Terrorscape Page 5

  “I remember you,” Jade said. “You were at the ice-breaker. Except I think I did scare you.”

  She cringed, wondering if he was going to bring up the incident at the resident check-in, but to her relief he didn't. Maybe he'd forgotten.

  Something like that? Doubtful .

  “Yeah,” Val said.

  “Californ-ya-ya.”

  “Please,” said Val. “Don't.”

  James had loved that song. It played at one of his games once, during half-time, at his request.

  “You're from California? That's a way's away.” She faced Jade, looking a little hurt for a moment. “How did you manage to find that out?”

  “Ice-breaker,” Jade said, blandly.

  “ Oh. That.” Mary rolled her eyes. “That was so lame.” Dispelling Val's fears that she was going to force her to participate in all the residential events. “Val was smart, she ducked out early. I didn't even notice her leaving—Sneaky Val.”

  “I didn't duck out,” she said. “I was tired.” “Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Alex drawled, rapping his knuckles on the fake wood of the table so that the ruby in his ring caught the light. “Speaking of quotations—” Jade smiled at Val. “Did you ever figure out what ave atque vale meant?” “Oh. No, I didn't. I guess I forgot.”

  When his face fell, she wished immediately that she could reclaim the words.

  “Jade,” Mary said, very severely, “don't bore us with your silly Latin lessons.”

  “Latin's not silly—it's what helped me rock the SATs.” To Val he said, “If you were at all curious, it means 'hail and farewell.'”

  “Caesar?” Now that she suspected she had hurt his feelings, it seemed twice as important to be civil. Besides, she was pretty sure she was right. All quotations seemed to come from Caesar. Or Shakespeare. Or the bible. “Right?”

  “No. It's from a poem by a dude called Catullus.” “Ugh, you're, like, already talking school?” Meredith groaned. “Classes haven't even started yet.” “The only Latin I know is 'I came, I saw, I conquered.'” Mary laughed. “That's Caesar, right?” “Veni, vidi, vici,” Jade corrected. “And yes.” Alex laughed. Too loudly. People at the tables around them were craning their necks to look. “Shit, that was Caesar? Dude sounds like a total bro.” “I can't believe you just called one of the greatest minds in political history a bro.”

  “It's a compliment. Wise words. Slap that shit on a sticker, 'cause I'll make that my personal motto— though not necessarily in that order,” he added with a pointed leer at Mary, who blushed.

  Val glared at her salad and said nothing. She could tell she wouldn't like Alex. She hoped Mary wasn't dating the jerk. She wasn't sure she would be able to deal if his face was a fixture in their dorm. Chapter Four

  Lobelia

  Lisa had been hit just as hard as Val, in her opinion. Worse, even. After all, she hadn't been the one involved with that psycho. She had warned Val about him, but the stupid girl just hadn't listened. Like a fly to light, Val attracted danger. Lisa blamed Twilight, and the preconceived notions about men (especially dangerous men) that it tended to form in the impressionable adolescent mind.

  But no, Val thought she could save him.

  Turned out she had been the one who needed saving the whole time. From him.

  And then— then that party had happened, and Lisa no longer knew what to think about Val, the world, or anything. Everything…well, everything just felt wrong now. All the time.

  Blake understood. Blake was the only one who really understood, the only good to come out of this nightmare. But Blake had gone away to college and she was stuck here in this podunk town, trying to get her unit count up so she could transfer out of Derringer Community College. Out of this town.

  Just out.

  She wanted to go someplace where nobody had ever heard of Valerian Kimble, or the press-christened “Mecozzi Manor Slaughter.”

  Europe, maybe. She'd always wanted to visit The City of Lights. There was no better to forget one's woes than a small Parisian cafe, Lisa thought.

  She pulled on her size-XXL sleep shirt and brushed her teeth. There were dark circles under her eyes, visible now that she had washed off her makeup for the night. She rubbed at them with a frown, then remembered that frowning gave you wrinkles.

