “And everyone’s going, including you.”

“Why do I have to go?” I glance down at the time. “And why’d you wake me up when there’s still a few hours left before classes start?”

My roommate hops around the room, arranging things here and there, reminding me of a frantic rabbit. “I couldn’t sleep,” she squeals, making me want to cover my ears. “Plus, I’ve heard some rumors about you, and I thought you might like to know.” She grins, flashing perfect, pearly white teeth.

Uncertainty and fear squeeze my chest. “Rumors?”

“Yes, rumors,” she confides excitedly, opening my closet and rummaging through it at a startling speed. “Practically everyone knows.” She throws over her shoulder.

“Knows what?” I ask, irritation starting to filter through the panic.

“That Jesse has a crush on you,” she says, turning and clapping her hands together like she just delivered great news. “All the girls on campus are green; I mean absolutely pea-green with envy!”

“Really?” I ask, relieved that word of what happened yesterday between Ethan and I hadn’t gotten out. “Oh, I see, I had no idea…” I trail off, trying to digest this new information.

My father had always said I was blind in the matters of love, that I didn’t see the way boys looked at me. Maybe he’d been right, after all.

“So, do you like him?” she asks in a sing-song voice while flitting through my closet again. “What’s not to like,” she mumbles under her breath.

“Ah, sure, as a friend,” I fumble for the right words. “He’s attractive of course; I just don’t see him that way.”

“Oh my gosh, girl!” she exclaims, hand to her curvy hip. “Are you serious? He’s the hottest guy on campus. He has that whole ‘Johnny Depp’ vibe going hard!”

She’s right, but there’s been way too much going on to think about dating. “The rumors are probably wrong, just because he’s been friendly doesn’t mean he’s interested.”

“Hmm, okay, honey.” She flips her long tresses of red-gold hair. “This…,” she says, pausing and pointing at me with a smirk on her pretty face. “This is what you call denial.”

“Well, personally, I think there’ve been more pressing matters, lately. Like two murders since school started.” I stand, stretching the cranks out of my neck. “But, hey, that’s just my opinion.”

She nods, pursing her lips. “True. But girl, we can’t let that ruin the rest of our freshman year.”

I like Lydia, but she doesn’t have much depth. “I’m going to get dressed and grab some breakfast,” I tell her, hoping for an end to the conversation. “It’s way too early.”

“Okay, suit yourself,” she says, closing my closet with a sigh. “But you’re coming to the party tonight, right?”

“Isn’t the curfew still in effect for midnight?” I question, pulling on a pair of faded bell-bottoms.

“Yes,” she agrees, plopping on her own bed and wiggling her eyebrows. “But we’re all crashing there, so it’s not even an issue.” She leans over and pulls her purple lamp shade on.

“Where?” I ask, curious despite myself.

“You know Amanda Tracey, right?” she affirms, bouncing off her bed again with renewed vigor. “Her parents are out of town for the weekend. Perfect timing, too.”

“Perfect timing?” I parrot, searching the hardwood floor for my shoes. “Perfect timing for what?”

“Halloween is right around the corner, and with all these crazy things happening around town, it’s sure to be spooky fun!”

She makes it sound like some sort of cliché scary movie.

“Right,” I agree vaguely, finally having spied my black flats sprawled across the room. “Well, I’m out of here. I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Hannah, you’re no fun, girl! I swear, it’s like you’re from another planet,” she reprimands as I close the door in her frowning face.

Finally, some quiet.

* * *

I can’t stop thinking about what happened between Ethan and me, or why I ever agreed to call him Ethan. Why did he ask me to call him his given name in the first place?

Had I unknowingly entered some silent relationship with the man from the get-go?

None of it makes sense, especially the way I’m feeling. I mean, I should’ve told Jesse the truth and gone to the police station last night. But reporting Ethan Winchester is the last thing on my mind. Instead, I find myself curious about what he’s doing, or if he’s planning to find me again and finish what he started.

I’m not holding my breath or anything, but a part of me wants something, expects something.

Maybe more?

There’s a bruised ache in my chest, but I can’t decide if I’m floating or drowning.

Shaking my head, I decide right then and there that I need to skip psychology class for today. I need more time to clear my head and make a rational decision. The last thing I need is to make a complete fool of myself.

Out of the corner of my eye, just as I turn down another hallway, I see Jesse following me.

“Hey, Hannah, you skipping class?” he asks, catching me by the elbow.

The side door opens and a few students rush by, running late for class.

“Yeah, I’m not feeling so good,” I lie easily, starting to walk away again.

“If you think you’re skipping without me, you’re dead wrong.” His voice is way too deadpan, sending off warning bells in my already jumbled brain.

“Uh…”

He busts out laughing, a wolfish grin lighting up his handsome features. “I’m just messing with you, Hannah.”

Of course he is.

Duh.

My nerves are just strung out and on high alert. “I’m the one who’s sorry, not enough sleep last night.”

“You’re having sleeping problems?” he asks with concern, raking a hand through his darkish auburn hair.

“Actually my roommate woke me up really early this morning.”

He coughs into his hand. “Any particular reason?”

I almost blush. “Something about a party,” I answer with a shrug.

“Ah, the party at the Tracey house,” he acknowledges. “You’re coming, right?”

“I’m not sure yet. What about you?” I ask conversationally.

“With you, of course,” he says seriously, inching closer. “You know, I’m already halfway in love with you, Hannah Vale.” His hand suddenly palms the side of my face.

Before I can respond, Ethan’s dark voice slithers up my spine. “Get your hands off her, or I’ll cut them off.”

Seconds Later…

“Mr. Winchester?” Jesse pivots, placing a protective arm around my shoulder. “What the hell, man?”

“Hannah,” Ethan breaths reverently, “come with me, now.” He holds his hand out as if beckoning a child.

“I’m not feeling well,” I tell him, feeling like I’ve just entered a Twilight Zone episode. “Jesse was just walking me back to my room.”

On one side, Jesse is looking at Ethan like he’s lost his mind and on the other; Ethan Winchester is gazing into my eyes like I’m his long, lost love. A strange urge pulses through me in that moment, the desire to walk up to him and remove his mask.

Bare his soul.

“What’s going on?” Stacey’s voice dashes cold water on the fog clouding my brain. “Mr. Winchester, we’re all waiting for you to start class.” She pops her gum, completely deluded to her surroundings.

Ethan’s eyes unfreeze, his masked face turning off to the side, but I’m still aware of his every movement. How his white collared chest is still rising and falling with emotion, his fists clenched at his side.

Trapped.

“Hannah isn’t feeling the greatest, so I’m helping her back to her room,” Jesse explains softly. “We’ll get going, and I’ll be back later.” He smirks. “With your permission, sir.”

Stacey finally senses the tension, her eyes taking in the scene with a new light. “Everything okay?” she asks, inching slightly closer.

“Feel better soon, Hannah,” Ethan bites out, his eyes as cold as a hell frozen over.

Jesse pushes on my back, herding me out of the hallway. “See you around, Stacey.”

“Bye,” I say, waving and letting Jesse lead me away.

“That was a bit bizarre, right?” Jesse asks once we’re a couple of halls away. “Did you hear what he said?”

My mouth is dry and I have no desire to talk. “Yes,” I answer shortly, grateful to have a friend like Jesse but also craving silence.

“He said he’d cut my hands off,” Jesse raises his voice, jerking us to a halt. “Don’t you find that more than coincidental, what with Edward’s head being cut off and left for everyone to see?”

Oh, God. He’s right, and I’m just too fucked up in the head to think clearly.

This is it; the reality is finally too much to bear. Ethan Winchester, who tried to force himself on me just yesterday, must be the killer.

The murderer of Edward Turner and Jared Shaw.

I take several deep, calming breaths, my vision starting to swim. “What should we do?” I ask, leaning into him for support.

“It’s okay,” he soothes, wrapping me up into a tight embrace. “First things first, Hannah.” One of his hands slides down my back, rubbing in slow, circular motions. “I think you need to rest, maybe try to take a nap.”

“What about Ethan?” I ask fearfully.

His hold loosens so that he can look at me. “Unfortunately, we’re going to need more proof than his words, but at the rate he’s going, I don’t think it’ll be long before everyone knows the truth.”

“Maybe…” I trail off as he takes my hand and we head for the dormitories. “I mean, I really hope so.” My feet drag, uncertainty in every step.

* * *

Four hours later my alarm goes off, startling me awake from a deep, much needed sleep. Reaching for the silver clock alarm, I shut it off and then rub the sleep from my eyes.

I haven’t had much of an appetite in the recent weeks, but quite suddenly, I’m ravenous.

My stomach grumbles and I smile, thinking about a nice big juicy cheeseburger, loaded with pickles and tomatoes with a side of French fries.

Oh God, that sounds good.

Back at home when I lived with my dad, he’d never allowed me to eat such greasy foods. He was as health conscience as they came, but somehow I never felt like it was for my own good. My dad had been a control freak, plain and simple.

And I’d hated him for it.

Every morning waking me up to that blasted song.

Oh, life could be a dream, sweetheart…

I still can’t get it out of my head.

Hello, hello again…

“Hannah, what are you doing?” Lydia asks, popping her head out from her own closet this time.

I smile, happy to see her. “Doing…what do you mean?”

She tilts her head, walking slowly forward. “Well, you were singing some song. An oldie, I think.”

“Oh, yeah.” I sit up, shrugging. “It’s a song my dad and I used to listen to by The Coasters.”

“I think I remember it,” she says softly, tapping her forehead. “Anyways, are you feeling any better? You had us worried.”

“Honestly, I feel amazing,” I tell her, smiling again. “It’s like I slept for a week.”

Eyeing me curiously, she sits down next to me. “Did you get probed by aliens while you were asleep or something?”

I giggle. “Why would I get probed by aliens? Anyways, isn’t that usually a nighttime operation?”

“Oh my gosh, you did get probed!” She laughs with me, her green eyes sparkling with mirth.

“You’re a funny girl, Lydia.” I pat her hand, noticing she’s just painted her nails.

Suddenly she looks serious. “Well, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but you haven’t been a smiley type of person since school started. At one point, I even thought maybe you had…you know, some kind of depression.”

“Aren’t you sweet, worrying about me,” I say, reaching up to lay a friendly hand on her shoulder. “But you’re wrong; I’ve just been tired for a really long time.”

“Looks like that man of yours will have to make sure you get plenty of sleep from here on out,” she quips, popping bright-pink gum.

“Man of mine?” I question, raising a brow.

“Jesse, duh, the guy that practically carried you here.”

“Oh yeah, he did, didn’t he?”

“Duh, the guy is obsessed with you, Hannah,” she says dreamily, tossing her hair over a shoulder. “Like really obsessed. You should have seen his face when he left; all crestfallen and worried over his precious Hannah.”

“You really think he’s into someone like me?”

“Someone like you?” she asks incredulously. “Have you looked in a mirror, lately?”

“No, not really,” I admit shyly. “My dad always used to say vanity was a sin, that we shouldn’t put too much stock into our appearances.”

She shakes her head, chuckling. “Uh-huh, so is your dad some kind of priest or what?”

“He used to be,” I answer, smiling wistfully. “He passed away last year.”

“Oh my, you poor thing! No wonder you’re so sullen all the time.” She appears horrified.

“Yeah, it was very sudden.” I blink a few times, taking in her sympathetic expression.

Lydia picks my hand up, squeezing gently. “How did he die, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“A heart attack,” I reveal softly, trying not to have flashbacks of that terrible, horrible day.

Later that night…

“Party time!” Lydia squeals, parading up and down our room like a runway model.

Reluctantly, I glance in the full-length mirror and ask her for the second time, “Are you sure this looks okay?” A short red dress with spaghetti straps clings to my body, hugging every curve like a second skin.

Lydia had insisted I borrow something of hers, since I didn’t have much in the way of dresses. And while I appreciate her generosity, I’m still not completely sold on this dress. It just isn’t me.

“Girl, you’re positively glowing,” she compliments, her green eyes popping from how much black eyeliner she applied. “Seriously, just own it, at least for one night.” Her powdery perfume tickles my nose.

“You’re right,” I concede, doing a little twirl. “ I need to have more confidence.”

She rolls her eyes, laughing. “Why is it always girls like you who don’t have a clue about their own sex appeal?”

“Meaning?” I ask as she hands me a tube of lipstick.

She pops her gum for the umpteenth time. “Meaning you’re the cliché virgin everyone wants to fuck.”

Lydia using the word fuck shocks me. “Why does everyone think I’m a virgin?”

“I mean…you are, right?” she asks knowingly.

At her words, a very recent memory resurfaces, ghosting my brain with phantoms.

“Every walking body with a pussy wants to fuck me, be with me,” he revealed sharply, leaning forward in his seat. “But not you…you’re too good for that, aren’t you?” He touched my face gently. “You’re not like the others.”

“I think you’re very attractive,” I whispered stupidly, clutching my purse in vain. “I’m just-

“Shhhh,” he soothed, placing his thumb over my lips to silence me. “You’re as untried as a virgin sacrifice, aren’t you?”

“Hannah…” Lydia says my name.

It’s almost as if I can still hear Ethan’s dark, captivating voice.

“Yes, I am,” I answer softly, coming out of my trance. “I guess I just didn’t realize it was that obvious.”

She takes the tube of lipstick back, popping it open. “It’s not a bad thing,” she explains, expertly applying the red color to my bare lips. “It’s just no one really saves their V-card these days.” She smiles, capping the tube with satisfaction.

“Thanks, I think…”

“You’re not going to eat anything else tonight, right?” she asks, using a tissue to blot her own bright-pink lips. “If so, just take this with you,” she offers, handing me the lipstick to put into my purse.

I’d eaten earlier but forgotten all about it up until this moment. Odd.

“No, I ate earlier with Jesse,” I answer, remembering how he picked me up for lunch.

And how it didn’t go quite as expected…

“Do you really think you should be eating that?” Jesse asks with an innocent, teeth-filled smile.

For one single moment I don’t see his face, I see someone else’s. Maybe the shadows are playing tricks again…

I look down at my burger and it’s no longer loaded with tomatoes, and in its place are hundreds of tiny, crawling worms.

Squirming, gasping for air.

Life could be a dream, sweetheart.

“Maybe you’re right,” I tell him, feeling sick to my stomach.

“I’ll always look out for you, Hannah.”

Hello, hello again.

“Dude, you’re doing it again!” Lydia exclaims, her voice seeming near yet far away.

I snap out of the memory and back to the present. “Sorry, what?” I ask, slightly flustered.

“Never mind, let’s get going, girl,” she laughs, taking my hand and leading me towards the door. “I think you just need a night out, for real.”

* * *

The front lawn of the Tracey house is already littered with cups and debris. Someone leans over the porch railing, puking their guts out. As Lydia and I get closer, I notice Jesse and a few of his friends hanging out on the side of the white-vinyl house. Not for long, though, because as soon as he spots me, he stomps out a cigarette and heads straight my way.

I didn’t realize Jesse smokes cigarettes.

Even from here, the bass pumping from inside the house is audible, and I vaguely wonder if the police might be called.

“Oh snap, you look hot, Hannah,” one of Jesse’s friends whistles, grinning drunkenly.

“Shut up, Steven,” Jesse snaps, clapping him over the head.

Lydia winks. “I’m going to get a beer, you guys coming?” she asks, popping her gum with a playful gleam in her eyes.

“C’mon, Hannah,” Jesse says, taking my hand firmly in his. “Let’s get you a drink.”

Halfway through the lawn, something makes me look up, and a gnawing sort of dread starts when I notice a shadow standing in the second story window.

Once inside, Jesse hurries over to a beer keg and begins pouring drinks. In the meantime the song Mama Said Knock You Out by LL Cool J blares from wall to wall, and a few couples bump and grind to the beat.

“Here you are, my lady,” Jesse whispers from behind me, scaring the shit out of me.

I laugh nervously and take the cup from his outstretched hand. “You scared me.” Smiling, I take my first sip of beer ever.

It’s cold and doesn’t taste too bad, so I take another sip.

“Don’t tell me, you’ve never had a beer before?” Jesse appears momentarily shocked yet pleased at the same time.

“Nope, never,” I admit hesitantly, hoping I don’t seem too uncool. “My dad was kind of strict.”

His face falls. “Yeah, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Why ever not?” I ask, confused by his concerned expression.

“Lydia, she kind of spilled the beans about your dad,” he says, regret in his hooded gaze.

Ah, I see.

“So, you guys are talking about me behind my back, now?” I try to keep my tone even as I drain the remainder of my beer, the cold suds doing nothing to soften the blow.

“Look, I just asked her for info about you,” he admits, grasping my arm in sympathy. “I didn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

Pulling away, I smile bitterly. “I don’t appreciate you and Lydia talking about my private business,” I tell him frostily. “I’m going to get another drink.” I turn and head in the direction of the keg, feeling slightly off-balanced and seeing red.

“Hannah, wait,” he calls to no avail. “Hannah, come back here!”

Lydia is dancing in the far corner, that traitorous bitch, while Jesse trails behind me, apologizing profusely.

There’s something familiar about the entire scene, like I’ve been here before. Or maybe I’m remembering a dream or a movie I watched. Either way, I’m getting more and more creeped out by the second, and at the same time faded. My perception is off because suddenly I’m seeing everyone as animals, everyone has a mask.

A mask with more masks, if that even makes sense. Horns adorn their heads, but it’s like their bodies are nothing but dead husks.

Their teeth shine with ruby-red paint, or is it blood? Weird.

“Hannah, come dance with us!” Lydia’s yell echoes and ends up sounding more like a shriek.

Maybe she was a banshee in another life. Wait, what?

Where’d that thought come from? And why am I talking to myself in my own head?

The music playing becomes hypnotic, my body swaying slightly as I stumble forward.

Hands, there are so many hands.

Sticky, wet claws.

Caw, caw!

Something slimy touches my leg, and when I look down the image of a snake coiling around my leg has me falling back and into someone’s waiting arms, arms that are attached to some kind of body.

A warm corpse.

“Hannah Vale,” he breathes down my neck. “Did you think I would forget about you?”

Where am I?

Familiar, sinewy arms are carrying me somewhere, but where, I have no earthly clue.

Where am I?

My body feels weightless and feather light, like I’m floating in space, a space with no purpose or direction. A black void clogs my brain, and all I can hear is his rapid breathing.

A voice talks to me as we travel, and I believe it’s him, the one I fear most. “We always want what we can’t have, isn’t that right, Hannah?”

What do you mean? I want to ask but no words leave my lips.

“I want you, but if it were up to you, I wouldn’t get what’s rightfully mine.”

Rightfully yours?

“Yes, Hannah, rightfully mine.”

His tone makes heat pool down to my core, a stream of want and taboo licking at the flames of my soul.

The wind and his arms keep me steady for endless moments until finally, I’m free, flying through the air and landing on something soft and welcoming.

“I hope you like it, Hannah,” he whispers, the softness dipping to support his weight. “This is where you’ll be spending most of your time, my love.”

His love?

A match is lit above me, the aroma of candles burning lulling me into a fitful, nightmarish slumber.

* * *

Startling awake, the first thing I realize is that I’m strapped, my arms tied to a bed banister. My legs are blessedly free from constraints, but the fear pulsing through my heart tells me otherwise. That I’m far from free and most likely doomed.

As I glance wildly about my surroundings, I notice I’m fenced in with nothing but darkness. A chandelier hangs above the bed with burning candles, providing light like the stars would in the night sky.

There’s a faint odor of clean sheets and fresh blood. Not the most comforting smell to wake up to, but it’s better than what one would expect in a hostage type situation.

Using all my strength, I test what I think is rope tied around my wrists. Yanking and twisting my arms, I grit my teeth in pure frustration. Whoever tied me up hadn’t been playing around.

A mad cackle halts my escape attempt. “Oh, Hannah, I do love your spirit, love,” the voice mocks but soon reveals itself as Ethan Winchester steps from the shadows in all his gloriously dark beauty.

Dressed entirely in black with half his face covered, he reminds me of the devil come to collect his due.

“What do you want from me?” I ask, meeting his arctic gaze with defiance.

“Now, that’s a silly question, my love,” he answers, creeping ever closer to the bed I’m occupying.

“Is it because I’m a virgin?” I sputter, fear lacing my tone. “Are you…going to kill me?”

He’s now before me, his hands hidden behind his back. “You wound me, Hannah,” he says softly, a deranged light coming into his eyes. “Of course not, my love. Death is too good for our kind, wouldn’t you agree?”

Oh, God.

I panic, my throat clogged with fear. “Our kind?”

“Don’t play dumb, my love,” he leans forward, his breath kissing my frozen face. “It doesn’t become you, and besides we don’t have much time, do we?”

The man is deluded, and I’m more confused than I’ve ever been in my entire life.

Ethan laughs, leaning over me. “Let’s just untie your hands, my love. That will put you at ease, I know it will.” He strokes the side of my face while untying my wrists with the other.

“Please,” I beg, starting to feel ill. “Just let me go-”

“I know, I know, you’ll never tell anyone,” he laughs darkly, jerking me by the hair until I’m staring into his monstrous eyes once again. “That’s right, because you’ll never be free of me again.”

I own you; the three words invade my brain with a dreaded finality.

“You killed Edward Turner and Jared Shaw, didn’t you?” I accuse, hoping to stall whatever is about to happen next.

“Edward, yes,” he agrees indifferently. “I didn’t care for the way he was planning to insert himself into your life.” He laughs at my shocked expression. “Oh yes, he wanted you, just like the rest of them. You’re naive to your own beauty, my love.”

“You’re crazy,” I whisper, my mind racing.

“But that’s not the reason I’m making you mine, you know that, Hannah,” he says my name like an omen, climbing onto the bed.

I shrink back, scooting to the edge of the bed. “Stay away, get back,” I yell, halfway jumping and falling from the bed at the same time.

Only making it two steps forward, I’m wrenched back and onto the bed with a brutal strength. “Ahhh,” I scream in pain, his body quickly hovering above mine with sick determination.

He rips what’s left of my borrowed red dress in half, stripping my pale flesh bare. No one has ever seen me naked, hell, I’ve never even been kissed properly.

Smoothing his hands over my underwear, he pulls them down my legs with care, one moment violent and the next gentle. The man is one scary, giant contradiction.

A monster.

“Fuck me,” he mutters reverently, gawking at my private parts. “I’ll need to prepare this tight little cunt, won’t I?” He licks his first and middle finger, his breathing suddenly labored.

“Please, don’t, I don’t want to lose my virginity like this,” I implore, trying to appeal to his humanity. “I’m begging you…”

He opens my cherry, examining my hymen. “Go ahead, beg,” he invites softly, licking his lips. “I like it.”

My eyes close because I realize I can’t fight him off, and I know this is it.

The point of no return.

I’m exhausted, both mentally and physically, and I vaguely wonder how in the world I ended up here. Wherever here is…

In and out, his fingers inch further up inside of me, creating an unfamiliar, stinging sensation. It’s like a tension is building, and I’m not sure how to relieve it. There’s a torturous mixture of pleasure and pain. And then suddenly, he removes his fingers, sliding them up until the moisture on his fingertips meets my clit.

Thrashing my head back and forth, I let out a helpless whimper.

It’s almost too much.

“Shhh,” he hushes me, unzipping and yanking down his black leather pants. “This won’t hurt…much.” He smiles coldly, but his eyes are blazing to the tenth shade of hell.

Holy, shit…he’s huge.

“Listen, maybe this isn’t going to work,” I say wildly, gesturing towards his enormous, throbbing cock.

Ignoring my words he straddles my hips, positioning himself. “We will be together forever, my love,” he whispers against my mouth, claiming my first kiss as he eases his weepy tip into my stretched opening.

I squirm as Ethan glides further inside me, and then quite suddenly back out again. He’s too big, the tight fit threatening my sanity.

Seconds pass by, maybe minutes, and for the first time I notice how alluringly handsome he really is. His nose, although half covered, is strong with a slight hook. His lips are full, surrounded by a chiseled chin and high cheekbones.

And still, the pull is there to take off his mask and caress his scars.

I’ve been beguiled.

October 19th, Midnight

Ethan

Her plump lips part as I wipe away a hot, leaking tear. My sweet, Hannah, she has no idea how far gone she really is. Her eyes are the most pure and deadly I’ve ever beheld.

I’d done my research on her the day she arrived, that lost crazy look she had about her nearly my undoing. Her hometown plus a few pay-offs provided all the information I needed to know about Hannah Vale.

And now she’s mine.

My equal and my eternal love.

She only needs one more drop of my blood, just one more drop.

Jerking my hips back, I slam fully into her tight, tiny pussy. “Fuck, Hannah,” I utter, unable to stop myself. Looking down with the last bit of restraint I can muster, I can tell she’s having a hard time taking my size. “My love…” I can’t finish, the pleasure too strong, too everything.

My senses are alive, electrified by the grip of her cunt.

I fuck her slowly at first, gritting my teeth against the urge to unleash my rage as I nip at her neck. Easing my cock out and back in with shallow, hard thrusts, my thoughts turn primal with the idea of planting my seed.

To make another monster with her.

I’ll never turn my back on them or ask for too much.

Suddenly she sighs, closing her eyes. “No,” I demand, picking up a punishing pace. “Keep those pretty little eyes open, on me only.”

Hannah obeys like a good little girl, those pearly white, red-veined orbs gazing up at the ceiling.

Not good enough.

Grunting, I plow into her again, this time with enough strength to garner a scream. “Here, my face, my eyes, or I’ll fuck your ass next,” I warn, her eyes meeting mine in ecstasy.

I’ll never leave her; never forsake her like all the others.

“Harder,” she gasps, raking her nails down my back. “I’m so close, I can feel…”

“That’s it, my love,” I encourage her, bringing my hand up to collar her fragile throat. “I can make you feel again.” My ball sack tightens, my cum being forced out by the milking of her pussy.

Now, I have to give her all of me now, before I lose control.

Still thrusting but so close to the edge, I bite into my wrist with slightly sharpened teeth and tilt her head back to accept my offering. She has no idea about the deal I’ve made. The deal I made not so long ago with my father…

The Angel of Music.

“Oh, God,” she yells out, gripping my shoulders with thin claws. “I can see the stars, feel the night…”

“Ugh,” I grunt over and over, my seed shooting deep inside her. “My love,” I chant, coming so hard the room goes dim.

“Ethan,” she says, her neck lulling back and forth on the feathered pillows. “I feel so strange, like something is happening to me. Is something happening to me?” she asks softly, her voice barely above a whisper now.

I want to reassure her, but she’s already asleep.

The change is happening.

Her pale mouth hangs open, and I push a lingering drop of blood from the corner of her lips into her throat, massaging her neck until she swallows.

I’m neither a vampire nor a ghost.

I’m nothing you’ve ever heard of. No living or dead creature has ever heard a whisper of me and lived to tell the tale.

My father was and still is the Phantom, the Angel of Music, the creator of death notes.

A man of so many faces…

The Devil in the flesh.

My mother couldn’t fathom his trickery or that she’d given birth to Lucifer’s son, so she’d tried to kill me, an innocent babe, her raven’s talons stripping away half of my face.

Whenever I asked my father about her, what became of her, his answer was always the same:

Shapeshifters are not to be trusted.

And now, I am this thing for which there is no name.

Yet, I am simply another monster.

When I turned a certain age, I noticed that women wanted me, craved what was beneath the mask. They wanted a secret all their own. None of them, none of those women held my interest, for I was like them in a way. I wanted what I couldn’t have.

Hannah Vale.

And so, I struck a deal with the dealer himself.

Shuddering, I remember our encounter from a month ago.

“Ssso, niccce to sssee you, again, ssson,” he greeted, his red eyes lighting up at his luck. “Finally come to pay the piper.”

“I just want her,” I panted, the effort to look upon his true form almost too much to bear. “That’s it.”

He cackled, leaning forward on his throne. “You know the priccce.”

Blinking, I pull my thoughts back to the future, where he can’t hear them. The man I call my father is the biggest monster of them all.

For I am the son of Lucifer and Elorna, Queen of Ravens.

My own mother wanted me dead, and now I’ve given him my soul.

All for her.

When she wakes, which won’t be for some time, she’ll be like me, a monster with no name.

But she’ll still have her soul, that’s the one thing I won’t let be taken from her.

Her soul belongs to me.

October 31st

“Souls, we’re looking for souls, anyone have any souls for sale?” a man dressed as a businessman asks. “Ah, you, you’re awake.” He smiles pleasantly, opening his palm to reveal a still-beating heart with a name carved into the bloody organ.

Hannah Vale

Jolting awake, a cold chill tingles up my spine, my breath heavy and taxed. “What the…” I look around, a scream welling up inside my throat.

No, no, no, no.

Oh God, I’m still in the same bed. His bed. Stripped completely naked.

“Ethan?” I call out, my voice echoing in the darkness. “Ethan, where are you?”

Ethan!

I receive no answer save my own frightened voice as it bounces off expressionless walls, mocking the silence.

Where are you?

Clenching my eyes closed, a soft mewling starts as I count to ten in my head.

One, two, three…why is this happening to me?

Four, five, six…this isn’t real.

Seven, eight, nine…wake up, Hannah, wake up!

“I’m here.” Ten.

Cracking one eye open, I’m relieved to find it is Ethan and not something else. Like that person or thing in my dream.

Holy hell, I must be losing my mind.

“Hannah,” Ethan says my name, stalking closer with his hands outstretched. “I know you must be feeling…” he trails off, eyeing me with curiosity.

“Strange, I’m feeling…” I mutter softly, pausing as I gaze around the barely lit room for clues. “So very strange,” I finish almost helplessly. “And yet, I feel as if I’m supposed to be here, right now.”

His lips curve into what I think is meant to be a sympathetic smile. “Yes, my love, that’s all normal.”

“Normal?” I ask, sensing there’s more he’s going to tell me.

“You’re one of us, now.”

I try not to lose it. “One of whom?” I question shakily.

He laughs demonically. “You and me and many more, we’re what they call…creatures of the night.

As much as I want to play dumb, I can’t, because I know exactly what he’s referring to. He means that we’re dead or undead, something along those lines. I feel it, too. Dead…and yet not. Like there’s something inside me missing, but also something new and undiscovered…

Deep, dark, and terrifying.

He’s suddenly beside me on the bed, caressing my face. “You’ve put the pieces together, haven’t you, my love?” His face seems dispassionate, but there’s something almost sweet in his tone.

Tears leak from the corner of my eyes, and I almost laugh in relief that I’m still able to do something so ordinary, so human. It’s odd to describe, but I know I’m still me. I’m still the Hannah Vale that grew up with an overbearing father.

Dear, God…my father. I’d forgotten all about him up until this moment, and now more than ever, that day seems like a distant memory…

“Hannah!” my father called impatiently. “Your breakfast is getting cold!”

Hurrying in my guilt, I slid my forbidden book from the library underneath one of the loose floorboards in my bedroom. Just in case I couldn’t go through with it. See, Father didn’t approve of romance novels. He said they did nothing but rot a young girl’s brain.

The last time he’d caught me with what he called a ’forbidden book’, I’d been put on a water and bread diet for a week straight.

It hadn’t been the first time, but I hoped it would be the last.

My father’s punishments were always extreme, starting from the age of thirteen. He’d had to teach me the ways of being a clean, proper young lady.

Only, I didn’t care for his methods and often wished for an end to it all…

Life could be a dream, sweetheart.

He’d started playing the song, the song I’d come to hate, which meant I needed to get downstairs soon. It was strange but that tune, those words spoke to me. After so many times of hearing it, I’d started to become one with it.

I knew I sounded crazy, that’s why I had to do it.

This was the day, I thought to myself, swiftly climbing down the stairs. I’d end that old man’s suffering once and for all. With sweaty fingers, I clasped a kitchen knife in my right hand, hidden behind my back.

Hello, hello again.

Only, I was too late. When I reached the bottom step, my father was reaching for me, one hand over his chest. I’ll never forget the way his mouth hung open, like a pig’s waiting to be stuffed with an apple.

My father died that day, at the age of 48, of a stone cold heart attack.

“What’s that song you’re singing, my love?” Ethan asks, slightly pulling my hair to grab my attention.

Licking my lips, I tell him the truth. “A song my dad used to play by The Coasters.”

“I know you wanted to kill him, your father, didn’t you, Hannah?”

“Yes,” I admit, meeting his icy-blue gaze. “Yes, I wanted him dead.”

He chuckles. “But the heart attack came first, that’s too bad, my love.” His tone implies sympathy but I don’t feel it. I don’t feel anything.

I nod in agreement. “That’s right.”

I should be asking how he knows all this, but I honestly don’t care how he knows.

He knows, and that’s enough.

Ethan starts to climb over me, the feel of his breath against my chest sending waves of heat straight to my core. “You have me now, my love,” he says softly. “I’m all you’ll ever need, ever desire.”

He’s starting to sound more and more like my father, someone who only wishes to control me.

And I can’t have that, no matter what I’ve become. No matter how much I might desire him, a monster.

I need to get back to my friends who I’d somehow been separated from at the party, but first I need to see the man beneath the mask. Who is Ethan Winchester, really?

With a shaking hand, I reach up before his lips meet mine, ripping the mask from the right side of his face…

Gasping, I take in the horror…

It’s as if someone tried to rip the flesh from his face.

Long, claw-like scars rake his right cheekbone all the way up to his eye and hairline.

An eye that came close to being ripped from its socket, I can tell because there’s a piece of skin completely missing…

My hand covers my mouth as I take in his dark, tragic beauty.

My God, what creature did this to him?

Growling, he yanks the mask from my grip. “You’ll pay for that,” he threatens, jumping up and turning away while fumbling to put the mask in place.

“I’m sorry, so sorry…” I whisper, half heartbroken for him. “I had no idea…”

He twists his mask back into place. “Now, what?” he snarls like a beast about to trample. “I’ll not stand for your pity.” He advances on me, murder in his eyes.

Dark, deadly energy pours off him in terrifying waves.

Fly, I need to fly…

Trick or Treat Part I

Like a freight train, determination mixed with some kind of old magic courses through my bloodstream as I shift and change into something else entirely. I feel it, the break to my bones when my arms are no longer there, and in their place are black-feathered, raven’s wings.

I’m flying; I’m actually, literally flying.

The air surrounds my tiny body, and the look on Ethan’s face is one of incredulous rage. My vision is no longer hindered by that of a human. I can see every crevasse of the room I’ve been kept in, the walls a glimmering, tan stone.

The beating of my wings trills through my senses, almost causing me to falter.

There’s a distant light, calling to me…This way, fly this way, freedom is here.

Flap, flap, flap…

His howl is the last thing I hear as I fly forward. There are too many endless turns and twists, a never ending maze. A labyrinth of haunting shadows chases me until finally; the light is right before me. The exit to my prison is in the shape of a gaping hole that leads out into the night sky. A sky filled with brilliant stars and a moon hanging in the balance.

A cave, I’d been in a cave!

With one last look behind me, I make out a sign stuck in the ground. It reads: Private Property, No Trespassing Allowed.

That’s why no one knew where we were, that sneaky bastard!

Another ominous howl rents the air, prompting my wings into rapid motion. The wind aids in my escape, lovingly pushing me in the direction I must go. The fear that I’m lost never takes hold because up ahead in the distance are the safe lights belonging to the town of Elko, Nevada.

“Hannah!” he screams one last time, but it sounds more like a weeping animal.

But it is my own answering call that astounds me the most…Caw, caw!

Sense of time and rationality are all but gone when I finally make landfall. My body is strange to me as my tiny claws make purchase onto a quivering limb right outside my dormitory window. Thoughts pass through me, but they feel foreign, as if someone else has taken residence in my brain…

Fly again, think about your body and it will become one again. Become one with your legs, your arms will follow next.

I know things I didn’t before.

I am stronger, I am wiser.

Swooping down, I hear and feel a pop and crunch before my feet touch the cold cement. After testing my limbs, I reach up and touch my face with shaking hands. My cheeks feel as soft as they always have, but I realize one important factor when I hear footsteps approaching.

Jesse stands at the dormitory entrance, his handsome face shocked. “You, Hannah, you’re…naked,” he says, rushing over to me and taking off his jacket to wrap around my shoulders. “My God, Hannah, what’s going on?”

Licking my lips, I accept his jacket but take a step back. “I’m not sure, what day is it?” I ask, suddenly knowing that a certain amount of time has passed. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Halloween,” he reveals softly, his hazel eyes shining underneath the street lamp. “At the party…you fainted. Oddly enough, Mr. Winchester was there and drove you to the hospital.” He rakes his hair back, clearly agitated. “I wanted to come with you, we all did, but Mr. Winchester wouldn’t let us because of the curfew.”

“Ah, I see,” I say woodenly, the news that over a week has passed barely fazing me.

“He told us you were going back to your hometown to rest for a while, that you’d come down with a terrible sickness,” he says, concern lacing his tone. “Are you okay Hannah, are you still sick?”

My stomach sinks as I realize just how thoroughly Ethan had explained my disappearance. Next, the man probably would’ve delivered the news of my death, while he continued living a normal life and kept me prisoner on his private property. The man is pure evil.

“I’m…,” I pause, searching for the right words. “I’m not sick, just different. And I need to get inside my room, now. I’m freezing.” I shiver, pretending to be cold.

He nods emphatically. “Of course, c’mon, I’ll make sure no one sees.”

“Thank you, Jesse. You’ve been such a good friend to me.” I smile gratefully.

“Luckily, almost everyone is at the Halloween bash, so we shouldn’t have too much of an audience,” he laughs, steering us through the double doors.

“Lydia is there, too?” I ask as we climb the stairs to my old room.

Old room…that’s right, it’s not really mine anymore.

“Lydia?” he questions back, unlocking my room with a key from his pocket. “Oh…yeah, she’s not here. She’s at the party.” He smiles reassuringly as he holds the door open for me. “Let’s get you inside and put some clothes on.”

“Thanks,” I say, taking in the small bedroom and how everything is just as I left it. “Uh, wait out here, I’ll just be a minute.” Rushing over to my dresser, I pull out a pair of jeans and a hoodie, along with some undergarments.

After I’m dressed, a sense of urgency jolts through me, and I have to lean against the bathroom door to collect myself and the thoughts rushing at me. It’s hard to explain, but the thoughts are like flying paper airplanes all aiming for my brain.

He’s near, flee now.

Smell that, fear is just outside the door.

Him, too. It’s him!

Nearly stumbling, I open the door. “Jesse, I’m sorry but I have to go now,” I pant, the urge to run even stronger now. “I-thank you, for everything. I’ll always remember what a good friend you were to me.”

He’s sitting on my bed, seeming relaxed but his heartbeat is off.

Thump, thump, thump, thump.

It’s a little fast, faster than before I’d gone into the bathroom. In a flash, my eyes zoom in on his hand. He’s holding something, and I can tell he’s trying to hide it…my underwear. He has a pair of my underwear in his hands…

What the hell?

…You know the answer.

He had the key to your room.

“Jesse?” I ask, walking slowly forward. “Why do you have my underwear?”

He coughs, his eyes meeting mine innocently. “I found them on the floor, over there by your dresser.”

He’s lying.

“Can I have them back, please?”

Jesse grins as he stands. “You know something, Hannah? No, you can’t have them back. You know what else? I’m tired of playing your little waiting game.” He stalks closer, shaking his head. “I know you aren’t sick, you never were, so where’ve you been this whole time, huh?”

“We-”

“Don’t tell me you weren’t with him,” he yells, suddenly in my face. “I know you were with Mr. Winchester this whole time,” he says, spitting with emotion. “And now…I have to kill him, too.” He taps his own head, pacing the floor like a maniac. “Hannah, Hannah, Hannah,” he repeats and then stops in front of me again, laughing. “Not you, of course…I have to kill him for almost ruining my plan.”

“Your plan?” I ask, taking a step back. “What plan are you talking about?”

“Us, me and you, Hannah,” he shouts, yanking on his own hair in frustration. “We are meant to be, and we will be once I deal with Mr. Winchester.”

It’s then that an earlier conversation comes back to haunt me…

“You killed Edward Turner and Jared Shaw, didn’t you?” I accused, hoping to stall whatever was about to happen next.

“Edward, yes,” he agreed indifferently. “I didn’t care for the way he was planning to insert himself into your life.” He laughed at my shocked expression. “Oh yes, he wanted you, just like the rest of them. You’re naive to your own beauty, my love.”

“You’re crazy,” I whispered.

“You killed the librarian, didn’t you?” I ask, startled by the revelation. “You killed Jared Shaw.”

He mutters dementedly. “You’re not as dumb as I thought, not as dumb as I thought.” He paces away and then back, once again in my face. “I had to; I had to kill him after the way he looked at you that day. I know him, and he wanted you for himself. He does terrible things to girls like you.”

This is crazy. “You knew him?” I ask, my heightened senses more than keeping pace with his words. “How’d you know him?”

“You never once asked me my last name, Hannah,” he mocks, flashing teeth. “Shaw, my last name is Shaw, and Jared Shaw was my uncle.” Tilting his head to the side, he waits for my reaction.

“You’re Jesse Shaw...” I whisper, realizing how stupid I’d been to put my trust in him. “So, you killed your own uncle all because you didn’t like the way he looked at me. That’s so wrong, Jesse,” I tell him, shaking with anger. “So wrong, and I don’t want any part in it.”

Why are all the men that want me monsters or lunatics?

Trick or Treat part II

“Son, the greatest trick the Devil pulled was convincing the world there was only one of him.”

― David Wong

Her absence is felt like a knife to my dead heart. Hannah Vale is the very air I yearn to breathe, and I will retrieve her at all costs. Yes, she defied me, but she’ll learn soon enough. No one has ever seen my face, no one but my father.

Sniffing sulfur in the air, I sense he’s nearby too, most likely up to his old tricks. He won’t stand in my way, and neither will that little prick that follows her around, Jesse Shaw. I know he wants Hannah, and I know I’ll kill him on sight.

This should make for an interesting night, indeed.

Stepping foot outside, I don’t bother shifting. I’ll track her down on my own two feet, although I’ll admit to being surprised at how quickly she shifted. I hadn’t realized that my mother’s shifter genes would carry over through my blood. I only knew that, according to my father, she would become immortal.

Deals with the Devil are always complicated.

Sucking in a deep breath, I look up and smile at the glory of the night, and I know the stars are on my side.

The sky bleeds with me, taunting my enemies.

They don’t know what hunts them.

And just like her…it’s too late.

With one last look around, I take off running, reveling in the power of my own speed. I’m a monster, a villain, and I’ll gladly murder half the town to get to Hannah, my beloved.

The wind that once helped her escape, now helps me, its fierce bluster pushing me onwards. That’s one thing about being a creature of the night; we’re one with it, and the night with us.

Speed is one of my greatest strengths and the dirt beneath me recognizes its master, gripping my boots with magnetic gravity.

* * *

I’m here, at her dormitory, and I know she’s inside with that little psycho. My breathing is even and my footsteps silent as I walk up the stairs with sick determination.

Pausing outside the door, I listen with my heightened senses and wait, the anticipation trickling into my veins like morphine.

“You’re Jesse Shaw...” I hear her say with disdain. “So, you killed your own uncle all because you didn’t like the way he looked at me. That’s so wrong, Jesse,” she tells him, obviously distraught. “So wrong, and I don’t want any part in it.”

I grin, thinking of her looking at him like the little worm he is. About time she saw it. The boy has ‘creep’ written all over him, yet somehow all the stupid, little girls on campus love him for it. All but Hannah…

“Wrong?” Jesse’s voice mocks my sanity. “You think I care about wrong and right, Hannah? All I care is that I get you, and now thanks to some universal shift in luck, I’ve got you. Pack your shit, we’re leaving, now,” he orders.

His voice on the other hand, makes me want to smash his skull in instantly.

“I’m not going anywhere with you,” she tells him calmly. “You need help, Jesse.”

That’s my girl.

“I need you, that’s it, you’re all I need,” he says, his voice cutting my patience in half.

“No-,” she starts to say something but is cut off by the smashing of his mouth against hers.

Smack, she slaps him!

That’s it, enough, time to end this little fucker’s existence once and for all. No one touches what’s mine and lives to tell the tale.

I burst into the room, ripping the door of its hinges. “Hannah, back away from him,” I demand, so that I can kill him without accidently harming her in the process.

“Ethan,” she gasps, pushing away from him with her newfound strength. “Please, let’s just leave; you don’t have to do this.” Her dark hair is windswept and sexy as hell.

I’ll need to rip his eyes out first, for having seen her like this. She’s mine and no one else’s.

“Ah, ah, ah,” my father’s voice interrupts the scene with a snap of his fingers. “You don’t want to go making a bad impression on your bride do you, ssson?” Hannah backs up until she’s against a wall while Jesse just stands there with his mouth hanging open.

I knew that bastard was close by.

“Who the hell is this?” Jesse asks incredulously, glancing around the room wildly.

My father is dressed to kill, wearing a black business suit. The black business suit always means one thing, he’s come to collect. “Oh, sssorry there, young man, I’m guessing you don’t remember me.”

“I’ve never met you before in my life,” Jesse retorts with a huff. “What’re you supposed to be, some kind of gangster?”

My father laughs. “I like your sssense of humor, boy.”

“Enough with the games. What do you want, Father?” I ask, positioning myself to protect Hannah if need be.

“I know you,” Hannah says suddenly, looking at my father with recognition. “You were in my dream.”

That cheat. “Stay the hell away from her, we had a deal!”

“Yesss, our deal is ssstill good.” His voice slithers with evil malcontent. “I’m here for him, not for her.” He jerks his head towards Jesse Shaw.

