Horrorscape Page 7

  “I can tell,” he said, against her skin. “I can taste your trembling. I know you're afraid.”

  (You should be)

  She wasn't sure whether he spoke it aloud, or whether it was in her head. At this point, it hardly mattered. Her good sense returned to her and she shoved at him—hard, angrily, terrified that he had managed to get so close to her again. And that she had let him. Again.

  “I'm going to tell everyone what you are,” she said. “Who you are. And what you did.”

  “That would be very unwise of you.”

  Val edged closer to the wall. “Is that a threat?”

  “Only if you make it one.” He touched a finger to his mouth in thought. “Besides…I somehow doubt that they would believe you. From what I understand, you have a bit of a reputation for being rather…paranoid.”

  “What?” The word was ripped from her mouth.

  “Hmm, yes. I'm afraid so. Poor traumatized Val. Thinking every gray-eyed, black-haired stranger is her evil stalker. You have changed as much as I, my darling, and not for the better. You've become fearful and weak.”

  “You made me this way. You made me crazy.”

  “I suppose I did, didn't I?” he mused. “In a way, it's very becoming. Very Gothic. Suits you, really.”

  She hit him in the face with a shaking hand. Now he laughed, and she became furious as well as afraid. He caught her other fist before she could strike a mirror image of the previous blow. He'd been goading her, just as he had James. Purposely coaxing her into fighting back, because he loved it when she did. “You are such a—”

  He squeezed her wrist, hard enough to make her gasp.

  (Her wrist is so small, my fingers can wrap around it and still touch. I could feel the fragile bones, and, between them, her pulse beating hummingbird fast)

  “I'm stronger,” he said, and the pressure increased, causing her fingers to contract involuntarily. “Stop fighting and I'll let you go.”

  Val clawed at his hand, feeling sick. “Fuck you.”

  He took a step closer, boxing her in. His other hand lightly circled her throat, his thumb over her pulse. “Sometimes,” he said, at the same volume and in the same tone as before, “I could almost believe you want me to hurt you.”

  Her eyes widened. She opened her mouth and found she could not say a single word.

  (What would it be like, I wonder, to have such power? To feel a creature beneath you, as beautiful and golden and lovely as the sun, and know that you have her by the throat?)

  “It's very strange. You fall for my traps over and over, and never seem to learn from your mistakes.”

  (You may even find you don't want to resist my control)

  “You're quite the masochist. Something to discuss with your therapist, hmm?”

  How does he know about that?

  “Get your fucking hands off me. Stop touching me. Stop messing with my head. Just…just stop.”

  “But you make it so easy,” he whispered, leaning in. “Why bother fighting me at all?”

  Val wanted to turn away, but couldn't. Not with the way he was gripping her throat. His eyes were hypnotic. His lips seductive as they fleetingly grazed hers. She squeezed her eyes shut and focused on breathing around the lump which had formed abruptly in her throat.

  “You'd think I was going to eat you from the way you look at me.” But he took his hand away from her neck, brushing her cheek with his knuckles before letting his arm drop back to his side. “The next round won't start until I give the command. Until then, would you like me to show you what I do want?”

  She knew she should run, but her legs wouldn't move. She knew she should fight, but her hands were no longer under her command. She could still resist, but even that was slowly beginning to fade. He left her feeling dead inside; like a neurotoxin, he killed off her senses one by one.

  “If you do anything to me,” she responded, “Anything, I'm going to scream.”

  “I thought you might say that.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek and tasted blood. I have to get out of here—before it's too late.

  Maybe it already was.

  “No chance of changing your mind?”

  “Take me back to James.”

  He sighed. “Goodbye, Val.”

  She felt herself falling. He'd pushed her! She scrambled to her feet and slammed against something solid. Sounding very far away through the thick oak, a lock clicked.

  Chapter Eight

  Compensation

  Power was a valuable commodity precisely because it was so difficult to obtain, and even more difficult to use—effectively, that is. Years of experience, however, had made intimidation second nature. He wielded his with an easy grace that had bled into all facets of his life given time.

  Time had not been so kind to Valerian. Those same years which had favored him had poisoned her, and the wild beauty he'd remembered now resided in a cage of her own design. He'd had plans for her, but she had robbed him of the pleasure. It was disappointing, really, how easily she succumbed to such plebeian methods of control, barely fighting him off, playing dead like a frightened rabbit even as her pulse buzzed violently against his palm. Her weak attack had been like a captive butterfly's final shudder as it succumbed to the cyanide in its jar.

  Submission was all well and good, but he was none too fond of the “playing dead” school of surrender. He expected reciprocation or, at the very least, participation. He wanted her to fight. Not to run, and certainly not to freeze. Not yet, anyway. Not so early in the game.

  And perhaps, eventually, she would learn to please him with no resistance at all.

  Until that day, he was going to keep her on a very tight leash. He slipped the key into his shirt pocket, running his hand down the paneled oak door. Very fine craftsmanship, that. Modern doors weren't nearly so thick or well-crafted. They reduced Val's pounding and screaming to a nigh inaudible volume.