  “Fuck,” she muttered. “Fuck this, fuck him, and fuck her. Fuck everyone in this backwards town.”

  It made her feel the teeniest bit better.

  Only a little, though. It didn't solve anything, it didn't erase her fears, it didn't stop the nightmares.

  She had nightmares every night. Not that anyone cared. Anyone besides Blake, that is. But he was just as scarred as her, and just as ignored, and Lisa hated adding to his own load of troubles. He sounded so bleak and stressed out when he called to chat.

  So tired.

  What if Val had been taken? Lisa often found herself wondering. What if Gavin had just taken Val, like he'd wanted freshman year? Would none of this have happened?

  Val's parents would have been heartbroken. She felt sorry thinking that for their sakes. It sucked when parents lost a child. But they had still lost their daughter, hadn't they? Just in a different way.

  Nobody knew where Val had gone, though plenty of them wanted to. She had just disappeared. Spirited away, Lisa found herself thinking, and shivered accordingly.

  Stupid, dragging ghosts and the supernatural into it. Val had just skipped town. Probably changed her name, too, if she was smart. That's what she would have done, if she were in Val's position. Changed her name, changed her looks, gone to a plastic surgeon then burned all traces of her identity to scatter the ashes to the four winds.

  Not that I would have gotten myself in that position in the first place. Lisa turned off the bathroom light and got under her covers. Though the air was hot, she still felt cold. She thought of Jason and shuddered.

  That, too, had been Val's fault. Val, betraying her to save her own skin—acting like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth the whole time.

  Just thinking about that made Lisa's blood boil. Who would have thought that her ex-best friend, the nicest girl in Derringer, could be such a callous snake? Hell, she and Gavin deserved each other.

  Maybe I should change my name. Who's to say the psychopath won't come back looking for her? He did before.

  These thoughts, like Blake's phone calls, were another nightly ritual, albeit a much less comforting one. So, too, were the nightmares. Her psychiatrist had prescribed her Ambien to help her sleep. But sleep wasn't the problem, dreaming was.

  When she felt the pressure on the mattress, the heavy body weighing down on hers, Lisa thought that she was dreaming. One of those terrible, smothering dreams that had her gasping for a breath far too slow to come. Panic attacks. Sleep apnea. Either or both, paired with sleep paralysis.

  But then she felt the cool metal against her sweating skin. Felt the sharp sting as it drew blood, felt the warm blood coursing down her throat to soak into her pillowcase, and she realized the intrusion wasn't imaginary at all, but real.

  Her nightmares had become chilling reality.

  With a hoarse scream, Lisa bucked. A leathergloved hand covered her mouth and squeezed hard enough to make her jawbones ache and tears spring to her eyes. The sour, cloying taste of the leather filled her mouth and nose, and Lisa thought that it was the worst thing she had ever smelled in her life.

  “I wouldn't,” a very deep, very male voice said, making her start again—this time in recognition. Gavin.

  Silently, she mouthed his name against his palm, realizing only afterward that it might have been better to feign ignorance, though maybe he hadn't felt her lips move through the leather. Oh God, it was worse than she ever could have imagined. Him. On top of her. With a knife. His denim legs chafed against her naked thighs, and she wondered, with a sharp pang of horror, if he was going to rape her.

  His lips brushed against her ear, causing her terror to crystallize into sharp, faceted clarity. W
hen he hissed, “Where—is—she?” Lisa could have fainted in relief.

  He doesn't want me.

  Mindless animal terror fled, and anger rushed in to fill the void.

  Of course he doesn't want me. It's Val he wants. It's always about Val.

  She swallowed.

  Could he slice my throat before I scream?

  Not that it mattered. Dead was dead, whether with a bang or a whimper. She swallowed again, with

  more difficulty this time. “I…I don't know where she is.”