Jesse recoils. “What the hell, man? I just told you, I don’t know you. You must have me mixed up with someone else.”

“I guess you don’t remember that chat we had about a month ago, after you made your firssst kill,” my father says with mock-sadness, inching closer. “You were pretty drunk, but ssstill.” He smiles wickedly. “You sssaid the words…I’d give my soul for just one kiss from Hannah Vale.”

“Dude, you heard that? I didn’t think anyone was listening...” Jesse trails off, staggering back in fear. “I mean maybe I did, but….”

“Oh, you know, I sssometimes pop in when leassst expected.” He snaps his fingers and just like that him and Jesse Shaw are gone, nothing but a puff of smoke left in their place.

“What just happened?” Hannah asks, inching away from the wall and preparing to run.

She’s a fast learner.

“My father just stole my kill, that’s what happened,” I answer angrily, advancing on her like the predator I am. “That prick put his mouth on you…fuck, I need to kill something.”

“Where did he take Jesse?” she asks tremulously. “Is he…dead?”

I sigh and then laugh because I can tell she’s more curious than concerned. “Probably to hell,” I tell her the truth, even knowing how ridiculous it might sound to her unlearnt ears.

“I see,” she says softly, her eyes darting back and forth between me and the opened door. “So, your father is what, the Devil?” She laughs nervously.

“That’s right, Hannah.” I prowl closer still. “Now you know the truth about me. I’m the son of the most ancient, evil thing on earth.”

She nods her head slowly. “I believe you, but please, I’ve never done anything to deserve this.” Her eyes widen when a hiss escapes my mouth. “Maybe with time, we could get to know each other, since we’re both, you know…dead?”

“I’ve waited all my life, hundreds of years now, and I’ll wait no longer.” I hold my hand out in invitation. “Come, be with me willingly,” I entice softly, clenching my fist. “Or by force, it’s your choice, Hannah.”

“I won’t just blindly follow you, I’m not cut out for that life,” she warns, and I can tell she’s about to shift again.

Her arms pop, next her legs give way until…

An unnatural breeze followed by a mad cackle slams the dormitory door closed, effectively blocking her second escape. “Never sssay, I never gave you anything, ssson,” my father’s voice fills the space again. “My wedding gift,” he laughs, dropping a birdcage to the wooden floor with a loud clank.

Flap, flap, flap!

Caw, caw!

My love, Hannah, scratches at the wires, her obsidian eyes furious from inside the birdcage. I smile at her feeble attempts to peck her way out. She’ll learn with time.

There’s no escape.

“By the way, ssson, I just love that tune,” my father says, his red eyes popping with enthusiasm. “Maybe it can be your firssst dance, you know, if you decide to invite me to the wedding…”

“What tune is that?” I ask, curious despite myself.

He taps his head with a long finger nail, singing, “Life could be a dream, sssweetheart…”

I grin, remembering the song she kept singing, “Hello, hello again.”

The End

(For Now)

Epilogue

“Hannah, wake up, my love.”

His sing-song voice pulls me from sleep, and I jolt upright, panting. Glancing around, I know we’re back in the cave, only this time I can see everything clearly. Paintings, beautiful works of art align the stone walls. Long, thin candles are lit at every corner. Majestic looking rugs hang where there should be openings.

“What, what more do you want?” I ask grumpily, fully aware that he’s trapped me once again. “Let me go back to sleep.”

So, I can dream this place away.

He jerks my chin up to look at him, his masked face now inches from mine. “You’ll not escape me, my love. Not even in your dreams.”

“Oh, I will,” I spit at him, pulling the white sheet over my breasts. “It’s only a matter of time.”

He laughs darkly. “Would you like to know what I’ve been doing while you were sleeping?”

Ew, gross.

Sneering, I flip my hair over a naked shoulder. “I can only imagine.” I roll my eyes.

This time when he laughs, it’s startlingly sincere. “Oh, nothing that dastardly, my love. After all, we have plenty of time for that.”

“What, then?” I ask impatiently.

“I do hope you’ll like it, my gift to you…” he walks to a hanging rug and yanks it down.

Dear, God!

It’s Stacey, Amanda, and Lydia…

Their heads only.

On pikes…

I gasp, my whole body shaking in fear and disgust. “What did you do?”

His lips turn down in a frown. “You don’t like it? I can find others…”

“Ethan,” I gulp, staring at him with a newfound horror. “Why? How is this a gift?”

“Forget it,” he says angrily, pulling the rug back into place. “Father said you’d…” he trails off shaking his head. “Never mind, I should’ve known that man was up to his old tricks.”

“Tricks?” I question, not even attempting to hide my disgust.

“He suggested I bring home mistresses to keep you in line,” he reveals, shaking his dark head. “Like the Dracula movie, remember he had mistresses? Well, I told him I wouldn’t have another and that I’d never be unfaithful to you.”

“So, what, you killed them instead?” I laugh and cry at the same time.

“He said that you would see it as a sign of my unwavering loyalty…”

“You’re both mad, completely mad!”

“Just-never mind, I’ll get rid of the heads,” he snaps.

I have to find a way out of here, or I’ll be the next head on a pike. “Yes, please, get rid of…them. And no more killing, please.”

He turns then, stalking right up to the bed. “I vow it; I’ll never kill again…unless you’re in danger.”

Maybe this won’t be too hard after all, I think to myself, glancing around for that blasted cage.

“Thank you,” I tell him, hoping to confuse him with gratitude.

“Just in case you were thinking of another run,” he whispers, suddenly covering me with his heat. “Think again, my love.” He brings my hands up, effectively shackling me to the bed in the blink of an eye.

“Please, Ethan, let me go,” I implore, struggling against my constraints.

With a thrust he slides inside me, his teeth flashing in the darkness. “Never.”

Other Books By N. Heinz

Deadly Persuasion

The Afterwards, Rosewood Series Part I

The Dream’ar, Rosewood Series Part II

About the author

N. Heinz is a writer of Romance, Fantasy, and Horror. She lives in North Carolina with her family and two children. Since childhood, she’s been a lover of books, poems, and any kind of literature that speaks to her. She spent many summers with her grandmother, watching old movies and drinking coffee over morning conversations. It was there, in her grandmothers kitchen that she received the love and sage advice that would lead her to have enough courage to one day pursue her dreams. In her spare time she can be found reading, playing with her children, or perhaps dazing into the distance, dreaming up a wild tale to tell.

You can follow her here on Facebook…

https://www.facebook.com/nheinzbooks/

Hollow

A story by DD Prince

Copyright 2018, all rights reserved. http://ddprince.com

This story may not be copied, distributed, or otherwise used in any part without the author’s permission.

Don’t be a book pirate! The e-book is only available from Amazon and Kindle Unlimited.

Authorized for use in The Horror of Our Love Anthology, 2018.

Prologue

Every Halloween night for a decade, a lost soul hunted for revenge, thirsty for a kill. You may have heard the story --- or one like it.

What you might not know is that it’s not just a story. The reason it has lapsed into lore is because ten years after it began, a witch and her coven sought and found a way to stop the annual carnage. Her coven is responsible for some very important spells that keep things normal to the degree that the average person can afford to be a skeptic. Though, her coven was also partly responsible for the violence in this particular case, it was not via nefarious intentions.

Sometimes, things just go wrong just as sometimes they go inexplicably right.

This particular legend’s genesis was over 200 years ago, and for generations, descendants of that coven have continued to protect the area around Drowsy Hollow, a tiny town that’s barely on the map.

Locals let the truth about what used to happen each Halloween night fade from truth to legend, wanting to forget about the fear. Needing to forget about the carnage. It was that brutal.

It transcended from being a visceral fear of everyone in the small village, to lapsing into local lore that became innocuous to the point that stories are told each Halloween that closely mirror the truth.

Children even go so far as to dress as the source of the legend, as the hollow husk of that former soul, in a dark cloak that covers their face, carrying a menacing-looking jack-o-lantern stating they’ll do so until coming across a soul that they will take, so they can trade the pumpkin for a head.

But, October 30th, when the last remaining local witch from that coven perished unexpectedly, things went awry.

Her niece, who was supposed to come quickly and cast the annual protection spell, was delayed through a series of unusual and inexplicable hurdles that amounted to very bad luck at the worst possible time.

The niece needed to be on site just outside the town of Drowsy Hollow near a specific tree, the oldest in the area, to cast the trusted annual protection spell. Since she could not get there in time, she cast a different spell remotely, to give her the opportunity to whisper commands to the horseman as he hunted, hoping it would be enough to ensure he took no lives that year.

Instead, not only did the new spell alter the course of events for the evening, it also changed the fabric of life for Isabella Krane, a young schoolteacher who happened to be traveling home alone during the witching hour.

Incidentally, she is a direct descendent of the man responsible for the horseman’s death.

Maybe it was the case of a perfect storm.

Or, perhaps, it’s fate, happening the way it is supposed to happen.

The coven was not prepared for what happened that night. No one was.

Chapter 1

THE STORY

I know this will sound crazy; and I’m the most skeptical, grounded, logical person I know, so if you’re reading this, I have to defend myself. This is what happened to me. As crazy as it’ll sound.

If you’re reading this, I didn’t burn these pages for some reason. Maybe I’m dead. Maybe he came back for me like he said he would.

Maybe I’ve been institutionalized for losing my mind.

The following is my recounting of what I remember happening to me. I have decided it might be therapeutic to get it down on paper, out of my head. I’ll probably write the details down and then burn these pages. And then maybe I’ll be able to go on with my life. Or at least put it away in a locked place in my mind, and then try to move forward.

I am filled with nausea at the notion of writing all of it down. I’m also filled with nausea for a different reason. A horrifying reason.

Each night when I close my eyes, I pray I’ll dream of something else instead. Or dream of nothing and just sleep.

But, that’s not what happens. Instead, I experience that night again in my dreams, as if it’s happening again. As if it’s now.

It’s been a full four and a half weeks of the same recollections, night after night. And each night when I dream it, it feels like the first time again. All over again.

I’m in a loop. As the dream begins, I’m clueless about what’s about to happen.

It’s only in the morning when I wake that I realize I’ve had the same dream yet again.

Each morning when I wake, I’m greeted with reality. And the reality is that they’re not just dreams. They’re recollections of what happened to me on October 31st in Drowsy Hollow.

It didn’t start out as a dream. I know this.

I have the mark on my body that proves it and I may also have a baby in my belly to make it irrefutable.

“And the soldier lost his head when the cannonball sounded with an enormous ear-splitting explosion and struck. It is said by some that each Halloween, he hunts for a new head, taking the first one he sees. But, some with more romantic hearts believe he may actually be hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find, when he was instead killed just before being sent off to go to war…”

“I think he wants a new love,” Misty sang out in her tiny voice.

“I think he wants to eat brains,” Jarod shouted.

“Then you better not go walking in the woods or he’ll wind up starving,” Misty’s twin sister Lana snapped.

The classroom broke out in giggles.

I waited for the giggles to fade, finished sharing the rest of the tale, and read them the epilogue about the carnage being stopped by local witches. I then placed the closed book on the shelf behind me and clasped my hands together.

“Okay, little ghosts, goblins, headless horsemen, headless horse-women, and assorted other creatures of Halloween, ten minutes until the bell rings and that signals the start of the party. How about if you practice your printing? I think there’s time…”

I heard groans as I turned to the chalkboard.

“Math then?” I called over my shoulder.

More groans.

I hid my smile as I lifted a piece of orange chalk and wrote out

Just joking. Happy Halloween! Who wants candy?

in large orange letters. The room broke out in giggles, me’s, and I do’s. I turned around to face seventeen very happy seven-year-old faces.

“How about a game of duck, duck, goose, instead? I brought so much candy to get us all started on the festivities! Let the sugar rush begin!”

Chapter 2

THE JOURNEY BEGINS

The whole town seemed to be at the school. After the bell rang, there was the annual parade of costumes through the school hallways and outside, marching to the village square.

After that, a massive potluck dinner took place in the school gym. This was followed by a Halloween dance and trick or treat event for the whole town.

For some reason, this town didn’t observe trick or treating in the usual sense. Instead of sending the children out into neighborhoods to ask for candy from neighbors and strangers, they set up each classroom with fun and games and prizes, which included piles of candy, candy apples, not to mention the coveted ribbons for best costume, scariest costume, most original costume, and so forth.

As a substitute teacher, not someone on their staff, I wouldn’t have been expected to stay, though I was welcome to. But, I’d been told by the secretary that I was being considered for a permanent position and it would look good if I did stay, made myself a part of the festivities, hence seeming like I’d be a natural fit for the close-knit community.

So, that was what I did. I stayed. I mingled. I handed out candy.

And when I left? That was when it all began. That was when the course of my life would be forever altered by a man on a horse.

A man without a head.

Chapter 3

THE BREAKDOWN

I was standing outside my car. My broken-down car. Smoke curls worked their way around my ankles ominously. The smoke was thick enough that it looked as if it could squeeze me, rendering me immobile. Thankfully, it didn’t. I could move freely. But, I wasn’t feeling good about where I was or about what might be up ahead during a walk in the dark, in the cold, but hopefully not coming across any nocturnal creatures.

My nearly new car stalled out of the blue and I couldn’t get a signal on my phone to call for roadside assistance.

So, I moved slowly, trying to be mindful of my surroundings, meandering down a winding four-lane country road --- the flashlight on my phone lighting my way as I pondered the strange curling mist.

The middle of no place, I was trying to find my way to any place where my phone would pick up a signal. I knew I was, at minimum, five miles away from civilization at 11:42 PM and thankfully, my phone was at almost full power. I was guessing the flashlight would use up a fair bit of it. I could only hope that whatever was stopping the phone from picking up signal, that the glitch would be over soon.

A chilly breeze blew straight through me, so cold and so brittle that I felt it deep in my marrow. I shuddered, aware of the chill one body part at a time, starting at my toes and working up to my shoulders. And then it happened a second time, immediately after the first, only stronger… blowing my pointy black witch hat off.

I looked over my shoulder, seeing that the hat was long gone, carried off on the breeze with a swirling funnel cloud of dirt and dead leaves. I blinked at it. I’d forgotten I still had it on.

I swallowed and soldiered on, holding my unruly long blonde hair back in a handful so as to stop it from whipping around in the biting wind.

It felt straight out of a horror movie. Not that I watched horror movies, if I could help it. I didn’t need them influencing me, dementing my mind.

It’s Halloween. I’m not typically the least bit superstitious about it, but if I were…this setting certainly would be the setting for something horrific.

It’s a little darker than I like to be walking in. It felt ominous. There was just something in the air…

I’m an autumn nut. I decorate in autumn. My house, myself. I have an autumn wardrobe including nail polish and cosmetics to match the beautiful color palette of the outside. I’m all about the pumpkin spice.

As for the scary parts of Halloween, they don’t exist for me. I’m in denial about it. I was conceived on Halloween night, according to my mother, and maybe that’s the biggest reason why I celebrate all the good in it. It wouldn’t be pleasant to think my existence was spawned from something evil.

My jack-o-lanterns are happy-face pumpkins. Not scary. I go for the cute Casper-style ghosts rather than the horrific Scream themes.

I joked, that day, substitute teaching for the second-grade students as I read them creepy stories, that the scary stuff was all poppycock, that they shouldn’t be frightened of anything in the stories I read. They’re just stories written by people with vivid (or, warped --- but I didn’t say that) imaginations.

I read those stories not because I wanted to, because they insisted it was a Drowsy Hollow Elementary School tradition. I was dressed in my roommate’s witch costume (because I’d gotten called in to teach at the eleventh hour, so had to think fast): black raggedy broomstick gothic dress. Black and white striped tights. Lace-up Doc Martens. My blonde tresses were left wild today and I went heavy on the black eye makeup. I have a lot of white-blonde hair and usually tie it back when teaching, but today, had let it go wild for the costume. Even still, I looked like a happy witch, like Samantha from Bewitched, likely, not like a hag: no warts, no green-tinged skin.

I’d taught twice previously at Drowsy Hollow Elementary School, and they seemed to like me. The staff were nice. The vice principal, serving as acting principal after the untimely freak accident that took the former principal, had hinted that when the new principal joined as of the thirtieth of November, he would be looking to fill some upcoming positions. When he left after dropping the hint, the secretary encouraged me to stay, show that I’d fit in well.

The class I’d taught that day was coverage for a teacher was nearly ready for maternity leave. Her return would coincide with another teacher’s retirement, so it was highly feasible that I’d have a full-time, permanent position --- and soon.

It was a longish forty-five-minute drive to my apartment in the city and on the way home I’d been thinking I’d need to move closer if I got the job. It’s a cute little town and I saw a sign in the window of the drycleaners, stating “Apartment for Rent.” The upper floor above the drycleaners appeared empty, with no drapes on the windows so I’d taken a photo with my cell phone of the sign as I paused at a red light.

Katie, my roommate, wouldn’t come, but the rent would likely be cheaper and if I had the teaching job and lived local, thereby cutting down on travel expenses and in-general expenses, I wouldn’t have to have a roommate.

Once I was out of the town limits, pondering how great it would be to move to the quaint little village, my car, which I hadn’t been having any problems with, simply stalled. It just died on the side of the road and refused to re-start. No power. No lights. And it was suddenly chilly out, so I knew I couldn’t sit there for long what with the sudden temperature drop. Ten minutes with no sign of a signal and no sign of any other cars, and I’d headed out on foot.

It’s only my third time driving this way, but I vaguely recalled passing a farmhouse last time I was on this stretch of road, between the school and the next little hamlet over, so figured I’d head in that direction, hoping to have a signal before then, and if not, hopefully someone would be home and kind enough to call a tow truck for me.

I had no idea how no one else has passed on the road so far, being that the dance would’ve ended soon after I’d left the school and at least a few of the dozens of people there should’ve come this way.

Fighting against the bitter cold… feeling like I was in January instead of the last day of October… I kept on moving, scanning my phone’s home screen with my eyes as I walked.

Searching for Signal

Chapter 4

THE WALK

The wind shifted directions, so instead of walking against the wind, it started to propel me forward, pushing my hair, my coat, the skirt of my dress, all forward. Something grazed the back of my head and by the time I realized it was my witches’ hat, it was too late; the hat had flown too far ahead for me to catch it.

How strange that it would fly away from me and then whack me in the back of the head again. The wind kept shifting, switching directions.

An eerie feeling soaked through me with the bitter cold. I raised my arm higher, squinting at my screen for any change in status. And then I looked ahead. More dark, more road, more leaves blowing, and nothing else.

I was beginning to question my decision to walk. Maybe I should’ve stayed in my car.

I glanced back, too far from it to see the car now, and strangely, the road behind me seemed to be bendy when I was sure it had been straight.

I shook it off, deciding I had to be wrong. Maybe it was a mind trick, an illusion of the dark, as I could’ve sworn I’d been on a straightaway and approaching a bend. But it was straight up ahead, and the road was bendy behind me. It all seemed switcheroo’d around.

I switched my phone off and then waited for it to power down, so I could try it again, hoping the reset found a signal for me.

A clopping sound approached from behind me. I glanced over my shoulder and saw a small covered wagon, pulled by a horse, coming from a straight road. A straight road? It was just bending a split second ago.

Ahead was a bend. I gave my head a shake, but didn’t have the chance to dwell, because I was relieved to see someone else.

I stopped and when it was about fifty feet away, I waved.

The wagon didn’t slow. At all. I saw the shadow of gloves holding the reins but couldn’t make out whether it was a male or female driving. I waited for them to slow, but they just kept going. I stood there, mouth wide open, shocked.

“Wait!” I started waving frantically, calling out, “Excuse me? Help? Help!”

They either couldn’t hear, or they ignored me by choice.

Darn. I stopped and frowned at my predicament and at them.

Who would see a woman alone on a dark night like this and at this late hour and keep driving? They would have passed my car and that would’ve made it clear that I’m stranded.

I scrunched up my face and realized I wouldn’t get anywhere if I stood still like that. I debated between going back toward my car, and continuing on forward. It was getting colder by the moment and I felt it bone-deep in just a thin jacket and this black broomstick dress that was quite gauzy so not doing much to keep me warm.

I had on thin striped Wizard of Oz witch-style tights and under my dress I wore a one-piece black Spanx-like shape bodysuit. I’m not overly curvy (though I’m sure not a size zero, particularly with all the fun-sized Snickers bars I’ve been chomping on the past few weeks in preparation for Halloween), but this worked wonders for covering up my most important parts under the semi-translucent black gauzy dress.

An eerie feeling prickled the back of my neck, like the feeling you get when you’re being watched.

I stood on the soft shoulder of the road, holding my phone, flashlight on, and then I realized I was down to 48% power, so this flashlight app was definitely draining my power. I wanted to switch it off, but I was concerned that I might be under the watch of some predator near low but dense bushes that lined both sides of the road.

Was an animal watching me? If so, what kind of an animal? There was a big difference between a harmless looky-loo, such as an owl, and something more ominous, something more carnivorous. I decided that maybe I should head back to my car.

My mind was racing, my flight or fight senses on the edge, because everything felt… off.

I twirled and picked up pace, heading back where I came from, glancing at my screen and seeing that there still wasn’t a signal. Shit. 36% power. 11:58 PM. It just said 48!

Oh, my goodness.

I turned it off as I walked, figuring I’d turn it on again to try to search again.

Nothing in terms of signal and it was suddenly at just 23% power.

What the fuck?

It was getting colder. My teeth chattered, and my hands felt like ice.

It even seemed darker, somehow more ominous suddenly as I came to a bend in the road that had forked in two directions. I definitely wasn’t here before.

I got closer and saw a tulip tree, lying there, looking like it was yanked by the roots, the giant bulbous root system on display in the dark. There was a smashed pumpkin beside it. The tree didn’t block the road, had fallen the other way, so I stepped over the pumpkin, feeling a strange sensation, like your funny bone, but it was my whole body getting that odd buzzing / tingling sensation.

Nothing looked remotely familiar. The ground beneath me, it dawned, wasn’t paved. When did it switch to dirt? I spun around to look behind me and the landscape seemed like it narrowed into thickening woods, rather than the side of the country road. My world tilted; I had a strange spinning sensation. I thrust my fingers into my hair and my phone thudded to the ground. I gave my head a shake and reached for it and that was when I heard the whinny of a horse.

Did the wagon circle back out of guilt at leaving me on the side of the road? The road that disappeared…

I looked up and saw that on the other side of the tulip tree was a wooden bridge, bridging what, I couldn’t tell, as it was too dark to see what was under it, but then the ground rose up a winding bright pathway leading to the top of a hill. My eyes must’ve been playing tricks on me as the landscape again looked completely different.

On top of the hill sat a horse. But there was no wagon this time; instead, a rider was on it. Just sitting there. Watching me.

There was no sound other than the wind and leaves rustling, but really… it felt like dramatic music should’ve started playing.

Fear prickled the back of my neck with more intensity and the chill factor in the air seemed to simultaneously increase. The horse and the rider were both so very ominous-looking.

The horse huffed, and mist blew out of his nose and seemed to move in slow-mo, snaking toward me, like more fingers.

Reflexively, I took a step back as a flashback played on the reels of my mind of the book I’d read that day, where a decapitated horseman rode on Halloween night to seek out both the solider that blew his head off with a cannonball as well as find himself a new head.

I glanced down at the smashed pumpkin by my feet next to that felled tulip tree. The tree must have fallen recently, the tulip flowers still in bloom.

How odd for them to be in bloom at the end of October. And what a shame that it’s down. The trunk’s circumference was absolutely massive. It must be a very old tree.

My mind flitted over the fact that I’d read that story aloud to the seven-year-olds, who were rapt with attention, but I was thinking it was all kinds of wrong to read that sort of a story to small children who would likely go home and have nightmares about it.

Those kids were rabid for the story and they told me that they had all heard it the year before, as well. The story’s setting was Drowsy Hollow, so my guess was that it was a local author, who had written a story for their home town and that was why every child in the school wanted to hear the story every Halloween.

Drowsy Hollow was a very small town, just a few thousand people. If the book was popular, it would put the place on the map. I had no idea whether it was popular; I’d never heard of it before that day. Then again, like I said, I shied away from the darker elements of my favorite time of year.

It was nice that the locals celebrated Halloween by reading about their local area, but that fictional tale certainly wasn’t appropriate for six and seven-year-olds and it also wasn’t appropriate for me, because it had evidently gotten into my head and freaked me out, making my mind play tricks on me.

At the end of the storybook, the horseman caught a poor man traveling in the woods alone near a tulip tree and claimed his head as his own. This would satisfy him until the following year, at which time he’d need to obtain a new head, so the old head would transform to a pumpkin and he’d discard that when he saw a new head to claim. The moral of the story warned that the man shouldn’t have gone out during the witching hour on Halloween. He knew the tale and chose to be a skeptic, and thus, it was his demise.

I was unhappy at reading it, yet the story’s epilogue said that a family of friendly witches cast a spell to protect the area around the headless horseman’s haunting grounds so that no one could enter them on the night each year that he came out to hunt. At least that bit of the story would give comfort to the children who read it.

Tulip tree. Smashed pumpkin. Witching Hour. Halloween night.

My ears were ringing, and bile rose in my throat.

Chapter 5

THE CHASE

What sort of sick joke was this? Halloween night, a man in a dark cloak on a horse in the middle of the woods, looking down into a weird valley (that I honestly feel like wasn’t here before, but it must have been) at me.

Maybe pranks like this were why the town kept the kids in a school gymnasium instead of letting them go out to trick or treat.

I had no clue how I wound up in the middle of these woods when I was just on a four-lane straight road a few minutes ago.

I felt illogical. Off the rails. I yearned to find logic, so I could gain a reality foothold in what felt like an unreal situation. I always looked for logic, for an explanation when things seemed out of whack.

Some guy on a horse shouldn’t scare me. But it did, and I knew why. It was all of what’d happened tonight combined.

Plus:

A. I read a creepy mind-dementing story today.

Corrupted brain at the hands of demented seven-year-olds.

B. The scary-looking man in a cloak up there on a dark horse was looking at me. They’re both looking at me.

Yes. They were both looking at me. It was like the horse was in on the joke, as odd as that sounds.

They stood there shadowed, the moon high above them and in full view. Thick smoke curls weren’t just crawling around my ankles; they seemed like they were climbing like ivy up my body as well as surrounding the man and the horse on the hill. Connecting us. It was the strangest thing, this mist wrapping around me like fingers. Freezing cold fingers that swirled to snake and curl around me, and then reach back to twist around the man on the horse. And though I couldn’t see his face, I knew the rider was looking at me. So was his horse.

I stood there, absorbing the scene.

As my mind weighed out everything about the journey home so far, it became absolutely crystal clear that there was not one single funny thing about this ill-timed and possibly elaborate prank.

But, the tulip tree? That set off a prickling awareness, warning, something…alarm bells. Major alarm bells.

The rider kicked his heels against the side of the animal’s flesh, while flicking the reins in his grip and in a flash, the horse was at full gallop, heading straight for me. And I could almost swear the horse’s eyes were glowing red for a split second.

My mouth dropped in shock.

Galloping, no very nearly flying down a steep hill at a speed that seemed dangerous… for both the horse and the rider. I somehow got unstuck, realizing that there was no good reason why that horse would be running straight at me like that, so I spun, and I started to run.

It was cold. It was worse than cold. My feet pounded against the brittle and now frosted ground, pain shooting up my ankles, my calves. I was in dense bushes, and it was abundantly clear that I was being aggressively pursued.

I zigged and zagged through mist-thickened trees, astonished at how thick this mist was, so thick, it resembled spider webs. I heard those hooves pounding the dirt, getting closer and closer, heard how winded I sounded as I panted and grunted while running. I was afraid to look back, afraid it’d slow me down and that I’d see that he was right on my heels.

Out of nowhere, the landscape seemed to warp and the earth beneath my boots just slid away.

This caused me to trip over my own feet and go tumbling down a hill. Jagged rocks along the way didn’t slow me down. Instead, they made the tumble all the more painful.

Something sharp sliced through my striped tights, breaking the skin on my left thigh. My head hit something hard, a stump, I think, and it halted my progress just before the very bottom of the hill, where there was a fast-flowing creek. Narrow, too narrow to be a river, but wide enough to carry me away as it was very fast flowing.

Although it was dark out, it was as if the water glowed. And the glowing water looked very much like white water rapids. If that stump hadn’t stopped me, I’d have gone straight in.

Disoriented, I pushed up with my hands in the dirty, cold and frosty sticks and leaves around me and got to my knees. I took a minute, balancing on my palms, to catch my breath and will the wooziness from the fall away. My head throbbed at the back. I blinked and blinked, breathing hard.

I heard a huff.

The horse.

My eyes moved up and I spotted that horse at the top of the hill I’d just tumbled down. I saw the rider in profile. My vision was a bit fuzzy, but he sat there, looking down.

The rider, who I could only see the silhouette of, as he wore a long and hooded cloak, pulled on the reins and then he and the horse disappeared from my field of vision.

Did he give up? Where did they go?

I stared at the space they used to occupy for a moment and then took stock. My leg? Bleeding. It stung. I rubbed the back of my head, where I found a big bump. It was freezing cold and my hands were a bit scraped up, too --- not to mention filthy.

I had leaves in my hair, mud and dirt all over me.

I need to get out of here, get away from that psycho on a horse!

I’ve gone deeper into some woods down in some sort of valley. Where does that river lead? I don’t know this area at all. I did know I had to find a way to go up, as I had no idea where that rapidly flowing waterway lead, and it could be dangerous. Up was where my car was. Up was where I came from.

I fumbled to unzip and then reach into my purse, which was on me cross-body (thankfully, or I’d have lost it during the fall), and pulled my phone out again. 16% power. No signal.

Damn it!

It said it was 11:59 PM.

No. That can’t be. Surely, ten or fifteen minutes or longer have passed.

I pushed away the thoughts that tumbled through my brain, somersaulting into a very scary place that would do nothing but make my panic increase.

I began the climb up, noting that it had gotten even frostier and colder out. I turtled my icy hands inside my jacket and attempted to grab at sticks and low-hanging tree limbs to aid in the climb.

The blood trickling out of the gash on my thigh was both hot and cold and soaking my tights. I had no choice but to keep on climbing, though. I had to get back to my car, where I could lock the door, where I could try my phone again, maybe it would start. Maybe someone would drive by and give it a jump or drive me to town.

My foot slipped on the frosty muck, sending me to my knees where they encountered jagged rocks. I grunted and got back to my feet, thirsty and cold and, more frightened than I have ever been in my life.

If I went downstream, I didn’t know what was down there.

If I got up, would I run into that man on the horse again? He wasn’t out to help me. He was clearly out to frighten me or possibly even hurt me.

It was just far too cold to hunker down for any length of time, so I had to keep moving.

I got to three quarters of the way up and slid, losing my grip on the ground and the brush I’d grabbed. I slid half way down again, landing on all fours, muddying my knees even more.

I whimpered and crawled, using my hands, using my nails, without the protection of my jacket sleeves. I grunted as I clawed my way up, gripping and moaning with effort as if my life depended on it. It felt like that might be the case!

Miraculously, I finally got to the top of the hill and found myself on level ground again. Relief flooded me as I fought to get my bearings.

Which way did I come from?

Left. I came from the left.

I decided to head that way, teeth chattering, my whole body aching. My head felt a little bit woozy, but I knew I couldn’t stop. I had to keep going. My feet moved slowly through what was now muck, which was caked on my boots, slowing me down. A lot.

I lifted out my phone again. 4% power. 11:59.

“God, what in the fuck is going on?”

How was it still 11:59?

I heard a huff and hooves clopping on the ground. I spun around and saw, not even fifty feet back, the horse. The cloaked man.

Shit!

“Um, I’m lost,” I called out. What did I have to lose? Besides everything? What other choice was there?

He was so close to me, surely he could catch me. But, maybe he would give up the silly prank and help me. If he’s just making a joke out of things because of this town and that local legend… I won’t know if I don’t ask.

“Can you stop fucking around here? Can you help me get to town or let me use your phone?”

The answer came in the form of the horse rearing onto its hind legs, the rider pulling back.

The horse’s eyes glowed like they were red lightbulbs and the whinny that came out of its mouth was the most foreboding sound I’ve ever heard in my life.

If this was the reply to my plea for help, I’m in serious fucking trouble!

More icy tendrils of fog wrapped around me, and I was afraid I’d turn into a solid block of ice at any second.

Shit.

I took off running again and for the longest time, that huge black horse just stayed reared on his hind legs, making that awful, awful sound. How the rider held on so long was beyond me…

And then the ground began to shake as it galloped toward me.

I was running.

How could I outrun a horse? A giant powerful horse. With glowing red fucking eyes, no less! It was simple. I couldn’t. It was only a matter of seconds, likely, before I got caught and faced my fate.

All the years of avoiding the horror films, the darkness in the world, and here it was right behind me like I’m destined to be the distressed and fated damsel in a horror film.

There was still that hill beside me. As hard as I fought to climb it, it felt like it was my only chance.

I saw a clearing, heading straight down toward the creek, so I decided to drop and roll a little, but the slope took over and I had no control over how fast I tumbled down. I rolled and rolled
hitting rocks and feeling sharp things rip into the fabric of my clothing, snagging my jacket, wrenching my hair along the way.

My body stopped way too close to the river for comfort. The sound of rapidly moving water thundered in my ears, frigidly cold water actually splashed my face. I tried to scramble to my feet, but it was shaky, so I only got to my knees, crying out in pain and feeling so very weak. Tears streamed down my face.

What on earth am I going to do? Follow the river? Which way?

I heard that horse again.

Shit. Fuck!

Horses have always sounded like something wonderful to me. Would I ever hear a horse make that noise again and not feel chilled down to my soul?

Would I make it out of here alive to even hear the sound of a horse, to see the sun in the sky again?

I spotted him, coming on that horse, not up on that hill. Nope; galloping toward me, following the flow of the river. I got up and turned to run downstream. I was crying, my run more of a stumble, with burning in my lungs, aching in every muscle of my body, and a full awareness of my bleeding hands and bleeding leg. My feet pounded the mucky cold ground hard, but then my ankle twisted at an odd angle as my foot met a stump and it absolutely killed.

I tried to keep running, aware that he’d strangely not caught up to me yet, though I wasn’t able to run very fast, especially against a horse and certainly not with twisted ankle, but I did not dare to look back.

Shit, my ankle seriously fucking hurt!

He was playing with me. He could’ve caught me by now. He was enjoying this too much to let it end so soon. Fucking sicko!

Finally, the river seemed to bend, and I had hope that somewhere around that bend would be something, anything that would give hope of getting out of this situation. This crazy, whacked, nightmare of a situation.

Nightmare. Yeah, a nightmare.

That’s it. It makes sense now!

I’m having a nightmare. I’m going to wake up in my bed, fine, absolutely fine. It’s not dark. I’m not in the woods all raggedy and muddy and bleeding. Time isn’t frozen. I’m not being pursued by a man in a dark cloak on a horse with red glowing eyes. It’s November 1st and I’m in my own bed with my autumn quilt that’s covered in leaves and cute little pumpkins. I just need to wake up.

Wake up, Isabella!

Everything inside of me was telling me that I needed to keep running and not turn around, though I heard the water rushing, heard the horse’s hooves pounding as if he was at full gallop. I blinked in astonishment as I caught a glimpse of smoke curling, not toward me like that creepy mist, but toward the sky, as if from a chimney. There was a faint light, too. A cabin! A little cabin sat near the creek’s edge with… yes! --- smoke curling from the chimney and weaving through the trees toward me. That meant someone was there. Having a fire. Someone! Someone who can help me!

Hope. Glorious hope.

My phone was suddenly ringing from my purse. My phone? Signal! Do I have signal?

I fumbled through my bag for my phone as I ran.

No, not my ringtone…

It was my timer done alert, a xylophone trilling sound. I got it into my hand and saw the screen.

No signal. 1% power.

Timer: Done.

Done what? I didn’t set a timer. It’s 12:00 midnight.

Not 11:59, finally, but I know, I know it has been way more than a minute.

What’s going on? What, what?

I’d gotten closer to the cabin, within several hundred feet, I’d guess. My breath came in gasps and my dirty face was covered in half-frozen tears.

The hooves got louder behind me, closer. It made no sense that it sounded like running at a full gallop and yet it hadn’t overtaken me.

“Helllllllllp!” I shouted as loud as I could, bending toward where I wanted my voice to travel, to the cabin, but my voice came out barely above a hoarse croak. I willed it to travel far enough to be heard, willed the door I could now see to open, and for someone to come out to help. Maybe with a gun to scare off the guy on the horse.

Please. Please!

I willed it, but it didn’t work, because that’s when I felt it. They were now alongside of me instead of behind me, keeping pace, yet the horse’s feet galloped, and I wasn’t running fast, so it made no fucking sense. Smoky mist fingers snaked around me at my shoulder height, more fog came from the horse’s nostrils,. I glanced at the horse and his red eyes were terrifying, so terrifying I couldn’t even maintain eye contact, so my gaze darted upward to the rider. I saw a black dirty boot, dark brown trousers, and gloved hands holding reins. I looked up higher and I couldn’t make out his face. It was just dark.

“Why? Why are you ch-chas---" I asked, breathlessly. And before I got out the “ing me?” part, he leaned over to the side, reached down, and shackled my arm with his grip.

I’m about to be trampled by this horse. I can’t wrench my arm away!

I tried to keep my feet moving, but it was no use, because I was lifted by my arm, my feet kicking in mid-air… and OUCH! It felt like my arm was about to leave the socket. He hauled me across the horse, and then, balancing on my belly in front of the rider, I noticed immense heat coming from that horse’s back.

It was so hot under my stomach, it was as if I was riding on top of fire. The heat seared through me, warming my frigid body quickly. I looked up through my messy hair that was all over my face and saw nothing. No face. No head. Nothing.

I blinked. I blinked at nothing. Nothing in the hood. His hand was on me, holding me in place as the horse ran at full speed. His other hand held loosely to the rein.

I don’t know if I screamed. I don’t know, because I guess I blacked out.

Chapter 6

THE CABIN

My eyes opened, and I blinked a few times and tried to take in my surroundings.

I was on a small, round rug in front of a crackling fire with a thick (kind of itchy) tan blanket over me. Adjacent to the rug I saw rough unfinished wood plank flooring that looked the same as the log walls around me. Behind me stood an old upholstered beige chair.

I sat up, aware that my tights were ripped even worse. In fact, the left leg had a large rip through those tights at the thigh, showing where my leg was bleeding. It looked like it had been separated from the space around the gash and it was ripped so wide that only a thread stopped the rest of the fabric from falling and dropping down to my ankle. A damp off-white cloth lay over the cut and the aroma was of antiseptic, a cloying scent, that felt like it was directly inside my nostrils. My tights and boots were covered in mud.

Where am I? Who performed first aid on my leg?

As I pondered the surroundings, it rushed back in. All of it.

The horse. The man chasing me, who lifted me. The faceless headless man. Like the storybook.

An embroidered and tasseled pillow sat on the floor beside me. My head had been on it when I woke. The blanket was over most of me, but my sore leg had been left uncovered. Looking at my hands, it was evident someone has wiped them. They weren’t spotless; dirt was caked under my nails, but my hands were nowhere near as mucky and dirty as they were, and my hands also smelled like antiseptic, covered in scratches.

My coat was off and sat with my bag, the strap draped over the chair back.

I continued to take in my surroundings, a long high table against one wall that had a window, and beside that was the door. On the other side of the door was another window with a wooded high-backed bench with cupboards and drawers. The cabin had a small square table and one simple wooden chair as well as the chair behind me and that was the extent of the furnishings. I craned my neck to look over my shoulder, past the chair, and saw a ladder that lead up. I craned my neck farther, seeing a darkened loft.

I’m not sure who rescued me and where they went. Did I faint and fall off the horse? My injuries certainly didn’t seem congruent with being thrown or falling any distance beyond the injuries I knew I had before it caught me.

It…

I couldn’t seem to wrap my head around this. Any of this.

The door swung open and crashed against the side of the bench and I saw him. It. Him?

I gasped. The cloak, the boots, the breaches, the gloves. The hood, pulled forward so I couldn’t see eyes. If there were eyes. There weren’t, because I didn’t see anything below. No nose. No mouth. No nothing. The hood was shaped as if there was a head. But I knew that there was nothing in the hood.

I decided he must be a ghost of some sort.

He’s tall, broad and has a muscular physique.

No head.

He does not have a fucking head!

Panicking. I was panicking. Breathing hard. I felt faint.

Don’t faint again! I couldn’t faint again. I had to keep my wits about me.

I thought back to the story I told the children.

“And the soldier lost his head when the cannonball sounded with an enormous ear-splitting explosion and struck. It is said by some that each Halloween, he hunts for a new head, taking the first one he sees. But, some with more romantic hearts believe he may actually be hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find, when he was instead killed just before being sent off to go to war…”

Oh God. If he were a simple ghost, he wouldn’t be able to hurt me. He’d be a presence, I’m guessing. Not that I ever believed in ghosts. Well… I might have to amend that statement.

He’d lifted me off the ground and brought me here. He cleansed my hands and the wound on my leg. He’s not an ordinary ghost (as if there’s anything ordinary about a ghost).

I have to get out of here!

I scrambled to my feet and attempted to make a run for it. I was unsteady, as unsteady as a baby colt taking its’ first steps, and as soon as I scampered across the threshold of the door, he grabbed me. I was scooped up with an arm that went around my waist. I squealed and kicked with both legs, but my left ankle was nearly useless and very sore. Holding me with one arm hooked around the middle of me, me up and off the ground, he took three paces and put me back where I’d been before, planting me with my fanny on the pillow on the floor.

He stood there, hands on his waist for a moment and it made me feel like I’d been reprimanded. I shrank into a ball, pulling my legs to my chest and aiming my eyes at my knees.

He twisted and moved to the door. I watched as he lugged in a big armful of chopped wood from the ground just outside the doorway. I scampered back against the chair behind me and wrapped my arms around my knees, huddling as he walked past me to the fireplace and dropped the stack of wood into a metal basket.

He moved back to the door and slammed it, making me startle at the noise. Chilly gusts of air had already filled the space and made it an uncomfortable climate.

He was standing there, as if regarding me a moment, then moved to the table against the wall, giving me what would be his profile. I watched as he removed his leather gloves and dropped them on the table.

Hands. Regular hands. Nothing transparent or ghostly about them.

Huh?

I frowned at the sight from my place on the floor, plastered against the front of the chair. He reached inside his cloak and pulled a small cinched bag from somewhere, then un-cinched it and poured small leaves into a bowl on the table top. His movements? They were confident, graceful. He reached to an overhead cupboard and opened the door and produced a small glass bottle with a cork stopper. He set it beside the bowl, then began crushing the leaves in the bowl with a pestle. I watched him as he opened and poured the entire contents of the bottle into the bowl. He mixed it for a moment.

I swallowed and shivered.

What should I do? How can I run? I’m not fast. He’s already caught me.

I wasn’t only injured, but also lightheaded. And not entirely certain what would happen if I did run again. Would he hurt me? Is he going to hurt me? Is it just a matter of time before it happens?

He chased me. That was not a friendly encounter… at all. Is he going to take my head? Did he smash that pumpkin on the ground knowing he had a new head, because I was wandering in the area? God, this is so ridiculous…

As ridiculous as it is, this was where I was. This was my reality.

He stopped and lifted a wet cloth out of a bowl and began wiping his hands. Strong-looking tanned hands. They didn’t look remotely ghost or ghoul-like.

He turned, the bowl in his hand, and moved toward me.

I gasped as he got close, which didn’t take long as the whole cabin was maybe 15 x 15, roof sloped on one side only, where the loft was, and I’m being generous with that guess.

He got to his knees and reached with his right hand for my leg. He gestured strangely. I was still huddled. Frozen. Petrified. He stretched out one leg and pointed at it. He then gestured to the bowl in his left hand.

I stared, frozen, and his hand grasped the ankle of my sore leg (sore ankle, too) and tugged, gently. His hand felt warm, normal, but the ankle hurt because I’d twisted it, so I winced while gasping and his hand went up, palm facing me. And then he signaled for me to straighten my leg by showing me that he was straightening out his own leg, pointing down as he did so.

I sat there, shaking so hard, my eyes on his hand, but I managed to mimic his leg movement and straightened my leg. He sat, spreading his legs and taking my heel into his hand. He placed the bowl on the floor and then undid my boot laces and pulled the boot off. My ankle looked pretty swollen. He hauled on the cuff of my tights on my left leg, separating the upper piece from the rest, making the fabric drop to rest around my ankle. He yanked off my sock, took the ripped part of the tight off, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a metal tin and opened, rubbing that cloying salve on it. It looked clear, like Vaseline, and the aroma was like a cross between a Christmas tree and Vicks VapoRub.

Immediately, my ankle started to warm up, the salve actually soothing the pain. He kept rubbing my ankle with both hands and then placed the lid on top of the tin and shoved it back into his pocket.

His index finger poked my big toe strangely. I looked down from the emptiness of the hood, at my toenails, which had been painted pumpkin orange with jack-o-lantern happy face decals on the nails of my big toes.

Have I amused him? Or have I insulted him with my toenails?

He put my foot into his lap and reached for the bowl and then lifted the fabric of the top of my tights further, tearing them to better reveal the full gash on my thigh.

I winced. A nasty gash. And it hurt. He slathered the wet, green paste from the bowl onto it and then held his finger up in a one-second gesture, lifting my foot and placing it on the floor. He reached for the damp cloth that fell when I tried to bolt and appeared to inspect it. He rose and went back to the table and dropped it into a bowl. I heard it plop into liquid.