  Then she found the keyhole. “Help!” she said, louder now, “Help! Somebody, please, hel—”

  Well, he couldn't have that. He rapped sharply on the door. “If you persist in this fashion, you will force my hand. It's not in your interests to do that.”

  She cursed at him, with a spark of the old fire, and he felt a stirring in his loins begin in response. Yes, this was much better. He much preferred her this way, hot under the collar. “You can't keep me in here forever!”

  He could, actually. In theory. Unless she overcame her despair enough to find the way out. And wouldn't she be surprised when she found out where that led. He grinned at the thought.

  “Someone will find me,” she persisted. “And then I'll tell them all about you!”

  “And then what?” he said pleasantly, stooping down to her level. “What's next in this cunning plan of yours? Are you going to tie me up? Kill me? Put me out of commission, so to speak? Assuming your friends believed you, of course, you would still have to deal with me. And with regard to a physical fight, I think I have you outmatched. That is assuming I let you get that far in the first place. Which I wouldn't. I can't very well have you running around, stirring up terror and fear among my guests, now, can I?”

  “You don't care about that,” she said coldly.

  “But you do. And it would be a pity if any of said guests happened to have an accident, wouldn't it? That would be a terrible thing to have on one's conscience.”

  “You're threatening me.” A note of panic now, behind the anger.

  “Just a bit of friendly advice. These houses are so old. There's no telling what misfortunes might befall one if one were to, shall we say, panic.”

  He heard her breath catch; it made him hard.

  “Besides,” he went on, “I have secrets of my own. Secrets of far more interest to the aforementioned party, I suspect, than yours. That boyfriend of yours, for example—does he know what you feel like when you're beneath him? How your back arches when your wrists are pinned above your head?” And then, in a more guttural voice, “Does he kn
ow what you taste like, Valerian? Would he like to? I think he would. Perhaps I'll tell him, and spare his curiosity.”

  “No! Stop it! Stop it, stop it, stop it!”

  A sharp sting made him glance down. He'd gouged into the palm of his hand with his nails. He drew in a quick breath and took a moment to compose himself, relaxing his clenched hand. She was his. If not in body, heart, or soul, then in mind, at least. And soon, the rest would follow.

  “What—what do you want from me? For God's sake—Why did you invite us? Why are you back? How are you back? Who are the people on the white team? How do you know kids from White Oaks Academy? And why—why can't you just leave me alone.”

  “Does this all have to be some sinister plot? Can't you take it at face value?”

  “No,” she said darkly.

  That nearly made him laugh again. “Commendably wise. It appears you are capable of learning, then. That gives me hope for you.”

  “Answer my questions, you sick fuck,” she said staunchly. He wondered if she would be quite so brave if there weren't a solid oak door standing between them.

  “Let's just say that things will be quite different this time around.”

  “You said that before. What does that mean?”

  “What it means, Val,” he said, rising from his crouch, “is that this delightful chat will remain our little secret. For now. Understand? In the meantime, I have places to go. People to see. Feel free to make yourself at home. Relax. Enjoy yourself. Because I certainly wouldn't want you to do anything…rash.”

  She slammed her fist against the door but didn't respond. Not in words. He hadn't expected her to; her actions spoke volumes, and she had never been a particularly good loser. Speaking of which, it was time to see to that galling specimen waiting outside the other door.

  His lip curled. Loser, indeed.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  James paced the hallway causing dust to rise up from the ancient floorboards with each movement. He sneezed. Disgusting old house. He glanced up at the high ceiling, scoffed at the dusty rafters, and then folded his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the wall so that the door was in clear view. What the hell was taking Val and GM so long?

  GM. His countenance darkened. What a piece of work. Even Val didn't like him, and she seemed to like everyone—not that he thought the guy was a psycho the way she seemed to. And he certainly wasn't about to leave (and not just because that would be letting the bastard win, either).

  But he's an asshole. An an egomaniac. Strutting around like he thought he was better than everyone else. Probably compensating for something, he thought.

  A door to his left opened and he turned towards the sound expectantly. Not Val. The girl from the white team. Cherry. Or whatever her name was. He hadn't really been paying attention. Val's pettiness had distracted him during the introductions. He couldn't figure out what her problem was. She was the one making wild accusations. Yeah, she was on medication. Maybe paranoia was a side-effect of it. But still, why was she getting all pissy at him for being the voice of reason?

  Women.

  Cherry, on the other hand, looked remarkably composed in comparison—as though she had just stepped off the pages of a European fashion magazine. Damn but she had a fine pair on her. He knew it was wrong to think so, but God, she was practically laying them out on display.

  He wet his lips, torn between announcing his presence or waiting for her to notice him. Reluctantly, he tugged his gaze away from her chest and said, “Hey.”

  Her blue eyes flicked up and down his form before she tossed back a brief, dismissive, “Hi.”

  Oh, one of those types. James felt himself lose interest almost automatically. Girls like her were like a piece of expensive crystal—beautiful, cold, and costly, and absolutely worthless in the long-run.