  “Do you expect me to believe that?” His voice was cool, amused even, but the knife in his hand spoke volumes about the dark thoughts which swirled beneath that careful construct of calm.

  “I—I don't. I don't know, I mean, really truly; I don't. N-nobody does—e-except for her parents, maybe. She left. She's gone…and…and I don't think she's ever c-coming back.”

  He muttered an oath.

  Lisa waited in silent darkness and wondered once more if she was going to die.

  “Get up,” he said, dispatching those fears for the moment. She flinched again when he slid off her, uncoiling with the grace of a serpent as he disappeared back into the shadows.

  Stumbling, Lisa did so. She squeaked in fright when he grabbed her from behind. The point of the knife rested over her throbbing jugular. “If I suspect, even for a moment, that you plan to run or scream…”

  “I won't.”

  She felt faint. Far too faint to attempt escape. He pushed her towards her desk. “Then you have nothing to worry about.” She fell into the hard

  backed chair with a muffled plop. “For now,” he added, with an absent-minded cruelty that chilled her far more than mere anger could have.

  Anger was such a human emotion.

  This was something methodical, logical.

  “Get a piece of paper, something to write with,” he ordered loosely. “W-why? What are you going to do?”

  He ignored this. “When you have what I asked, write this down. Word for word.”

  He spoke a simple question, and it was only when he repeated it that she realized it was not a query directed at her, but the words he wished her to transcribe. She wrote them, in a shaking hand, then let her pencil drop.

  “Okay. I'm finished.”

  “Good.” She felt his breath tickle her neck as he looked over her shoulder and she had to resist the urge to scratch it out. “Fold it up. Put it in the envelope, write your home address as the return— don't seal it.” This last was a growl.

  Lisa froze, the envelope still partially raised towards her lips. He snatched it from her now slack worse—cold-blooded,

  an envelope, and grip, seemingly to inspect it. There was a tense pause. She didn't release her breath until she felt him nod.

  “Now here,” he said, leaning closer, “you must listen very, very carefully. Are you listening, Lisa? Because I rather suspect that this is a talent which does not come to you naturally.”

  “Fuck you,” she said as coldly as she dared, which was not very under these conditions.

  He laughed; it was a terrible sound, humorless and chilling. “I don't think so. One might catch something.”

  She flinched again. “Slut-shaming,” she said, “very original.”

  “I assumed that was why you had a falling out. You and Val, that is. You, and your rather shameless and wanton treachery with that James.”

  “What—” Lisa's voice broke. She hadn't told anyone about that. It was her biggest mistake in high school, one she was horribly ashamed about. She knew James hadn't told, either, because she'd sworn him to secrecy—on pain of her telling the rest of the football team how tiny his dick was, and how he padded his jockstrap. How could Gavin know?

  Did it matter?

  “That has nothing to do with it,” she said, trying for hauteur and failing miserably.

  “I wonder. Regardless,” he continued, “you will tell them that the letter is an apology. Her parents, that is. An attempt at reconciliation that you would like forwarded to her at their earliest convenience.”

  “That's all?” When he didn't respond, she said, “Then what?”

  “You wait.”

  Ten minutes elapsed, with her sitting there, frozen, like a deer in the headlights, before she realized that GM had vanished from the room.

  But not, she suspected, from her life.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The first day of classes came and went. By the end of Abnormal Psychology, Val was convinced that she herself should be committed, reminded of problems she'd already known she had, and educated on several more that she hadn't.

  Sociology was just like Psychology except with less science and more explanations. Which seemed counter-intuitive, but the professor's excuse for anything that didn't make sense was that humans defied classification because they were so diverse.

  Social Psychology was interesting, and Val would have really liked that class except that it took place in a lecture hall that seated four-hundred, and a wave of dizziness overtook her every time she arrived to see all those heads, each equipped with a pair of eyes that could both sear and burn. She sat at the back, where escape would be quickest and was often necessary.