He reached into a drawer and fetched another cloth just like it, then poured from a beige ceramic pitcher to drench it, holding it over the basin, and then wrung it out, returned, squatted, and gently placed the wet cloth across the gash. He ripped my tights even further upwards, in an annoyed motion, getting them out of the way, making me startle at the sound. I was more than uncomfortable physically, and also with my state as he’d ripped the tights to just where my underwear started to show at my hip.

I swallowed nervously. Nervous? What an understatement. He was leaned over and if I didn’t know better, he would look like any other person bent over. The hood sat over what would be the shape of a head. His shoulders were broad, and his back looked strong. His hands? They appeared absolutely human. Adult. Not old and wrinkled. Just… ordinary male hands. If I’m honest, they look good. Attractive. A working man’s hands.

The hood rose as if he was looking at me, but I saw nothing but darkness. I stared where his face would be if he had one.

“Th-thank you. That feels better.”

The hood tipped, as if in acknowledgement, and he moved to the fireplace and began to move more logs into the flames. He poked at the fire and then hung the poker from a hook beside the fireplace. He moved back to the counter again and rinsed his hands in the basin, then dried them and lifted a glass decanter up and removed the stopper. It looked to be antique, like everything in this cabin. He poured into a big and fancy but slightly tarnished silver chalice that he’d fetched from the cupboard.

He returned, squatted, and passed the chalice to me.

I accepted it, taking in a sharp breath as his fingers touched mine. He moved back a few inches and simply stood there.

I held the cup, looking up at his empty hood.

He waited.

I tentatively took a small sip. Brandy? Cherry brandy, I think. I’m not much of a drinker.

It went down warm and the warmth spread through my chest.

“Thank you.”

He tipped his hood again.

I took more, a bigger gulp. Now I truly understood the meaning of the term liquid courage. I understood it; I just didn’t feel any braver.

What should I do? What to say? I’m in a cabin in the woods with a headless man who has tended to my wounds…wounds that I have because I ran from him.

He walked to the door and stepped outside again. Seconds later I heard the whinny of the horse and it chilled my blood. Scariest horse ever. Had he left? I sat, frozen still. I strained to listen. I heard nothing. No sound of hooves or rustling of horse tackle or anything else but the crackling fire inside the cabin.

It dawned that I must be quite a sight.

Ripped witch’s costume with one striped muddy leg with one boot on, sitting on the floor of a cabin drinking brandy from an antique chalice in front of a roaring fire wondering about my headless captor who I learned about (from a children’s book!). Oh, and his demonic-looking horse.

I took another mouthful of the brandy, set the cup down beside me, and got to my feet. I tested pressure on my sore foot. It was definitely a little bit better than before he put the salve on it, but not great. I walked to the front window slowly, hunched over so I could hold the damp cloth to my thigh. This cloth wasn’t a typical fabric, not terry cloth or plain normal cotton. Thick woven, it wasn’t very soft, and was an off-white color. It made me think of antique fabric we saw at a pioneer museum when I was a child.

I got to the window and peered out, but saw nothing but dark.

Did he go?

I sidestepped to the door and carefully opened it to look out. Nothing. River straight ahead about thirty or maybe forty paces. There’s a pathway leading off to the side and it looks like it rounds the cabin. I decide I should go investigate. I carefully limped back to the chair, putting as little pressure on my ankle as possible. My bag had been unzipped. Had it been rifled through?

I had nothing much of any real value in there. A bit of cash. I checked and found it was still there. My cell phone. Useless. A stocked makeup bag, a bottle of Advil.

Oh. Advil.

I decided I should take two. Half a dozen pens of different colors. My car keys. My phone. Some receipts. A little notepad with a cute black kitty on it.

I got my missing sock and other Doc on, leaving the laces loose and tucking them into my boot. It was not very pleasant. My ankle really hurt. I sent a silent prayer up that I’d get away without running into it…him. I hoped that following the river actually lead somewhere and that the somewhere it leads would help me escape.

I looked down at my one mostly bare leg.

This was not ideal with it being frigidly cold out there. But, to stay here? This can’t end well with me here and him potentially returning.

What if he left me in here to be warm and dry until morning? What if he’s some sort of angel? A headless horseman angel? I’m so ridiculous. I have to get out of here. I have to try.

I put my jacket on.

I’ll look. I’ll look outside and if it looks like there’s no escape that I can safely do on foot, I’ll come back and stay where it’s warm and guard myself with that hot poker over there and hope he doesn’t try to hurt me.

In fact…

I grabbed the poker because I can use it a bit like a walking stick, stabbing the ground for stability as I try to hobble away on this bad ankle and as a sword-like item if I need to defend myself. Holding it, I slowly moved out the door. I winced and moaned with every step. Oh, this wasn’t my best idea. But, it sure isn’t a good idea to stay.

I headed outside and carefully and painfully made my way around the building to the other side.

Shit. Shit!

There was a single-stall paddock built to lean against a smallish woodshed and I spotted him there. There with the horse. His body twisted, and he faced my direction and a split second later, was running in my direction.

Fuck!

“No! I need to go!” I shouted and held the poker out.

He closed the distance in what seemed like a flash and I swung wildly, tearing his cloak at the chest. I didn’t know if I caught his body or not, because in a flash, I was up and over his shoulder. The poker fell to the ground. He crouched to lift it, with me over his shoulder and oddly, it felt like there was something under the hood, a neck, a head, though I couldn’t see it. It was as if I could feel it against my side.

He stalked back to the cabin with me and once we were in the doorway, the door slammed and then he slapped my butt angrily! I yowled in surprise, startled at the action.

Oh my God! What now?

He headed straight for the ladder and then we were going up.

Chapter 7

THE LOFT

What the…

Oh gosh.

He ducked when we got to the top. He took a step in, and dropped me onto something soft. A bed. Most of the small and low-ceilinged loft was just bed. A plush feather bed.

I sat up. He hauled my bag off me and tossed it to the side.

“Please, let me go. I don’t know what you want with me, but if you could let me go, I’ll…”

He leaned over, the action making me halt, mid-sentence. His ungloved hand gave me a shove. It wasn’t a hard shove, but it made me fall onto my back. He backed away and down the ladder.

I blinked a few times in the nearly pitch-dark space. Seconds later, he was back with a lantern in his hand. It illuminated the emptiness of his hood as well as the space, which was sparse and rough looking, having just the bed with light bedding amid the darkened unfinished slanted log ceiling. I gulped down fear, paralyzing fear looking into the emptiness of the hood, catching sight of skin below where the neck would be. I couldn’t tear my eyes away, but before I could see much, he set the lantern at the edge of the loft, and then pulled across folding wooden gates that were on either side of the upright ladder. He pulled them across and fastened some sort of metal latch to hold them closed and then lifted the lantern and used it to illuminate his finger, pointing at the gate. He wagged his finger. He was telling me not to go to the other side of the gate.

But… he’s on this side of the gate with me. Why?

Why? I did not even wanna think about what this could mean.

“…hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find.”

God, no.

He leaned over and pushed the hem up on my dress to examine my leg, placing his hand on my knee. I lost my cloth. I’d had it in my hand when I’d gone outdoors, and I guess it fell somewhere outside when he’d hauled me back inside.

My leg was still coated with the paste he made, glistening in the dim lamplight. I looked back up at the dark hood.

He moved toward me, making my heart hammer against my chest wall, until he came to sit on the edge of the bed.

Oh God. What the fuck?

“Wake up, wake up, wake up.” I chanted to myself.

“Fuck, Isabella. Wake up, damn it!”

He sat, listening to me, I guess. No ears, but obviously hearing me.

I slapped my own face. “Wake up!”

He grabbed my wrist and pointed with the other hand, reprimanding me. For what? Hitting myself? For trying to wake up from this nightmare?

There was loaded silence. He let go of my wrist.

I thrust my hands into my hair. What the heck would come next?

He leaned over and twisted the metal on the side of the lantern, plunging us into darkness. Not exactly pitch-black, what with the fire downstairs in the small space, but pretty darn close.

I heard the distinct noise of boots being kicked off. And then the sounds of undressing.

I closed my eyes and tears squeezed out of them, forcing them to trail down my cheeks. My front teeth were rooted in the tip of my tongue and I was shaking so hard.

My eyes were shut tight, listening to the rustling of clothing. I couldn’t see what he was doing but there was no denying that I knew what this meant, what he intended to do.

I opened my eyes to nothing. Less than nothing, because the little bit of filtering light from below was now gone. There was not a sliver of light anywhere to be seen. I lifted my hands up tentatively in front of my face, I couldn’t even see my own hands in front of my face.

Maybe I should be glad I can’t see, because how absolutely horrifying would it be to see him, headless, without the cloak hiding the horror of it?

What do I do? Try to fight off a headless ghost or other conjuring up in a loft without any weapons with a useless ankle and a bleeding leg?

I’m a 25-year-old virgin who is… what… about to be raped by a headless ghost?

I whimpered.

“Please, let me go. Please. I’ll just go. I’m sorry that I ran. I’m sorry I even came here tonight. My car broke down and I got lost. I was just trying to find a signal for my phone, so I could call roadside assistance. Please. Let me leave.”

He was still.

“I won’t tell anyone. You don’t have to worry. I’ll leave, and it’ll be like I was never here, and you can go back to… whatever you normally do.”

He slammed his fist into something. The wall? I jolted, thinking Oh shit. I’ve made him angry!

I scrambled backwards, having no real place to go.

He grabbed my non-sore ankle and tugged, making me slide down until I was flat on my back.

I felt the tension leave his body. It went from palpable to gone.

Just like that.

He leaned over and pulled a blanket across me. No, not just me. Over top of us. Us.

My heart was racing, my crying audible, loud even.

“No. Please just---” His fingertips touched my lips.

I gulped.

They moved to my cheeks, my wet cheeks, and caressed. And then they were in my hair, softly, gently.

I could smell the fire, the wood in the cabin. My antiseptic soaked skin. I could hear the crackling, faint as the fire down there burnt on, yet strangely wasn’t giving off any light. I could feel his hand move to my shoulder and then it caress softly, momentarily disarming me. Something shifted in his slow and almost reverent movements and then there was urgency as he started to pull at the fabric of my jacket, yanking it down. And then he was trying to haul my dress up, over my head.

“No, don’t.” I was tangled up in the sleeves of my coat, which hung around my lower back. I struggled out of it.

He squeezed my shoulder gently, almost reassuringly.

Nothing about this would reassure me. No. I had to make this stop.

The dress was being pulled up. I heard the fabric protest at his yanking. I grunted in protest and then I begin to kick and fight back against it happening, but it happened anyway, my strength no match for his. In a matter of mere moments, I found myself in the bodysuit and what was left of the ripped striped tights.

My boots were pulled off and the tights quickly yanked. I heard them tear again as he tried pulling the remnants of them down my legs.

I flailed and punched erratically, hitting his chest, I think.

Pain shot through my ankle at my actions, but I ignored it.

He slapped my good leg, making me jolt in shock at the sting and the implication that I’d better cooperate otherwise be hurt. And then he grabbed for the tights again.

I moved to fight, punching and connecting with some part of him that I could swear was a jaw. Wrong. It had to be.

He slapped my leg again, harder, just below my butt, warning me. I froze.

He slowly shimmied the tights the rest of the way off, minding the place on my outer thigh where my leg had the gash, the place covered in the salve.

His hand traveled up the length of my other leg and then paused at my hip, finding the bodysuit. Both his hands began roving over my torso, either seeking entrance or simply enjoying touching me. Maybe both. They got to my breasts and I gasped and slapped at them. He grabbed both hands and pinned them above my head, hovering over my body, knees on either side of my hips.

“Oh God, oh please, don’t. Don’t.” I pleaded. “Please don’t…”

He released my hands and began to run his own hands over my torso again. This time, both landed on my breasts at the same time and then he was pulling and yanking at the skin-tight bodysuit, trying to get it off me as if it was a mission.

I needed out of this loft. How could I do that in the pitch dark? Get the gates open, find the ladder, climb down backwards, all while avoiding him. The only way to do that would be to kill him. How could I kill him unarmed up here? How could I kill a man who had already been decapitated?

I sobbed.

He reached under me, along my back, likely looking for laces or some way of opening my bodysuit. The fabric simply stretched with his tugging and yanking and obviously he knew nothing about the snaps between my legs. Between my legs. I closed them tight.

This can’t be happening to me. This hideous thing, me in a bed with a headless monster pawing at me, trying to strip me naked.

I got a surge of strength, a surge of “Oh fuck, no…” and I started to fight harder, fight like my life depended on it.

My chastity depended on it. My life may very well also.

After he has his way, will he decapitate me? Will he murder me?

I thrashed.

I tried my hardest to fight, but he was so much stronger. Of course. He’s not even a person. What is he? And his hands seemed like they were everywhere, moving on my body, stopping me from getting away, pinning me. My palm hit something that felt distinctly like a cheek. I froze.

A face? No. I had to be wrong. A shoulder maybe. First, I felt like I’d punched a jaw, now like I slapped a face?

At my going stock still, he began to explore me with his palms again. His hands moved over my breasts. I smacked at his hand. He grabbed my chin in his grasp and held it. It felt like a stern warning.

He squeezed slightly, not enough to hurt, but I was guessing he was losing patience with me.

Should I just lie here and get it over with?

It was no use pleading with him. He can’t speak to me.

Was that a face I slapped? It must have been his shoulder.

He flipped me, fast, onto my belly and I shrieked. His hands moved over my back, tugging at the fabric of the spandex suit, trying to find a way to get it off.

His hands moved down my body to my hips and then one of his hands rounded my hip and slid between my legs.

I gasped and squeezed my legs tighter, fighting against the intrusion.

He slid between my parted legs behind me, parting them further with his knee. His legs felt bare, slightly furry, felt human. And I knew my earlier fears were valid, because yes… he was naked.

“Please! What are you gonna do to me?” I shakily asked.

He flipped me again to my back and continued pulling at my bodysuit.

“What?” I demanded, “What do you want?” I slapped blindly at him in the dark.

He grabbed my right hand and brought it forward, wrapping it around his cock. His large, erect cock.

Oh shit. What did I go and ask that for? Evidently, he understood me. The tip of his hood downstairs. This answer to my question.

He used my hand, his over mine, to move my hand up and down over his…cock.

God. Mortification wouldn’t remotely describe what I was feeling.

He worked my hand up and down, not letting me pull away from his hot, hard length.

His other hand moved between my legs again, trying to get the elastic aside, to get his fingers inside the fabric of the crotch. A snap let go, making an audible click. He stopped. He let go of my hand and I winced. Oh, damn.

He reached down with both hands, fingers pushing at the fabric as I writhed and kicked. He found the other snaps, yanked, and they all released.

The skin-tight bodysuit was immediately pulled over my head. He was triumphant in his movements, I could feel the excitement in the way he did it. He figured out the puzzle of my clothes and got me to just my bra and underpants.

“S-stop this. Please…”

His hands moved over my simple jersey panties, across my hips, underneath my backside, then his hands moved up my body to my lace bra, as he examined the fabric with fingertips.

His hand dipped into the cup of my bra and he strummed my nipple. It peaked. He did it again.

His other hand moved into my panties. I squeaked in protest, but his fingers glided over me and my body responded with goosebumps. And wetness.

I can’t believe there’s wetness. I can’t believe my belly is dipping.

“Please don’t do this. I’ve never been with anyone. I don’t want this to be… it’s been… saved… for when I get married.”

It sounded so silly now. Me, holding onto that V-card. I came close to giving it up. Twice, actually, but then I found out that the first guy had faked the engagement just to get into my pants, figuring once we were engaged, I’d give it up.

I found out the truth and broke it off. His car got hit by a train at a crossing three days after I ended the engagement. It was tragic. I was devastated. Even if he was lying to me, I felt terrible about the tragic accident.

The second time, a year after my former fiancé’s funeral, I was dating again, and it was our fifth date. We were in the heat of the moment; he was handsome, and charismatic, also experienced and successfully seducing me. I was ready to give it up, really ready, when the smoke detector went off.

His apartment was on fire! There was an electrical fire and we barely made it out of there.

Two days later, his company transferred him out of the country for a year. We didn’t bother trying to do the long-distance thing.

It felt like I was destined to simply wait. Wait for my wedding night. And I hadn’t dated anyone in a year.

But this?

I wondered if something would save my virginity now, like it did the last two times. Would I wake up and find out this was just a dream? If it wasn’t a dream, would someone swoop in and save me?

As this thought flitted through my mind, his finger started to breach me. He got it inside me. He did not give one single fuck that I was a virgin.

No one had been inside me that way. No one. My last boyfriend had touched me there, but barely and hadn’t gotten inside when the smoke detector went off.

This monster actually got inside me.

I reached up and grabbed for his arms out of some strange reflex, I guess. I grabbed his arms and held on to large and strong biceps as his finger moved in and out of me.

“No,” I said and tried to sit up, shoving him. He wasn’t moving. “Please…”

He pushed me back down.

“No!” I grabbed his wrist and pulled at it, I kneed him in the stomach and it gained me a tiny little bit of space, enough that I got both of my legs up and used my feet against his abs to try to push him back. He grabbed my knees and parted my legs instead.

“Shit. Fuck. Stop!”

Now I was in a worse position, spread out before him. He pulled my panties at the hips, closed my knees briefly to slide them off, and immediately spread them wide again.

This hideous thing was happening. I felt something against me. No, not his…

He was lined up. He was lined up to fuck, to fuck me.

“Pl-” He slammed inside me before I got out the rest of my “please”. I screeched and as I screamed at the pain, I felt something moist on my mouth.

What? Lips?

I shoved. I clawed, but my hands got pinned and a mouth was on mine.

A mouth!

And I heard a male grunt as he slammed inside again, his weight holding me down, his cock inside me, hurting me… ripping me in half.

How was he suddenly making sounds? How did he now have a whole body? I was so shocked, so absolutely baffled, that I just blinked as his mouth devoured mine.

He moaned. Fingers were in my hair, lips were on my throat, a tongue traced my collar bone, and then he moved out of me and slid down my body to nibble on my nipples, to glide his lips down my stomach, to the place his dick had just been, and he tasted me. He tasted me between my thighs with a big sucking motion.

I choked on tears and sobs, and I thrashed, but it was no use.

I was pinned underneath a monster, an inhumanly strong monster, and he was taking exactly what he wanted from me.

He was relentlessly licking, sucking, biting, and touching me. His mouth moved hungrily over my clitoris and my back bowed in primal reaction.

“Mm,” came from him. His hands glided back up my body as he moved back up and put his lips to mine, using his tongue to part my lips. He sucked on my tongue. He drove his cock back into me. It was frenzied. It was hungry. It was out of my control. It was so rough and desperate, it was out of his control…

It hurt.

It hurt so much.

But there were also other sensations underneath the pain between my legs. He was working my erogenous zones with skills. Skills I hadn’t encountered in my limited times fooling around with the few guys I’d let get past first base (but never past second). And it had never felt like this. Because it wasn’t just insistent, it was entitled. It was as if my body was an instrument and he was the skilled musician who owned it, who knew how to extract music from it.

Evidently it took more than a mere mortal to give me an orgasm. Because that was what I had. Suddenly. Hugely. Catastrophically. My very first (not alone, that was, and it was markedly more intense than anything I’d been able to do myself). Underneath a monster.

I had a sheet-clawing, screaming, toe-curling orgasm that left my ears ringing, my legs shaking, and my brain absolutely reeling.

And I’d had it underneath a monster.

I was crying. Crying and quaking and shaking my head in stupefied astonishment.

He wasn’t stopping. He kept at me. He got my bra off, over my head instead of by unclasping it. And I feebly tried to prevent it, but it was very feeble. My eyes should’ve adjusted. I should’ve been able to see his face. I couldn’t. Blackness. Just blackness and the scent of wood, smoke, and something new. Something…

It was sex. It was the smell of sex. Sweat. Fear. And the salve he’d put on my sprained ankle, the leafy paste he’d smeared on my leg. It was also a smell of earth, likely from all the dirt I’d rolled in. A bit of dust, too. And a lot of despair, if that had a smell.

I whimpered as my heart raced to keep up with the zinging nerve endings in my traitorous body as he touched me everywhere while he kept driving into me over and over and over. Hip bones slamming together. Lips smashing together. His tongue twisted up with mine as I cried into his mouth, afraid I was about to come undone again, this soon.

I panted and groaned at the same time as I fought. I dug nails into him, I shoved him, but it was useless. He would not be stopped.

He let out a long, slow breath as he slowed his drilling into me. His fingertips played along my lower lip, then gently brushed my hair away from my face.

I don’t know what made me do it, maybe as a reaction to his gentle gesture right then, but I lifted my left hand with the intent to search for a face. I found it. I gasped as my fingertips touched his lips, his nose. Soft hair fell across his forehead. He blinked, tickling my fingers with eyelashes. My fingertips moved to an ear, then to a strong neck. I felt something raised. Something thick and ropy along his neck. I followed it with my fingertips in the dark. The circumference… around his throat. This was a scar. My fingers were pulled away as I absorbed what that was, as if he had a neck wound that had healed, leaving a thick scar. My fingers were sucked, one after another, after the other as he held my hand captive.

“What happened to you? What are you?” I whispered.

“Mm.” He moved his mouth to my throat again and began to pick up pace, continuing the relentless ramming inside of me over and over, letting out a little grunt each time. My arms just flopped over my head on the pillows. I blinked a couple times and then had no choice but to whimper in time with the slaps of his pelvis against mine.

He began to go faster, harder, more frenzied, chasing a release?

I was flipped to my stomach again and he swiftly grabbed my butt cheeks and parted them as he entered me from behind, making me cry out at the depth of the intrusion.

He slammed in, squeezing the globes of my rear end, then sliding fingers to my hips, using them to keep me in place. He did it over and over as I clawed the bedding, teeth clamped on a dusty and stale-smelling feather pillow.

His mouth moved to the back of my neck and his sounds of effort, heaving breaths, groans and grunts felt like they entered my body. His mouth was on my ear, his right fingers tight on my hip, his left fingers in my hair, and then he thrust hard, stayed seated, and groaned into my ear with a whispered,

“Isabella…”

And the sound hurt. It sounded like a prayer, from a lover, from a love. But, this wasn’t that. This was a monster in the dark, who’d terrorized me, stolen me, violated me, taken something that wasn’t his to take. He stole my virginity from my future husband. He was a thief who took that away from me, the gift I could have given the man I’d spend the rest of my life with.

I felt his fingers touch the gash on my thigh, and it felt sizzling hot, as if being burnt. I gasped. He let go, leaned over and put his lips to it, startling me. He then twisted and moved to the side a little, turning my body so that I was draped on him.

Fingers from one hand were in my hair at the back of my head, the other arm was wrapped around my waist. My head was on his chest. A heart beat against my ear.

It made no fucking sense.

I shivered and shook and just lay there, trembling. Feeling the burn. Feeling an ache all over.

He adjusted the blankets to cover us better.

I felt lips touch the top of my head. I shuddered out a big broken breath. He sighed and squeezed me tighter.

I tried to pull away, wanted desperately to curl into a ball and hide. He didn’t release me. He wouldn’t let go. I finally went limp.

Cuddled. By the monster who took my virginity.

Chapter 8

THE MORNING AFTER

“I’ll be back for you, Isabella.”

The words rang through my dreams. My eyes bolted open to light, filtering up into the loft from below.

I sat up with a gasp. I was alone.

Naked and alone.

Immediately, my heart sped up, my shoulders tensed, and I braced, trying to prepare for any possibility. The night before had taught me that what I’d deemed impossible wasn’t, that logic may have had a place in typical life, but it couldn’t be expected to be everywhere.

I strained to listen for a long time. Hearing nothing but nature sounds, I began to take stock of my body. I was sore between my legs. I threw the heavy down duvet back and saw a streak of blood between my legs on the off-white bedding.

It felt surreal. The loft space seemed greyish, colorless, yet the streak of blood was vivid crimson.

My dress and bag were on the floor with my jacket, bodysuit, my bra, and my panties. And they were all folded in a pile beside my boots. Folded? No care like that was taken last night.

I crawled on all fours to the edge of the bed and craned my neck to peek over the wooden gates, which were closed but not latched.

Nothing.

No fire, no movement down there. It wasn’t cold in the space I was in. The temperature the night before signaled a pending snowfall, maybe heavy frost at least, but definitely not hot and balmy weather. The temperature in here without the fire going felt hot, like a summer’s day.

I got into my bra and underwear, my socks, and then pulled the bodysuit on and threw my dress over my head. I got into my socks and boots, so I could be prepared for anything.

There was no sign of my ruined tights.

I jolted in place and lifted the hem of the long, black, gauzy dress up. My leg... the gash from my thigh? It was gone and in its place, a reddish burn. It was the shape of puckered lips. Not feminine, but I knew. I knew it was from when he kissed the sizzling spot and made the burning sensation stop.

This wasn’t a burn last night. It was an open wound.

I flexed my toes and rolled my ankle. No pain. No swelling in my ankle at all.

I looked at my hands. They were still a little scratched up, but not nearly as bad as I’d expected.

I blinked hard. I rubbed the back of my head, finding no bump, and gave my head a shake in disbelief. Sliding the gates apart, I then turned, and shakily climbed backwards down that ladder.

Everything was dim, light filtering through the window panes.

No one was here but me.

I went to the door and twisted the knob, heart rapidly smacking the inside of my chest so hard that it also echoed with pounding in my throat.

No sign of him outside within my field of vision. Leaving the door wide open, I turned back to face the interior of the cabin.

The silver chalice sat on the floor, almost against the chair, where I’d left it. I stopped in front of it. There was still brandy in it.

I moved to the table area and opened doors and drawers finding them all empty. The tabletop empty. I spun around and looked at the room at large and shook my head in disbelief.

A pile of fabric in the fireplace caught my eye. I hurried to it and saw my ripped tights in there among the remnants of the ashes, which were piled in front of logs that must have been doused in water. My witch hat was there, too.

I hadn’t had the witch hat on when he brought me here. I’d lost it on the road. It had come back to me, flew by, and been lost again, and yet here it was.

I stared at the pile of ash and fabric a moment and then I cautiously moved to the window and looked outside. The sun beat down on the ground and russet, crimson, and sunflower-colored leaves fell slowly and gracefully to the ground from the surrounding trees. The raging river of last night looked more like a little creek today with a little bit of water that certainly didn’t appear in a rush to go anyplace.

Ensuring I had everything that was mine, I took a quick look around before stepping outside. I needed to relieve myself. I needed to do that after knowing it was safe, that there wasn’t that satanic horse in that paddock around the back of the cabin, that he wasn’t anywhere around here, ready to grab me and hurt me or force me to do anything with his brute strength.

Was he still in the area? Was his head invisible all along, felt only by touch, or had it magically re-appeared sometime last night, giving him a voice, too?

* * *

I had found a tree to pee behind, paranoid the entire time, using leaves to clean myself and hoping that they weren’t any sort of leaf that would bring me an itchy and blistering rash. I cautiously approached and investigated the half-falling-down horse paddock and it was empty, except for a dusty old bridle sitting on the dirt floor beside a rusted-out feed bucket. There was a trough filled with water, but it looked old and was filled with dead bugs and fallen leaves.

I stepped outside the paddock and glanced around. I was shaking my head in disbelief and I was timid as a rabbit.

A flash of brown sped by me and I reacted with a scream.

A white tail dear ran for its life, away from me, while I breathed out relief. It had been so close as it ran by that I could’ve touched the fluffy white tail. I clutched my chest, feeling my heart pound against my palm while my eyes darted all around me.

Peace. Tranquility. A forest scene with an old cabin and a horse paddock beside a little creek. This spot would be beautiful. It was beautiful. It was also filled with the memories of the previous night.

If not, it would be the most beautiful spot to reflect, to meditate, to enjoy the beauty of nature.

I couldn’t lament on the beauty of the spot, not with the urgency to get to safety. I quickly rifled through my bag and found my phone. I pushed the home button. 93% power. What?

That didn’t make any sense. But what, in the past seven hours did?

I also had signal, two bars.

I opened my map app and it zoomed in to show me that that I was downstream from what looked like a country road that led to open field that backed onto property directly behind Sleep Hollow Elementary School. The directions said it’d take me 31 minutes to walk. I didn’t know what terrain I’d encounter and had no idea if I was safe or not. I phoned my roommate.

“Katie!” I gasped at the same time as she greeted with her sleepy “Hello?”

“It’s Isabella. I…” What the heck should I say? I just started babbling. “I was stranded all night in the woods with no signal. I obviously have signal now, so I’m gonna start walking down along this creek that runs to the back of a road behind the town’s water tower. It should bring me out by the school I taught at yesterday. Drowsy Hollow. Can you meet me there?”

“Shit, Izzy…” She sounded so drowsy.

I started to sob. “Please, Katie? I needed you to know where I am and the route I’m taking. Did you get all that?”

“Yeah,” she assured. “Stranded all night in the woods? Holy shit, Iz. That sucks. Where’s your car?”

“Katie! Focus. Did you get all that?”

“Yeah. What’s with you? Why are you crying?”

I sobbed, rubbing my eyes. I heard a noise. I screeched in reaction. A bird. Just a bird breaking through the trees and soaring up into the sky. I quickened my pace down alongside the creek, hoping, praying I’d be okay somehow.

“You okay, Iz? What was that?”

“Please, can you leave now? If you leave now, we should meet up in about---”

“I’m not even out of bed yet, Izzy…” she yawned.

Was she kidding me?

“Katie!” I yelled.

“Okay, I’m a comin’.”

“Where? Tell me where?”

She sleepily told me. I demanded she recite my planned route back to me and swear to me she wasn’t going to hang up and go back to sleep. I wanted to know they’d know which way I came, in case anything happened to me. She sounded very concerned and a little more awake by the end and I brushed off her questions and asked her to “Please. Just. Hurry.”

I couldn’t tell anyone what happened to me. No one would believe it. I didn’t know if I believed it.

And this is my story.

* * *

There. I’ve written it all down.

I’m going to put these papers in a safe place until I’m ready to burn them. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day… I’ll buy a pregnancy test and pray that my intuition is wrong.

I pray I will find a way to move on.

Chapter 9

ONE YEAR LATER: OCTOBER 31st

“And the soldier lost his head when the cannonball sounded with an enormous ear-splitting explosion and struck. It is said by some that each Halloween, he hunts for a new head, taking the first one he sees. But, some with more romantic hearts believe he may actually be hunting for the one true love a fortune teller had told him he’d find, when he was instead killed just before being sent off to go to war…”

Trina Powers, my education assistant that worked with the special needs student in our class, along with being my savior on a regular basis in the second-grade classroom, read the book aloud to the class.

I meant to be back only when the story was already over. I’d tried to get away with reading three other Halloween books to the class before the end of the afternoon, but they would not be tricked into skipping this story.

“We neeeeed to hear the Headless Horseman of Drowsy Hollow.”

“Miss Krane, Miss Krane… it’s tradition!”

I’d asked Miss Powers, Trina, if she would mind doing the honors.

“Absolutely!” She’d jumped up. When we passed one another as she headed to the front of the class and I moved toward the door, she whispered, “You okay? You’ve gone grey.”

I’d nodded. “I’ll be back in twenty. You good?”

“Of course!” she assured.

I dashed out of there in my kitty cat costume and hid in the staff washroom, hyperventilating for at least twenty minutes before I came back.

I didn’t know why she was still reading.

My knees wobbled as I grabbed the doorframe for stability.

Stability. Hah. A year. A whole year. Stability had no part of the past year.

A year ago, when I got to town without incident, I was stunned, relieved, and absolutely baffled by it. All of it.

Katie was there thirty minutes later. I told her nothing much, just that I’d gotten lost when the car broke down and found a little cabin to take shelter in. I’d explained my jitteriness as seeing and hearing a lot of wild animals. I was not okay. I was not remotely close to okay for days, maybe even weeks. Maybe not even now.

A few hours after Katie got me home, my car was towed to me there. It started right up. They couldn’t find a thing wrong with it.

I found this out from Katie after a twelve-hour nap. I had terrible dreams. The dreams continued to haunt me nightly for weeks until I wrote it all down. After that, they didn’t nag at me relentlessly each night, but the ordeal was never far from the forefront of my mind. I had dreams every night, of him, but they were no longer all the same, all a revisiting of the events of that night. They were different. Him chasing me. Him and I having sex. Me running through the woods with a baby in my arms, getting to the cabin and finding that the baby was headless.

The days that followed, I spent a lot of time alone in my room, crying, wondering if I’d gone crazy.

My brain was telling me I was crazy, that I’d had a breakdown and imagined the whole thing, but my leg told another tale. That burn, to this day, is still there, still looks like the shape of his kiss, only slightly faded. The scars inside me? Still vivid. Maybe indelible.

Three days later, I worked up the nerve to drive the route I’d taken to and then from the school again, and found nothing odd, other than the fallen tree. I wouldn’t go far from my car to find the cabin via that route. I considered taking the route behind the school to the cabin, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go back there.

I inquired with some locals at the little café in town about the cabin. They told me it was owned by the mayor’s family, had been in their family for generations, but was rarely used, as the land had been for sale for a few years and had never sold.

I found that to be odd. As much as it was the locale of my nightmares, it was the prettiest little piece of property during the day.

I went online and didn’t find much about the storybook, so went into the Drowsy Hollow Library and researched the storybook. The author was local and had died twenty years earlier, according to the librarian.

He had a grandson in the area. I reached out.

When I tried to ask questions about the genesis of the story, under the guise of it being a class project, the guy agreed to meet me for coffee. We met in the café in Drowsy Hollow.

The story was based on the local tale of a soldier who was killed during a training exercise in the late 1700’s, decapitated by a cannon ball that had been launched by his own sergeant. A freak accident, apparently, that took place on Halloween and there were murders on that day for the following few years in the area so there were those who said it was the ghost of Private Holloway. Others said it was someone using the facts of the ghost story to get away with murder.

It was said he haunted the area, unable to move on for two reasons. One: he wanted revenge against the man who took his head. Two: the night before the battle, soldiers were in a tavern and the man had his fortune told. His fellow soldiers teased about the reading, which told that he would find his true love, but that it would be a long and painful road for him until they met.

The grandson told me he’d perused the notes years back and read that the legend was that he looks for revenge and also looks for her. As it was to be a children’s book, the tale focused more on the revenge, so they could use it as a cautionary tale. Book publishers wanted there to be a ‘moral to the story’.

“Gramps probably took a bit of creative license,” he said with a shrug. He shrugged a lot. More than my questions, he was interested in mostly trying to flirt with me. After a long chat, he agreed to lend me his grandfather’s file folder of research material. I turned down his offer of dinner and a movie, and he creepily requested that I bring the file back to him a week later, on a Saturday night for dinner at his home. I told him I’d check my calendar and confirm. I had no intentions of dinner with him.

On my way toward the café’s door, I ran into the vice principal of the school, who was on his way in.

“Isabella, how are you? What a fortuitous meeting.”

“Fine, Mr. Henry. Um. How are you?” I tried to hide how flustered I was. I was also a little nervous at being caught misrepresenting myself as a local schoolteacher.

This was the week leading into December. Mr. Henry asked me if I would be available as of January to be the second-grade teacher for Drowsy Hollow Elementary School on a full-time basis.

Part of me wanted to run as far away from Drowsy Hollow as I could. But, I was nearly broke. I wasn’t getting any hours anywhere else, which had been a blessing and a curse as I hadn’t been functional. But, I had a car payment and rent to pay and my student loan that I was still paying off, with not much more than two months of expenses left in savings (two months if I really penny pinched).

I said yes. I said yes and decided I would stay off that road at night at all costs. Moving into town would mean I wouldn’t have to travel it daily, at least.

As I was leaving the café, I spotted the local paper sitting on a table by the door and read the headline.

Local 300+ Year Old Tulip Tree Down. Town Mourns

The front page of the Drowsy Hollow Gazette had a full-page story that was mostly photos, but that briefly recounted that the ancient tree was found to be mysteriously toppled.

I needed to know more about that tree. That was the tree, the spot where it all began.

When I got home, I scanned every page from that author’s file and saved them to my computer. The notes were handwritten, in bullet points, and I surmised that information came from a local historian who said the tale was spread by word and old versions of the tale confirmed the name, Private Holloway, died in error at the hands of his own sergeant, a man named Archibald Krane. Krane. My last name.

I found the last name of the man’s accidental murderer to be bone-chilling.

I joined a genealogy website and found three Archibald Kranes in my family tree, the first one born in the mid 1700s. It was a name passed down to the first-born son on that side of the family for three generations. Was hurting me some twisted form of revenge because of my bloodline?

I drove to the author’s grandson’s home the following morning and left the original file in his mailbox with a Thank You Post-It. I had no intentions of allowing him to flirt with me again.

After I left, I drove back to the felled tulip tree, not brave enough to do it without the light. And though it was daytime, I still brought a kitchen knife with me. And a stun gun.

Nothing. Nothing but a stump. A very round and wide stump.

* * *

The pregnancy test was something I avoided for far too long. The day after the visit to the tulip tree stump, I made myself take the test. I was not only a few weeks late, but I was spending three or more hours per day vomiting with agonizingly sore breasts at that point, so the test was but a formality.

The test was positive.

I was an absolute wreck.

Impregnated by a ghost. A monster.

I went to the doctor to confirm what I knew to be true, what the test also confirmed as true, and he gave me a “Congratulations”.

I burst into tears and got him to book an appointment for a termination. I couldn’t think of it as a baby. I didn’t even know if it was a baby.

It didn’t get there. Protesters set the clinic on fire the day before my appointment.

It didn’t matter, because a day later, I had heavy bleeding. Very heavy. The hospital told me it was a blighted ovum.

And then, strangely, I mourned the lost baby that might not have been a baby at all. I mourned that baby for weeks. Months even, feeling washed in guilt that I’d wished it away. What if it was healthy? What if it was good. What if it was innocent?

Was I a monster, too, for wishing it away? I felt like I murdered my baby through my sheer will.

I knew what had happened to me had happened to me. I just didn’t know why.

And I didn’t know how to move on.

* * *

January rolled around, Christmas a non-Christmas because of where I was at emotionally, and Katie got a new roommate while I moved to the apartment above the dry cleaners in Drowsy Hollow. It was still available. It was affordable. It was perfect. The landlord was reportedly overseas, according to the number I’d called, so I dealt with an agent in his absence, but only remotely. She couriered me the keys and told me to take a look.

It had two bedrooms, a cute little kitchen, a big family room with a painted wood stove, and a big terrace with a small greenhouse that I had grand plans for come springtime. I’d always had a green thumb.

I kept the key and forwarded an application and most of the rest of my savings as a deposit.

I tried to move on. I tried to pretend nothing had happened.

But, I was depressed. I avoided social situations outside of work. I stopped going out with friends, stopped returning their calls and texts. I made excuses to avoid family gatherings.

I was skittish, nervous, and depressed. And every time I undressed or took a shower, it was there. His mark. Every time I saw a baby around town, it tore at my heart. Every mention of Halloween or pumpkins made my heart race and my blood turn icy cold.

* * *

July 25 rolled around. This was near to what I figured my due date would have been. I drove to the tulip tree site that day, parked, and stared at the stump. There was now a commemorative plaque about the tree being 300+ years old and having been steeped in the local history and then mysteriously being ripped from the earth by a suspected microburst weather event.

Beside it, I saw new and lush vegetation. I knew how to identify plants with my very green thumb. There were no pumpkins yet, but this was definitely a pumpkin patch.

The smashed pumpkin that night… the seeds shouldn’t have taken. The frost and subsequent winter coming soon after that night would’ve most likely stopped the process. But, evidently, logic meant nothing in Drowsy Hollow.

I didn’t know why, but I knew that come October 31st, I’d want to come and see the pumpkins.

Would facing another Halloween bring closure?

Writing it down didn’t.

Reading self-help books didn’t.

What would? Would Halloween do it?

* * *

Today was Halloween, one year from when my grip on reality steeped in logic slipped. I stopped by the site of the tulip tree, during my lunch hour, during sunlight when I’d hoped it would be safe.

As suspected, a pumpkin patch was there. All the pumpkins had appeared to have been picked except one small, perfect, head-sized one. It was still attached to the vine and it sat on the stump.

That whisper that had haunted my dreams for the past year echoed in my head.

“I’ll be back for you, Isabella…”

When? How?

Why?

A woman approached from the woods. She wasn’t much older than me and strangely, her approach didn’t startle me.

“Hello,” she greeted.

She had long, auburn hair and heavy eye make-up. She was shoeless and dressed like a gypsy. She carried what looked like a very old book. It was massive in dimensions and thickness, bound by leather, with writing that I couldn’t make out on the front. I didn’t know if she was extreme boho hippie, or if she was in costume for Halloween.

She looked to the pumpkin. I lifted it protectively and pulled it to my chest. I didn’t really know why I did that.

She gave me a small, strangely knowing smile.

“I’m Erica.”

I thought it was odd for her to introduce herself.

“Hi.”

“You’re lost,” she informed.

“Nnooo. My car’s just---” I jerked my thumb behind me.

She leaned forward, strange intensity rolling off her. “You’re feeling lost. But soon, you’ll be found.”

I frowned. My thumb was still in mid-air.

“Don’t question it when he finds you. Believe it. Believe that you’re getting something wonderful. He’s getting something wonderful. You’ve had untold pain this past year, but he’s had untold pain for over two centuries. It’s fate.” She shrugged. “I tried. Several of us tried. But, it was meant to happen this way. That’s why we haven’t been able to stop it. Don’t fight it. Don’t fight him. He needs you.”

“I think you have me mistak---”

“You’re his. Don’t be afraid. Life will be beautiful. You can both count it as a happily ever after. But don’t speak of it. Do not. Don’t confront it. Don’t dig into it. Don’t speak of it. Believe me. If you do, you’ll wish you hadn’t. Believe this. Heed this warning. Please. What was taken that night was taken by the man it belonged to. He didn’t steal it from you. You gave something precious to him. It was meant to be his.”

I stared at her in disbelief.

“Believe me. I beseech you. He’ll be as he was before… before he became what you saw. The transformation began that night. You felt the evidence of that. You gave him that.”

I blinked at her.

“Farewell, Isabella.”

She gave me a wave, a meaningful look, turned, and then she walked away from me.

I watched her walk down the country road, the road that was paved today, but that I feared would turn to dirt later tonight.

I looked down at the pumpkin I was holding to my chest and bit on my lips. I looked back up and she was gone. Vanished. She must have disappeared in between some trees.

It then dawned that I never told Erica that my name is Isabella.

I stood there, ruminating on her words. They rang as real, they rang as matching my exact situation. But if they were true?

“I’ll be back for you, Isabella…”

The wind picked up and whipped my hair around. The sun had moved behind some clouds and it felt like rain was coming. I hurried back to my car, taking the pumpkin with me.

If he was coming for me, I wanted no part of it. And something told me it was essential that I get out of there immediately.

* * *

Much to the disappointment of my coworkers, my students, last year’s students, and Trina, I made an excuse and said I needed to leave the party early. I wanted to be home, in my apartment, behind locked doors when it got dark. Maybe I should’ve left town, gone to the airport and left the country.

I said goodbye, feigning a headache, but a real headache began to materialize when I got outside, and dark clouds moved in. There was a loud crackle of thunder. The sky opened up with lightning, more thunder, and pouring rain. This wasn’t in the forecast today.

I pulled my headband with the kitty cat ears off and stuffed it into my bag and yanked my hood up over my head. I rushed to my car and got inside. It wouldn’t start.

It wouldn’t fucking start.

And I started to bawl about it. Slam my hand on my steering wheel about it. Ask the sky WHY ME about it.

I could’ve gone back inside and asked for a jump-start. I could’ve gone back inside and asked for a ride or talked to the guy that owned the cab. The tiny town had a cab company with one car. But, he was in there with the rest of the community, bobbing for apples.

I grunted and found my umbrella in my backseat and decided to walk home. Six blocks. It would suck, but I just needed away from this area, away from my memories and all the cute little kids dressed like him, not to mention the haunting foreboding feeling engulfing me.

I just needed to go home.

I was in a long trench coat, black ballet flats, my kitty cat costume, which had consisted of a bodysuit and black tights, which hit me like a ton of bricks that morning as I clicked the snaps between my legs into place. I had kitty gloves, too, which were cocktail gloves that came to my elbows with paw prints on the fingertips. I kept those on and pulled my hood up. I would’ve been a sight, my black nose, my drawn-on whiskers, my cat’s eye make-up.

It was a longish six block walk, and I felt the need to hurry, to get behind the locked door of my apartment as soon as possible. My umbrella flipped inside out four times on the walk before I gave up and just dragged it along, letting the rain soak me through to the bone.

When I got into my apartment and locked the door, I didn’t feel the least bit of safety and relief I’d hoped for.

Chapter 10

PRIVATE HOLLOWAY

He was at her door. It was time. It was finally time. It had to be. No instruction had come after the clock had struck the minute before twelve, so this meant he had his instructions.

Claim what was his.

“Don’t look back, Holden Holloway. Don’t question. Don’t talk about it. Any of it. Try very hard to not even ponder it.”

He’d spent one year inside his chains when they suddenly withered to a gust of ash. And then he dressed in the garments they’d left for him and walked out of the woods to town. To her. His feet knew just where to take him.

He’d waited out the past year in extreme suffering. He’d done nothing but wait and suffer. The witches spoke to him the morning they’d magicked him away from where he’d slept with her in his arms. They did this moments after he’d awoken, after he’d woken still with a face, a neck, with a mouth that had done wickedly beautiful things to her body, a mouth that could say her beautiful name.