  Still, Cherry had one hell of a rack. Not much of an ass, though. Too bony. Val had a better body from all that running, but you wouldn't even know it since she practically lived in sweatshirts and baggy jeans these days. That top she had on tonight, though, was something else. He wanted to find out what was underneath it. Five months, almost, and he still hadn't seen his girlfriend shirtless. And when he'd taken his off, James remembered darkly, she'd all but run from the room to hide.

  Maybe that was his fault. He'd known she was damaged goods but had still persisted in asking her out. And she'd even seemed fine for a while. It was only recently that she'd started getting worse. Goddamn stalker. James wouldn't mind getting his hands on that ugly creep. He didn't enjoy being the bad guy. He didn't like pushing and prodding his girlfriend to be intimate with him.

  Yeah, it was hot that she was still a tight little virgin and all, but eventually, he kind of wanted to fix that.

  “Did you find anyone?” Cherry asked impatiently, crossing her arms and drawing his gaze downwards once more. White Oaks kids were supposed to be loaded. Maybe they were fake?

  “Yeah, Val,” he said.

  “Figures. Do you know where GM is?”

  “He's busy right now.” He wished he could remember her name. He was pretty sure it wasn't Cherry. “Laying out Val's penalty, I suppose.”

  Cherry blinked. “Val? But I thought—”

  “He said we're supposed to meet up in the parlor, or whatever it's called.” James jammed his hands into his pockets, nodding towards the closed door. “You can take it up with him, if you don't believe me. That is, if you're not afraid of getting a penalty, too,” he added, mocking their host.

  The girl looked like was thinking about doing just that. Then she shook her head. “I can wait.”

  James watched her go, following the sashay of her hips beneath the frilly skirt until she was out of sight, and glanced impatiently at the door. Where the hell was Valerian?

  As if in response to the unasked question, the door in front of him opened with a rusty screech and GM stepped through, closing the door behind him—almost slamming it. James opened his mouth, ready to let loose with a barbed string of choice words, but something in the older man's expression stopped him cold. “I thought I told you to find the others.”

  “I found one of them. Cherry.”

  “Charlie.”

  “Whatever. I was waiting for Val. Where is she?”

  An unreadable look flickered across his face, which James found himself wanting to punch more and more with every minute spent in his presence. “She'll be sitting out this round.”

  James ground his teeth. “That's not what I was asking.”

  “You might decide to set her free. I can't have that.”

  “I don't cheat,” James hissed.

  “I wonder,” came the cool response. And something in his tone made James wonder if perhaps he was referring to something else—but, no, that was ridiculous. “Regardless,” GM continued, “I won't be telling you, in either case. So why don't you run along now, hmm?” He offered a plastic smile which seemed to morph into a feral sneer, but he turned his back before James could be sure it wasn't the shadows or his imagination at work. He suspected it was neither.

  “Asshole,” he muttered, throwing a quick look over his shoulder before marching over to the door and giving the knob a firm twist. Locked. Perhaps one of the other doors...? James looked at the long hallway dubiously. There was no doubt in his mind that he could find Val, if he took the time to. The problem was that GM had already left. The clock was ticking and he wasn't sure he'd be able to make it in time for the next game. Val had lost and, yes, all right; it was his fault, but there was no point in handicapping the rest of their team for that error. There was no way he was going to lose. Especially not to GM.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  She could just barely hear voices coming from the hallway outside. One of them was James and the other, judging by the deeper timbre, was GM. “James!” Val yelled, “Get away from him!”

  He couldn't hear her, though. Of course. The door was solid paneled wood, as muffling as if it were soundproofed. Gavin had made
that painfully clear. Val slammed her fists against it, knowing it was hopeless. She could already hear the voices fading away.

  Please, James, don't do anything stupid. He's dangerous.

  Sighing, she leaned against the door to take in her surroundings. She could make out that it was a bedroom and if the lack of personal belongings was any indication, it was probably a boy's. A man's.

  She banged on the door for a few more minutes, making as much noise as she dared. When it became clear no one was coming, she turned her attention to the rest of the room. The bed was made with black sheets that added to the dark atmosphere. A few posters covered the walls, but she couldn't make out the images in the darkness. Along the far wall was a table with a chess set, arranged and ready for play. The pieces were heavy and cold to the touch—some kind of stone. She picked up the knight, which had been her favorite piece once, tracing the elaborately carved mane. There was little doubt in her mind whose room this was.

  She set down the horse-headed piece. What the hell was Gavin getting at by locking her in his bedroom, of all places? Was he going to come back for her? Was that his plan? To lead everyone away and then continue where they'd left off all those years ago? The thought made her feel ill, though it explained his cryptic statements about the thickness of the wood and secrecy.

  Val let out a sound halfway between a scream and a sob, falling back against the wall. To her surprise, she felt the wall giving away from her weight. Val straightened, quickly, before she could fall, and turned around to see what had happened. It was a door! A secret door?

  No, nothing so mysterious. A normal door. She just hadn't noticed it because it blended in so well with the surrounding wall—he'd even slapped a poster over it. Well. There was nowhere to go but out. She just hoped she wasn't walking into another trap.

  Chapter Nine

  Exchange Variation