  Composition was the most difficult—she received an essay assignment on the first day—but it was the smallest class, and the professor had kind eyes. Plus, since most of the work was done on the computer there was an impersonal quality to the curriculum that Val found extremely appealing. Minimum face time. No oral presentations.

  Completely unlike high school English.

  Thursday found Val sitting cross-legged on her bed, surrounded by notes. Two highlighters were in her hand, yellow and orange, but it had been a while since she had marked any specific passage. Mary bustling around their shared room was far too distracting—she'd reread the same paragraph twice.

  “You know, if you mark your books all up they don't sell back for as much.”

  “I know.” Val stared at the page and willed it to release its secrets.

  “What do you need two colors for, anyway?”

  “Yellow's for what we do in class, orange is for stuff that's only in the book.”

  Mary studied her for a moment, then shook her head. Laughed a little, albeit not unkindly. “Is that necessary?”

  “Yes.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Whatever floats your boat— or, er, highlights your book. Never mind. How do I look?”

  She was wearing black pedal pushers—did they still call them pedal pushers? They had back in junior high, where Val had thought they were “petalpushers”—and a white t-shirt with graphic detail.

  Clearly Mary didn't think she looked presentable. She had been standing in front of their full-length mirror for the last hour, messing around with brushes, combs, anything that wasn't glued down.

  Considering Alex isn't even really her boyfriend she certainly spends a lot of time getting ready for him.

  When Mary had made her look at her Facebook page to see the pictures her sisters had taken surreptitiously at dinner, Val couldn't help but notice Mary's relationship status was set at “single.”

  Val could remember a time when she had been that over the moon about a man. But then the stars had been ripped from her eyes, and there was no warm glow left to sustain her, and that was when she realized how cold and lonely space could be.

  How frightening. How deadly.

  That first kiss had been so hot and cold, and as sweetly poisonous as antifreeze. She hadn't felt its paralyzing aftereffects until it was far too late.

  He doesn't deserve her.

  “You look great,” she said aloud; it sounded false to her own ears and Mary did not look convinced.

  “Really?” She picked up a perfume bottle, toying with the cap. “You're not just saying that?”

  “No.” Val stiffened, wondering if Mary was going to spray it. God, how she hated that perfume.

  “The shirt's not too childish or anything? Or the earrings?”r />
  He's been criticizing her appearance. “They're fine.” “I don't know, Val. I just don't know.”

  Cotton candy filled the air, a thousand times sweeter than any sugary confection ever sold at a fairground. The spray fell in a soft miss and made Val's eyes water.

  “I don't think that's meant to be used like airfreshener,” she said, wincing as the pungent alcohol taste of the perfume entered her mouth.

  “Well it's too strong just to spray on,” Mary said, missing the point entirely. “You have to walk through the spray. Otherwise, you'll stank.” She set the bottle back on her desk and plopped down in Val's swivel chair. “Are you going? Tell me you are.”

  “Going where?”

  “Hello? To the partay.”

  “It's open dorm.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  Yes. She knew what Mary meant. Mary wanted her to get involved. To actively party. Verb, instead of noun. Just the thought made her feel ill.

  “Who has a party on a Thursday night, anyway?”

  “People who don't schedule Friday classes. Thursday is the new Friday, girlfriend. Get with the program.”

  Val bristled. Just because she wanted to graduate on time, and didn't need weekly three-day weekends, Mary was implying that she was some kind of shutin…

  Well, aren't you?

  That made her train of thought pull to a full stop. I didn't use to be.

  “Look, Val, I wasn't going to say anything, but seriously, you need to get out there. You're always here whenever I come home unless you're at school or something and then you just come right back. You never go anywhere.”

  “Not always—”

  “Yes, always. All I see you do is study, but you can't live like that. You'll burn out. You need to have fun, girl. You need to live, or life will pass you on by.”

  But how could you live when you were dead inside? When the spark of life inside you had all but burned to ash, what did you do? Subsist on fumes until spent? She was already spent.