The witches chained him and surrounded the circle where they contained him with magic to keep him there while one by one, they arrived and five of them spoke to him, reasoned with him, gave him the news that it would be one more year before they could complete the spell that had been cast by the ambitious young witch who couldn’t arrive in time to keep the gate shut, but who had cast a remote spell to save the life of whoever entered.

They explained what he’d been doing for over two hundred years, though that wasn’t entirely necessary, as the memories had been coming, like razor blades dipped in acid being scored across his skin. He’d gained awareness of being around for some time, without a head, yet filled with hate.

They explained why he’d been what he’d been for all these years.

They explained all they and their ancestors had done to try to keep him from causing pain, that their efforts to simply send him to a place where his soul could rest had been fruitless, but that Isabella Krane appeared to be the answer.

They explained what could happen next if their calculations were accurate and despite his awareness and in spite of his horror at the realizations of what he’d done, not only to Isabella that night, but what he’d done after his death, they kept him chained for fear he’d revert to what he’d been. The witch’s spell may have only kept it at bay temporarily. His built-up hunger for Isabella, if not handled carefully, could be something too dark, too difficult to tame.

But, it wasn’t witchcraft that made Isabella Krane the person who entered.

Holden Holloway did not know what it was that made Isabella Krane, a descendent of Archibald Krane (his arch nemesis and murderer) enter the hunting grounds. The witches spoke of fate, of the fact that sometimes things were inexplicable. He wanted to believe. He wanted to believe that his imprisonment would be worthwhile.

He had to wait in that circle for one year, until the witches could attempt the final spell at the site where the tree had fallen, and hope that their magic was enough. They spoke of advanced equations to calculate spells, of having to decode the original spell to determine which loopholes might work to move forward.

Their calculations were accurate, because here he was.

Prior to the release of the chains, which he was waiting for, he knew the alternative was to continue to be trapped in their circle, possibly indefinitely.

Things were in place. Restitution had been paid, set aside long ago, sought out from (Sergeant, who later became major) Major Krane, by the witch who made Holden a promise before his untimely death. He would be able to provide for his Isabella. He would make up for their beginning. He would find a way to erase her pain, the pain he knew he had inflicted.

The fortune-teller had promised, the witches explained, and because of her firm promise, she had bound herself to that promise, which had kept Holden in limbo for two hundred plus years. The limbo was bathed in rage. The limbo, a place of blackness and desperation. The limbo contained carnage.

Holden was assured it was not his fault. Notations in the coven’s ledger written by the fortune teller, or more accurately, the witch, stated all the many lengths the woman had gone to in order to make things right.

Now that things were going to be right, her soul could finally rest.

He didn’t want to dwell, had been advised not to dwell, but it relentlessly tore away at him for the past year. The memories of the things his body had done. The things he was responsible for, despite the lack of a brain, of logic, of intent.

He’d been an empty husk. Or, nearly empty. Perhaps empty of all things other than hate.

The consciousness that came to him in the hours the night he met her was painful. It was all floating toward his consciousness throughout the night, from the moment she touched the face he suddenly had, maybe from the moment he laid eyes on her. He had memories of his stallion whispering to him when he’s spotted her on the path. That stallion told him things, directed his actions, and he couldn’t recall them at this time. Perhaps that was because it was the beginning of his swim toward consciousness. Perhaps it was for the best that some of those memories were murky.

He did remember how good she felt, how right, how absolutely perfect. He remembered her magical touch, the pure wonder she’d displayed as she touched his face, the concern for his plight. That touch? It would be his again, beginning tonight and forevermore.

He didn’t know why they could never speak of the evil, of the past two hundred years, of the things he’d done to claim her that night, but he didn’t care as long as he could spend the next fifty to eighty years with her as his. The witches told of prices that had to be paid for their magic, and locking away the details on the matter was a price he was willing to pay.

* * *

The doorknob glowed when his fingers touched it. A key appeared in the lock. Temporary magic. He would not have magic after this night. After this night, he would be a mere mortal. He owned this building, though. And other property besides. Now living, as he was when he died, as a twenty-eight-year-old man.

Holden Holloway, farmer.

He would purchase the land surrounding the former tulip tree, the place where the magic had been planted. This was the land that held that cabin where their child was conceived.

The deal for the sale of this land was told to him to be already in-motion, through Holloway Holdings, the company that was set up for him. He would raise cattle and grow fruits and vegetables, just as he’d done before enlisting, before his untimely death. Isabella could help. Or she could continue to teach, if she wished. He would build them a new home. He would give her the child they had to give up.

Yes, their child.

He had the knowledge of her pain around all of that, while in chains, feeling her emotion, via a link one of the witches had set up between them. A gift? A curse? Both.

But, that child’s spirit was not gone. It was merely in limbo as was Holden’s, protected by those witches. Their son would be mortal, safe, built perhaps from an insatiable and unhinged hunger, but he would be nurtured by the two of them, together, into someone worthy of the woman who would bear him.

He unlocked the door and watched the glow of the knob fade. He pocketed the key. His clothing felt strange. The witches called the trousers denim. Jeans. His coat was made of a black animal hide and felt familiar, as did the boots he wore. He had a large satchel in his hand that the witches had left, containing more clothing and government identification as well as the strange cards that they’d explained to him as giving him access to his wealth. A lot had been explained. How easy or difficult it would be to put into practice was something that remained a mystery. Perhaps Isabella could help. The witches assured him she would.

All Holden knew was that he had to get to her. He had to get to her and find a way to convince her that she was his without discussing any of the past. It was a rule. He did not know why it was a rule, but with all he’d learned, all he’d remembered while in those chains, he would not trifle with the witches’ rules.

He climbed a narrow staircase and found another door. He turned the knob and opened it into a large space filled with flower drawings on the walls, with polished gleaming wood floors, with a stove that wasn’t on, yet the space was warm.

The stove was painted shiny orange and covered in autumn-themed trinkets. A small round table with white chairs had fabric cushions covered in pinecones and acorns. The table had a peculiar horn-shaped woven basket in the center with painted replicas of fruit, corn, pinecones, and sunflowers that did not look remotely real.

There was cozy furniture arranged around the stove covered in cushions. There was a fluffed rug made of some material he’d never seen but resembled a fat fluffy cat he’d had as a child. He gazed at it with an arched brow. He put the satchel in his grip down beside the upholstered bench that faced the orange stove. The room had electronics on the wall. The witches had told him about television, radio, and computers, kitchen appliances that cooked food without the need to build a fire, that kept food cold to preserve it. They’d shown him many such things, regularly leaving films to play for him on those square panes, to teach him about the present day. He preferred that they left music playing. He found it more soothing. Not all of it. Some of it seemed to be just grating noise that pained his ears.

He heard a sound from another room. This room had several doors and a short hallway with more doors in it. The space also had many windows that would illuminate the space well during the day. Now, the rain simply trailed down the glass as it poured down outside, with a relentless rhythm.

In front of the long, upholstered bench was a short table. It was round, made of dark glass and shiny metal. In the center of it sat a pumpkin. He knew the pumpkin’s significance.

The youngest of the witches, called Erica, had told him earlier that his Isabella had taken it home, that it was born from that night.

He put his hand on it and felt something soothing move through him. This would be alright. Everything would be alight. It had to be. He would make it be.

He took a deep breath. Underneath the pumpkin sat a book with a white cover and a painting of a man with no head atop a black horse. The man held a pumpkin in his grip.

The Headless Horseman of Drowsy Hollow

He opened it and read it, despite the dimness. He read the entire thing.

There was more noise in some room off that short hallway, and one of the doorknobs slowly turned.

He watched.

There she was, his beautiful girl.

She looked strange. She glanced at the book in his grip and then at his face.

He placed the book on the table.

Her long golden hair was damp. Her nose was black at the tip and lines had been drawn on her cheeks, three of them, fanning out from points on either side of her nose. She held a stack of clothing or linens, perhaps. She blinked at him in horror, losing the color in her cheeks. The stack of fabric fell to the floor and she plastered herself against the door, hands clawing at the wood.

She wore strange black tight clothing, much like the odd garments she’d worn under her dress that night. No shoes.

She was staring at him in horror.

They were locked by eyes for moments before her lips parted to speak.

“Don’t,” he said, raising his hand. She stared at his palm and a swallow worked down her throat in a way that appeared painful. And the notion of her pain tore at his innards. He loathed the thought. e sa

At some point during the night they met, he became aware. He transformed from empty husk to a vague sense of clawing awareness. Those memories had both soothed and plagued him the past year. He had no idea how she would receive him this night, but the fear on her face caused him physical pain.

He moved to her and she shrank back against the door as much as she could. She fumbled with the knob to open it and went falling backwards as it opened, clearly not thinking straight, that her opening it coupled with her weight against the door would cause her to fall.

Holden rushed forward to catch her, but he wasn’t quick enough.

Chapter 11

ISABELLA

When I got out of the rain, into my home, it was as if time had lapsed. I’d left before dark and yet the wall clock in my apartment said it was 11:58 pm.

It was then that I knew, I knew he was coming for me. Whether it was here, in the woods, or overseas if I’d listened to my gut and gone to the airport to get out of here, I knew it was out of my control. Time. Logic. All of it.

I tried to think about what Erica had said.

Reading between the lines made me think of the story, of his promise from a fortune teller of true love after a difficult journey. What journey could be harder than what he’d faced? But the violence. The violence I experienced was nothing compared to the story’s passages about the first ten years after his death being filled with murder.

The night with me? That was him hunting me, capturing me, and raping me.

But the rape brought pleasure because he gave as he relentlessly took. He tended the wounds I had. He held me close afterwards.

I fell asleep in the arms of the monster and I had not been right since that night.

And now he was here. And I was petrified. And yet… some other emotions tugged at me, trying to penetrate the wall of fear surrounding me.

I heard him come in and stayed in my room, where I’d gone to get clothes, planning a hot bath after my six-block trek in the rain. I heard the door open as the digital clock switched to 12:00 and once again, my phone had signaled another mystery timer alert. “Timer done”.

The universe telling me my time was up. Again.

I’d lifted the bag from the floor and switched it off. It also said, “Searching for Signal.”

No signal. Again.

It was inevitable. Did I wait here, cowering, so he could come get me, or face him and get it over with?

If that woman Erica was right, which seemed impossible, maybe I wouldn’t be afraid.

I didn’t know why I’d taken the book out when I came home with that pumpkin on my lunch hour. It was an autographed copy the author’s grandson had given me, telling me he had dozens.

The inscription inside from the author read,

“The moral of this story? Don’t be a skeptic. And don’t go walking in the forest alone after dark.”

If he was here to hurt me, it was inevitable. Paranormal elements were at play, so I had to face that inevitability.

And after the year I’d had, I was exhausted from all of it. Absolutely exhausted.

So, I opened the door to face the music. Not bravely. Numbly. Resignedly.

And when I saw him, I didn’t know what to think.

He stood by the table, holding the book. The book about him.

And him with a head? Well… it was a good head.

Dark brown slightly curly hair, dark eyes, full lips. Chiseled jawline. He was handsome. More than handsome. He looked quite a lot like a dark-haired version of the drool-worthy actor Sam Heughan.

His eyes were on me, traveling from my head to my feet and then back.

And his expression went carnal.

And I was suddenly overcome with the urge to flee. In my room was a window that also opened up to the terrace. At the back of the terrace was a small fire escape.

Escape.

I had to escape.

Why hadn’t I thought to escape when my timer done alert went off?

I twisted the knob and went tumbling to the floor. As this happened in slow motion, he ran for me.

He got to me a second too late. I’d already landed.

“Precious Isabella!” He was alarmed as he got to his knees and lifted me into big strong arms. “Are you hurt?”

I stared into his eyes in astonishment. Warmth spread through me. My body felt like jelly.

He lifted me and carried me to my bed. He sat with me in his arms and pulled me close.

“Are you hurt?”

I shook my head, unable to tear my eyes off his face.

He shifted me onto the bed and poked my nose with a smile.

“What’s this?”

“Wh-what?”

“What is it you’ve done to your beautiful face?”

“It…it’s what’s left of my kitty cat costume. For Halloween. I always dress up for my students.”

His face melted into a huge smile. “Kitty cat,” he said this amusedly. “Much better costume choice than, say… a witch.”

I hard-blinked.

He was making a joke?

I opened my mouth, about to speak.

His expression dropped, “Be cautious with your words right now, little kitty cat.”

His expression spoke volumes and Erica’s voice rang in my head with her warnings.

He knew the warnings, too?

I had so many questions.

I couldn’t ask even one of them.

“I’d really like to go wash this black stuff off my face,” I whispered. And get a minute to process. “Get into dry clothes. I walked home in the rain.”

He smiled. “I’ll be right here, waiting.”

“Would the living room be more…” I started.

He shook his head and gave me a very carnal once-over with his eyes. “No. Only this bed chamber will do for what I have planned for you.”

I gasped in surprise. He gave me a positively salacious grin.

I scampered out of the bed. He caught my hand, halting me.

“Don’t run far, little kitty cat. I must warn you that I’d have to hunt you down…”

“I…” I blinked. “I know.”

He looked deep into my eyes. Impossibly deep. “I’ll make you happy. You’re going to make me happy. I feel it down to my soul. I have a soul again, thanks to you.”

I opened my mouth again to speak.

He shook his head in warning. “Go bathe, Isabella. I’ll be right here. Waiting.”

I swallowed.

“Holden Holloway, by the way,” he answered my unspoken question. I wasn’t even sure how to ask, though I knew about the Holloway part.

“Holden,” I said softly, more warmth spreading through me.

He lifted my hand higher and kissed it. Tingles worked straight through me and my panties were suddenly drenched.

He guided me, holding that hand, to the bedroom door. And then he swatted my butt.

“Go. Hurry back.”

I squeaked. He gave me another salacious smile and sank his front teeth into his full lower lip. His eyes sparkled with mischief.

Oh wow.

I was nervous and excited at the exact same time.

I hurried, blushing, to my bathroom scooping up the towels and bathrobe I’d dropped outside the door, and shut the door and lifted a big fluffy washcloth and saturated it with warm water to wipe the rest of the cat makeup off my face.

Little kitty cat.

I bit the inside of my cheek and felt a smile spread across my face.

I hadn’t smiled, other than at cute things my second-grade students would say, in a year. Exactly a year.

Was this real? Could I throw logic to the wind and let myself have this?

As I got ready to undress, there was a soft knock on the door.

I opened it and there he was. He leaned a big, strong shoulder against the doorframe, and smiled, taking me in from head to toe to head again.

“I couldn’t wait. I tried. I’ve waited long enough, don’t you think?”

I nodded slowly, arousal flooding me, making every bit of me warmer.

He erased the space between us and then his mouth was on mine, his hand in my hair. His other hand grabbed my waist and yanked me against him, against his hardness.

He was very tall, had to bend to kiss me. He was great at kissing. Strong lips, an exploring tongue, husky sounds that showed me he liked kissing me. He lifted me up and spun to pin me against the door. My legs went automatically around his waist.

“Isabella,” he whispered, and every cell in my body was paying attention. The whisper took me back to that moment when he’d first whispered it.

I started to cry.

He looked at me with concern.

I shook my head. “I’m okay, I’m just….” I let that hang. I had no choice but to let it hang. But, it was okay, because he knew. He knew.

“I never want you to fear me. Ever. I will never do anything to make you fear me as long as it’s within my power. And right now, it’s within my power. We have to make it so that it stays that way. We can’t speak of anything that could put it at risk.”

I nodded.

“You’re mine, Isabella. Meant for me.”

I choked on a sob and buried my face in his neck.

“I’m yours, Isabella. Destined as yours, regardless of anything. It’s just that simple.”

I put my hands to his face and brought his mouth to mine.

Strangely, no, not just strangely, inexplicably, he truly felt like he was mine. He felt like fate. Not a stranger. Not a monster. This was what I’d been waiting for. This was who I was saving myself for. The man who was meant to be mine, even if we were from different places in ‘time’. Fate made it so we would cross paths. Fate stopped me from being anyone else’s, multiple times.

How I’d come to grips with all of it so quickly made no sense. None of it made sense. Maybe love just doesn’t make sense.

He reached under and gave the butt of my bodysuit a sharp yank and it released all the snaps at once.

And it made him smile huge, with teeth, because he remembered the other bodysuit I wore that night.

I giggled. And then I unbuttoned the dark button-down shirt he wore. He’d taken off his leather jacket before coming in. My fingers immediately sought out his throat, his neckline.

I saw it. The scar. It was thick, looking just like it had felt that night.

I leaned forward and put my lips to it. I felt goosebumps form on his skin.

He set me on my feet and peeled my leotards down. I immediately saw the place where his mark had been.

It was gone.

I reached down and touched it.

“It…” I started to say but stopped myself. I swallowed and shook my head.

He kissed the exact spot and rubbed his face against my leg.

I gulped at the sensations that brought, both on my skin and inside of me.

“There was a mark. It’s gone.” I closed my eyes and tears squeezed out. He rose and kissed the tears away.

“I heard a rumor that hot showers are wonderful.”

I nodded and reached around, behind my autumn leaves themed shower curtain and turned the shower on.

I turned to see that he was shirtless and undoing his fly while kicking his boots off when I turned back to him.

He pulled the bodysuit up over my head and peeled my panties down, kissing my hip, and then kissing down until he got to where I was soaking wet for him.

And then his touch went from gentle to hungry. His fingers held me in place while his tongue devoured me between my thighs. My head rolled back as I absorbed those sensations.

He kissed, sucked, licked, and then he stopped. I looked down at him. He was looking up with intensity beaming from his eyes.

He rose, pulled the curtain back and eyed the shower curiously, then dropped his jeans. He had no underwear on underneath.

I blinked at the sight of him.

Wow.

I pulled my bra off and tossed it and we climbed in.

The water felt good. His eyes raking over my body hungrily felt even better. Together? Amazing.

We soaped one another up. I shampooed his hair. He did the same with mine.

We rinsed off, and then he asked, “How do we make the water stop?”

I showed him, and we wrapped up in towels and he gave me a heated expression as he lifted me into his arms and carried me to my bed.

He gently put me down and then dropped his towel and climbed in with me, pulling my towels away from my body, taking a moment to squeeze the towel around my sopping-wet hair while I stared at him lustfully.

He wiped his own hair with a fast scrubbing of the towel and dropped the towel on the floor. And then he was pinning me, kissing me, and putting his fingers between my legs and parting my folds to find my aching clitoris.

“Holden,” I moaned into his mouth.

He gave me a look of absolute possession and then guided himself to me and slammed inside. His jaw muscles bulged as he slammed into me possessively, eyes on mine, teeth tight, one arm bracing beside my head to hold himself up, the other hand moving between us on the most magical spot on me.

I started to come undone. He started to move harder, faster.

“You’re mine, Isabella. Mine. I will make you happy. I will take away any pain you’ve felt and replace it with every ounce of love I’m capable of giving you.”

I nodded, crying out as I hit another peak.

“Say yes. Marry me. Let me be your happily ever after.”

“Yes.”

“Fuuuuucking yes…” he ground out and found his release inside me.

He rolled, draping me over his body, just like he did that night.

I was so happy. Happy like a lunatic, because how insane was all of what had happened?

Who would ever believe the story? Maybe it was good that I couldn’t tell anyone.

And I felt boneless. Carefree. I was blissed. Right out. Until I had the one thought that could dampen the moment.

This time, I was on birth control. I went on it months ago, just in case. And it made me a little bit sad.

He held me all night. I was afraid to sleep, afraid to wake in the morning alone again. Afraid of becoming sane again and deciding that this was a terrible idea.

If this was insane, I prayed I’d be rooted in my lunacy forever.

I wanted to ask for reassurance that he wasn’t leaving, that he wasn’t about to go poof in the night and be just a memory.

I was afraid to ask, afraid to break the rules. So, I didn’t.

I told myself that in the morning, I’d pull out the papers with my recounting of my night one year ago, and I’d burn them.

I eventually fell asleep, cocooned by him. I didn’t dream.

Finally.

Finally, a dreamless night. I simply slept.

And when I woke in the morning on November 1st, Holden was awake, beside me, watching me sleep, looking at me with a possessive, smitten expression.

“Hi,” I was feeling shy all of a sudden. I clutched the covers to my nakedness.

“Hi,” he returned, amused, stretching, his fabulous muscled chest and arms on display.

“Did you sleep okay?” I asked.

He nodded. “More than okay. But, little kitty cat…could you please feed me? I feel like I haven’t had food in… forever…” He gave me a wide grin. I busted up laughing.

“Sure thing,” I said, then bit my lip and chuckled, then added, “How about some pumpkin pie pancakes… pumpkin?”

He rolled me, laughter dancing in his eyes and a very attractive manly chuckle coming from him at what would undoubtedly be his pet name from me for the rest of our lives. His mouth hit mine.

I mean, how could I not call him that?

Chapter 12

THE END?

Well...

If you like that the monster got his happy ending, stop here.

If you’re ready for the truth, that it was just a Happy for Now… read the epilogue.

You’ve been warned.

Epilogue

ISABELLA

We don’t talk about how my phone never has a signal when he’s near. We don’t know why, but he can’t own a cellular phone --- it’s useless to him. Mine only works when we’re not together. This is why our home has a landline.

We don’t talk about the thick ropy scar on his neck, though he catches me caressing it sometimes and goes to great lengths to hide it from everyone else.

We don’t say the words we can read in one another’s eyes.

When he doesn’t understand something, some reference, some piece of technology, I just patiently explain it to him, often covertly.

He’s smart. He’s caring. He loves me. We got married two weeks after last Halloween when he asked me. He has been the absolute best happily ever after, well… ever.

It’s Halloween today, two years from the day I first met him. And it’s forever going to be a special day. It’s going to be special for another reason today.

Today, I found out I’m pregnant.

We’re going to have a baby. I am elated. But, I’ve also got some very complicated emotions, too.

I feel like I need him to know about the baby we lost. I feel guilty. So guilty. I have to find a way to carefully communicate this to him when I tell him about the baby that’s coming, while expressing my immense feelings of loss, of self-blame.

How? I have to find a way.

Epilogue

ERICA

Erica sat in tall grass, beside her new little kitten, who was stalking a dragonfly, his fluffy black bum up in the air, wiggling. Erica kept at the landscape sketch she was working at, when a sudden sinking sensation swept over her. Her phone rang from her bag. She fumbled to get it, knowing something was wrong.

“Isabella is about to break the rule!”

Vivica had texted this.

Vivica was clairvoyant and all the lives that their coven had touched remained part of the network within Vivica’s mind. She didn’t always tap in, but she would be alerted to concerns.

Erica’s heart sank, and her fingers trembled. She’d gotten her hands on Isabella Holloway’s mobile phone number, but in the year since they’d seen one another, she hadn’t used it. She hoped she would never need to.

Today was Halloween and she’d already thought about Holden and Isabella. She thought about the other lives her magic had affected, too --- which didn’t always happen on Halloween, but the day was an especially important one to her because of the impact of Holden and Isabella’s story.

She hit the button to dial Isabella’s number. It went directly to voicemail.

“Isabella, this is Erica. Do not say it. Do not! Please phone me at this number so we can discuss. It’s imperative! If you speak any of the words about that night, about his past, words about anything related to that, it will unleash the monster in him. He will go on a rampage without it being in his control. It’s the price you both have to pay to keep what you have in one another. If you break the rule, it’ll be like it was before, but it will be worse, because he may not be in his old hunting grounds where we can possibly contain him. Just telling you this much will cost me, Isabella. Not you, not Holden, me. I will pay that price to try to stop you from losing everything. Because if you do whatever you’re thinking about doing, it will cost you both everything. And more. Please. Hear this message and say nothing. Call me.”

She recited her number and ended the call and looked up the number for Holloway Farms. She dialed. Unfortunately, there was no answer.

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

Why didn’t they ever listen? There was always a price to pay, and she’d done her best to communicate how important it was that they pay this price. She wasn’t allowed to go back to reiterate, to remind without paying her own price. That was just, quite simply, how it worked.

Isabella had to have faith in her husband. He had to have faith in what they had now, in her forgiveness. They were not allowed to dwell on the past. It wasn’t healthy. It wasn’t always the rule, each spell had its own particulars, but it was deemed to be a good rule for this particular scenario. Five witches had agreed and sealed it as such.

She dusted off her skirt as she rose to her feet, her small black kitten, the newest addition to her menagerie of pets playing by her feet. He was a perfect Halloween kitty with his black fluffy self and just the tip of his tail orange, as if it had been dipped in paint.

“Well, Archie… off we go to try to fix this. As they say… no rest for the wicked…”

THE END

Acknowledgments

Thanks for reading Hollow!

Hollow is a novelette that was written for The Horror of Our Love Anthology. It may be expanded to novel-length and re-released in the future.

Erica, Vivica and the other witches may also demand their own series at some point …

HUGE thanks to DD’s Chickadees (my reader group. Feel free to join it if you loved this story and /or are interested in my other books), DD Prince’s Street Team, and my co-authors in this anthology.

Be sure to follow my Amazon page and subscribe to The Scoop, my newsletter to be informed of any future releases.

Big hugs.

-D

Follow DD Prince:

Facebook | Twitter | Website | Newsletter | Amazon

DD’s Hollow Playlist

The Animals - House of the Rising Sun

Nine Inch Nails – Closer

Black Hole Sun – Soundgarden

Rage Against the Machine – Killing in the Name

Deftones – Change

Korn – Freak on a Leash

Alice in Chains - Man in the Box

Bonus song:

Let’s Get it On - Marvin Gaye*

*During the writing of the scene when these two first set eyes on one another, this song coincidentally came on in my office and the idea of our monster hearing it in his head when seeing her for the first time… it cracked me up. It also word-blocked me on his story for about 48 hours***

Other Books by DD Prince

This list may have been updated since publishing.

Check ddprince.com for the latest list of DD Prince books)

Dark Paranormal Romance: Vampire dark romance / kidnapping – Widely available from iBooks, Kobo, Amazon, Nook, and others. Book one is free (but does have a cliffhanger)

Book 1 – Nectar

Box set: Nectar Trilogy (Includes Nectar, Ambrosia, and Essence)

Dark Mafia Romance: dark romance with a debt flesh payment plot.

Kindle Unlimited

This one DD’s most popular book, but it is dark and has non-consensual / rough sex. An anti-hero you may love to hate and hate to love.

The Dominator

US | UK| CA | AU

The Dominator II; Truth or Dare

Sex slave rescue romance with dark themes.

US | UK| CA | AU

The Dominator III: Unbound

More Tommy, More Dare; More Domination!

US | UK| CA | AU

Spin off Dark Romance (maybe DD’s darkest book yet) & unofficially Dominator IV

Saved

US | UK| CA | AU

Dirty / fun / insta-love alien romance

Hot Alpha Alien Husbands: Book 1 – Daxx and Jetta

Kindle Unlimited

US | UK| CA | AU

MC Romance: Romantic suspense with comedy, angst, steamy scenes, and a little bit of gritty darkness.

Detour (Beautiful Biker 1) Deacon & Ella

This alpha-male is not an alpha-hole. You’re going to FLOVE Deacon Valentine.

US | UK| CA | AU

Joyride (Beautiful Biker 2) Rider & Jenna

Rider starts out as a little bit of an alpha-hole. Jenna resists, but resistance is futile when a Valentine brother has you in his sights.

US | UK| CA | AU

Scenic Route (Beautiful Biker 3) Spencer & Pippa. Coming in late October 2018 – Goodreads link

Enemies-to-Lovers Office and Roommate Romance

Aiden Carmichael is an absolutely infuriating alpha male asshole. You’re going to effing love him.

Alphahole

Kindle Unlimited

US | UK| CA | AU

STALKED

Copyright © 2018 Nikita Slater

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Authorized for use in The Horror of our Love Anthology, 2018.

Chapter 1

Rasputin

I’m no ghost.

I’m as corporeal as the next guy. I have a body; you can touch me, lick me, fuck me, hurt me and probably even kill me. Though that last one hasn’t been tested and I prefer it stays that way, you know what I mean? No, I’m no ghost, but I am invisible. As in, not a fucking soul can see me. Not sure how I got this way. Maybe an industrial accident, like in the comic books, or maybe I was born this way, but I don’t remember. In fact, I don’t remember anything before just existing in this form. Bam. One day, I’m some guy, at a guess in his mid-twenties, completely invisible.

And it’s the best fucking thing ever. Seriously; just think about it for a minute. The kind of shit I got up to in those first few months? At first just petty crimes. Lifting wallets, stealing cash out of open registers, grabbing food from delis and bakeries, sneaking into motels.

Then I got smart.

Started upping the ante. Figured out how to knock over banks and armoured cars. It was laughable, like taking candy from a baby. Bastards didn’t know what the fuck hit them. Security footage couldn’t explain a faceless, bodiless man walking out with a few hundred thousand in cash. This quickly turned into racketeering, betting, bribery, blackmail, until finally, I was running my own crew.

Ten years after I woke up as an Invisible man, I became the man, Mr. Shy, the guy that ran the city. I was on top of the world. There wasn’t a damn thing I wasn’t willing to do, mostly because there wasn’t a damn thing I couldn’t get away with. Nothing could stop me. The world belonged to me.

Then there was her… and that’s when stealing, money laundering, coercion and murder turned to stalking.

Chapter 2

Nola

“Sorry I’m late!”

I rushed past Magda and Gigi, grabbing my waitress apron on the way. Gigi gave me a sympathetic pat on the hip, but I caught the evil glare on Magda’s wicked old face. She was such a wrinkled old bat. I didn’t know how Mr. Shy put up with her, but she’d been at the restaurant for a long time. Maybe she was useful in a way I just hadn’t figured out yet. She certainly didn’t wait tables in a timely manner, handle the register well or deal with the kitchen. She was a sour bitch and everyone hated her.

But unfortunately, she had about twenty-one years seniority on me. Which was about twenty years and ten months longer than I’d been working at the popular Italian restaurant.

“You’re late.”

Her voice, like nails on a chalkboard, sounded behind me in the lit doorway of the storage room where I was frantically buttoning my white blouse and tying the short, black apron around my hips.

“My bus was late, Magda,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, instead of the snarky I-hate-you-and-want-to-rip-your-saggy-tits-off that kept bubbling up every time I looked at her. “Mr. Shy can dock my pay. I’ll be sure to note it on my time sheet.”

“And I’ll be sure to tell him personally,” she sneered.

“No need,” a deep voice interrupted from the dark depths of the storage room.

We both jumped and I clutched at the top buttons of my blouse where they gaped wide open, giving a generous view of my cleavage. I squinted into the shadows, unable to see anything. Every single one of the hairs on my body stood up and told me that my boss was standing in the shadows, his eyes roving over me. It was crazy, this awareness I had for him.

“Mr. Shy,” I whispered, unable to properly find my voice. “I-I’m sorry, my bus was late again. I think it’s this never-ending rain. It seems to be delaying the entire city.”

“You can go,” he said, his voice a delicious drawl that sent both a shiver and a creep right down my spine.

I nodded and turned away, intent on getting into the restaurant and staking out my tables. It was a Thursday evening; the tips were likely to be good.

“Not you, Nola,” he corrected as Magda left the room.

I stopped and stood completely still. There was something about this man that spellbound me. I knew it was wrong to fantasize about my boss, but I couldn’t seem to help myself. And the weirdest part was that I’d never actually seen him. He hid his face from the world. No one actually knew what he looked like.

I could hear him breathing as he approached, gliding smoothly toward me. I blinked in the darkness of the closet, widening my eyes, straining to catch a glimpse. Suddenly, the jokes among us younger waitresses about him being a ghost or a phantom didn’t seem so funny anymore. I felt something touch the ends of my hair, wild from a hasty brushing and a mad dash through the rainy evening toward the bus shelter. I took a quick step back, sure it must have been my imagination since no one was touching me.

“Late again, Nola,” he said, his husky voice calm and uncaring.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Shy. I’ll try harder,” I said desperately. I really did need the job, as jobs were hard to come by these days, but I’m terrible at keeping to a schedule. Always have been. Before I dropped out of college, I was the bane of my professor’s classrooms, always rushing in with excuses. “I can’t seem to make it to the bus on time! All this rain just keeps slowing everything down.”

He ignored my poorly jabbered excuses. “Does Magda pick on you a lot?”

“Uh…” I didn’t know what to say. I thought I was in trouble for being late again. “Sometimes, I guess. But she doesn’t bother me. I’m half Italian, half Latina, my temper is… well, let’s just say I can handle myself.”

He chuckled, the sound sending a ripple of pleasure straight through me. I clutched my blouse a little tighter.

“Okay, Nola. Back to work. We’ll talk later.”

I didn’t hesitate, the moment he dismissed me I turned tail and ran. So maybe I found the boss a little attractive, but he also gave me some major sinister vibes. The whole invisible thing, where no one ever saw what he actually looked like? Yeah, it was just weird. Like straight out of a movie or something. And I’d heard things about Mr. Shy. Gigi had been working at the restaurant for over two years and she told me that he just walked in one day out of nowhere and took over. Not just this restaurant, but operations all over the city. How he managed such a feat no one seems to know. Apparently, he crushed any resistance he encountered with such brutal ease that everyone else just fell into place like dominos. Like a demon, he swooped in and took over the entire city’s underworld operations, and not a single person put up even a whimper of complaint. Or at least no one lived long enough to complain about the takeover.

Me? I’m just a hard-luck college dropout from the wrong side of the tracks. Mom took off when I was a baby and dad a few years later. When I was a kid I used to tell people my parents died so I could get more sympathy, which would sometimes translate to more food, better choice in desks at school, better friends. The dead parent lie hadn’t helped in the long term. Now I’m paying off a monster student loan without the benefit of even a certificate to show for my effort and working a waitress job in a restaurant owned by the mob.

I punched in my time card and selected my tables. Gigi gave me a quick rundown before clocking out and heading into the storm, pulling the brim of her hood low over her face. I sighed, pulled my hair back into a tight ponytail and pasted on my best fake smile before I moved into the dining room.

A sudden chill slithered down my spine. I stopped and glanced around, my smile faltering. Next to the bar stood a man, alone in the shadows, his head turned toward me. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His trench coat with the upturned collar hid his body and face from view. He wore an expensive dark purple dress shirt and a black tie with a golden tie pin poked through the middle. A broad-brimmed hat shadowed his entire head. With the hat and coat, he looked as though he’d dressed appropriately for the weather. Except Mr. Shy never took them off. His hat tilted in a nod and his leather clad hand came up to touch the brim of his hat in silent salute.

I nodded back, turned and hurried toward my tables.

Chapter 3

Rasputin

Nola Antonetti had worked for me for nine weeks, two days and thirteen minutes. My obsession with her began nine weeks, two days and eight minutes ago. Approximately five minutes after noticing her in the restaurant I had gone to my office, removed my clothing and then returned to the dining room. From there I spent her entire first shift shadowing her every move. When she waited tables, I stood by her side, observing the way she spoke: her cadence, tone of voice, pitch and frequency. When she stood behind the bar, pouring drinks, I hovered over her shoulder, watching her movements, the grace of her hands, the delicacy of her touch, the way she frowned when she concentrated. When she went to the kitchen and laughed and joked with the cooks and busboys, chattering animatedly, I became angry. Intolerably, uncontrollably enraged. I picked up a pot of boiling water, intending to throw it in Paulo’s face, but it caught on something and spilled across the counter, soaking his hand instead.

That evening I learned what love felt like. I had fallen completely, irrevocably and instantly in love with Nola Antonetti. After burning the cook, I turned away disgusted with myself and my lack of control. I returned to my office feeling more a monster in that moment than at any time since my awakening.

How could I possibly know the love of a woman? She would never see me. And I could never allow her to know about my unique condition. I sat alone in the dark, contemplating a future without companionship. The thought had never bothered me before, had never even sparked my radar. When I wanted to fuck, I fucked. In the beginning, I’d pick up whores, using my costume of trench coat, hat and scarf. I’d fuck them in the dark where they couldn’t see me. When I took over the underworld as Mr. Shy, I had an entire city at my disposal and my choice in escorts.

Now, none of them appealed. Not once since I set eyes on my Nola. With each passing day my self-control slipped a little more. My ability to hold back slowly disintegrated. I wasn’t being noble. If I could somehow have Nola in my current state I would have done it by now. But I didn’t want to hurt her, my only love, and bitter experience had taught me that I couldn’t share myself with women beyond a quick fuck in the dark. One particularly stupid whore had made the fatal mistake of turning a light on while we were in the middle of fucking. The experience had proved stimulating for me, deadly for her.

As I watched her serve the dining room with smiling ease, a fire raged in my veins. A fire that sparked and flared to life only for her. Nola helped to convince me I was human, despite my odd condition. Her existence gave me hope, made me feel. I wanted to keep her on this pedestal I’d built for her for as long as possible. But the problem with that is I also wanted to hold her, touch her, suck and fuck her. And I couldn’t hold out for much longer.

“Boss?”

I turned my head to look at Benny. The short, balding man acted as my second-in-command in most situations. He looked innocuous, like the guy next door, or somebody’s aging uncle. But he would be the first to push grandma down the stairs for a big enough payoff. He was also loyal and knew when to keep his mouth shut. He was a good guard dog and took well to orders. Benny was also dumb as a sack of doorknobs. In almost eight years of service the guy had never noticed his boss was invisible and hadn’t once commented on my tendency to overdress, even in the summer.

“What’s up, Benny?” I asked, tearing my eyes away from my pretty prey with some effort.

“We have that job tonight, boss,” he said, settling on a stool nearby. He knew better than to sit too close to me. I’d made my preference for space and solitude violently clear years ago. I found it only took a few examples and the rest usually fell into place. These days it took little effort on my part to keep my empire in line.

My gaze flickered back to Nola. Now it just needed a queen and life would be perfect.

I searched my brain and finally came up with the thing Benny was going on about. “What about the job?” I grunted.

“Was just curious if you wanted some help this time,” Benny said, shifting on the stool nervously and glancing at me sideways. “It’s just… you only get us to drive the car. Usually just do the jobs yourself. Thought maybe you’d want some help this time…”

I stared at him, my gaze penetrating. Of course, he couldn’t see my eyes, I’d never even seen my own eyes, but I imagined if he could they would be spelling death in that moment. No one questioned me, no one questioned my methods. I worked alone. I gave my men their orders and they followed them. No questions. I didn’t bother speaking as Benny shifted around on his stool, playing with his beer.

“Ah, gotcha,” he mumbled. “We’ll just stay in the car. Same place, same time as you said when we was planning.”

I didn’t answer, instead I followed Nola’s path as she left the dining room with an empty tray and walked through the swinging doors into the kitchen. I wanted to follow her but forced myself to remain at the bar. I hadn’t stepped foot in the kitchen since losing control that first day I saw her. I didn’t need to see her flirting with my male staff.

Without glancing at Benny, I pushed away from the bar and left, heading back to my office. I would spend the rest of her shift watching through the cameras and working on the details of an upcoming heist. It was better that way. Somehow Nola could sense my presence, even when I wasn’t wearing my costume. She always knew when I was close, even if she shrugged the feeling off. I found her awareness of my presence extremely gratifying.

A few hours later her shift ended and I stepped away from my desk. I began disrobing as I watched her count out her tips while chattering with Mikey, the bartender. I was reaching for the belt on my pants when Mikey stepped closer to her and tugged her ponytail flirtatiously. My fingers froze and I stepped closer to the camera, an angry growl on my lips. I watched the video feed like a hawk, ready to strike if he took things any further. Lucky for his health, he moved away from her, wiping the counter behind the bar. Nola untied her apron and folded it. She put her jacket on and said something to Mikey over her shoulder, presumably good-bye.

I left my office, careful to check the hall for people before closing and locking the door. I’d made that mistake in my early days, startling others by making too much noise or closing a door while someone was close enough to observe the phenomenon. It’d been amusing to watch them try to figure it out, but I didn’t need anyone speculating. I ran to catch up with Nola, skirting tables and the cleaning staff who were closing the restaurant down for the night.

She was already in her spot, standing next to the bus stop down the street waiting for the 12:15am bus. She usually timed it so she was only waiting for a few minutes. Still, I despised the idea of a woman like Nola taking public transportation at any time of day, let alone in the middle of the night. At least I’d cleared this section of the city of petty criminals. No one dared operate in my turf, right down the block from my place of business.

I stopped next to her, towering over her in the pouring rain. When the rain had started seven days ago I’d wondered why Nola didn’t carry an umbrella like everyone else. Then I started watching her, every evening after her shift. She stood in the rain, at the bus stop, stock still, with her arms spread slightly away from her body, her face tilted up. I’m tall enough that I can stand over her and see her face, tipped up to the skies, eyes closed. The water drops hit her face, splashing on her perfect skin and dripping down into her collar. She didn’t seem to either notice or care. The slight smile on her lips told me she loves the rain.

Unable to help myself, I lifted a hand and brushed it ever so softly down her cheek, gliding it through the droplets. Her eyelids fluttered open and she stared straight up at me, her beautiful dark brown eyes curious. I touched the finger to my tongue and tasted her, the wet sweetness of Nola. I heard rather than saw the bus pull up behind me and had only seconds to step to the side before Nola stepped into me.

I followed her on the bus, a habit that had become a nightly ritual each time she worked. Instead of taking the seat next to her I stood over her, watching, waiting. Humans were creatures of habit and Nola was no exception. The exception with Nola was that her habits were absurdly appealing to me. The way she reached back to squeeze excess water from the tips of her hair so the drops wouldn’t run into her already soaked blouse. The way she searched first her right pocket and then her left for a tube of lipstick, only to find it in the front pocket of her purse, where she always returned it. She pulled the tube apart and then used the tiny mirror on the side of the lipstick to apply the light peach colour to her perfectly bowed lips, pressing them together when she finished.

I stared, helpless to turn away, glad that almost no one else ever got on the bus between this stop and the stop where Nola got off. Because I, a now hardened criminal, was too stupefied by this young woman to tear my eyes away long enough to get out of the way of oncoming passengers. A blast of heat hit my backside as the doors closed and the bus started moving toward the next stop. I could feel temperature, heat, cold, rain, sleet, as much as the next guy, but I’d trained myself over my years of running around barefoot and naked, not to react.

Nola’s lips curved up. Knowing what would come next, I held my breath and leaned over the seat, getting as close to her as I dared, inches away from her gorgeous face. She began mouthing the words to whatever song she was listening to in her head, wiggling her butt in the seat as she danced to the imaginary music. She was so adorable, I couldn’t believe the world hadn’t fallen in love with this woman and swept her off her feet long before I ever came along.

Twelve blocks later her stop arrived. She pulled her tired body out of the seat, waved at the driver and pushed the back door open, descending into the wet street. She never noticed the extra seconds the door stayed open while I exited behind her or the splash of a large, invisible foot in the puddle next to the curb.

I followed Nola into her dilapidated building, cursing under my breath at the broken lock on the front door and the poorly lit hallways. Each time I entered the building with Nola, the thought of her living in such a shit-hole made my blood boil. I trailed her right up to her door. Now this was the tricky part. Most people, especially single women, didn’t leave their doors open for very long, an almost subconscious gesture of safety. The moment she swung the door open, I brushed past her, squeezing as quickly to the side as possible. Unfortunately, I’m a large guy and Nola was standing right in the middle of the threshold. I gave her a slight bump on my way past. She looked up sharply, staring around.

Though she saw nothing it was clear she was feeling jittery. She slammed the door and locked it as fast as she could. She slung her purse on the couch and muttered something about a draft in the hall. I smirked. My hands itched to show her just how much of a draft I was not.

Nola walked to the cupboard, purpose in her steps, and poured herself a large glass of red wine. She kicked off her shoes while gulping back several long swallows, a throaty moan of satisfaction leaving her lovely lips. I watched her hungrily. Soon I would get what I came for, soon she would give me the things I craved, the things that convinced me to have more patience. Because Nola was worth the wait.

I sprawled out on her cheap couch, imagining that one day I would take her to my home, share my fine expensive couch and everything else I owned with her. I waited, watching like a man starved as she set her wine glass on the counter and began unbuttoning her blouse, fingers starting at the top and wandering right down the middle until she reached the bottom. Without knowing I was there, she teased me with unbearable slowness, peeling the halves of her shirt to the side with agonizing slowness until she finally allowed the fabric to drop, revealing a swath of smooth, pale skin.

She reached back to unhook her bra, thrusting her breasts out. Saliva pooled in my mouth as I imagined suckling on those perfectly formed, pert brown peaks, revealed to me when she dropped the bra next to her blouse. She reached for her skirt, unzipping it down the side. She shimmied it down her hips and thighs, leaving only a pair of black panties. She hooked her forefingers in the sides, looked right at me and whispered, “Can I get you your usual drink, Mr. Shy?” before bending over and sweeping the panties down her legs.

I froze in place, my heart pounding in my chest, waiting for her to say something else. When she did nothing except pick the clothes up off the floor and sashay past the couch toward the bedroom I realized she still had no idea I was there. She was simply fantasizing about me, about her boss. My already hard cock flooded with another rush of blood, standing to savage attention. If I’d had thoughts of letting the woman get away from me, they were now obliterated. Murmuring my adopted name in a moment of shared privacy made her more mine than ever before.

I stood, naked and feeling gloriously refreshed. I turned toward the bedroom, ecstatic for what would now follow. Usually some part of me balked at watching this secret moment, a moment that would horrify Nola if she knew she was being observed. No more. Now I would watch without reservation. Nola belonged to me and no one else, including herself.

When I entered the bedroom, I paused in the doorway. She was already spread out on her double bed. So sure that she was alone that she didn’t bother turning the light off or covering her nudity with a blanket. She propped herself up with a couple of pillows and an arm bent behind her head. She slid the other languidly down her front, drifting long, elegant fingers between her breasts.

I gripped the door so hard, the cheap wood bit into my hand and started to disintegrate under my crushing hold. She widened her knees, looked straight toward me and grinned dreamily, knowingly, before sliding those naughty little fingers right into her snatch. I could see the slippery wetness from where I was standing, she had no problem sliding her hand from top to bottom. Even lifted her hips a little so she could reach all the way down.

“Ooooh,” she breathed, in high feminine vocals.

Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to let go of the door before I accidentally moved it and startled her away from the best show of my life. I lurched forward one step toward the bed, then another and another until I was standing over her, staring down between her bent legs. I watched with worshipful eagerness as she pleasured herself, her moans of satisfaction filling the air around us. Her eyelashes fluttered open and closed as her fingers went gliding through her beautiful damp folds, separating, playing, teasing and tormenting until she was hurtling toward her peak.

She sank two long fingers deep into her pussy, pumping them hard before sliding them out to rub her clit with solid, circular strokes. Her hips lifted off the bed as she panted and moaned her pleasure. She brought her fingers up to her face, licking them, then trailing them back down her body, leaving a little wet path along the way, to slam them back into her vagina. Fuck, she was stunning. I wanted to pick her up and show her what I could do for her, fuck her until she could do nothing but hang on for the ride. She’d love every second.

But first, I wanted to see what she could do for herself. There was nothing more beautiful than my woman seeking her own pleasure, oblivious to everything else around her. I hovered over top of her, leaning in as far as I dared, and blew a stream of air across her slippery cunt. She cried out, her back bowing on the bed, her fingers working furious circles across her clit.

I couldn’t help myself, the spicy, sweet scent of her permeating the air around me, the sounds of her cries filling my head… I had to taste. I’d never allowed myself that forbidden extreme with this woman. It would be too easy for her to catch me, for lust to turn to fear. But I was overwhelmed, I couldn’t help it. I braced myself, hands gripping either side of the bed, and did a push-up over top of her, avoiding those furiously working fingers, I flicked my tongue through her pussy, gathering as much of her glorious taste as I could.

She screamed as she came, bucking so hard she flung a knee into the side of my head. I saw stars at the same time she saw them for an entirely different reason. Chuckling under my breath, I straightened and stepped away from the bed, glancing down at Nola. She was laying spread eagle, completely sated, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. After a few moments she sighed sleepily, smiled and rolled onto her side, reaching back to catch a blanket. She only managed to half cover her nudity, mostly just wrapping the pink patchwork quilt around her neck and shoulders. As she drifted off to sleep I gently tugged the corner down until it covered her hips, thighs and feet as well.

I bent and just barely brushed the top of her head with my lips before turning to leave. I let myself out and locked the door with the key I kept hidden for these visits. I knew I would be back soon. Something was shifting between us. Something big.

For now? I had business to attend.

Chapter 4

“You owe me money, Rockwell.”

Elton Rockwell’s head swung around and he lost his grip on the tumbler he’d been holding. Shards splintered and scattered across the floor and liquor sprayed over the fine linen of Rockwell’s trousers. He squinted into the shadows of his study trying to see the intruder.

“Who’s there?” he asked, pushing unsteadily to his feet. He took a hesitant step, glass crunching under his feet.

“Who do you think, Elton?” I growled, leaning against a wall of books. I watched dispassionately as he whipped around, staring in my direction, still unable to see. “I’m here for my money, and my late fee.”

“Mr… Mr. Shy?” he breathed, struggling to keep the terror from twisting his features.

“You owe someone else money in this town, judge?”

“I’ll get it for you!” he replied quickly, rushing around his desk and dropping to his knees in front of a safe. “It’s been a rough few months. I’m sorry about the missed payments. Meant to get them to you.”

“An interesting lie,” I drawled stepping away from the shelf. I carefully sidestepped the glass and wandered around the couch toward the door. “You’ve been consolidating assets. Set up an account in the Bahamas. Got yourself three plane tickets there for you, your wife and your pretty little daughter.”

He stopped pulling bills from the safe and lifted his head above the side of the desk, guilt written all over his red-flushed face. He used the back of his sleeve to wipe the beads of sweat from his forehead. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Shy. I didn’t know what else to do. M-my wife, she’s been overspending. Then we had to put Arabelle in rehab a couple of times this year, which cost an arm and a leg. I didn’t have enough to make the last few payments. I… I knew eventually you’d show up on my doorstep.”

“And here I am,” I drawled, staring down at the sweating pig of a man. Hard to imagine him behind a judge’s bench, wearing the officious robe, commanding a courtroom. “Perhaps if you manned up and came to me yourself, the outcome might’ve been different.”

“B-but the rumours say you never give a guy a second chance.”

“No, I don’t,” I agreed with him. “But I might have spared your family. Now that you’ve fucked with what belongs to me and made a plan to run with your only collateral, I will fuck with what belongs to you. After I fuck them first, of course. Your old lady isn’t really my type, too much surgery, but I can fuck her with the lights off. Now your daughter, she’s young, but ripe. Seventeen, correct?”

He rocked back on his heels and let out a howl of pain and rage. He leapt to his feet and lunged for the door. I corralled him around the neck and slammed him into the wall. Shelves shook and a few books fell to the floor. The judge gasped, his face turning purple, and clutched at his chest. I let him go and stepped back. He slid to the floor, landing on his hands and knees. He gasped and choked, trying to catch his breath.

I crouched next to him and spoke in his ear. “Are you having a heart attack, Rockwell? I don’t want you to die too soon.”

He looked up, desperately trying to see me. Fear at what he couldn’t see but knew was coming was plastered all over his face. Pleasure and adrenaline flooded my system, hardening my cock. It wasn’t sexual. I wasn’t into the judge, not by a long shot. But I fucking got off on torturing the old bastard.

“You need me!” he managed to gasp, reaching out to grip the back of his leather couch. “You need a sitting judge to help pass your zoning bills and get your guys out of prison sentences. What’ll you do if you kill me?”

“Ah, good point,” I said thoughtfully, leaning my ass on the couch near his hand. I pretended to think about his assertion. “But you know, Rocky… may I call you that? It would be difficult for you to do these things for me if you’re living in the Bahamas, wouldn’t it? No, I don’t think this relationship of ours is really working out. I think it’s time for us to see other people.”

“But…”

I cut off his pathetic plea by gripping his hand and wrenching the fingers back until a few of them popped. I stepped behind him and covered his mouth with my hand, pulling him into my body. I didn’t need him to wake up his family quite yet, play time with them would come later. It made me grin that one of the last things he would feel was my dick on his neck. A great memory for when he spent eternity in hell.

When his screams died down to whimpers I released him. I could see the utter terror in his eyes now. The realization that he was going to die at the hands of a faceless, invisible creature. A man that he’d done business with on multiple occasions, but never really known.

“P-please spare my family,” he begged.

“No,” I said instantly. I wasn’t in the business of giving. It wasn’t how I’d made my fortune or kept my place in a vicious city filled with criminals.

“I’ll do anything!”

I was beginning to feel impatient, devising a way to increase his suffering simply because he was annoying me. Then my eyes fell on the broken glass and my glorious, evil mind decided on a path. I could be benevolent.

“Fine,” I grunted. “Choose one and I’ll spare her life.”

His jaw fell open and his eyes filled with grateful tears. “My daughter, I choose my daughter! Thank you, Mr. Shy, you have no idea how…”

“For a price,” I said coldly.

“Anything,” he said instantly.

Humans were so sentimental, especially when it comes to their children. My thoughts flickered to Nola for a second. Would I do anything to protect her? Probably. Perhaps I was more human than monster.

“I want you to crawl over to that glass and eat it,” I said. Satisfaction at the horror etching his face filled my black soul. “Once you’ve swallowed it all down I’ll consider putting you out of your misery.”

To his credit, the judge didn’t hesitate. He crawled right over to the glass. He must really love his little bitch spawn. He looked in my direction, as though he could actually see me and then began eating. He managed to swallow two mouthfuls of glass before it became too much and he began crying. Big, fat tears rolled down his cheeks. He grunted and probably would’ve screamed in agony except that the sharp shards of glass were cutting his mouth, tongue and throat so bad his mouth was too full of blood for any real sound to come out.

I wondered what the inside of his esophagus and stomach would look like after this exercise. Maybe once he was dead I would cut him open and have a look. I was truly curious. I’d never tortured anyone using this method before. It was turning out to be really effective if the judge’s expression and agonized whimpers were anything to go by.

I was so absorbed in the show that I almost missed the entrance of Trina Rockwell as she breezed into her husband’s study. Her eyes landed on the Judge and she opened her mouth to let out a bloodcurdling scream. I sighed in annoyance, grabbed her round the neck and twisted, giving her head an extra hard wrench just to be sure she was dead. She went limp in my arms, her head lolling to the side at an unnatural angle.

Rockwell’s head snapped up and he opened his mouth to let out a garbled scream as his wife died in my arms, her body a ghastly, ghostly floating nightmare in a pretty silk nightdress before I flung her limp body to the floor. Blood spewed from his mouth as he leapt to his feet, lunging toward where he thought I was standing.

I stepped easily to the side and picked up the letter opener from his desk. I rolled my eyes at the sight he made, a lumbering, bloody idiot gaping around his office, trying to see a phantom. I knocked impatiently on his desk. He whipped around and ran directly toward the sound. I plunged the letter opener into his stomach, pulled it out and slammed it into his neck. I made sure to do some damage as I stabbed him, but not enough that he would die too quickly. I wanted him to suffer.

I shoved him away, allowing him to collapse a few feet away from the desk. And because I’m somewhat poetic, I picked his dead wife up and dropped her right on top of him so he could die with her in his arms. Romantic.

I kneeled in front of the desk and hauled bills out, placing them in a bag I’d tucked under there specifically for that purpose. I stood and turned to leave, then paused for a moment. I reached into the bag and tossed a few bills out.

Looking down at Rockwell whose eyes were growing heavy, I said, “Left some cash for your daughter. She’ll probably need another stint in rehab after this.”

“F-fuck y…” His eyes fluttered shut before he could finish the sentence.

“I’m sorry? Fuck your daughter?” I titled my head to the side and thought about it. “Nah. I got a sweet thing just waiting to find out how fucking good I am in the sack and I can’t go fucking around on her. You know how it is, eh Rocky?”

I left the study and changed into the clothes I’d brought with me. I stepped out into the cool night, tilting my hat low over my eyes. I held the bag easily in my gloved hands. Benny jumped out of the car as I approached it and opened the trunk. I tossed the bag inside.

“Where to boss?” he asked eagerly.

“Shady’s,” I grunted. “Need a new judge.”

Chapter 5

Nola

“Gin and coke and a house red for table six please.”

“Coming right up,” I replied and smiled at Lisa, the waitress making drink requests. She flashed a quick smile and hurried away to take another order. It was an unusually busy Monday night at the restaurant and Mikey was out with a nasty case of the weekend flu. I was qualified enough to mix drinks so I was given bartending duty on nights when Mikey was unavailable. I didn’t mind, the tips were good.

I made the drinks and set them on the bar for Lisa to pick up then turned to take my next order. My breath caught when I saw who was sitting at the corner of the bar. Mr. Shy was by himself, on his favourite stool, his features shadowed by the bar’s overhang and the hat he never took off. I hesitated, my feet slowing as I moved toward him. There was just something about this man that I found both utterly attractive and simultaneously terrifying. Probably the fact that he was the city’s leading mobster with both a bank account and a body count higher than I wanted to know.

Yeah, I know exactly who my boss is. Why do I work for him? Because he pays well enough, the work is steady and he’s good to his legitimate staff. So far, in my experience at the restaurant, all three points were accurate.

“Want the usual, Mr. Shy?” I asked, attempting to make my voice sound less wobbly than my knees.

I could feel the heat of his eyes on me, though he didn’t move an inch from his spot in the shadows. “Thank you, Nola.”

His sandpaper voice sent a shudder rippling right down my spine. I tried to hide my reaction by turning quickly and reaching for the bourbon bottle with one hand and the Amaretto with the other. Mr. Shy’s drink of preference was a Godfather. Something that should have maybe been funny but fit his dark persona far too perfectly. I poured 1 ½ oz of the bourbon and ¾ oz of the amaretto, then placed the drink on top of a gold embossed napkin directly in front of Mr. Shy’s gloved hand, which rested on the bar.

He didn’t say anything. He never said anything. Instead, he handed me a $20 and tipped his hat low as I peered into the shadows, trying to catch a glimpse of his eyes. I wondered what colour they were. Blue, green… or maybe brown like mine? I’d never gotten a good look at them before.

I picked up the $20 and cashed it, taking the leftover for my tip. I knew Mr. Shy well enough by now, that he wouldn’t want any change. He was a generous man when it came to his staff. I also thought it was pretty great that he paid for alcohol in his own establishment. Mr. Shy was all about following the rules he enforced.

I reached for my tip pouch and froze. It wasn’t there.

I didn’t bother searching around for it. I never moved it when I worked the bar. None of us bartenders did. We always kept our tip pouches in the same spot after cashing out the drinks, so that we could work quick and efficient. So that we wouldn’t risk losing our tips. There had been over $100 in tips in that pouch.

I could feel my heart pounding and the blood beginning to rush in my ears as anger surfaced wild and vicious within me. I knew exactly what’d happened. Only one person had invited herself behind the bar while I was working. My back had been turned to the cubby where I kept the pouch, she could’ve easily grabbed it and stuffed it into her apron pocket.

Then another thought occurred to me, like a punch in the stomach, igniting nausea before I could control the feeling. I took several gasping breaths and ran a hand over my forehead and into my hair, forcing myself to calm down. There was nothing I could do until I checked.

I turned to the cash register and checked the tape, taking note of what should be in the drawer. My heart thundering in my chest, I hit the no sale key, popping the cash drawer open. Before I started counting, I placed my palm against my breastbone and took several more deep breaths in and out. I was freaking out so bad I was making myself dizzy. Once I was calm I quickly counted out the float. Then I started cashing out. It didn’t take longer than a minute for me to realize that I was missing cash.

Tears pricked my eyes and I was ready to start hyperventilating again when a heavy hand came down on my shoulder. I let out a squeak and whirled around. I was instantly cocooned in the scent of morning shower and man’s working day. Oddly an extremely pleasant smell. I had to tilt my head back to see who I was looking at. Even once I looked up, I could only see the upturned collar of Mr. Shy’s overcoat and the brim of his hat, now titled down toward me.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked in a low voice.

I thought about lying. Taking an extra break, cabbing home and raiding my tip stash from the past few weeks to make up for the missing cash. I hadn’t been to the bank yet so I had more than enough. But somehow I knew Mr. Shy would see right through a lie.

“I’m short,” I said, my voice breathless. “I-I don’t know what happened… I was so careful. I must not’ve been careful enough though.” Fuck. I knew exactly what’d happened. But I couldn’t go accusing Magda without proof.

“How much?” he asked.

I could feel myself getting warm, my palms growing damp. This wasn’t just any restaurant. This was a mob-owned restaurant. A place where made men came to kick back and clean up their cash. There was a reason each of the wait staff had our own codes for the cash register and were extremely careful with cash out. No one wanted to get caught stealing from Mr. Shy.

“$160,” I whispered. He was standing so close I was sure he could feel the tension pouring off me.

“Never been short before,” he said, his voice a musing drawl. “Not even a dollar.”

I didn’t know what to say so I didn’t say anything. Then he leaned a few inches to my right and reached past me, his sleeve brushing my hip. I bit my lip and dug my fingers into the counter behind me, trying to stay calm and immobile. Mr. Shy reached long leather-clad fingers into the cubby where I kept my tips, searched around and came up empty. He straightened.

“Tips’re gone too.”

“Yes,” I whispered.

“How much?” he asked a hard edge to his voice now, like he cared more about my missing tips than the cash in the register.

“About $100.”

He nodded. “10% would’ve gone to the kitchen,” he mused. I didn’t bother to confirm. Obviously Mr. Shy knew exactly how his restaurant ran. “I’ll take care of it,” he said. “Keep working. No one comes behind the bar while you work, or they answer to me. Understand?”

When it became clear he required an answer I quickly nodded and said, “Yes, Mr. Shy.”

He grunted, turned on his heel and stalked away, his coat swishing out behind him. It was odd. No matter the season, Mr. Shy always rocked the dark, sinister look. I sighed and shook off the fanciful thought, knowing he would never look twice at a college dropout like me. I was just happy it looked like he wasn’t going to be murdering me for Magda’s extremely bitch move. I was pretty sure she hadn’t done it straight up for the money, but to get me in trouble with the boss. And she could’ve gotten me into BIG trouble!

I worked the rest of my shift keeping an eagle eye on the other woman. For the most part she stayed well out of my way, a smirk playing about her thin red lips. She’d observed the conversation between Mr. Shy and myself but hadn’t been close enough to hear the specifics. Perhaps if she had, she wouldn’t be so smug. Never in my life had I wanted to gut a bitch more than I wanted to kill this one. Magda was lucky I had both self-control and a healthy desire to stay out of prison.

I finished my shift, cashed out and left, mumbling a quick goodbye to Lisa. I walked rapidly to the bus stop, ignoring the constant drizzle of the rain. It wet my hair and the collar of my jacket, running inside and along my collarbone, dipping down to the valley between my breasts. I arrived at my bus stop earlier than usual, since I hadn’t participated in my normal after work chatter with the other waitresses and kitchen staff. I stood alone in the dark, glaring down at a puddle, watching the drops as they obscured the glassy surface cast by the streetlight.

“Hey, pretty lady, got any money?” a voice growled from the dark. A hand landed on my shoulder, jerking me back.

I screamed, my head snapping up. I twisted around just as the hand disappeared, along with the rest of the man. I opened my eyes wide and stared in open-mouthed astonishment as a man wearing dark, dirty clothes appeared to fold in on himself and practically fly backwards down the dark alley behind the bus stop, his feet kicking and banging along the ground as he went.

“What the fuck…?” I whispered as he disappeared completely from view. I jumped when a guttural scream broke the silence. I stood completely still waiting for something else to happen. Maybe a wild animal had come leaping out of the darkness of the alley. “Oh. My. God.”

I jumped again when the bus pulled up beside me and then dashed onto the warm safety of the vehicle. I flashed my pass and took a seat near the front wanting to be close to the driver. Wrapping my arms around myself I leaned close to the window and squinted into the rain-filled night. For just a moment I thought I could see the rain sluicing off an invisible object underneath the streetlight next to the bus stop. I blinked rapidly, trying to clear the water from my eyes. The bus pulled away from the curb and when I looked again the illusion was gone.

I shivered and constantly looked around, staring out the window as I rode the twelve blocks between the restaurant and my apartment. I was too upset to settle down, just wanted to get home and locked into the relative safety of my apartment. As soon as the bus stopped I gave the driver a distracted wave and leapt off the bus, making a beeline for my building. As soon as I reached my apartment, I let myself in, quickly slamming the door shut. I frowned when it caught on something, preventing it from closing completely. I pulled, but it wouldn’t close. Finally, I swung it back open, checked the hinges and then tried again. This time it closed no problem. What a bizarre fucking night!

I threw my purse toward the couch with more force than necessary and growled in annoyance when it hit the edge, tipped over and spilled out across the floor. My wallet, lipstick, bracelet and a bunch of loose change went everywhere.

“Fuck this fucking day!” I snarled, kicking off my shoes and stomping toward the kitchen.

I grabbed an open wine bottle, uncorked the top and started drinking straight out of the bottle. I rolled my eyes sideways, glancing at the clean wineglass on my counter waiting for this exact moment and decided the glass was going to have to wait for another, less shitty day.

Then I heard a sound that I was expecting. A sound that usually got my motor running and let loose the inner exhibitionist in me. Well not today! Today the ever so slight creak in my living room floorboard set off my she-devil. I was having a bad fucking day and I was done playing nice, ignorant Nola. I took one more long gulp of wine and set the bottle down on the counter. I swiped at my mouth with my shoulder and inched my hand toward the knife rack, running my fingers along each of my very sharp knives. I settled on the butcher. It was an obvious choice and I was in a mood to do some damage.

Yanking the knife from the wooden block, I turned. Narrowing my eyes at the empty room, I said, “You aren’t getting a show tonight, you sick motherfucker. Touch me and you’re going to lose a few fingers.”

Chapter 6

Rasputin

She knew.

Elation flooded through me, freezing me to the spot. I couldn’t move in that moment if I wanted to, despite the deadly blade she held in one hand and the equally lethal glint in her eye. She didn’t move toward me, though she was looking straight at me, apparently having heard my movements.

Somehow Nola Antonetti knew of my existence. She knew, and she wasn’t completely and utterly freaked out. Pissed off, yes. Mad enough to maim or kill? Apparently so. But not screaming and running for the hills. My dick perked up, as it did so often around this woman. She was just so goddamned perfect for me. She continued to surprise. A man that knew everything about everyone. But I couldn’t seem to predict one little waitress, despite thinking I had her pegged from day one.

If I hadn’t claimed her before, by pulling a knife on me and declaring knowledge of my existence, she’d just sealed her fate.

“I think I’ll take that bet, doll,” I said, my voice a raspy husk.

Her breathing became laboured and she edged along the counter as though she thought she could make a break for the door. I grinned and straightened, the predator in me waking up and sniffing the air, sensing its mate nearby. She looked both fierce and frightened at the same time. I fucking loved it. I wanted to take her down, fuck her hard, make her mine. Imprint myself all over her. Finally take the woman I’d claimed months ago, the moment I set eyes on her.

“Wh-what does that mean?” she whispered, her eyes darting around the room, searching for escape.

Oh baby girl, there’s no escape for you. There never will be.

“It means, now that you know of my existence, there’s no holding back anymore, no more watching from the sidelines while you take your own pleasure, then going back to my place and jacking off in the shower to a lonely memory.” Her breath caught on a strangled moan and her tanned cheeks flushed a gorgeous magenta. “No, my lovely Nola, I intend to touch, and lick, and fuck every inch of you tonight.”

She didn’t say anything for a moment. Now it was her turn to stand in frozen shock. An unseen presence, an invisible man was promising to fuck her. Finally, she managed to unglue herself from her place against the counter, took a threatening pose with her arm upraised, the knife held out in front of her and said, “Don’t you dare touch me!”

I walked toward her and reached for her wrist. As if sensing my presence she slashed the air around us. I moved quickly to the side and safely out of the blade’s path. I wanted to grab her, but I also didn’t want her to hurt herself, which was a little frustrating. I’d never pulled my “ghostly” attack act on anyone that I didn’t intend to kill before. I didn’t exactly know how to restrain without causing harm.

I was forced to jump back when she spun around and slashed the air again, missing me by a few inches. I growled, tempted to punch her wrist to get her to drop the blade. But I pulled the manoeuver, knowing I could shatter the bones in her arm. Somehow she instinctively sensed my presence and seemed to know where I was standing. Which would have been heartwarming if the broad wasn’t holding a fucking knife the size of her forearm.

Nola lunged at me again, forcing me to spin to the side. I was too slow though and she managed to slash me in along the ribs. I’d never been seriously injured before. I’d experienced frostbite, had doors slammed on me and worst of all been smashed in the balls by one of the cooks swinging a roasting pan around. Believe it or not, I was wearing my getup at the time. Asshole just wasn’t being careful enough.

“Fuck!” I snarled, taking hold of her knife wrist and swinging her in front of me so her back was against my chest. I shoved her forward, smashing her facedown against the counter. I twisted her wrist, forcing her to give up the knife. As soon as her grip loosened I took the blade and flung it across the room, too angry to check my strength. The tip hit the opposite wall and stuck.

Nola’s head whipped up and her eyes focused on the knife in the wall. Her face drained of colour. The fight seemed to go right out of her after that. I leaned heavily against her and tilted to the side, looking down. I was bleeding.

I watched in amazement as it dripped down the side of my body and across my hip. I let go of her arm and reached down to touch it, lifting my fingers. In all these years, I’d never seen my own blood. It seemed almost poetic that this woman, my chosen woman, had been the first, and hopefully the last, to draw my blood. I wanted her more than ever.

I spun her around to face me. She shrieked at the sudden movement and lifted something, bringing it down against the counter. Glass shattered and liquid ran over the counter and dripped off the edge onto the floor, falling down around our feet. It took me a second to realize what’d happened. She lifted the smashed wine bottle and brought it swinging in a vicious arc toward my chest. I twisted to side before she could plunge it into my flesh.

I was done playing nice.

I grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard until she dropped the jagged top of the wine bottle. It smashed to the floor. She opened her mouth to scream but I slapped my other hand over her mouth. Didn’t need her neighbors calling the cops on us. I wasn’t done with her.

I picked her struggling body up in my arms and carried her through the tiny, dilapidated apartment, disgust filling me. Now that she knew about me, now that I knew she knew about me, she wouldn’t be staying in this shithole anymore. Reaching the doorway of her bedroom I hurled her through the air, watching in satisfaction as she landed on the bed in a heap. She rolled onto her side with a groan. I hoped that she wasn’t hurt, but it wouldn’t matter. I was going to fuck her and then she was coming home with me. Forever.

She knew I was coming. She tried to slide off the opposite side of the bed. Tried to run for the door. Fuck, I loved this woman.

I caught her around the stomach and flung her back on the bed, straddling her. I pinned her down, arms over her head. I leaned down and smelled her, running my nose over her neck. She moaned and arched a little. I grinned. Even terrified she couldn’t resist. I touched my side, painting my fingers with blood and ran them over her lips. My heart nearly burst from my chest. I could see it, I had marked my Nola!

I crushed her lips under mine, kissing her with a strength that I knew was too much. But I was incapable of holding back. This glorious creature beneath me, this woman that both fought to be free of me, but also sensed my existence would finally belong to me. I could have come right then and there, spilling my seed across her belly where I was crouched over top of her, pinning her to the bed.

I began tearing at her clothes, ripping her shirt from her body. She screamed into my mouth and began fighting me again. I knew I should be more gentle, should slow down and show her that I was capable of finesse. Except I’d never bothered to make slow, gentle love to a woman. Nola would be the first. When I had enough control to be the kind of lover I intended to be for Nola. Tonight was not that night. Tonight I felt too much possessive rage. Tonight I needed to make Nola mine and I needed to do it now, before she slipped through my fingers and disappeared.

I released her lips long enough to glance down, to see what I was doing, to wrench her bra in half, freeing her breasts. Beautiful, glorious breasts. She let out an agonized scream. I slammed a hand over her lips and buried my face in her neck. I kissed her throat, trailing a path along the slim column toward her ear, drunk on the taste and texture of my love’s skin. I nipped, reminding myself not to sink my teeth in, not to damage her as I longed to do. I reached down and wrenched her skirt in half, feeling her legs jump against the bed.

Fuck, please be wet, I silently begged. I needed her so bad I didn’t think I could stop myself. I didn’t want to hurt her though. I released her mouth, hoping she wouldn’t scream and wrapped an arm around her neck. I dragged her against my chest and whispered into her hair, “Remember all those times you knew I was here, Nola? You knew I was watching, touching and sometimes licking.”

She surprised me by answering. “Y-yes,” she whispered, her lips moving against my flesh, drawing a growl from me.

“I’ve wanted you for so long, doll,” I said, my voice raspy with need. “Wanted you so fucking bad. There’ve been no other women since I set eyes on you. Trust me, Nola.”

She didn’t say anything, but I could feel something inside her relax. Instead of trying to shove me away, she rested her hands against my shoulders and buried her face in my chest. I couldn’t wait any longer. I reached down between us, my fingers gliding through her gloriously wet folds. I bared my teeth, lined my cock up against her and thrust myself home. She took me in one long hard glide. After a moment’s adjustment she lifted her hips against me, a subtle plea for more.

I gloried in her reaction, gripping her tight and crushing her into my chest. She pressed her cheek into my throat and dug her fingers into the skin of my sides. I hissed in pain as her hand skimmed across the cut she’d given me, then I surged even harder against her, though I was already buried deep. She yelped and dug her nails in, sending searing pain all the way down my side. I gritted my teeth, enjoying the savagery of our first mating.

“Y-you feel that, psycho?” she gasped against me, embedding her nails even deeper into my bleeding flank. “I may not be able to see you, but I’m not stupid.”

Surprise flooded through me. Little bitch knew exactly what she was doing. I grinned and reached down to capture her wrists and slam them into the pillow over her head. The fingers of her one hand shone red with my blood. My cock swelled even further inside her and I knew I wasn’t going to last long, not with this vixen underneath me.

“You like to play risky games,” I panted, surging against her, fucking into her so hard the bed slammed into the wall.

Nola screamed and dug her nails into my wrist where I held onto her. She lifted her hips, meeting my every thrust with a small surge of her own, crying out every time our bodies slammed together. Heat sizzled through me, rippling down my spine, telling me I was close to coming. This was different though. Like a gathering storm, the air around us felt charged with electricity, as though a single spark would ignite the bed, the room and everything else. We didn’t care. We were wrapped in the moment.

I stared down at the most beautiful woman I had ever beheld. She was so utterly stunning in that moment. Though she was trapped beneath me, her hands pinned to the bed, she was magnificent with her head arched back against the pillow and her breasts pushed out, sweat beading her body from chin to navel. I could feel my balls drawing up against my body, my thoughts scattering to the wind as pleasure began to take hold.

I released her wrists and bent, crouching over her. I shoved her head to the side and buried my face in her neck. Licking the luscious beads of sweat from her collarbone, inhaling her honeyed scent and luxuriating in the texture of her stunning mane of chestnut hair. I slammed balls deep one last time and breathed her name before grunting my release. I felt a sharp slicing pain in my shoulder, sending another shot of seed pumping from my body into hers. I whipped my head to the side, catching a glimpse of my Nola biting deep into the muscle of my shoulder, a vicious gleam in her eye as she looked toward me.

I reached out, grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked her head back. She let out a yell as her neck arched at an awkward angle. I hunched over top of her, reached between our bodies and attacked her clit with hard, fast strokes. She began shrieking for mercy, alternately begging for me to stop and demanding her precious orgasm. Just as she neared her peak I leaned over and bit down on her breast, enveloping her nipple. I used enough force that she would almost certainly have teeth marks for days to come. Nola couldn’t see me, but she would see the marks of my possession.

She screamed her pleasure until I was forced to cover her mouth once again. She used her sharp little teeth against me so I smashed my hand down hard enough that she had to let go or risk cutting her lips against her own teeth.

Finally, I let her go and rolled to the side. We lay side by side on her narrow, crappy mattress panting. My body ached from fighting with Nola, but I’d never felt better in my life. She had been more than worth the effort it took to subdue. I glanced to the side, wanting to see what Nola looked like all flushed and well-fucked.

Quick reflexes, borne from jumping out of the way of too many doors saved my life. I managed to grab hold of her wrist as it flew toward me in an arc, a pistol held tight in her fist. I yanked her wrist to the side, lurched over top of her and punched her in the temple, knocking her unconscious.

Chapter 7

Nola

I slid my leg along the silkiest soft sheet my naked body had ever come in contact with, marvelling at the almost sinful sensation. Then my brain caught up with my senses and my eyes flew open as memory came rushing back. I lifted a hand from the heavenly bed and touched the side of my head, wincing at the tenderness I felt there. Strange. Despite the obvious bruise forming, I had no headache. I gave my head a slight shake just to be sure and lifted an eyebrow when, instead of pain, I experienced a slight swamping sensation. As though the room had moved.

I had been drugged.

“You were given a sedative so we could remove you from your rat-infested apartment with ease.” A low voice drifted from the corner of the room. Which corner, I couldn’t tell. His words seemed to echo all around me. “Once you were delivered to my home I insisted you be given a painkiller as well. I suspected you might wake up with a headache.”

Angry heat raged through me. I clenched my fists in the bedding and tried to cling to the ragged shreds of my temper. I could be emotional sometimes and my foster parents used to accuse me of having a terrible temper. I’d learned how to control it over the years, but extreme situations could set me off. Which seemed to be how I found myself trapped and drugged in a psychotic Invisible man’s apartment.

“That’s kidnapping, asshole,” I hissed in the direction I thought I was hearing his voice come from. “And for all you know, I could be allergic to whatever you gave me! I could’ve died.”

He chuckled, completely unconcerned with my outrage. “I know your entire history and everything about you, Nola Antonetti. If you had any allergies I would know.”

I gathered the sheet in my hands and slid carefully off the edge of the bed, trying to stay on the side I thought he was furthest from. I was wrong. As I stood, tucking the beautiful white material around the top of my breasts, he spoke from behind me, his deep raspy voice an echo in my ear. “I’ve waited months to see you in my bed.”

I whirled around, jumping back. Unfortunately, this sent me tumbling back onto the bed. I tried to roll off the end but something… someone grabbed hold of my ankle and dragged me back to the middle. I screamed, fear and adrenaline coursing through my veins. I kicked out at the faceless man holding onto my leg but missed. I fought, but it was impossible to fight something that was bigger and stronger, something I couldn’t see.

His laughter bounced off the walls around us as we fought. He enjoyed holding me down, and despite my inability to see him, I could feel how much my struggles turned him on by the hot length of cock pressing into my stomach as he sat on me. There was nothing I could do but lay beneath him, tense, feeling him.

“Hadn’t meant to fuck you so soon after you woke up,” he growled.

His warm breath touched my face. I strained away from him, but his lips followed mine. I was tempted to bite now that I knew where he was, except the blow to my temple told me he wasn’t disinclined toward hitting women.

“Mine,” he snarled against my mouth.

I whimpered, fear of this unknown, ghostly man rippling through me. But for some reason my body reacted viscerally, primitively to the deep growl. My nipples peaked, the one that he’d bitten gave a painful twinge, a reminder of his retaliatory mark. My skin felt sensitive and I could feel the wetness gathering between my thighs. He wrenched the sheet away from my body, leaving me naked and spread wide in his bed.

I watched in fascinated horror as the sheet began twisting and turning in the air over my face. I gripped the bed beneath me and tried to claw my way out from underneath him, terrified now that he was going to use this twisted bedsheet to strangle me, but he was too heavy to dislodge. He took hold of my wrists, dragged me up the bed with an ease that told me he must be far bigger than me and used the sheet to secure my hands to the headboard.

“Want to taste you,” he explained, and I realized that this crazy, psychotic see-through man intended to go down on me and he didn’t want me to be able to fight him while he did it.

“Don’t you fucking dare!” I shouted, trying to elbow him in the side of the head, or where I thought his head should be, while he tied my wrists. Once he finished I felt his weight shift as he moved back. I yanked my arms, testing the tightness of the sheet. Yup, pretty fucking tight.

I could feel him moving down the bed, between my legs. Now that I was restrained, he took his time, becoming more gentle. I couldn’t see him, but he went slow enough to make sure that I knew exactly where he was and what he was doing. He ran his broad hands down my sides, enveloping my ribcage, his thumbs skimming the sides of my breasts. I gasped as unwanted erotic heat enveloped me. He continued his nefarious path down my body, clasping my hips in his hands and squeezing the flesh, before pressing his thumbs inward toward my inner thighs. Unable to help myself I opened my legs, just a tiny bit more. It had been so long since a man had touched between my legs, encouraged that sweet, sensual build up, that I couldn’t bring myself to deny his coaxing fingers.

And something about his invisibility seemed to encourage this forbidden path, as though it weren’t actually happening. Despite my hands being firmly tied to the headboard and my presence in a strange apartment. I would contemplate reality after the bliss of this promised orgasm…

“My Nola…”

I moaned out loud as the warm rush of air touched my bare labia. I pressed my knees back and tilted my hips up, encouraging him to do it again. Miraculously he took my invitation, blowing another stream of air across my aching pussy.

“Ohhhh, yes,” I breathed, arching my back into the bed and wiggling in eagerness.

He took hold of my thighs and pressed them open, pushing them back to fit his wide shoulders. I closed my eyes and tried to picture the man between my legs. I knew he was big and broad. I knew he was muscular and his cock was big. I knew he had hair, teeth and blood. But that was all I knew.

And then I didn’t care. Because he buried his tongue deep in my pussy and began eating like a man that was experiencing his favourite meal; a man that might never surface again if he got his way. The sounds he made while he was eating were both savage and erotic. I wanted to die from embarrassment at how wet I was, the fluids that were flowing freely from my body as he shoved fingers inside me, mimicking a cock, while lashing my clit with his tongue.

I made sounds I’ve never made before, I begged for release. I clamped my knees around his head but he grabbed them and dragged them back down to the bed, insisting on complete control. He laughed as I thrust my hips up toward his mouth and demanded he make me come harder than I’d ever come before. Then he obliged.

“Come for me, Nola!” he commanded, his rough voice vibrating through my wet folds.

I didn’t give a fuck. I screamed my pleasure for the world to hear as he clamped his mouth over my pussy and sucked, drawing my clit so hard between his teeth I saw stars. I came with those stars, my hips shooting right off the bed and into his waiting hands. As I came back down onto the bed he released me, crawled up my body and surged into me, his cock making itself right at home in my soaking passage.

I gripped him with my knees and rolled my hips up as much as I could to meet each savage thrust as he took me with enough force to rock the bed. I surged up against my restraints as another orgasm hit me, cresting in a wild, primitive wave. He growled and slammed a hand between my breasts, pinning me to the bed while he fucked me.

He let out a vicious roar that reverberated throughout the room, surged into me one last time and pressing his fingers hard against my breast bone, leaving me gasping for breath. I felt his penis grow within me and then pulse as he came. A blush enveloped me from head to toe. Not one of embarrassment. No… it was one of comfort, warmth and need. This man had thoroughly possessed me, and I wasn’t opposed to it.

I felt him collapse on top of me and smirked. He wouldn’t have to worry about a gun this time. I blinked and felt my eyelashes brush against something. Probably his face. It was so strange… touching something you could look right through. I moved my face a little closer and pressed my chin against his skin, feeling something sandpapery. It must be his chin as well. It felt rough against mine, as though he had a five o’clock shadow.

“Do… do you shave?” I whispered. Then I laughed, the sound stilted. What a strange thing to ask a man you couldn’t see. Of all the questions to ask the man that had abducted me and ravished me… oh and was completely invisible, this was probably the least important. Still, I wanted to know the answer.

He chuckled and buried his face in my neck, inhaling for long seconds before moving back. He answered as he released my wrists from the headboard. “No,” he said, his voice low and gruff. He enveloped my wrists one at a time in his big hands and rubbed them, tenderly restoring the blood flow. “I came this way. Never had to worry about nicking myself shaving.”

“Huh,” I said, eyeing the weirdness that was my own hands floating in strange patterns in front of my face. I wasn’t sure what to say. I knew he was bald, having felt the smoothness of his head beneath my fingertips while we were having sex.

“Come,” he said, pulling me toward the edge of the bed.

I grabbed for the sheet, snatching it from the bed as he stood me upright. I half expected him to take the silky material away from me. Instead, he helped me wind it around my body and tuck it beneath my armpits. I frowned suspiciously at his solicitous behaviour and took a small step away from where I thought he was standing. Then it occurred to me that he was still completely naked.

“C-can you please put some clothes on?” I asked.

He chuckled and seconds later the closet door swung open. I jumped. It occurred to me that if he was distracted, perhaps I could make it to the front door and escape. I turned on my heel and lurched toward the bedroom door. I made it about two steps before slamming into a solid object. Steel bands wrapped around my arms stopping my fall to the carpet.

“Going somewhere, doll?”

“Fuck, you’re fast!” I yelped.

He lifted me right off my feet and carried me toward the closet, thrusting me inside. I stumbled in and turned to see if he followed, assuming he must be behind me. I turned and watched, my heart hammering with both fear and curiosity as the bedroom light seemed to bend around absolutely nothing. The closet light flicked on and the optical illusion disappeared.

I glanced to my side, my eyes falling on something glittery. I stepped in for a closer look when I realized I was looking at rack after rack of women’s clothes. I frowned and reached out to touch, knowing before my fingers even reached the material that I would be touching couture clothing that I could never in a million years ever afford. I couldn’t help myself. I had to step closer, had to lift the sleeve of one of the jackets and rub it against my cheek. I let out a sigh and allowed the material to drift back through my hand.

That’s when I saw the shoes. Dozens of pairs of shoes and boots. Row after row in every possible shade, in every possible heel height. My mouth watered, my eyes watered. I was pretty sure I’d died and gone to heaven. There was no other explanation. I was in heaven and the man in the closet was the weirdest possible invisible sex God that nobody ever thought existed.

“All yours, Nola.” His voice sounded from over my head. “All your size. I’ve been collecting them for the past few months in preparation for your arrival.”

I stood still for a moment, absorbing his words, caught between the fantasy world of an orphan being handed everything she ever wanted (sort of) and a woman who understood real life didn’t work this way. “What if I don’t want this?” I asked the question that had to be asked.

“No choice.” His answer was instant and uncompromising.

I nodded. Yeah, I’d known what his response would be. His every action so far had told me that he wouldn’t be willing to let go of his obsession. I was going to have to find a way to make him let go.

I moved toward the back of the closet, my feet moving of their own accord. It really said something about my willingness to believe this psycho if I was willing to turn my back on him. Not that I could see him anyway. But, despite his silent, predatory movements, something inside me sensed him. Sensed his nearness… and knew that he wouldn’t actually harm me.

I ran my hand over some of the finest clothes I’d ever touched as I stepped into the back of the closet, toward shelves, steeped in shadows. I jumped as a series of lights flashed on overhead. I glanced over my shoulder. Of course, I couldn’t see a thing. I suppose, if I was going to be here for awhile I was going to have to stop searching for this guy all the time. I stepped up to the rows of shelves. The hairs on my arm stood up and I shivered as I felt an arm brush my bicep when he reached past me. The top shelf seemed to magically open. I gasped in appreciation. So many rows of glittering diamonds met my eyes that it took me a moment to process what I was looking at; earrings and necklaces. Some were matching sets, some were singles, all were stunning. I knew without a single doubt that they were real and far more than I could ever afford in a lifetime.

I reached out a hesitant hand to touch, but I was too slow. The drawer slid closed. A sigh of disappointment slid past my lips before I could stop it. He chuckled against my ear, his lips brushing the skin of my shoulder as he reached past me to open the second drawer. This one contained bracelets and rings. Again, before I could touch anything, he closed the drawer. My disappointment grew. The third drawer opened. This one was filled with an assortment of men’s cufflinks, lighters and watches. My eyes caught on one particular set, and this time I was faster than him. I thrust my hand in the drawer and ran my fingertip over the royal blue set, studded with three diamonds in each. I’d seen them before.

I pulled my hand back. My breathing grew shallow as the implication hit. I don’t know why I hadn’t thought of it earlier, weeks ago, when I’d first noticed my secret stalker. Only I’d been too flattered and titillated to really use my brain. Idiot. “Open the last drawer,” I whispered.

I could feel him crouch down, next to my legs and reach past me. He opened the drawer just as I tilted my head down, my dark hair swirling around me. Rows of gloves in every shade and texture lined the drawer, though it was clear my Invisible man favoured black leather. I placed a hand over my now pounding heart. The drawer closed and I felt, rather than heard, him stand and move away from me.

Rustling indicated he was getting dressed. I swallowed, trying to wet my suddenly dry throat, and when I had my chaotic emotions under control, I finally turned to face my kidnapper. He was now wearing a dark trench coat, the collar tilted up. I glanced to the other side of the closet, opposite the women’s clothes. It contained tidy rows of men’s clothes: trench coats, dress pants, collared shirts and tie and scarf racks. Like the women’s side, there were rows of shoes along the bottom. Above the men’s clothing there was an extra row. This row contained several dark, wide-brimmed hats.

He reached up and collected a hat, dropping it above the collared coat, right where a man’s head should have been. The effect was so dramatic I covered my mouth to stifle a gasp. He stood that way for a moment, not bothering with a scarf, gloves or shoes. There was no point. I knew exactly who he was.

“What’s y-your name?” I whispered, awe and fear crashing through me.

“Rasputin,” he said, his voice a raspy growl. I heard it now, heard the sandpaper voice I recognized in the shape that was now familiar.

“Rasputin Shy,” I said his full name.

He held his hand out. “Come to me, Nola.”

Chapter 8

Rasputin

She took my hand, almost without thinking. As though knowing I was her boss made a difference, changed things between us. I didn’t care why she did it, so long as she didn’t question me. She stared at me, intense emotion flashing through those dark, gorgeous eyes of hers. She couldn’t seem to stop looking at me, her eyes glued to my face now that she knew where it was. Elation exploded through my chest and I crushed her hand in mine.

I wanted to fuck her again and again until she begged for mercy, begged me to stop. She was everything to me and finally I could have her, keep her, worship her. Hand her the world and everything in it on a silver platter.

I released her hand for just a moment. Reaching past her I tugged a short, white silk robe off a nearby hanger. “Lose the sheet,” I said gruffly. She hesitated, but when I held the robe up for her to see, she dropped the sheet and quickly stepped forward allowing me to wrap her in the sweetly-scented material. When I’d purchased it, I had the saleslady package it in lavender spritzed tissue paper. In anticipation of Nola’s imminent arrival, I’d unwrapped it that very morning, holding it to my face and breathing deeply, imagining it enveloping her soft skin. Now, she looked like an angel in the clingy white material, her dark hair falling in a messy cloud around her shoulders.

I tied the belt around her middle, took her hand and pulled her from the closet. She came willingly, though I watched for any signs that she might attack or try to run. My Nola was a wonderful and wily woman. I wasn’t quite ready to relax in her presence yet. Not until we’d established boundaries and I’d seen some sign that she was willing to accept the life I was offering.

I checked the clock as I led her past the bedroom and guest suites toward the kitchen and living room area. We were right on time. Lights illuminated our path as we walked. Nola looked up, her mouth opening in awe as she took in the luxury surrounding us. Her fingers drifted out to touch the rough edge of my Gerhard Richter. As if sensing the value of the painting she snatched her hand away.

I ran my palm down her arm from her shoulder to her wrist and linked my fingers through hers. I lifted our joined hands and pressed the pads of her fingertips lightly against the canvas. “What do you see?” I asked, bending to speak in her ear.

She didn’t say anything for a second as she studied the painting. Then she shifted back a little, subconsciously leaning against me to give herself more room. “I see colours,” she said, low and sweet. “I see… so many colours but thrown together with severity. It’s barbaric, but it’s also quite beautiful.” She twisted around to look up at me, then she frowned, as if remembering that there was no face for her to see. “What do you see, Mr. Shy?”

“Rasputin,” I corrected her. “And I see profit. A painting that commands a price far higher than its worth. Which is why it’s in my home. It’ll find a new place soon enough when I find a buyer willing to pay my price.”

“Oh,” she said, almost disappointed.

“Unless you’d rather we keep it. If you like that sort of thing then consider it a gift, doll.”

She tilted her head to the side and thought about it. “And how much is that particular painting worth, Mr… Rasputin?”

“Around 46 million, give or take.”

She didn’t even pause, she straightened and said, “Sell it.”

I laughed out loud. Probably the first spontaneous laugh I’d enjoyed in years, if ever. This woman was more than worthy of my love. She was a fucking goddess. She would walk by my side and complete my future. I stepped toward her, took her face in my hands and kissed her. She didn’t protest. She didn’t have the opportunity to protest. She brought her hands up. Hovering in the air for a moment, uncertain, before settling them against my side. It only took a few seconds before her light squeeze became a hug, her arms wrapping completely around me. I smelled lavender and Nola. I wanted to drown in her.

I held her against me and kissed her, passionately, lovingly for as long as I dared. Now was not the time for more fucking around, though I would have loved nothing more than to lay her down on the couch and take her again. Unfortunately, we needed to work through some business first. Then we could settle into our dream life together.

“Nola,” I whispered against her lips. She moaned and reached an arm up to wrap around my head and tug me back in for more kissing. I smiled and forced her arm back down. “Ah, Nola, doll,” I said, holding her against me and walking her several steps toward the floor to ceiling windows. Her dreamy gaze was still on me. “I want you to watch something.” I tapped the glass until she turned her head and looked. She gasped in awe at the spread of city lights, like a blanket laid out at her feet, flowing out from beneath my high-rise tower. I pointed into the distance. “Look there.”

I could feel from the tension in her body and the slight intake of breath the moment she saw it. She turned completely in the loose cage of my arms to face the window. She stared hard at the orange glow in the distance.

“What is it?” she asked in a whisper.

“I think you know.”

“Fire,” she said.

“Yes,” I confirmed her suspicion.

She pressed a hand against the glass and watched the flickering light in the distance, creating a glowing halo on the horizon. “Why are you showing me this?” she asked, turning her head in my direction, but not taking her eyes from the scene in front of her. I didn’t answer. She was a smart girl, she’d work it out. After a moment, she answered her own question. “That’s my building, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She made a small, angry sound. The hand pressed against the window balled into a fist. “Why?!” she asked sharply, her eyes now glued to the scene in front of her. “Why would you do such a thing? What about my neighbors, and… and all of my things? You’re a monster!”

“I’ve never pretended to be otherwise, Nola,” I said calmly, though her words were a knife to the gut. I wanted to sever her ties to the past, not foster her hatred. I relented somewhat. “I gave your neighbors the option to leave before my men set the fire. And any of your belongings that had sentimental value were removed and put into storage hours ago.” I took her shoulders and turned her toward me. When she refused to look up, I tilted her chin, forcing her to look into the shadowy nothingness that should’ve been my face. “I know what’s important to my doll. I will always take the appropriate steps to secure your happiness.”

“Yet, I’m not happy right now, Rasputin,” she said tartly, then wrinkled her nose. “What kind of a name is that anyway? Rasputin? What were your parents thinking? No one names their kids that.”

I chuckled. “I don’t have parents. Gave myself the name. Thought it sounded interesting and the historical figure, Grigori Rasputin, was an influential mystic at the turn of the 20th century. Some people believed he could make himself disappear at will and thus managed to escape his own murder. Bullshit, of course, but I enjoy the mythology.”

She looked at me with a frown, deep in thought. After a moment, she murmured, “You don’t have parents? How is that possible? Everyone has parents.”

“I don’t,” I said shortly. It wasn’t something I enjoyed dwelling on. Though I knew I wasn’t ‘normal’, I was still pretty sure I was human, and people needed contact. Something I’d been deprived of my entire existence. “Just woke up one day like this.”

She opened her mouth to say something else, but I was done with this line of questioning. And if she was finished watching her old life burn then I had something else to show her. I took her by the elbow and steered her away from the window toward the living room. “Come with me, doll. I have something for you to see.”

She followed my lead, but laughed bitterly and said, “So far I’m 50/50 on your little surprises. I liked the clothes and jewels, I must admit. Not so much the show of power by burning my apartment building to the ground.”

I tilted my head in a slight nod of agreement. Life with me wouldn’t always be to Nola’s liking, I was sure of that. But she would get used to it. “You have to see what I’m capable of.”

“Sending your thugs out with a gas can and a matchbook?” she said tartly. “I’m not impressed, Rasputin.”

I gave her a light shove, sending her tumbling back onto the sofa. She let out an annoyed growl but stayed where she landed when I kept a restraining hand on her shoulder. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest, staring at the wall through narrowed eyes. She was so fucking beautiful when she was mad.

I picked up the remote control and pressed a button. A panel opened, revealing my TV. Another press of a button turned the TV on. Nola had shifted on the couch to face the TV and was now watching with fascination. I turned the screen on and pressed play on the video feed I’d prepared in preparation for this moment. It had taken work to get to the bottom of this puzzle, had meant splicing a few grainy video feeds that were at opposing angles, but the final product had finally shown the theft.

“Magda!” she gasped as the other woman’s face appeared on the screen.

The camera then zoomed out to show both women, Magda standing behind Nola, pointing at something, distracting the younger waitress. When Nola’s attention shifted, Magda moved her body so she was blocking the camera’s view, then reached beneath the counter and swiped Nola’s tip bag. A few seconds later, she reached into the register as Nola was making change for someone and grabbed a handful of bills.

What neither women knew was that their boss had installed another camera straight above the bar area, hidden in the racks of glasses.

“You knew it was her,” I said gruffly, startling Nola from her trance-like focus on the TV. “No one else was behind the bar with you. Why didn’t you say anything?”

Her gaze swung toward me and she blinked. Then she shrugged. “It would’ve been my word against hers. And she has seniority in every way, including knowing the camera angles. I knew I could never prove she’d done it.” She licked her lips, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “I thought I was going to lose my job… maybe more. Stealing from you, from Mr. Shy, well, it could be a death sentence.”

I walked toward her and dropped to my knees in front of her next to the sofa. I took her thighs in my hands and pushed, opening her up, making room for myself between her legs. She began trembling. I kneaded her hips and legs through the silk of her robe, occasionally brushing bare skin as the robe opened, giving me delicious peeks of bare pussy and plump, smooth inner thigh.

“Stealing from me is extremely dangerous,” I said in a low voice. “Some might say… fatal.” She made a strangled sound in her throat and gripped the couch as though her life depended on it. “Shhh, my love, you have nothing to worry about. You will always be safe with me.”

“I will?” she asked breathlessly.

I moved her robe to either side of her legs and slid my hands inside, savouring in the soft warmth of her. I knew without a doubt, now that I’ve had my Nola, that I would not be able to go long without her touch. She called to me, like a siren’s wail, only hers was sweet and silent and would last forever.

“Yes,” I assured her. “I love you, Nola. I want only to protect you from harm.”

“Oh my god,” she breathed, her dark eyes wide on my invisible face. She lifted shaking fingers and placed them against my cheek, tracing her thumb over my nose and across my lips. I grinned and pressed a kiss against her passing fingers. She smiled.

I took her hand and lowered it. “You may not have stolen from me, but someone else did. And she stole from the woman I love. This won’t be allowed to pass,” I said grimly. “You understand how things work in my world, Nola?”

“Yes,” she whispered, lowering her lashes.

She knew what had to happen, but would she approve? Probably not. Nola was a lovely, kind woman, capable of nurturing and love. She wouldn’t like the idea that anything related to her got someone else hurt, even if she couldn’t stop the outcome. I leaned over and kissed her cheek, whispering, “I’m sorry,” in her ear.

She looked up with a frown. “Why?” she asked sharply. “That leathery old bitch stole from us, she’s long past her expiry date. In fact, I want to be there when she gets what’s coming to her. If you want this thing between us to work out, then you better let me watch while you mete out some street justice. Got it?”

Chapter 9

Nola

It had taken some arguing but I’d finally managed to convince Mr. Shy… Rasputin to let me come along. I wasn’t sure exactly why he was reticent about having me there when he made Magda pay for her thievery. Maybe he was worried I wouldn’t be able to stomach his brand of justice or perhaps he just preferred to work alone. Either way, I knew I had to be there. If this relationship between us had any chance of working out, we were going to have to find a way to work together. And that meant I had to know what my new lover was capable of. And he needed to know exactly what I was capable of.

I wandered his office, running my fingers over his things, enjoying them with new eyes. The possessive eyes of a lover who was beginning to see all the possibilities. I touched the back of his chair, his stapler, phone, paper weight and letter opener. I picked the opener up and parked my ass on the edge of his desk, running the object through my fingers and across my palm, enjoying the smooth sensation against my flesh. It helped heighten my pleasure that the item was solid gold.

I looked up as the office door opened. Magda entered first, a smug expression on her face. She was ushered in by our boss. I frowned. Why was she looking so proud of herself? Rasputin waved his hand toward one of the guest chairs. Magda sat, settling herself comfortably into the black leather. Her malevolent gaze flashed to me and she gave me a tight, thin-lipped smile that spoke a world of dislike without a sound passing through that red-tinted mouth.

Rasputin rounded his desk, nudging my hip with his as he passed and knocking me to the side. I took the hint and straightened, sliding off the desk. I set the letter opener back down and stepped a more respectful distance away from my boss, watching with interest as he opened the conversation.

“As you know, Magda, a small amount of cash went missing from my establishment yesterday evening,” he drawled his words, placing one gloved hand on the desk in front of him, drawing her eyes. Now that I was getting to know him better I saw the trick for what it was, drawing the gaze away from his face so the person sitting opposite him didn’t grow curious about the shadows that constantly surrounded him. “I was hoping you might be able to tell me what you saw take place in and around the bar last night.”

I stifled a gasp. Of course he knew what had taken place, we’d both seen the video evidence. But he was lulling her into a sense of complacency, making her think she had a chance. I loved the way he was playing cat to her mouse. I could feel the blood heat in my veins.

She sent a self-satisfied glare right at me before turning an innocent expression on her boss and saying, “I was working my section all evening, Mr. Shy. I only went to the bar for drink requests, like I always do.”

I could feel my blood pressure rising at her blatant lie. I wanted to dig her eyeballs right out of her skull and curled my fingers into my palms to check the impulse. I side-eyed Rasputin to see how he was taking this drivel. He seemed to be contemplating her, his hat bobbing low in a slow nod. I inched my hand toward the paperweight, closing my fist around the smooth object. His hand came down, covering mine and squeezing. I didn’t let go of my new weapon.

“So you didn’t go behind the bar last night?” he questioned, his voice smooth and non-threatening.

Magda tilted her head to the side as though thinking about it. “I might have…” she said, her voice trailing off. “Actually, now that I think about it, I did.” She pointed at me and said smugly, “She asked me to help her mix a few drinks. It must’ve been a distraction so she could pocket the money and blame it on someone else. We all know about the cameras. It was the only way she could get away with taking the cash.”

“Hmmm, an interesting theory,” Rasputin drawled, his voice cool.

I was steaming mad. This bitch had an answer for everything. Well, so did I. I pulled my arm back and hurled the paperweight at her. It caught her in the side of the head, knocking her right off the side of the chair. She went down like a heap of bricks while I laughed at the dumbass look on her face. I reached for the letter opener and was about to launch myself over the desk and directly on top of my prey when Rasputin caught me around the middle and dragged me backwards, grabbing hold of my wrist.

“You are a bloodthirsty little thing, aren’t you?” he asked in my ear, taking the opener from my hand and smacking it back down onto the desk. “Thought it was a fluke when you stabbed me in your apartment. Guess I’ll have to watch my back when I piss you off.”

Magda was squirming around on the floor and moaning while we sorted out the minor issue of whether or not I should be allowed to stab the bitch. I gave up my struggle with a sigh of defeat. “Fine, let’s get this over with.”

He released me and stalked around the desk, seizing Magda by the arm and dragging her off the floor. He picked her up and slammed her back down on the chair. She shrieked and grabbed her head where a trickle of blood was making a path down the side of her face. I gave her a toothy grin. She looked back at me, her face now pale with fear. Glad she was beginning to show a little respect, even if it was too little, too late.

“We know you took the money,” Rasputin snapped, stepping away from the older waitress. “I have video evidence from over top of the bar. You were the one that distracted Nola, then you stole her tips and took money from the cash register.”

Magda started to shake her head, moaned and grabbed hold of her hair as agony ripped through her skull. “I didn’t, I swear Mr. Shy. It must’ve been Nola!”

“Don’t you fucking blame my doll!” he roared, crouching low enough to get in her face. She flinched back in the chair, covering her face from his anger. If she’d looked at him in that moment, she would’ve seen his lack of face. “I have evidence you evil bitch. You’ve been around long enough. You know how the organization works. You were hoping I would blame Ms. Antonetti, you were hoping she would meet mob justice, weren’t you?”

A sob rippled out from between her fingers and her shoulders shook. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize it would go this far!”

“You’re sorry you got caught,” he snarled. “You’re sorry it’s not Nola sitting in this chair taking the heat.”

“I’ll pay you back,” she sobbed. “Every penny!”

He didn’t say anything. He straightened up, standing over her. I stepped around the desk and took my place behind her, wanting to see his face when he declared her fate. It didn’t matter that I couldn’t technically see a face, I didn’t need to. This was my man in all his glory, in his element. This was the Rasputin Shy that wanted to keep Nola Antonetti. Forever.

“Too late, Magda,” he said, in his rough calm voice.

Her breathing grew heavy. “My family is connected, they won’t stand for this,” she cried desperately.

I was done with this bitch. I lifted my arm.

“Nola!” Rasputin warned sharply.

He was too late. I brought my hand down in a vicious arc, slamming the letter opener into the side of her neck. Blood sprayed, she tried to scream, I giggled. Rasputin growled, “Fuck,” as blood arced in wet streaks across his beautiful office. I winced. In hindsight, I suppose I could’ve explained my impulsive plan and maybe we could’ve discussed the pros and cons.

Her body fell to the floor, blood pouring from her neck. She wasn’t quite dead yet, but definitely close.

Rasputin sighed and rubbed a gloved hand over his invisible face. “Look, Nola. I love that you want to help me out at work, but we don’t murder people in my place of business. It leaves evidence and the blood stains are nearly impossible to get out. Okay, doll?”

I grinned, happy that he didn’t seem too angry. “Okay, baby. Can we go get something to eat now? I’m starving.”

Chapter 10

I ran my fingers over the collar of my brand-new coat, thoroughly enjoying the feeling of the way the top-of-the-line faux fur collar hugged my neck. Of course, I couldn’t stand the thought of owning real fur. I may be a stone-cold bitch in some ways, but I wasn’t into animal sacrifice when it came to fashion. I sighed and surveyed my kingdom from my usual stool, right next to Rasputin’s empty stool at the bar. He was out for the evening, conducting business with his new judge, so he left me in charge.

“Another drink, Ms. Antonetti?” Mikey asked in a deferential tone. Gone was the bartender that used to tease and even flirt with me. Now he was polite and respectful every time we saw each other. Occasionally I missed our banter, but I much preferred my new status.

“Please,” I said, pushing my glass toward him without looking away from the dining room. The new wait staff were doing an excellent job. We’d had to replace both Magda and myself rather quickly. Rasputin wouldn’t let me continue as a waitress, not even for one more shift, despite Magda’s abrupt disappearance.

He’d given me almost complete decision-making power when it came to the restaurant, his only rule being that if his guys came in with cash, staff had to accept the bills and give cash back, no questions, no hesitation. If anyone came nosing in our business we looked the other way and plead ignorance. In the weeks since I’d been running the restaurant he paid me the highest compliment by saying the place was running smooth as clockwork. He even said he’d been able to pay more attention to his business around the city, expanding our empire since he didn’t have to pay such close attention to the money laundering side of things. I’d grinned at the way he said the word ‘our’, how he entrusted so much to me in such a short amount of time.

Having assured myself that the dining room was running as smooth as ever, I uncrossed my legs, picked up my glass of wine and slid off the stool. “I’ll be in Mr. Shy’s office if anyone needs me,” I told Mikey, turning away from the bar and heading down the shadowy hallway leading toward the back rooms.

Before I made it to the office an arm slid through mine. I glanced up, expecting to see my lover, back early from his business. Instead I was met with the fierce glower of an older mustached stranger, clearly Italian. The thick eyebrows, thin lips and a wrinkled, bitter expression told me this man was probably related to Magda. Well shit. The muzzle of a gun flashed in the dimly lit hall before he pressed it against my side. Double shit.

“You’re coming with me,” he growled, shoving me hard toward the back exit. The glass of wine I’d been holding slipped from my fingers, smashing against the floor.

I opened my mouth to protest, but the door flew open and a shadowy figure reached through the doorway, grabbed my arm and yanked me through. Now there was a man in front of me and a man behind, both ushering me into the rainy alleyway behind the restaurant. My heart pounded in my chest and despite the gun I opened my mouth to scream, to let the restaurant staff know what was happening. Before any sound emerged from my lips pain exploded in the side of my head. My knees buckled and I would’ve fallen except the guy in front grabbed me roughly and dragged me forward toward the open door of a vehicle. I was shoved inside. The door slammed shut before I could attempt another scream.

I pressed a shaking hand against the side of my head. The door on the other side of me slammed as the mustached thug slid into the vehicle. The moment his door closed the car took off, driving away from the scene of the crime at a high rate of speed. I clutched the doorframe in one hand and brought my other hand down, looking at the blood on my fingertips with anger. The asshole cut me when he smacked me in the side of the head with his gun. He was going pay for that move.

It should’ve frightened me that they weren’t worried about me seeing where we were going. It didn’t. We drove to a dilapidated warehouse on the riverfront, completely deserted except for an empty car parked next to the building. They couldn’t have made more of a statement about their plans for my future health if they wanted to. Someone opened my door and I was pulled roughly from the vehicle.

“Move.” The same man pushed me forward, because clearly the asshole believed I couldn’t walk on my own. I stumbled on my heels and reached out to steady myself against the side of the car.

Mustache grabbed my arm and pulled me through a door into a cold, empty building. The other two guys from the car filed in behind us, while another, much older man stood in the warehouse, waiting. He was leaning negligently against a table, smoking a cigarette. I was dragged forward to the old man and then pushed to stand directly in front of him. I wasn’t particularly tall, but in heels I damn near towered over the stooped, elderly man.

The cigarette still dangling from the fingers of one hand, he reached for my face with the other. I tried to jerk away from his touch but one of his thugs grabbed my arms and held me still. He took hold of my chin and squinted up at me. “Pretty thing,” he grumbled, his voice thick and creaky with age. “Shame.” He released my face and turned away. “Sit ‘er down. Don’t touch her until Shy arrives.”

A chair was brought forward and placed next to me. Before I had the chance to sit myself down, I was shoved into the seat, my ass hitting the wood hard. The breath hissed from between my teeth and I vowed that these men would die badly. Which was a pretty easy bet considering my lover wasn’t going to be happy when he found out what happened.

I looked at the table taking note of a rusty machete, a large switchblade and a pistol. I nodded toward the motley assortment. “Nice,” I said, leaning back in the chair and crossing my legs, getting comfortable. “It’s good to give yourself some choice. Although that rusted out piece is going to hurt like a bitch when Rasputin shows up.”

“Who the fuck you talking about?” Mustache asked, lighting a cigarette.

“Mr. Shy,” I clarified. “Rasputin is his first name. You know… I don’t think many people know that.”

“No one gives a shit,” he spat, his eyes gleaming malevolently.

I shrugged, unconcerned. “I guess it’s a matter of perspective. I give a shit. But you certainly won’t once he shows up and starts hacking y’all into little pieces.”

“Enough,” the old man grumbled. He snapped his fingers and pointed at another chair, directing his man to bring it forward and place it in front of mine. He sat and faced me. “Do you know why you are here, madam?”

I smiled coldly. “I have an idea.”

“I am Magda Russo’s uncle.”

I tilted my head but otherwise ignored his question. Of course I knew who these men were.

“That man over there,” he nodded toward mustache, “is her brother.”

I really wanted to correct their use of the present tense when discussing Magda’s aliveness, but I didn’t want them to just go ahead and kill me. I simply shrugged and said, “What does this have to do with me?”

He narrowed his eyes and growled, “She was last seen at the restaurant, going into a back room with Shy. Hasn’t been seen in over two weeks.”

I rolled my eyes. “Again, what does this have to do with me?”

“He’s made it clear exactly who you belong to. He’ll come for you,” he leaned closer, blowing a stream of smoke in my face.

I flashed another tight-lipped smile. “Yes,” I agreed. “He will.”

Before he could reply someone banged on the metal door, the sound reverberating throughout the warehouse. I couldn’t help the smug happiness that I was sure flashed across my face. The old man nodded toward one of his henchmen, sending him toward the door. The guy pulled a gun and swung the door open, pointing his weapon. Everyone waited with breathless anticipation.

No one was there. The guy stuck his head out the door and looked around. Nothing happened. He shrugged, stepped back inside and kicked the door shut.

I looked at Russo and asked, “Can I get a cigarette?” He raised an eyebrow. I shrugged. “Call it a last request.”

He flicked a hand at mustache who pulled a pack from his pocket, lit one and handed it to me. I nodded my thanks and took it from him, settling back in the chair again.

“You’re pretty relaxed for a dead woman,” the old man rasped, annoyance clear in his voice. He wanted me rattled, begging for my life.

I sighed softly and lifted a shoulder. “Again, that’s a matter of perspective.”

He leaned forward in his chair, growling in his creaky voice, “We’re going to cut you to pieces, you mouthy little bitch.”

I took the cigarette from between my lips and blew, exhaling the smoke, enjoying the sensation. I rarely indulged in cigarettes. I winked at old man Russo. “I’m not worried.” I took another drag and studied the man in front of me, taking in the exhausted slump to his shoulders. It was probably time for him to retire. “Want to know why?”

“Why is that?” he demanded sharply.

I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Because I know something you don’t know.”

“And what the fuck would that be?” he asked angrily.

I nodded toward the table and raised an eyebrow. “Missing something?”

All eyes landed on the table where the gun and switchblade remained, but the machete was missing. Everyone started shouting and pointing, trying to figure out where it went. Russo’s eyes were on me, narrowed in question. I stared back, a smile spreading across my face as I watched the machete rise up behind him, high in the air. It was a beautifully dramatic moment. No one saw it except me. My lover must have guessed how much I would enjoy the show.

“Say hi to Magda,” I said to her uncle, just before the machete buried itself deep in his neck.

The look on his face as he realized he was about to die was priceless; something I would take pains to burn into my memory. Blood sprayed from his neck, all across the table and one of his guys. I laughed and took another drag of my cigarette. One of the henchmen pulled his gun, making him an excellent next target. Apparently, my invisible lover agreed. The switchblade flew off the table and buried itself in the man’s left eyeball before he got a single shot off.

The next man made a run for the door, but Rasputin grabbed the gun off the table and shot him in the back. Mustache was next. He tried to grab me, reaching for my arm, rightly thinking he could use me as a shield. Unfortunately, he underestimated his foe’s speed and agility. The table flipped to the side and before mustache could lay a single finger on me, he hit the cement so hard I heard bones crack. I turned my head to the side and watched in fascination as Rasputin began systematically breaking each of the man’s limbs, bending and smashing until they snapped. Mustache screamed, cried and begged for mercy as an invisible man, a ‘ghost’ beat him to a bloody pulp, beat him until he quit moving, quit breathing.

When Rasputin was finished, when the last man was dead, he straightened. I could hear his harsh breathing as he stepped away from the body and turned toward me. He stopped a few steps away and reached a bloody hand out. I could see the red-painted appendage floating in the air in front of my face. I tossed my cigarette to the side, twisted in the chair and stood, placing my hand in his.

He brushed the hair gently back from my temple. I felt the barest brush of his lips against the cut on my head. “Let’s go home, doll,” he said in his sandpaper voice.

I smiled and followed him outside, pausing under the streetlamp next to the warehouse. I tilted my head up and opened my eyes wide, staring into the night. “The rain stopped.”

Epilogue

Two years later

Rasputin

“Stop right there!”

I froze. How the fuck did she know I was there? She was the only person in the world that could sense my presence. No matter how often I tried to sneak up on her, tried to fuck her like I’d done that first night. The night she admitted she’d known I’d been stalking her all along. Admitted that she’d been fucking herself on purpose just to get me all hot and bothered. I’d spanked her ass for that particular prank, after we’d sorted out the whole Magda fallout. Then I’d forced her to masturbate for me again and again, re-enact that same scene for me until I would jump on her and finish it my way, the way I always wanted to when I was forced to just stand back and watch, a lonely shadow in her doorway.

“You know the rules, baby,” she pouted, pointing toward the front door. “Get back over there right now.”

I heaved a sigh and stomped back toward the front door, standing on the plastic welcome mat. She made her way slowly over a mischievous grin spread across her gorgeous lips.

“Thought maybe we could skip it this once,” I growled as she dipped her slim hand into a pot of paint and then slapped it against my chest. It always amazed me how she never missed what she aimed for. My face, my chest… my dick. “I wanted to wake you up with my face between your legs. You’ve been napping more lately. Thought it would be a nice change.”

“That’s sweet, baby,” she cooed, running her fingers up my neck and slathering the paint all across my shoulders, her movements practiced. “But you know I’m not willing to take any chances. Not since that time the housecleaner walked in on us having sex and thought I was having a seizure. That was the most embarrassing trip to the ER I’ve ever taken. And you laughing the whole way didn’t help. The paramedics were convinced they were transporting a naked ventriloquist with epilepsy.”

“Locking the damn door would be a lot cheaper and less time consuming than all this paint,” I snapped, grabbing her wrist as it slid between my ass cheeks.

She went up on her tiptoes and whispered in my ear. “But I love being able to see you.” She walked behind me, slipping her hand in the paint before crouching to put the jar on the floor. She stood and began massaging my shoulders before moving all around me, light touches here, heavier touches there, sliding her fingers between mine. I dropped my chin, watching her smaller fingers slide between my much thicker, now blue fingers. My breath caught at the sensation of her skin against mine, only the slippery texture of paint separating us.

“I love that you can see me too,” I whispered back.

She carefully dropped to her knees my hand at her elbow, helping her down. She gazed up at me with those big, dark eyes, so knowing, so wickedly powerful, taking in the colours that she’d painted across my stomach, chest, face and neck. She stuck both of her hands back in the paint and then slid them up my thighs landing two beautiful handprints on me. She grabbed the base of my cock in one yellow-tinted fist and staring up at me, she said, “You look like a god.”

I groaned out loud and flexed my muscles, rippling the paint for her as she took the top of my erect penis into her warm, wet mouth. She knew exactly how I loved it. Long, slow, torturous licks with her peeking up at me through the dark curtain of her hair the whole time. I tried to be good, tried to keep my hands to myself, but there was only so much I could take. After a few minutes of heaven and hell, courtesy of Nola’s soul-sucking mouth, I clenched a fist in her hair and reached under her chin to tilt her face up with my other hand.

It was like looking into the face of an angel. She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever looked upon. Everything about her was perfect, from the tips of her fingers to the ends of her toes and everything in between. I didn’t know why she agreed to settle into this life with me and, frankly, I didn’t give a shit. As long as she was here with me nothing else mattered. I took her hand from its place on my thigh and gave her a tug, urging her to stand. She blinked in confusion and released my cock.

“Why…?” she started to ask, but I held my hand up. At times like this I was grateful for the paint. We could communicate without words.

“I need to be inside you tonight,” I said, holding her tight against me, my fingers making short work of the zipper at the back of her dress.

She seemed to understand. She helped me remove her bra and panties until she was standing naked in my arms. She reached up, winding her arms around my neck and tugging my head down to hers. I gave her everything, told her exactly how much I loved her, thought about her, obsessed over her in that kiss. I slid my hand down her body, over the taut roundness of stomach and into the folds of her pussy. She widened her legs and moaned into my mouth the moment my fingers found her. My doll was more than ready for me.

I swept her up in my arms and laid her back on the couch. She pulled her knees back and held her arms out, her eyes soft and languid. I went into her embrace, my cock easily finding home in the dripping heat of her tight vagina. She wrapped her arms and legs around me as I thrust into her, burying my head against her neck. We made love just like that, wrapped as tight around each other as two people could get. She pressed her cheek to mine, taking the slight roughness against her smooth cheek and turning her face to nip my jaw as I moved deep within her.

I could feel her orgasm begin to build as her cries grew louder in my ear and her nails dug deep into my flesh. I crushed her against my chest, but hunched my body protectively over hers, forcing myself to thrust slow and smooth, mindful of her delicate condition. She didn’t seem to care. She thrashed and screamed at me to fuck her harder. I grinned and refused her crudely worded request, instead carrying her over the edge of her orgasm by whispering sweet words of love in her ear and grinding myself against her clit.

I followed her into orgasmic bliss, filling her with my seed and grazing my teeth along the slim column of her throat. I forced myself to sit back so I wouldn’t accidentally crush her. Looking down at my disheveled wife I grinned. She was covered in blue and yellow paint.

She smiled back knowingly. This wasn’t our first foray into sexy painting. “Help me up,” she said, struggling to sit. She reached for the edge of the couch.

I slid a hand behind her back and shifted her, then helped her to her feet. She was definitely having more difficulty getting around. But my Nola was a trooper. She didn’t let nothing get her down. She sighed and rubbed absently at a spot on her lower back. I took note vowing to give her a good back rub later on. I stood with her and together we went to stand by the windows, gazing out at the city together, one of Nola’s favourite activities. She loved surveying our kingdom.

She picked up my hand and placed it on her rounded stomach with hers on top, encouraging me to bond with our unborn child of seven months. I closed my eyes and released a long breath before looking back out at the city below.

“What if he’s like me?” I asked in a low voice, my hand tightening slightly over her flesh. An unspoken threat to anyone that might cause harm to my small family. “What if he’s invisible to the world?”

She didn’t answer for a moment, seriously pondering the question. She stared at the glass. I knew she wasn’t looking at the city, as I was. She was looking at our reflections; her pale pink skin smeared in paint… and me. A disembodied blue and yellow monster, only visible where my wife had touched with paint-smeared hands and brought me to life. Though she’d coloured my head and face there was nothing but black emptiness where my eyes should be.

She reached up, placing her hand on my cheek. She turned my face until I was looking down at her. She smiled and said, “If this child is like you then fuck this city, we’re taking over the world.”

THE END

Also by Nikita Slater

If you enjoyed this book, check out some other works by bestselling author, Nikita Slater. More titles are always in progress, so check back often to see what's new!

Angels & Assassins Series

Book One – The Assassin’s Wife

The Queens Series

Book One – Scarred Queen

Novella - Alejandro’s Prey

Fire & Vice Series

Book One – Prisoner of Fortune

Book Two – Fight or Flight

Book Three – King’s Command

Book Four – Savage Vendetta

Book Five – Fear in Her Eyes

Book Six – Bound by Blood

Book Seven – In His Sights

Book Eight – Burning Beauty (Coming 2019)

Driven Hearts Series

Book 1 - Driven by Desire

Book 2 - Thieving Hearts

Book 3 - Capturing Victory

Other books

Because You're Mine

Mine to Keep (a novella)

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The Tombstone Tourist

Copyright © 2018 by B. Bennett

All rights reserved. This book, or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Authorized for use in The Horror of our Love Anthology, 2018.

“We are made of all those who have built and broken us.” - Atticus

Chapter 1

I close my eyes and listen to the breeze rustling through the trees. Opening them, I watch the fallen leaves dance waywardly between rows of dead bark – the gravel road capturing a departed leaf every now and then. I blow out a cloud of smoke, and once again regret putting the poison in my lungs. Doesn’t matter. I’m pretty sure I’m dying young, anyway. I shouldn’t think that way, but I know there’s something inside of me, eating away at my organs. Maybe I’m just insane.

Looking to my right, my eyes scan over the graves until one sparks my interest.

Justin J. O’Leary, Oct. 14th, 1985 – February 25th, 2004.

He was nineteen when he died. Reaching into my pocket, I type his name into the search bar with “obituary” behind it. I read over the mediocre obit as I sigh. Boring. I prefer the interesting obituaries. The ones with character. Like the guy that wrote his own, claiming that he was Spiderman, or the woman who told all her loved ones to “go fuck themselves,” which I was surprised to find in the records, asterisk and all.

“What do you do for fun?” Men, prospective lovers, ask me constantly. Instead of the truth, I answer with the typical, mundane response. “Oh, I love live shows. Music is great. I enjoy museums and long walks on the beach.” It’s always the same.

And couldn’t be further from the truth. My life is strange, and I try and keep all the strange bits to myself. I’ve always been odd, so maybe it’s how I cope. Lying about everything that I am, for fear that I’ll be the cliché weird girl who’s too skinny and wears too much black. My eyes are the only bright things about me. They’re the only reminders that there’s some life in this shell I’ve become.

I cough before snuffing the cigarette out onto the bottom of my shoe. Standing, I grab my bag and my rubbing kit before making it back to my car.

My eyes scan the empty rows between graves, and I shrug. It would be nice to one day see someone out here, like me, taking amateur photos of epitaphs and googling obituaries. That person would be my soulmate, friend or otherwise. Somebody I’ve been waiting my entire life to meet since I was the little girl playing in the cemetery next door to my childhood home. All the other kids were afraid to venture into “The Land of the Dead” with me, but it was there that I found my “normal.”

Today, I had to come to this cemetery, which isn’t one of my favorites, because there was a funeral being held at Old Oak. This one has small, older plots, but they’re surrounded with newer graves. I always appreciate the older, more weathered ones. They have a story to tell, and without most of those obituaries being available, I always get to guess.

How did they die? Who did they leave behind? Was this life worth it, for them?

Those are also the graves that have been forgotten over the years, each generation caring less and less. There are never any flowers, which is why I always take a dozen fresh roses with me on each trip.

Nobody deserves to be forgotten.

I place my last rose on a baby’s tombstone before kneeling and snapping a picture with my camera. The statue of an angel has collected moss in the grooves where the letters are formed. Charlie has been here since the 1800s, and I sit on the grass and stare at the old, wooden block that sits on his grave. I reach out and gently run a finger along the “C,” wondering who left it there.

A drop of rain lands on my cheek, and before I even have a chance to stand, the clouds have given way. Sheets of rain fall over the cemetery, but I don’t move. I stay, with Charlie, and allow the rain to wake up my pale skin. It’s cold, but I don’t care. The dirt, the graves, “Charlie who wasn’t forgotten” – it all makes me feel alive. Charlie doesn’t want anything from me. He’s just happy that I came to visit.

* * *

Odd jobs.

That’s my life. One, big, odd job. I can’t stand consistency, so the typical nine to five isn’t for me. Today, I’m walking dogs. The sun is way too bright. Well, too bright for me. I can feel my alabaster skin burning through the five layers of sunscreen I put on earlier. Of course, relying on classifieds means that I’m living paycheck to paycheck, but I’m getting by. That’s all that matters to me.

Yesterday, it was filing an old man’s paperwork alphabetically. The day before that, it was painting a porch and a fence. Tomorrow, I have no idea what it’ll be. If I’m going to be on this planet, it may as well be interesting.

“Emily! Hey, Emily!”

Turning, I see Royce running up to me. He looks even skinnier than he did last time I saw him, and that was only one week ago.

“You buying this week, or what? I’ve been hanging onto an eighth for you.”

I shrug. “Won’t have any cash until I’m done with this job. Want to stop by later, maybe smoke a bowl, and I’ll have it for you?”

“Yeah. Yeah, alright. Still at the same place?”

I nod slowly, “I’ve been there for the past four years, Royce.”

“Right,” He says, fidgeting with the sleeve of his jacket as he nods haltingly.

“Okay, then,” I say, turning and walking away from the acquaintance from high school that became my drug dealer.

This town was already trash before, but it only got worse due to the influx of drugs. Hard drugs. I’m typically in a euphoric, pot induced state, where the world is quieter, maybe a little calmer – but it’s all about perspective. If my mind is quiet, I’m okay. When it gets too loud, it’s hard to escape. So, really, I can’t blame the junkies.

We all have to get by somehow.

* * *

“Have you seriously considered the turmoil that this country is in? I mean, scandals, and hate. I hate being here, man.” Royce says breathlessly as he paces back and forth in my living room.

I feel his eyes land on me as I take another hit of the bowl. I’m right there with you, man. This fucking earth is falling apart. What’s the point anymore? But, I don’t say a word. It’s pointless, and besides, all the bullshit spirals down from something much more powerful than a “concerned citizen.” Political banter is nothing more than wasted breath. I used to care. I used to care a lot, especially because this town looks like something out of a post-apocalyptic movie, and no “leader” is planning on doing anything about it.

“Anyway,” he says, changing the subject when I don’t bite the bait. “You come up with any new stuff? When are you playing again?”

Labyrinth, my grey tabby cat, rubs her side along my arm as I hit the bowl again and shake my head as I hold the smoke in. “I need to kick you out in a bit.”

“Creative juices flowing?” He asks, kneeling beside me and placing a hand on my leg. My eyes dart to his hand, and he quickly retracts it. We fucked, once. That doesn’t give him the right to touch me, and he knows it judging by the apology in his eyes.

“Play me one song and I won’t charge you for the green.”

I scoff, nearly snorting as I take another hit. I don’t need handouts, and I don’t feel like playing this junkie a song. Not now, at least. That’s how we ended up fucking in the first place. Dote on an artist’s work, and she’ll repay you. Especially when she’s cheap, like me - feeding off compliments.

Royce is a ghost, fucked up like most of the other men I’ve been with. I had one good thing, and he died right along with my heart. Now it’s black and unforgiving after he left me here, alone. The space between my legs has become a void. I stopped caring who I let inside, because I’m rotten, anyway. I can’t feel it anymore, in fact, I feel myself floating away every single time I’m with a man, and it’s always the same cancer that I go back to time and time again. The familiar ones. It’s like a buffet of dicks. The same dicks I’ve let inside of me my entire life, and tonight, it isn’t Royce that I want.

I nod to the door, and he sighs, dragging his feet to the exit. I don’t bother looking toward him, or saying goodbye. Like most men, he’s in love with the idea of me.

I’m unique. I’m sexy. I’m unlike any woman they’ve ever met. But I’ve learned that curiosity isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be. Nathan was the only one that cared to look past my face, or what exists between my legs. The rest don’t go any deeper, because they’re afraid to. I can’t really blame them. I don’t understand myself, and I’m not sure I ever will.

The door closes behind Royce, and I pick up my phone. The sickness rises in my stomach when I think of calling him, but it’s quickly replaced with a tingling feeling in my womb as my pussy contracts. Quickly, before I can change my mind, I hit dial.

“Kitten,” the groggy voice says on the other end of the line, sending a chill down my spine. “What is it, baby?”

I want to vomit, but this goddamn obsession that I have for this man controls my every action, and every word. Why would I turn to the man that’s abused me time and time again? The answer is simple, really. I don’t have Nathan here anymore to protect me from myself - most importantly, from the skeletons in my closet.

Chapter 2

I can lie to myself time and time again. This is love – how he holds you, how he kisses you, how he bites you, and how he hits you when he needs to.

But I know it isn’t. He’s used me since I was a child. When I got older, I found out how to use him, too.

My stepfather. The man that married my mom when I was eleven. He’s still married to her, because I never told a soul about those late nights. He’d come into my room and caress my body as I sighed. It felt good. It was what I needed, because I felt dead.

It all began when I was sixteen. Before that, I thought he hated me. He could find something wrong in everything – didn’t matter what it was. He’d go on about having to provide for a child that wasn’t his while mom would pour another glass of red wine at the table. He made me stand there… to listen to the fight… to listen to the scrutiny. I was a failure, after all. At least, until he found something that I was good at.

We had a large home in the suburbs, and the cemetery was right over the fence. I used to jump on the trampoline, and my eyes would fixate on another grave each time I ascended towards the sky. Sometimes it was raining, and sometimes the sky was blue. Sometimes the sun was going up, or it was coming down. Yet, one thing was for certain: the dead souls that I considered neighbors always stayed. Every now and then, I’d see teenagers stumbling between the graves late at night, and I’d watch them screw between the cracks in the fence.

That was the first time Liam touched me. He was drunk, the whiskey smell heavy on his tongue. That’s how I knew that he was behind me, and I gasped as I quickly turned to face him. “Liam,” I whispered, expecting to see fury in his dark eyes, but that isn’t what I saw. I saw something that I couldn’t explain, but it made my stomach tingle and my knees go weak. He leaned down, peering out between the crack in the fence, sighing as he reached over and pulled me in front of him. I felt something hard against my backside, and I swallowed.

His large hands found the tops of my thighs, and I whimpered when he pulled my ass to his crotch, making the bulge in his pants more prevalent. I was wearing my bathing suit, just having come out of the pool, so there was little to protect my bare skin from his touch. I felt guilt right up until I looked across the backyard and into the kitchen window. There she stood, wine glass in hand, bleary eyes fixated on Liam and me. She did nothing when he turned me in his arms and pressed his lips to mine. She did nothing when he reached down between my thighs and stuck a finger inside of me. She did nothing when he ripped off my bathing suit, threw me onto the ground, and shoved into me while he clamped a hand over my mouth.

I didn’t fight him, and I didn’t attempt to scream. Instead, I held him close to me as I buried my face into his neck – finding the comfort that I needed from my mother in his touch. Thus, my unhealthy sexual appetite was born, and he has remained the anchor holding my desires.

As for my mother… she became somebody that I hated that day.

“You’re so beautiful, Kitten.” He murmurs against my flesh as his large fingers trail over my bony side. I smile slightly, staring into those dark eyes that once were so mean. He’s the only one that sleeps with me, because in a warped way, he makes me feel safe. His words invoke a response, and his touch provides memories. I don’t call him often. I call him when I need him.

He rolls onto his back, the low light reflecting off his grey hair as he grips my waist and lifts me on top of him. He immediately enters me, and I roll my hips, pulling him in deep as his groin rubs against my clit. Everything wrong about this is what gets me off, and the feeling is always the same afterwards.

Sick.

“Come. Please, I need your come,” I whimper, and he smiles as he bucks beneath me, his fingers digging into my hips.

He stills, and I feel him fill me. I don’t want it to stop, but it must, for now, until he can give me more.

Lying my head on his chest, I keep him inside of me as he runs his finger over my hair. “How’s mom?” I ask, the bitterness unapologetically dripping off my tongue. My words result in his hand landing across my ass.

“Don’t.” He warns, grasping my burning ass cheek harshly before rubbing it in soft, circular motions. I feel him growing inside of me. He loves punishing me. And perhaps I love it, too.

“Daddy,” I whisper, and he tenses below me.

“Emmy, stop.”

I roll my hips as I sit up and place my palms over his hairy chest. “Please give me more.”

He moans and lifts his hips as I fuck him. He says that he doesn’t like it when I call him that, but I know that he does. He used to tell me to, and I guess he stopped due to guilt. It was the reality of the situation that threatened to send him over. He was fucking the girl that he helped raised, shitty job or not. He was fucking the girl that he watched grow. Now, he takes care of that girl in more ways than one, disgusting as it may be.

He finishes once more, and I frown when he gets up and pulls his slacks over his hips. “Where are you going?” I ask, and he looks at me from over his shoulder.

“Got to get back home, Kitten. Can’t stay tonight.

Tears burn my eyes as my lips part. I was hoping to keep warm tonight, instead of dealing with night sweats and chills. I’m pretty sure he’s the reason for them, and I don’t know why I keep doing this to myself. I wonder if mom knows that he comes to see me. Of course, she does, you idiot.

“I will have your rent money in your bank come the 1st. Please remember to pay, Emmy. Also, I’ll have the car payment taken care of.”

He sits on the edge of the bed as he laces his dress shoes, and I find myself wanting to pound him on the back. He never leaves like this. It’s me. It must be me. What did I do? Why is he angry with me?

I hide the tears behind my hair as I turn my face, ashamed that I’m acting this way at all. Funny thing, when you think that someone cares, but you know they really don’t. If he did, he would’ve never touched me in the first place. Because, I was already bound to be broken – why break me more? Now, I feed off him like a succubus, and I wish that I could somehow turn it off. Why does it feed me, this nastiness? It’s the only thing that speaks to my soul because it’s dirty, wicked, and wrong. I crave the unconventional like an addict craves a fix.

Yet they wonder why I hide away. Like Liam, they all act the same. They want to take care of me, fuck me, then leave me. My wellbeing only matters when they’re here, with me. Once they walk out of that door, I’m fucked, and I know that I’ll be staring at the wall until I will my fingers to move. The guitar, the words, the world inside my head. It escapes in the lyrics, and for a short time, I can breathe.

This world weighs on me. I see the faces, but I can’t hear anything when the mouths move. I’m too lost in my own head to understand their meek trivialities. Maybe I should care more, but I was never meant to get caught up in the mundane. My mind existed in a broader place. Enough to where I began hating people, because humanity was petty. So many people were like the next, and the more that I dug, the more disappointed I became. Cynicism became my middle name, and anarchy, my first. I stopped caring, because there wasn’t a point anymore. Not after the hurt and the cold shoulders. I learned long ago that I only had myself, yet Liam was always a crutch, and Nathan, my savior. He kept me away from the dark corners of my mind with laughter and love, while Liam kept pulling me back.

I turn quietly on the bed, and lie, wrapped in the sin-soiled sheets. I always trust him to come back. I know he will. That’s without question, but the real dilemma plaguing my mind is why I called him to begin with, and the reality is clear as day. I’m fucked up, and I’ve been this way for a while. The remorse isn’t long lasting, but the shame never goes away. I feel him slither across my skin when I’m showering alone. I wake up and panic when I remember those late nights, when he’d sneak into my room. His words sunk into my head:

If you tell a soul, I’ll fucking kill you.

I want to cry as I listen to him rustling beside me on the bed, but I don’t. Instead, I purse my lips and close my eyes, acting like a child, as I often do with Liam. Reverting to the teen that liked his touch a little too much.

I wanted to shake mom. I wanted to scream in her face and send specks of spit across her cheeks. WHY? Why, mom? But, I never did. Instead, I got angry. After I got angry, I went numb, and that’s where I’ve stayed. Liam revives something in me, and even if it’s nothing other than disgust, it’s something that I can feel.

* * *

“Hey, Emily. How goes it? Playing tonight?”

“Yeah,” I say, offering a slight nod. “Busy tonight?”

“Yeah, packed house tonight, Twiggy.”

I smile at his mention of the nickname he lovingly gave me years ago when I stumbled into this place with a battered guitar and holes in my boots. Nobody expected the skinny girl to sing, but she did, and that’s when she found home.

Ole Virgie is a knowing man. He always manages to be funny with a straight face, and when I first met him, I wasn’t sure if I should laugh at his dry humor. But, eventually, I began to see that little gleam in his eye when I cracked a smile. Still haven’t seen him smile, though.

The smoke is heavy in the bar, and the bass makes my body vibrate. Everyone here is always so mellow. Mostly regulars, and some newcomers that stagger in after a drunken night. The walls are cedar, and neon signs hang alongside old pictures of when the bar was founded. Sticky notes litter the walls with words of wisdom, and signed guitars hang everywhere in between. It’s my home away from home, and it makes me hate people a little less.

Making my way through the crowd, I hug the regulars who call me by the same name. Twiggy, Twigs, or Twig. It’s what I’m known by here, and I don’t necessarily hate it. When somebody gives you a name like that, you know it’s special. You know it’s out of love.

My ears perk up when I hear a familiar song begin to play. The voice, so familiar. He sounds just like him, and he’s stealing my set. Shoving past the crowd, I eventually make it to the front of the crowd, my guitar hanging in its case from my shoulder. I stand, dumbfounded, as I look up at this fucking enigma. He drips mystery, and his eyes are closed as the words to “Oh Me” by Nirvana roll off his tongue.

God fucking dammit. That dark, long hair, and stubbly cheeks. He’s rough, yet beautiful, but not in the conventional way. He’s like a ship that sunk, its treasures hidden in cabinets and chests. I automatically want to know more. It’s his passion, alone. Take looks out of the equation, and you’re left with a vibrant ball of yellow fire. His energy speaks volumes. I feel something watching him, and it’s deep in my gut. It feels like fire, his presence. Anyone else that plays here is usually shit. But, this guy…

My eyes flutter shut as his voice wraps me in an embrace, and I find myself swaying from side to side, but then, a hand grasps my shoulder before the music suddenly stops.

“Twigs? You’re up next.”

The familiar voice snaps me out of my trance, and my eyes snap open to see Virgie’s wrinkled face and drooping eyes. My gaze shifts towards the stage, and I frown when I see that the handsome musician is gone.

“S-sorry,” I stutter, making my way towards the steps of the stage. I opt for a couple of Mazzy Star songs, my eyes scanning the sea of people for the man, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Once I’m finished with “Be my Angel,” I clear my throat as I get ready to play one of my original songs. It isn’t about love, and it isn’t about life. It’s about being, nothing more.

And it’s the saddest song I’ve ever written.

I close my eyes for the entire song, allowing my vulnerabilities to flow through to the small crowd, the strums of my guitar reverberating off the cedar walls, hoping that those listening can interpret my soul however they see fit. I hold in the tears, allowing the liquid emotion to become something powerful… it still isn’t something that you can touch, but you can feel it. I tell tales with my art, as do most poets and musicians, and storytelling isn’t easy for me without a guitar.

The music that accompanies the words is the perfect mask to hide behind. Every lie I’ve ever told, and every love I’ve ever lost come through when I sit down with a pen and pad. If someone truly wanted to understand, all they would need to do is listen.

Sometimes, you need some type of monumental shift. Then, everything changes. The chapter ends, and you turn the page. I feel like I’ve been waiting for the next chapter of my life for eternity. My mind battles with my heart, but of course, my mind never wins. I want to believe in something without so much of a hello, but the enigma is still nowhere to be seen when I open my eyes.

Part of the crowd claps, the regulars much louder than the vagabonds that have somehow stumbled across this place. Still, no handsome singer, though, and I feel my heart drop.

I just want somebody – anybody to understand my ways, and my life. My hopes, and my dreams. My desires, and the wickedness that lies subtly beneath the surface of my bony body.

For some reason, I saw hope when I saw him standing up there, but like everyone else, he’s gone – practically an apparition as the drunkards drown in my sorrows.

Chapter 3

The date I went on last night was typical. Well, for me, anyway.

Him: “So, what do you do for fun?”

Me (smiling sheepishly): “Well, I’m a musician. I love to read. Oh, and I love visiting cemeteries. It’s a hobby of mine.”

It’s always the same thing. I hold on to the hope that there’s somebody else out there, like me, snapping pics of old graves and rubbing interesting epitaphs – some of which I have framed in my apartment.

There is nothing scary about death, at least not for me. I find beauty as I glance at the rolling hills, the tops of gravestones looking like shadows against the orange and pink sunset. The birds sing as the butterflies and bees bustle about. Six feet under my feet, bodies are resting. Some have been here for centuries, some decades, and some for a few days. It fascinates me, this fleshy vehicle our souls inhabit as we travel down this highway known as life. Where do we go afterward? I’m not sure, but I find myself believing in something, though it isn’t conventional.

I’d like to think that it all starts over. Maybe it’s because I want to see if things are different in a different body and under different circumstances. One can only hope. I’m watching my life fall away like a sand timer, grasping at each grain – my heart stuttering every time a moment passes, never to be relived again. The sting begins in my heart, and spreads like a fire, but I stop it. It isn’t worth it, because there isn’t any use in crying over spilt milk.

I stop when I see the weeping angel, draped over her platform with her face hidden. She’s bigger than I am, and my God, she’s beautiful. This cemetery covers acres, and she sits right in the middle, the trees shading her from the evening sun. Pulling out my Canon, I kneel before snapping a couple pictures of the stone beauty – her wings resting delicately at her sides as if she were defeated.

She is a replica of “The Angel of Grief” – the original statue sits in a cemetery in Rome. The artist sculpted the statue as a monument for his dead wife, an act which I find to be candidly sweet, and though the replica is beautiful, I’d give anything to travel to Rome to lay my eyes on the original.

It’s due to beauties like this that I am a tombstone tourist – a graver – a taphophile… spending my days gravestone rubbing, photographing graves, and locating famous peoples’ burial grounds. It’s a passion that I’ve had since my days in my childhood backyard, jumping high on the big trampoline - reaching for the stars while the dead kept me grounded.

For centuries, people have sought out famous graves, and relatives. Visiting graves has been common dating back to Medieval times, when the people would visit gravesites to cherish the saints. In China, Ancestor Worship was an ancient tradition.

Garden cemeteries were introduced in the 18th century to keep loved ones around for a longer visit. As for gravestone rubbing, it has been in practice for centuries as a way of documentation, as well as to admire unique epitaphs. So, you see, what I do isn’t that strange at all.

“Mortui vivos docent” is Latin for “the dead teach the living,” which has always resonated with me. If not for the dead, what reminders would we have that this one life we’re given is so short? Sitting in a cemetery is sobering, because it reminds me that time is fleeting.

I hear the clearing of a throat, and I turn. Looking around, I don’t see anyone. I’m still alone, it seems. Maybe it’s the spirits around me. Perhaps it’s my rotten mind. But then, when I ready the lens of my camera, I hear a snap. But it isn’t from the shutter of my camera. I never hit the button. My eyes slowly travel away from the viewfinder, and my heart skips a beat when I see the source.

Him.

The brunette Kurt Cobain of my dreams… and he’s taking photos of a grave several rows down from me. When he begins to glance my way, I duck behind a large tombstone and clamp my hand over my mouth. This isn’t possible. There’s no way the dream man from the bar is standing here, in one of my favorite spots, taking pictures of the things that I hold so dear. I feel something soft against my arm, and my eyes grow wide when I see the large crow staring down at me from where it’s perched on the tombstone. I don’t have much time to do anything before he begins pecking at my hair, causing a shrill scream to escape my mouth before I’m rolling around, swatting feverishly at the air. The crow stays in place, staring at me mockingly as I look up at it in complete horror. I’ve never liked birds, nasty things.

“Sampson!” I hear, followed by a high-pitched sound that makes me jump. Looking over, I see the guy from the bar standing with his arm extended. The crow swoops over to him, landing on his arm and pecking what looks to be a treat from his hand. I stand, dusting off my black leggings and tunic top with a white lace skull in the middle. A gift from Liam.

“Attack bird?” I holler across the row of graves, and he laughs.

“Not usually. I saw you hiding over there. He must’ve seen you, too, and was trying to get your attention.”

I shrug, picking up my rubbing kit before turning and shouting over my shoulder, “You’re lucky he didn’t peck my eye out. One hell of a lawsuit, I’m sure.” He doesn’t respond, and I sigh from the pit of my lungs; the exhale expelling any hopes I mustered up when I saw him here.

Kneeling, I pull out a sheet of rubbing paper before laying it atop the weathered, engraved stone.

Annabelle Smith, died 1862.

There are intricately engraved vines with leaves of various sizes surrounding her epitaph – a little dove engraved along the last “h” of her name. Moss has collected in some of the indentions, which at times can prove difficult when trying to rub a grave – but I kind of like how the moss stains the paper greens of different hues.

“Do you come here often?” The man says from behind me, and a smile pulls at my lips. Didn’t scare him away yet, and he isn’t some druggy lowlife that I happened to screw once during a drug-induced stupor. This isn’t a man who abused me, and it isn’t some nice older gentleman with a straight-faced sense of humor. This is the stranger that I watched in awe. Hopeful to meet, yet cautious.

Even devils can sweep you off your feet.

If it were up to me, I’d avoid it all together. Still, there would be a need gnawing at me. To see love in its truest form with no repercussions attached. Somebody to love the skinny girl with alabaster skin.

“I do,” I respond, lightly rubbing the chalk along the paper until Annabelle’s epitaph can be seen. “Can’t say I’ve ever seen you here before, though.”

Turning, I peer at him beneath my hand which serves shade to my weary eyes. “New hobby? Are you a photographer?”

He shrugs, and my eyes jump between his, and the large crow which remains comfortably perched on his shoulder. His large hands dangle at his sides, and his camera dangles from his neck and rests against his chest. “A photographer, no. My mom bought me this camera on a whim one Christmas – before I went backpacking. Funny thing is, I didn’t really use it on the trip. It pretty much collected dust for six months while I used my phone to take mediocre pictures. As for hanging around cemeteries, I’ve seen some of the most beautiful ones when I was in Europe. I have to say that’s when I sort of developed a love for it.”

“So, what brought you here?” I blurt out, before quickly diverting my eyes and shaking my head slightly. Not enough to notice, just enough to repeat in my head, “you’re an idiot, Em. Move on.” I don’t even know him, and he doesn’t know me, yet everything in me screams that I’m not good enough.

Not for him, not for anyone.

What if he knew about me and Liam? What if he knew about my desire for pain? My obsession for being knocked off my feet, solely for the sake of creating art? I don’t pay any bills. Liam does. My stepfather. The man I still fuck – all he needs to do is say the word, and I will open my legs for him. Liam knows that.

This guy? He doesn’t, and if he did, he’d be running for the hills.

“My nana asked for me to stay this summer. I figured it was the least that I could do, seeing as she paid for my trip around the world.”

“Wow,” I mutter as I roll up the paper, “How nice of her.”

“Yeah,” He continues. “She’s an incredible woman. She’s all I have left, really.”

I nod. I really don’t have anyone. I lost mom that night. All I’m left with are awkward holiday dinners and Liam caressing my leg every time mom leaves the dining room frantically in search of another dish. She’s beautiful, my mother. I didn’t get her blonde hair and crystal blue eyes, or her winning smile with pearly teeth. She looks at me like I’m some skinny dead rat that the cat dragged in.

“I heard you play the other night,” He says, and I freeze. I didn’t see him anywhere, and I listen, waiting anxiously between hurried breaths. “You’re really good. Mazzy Star has some great stuff. Something about the feel, you know? It always puts me in a dreamy state.”

I frown. “I usually stick with Nirvana. But…”

“So you heard my act?” He asks excitedly, and I look over my shoulder.

“Yeah, you’re not bad.”

“Thanks,” he responds, leaning against a pine tree next to the grave I’ve been rubbing - that damned crow perched on the grave beside me, watching everything.

“That last song… wow. I was captivated. Was it one of yours?”

“Yeah,” I breathe out, grabbing my things before standing and facing him. “I write in my spare time. Poems become songs.”

“Kind of how life becomes a poem,” he says.

“Yeah, I guess so.” I say, turning and walking towards my car. I feel him following behind me, and can’t help the stupid smile that pulls at my lips. “What’s with the bird, anyway?” I ask, pulling my keys from my pocket before hitting the trunk button.

The trunk pops open before I place my rubbing kit, and new rubbing, inside.

“I saved him, I guess. His wing was hurt, nursed him back to health, and he kind of just stuck around.”

“Isn’t it against the law to own one of those things?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It isn’t against the law to have one follow you around.”

“Touché,” I shrug, closing my trunk before turning to face him. “Name’s Emily. Em for short.”

He takes my extended hand before giving it a warm shake, “I’m Rowan – just Rowan. No cool, short nicknames.”

I smile slightly. I like his name. “I’ll see you around,” I murmur before releasing his hand.

“Can I at least get your number?” He hollers behind me, but I’ve already gotten in my car and closed the door. Rolling down the window, I peer out.

“No need. This is a small town. I’ll see you when I see you.” Then, I’m off, leaving him speechless as I speed off into the sunset like a gypsy on a mission to freedom.

Chapter 4

Gunther McLachlan is a strange man.

From the time I was about five or six, I remember the old man chasing kids around in his electric wheelchair – grey wisps of what was left of his thinning hair capturing the summer breeze as he screamed obscenities at the child that crossed him that day. I never messed with him, but I found each occurrence more entertaining than the last. He always carried a cane, though I never saw him walk with it.

Instead, he’d swing it at whatever kid he was chasing while burning that wheelchair’s rubber. The kids would make a game of it, of course – always purposely throwing a ball in the old man’s yard, or tossing rocks at his mange-ridden-black-cat that attacked anyone who dared cross the fence line. In an old rundown town like this, it wouldn’t be the same without an ancient crow like him – hard on the eyes and meaner than a junkyard dog.

I get paid to walk him around the nursing home he resides in – Shady Hallows – every Monday and Thursday. Twenty-five bucks a day, and all I’ve got to do is walk, push, and listen.

He’s interesting. Never a dull, or silent, moment with that man – his war stories and marriage woes, words of wisdom hidden behind a spiteful tone.

“Married Madge, and she was no better than Margaret. Mother said I had no luck with the “Ms,” which isn’t surprising, seeing as her name was Mary. Wretched old cow lived well into her nineties. Days shy of one hundred before she finally kicked the bucket. Still, I shed a tear for that heifer.”

I smile at his names, and the spite, that he has for his mother. It’s refreshing that I’m not alone in my resentment – no maternal love to be found, no-matter how hard I look.

I think Gunther likes me because I’m quiet. People think I have too little arrogance to step up and speak my mind, and too much humility to pipe in with my own experiences. The truth is, is that my diffidence is often misunderstood as humility. My inability to say what’s on my mind has made me some sort of sponge – soaking up everyone’s sorrows and molding them into something that I can call my own. Funny how mere silence can trick stories to creep out from the shadows. It’s surprising how much you’re able to hear and absorb when you care enough to shut up and listen.

“Park it right under that tree. Snuck us a sandwich from that bitch of a cafeteria lady, Betty. She’s lucky I don’t have my cane anymore. I ought to whack her.”

I grin as I follow his orders, never making a peep. This is how we work. I don’t talk, and he respects that. He degrades women, and it’s not necessarily that I respect that, but I accept it. It’s an understanding between two people who wouldn’t ever associate otherwise.

I park his wheelchair beneath the tree and sit on the wooden bench beside it.

“Can’t believe that Donnie Wilder had the balls to challenge me to a game of cards. Son-a-bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with. He has dementia. Go figure that he’d go and forget every single time I’ve whooped ’im. Go on, pull those sandwiches from my bag there. Surprised that old hussy didn’t peek. Nosy cow!”

Smiling, I pull out the plain bologna on white sandwiches wrapped in cellophane before unwrapping his, handing it to him, and then getting to work on mine.

“There was one, her name didn’t start with an M, though. I think Fi would’ve made me real happy, but I done messed that one up.”

Maybe the “Miserable Ms” were karma for whatever he did to “Fi.” The questions sit on my tongue, but there’s no use asking him. For one, it would ruin our agreement. With Gunther, I’ve taken a vow of silence, because once his mind is stuck on a subject, he’ll talk and talk and talk. I can’t say that I necessarily hate it.

I love it, actually, because it means that he trusts me. A lot of people trust the quiet ones because they know they’ll listen. Day to day, we get used to being interrupted and ignored – but under the shade of this tree, Gunther only knows me as “the girl who doesn’t speak but listens,” and I think it’s refreshing for him.

The nursing home is the last stop before the cemetery. It’s a sad place, and I find myself passing each room with a pang in my heart.

There’s Lucy, who stands in the doorway of her room yelling, “Help!” She won’t calm down until the nurse plucks the cards hanging from above her hospital bed and reads them to her as she runs her hand along her frail back. Lucy’s daughter filled each one with memories of her childhood to make her mother remember. I can’t imagine waking up every day not knowing where I am, or why. Only having memories of my childhood, nothing further. To not remember the paramount times in my life, like my wedding, or the birth of my children… it must be a miserable, terrifying existence, because you aren’t actually living at that point.

Then, there’s Donnie – ornerier than Gunther, surprisingly. He likes to challenge other patients to “wheelchair races” in the right wing of the home.

Sammy is a little man who used to jockey for the Mafia, and Gretchen likes to carry around a “baby” that her granddaughter gave her.

Between the colorful, lively faces, there are shells of elderly people holed up in bed, eating through a tube and defecating in diapers. If this is my last stop, I’d hope somebody would hand me a bullet and a gun.

“Fi…” Gunther continues after he realizes I’m still not talking. “She was absolutely beautiful. I saw her at a dance, and she was wearing a simple, white dress – tied around the waist. Her hair was auburn, curled around her face, and her green eyes… they reminded me of when I was living in Maine. They don’t have sand on the beaches there. Instead, there are tiny little rocks, and if you dig for a bit, you’ll find sea glass of different shades. Those were her eyes, something that could only be found buried beneath simplistic, grey rocks. She was different. Everything about her was.”

I chew the bite slowly as I watch his distant, white-blue eyes. They’re locked onto the fountain across the way - reflecting the tree branches in the distance as they fill with reminiscent tears. Hurriedly, he clears is throat and attempts to blink them away, but not before one escapes and slides along his wrinkly cheek. “Anyway. I think we ought to get back before the old hag catches on. Wheel me back, won’t ya?”

Nodding, I take one last bite before throwing the crust to the birds. I stand and grasp the handles of the wheelchair. Then I unlock the back wheels before we’re off.

We walk for several minutes in silence until he speaks once more. “Want some words of wisdom, kid? If you’ve got something good, don’t go fucking it up. You never know if you’ll find it again.”

Chapter 5

His face warps in my dreams, and I see it even now, when I’m awake, staring at my devil from across the white table cloth. The flame of the candle makes the shadows stretch waywardly across his face, his eyes narrowed as he takes me in from where he sits. My mother’s eyes dance between us as her lips purse and her arms cross over her chest.

Neither one of them attempt to hide it. Contempt mixed with lust, and the tension swirls above my head like cigarette smoke in a stuffy room. Beneath their turmoil lies my shame, quiet as a mouse.

My father left when I was about three or four, and unfortunately, the only blurred memories that I have of him aren’t good ones. Ultimately, he was an abusive drunk with no ambition. They’d fight constantly, until one day, he disappeared. It didn’t take long for my mother’s beauty to win another heart. Liam’s.

“Emily, how is everything?” My mother asks, but her tone shows no love or concern. Instead, it drips hostility as her eyes burn into me like acid. I’m a nuisance. She makes it known.

Clearing my throat, my eyes flit to hers before I quickly divert them. Shifting uncomfortably in my chair, my sweaty hands clamp together in my lap as I dig my thumbnail into my palm. “Fine.”

I hear her fingernail clink against her wine glass. My answer apparently isn’t good enough. “Do you have a steady job yet, or are you still doing odd jobs?”

“I do enough to get by,” I respond, annoyance rising in my voice.

“That didn’t answer my question.”

My eyes dart to hers as my heart palpitates. I want to tell her to go fuck herself. Somehow, I was expected to go to college. To live a “normal” life. To be “successful.” How? After what she allowed, I haven’t been able to lead a normal life. My life would’ve been very different had she done what a good mother would’ve done and put a stop to the abuse.

There’s a part of me that howls for retribution and weeps for all that I lost. Another part of me knows that I needed my misfortunes to become the artist that I am today.

I needed the pain to create beauty.

Hurt is an integral part of the growing process, even when it eats away at you. Even when you feel like you’re dying, staring yourself down in the mirror, begging yourself to stop crying. To be strong. To be resilient. To be a hero, if not for anyone else, for yourself.

I still haven’t found the light inside of me, and if it’s there, it’s dim. My soul is ill lighted, full of cobwebs. What if everything happened differently? Who would I be?

“I said that I was getting by. Isn’t that enough?”

She smirks. “That’s not what Liam’s secret bank account states.”

Bam.

Shot in the dark.

Deer in the headlights.

My mother just did something that she’s never done before. I’m used to the daggers that she shoots at me every time that she sees me, but verbally? She’s always chosen to ignore what was right in front of her since I was sixteen years old; hiding behind a double paned window while she was pumped full of pills and drunk on cabernet. She numbed it. Always, and she still does.

I stare into her distant eyes. She isn’t here, but somewhere else where perverted husbands don’t exist. This is somehow the sixteen-year-old girl’s fault. I never felt her love. It was practically nonexistent. Her tight face pulls into a smirk, her eyes not matching the bottom half of her face, and her chest barely rises and falls as she dares me without a word.

The words sit on my tongue, waiting to escape, but nothing comes out. They remain trapped, just like they did when I was a teenager, staring out the window in the car while the silence wrapped around us like a vise. We never could communicate, and I never understood why.

I used to idolize my mother, hanging on for the ride during her single years. I always wondered why I didn’t look like her. Why my face wasn’t shaped like a heart, or why I didn’t have cupid’s bow lips. She was an absolute goddess in my eyes, and everyone that she met. She had a whimsical charm that she could turn on and off like a switch. Doting mother in front of teachers, and a spiteful tyrant behind closed doors. Her two personalities, yet only one was the truth. I saw it, and I learned from a young age that only I would know her true self. She didn’t see a point in hiding it behind closed doors.

To my mom, appearance was everything. Morals were to be cherry-picked from the good old bible, and she went to church every Sunday because “she loved dressing up pretty for the lord.” When I was younger, she was an enigma; each of her transgressions ignored by the little girl who only wanted to be loved by her mother. When I got older, I saw her for what she was: an imposter. Even a pretty smile can’t hide that fact when you realize that a façade is easy to pull off when you’re charming enough.

I lacked that charm. I wasn’t sexy, like her. I’d practice her signature “move” in the mirror – attempting to gracefully run my finger along my collar bone, then down the middle of my chest where my breasts would be, but I was a late bloomer. In fact, I never really bloomed at all. I was bony, sick looking, and odd. She was a beautiful, tanned blonde with an honest smile that she didn’t earn. I’d see her on the nights she’d have her “friends” come over. Sometimes, she’d tell me “just call him daddy. He’s nice.” More times than I’d like to count, I saw them stare at me from over her shoulder while they grabbed her ass cheeks in front of the sink.

When she met Liam, she thought she struck gold. He was doing well financially, and he was looking for a fool to fall into his trap. She was the fool. Liam didn’t hesitate to use his wealth to control my mother and, like me, she had the sickness, too – craving someone to hold onto her reins so that she didn’t lose it completely and go farther down the rabbit hole. She never was content, because she was looking for happiness in a person. She was looking for the very qualities that were destroying her.

It’s a cycle, and something tells me that she’s used to being objectified, though she never cared to talk to me about her younger years - except for the occasional drug induced hiccup. Still, I only understood sometimes. It depended on how many pills she took that day.

“Well?” She snaps, and I blink, staring across the table with my tongue seemingly glued to the roof of my mouth.

“Ang,” Liam says, his deep voice soothing as her eyes flit to his. The display is disturbingly subservient, and it makes me want to slap. Not only did she look the other way for all these years, but her eyes never cease to worship him whenever he talks to her like that… smooth as a cat’s purr.

“You need to calm down,” he continues, his tone becoming sterner with each word – his energy blanketing everyone around the table; sucking the words from both women that he had a hand in destroying until they looked at him like he was a god… a sick god put in place to control what they thought was inevitable. To keep safe, because we were bound to be unstable.

It was a curse in our blood that my mother and I only communicated with a look, and that look always meant one thing: “Try me, bitch.” It wasn’t a mother-daughter relationship. Instead, it was a competition, and after I saw her in the window the night that Liam took my virginity, it was game on.

Her lip trembles and her eyes brim with tears, more emotion than I’ve seen from her in a long time. It takes her a minute, but finally, the words come out as a sob. “You’re fucking her. You’ve been fucking her.”

“Angela,” he warns, his voice low and menacing as his large hands turn into fists. “My relationship with Emmy is none of your concern. As far as us, I’m going to need you to remember a couple of things. First, I took your little whore ass in and took care of you when you wouldn’t have had a chance otherwise. I disciplined Emily, and I was a solid man in her life. I would consider responding to your last statement, but we won’t be getting into that right now. We’re in the middle of a fucking restaurant, and I so happen to have a client right over there.”

He pauses, raising his whisky to two elderly men across the way, flashing his Prince Charming smile the entire time. They return the gesture. My legs tremble when his hand slinks under the table before he begins massaging my thigh. His touch is always incredibly erotic, because he taught me how to find pleasure in everything wrong. It became a drug.

His ability to speak a threat with a kind tone is both frightening and addicting. Sometimes, I find myself acting against him, just so that he’ll deliver the pain and scrutiny that I deserve for never being good enough.

Mom lets out a deep sigh, more tears rolling down her cheeks as Liam watches her, his face straight, yet his eyes reflecting disgust. She flinches, and I realize that his other hand is on her leg, but instead of massaging her, like me, he’s disciplining her.

I smile, and I feel guilt almost immediately afterward. Part of me is jealous that she and him are together every day, miserable as they are. My desire to hold him at times is unbearable, and I find myself squirming in bed every time I wake up, needing his touch more than anything, craving his sex like it’s something that I require. He was always stern, initially giving me “tough love,” but it was his need to control every single aspect of my life. When I was a child, I was a nuisance, but when I became what he desired, he showed me a love that felt safe – a lust that was powerful enough to keep me grounded.

My head rests against the back of the seat as Liam’s hand runs along my thigh. I wrap my fingers around his, and his thumb sweeps across my knuckles. Everything about this moment seems sweet, but it’s nothing more than a sick dependency – on my end, not his. If Liam somehow disappeared from my life, it would be because he removed himself, because my depravity couldn’t bring me to do it. As much as I hate to admit it, I’d be devastated. Everything about normalcy frightened me after that night in the backyard. I allowed him to take it, because he was going to, anyway. He got more ballsy as time went on. Why would he care? Mom already established that sex with her daughter wasn’t necessarily off-limits, so long as nobody talked about it.

When I turned eighteen, Liam immediately moved me out of my childhood home, originally to the nicer side of town, right beside his office building in the shiny, promising city. At that time, he was with me all the time. Every night, we’d live like a couple, and we’d have sex constantly. That was our relationship. Rough, painful sex and a dominant/submissive relationship that went far beyond the bedroom. He controlled everything, down to my “agenda” for the day, and I let him. His jealousy only got worse, which I also had mistaken as a “display of love.” He cares enough that you’re broken, Emmy. He knows how to fix you. First, he breaks you entirely. Then, he’ll mend you. One day.

My flat was beautiful, and I had it completely styled to meet my needs. Liam wouldn’t have it any other way. “Anything for my baby girl.”

Liam had already established that him paying for my expenses meant that I did what he said, no question. At that time, I didn’t necessarily think that our relationship was acceptable, but it was safe. If I had to leave the house, at least Liam would take care of me, so long as I listen. Everything was going okay, until Liam’s iron fist threw my fractured mind into one of the darkest periods of my life. I still never dug myself out.

The more mom would complain about the time and money spent on me, the less Liam would come around, leaving me alone in the large flat. I wasn’t allowed to leave. Liam said it was too dangerous out there. When I took a razor to my wrists, he took it all away – his company, his touch, the pain he disguised as affection… I didn’t want his money, only the comfort that he inevitably offered – strong arms wrapped around me after his hands delivered the blows.

That’s when I left and moved to the lower end part of town. I found my people there, in the squalor. Looks were deceiving. Love couldn’t be found in the suburbs, where the lawns were manicured and the white picket fences connected the neighbors. Instead, acceptance was discovered in a rundown bar, love was unearthed in a nickname, and happiness was each time I picked up my guitar. The moments were short, but sweet, and I found it addicting – even if those occasions weren’t meant to be everlasting.

Soon, my sadness became a black mass that followed me everywhere, threatening to swallow me whole. I missed Liam, but I fled. Nobody knew where I was, at least until my next suicide attempt. This time, I swallowed a bottle of my antidepressants. I woke to a somber Liam, shaking his head slowly as his large hands dangled between his tree trunk legs. “This is it, Emmy,” he said. “We can’t do this anymore.”

A child’s admiration is a feeble thing, and from the time I was sixteen, he was the only affection I knew. It didn’t matter that he tore me down all the years beforehand. All that mattered were his massive hands that felt safe, his body wrapping around me, keeping me warm, and the intimacy he provided, even though it was so wrong. I decided long ago that it was Liam that I wanted. Whether it was to spite my mother, or to fill some type of void is beyond me. I never took a moment to decipher why I felt so protective of my relationship with my stepfather, I just knew that I would do anything to keep him around. Which is exactly what I did, only each cry for help seemed to push him further away.

“You can’t go!” I wailed, tears brimming in my eyes until they couldn’t be contained anymore.

Liam ran a hand through his disheveled hair; the other rested on his hip as his chest heaved. His white dress shirt was now missing three buttons, and the dark hair on his chest was visible. His wedding band caught my eye, causing more tears to follow suit as I clung to the doorframe for dear life.

Something told me this was it. He’d finally given up on me. He couldn’t fix what he broke, so he was running. Still, I didn’t stop, even though I knew that my tears and words were no use. He had his mind set on leaving.

“You did this to me,” I sobbed, considering his dismal eyes. They told me everything in their emptiness. No words were needed, but I expected an explanation.

He went to me, grasping my face in his palms as he looked down at me – his mouth set in a stern line as his eyes dug into my soul.

“Emily,” he growled. “My love can only get you so far. I can’t come here at three A.M. anymore, pounding on your door. Wondering if I’m going to have to bust it down one day, only to find you dead. Do you know what that would do to me, Emmy? I’d be devastated.”

He’d be devastated.

The memory fades away as I continue to hold his hand. He stayed away for close to a year, and then one day he and mom got into a fight. Again, he was with me all the time until he went back to her once more. Repeatedly, I was his backup.

I was his Plan B.

Chapter 6

Staring into the darkened corners of my soul,

I see the other half in the distance

Promising to make me whole

To

Feel

Again

Would be so sweet.

Looking over my shoulder, I watch Liam’s side rise and fall. Tracing my finger along each curve of a letter, a deep sigh escapes me. My eyes travel to the city once more, the cool breeze occasionally kissing my cheeks from the open window. The windows are mostly blacked out in the building across the way, reminding me that most of the city sleeps when my mind is thinking about anything but.

The dilapidated buildings surrounding me have become a protective barrier for my little corner of the world. My apartment is a small efficiency. The bedroom is also the living room, and the open kitchen can occupy one person at a time. The concrete walls don cracks here and there, and cobwebs have collected in some of the corners. My things fit in perfectly – skulls, some real, some not – animal skeletons, and other oddities litter my shelves. My burgundy bedding matches the curtains, and black rugs help cover the concrete floor. I don’t have a TV, but I do have an old record player that keeps me entertained. An easel stands in the corner beside the large bay window where I sit, and my abstract paintings line the walls, some hung, others sitting on the floor, waiting for their place on the wall. My guitars, all gifts from Liam, are my most prized possessions, propped on their stands beneath the spotlights by the kitchen. Above my bed, a large poster of Kurt Cobain with many other musicians and bands that have inspired me surrounding him.

I hear him rustling on the bed, and I close my journal before tiptoeing over to him. Lifting the sheet, I crawl in, backing up against Liam – my spine aligned with his as a tear rolls over my cheek. I wish he’d turn around and hold me like he used to, but time, and circumstance, changes people. He stopped getting too close when he realized that he already lost me. Not to somebody else, but to my mind.

I sniffle, and I feel him stiffen behind me. “What is it?” He murmurs, but I don’t respond. Instead, I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping that he drops it.

He grips my arm, causing me to flinch as he forcefully rolls me onto my back. I open my eyes, the tears streaming over my cheeks as I stare up at him. His eyes search mine, dancing from one to the other as I hold my fists to my chest.

“What is your problem?” He growls, his fingers digging into my arm as his hot breath blankets my face. When I don’t respond, he stands, grabbing his pants before pulling them over his hips. His dress shirt follows suit, and he fumbles with the buttons as he backs towards the door, shaking his head. “You need to pull it together. I can’t keep doing this.”

Then, he’s gone, and I stare blankly at the door that he left cracked for a time. He didn’t even care to lock it. His promises to keep me safe are dying right along with my sanity. The betrayal prickles my skin while the beat of my heart thrums in my ears. I don’t have any more tears to cry. It seems they’ve dried up right along with my belief of what could be.

* * *

Damned crow follows me, I swear. I can’t help but remember the guy in the cemetery every time I see it. Maybe I’m losing my mind, but really, it’s irrelevant. I can’t sleep. I’m stuck between awake and asleep - the place where the crazies go to seek peace between the points of reality. Everyone moves about as I sit on the metal bench, waiting on the 9 o’clock train. My tire blew out, and I’ve got a weird modeling job at 10 PM across the city. It’s for some fetish photographer who needs pictures of feet.

No bodily fluids. Remain anonymous.

Basically, no funny business is what the ad stated. It pays $50, and the first shoot is a trial run, so if it goes good, more money in my pocket to model my feet. I’ll take it.

I watch the train on the opposite track, going in the opposite direction of my destination. I get lost in the tracers the steel and lights leave in front of me.

Exhaling, my shoulders slump as I recall mine and Liam’s last encounter. I haven’t heard from him since, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Everything in me screams that it’s my fault. That I somehow asked for what he did, and continues to do, to me. I should say no… I should push him away, yet my heart screams for him to stay. My mind knows the truth – that he’s using me. That he’s been using me for years.

Doesn’t matter. I’ll get desperate and call him again. I always do. Either a date will go wrong, or I’ll fall into a deep depression – again.

“Got any change to spare?” A raspy voice asks from beside me. My eyes flit to the source, and I see a scraggly gentleman beside me - a half-burnt cigarette hanging from his cracked lips as his grubby hands cling to a bottle of cheap whiskey dangling between his legs.

I smile, not bothering to clutch my bag any closer to my chest. He’s not a thief. He’s a homeless man. “I’ll give you $20 if you tell me a story.”

His eyes gloss over as they fixate on the train in front of him. “’Fraid I don’t have many stories to tell.”

Chuckling, I cup my hot chocolate-to-go in my gloved hands, appreciating the warmth on my cold fingers. “Everyone has at least one story.”

He smiles, and I watch the wrinkles around his eyes stretch towards his droopy cheeks. “Guess I’ve got a couple, but nobody ever cares to listen.”

My eyes travel towards my train as it rolls to a stop. “Got any plans tonight?”

“Nope. Same ol’, same ol’.”

“Alright,” I say, patting his torn jean cladded leg. “C’mon.”

“So, what ever happened to David?” I ask before taking a bite of my hotdog. Earl, the homeless man, already finished the two I bought him.

He sighs, his shoulders slumping as we continue our trek to the weird photographer’s house. “No idea. He was a great friend. Never did know if he made it back, or not. I never stopped wondering, though.”

Huh.

Interestingly, Earl is a veteran. He graduated high school at the age of seventeen and joined the Navy the very next morning. David was lost at sea, and Earl’s eyes get distant at the mention of his name. I can tell they had a bond like no other, but I’m sure that is inevitable when death is looking you in the eye and you have a flag to serve; your comrades and letters from home the only things keeping you sane.

His team was assigned to lead in the first wave on Omaha Beach, and were to stay a thousand yards away from the beach for each successive wave to follow them. They had to wear special clothing and armbands to detect the poison gas that the German’s possessed.

“In order to get to the landing crafts below, we had to climb down cargo nets that hung from the battleship’s deck. He went first, and I had a feeling deep in my gut that something was wrong. He was a scrawny kid, and wore these big, coke-can glasses. They made his frightened eyes look even bigger when that wave caught him. Took him under, and alls I could do was watch. I didn’t have a chance to try and grab him. Once he went under, I never saw him again.” He sighs, his eyes wandering to some store window housing mannequins wearing the latest Fall fashions.

“When those bombs are dropping, and your adrenalin is pumping, you don’t feel pain like you would if the person you cared about was gunned down on some street, right next to you. You don’t have time to hurt, so I guess the healing process never really sets in. The hurt just stays in that same place, deep in your gut. You go on feeling like you’ve been punched in the stomach most days. Other days, you just try and stay numb. I never got into the drugs, but my devil lives in a bottle. I’ll say that much.”

I nod, my eyes fixating on the cracks in the sidewalk. I’m sure to step on each one. “If you could go back, would you still have enlisted?”

“Hell yes!” He claims, not missing a beat. “I learned a lot about myself on that ship. Even now, when the tips of my fingers feel like they’d freeze clean off, I still wouldn’t change a thing… except for David. I woulda tried a little harder to reach down there and catch him before the ocean did. But I was young and, I can’t lie, scared to death. The hardships you face in life are your best teachers. Even mistakes, they can teach you something valuable, too.”

Trials and tribulations - futile for some that have faced many throughout their life, and integral for those that have yet to grow. Sometimes you’ve got to get kicked down repeatedly before life humbles you. Earl is the perfect example of humility. He fought for his country, only to be ignored by its civilians. He fought a war that took his friend, and I’m sure the stress didn’t help his already ill wife. He gave up some “things” to become “nothing,” because he lost “everything.” Yet, his soulful stories speak volumes. His soul took a beating, but it’s still there in his hazel eyes. Battered spirits are always so quiet. That’s how I knew he’d have a story that would not only inspire me, but would also make me question my own circumstances.

Those are the most powerful stories of all.

* * *

The photographer was some grease bag, and I’m happy that Earl decided to accompany me upstairs. There was some method to my madness. I’d trust the homeless man over Mr. Craigslist Ad any day.

Other than some awkward glances between me, Mr. Craigslist, and Earl, it didn’t go too bad, and I am fifty dollars richer after letting some stranger snap pictures of my feet.

“Here we are,” I say, taking a seat on the bench. I’m exhausted, and it’s already past 1 AM. This Friday night is typical as bargoers stand around us, many of them drunk, waiting on their train home. The same one I’m taking.

Joy.

Reaching into my bag, I pull out the fifty bucks that I just earned, handing it to Earl.

He waves his hands in front of him. “No, no, no! That’s too much.”

I push the fifty-dollar bill into his palm before enclosing it with his dirty fingers. “Your story did more for me than you know. You need it more than me, besides…” I shrug, tucking my hands into my pockets, “I could use the company again for more of these odd jobs.”

He laughs. “Yeah, you ought to be careful out here, kid. You might think you’ve got it figured out, but truth is, you won’t until you’re old like me – your face sagging down in wrinkles as you look back. Time will change you. That’s life, I guess. Don’t take a clock for granted, and hang on to those precious seconds that serve to change you. Something tells me you’ll be alright, though.”

Standing, he tugs his baggy jeans up over his hips. “I’ve got to go, kid. Got some numbing to do.”

I smile, staring up at him. “You’re not getting on the train?”

“Nope,” he says, turning and walking towards the stairs. “I kinda like this side of town.”

“Where can I find you?” I holler behind him from where I sit.

“Fifth and sixth,” he yells back, his voice becoming more distant as he ascends the steps.

Chapter 7

Pulling the vanilla cake from the oven, I plop the pan on the counter before shaking the oven mitts from my hands. I allow it to cool as I mix the homemade frosting, dripping some purple food dye in, and watching the darker swirls blend in with the lighter ones until it’s a desirable dark purple hue.

“Happy birthday to you,” I sing to myself as I spread the icing over the cake. Reaching across the stove, I retrieve the bat shaped sprinkles and shiny black stick candles. On my own, I fashion my 28th birthday cake. Something I’ve been doing by myself since I was seventeen and mom decided that she wasn’t going to do it anymore.

“Stay the fuck out of my relationship, Emily!”

“Happy birthday, dear Emily, happy birthday to you.” I sing as I light the candles. Then, I close my eyes, and I make the same wish I’ve made since I can remember: not to feel alone, for once.

Sighing, my eyes flutter open and land on the dark form perched on the open window’s sill. “What the fuck?” I murmur to myself, abandoning my cake as I cautiously approach the bird. “Get out of here,” I whisper, shooing it with my hands. But all it does is shift left to right as its head cocks to the side, eyeing me with those strange eyes.

When I consider the eyes of a bird, I see something subtly feral – even more so once you’ve captured it, holding it in your hand while its tiny heart wildly beats beneath your thumb – only to release it when the little thing looks like it can take no more.

This bird does no such thing. His tenacity never falters, and my hands fall to my sides as I look into the eyes of this peculiar crow.

“Are you following me or something?” I ask, my head tilting to the side as I take a step toward it, the concrete cold on the pads of my feet.

Running my hand through my hair, I frown as approach the window, keeping the bird in my line of sight as I scan the street below. For a moment, I think I see a shadow, but in the blink of an eye it’s gone.

Once again, I peer into the eyes of the crow, never abandoning my spot beside him at the window. His gaze tells a story most animals do not. I see life in there, and it goes beyond basic instincts. “Strange that I only began seeing you around once I met that guy…”

Rowan.

God, I wish that this bird was some type of messenger if it meant seeing him again, but alas, it’s just a bird, and I’m just some crazy woman. Still, the thought makes my blackened heart beat a little faster as the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. For some reason, I don’t feel alone on this birthday.

So, I leave the crow where he sits on the window sill, and I cut him and I a piece of cake.

Sitting on the worn ottoman beside the window, I slide the cake to the crow from across the sill, and it cocks its head to the side before it begins pecking at it wildly. There are those animal instincts; no hesitation when offered something. No hunt necessary. A gift, and though he can’t say thank you, I can see it in those odd eyes that stay fixated on me.

Chapter 8

“Lift higher!” I holler from the top of the stairs where I’m holding one end of an eggplant colored couch. It smells like dead cats and mothballs.

Royce is on the other end; his scrawny arms struggling to hold up the heavier side from where he stands on the fifth or sixth step. “Working on it, Em. This bitch is heavy.”

“Yeah, well it looks like it came from the 1970s. I’m surprised it isn’t barf colored.” I retort, beads of sweat forming above my brow. “Not bad for fifteen bucks.”

“This thing stinks,” he complains, and I scoff.

“The faster you stop bitching, the faster we get this thing down the stairs.”

“Then two blocks to get to your house,” he says, eyeing me from over the couch as he wags his eyebrows. “What’dya think about a nice, romantic dinner? Me, you, your place.”

I glare at him. “Fuck off. You’ll get $25. Just like we agreed.”

He chuckles nervously. “C’mon. It’s not like that night was all that bad.”

I ignore his statement and give the couch a subtle push. It prompts him to slowly begin backing down the steps.

A sigh of relief escapes me once we’re outside; the cool, Fall breeze kissing my cheeks. Setting down the couch, I adjust my black beanie. “Alright,” I say, lifting my end once more. “Let’s get this bitch back to the apartment.”

* * *

“What the fuck?” I murmur as we shuffle to my door. It’s cracked open, so I grasp a broken broom leaning next to a bucket of ancient cleaning supplies in the hall.

“Emily,” the voice says from inside. My hand holding the broom begins to shake, and I clumsily set it against the wall as the tips of my fingers push the door open the rest of the way. Liam’s dark eyes zero in on Royce from across my dim apartment.

Royce stands behind me, his head cocked to the side as he frowns at my stepfather. Clearing my throat, I reach into my pocket, grabbing twenty-five bucks before shoving the money into his palm. “I’ll see you later,” I murmur, my eyes never leaving where Liam sits on my torn couch.

“Who is that?” Royce asks, and my eyes grow wide when I see Liam stand before he approaches the door. Grasping my arm, he pulls me inside. But before he can close it in Royce’s face, Royce blocks it with his hand. “Em,” He says, and Liam shoves me behind him. He’s like a wall, he’s so big.

“Get out of here,” Liam seethes, the door slamming shut. Whipping around, he grasps my shoulders before considering my wide eyes. “Why didn’t you tell me that you needed a new couch? What happened to the one I got you?”

I can see the arm of the couch that I took the knife to behind him; stuffing clumped up beside it on the concrete floor. Labyrinth decided to make a bed out of it, and snoozes peacefully on the couch’s filling. Though, upon looking closer, I realize he’s not moving. Not even so much as a breath. The filling beneath him is stained red, and when my eyes travel back to Liam, I realize that there’s red on his arms and hands, too.

“No,” I whimper, my voice shaking as my knees buckle. “No.”

I fall to my knees, and he allows me to. Sobbing, I bury my face in my hands – the tears seeping through my fingers before they descend to my jean covered legs.

It seems like forever that I cry, the hurt awakening my ice-cold heart. The pang is deep in my gut. That cat meant more to me than he’ll ever know. He’s never had to seek comfort in an animal. He’s never lied awake with a fur ball clamped to his chest as he wept into the wee hours of the morning. Labyrinth knew when I needed him, and he never left my side when I felt like I was falling apart. Some nights, he was the only thing that kept me from unravelling completely.

Staring at Liam’s shiny dress shoes, I don’t even wince at the thought of him kicking me square in the chest, like he’s done so many times before. This hurt goes beyond anything physical, and I almost want him to outwardly harm me so that I can forget about what I’m feeling on the inside. I wish I could say that I can’t believe it, that I don’t believe it… but, that would be foolish of me. Liam takes, he never gives. Even when it’s a gift of his own. I never know how long his “kindness” will last.

“Emmy,” Liam said, his hand grasping my shoulder as I lied on my side. My chest felt hollow; each breath raspy going in and out.

“I miss Juniper,” I sobbed, and he sighed behind me, running his hand over my back in circular motions. “I know, baby. I know.”

“You’re never here, and when you are, you’re with her!” I cried out, causing his hand to still. “Now I don’t have my cat. I don’t have anything!”

“I have something for you,” He responded, leaving my side temporarily before returning with a black box wrapped in a red bow. The sound coming from the box told me what was inside, so when I opened the box and saw the grey tabby kitten with big, green eyes, I wasn’t surprised. Sniffling, I lifted the kitten into my arms, and he seemed to fit perfectly.

Liam gently grasped my chin, lifting my lips to his for a delicate, sweet kiss. Then, he made love to me as the kitten played with my clothes hanging from the open closet.

* * *

I was seventeen then, lost in lust and stuck in love. When I stopped idolizing my mother, Liam became my revere. He’s disguised as a handsome, wealthy, and successful business man. Liam has always known how to hide his truth so well. That wasn’t why I fell in love with him, though. I fell in love because he only showed me his wickedness.

He loves to punish me, and I find myself constantly giving him reasons to harm me – because maybe I like it, too.

But not now.

Not as a stare down at his shiny shoes to avoid his blood-stained hands.

There are two types of people in this world: good people and bad people. The good people are usually silenced by humility, and the bad ones are generally arrogant by default. That’s how I’ve learned to spot a wolf in a crowd, even though there are far more wolves than there are lambs.

If I were to meet Liam today, I’d stay clear. I’d probably run in the complete opposite direction. Every mannerism, every word, every action that I’ve glossed over for years couldn’t be more apparent to me now, not only in this moment, but at this point in my life. I keep allowing him back in at my own discretion because I’m a fucking self-loathing masochist, and he’s a narcissist who found the perfect fix.

His self-importance clouds the air, and its suffocating. My lungs can’t expand any further as I hold in the breath, feeling the last of my tears slither past my cheeks to my chin as I become numb again. This isn’t the first time I’ve trampled down my feelings. Probably won’t be the last, either.

I try and hold onto the tiny sliver of pride that I have left; my resolve already weakened in my tearful state. I don’t know why I choke down the tears anymore. He already thinks I’m pathetic, anyway.

“The cat didn’t tear up the couch,” I whisper, watching the remaining tears freefall from my chin to the cold, cracked concrete floor. “I didn’t think you were coming back. I never do.”

He kneels, and I avoid his eyes like the plague. I feel them on me – willing me to give into their spell… to look inside the soul of a charming monster.

His energy builds up around me like an angry tidal wave. It threatens to crush my soul, and I feel the resentment prickle my heart as my small hands ball into fists.

I want to hit him. Make him feel it, make it hurt. I wish that I could grow three feet taller. I wish that I could make him feel small, like he has me for so many years. My heart can’t take the torment any longer. He can’t go and leave as he pleases anymore, and though it hurts to push him away, I know it’s what I need to do. It hurts too much to love him.

Without a word, I press my palms to the cold floor to push myself up to my feet. I don’t make a peep as I walk towards the door, grasping the brass knob in my hand. I hesitate – a part of me gravitates towards him while my stubborn heart pulls away. My mind, for once, is in the wrong. I usually question every echo from my heart, but I think it’s right this time. I’m ignoring my mind. It isn’t the reasonable source, anyway. It’s too fractured at this point, that even my heart seems more reliable. Broken, battered, and bruised – it’s still more dependable than my conscience.

“Get out,” I sigh, standing beside the open door, my arm extended towards the opening like I’m a host, and he’s my guest.

I hate him right now. I can’t stand the sight of him, and it makes me hate myself even more. “Leave! Leave!” I want to scream, but the words are like hardened concrete on my tongue. Every word that I’ve ever wanted to say to him remains in the cage I’ve kept them in for most of my life.

He stays, kneeling on the floor where I left him. He’s vulnerable right now, and to think, I’ve let him control much of my existence. I let him mold me in ways nobody ever should. Yet, here I am, feeling remorse for this man – if you can even call him that.

“You can’t make me leave,” he purrs, his voice yanking me from my stubbornness – but he can only get so far. My cat. My friend. The last straw.

He approaches me, and my shoulders curl in as I cower. I could scream for help – I could hit him, claw at his face, rip out his throat for all the poison that drips from it – but I do no such thing. I stand, frozen, in the face of the man that’s managed to hold my young heart captive since I was sixteen and vulnerable. He used my brokenness for his own gain, and he won’t stop until I give him one final push – though it really isn’t a push at all, but a copout.

A coward’s way out.

He grasps my face in his large hands… the ones that can make me feel safe while they harm me – the unlovable, skinny, sick, sad little girl that requires pain, because any other act, love or otherwise, is lost on me. I don’t know how to feel unless it hurts. That’s why this relationship became such an integral part of my life, because Liam only knows how to destroy me. He’s the vandal of my heart – the loose end that I can never tie off, and the longer I’ve known him, the more unraveled I’ve become.

“Get out!” I squeak, my voice smaller than I’d like it to be.

“No,” he says, malice dripping from his tongue as he mocks me with those black eyes. They dance like fire, his brow furrowed as his fingers sink into my neck. “Not until you give me what I want.” He breathes out, his hot breath against my neck as his lips graze the goose bump raised flesh. His fingers tangle in my hair, and I wince when he yanks my head back, threatening to break my neck clean in half. “Why are you making me beg, baby?”

The fight… I’m not sure where it comes from. I feel like a bag of bones as I’m forced across my apartment - my body banging into walls, tables, and countertops as I’m dragged to my unmade bed. He flings me onto the mattress, and turns, retrieving several scarfs before he approaches me. I sob as I’m tied down. I still don’t scream. I don’t want him to get in trouble; just like I didn’t when I thought I fell in love with him so many years ago.

* * *

When bad things happen, I silently ask God if this is what will get me to the next phase of my life. If these misfortunes are a stepping stone, or a ladder, or a beacon pointing me in the right direction. There must be an escape, somewhere… at some point, the bad things have to stop, right?

He unties my bruised wrists and ankles once he’s dressed – his suit not showing so much as a wrinkle. My bruised body remains on the bed, my legs splayed as shame seeps from my broken form. There, he leaves me. Not bothering to clean me up, or to kiss away the tears that he caused. He never bothers looking my way – avoiding the salty sadness that inevitably flows from my bleary eyes. The sobs have turned to whimpers, and just like that, he’s gone.

* * *

Loneliness is dangerous. It’s plagued me for most of my life and has caused me to look for love in all the wrong places. My body was made to be used, and my mind was meant to be broken. The universe played a cruel trick on me, and it won. I already gave up long ago, might as well make it official. When the sharks keep nipping at your heels, there’s only so long that you can kick your legs until you’re too tired to fight. The sharks were always going to eat you. It was only a matter of time until you’d surrender yourself.

Some are able to transcend – rise above – defeat everything that pains them, but I’m afraid that I’m too weak. My mind was never strong enough to carry me to the shore, and my heart was too big to ever allow me to become one of them: a shark - paying no mind to my prey as I trap them between my sharp, pointed teeth.

The pills feel heavy in my hand – heavier than normal, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because this is it. An end to me, and everything that I am.

My eyes flit to the mirror, and I take a moment to look at myself. My white-blonde hair is styled like a pixie’s, and my brown, bloodshot eyes are surrounded with black liner – my lips pursed and blood red. I decided to wear the black silk slip and midnight lace robe Liam had bought for me earlier this year along with the “E” necklace he gave me last Christmas. I hope he finds me, cold as ice and white as snow with my fingers clutched to the letter I wrote him. He’ll come back once I send him the text. Timing, it’s everything, and my farewell, if anything, will have an impact on the man that took a hand in destroying me.

Candlelight is the only thing that guides me back to my bed where Labyrinth is wrapped in a white towel on the pillow.

Several handfuls, and I’m able to get down the sleeping pills. I lie my head down, and watch the shadows stretch across the ceiling. The rain patters against the tin roof, and I pull my favorite Gibson over to me. My fingers clumsily strum my guitar as a tear rolls over my cheek.

Goodbye world, for you were never a friend of mine.

Chapter 9

What did I expect to see when I died?

Golden gates, intricately engraved amidst masses of ethereal angels? Back to back memories of my life up until twenty-eight? My funeral? Liam shedding a tear as he said goodbye?

Nathan.

His love delivered me from evil before it was yanked from my fingertips. He held on. He tried. But, there was only so long that he could until he couldn’t take it anymore.

I could’ve told him not to go, like I had begged him so many times before, but who was I to dictate the choice that he made? He was hurting – diseased since he was a baby. Born sick, he had no choice but to find a silver lining in everything. That’s why I found him so beautiful.

All I am is my conscience, nothing more. My existence has dissipated, my body being traded for nothing. I’m left with only the voice in my head. The same voice that tells me that I can’t. That I’m not good enough. That reminds me of every mistake I’ve ever made. It’s the voice that subsequently became my cheerleader the more that I fought against it, because it was my mother all along, and boy did I love proving her wrong. She was the voice in my mind, and now it seems that she’ll also accompany me in death. The thought is horrifying. Then again, I am the fool that pulled the plug without knowing what was on the other side.

Time doesn’t exist in this black infinity, or so it seems. I’m not quite sure how much time passes before the light appears in the distance, shining against the floor and walls of what I’m assuming is my blank mind. I still don’t feel a thing as I move towards it. It’s like I’m floating, no body attached. This must be my soul, leading me from death to the afterlife. I’m not afraid. I’m not even a little anxious.

Tap… I feel weightless. Tap… I feel happy.

Tap… I feel free.

Chapter 10

It seems like I’ve been blind my entire life and am seeing for the first time. Everything is a bright blur when I open my eyes.

Tap, tap, tap…

I blink my bleary eyes. I’m beyond groggy. Exhausted. The free, weightless feeling is gone. I feel my body again, slowly, but it’s there. Running a hand over my eyes, I attempt to sit up, but a gentle hand grasps my arm. “Slowly, Emily.” Tap.

I say something, but the words coming out of my mouth aren’t clear. At least not for me. Tap. The woman above me becomes more visible – her kind, wrinkled features more prominent. Tap. “You’re lucky,” she says, but I ignore her – my eyes flitting towards the window. The tapping comes from beyond it, where a crow pecks at the glass.

“Do you know where you are?” She asks. Clumsily, I lift my hand – pointing an unsteady finger towards the window. Carefully, she grasps my wrist before placing my hand on my chest and patting it gently. “You’ll be alone for a bit while I finish my rounds.” Then, she whips out of the room with her clipboard.

I lift my head shakily as I survey my surroundings. The sea green curtain hanging between my bed and the next sways gently, and I notice a pair of black boots beneath it. “Hello?” I grit out. My throat is on fire.

The person on the other side begins whistling, and my eyes follow the boots before a familiar face peeks out from behind the curtain.

“You?” I say, frowning when I consider his mysterious eyes.

“Me.” He says nonchalantly, smiling as he takes a seat in the chair across the room.

Now the crow makes sense as I stare at Rowan. He’s handsome as ever, wearing a black leather jacket, holey jeans, and a flannel shirt. His hair is amuck, but it fits perfectly with his 5 o’clock shadow. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

He shrugs, “I come to play for the cancer kids every Saturday. It’s in the other wing, but I saw the paramedics bring you in.”

“How long have I been out?”

“Little over two weeks,” he says, his tone unwavering as he picks at a tear in his jeans. “I was standing out there by the ER drop-off. You know, where the ambulances go to unload patients. I saw your blonde hair, and that little tattoo on your wrist. What is that? A sparrow?”

I shake my head slowly, disregarding his question. I should feel ashamed, but I don’t. Instead, I’m pissed. I thought that was it, my farewell set in stone. But, unfortunately, I can’t do anything right.

Not even kill myself.

We sit in silence for a while; me staring out the window, and Rowan staring at me as he taps a finger against the arm of the chair. It’s awkward. I can feel his eyes. “Why are you here?” I snap, shooting him a glare from across the room.

He shrugs, “I have an offer for you.”

Retrieving the bed’s remote, I elevate myself into a sitting position. “Okay,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. “What?”

“I’m going on a trip. A road trip, actually, and I was hoping that you’d join me.”

I scoff. “Are you serious? I don’t know you.”

“That’s the thing,” he responds. “I don’t really know anyone around here. Much less anyone like you who shares the same passion. Or passions, I should say. I’m going to be visiting cemeteries across the US. I have a map set up, and everything. I’m just looking for a partner in crime.”

“I can’t.” I murmur, my head falling back onto the pillow as my eyes find the crow once more.

“Why? What would you be leaving behind?”

I frown. Good question.

Liam isn’t here. I sent the text. He didn’t care. My cat’s dead. My heart, beyond broken as I recall the event that led me to swallowing a bottle of pills. “I have to work.” I defend myself. “And… and I have to play at the bar.”

“Those things can wait,” He retorts, and I suck in a breath as I blink away my unshed tears. “Life’s too short to repeat a daily routine, wouldn’t you say?”

“I don’t have any money!” I sneer, my cheeks flushing as I divert my eyes. “I’m not like you. I don’t have a nana who will buy me whatever my little heart desires.”

He laughs. “You’re defensive. Why is that? Do I intimidate you?”

Scoffing, my eyes lock onto his. “You wish.”

“Then come with me.” He shrugs, a slight smile pulling at his lips as he retrieves a black backpack from beside him. Standing, he approaches me. “These are yours.”

Frowning, I yank the backpack from his hand. I dig through the clothes and notice that they are indeed mine. “How’d you…”

“Doesn’t matter,” he responds, an obscure gleam in his eye.

My heart pulls me towards the unknown – steadily beating faster at the thought of traveling with this man… this stranger. What would it hurt? Before I took those pills, I was begging for something, anything, to yank me from my mundane existence. The town, the people, the family who isn’t really a family at all. He’s certain about one thing – there’s nothing to lose. If he goes crazy and kills me, I was already gunning for myself, anyway.

“Okay,” I say, a deep exhale flowing from my lips as I stare down at the backpack. “I’ll go.”

* * *

“Why are we leaving through the window?” I ask.

Rowan keeps a good grip on my arm as we walk along the roof right outside of my hospital room to a ladder leading down to the next story. “Suicide watch. Lasts about three days.”

“Oh,” I say, nearly tripping over a bottle someone tossed onto the roof.

Once we’re down the ladder, Rowan stealthily leads us to an old, black Camaro. It’s beaten to shit – seemingly on its last leg.

“She looks rough, but she runs.” He says, helping me get situated in the passenger side. My movements are slow due to my weakened state. I ripped the IV from my hand without second thought, watching the tube slide from my skin with zero emotion. Pain is pain, inside and out, and I’m afraid that I can’t feel it anymore.

This ordeal is strange. I have so many questions, but it almost seems like they’re stuck in my conscience, and it’s not out of fear, like it was with mom. They just aren’t available for me to verbalize, as if they aren’t yet meant to be asked.

Why didn’t I die? I timed everything perfectly.

Why was Rowan in my room? Sure, he saw me, yadda yadda – but, why? We’re practically complete strangers.

Why wasn’t anyone in the room with me, other than Rowan and the nurse who checked my vitals? If I’m on suicide watch, I’m supposed to be being watched by a member of staff.

Most importantly… Where is Liam?

* * *

“This is crazy, isn’t it?” Rowan says, turning down the stereo that blasts classic rock.

He pulls me from my trance. I was watching the trees pass, admiring their colorful leaves as fall graces Pennsylvania with her presence. Soon, the leaves will break away and die when the frost takes over – leaving the branches naked before they’re weighed down by snow. “Little bit.”

He smiles, displaying a slight dimple in his cheek. “What made you change your mind?”

“Let’s see… free trip, cemeteries, free food – I hope… oh, and if you kill me, it’s not like it wasn’t the end goal, anyway. I have nothing to lose, so why not.”

Laughing, he grips the wheel a bit tighter as we drive off into the setting sun. “Why?”

“Why what?”

His eyes flit to mine before he’s focusing on the road once more. “Why’d you want to die?”

Crossing my arms over my chest, I shake my head. “Because people suck. My cat’s dead. The man I thought loved me doesn’t love me at all.”

“Ah,” He says, not missing a beat. “Sounds like a country song.”

I glare at him. “I’m glad you find it funny – relating my life to a stupid country song.”

He snickers, evidently amused by my temper.

I look out the window when my lips begin to involuntarily curl upwards. I don’t want him to see me crack a smile. It will destroy my ability to keep him out – away from everything that rots me on the inside. I don’t need a friend. I don’t need anyone, not even myself – which is why I tried to end it all in the first place.

Chapter 11

So many times in life, I’ve wondered what it would be like if something were to throw a wrench in the gears of my mundane existence. Like if a giant hand were to reach out from the ground to grab me and take me to another life… another world. Then again, what would it be like to move on from everything that I’ve ever known? I’d always thought that life was sort of like a perquisite - a necessity to step out onto the other side where things were brighter. An afterlife, or maybe another chance on this familiar planet.

The to-go coffee cup warms my hands as I watch the white lines on the gravel ahead of us. It’s all that I can see since the sun went down. The starry sky is draped above our reverie, its expanse inspiring as the moon hangs in the middle - full and bloodthirsty.

My eyes flit from one star to the next as I connect the dots - finding faces in the sky above me. I see Liam and mom. Virgie and Royce. Rowan and me. I wonder if their mouths and eyes will start moving as they stare down at me from infinity. The brightest star shines in the middle of all the faces, and I know there isn’t a reason questioning Nathan’s presence. He was my north star, navigating me away from everything that threatened to eat me alive.

The ride is quiet, but it’s how it is meant to be. There’s something therapeutic about the open road – the hum of tires against gravel as you chase the infinite white lines. The sky above, open and giving, and the space surrounding you dark and unknowing. The road takes you far away from your problems and reminds you that there is a certain type of beauty to being cramped up for hours on end in a heap of metal traveling at 75 miles per hour. The road repays you with a different backdrop each day, and is a humbling reminder that the little things in life not only bring you happiness, but enlightenment, as well. Because we don’t need really need things, at all.

A smaller bright star twinkles in the distance. My mind tells me to look away, but my heart screams, “Mom.”

She was dead inside, yet there was still something inside of her that shined bright. I could see it in her rage – her luster displayed only during bouts of fury. She didn’t know how else to shine, but I saw it… I saw that gleam in her eyes when I somehow angered her. She rarely hit me. She left that to Liam… a sort of copout. I guess it was a means to trample down the guilt.

She never cared how disgusting or alone I felt when Liam came into my room and used me. It seemed like she hid away in the bath every time. I could hear the pipes running in the walls beforehand like clockwork. I’ve heard Liam tell her to take her bath. She never denied him. Instead, she’d lug a bottle of wine in there with her, and there she’d stay until her fingers and toes were pruny. I recall one night, when she came into my room afterwards. She ran her fingers along my cheek, and my heart thundered beneath my ribs as I begged her silently to put a stop to my demented relationship with Liam. But again, she failed me. She didn’t say a word, or offer condolences. There was no remorse. No apology for having a hand in molding what I would inevitably become.

Liam… I expected him to hurt me. First, he cut me down when I was a child, then he took advantage of me as a teenager. But mom… she was supposed to be a lioness – fearlessly devoted to her cub, but alas, she lacked the maternal bone necessary to raise a strong, independent daughter. Instead, she taught me her ways. If she did it on purpose, I’m afraid I’ll never know. I would often wonder if she was self-loathing, like me. She didn’t seem to be. She inhaled compliments and exhaled confidence. She was told constantly that she was a beauty. Mom wasn’t like me. She was the plastic, perfect, caring housewife. Before that? She was a whore looking for a meal ticket – exactly what I was bound to become, except I was her husband’s whore... his young mistress.

I remember being a child and wishing that I could change every single detail, down to my skin, muscles, and bones. I was born a runt, fragile and depleted. I was a failure in her eyes, and I would’ve given anything to amount to whatever it was that she deemed acceptable. Eventually I succumbed to the realization that I would never be.

“You’re quiet over there,” Rowan murmurs beside me followed by a yawn.

“Want me to drive for a bit?”

He shrugs. “We have about 40 more minutes ‘til the motel. I think I’ll be alright.”

I nod, my eyes fixating on the window once more. “Where are we going?”

“Colorado,” he responds. “Canon City.”

I nod, settling back into the seat before closing my eyes and drifting off to sleep.

* * *

The warmth wraps around me, and my eyelids are heavy as I peer through them.

Snow capped mountains tower in the distance above the dusty, winding roads. Taking a look around, I realize we're at a gas station. the smell of gasoline is strong with hints of fresh brewed coffee wafting in the air.

“We're in Colorado,” Rowan says, appearing in the driver's side window with two coffees. “Drink up. I found a couple of spots that we can hit on the way to Canon City.”

“Thanks,” I respond groggily as I retrieve my coffee.

He gets in before revving the engine and turning on the stereo. My head begins nodding along with a song I know well.

“The Black Keys,” he says, tapping a finger on the steering wheel as he turns onto the road. “They've got a great feel.”

I agree, smiling as I sing along to “Psychotic Girl.”

“You've got a good voice. We should collaborate on something one day.”

My eyes dart to his momentarily before I look away again. “Sure,” I shrug, the smile pulling at my lips.

“So, I figured since we're going to be in Colorado, we could appreciate the sights.”

“Yeah?” I say, my curiosity at its peak as I try and hide my excitement.

“Camping? White Water National Park? Pikes Peak?”

I giggle, involuntarily, but it feels good. “I like camping.” Though, that's a lie. I wouldn't know, because I've never been.

“Camping it is,” he says. His kind eyes make me feel so many things. Uneasy, frightened, intrigued... I've never seen eyes quite like his. I feel happy, and whether its merely his presence, or the fact that I've escaped, if only momentarily... I haven't felt this way in such a long time. It feels good, to not only be in the right place, but with the right person, at the right time – that makes all the difference.

* * *

Sitting across from him, I wonder what's going on behind those eyes of his. Is he as destroyed as me? If so, he hides it well, and my insecurities begin whispering to me. All of the 'you aren't good enoughs' and 'he'd never have anything to do with yous' dissipate as his eyes dart to mine. They quiet the voice that's beat me down for most of my life.

I feel free.

Once we make our way to the tent, I smile when I see how he set it up. Two sleeping bags with a couple of respectful inches between them.

As we lie on our backs beside each other, I stare up through the clear ceiling of the tent – at the stars that hang, so far away.

“We borrow so many problems in this life,” he says, his eyes never leaving the expanse above us. “Think about all of the problems we create for ourselves.”

“I think that's inevitable,” I respond. “Everything happens for a reason.”

“Sure, but what about our control?”

I turn towards him, my curiosity piqued. “We can't control when somebody hurts us.”

“Sure, but you have control over whether they continue to hurt you.”

“What are we talking about?” I whisper, my defenses up.

Rolling over, he faces me and sighs. Reaching behind him, he pulls out a little black book.

That-little-black-fucking-book.

* * *

“You aren't shit to me!” He screamed. His lips were inches from my face as he spit his venom, burning and blistering my heart.

Slap.

Slap.

My cheeks burned as he dug his fingers into the flesh of my arms once more. He was drunk. The most drunk I've ever seen him in my life... and he was scary. Scarier than any monster I've seen on a big screen.

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!”

Sorry didn't mean shit. Slap, kick, slap.

He crawled over me, his chest heaving against mine as the scent of whiskey poured from his lips. “You're MINE! Do you fucking understand me? You're fucking some skinny, sick boy? What in the fuck? What in the actual FUCK are you trying to do to me?”

“Liam,” She said quietly. I didn't hear the door open over the commotion. “The neighbors came by. They wanted to make sure that everything is okay. Honey, come to bed.”

He stayed, his face hovering above mine as his weight crushed me.

“Liam!” She snapped, and he laughed while I continued to cry.

“Pathetic.” He sneered, eventually making it to his feet before stumbling down the hall.

Mom didn't leave. Instead, she stared down at me disapprovingly as she shook her head. Slowly, she walked towards my bed before reaching under the mattress.

She had my book in her hand. My truth – and she dangled it in front of me mockingly.

“Here,” she said sweetly. “Write it down in your little black fucking book.” Tossing the book at me, she turned to leave, but before she left, she was sure to offer one last blow.

“He’s right. You are pathetic.”

* * *

“Where'd you get that?” I ask, tears filling my eyes. I'm not angry, like I'd normally be. If he read all of that, and he's still here, that says something.

“I'm sorry that happened to you,” he says, and his eyes say it, too. A stranger feeling sadness and remorse for a girl that was forgotten. My mind swirls with the possibilities that linger between us. He sees my heart, and I see his. He is light, and I am darkness. Where the world is black and white, we're gray, meeting where the line begins to blur.

My soul has traveled almost thirty years throughout this life without any replenishing. It's been dragged behind ill intentions, and silenced by mental abuse. It hasn't met another, in the intimate way, that seemed to care enough to handle it gently. Not until now.

As our bodies move together, I transcend to a different place. A place that I never knew existed. Otherwise, I would've searched for it long ago. This is more about souls than bodies – more about the present than the past – more about love than control. This isn't what I'm used to, but fuck – it's like breathing again after holding my breath for minutes underwater.

* * *

I feel in love when we travel up Pike's Peak, 14,000 feet up. I feel happy when he splashes me in the face with water from the river we set up our camp by. I feel complete when he takes me to the famous Woodpecker Hill, and we watch the sun set behind the mountains. I've known this lover for a lifetime, it seems.

His forehead kisses give me comfort and his hand-holds give me consistency.

“You're going to have to try harder than that!”

I squeal as I kick and slap at him, but his ninja hands always make it to my neck, my most ticklish spot.

“Okay!” I beg. “Okay! Stop!”

He does, and the smile remains on my face as I stare up at him. “Where'd you come from?”

He smirks.

“Heaven,” he responds, and I playfully punch his arm. My guards are still up – my walls so tall, even a talented rock climber couldn't climb them. But Rowan... he said fuck it and took a sledge hammer to them, instead.

“I think this is our last night here. My family actually has a cabin up here.”

I laugh. “Wait... so you've had a cabin in Colorado, yet we've been sleeping in a tent for three nights?”

“Correct.”

Placing a hand on his cheek, I stare into his eyes, appreciating the flecks of amber. “I like you,” I whisper, and he smiles.

“That's not how you say love.”

I pull away, and my body stiffens when he tries to hold me close. “Stop.”

“Let me go,” I whisper, struggling against his embrace, mom's voice screaming louder than ever.

You're pathetic!

You're too weak to let him in!

He's too good and you're too rotten!

He stops struggling and releases me. Scrambling toward the tent's opening, I stumble into the moonlight. My fingers tangle in my hair as I plead with the stars to pluck me up and take me somewhere else.

Love, love, love… that four letter word is a word that I've never known.

“I'm not them, Em.” He says from behind me, but it's too late. This encounter... this relationship was a candle in the wind. It was fleeting, and I'm surprised for once I didn't feel it slipping between my fingers. He can't hold my hand through my destruction. Nobody can.

“Take me home.”

“Seriously? Em, c'mon. I do love you. It's too soon, I guess, but I do. What other word is there for this?”

“Disaster,” I snap, whipping around to face him. “I'm not the one. I'm... I'm fucked up. Too fucked up for you.”

“Are you kidding me? What do you even know about me? Nothing. Not a goddamn thing. You know why? Because you're too focused on your own bullshit to care about anyone else, and you blame that on your own self-loathing bullshit! You're so fixated on someone who would push you off of a mountain to save himself. You're really going to let him dictate your happiness?”

He takes a step toward me, tears sitting in his eyes as he waits for me to say something, but I have nothing to say.

He's right.

He sighs, a sad smile forming on his face as he runs his fingers through his messy hair.

“Fine,” he says. He sounds and looks defeated as he slumps his shoulders and turns toward the tent. I want to stop him... to tell him that I love him too, that I don't mean it, that I'm fucking broken and there isn't any fixing it. But I don't. Instead, I watch as he packs up the camping supplies and tent with tears in my eyes as my heart thunders desperately beneath my ribs.

I want this.

I want you.

I love you.

Looking up, I lock eyes with Sampson, who's watching our every move from a nearby tree. None of this seems real. It's like a dream; a fog that I've been living in for a week.

“Do you really want to heal?” He says from behind me, and my eyes stay on the crow as I nod, noting that my surroundings are fading away. It's just me, Rowan, and the bird.

* * *

“They never sit down together for dinner.” I murmur as I stand beside Rowan, the crow mounted on his shoulder. The walk through my childhood neighborhood was quiet, and all along, I knew why we were coming here.

Retribution. Vengeance. Closure.

“Those two people in there... they're familiar. But, you have to understand, what happened to you wasn't okay, and it wasn't normal.”

I nod. “So, what now?”

“What needs to happen?”

Slowly, my eyes fixate on my mother as she swirls the wine in the crystal glass, her eyes foggy, and her shoulders slumped. He sits across from her on his phone, the look on his face indistinguishable. Slightly, he turns, and I realize he's scrolling through one of my social media accounts.

The sound of paper flapping in the wind distracts me. I see the papers fluttering across the street I once knew so well. I catch one under my foot, and I see my face staring back at me. A picture he took.

“Mentally unstable.”

“Needs supervision.”

I scoff, a sad smile pulling at my lips. Letting go of a love I had to fight tooth and nail for, never to get it in return. Picking up the paper, I crumple it in my hands before turning and facing Rowan. “I'm ready.”

Chapter 12

Resentment is like a leech. It sticks, and will give back nothing in return. There is no bartering with animosity. Fury is fierce – hate, much stronger than love – and it will eat you up.

Once upon a time, there was a little girl. She wanted nothing but to be loved, and love in return. She never found what she was looking for, and instead, lived a life full of sadness and misfortune. That is, until one day, the little girl grew up to be a pissed off woman. She didn't need a knight, she needed a sword.

I never asked for what happened to me. I've asked God, and he never replied. Sometimes, I think that heartache is inevitable. It took all of this hurt to find my strength. And, though I'm still weak, I know that this is it. This is probably the strongest I'll ever be.

My arm feels heavy as my knuckles linger over the red door. My palms sweat while my knees tremble.

“This is it. What are you waiting for?”

I look over my shoulder, and I realize that while his voice was present, he's nowhere to be seen. Maybe I've been alone all along. Maybe I've finally lost my mind and gave into the void that's been calling me for years.

I was lost, and Rowan was the compass. The crow still lingers, though. I can see its glowing eyes from the lamp -post.

It doesn't take long after I knock before the door creaks open, and a frown spreads across my mother's face. Rolling her eyes, she pushes the door open the rest of the way before turning and leaving me standing on the doorstep.

I glance towards the crow once more before closing the door and being surrounded by the unwelcoming silence that plagues this house. It's never been a home, though it seems to be with photos lining the walls, comfortable rugs placed throughout, and throw blankets placed strategically on the L-shaped sectional.

No, this house has never been a home. It's seems pretty, but it's like a tomb. Every time I step inside this place, I feel claustrophobic, which is why I haven't been back here in years.

Their beautiful lawn, and their beautiful house, and their beautiful things – they hide the ugliness that lives here, just likes their faces hide the monsters that they are. Our demons live in the walls and behind locked doors. Mom made it clear to never let it be known. Our atrocities were ours. They were shared, between the three of us.

“Emmy, baby girl, where have you been?” Liam says as my eyes stay locked on the pictures in front of me. To anyone else that ever stepped into this facade and saw them, I had a great childhood. If they only knew what lived behind that show of teeth.

He grips my shoulder, and my fingers tighten around the metal vase in front of me. I'm not sure what it's made of, but its heavy. Heavy enough to get the job done.

“Baby?” He whispers, his hot breath blanketing my shoulder. It makes me shiver from disgust.

The crack against his skull reverberates off the walls, and the sound of his large body hitting the hard floor makes my stomach lurch. I'm not done. I can't be.

I'm like a robot, my movements controlled by rage as I hit him in the head several more times. Like a magnet, I feel the pull of her eyes. It doesn't take long for mine to find them. She sways side to side in her drunken stupor, her face formed into a frown as she tries to piece together the scene in front of her.

I don't let her speak. She's at the point of drunkenness where whatever she says wouldn't make sense anyway. I walk over to her, my eyes narrowed as I clutch the vase.

“Emily,” she slurs, her bloodshot eyes finding mine. “What’s going on?”

I smile, my grasp tightening around the metal. “Goodnight, mom.”

* * *

It takes them several minutes after I tied them up to come to. First mom, who attempts to scream through the duct tape, then Liam. It takes him longer. My guess is its because of the number of blows he received.

Kneeling in front of mom, my head cocks to the side as her wide eyes shimmer with anguish. “What's wrong?” I whisper, running a finger along her smooth cheek. “Did you think you'd get away with what you did? With what you allowed?”

“And you,” I whisper, standing and walking around to Liam. They're tied, back to back. His dark eyes narrow as I kneel in front of him, rivulets of dried blood staining his forehead. “I hope you find a very special place in hell.” I'm compelled to rip the tape from his scruffy face, and he cries out. “You little cunt! Crazy fucking bitch! You'll go down for this!”

I smile, though I'm sure it doesn't meet my eyes as I shake my head. “I don't care.”

The pliers are in one hand, the paring knife in the other as I look at this man with contempt. Every ounce of rage and discontent that I've felt over the years are presented, right now, in this moment. My hatred is on the table, and it isn't going anywhere. I'm going to finish this.

He can't cry out anymore once I've wrestled the pliers into his mouth. He can only groan as I clamp down onto his tongue, pressing the knife against the muscle as I stare into his eyes.

“The words that have dripped from this tongue have scarred me for too long. You're a monster.”

Sawing into his tongue makes me sick, yet at the same time, I feel the sadness escape. It's been caged for so long. I couldn't stop holding on.

Some bridges are meant to be burnt, and in this case, must be obliterated. This family, this existence – this perfect little package they've managed to wrap us all in is being exposed. This is my destiny.

I examine the tongue as he sobs uncontrollably in front of me. My eyes flit towards him, and I watch in amazement as this person, this creature, falls apart in front of me. I've gone this far at this point, and though I should stop, I don't. I murder the two people that destroyed me. Slitting their throats and watching them bleed. Suddenly, I realize that this wasn't how it was meant to be.

The white rug in the living room blooms red, and I think about what mom would think. She'd freak out. She loved that rug. And Liam... he would stand here, shaking his head with his hands on his hips.

I fall to my knees, my empty eyes staring towards mom and Liam. They're tied together, the duct tape is taut between them as they both hunch over. Blood staining their necks and chests, and no life to be seen as they stare at their laps wide eyed.

“Is this what needed to be done?”

The voice should startle me, but it doesn't. Something tells me that I'm stuck in a dream.

Red and blue lights illuminate the room through the windows and I hug my knees to my chest.

“Twigs?”

Chapter 13

“Twigs?”

I feel like I weigh a thousand pounds. I can't lift my arms, or my legs. My chest feels like its being crushed, and my throat scratches and burns with each breath.

Frowning, I peer between my heavy eyelids. The person is blurry, but the name tells me it's Virgie.

“Oh! She opened her eyes!”

I hear several other familiar voices, but none of the scary ones.

* * *

When I wake up, I'm smothered with kisses and hugs, well wishes, and gifts. My family from the bar all signed a card. Later in the evening, Virgie stays and I open up to him about everything.

Hours later, a detective arrives to my room, and I make a statement. One that will change everything.

* * *

Her brown eyes scan mine. They're hard to read. “When did this begin?”

“I was sixteen.”

“And she knew? Your mother?”

I nod.

“Do you have proof?”

Staring down at my legs, I think. “Between text messages and Christmas cards, yes. I do. I kept all of my old phones, and all of the letters.”

She smiles, and her eyes do too as she nods. “Good. Let's take him down.”

Chapter 14

My monster was a giant during a time that I was small. His words were venomous, and his eyes were smoldering reminders never to cross him. He was powerful, and respected. I was weak. And broken. He spoke well, and had heavy, steady hands. My voice shakes along with my body; quivering and quaking as I watch them place the handcuffs around his wrists. Mom turns, her eyes rimmed with red as she glares at me. She wears all black as she mourns the loss of her husband.

A hand squeezes my shoulder, and I smile at my attorney. “Well,” she says. “We did it.”

“What about her?” I ask, my eyes never leaving my mother’s.

She shrugs, “She moves away, far away from this place. Don't worry about her. She's to stay away from you.”

Sighing, I force a smile before standing.

She nods, escorting me to the door. Once we're outside, she turns me in her arms and hugs me. My body falls into the embrace. “Thank you, for everything,” I whisper, and she sighs before releasing me and grasping my arms.

“Us girls need to stick together.”

Three Years Later

Throughout the past three years, I’ve grown more than I ever thought possible, but it didn’t mean that my demons died forever. I had to face them, for the first time in my life with a clear head, and without Liam to fall back on. For years, he molded my mind in ways that would affect me for the rest of my life.

I’m not sure what happened during my coma, and I refuse to believe that Rowan was simply a figment of my imagination. Especially when I found him in his final resting place. It took me a while but, eventually, I figured it out.

Rowan Peter Gallagher – Born September 10th, 1975, died December 31st, 1995. Sampson, the crow, led me here. He was barely twenty years old. He died far away from here, while backpacking in Europe. He was survived by his Nana, and his parents, Derek and Cynthia.

“Kind, exceptional young man” is what the obituary read. He was loved. Very loved, judging by the roses that surround his grave. It’s December 12th, days away from the anniversary of his death.

Sampson still follows me, and he sits on a grave nearby, haunting me with his yellow eyes. I smile at him as I pluck a blade of grass from the earth. I’m on my lunch break, eating a sandwich as I sit quietly with Rowan. He happened to be buried at my favorite spot, several plots away from the weeping angel.

He wasn’t one of them, like he said. He was an enigma, a spirit that must’ve decided to follow me during one of my visits – a friend that I’ll never forget. I guess when you come around these places enough, the souls sometimes stick, and there he stayed, in a special place in my heart.

In the years since my revelation, Liam has been in prison and my mother was forced to leave her home for fear of embarrassment. I haven’t seen her since. Liam will continue to serve his sentence for twelve more years. That is, if he doesn’t get probation. An early release would normally threaten my healing, but I’m not afraid anymore. If he ever touches me again, I’ll make my dream a reality and cut his tongue out of his fucking head. He got what he deserved. Lost his career, and now he sits in prison to think about what he did to me… the life he stole.

I still visit Gunther at the old folks’ home, and play at Ole Virgie’s, and visit with Earl as I wait for the bus. The city still moves at its own pace, except it doesn’t make me dizzy anymore, like it used to. My gallery is several blocks from my house, and its there that I paint, play guitar, and release the demons that litter my mind. I’m not a hundred percent, and I’m not sure I’ll ever be, but I’m getting better. Sometimes you have to get through hell to wake up, look around, and realize that you only have one life to live. I can’t control the past, but I can control the future.

“Hello?”

The voice startles me, causing me to jump to my feet. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I say, reaching down to collect my things while she approaches Rowan.

Her eyes are glazed over, and she carries a cane. She looks like a nice, older woman. Gray hair styled to perfection, and red lips. She wears a long jacket as her feeble form sways from side to side.

“Did you know my grandson?”

I shake my head slowly as I watch the crow land on the old woman’s shoulder. “N-no…” I whisper. She tilts her head to the side, as if she’s listening intently… to something.

“That’s funny,” she remarks, hobbling the rest of the way to his grave. “He says he knows you.”

“I’m sorry?”

She laughs. “He thinks it’s funny, you playing dumb. It’s okay. Your secret is safe with me. His mother never wanted to believe me, either.”

“About…?”

She chuckles, her white eyes finding mine. “Silly girl. He helped you, yes?”

My lips part, but I’m not sure what to say.

“Rowan always liked helping people. Especially pretty girls, isn’t that right?” She pats the crow’s head, and my heart palpitates. I have never told a soul what happened. “I thought the bird’s name was Sampson?”

“Sampson?” She says incredulously. “That was his grandfather’s name.”

“So the crow is…”

“My grandson,” she responds simply.

Leaning down, she places the basket on the ground before retrieving a beer from it. Opening it, she places it on his grave before grabbing two more from the basket. “Here,” she says, handing me one of the beers, she turns and sits on the bench a couple of feet away, the crow, Rowan, never leaving her side. “Come. Sit. Let’s have a beer.” Leaning her cane against the bench, she opens the beer while I’m frozen in place. “C’mon, girl! I don’t have much time left on this dreaded earth to wait!”

* * *

I laugh as she finishes another story about Rowan as the crow pecks at the ground in front of us. She sighs. “He was too young to go, but even in death, he’s always made himself known.”

“I wish that I would’ve known him,” I say, reminiscent tears sitting in my eyes.

“Oh,” she says, “You two would’ve been trouble.”

“Why did he help me?” I ask, and she stares at the crow momentarily before responding.

“From what I can tell, you’re a special girl.”

I smile at her, though she can’t see me. She swigs the remainder of her beer, and calls Rowan, the crow to her. She turns and offers me a smile before telling me to visit “her little house right over the hill.”

The moon is visible as I stay at his grave, placing a hand over the grass and closing my eyes. “Thank you.”

“No sweat,” the voice says, and I smile at the sound of his voice as the memories of him and I rush to my mind.

Opening my eyes, I see that he’s right there, in all of his glory, but only for a moment. He fades away, and a weight feels like it goes with him. My heart feels full, and for the first time in a long time, I can breathe.

As for Rowan and I… until we meet again.

This story is for the lost. I hope that my words give you a light.

About the Author

B. Bennett (formerly known as Bonny Capps) is best known for her novel, “Deliverance for Amelia”, which became a bestseller in the US and the UK.

Her style is based on parts of her Texan upbringing, and refined through her travels across America. She bridges the gulf between the everyday and ordinary, and the extreme and horrific.

A glimpse inside her writing is a glimpse inside a mind capable of showing readers tremendous humanity, and the ultimate monstrosities.

B is happy to interact with readers, and can be found on social media.

www.facebook.com/bonnycappsauthor
www.facebook.com/B.BennettAuthor

Twitter: @BonnyC_Author

Other Books by Bonny Capps/B. Bennett:

“The Boy in the Mirror”

“Jay Creedy”

The Killer Series:

“Deliverance for Amelia” (Killer Book One), “GABRIEL” (Killer Book Two), and “Relentless” (Killer Book Three)

The SNUFF Series:

“SNUFF” (Book One), “Snuffed” (Part One), and “Snuffed” (Part Two)

The Happily Never After Collection:

“Stranger”