Death Takes a Holiday (31 page)

“My great-grandfather’s cabin. The last place you’ll ever be.”

“What … ” I can’t think of the words. “Where’s Steven?”

“Helping your FBI buddies search for you. Everyone’s
so concerned
,” she says in a baby voice.

“How long have I been here?”

“A day. Two more to go.”

“Until?”

“I’ll let your imagination run wild with that one.” Keeping the gun on me, she pulls out a hypodermic needle. “Time for your medicine. I laced it with something fun this time. Move or try any of your magic mind shit, and I’ll blow your fucking brains out.”

She presses the barrel right into my temple, and as hard as she can, jabs the needle into my neck. I cry out in pain as the bitch just smiles.

“Pleasant nightmares,” she says before fading to black.

When I open my eyes, heavy as boulders, there’s someone standing in the corner of the almost black room. The only light emanates from the hanging bulb swinging left and right like a pendulum. As with everything else, the person is distorted, at a slight angle, and out of focus like watching a 3-D movie without the glasses. But when he steps into the light, I scream. Leonard Bentley, the man I killed as a child, remains motionless as worms crawl in and out of his flaky yellow skin. A zombie, he’s a zombie. He studies me, his mouth contorting into a grotesque smile. Cockroaches climb out all over his face. He lunges at me, howling like a madman, and I flip on my side, pulling my knees to my chest. But he doesn’t touch me. I lay there sobbing and rocking myself for a few minutes. “It’s okay, it’s okay” I say in a loop through the sobs. He’s gone. He’s not real. He’s not real, and he’s gone. He’s gone. When I can breathe again, I quickly turn my head over my shoulder just to make sure he’s not there.

“He went away,” a woman’s voice echoes though the silent room.

I know that voice. My boogeyman has changed form. I catch only a glimpse before I shriek again, close my eyes, and put my fingers in my ears. This doesn’t stop my tormenter. My once beautiful mother, now bloated and red from the gas, rests on the bed next to me. I feel it move under her weight and can smell her White Diamonds perfume as she lowers her head to my ear. Though my ears are plugged, her voice is as clear as day. “You murdered him. The only man I ever loved. Then you killed me. I couldn’t stand the fact you came out of me. I hated you. You killed the love of my life, you selfish bitch! I’m dead because of you! You’re a freak! An aberration! A fucking monster! I should have killed you in the womb!”

“No!” I bellow.

I swat at her, but she’s gone. Gone, gone, gone. I’m all alone. Alone, alone, alone. Forever alone. I close my eyes again, panting until I can’t breathe. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. Is this bed real? Is the smell of urine real? This must be what it’s like to be crazy. Trapped in your own mind, not trusting anything or anyone. Madness. A lunatic. It’s finally happened.

“Oh God, help me,” I cry into my hands. But am I really? Are these my real hands?

“What the fuck did she do to you?” a man asks.

Real fingers open my real eye, and I view Nick kneeling beside me. He seems concerned and shakes his head. When he pulls away my eye closes again. I struggle not to fall back into my hell for a few seconds. “Hey,” Nick says, “Kristen did something to her.” He pauses and I slip away. “I don’t know … ”

I open my eyes again, but my prison has changed. I’m back at the mansion in my own pink bed. Everything is so bright the light stings my eyes. I blink a few times to bring the figures in the room into focus. Bad idea. Oliver, dressed in a tuxedo complete with cape, sucks the blood from a woman in a red satin dress. I blink a few times to make sure what I’m seeing. She’s me. Or was me. Her arm is limp and her head lolls to the side, blood dripping from the side of the other me’s mouth. Oliver gazes up from her neck, giving me a bloody grin before sinking his fangs in again.

“He is such a pig,” Will says. At least I think it’s Will. A giant, furry wolf wearing tattered pants sits cross legged in the chair beside me. The green eyes are the only remnants of him.

“No, he’s not,” I say meekly.

“Look at him.” I do. Oliver sinks has fangs into the other me’s neck for the third time. “He doesn’t know when to quit. He is a hedonist. Pure excess. And let’s not forget he’s dead. He’s not human. He will never be able to give you what you need. Fidelity. Normalcy.
Home
.” Oliver drops my corpse to the floor like a sack of garbage and wipes the stray blood from his chin. “He will tire of you. Leave you. And in the end, he will destroy you.”

I close my eyes. “I know,” I whisper. When I open them again Oliver is gone, but my corpse remains.

Werewolf Will’s barely there lips are pulled back into a smile, his jagged teeth visible. “Thank you,” he says.

“Why?”

“Now it’s just the two of us. Just the way I want it.”

“But you don’t want me.”

“I want you more than any man has ever wanted any woman in history. As Romeo wanted Juliet. As Paris wanted Helen of Troy.”

“You rejected me.”

“To save you.” He gestures to himself. “From this.”

“I don’t mind you like that.”

“
I
do,” he says. “This and this alone is how I see myself now. As the beast. As that.” We both turn our heads to the sight behind him. A second Will is on top of me, biting and clawing at me as I try to fight him off. The other me screams and cries, but the wolf’s snout rips my throat out. “That is all I see when I think of you. I’m no better than him.”

I blink. The wolf and corpse are gone. My Will has tears cascading down his furry cheeks. I reach across and wipe them away. His pelt is so soft, like feathers. He nuzzles my hand. “This is not the you I see.” I push myself up and lean across, kissing his lips right under his nose. When I pull away, he’s transformed back into human form. “
This
is the man I love.”

“Then maybe it’s time
you
tried to save
me
for once.”

“Do you think you’ll let me?”

This time he kisses me. It’s deep, passionate, perfect. He moves his mouth to my ear, his hot breath against my neck, and whispers, “Only one way to find out.”

Something wet splashes my face and my bedroom vanishes, replaced with my real dank, dark prison. Nick and Steven, who holds a water bottle over my head, stand beside the bed. Neither seems pleased. I thrash and wipe the liquid off my face.

“What … ” I ask. That one word takes quite the effort.

“I’m gonna get her some new sheets and pants,” Nick says. “You’ll be okay?”

“Yeah. She’s still drugged.” Nick nods and walks out, locking the door behind himself. “Thirsty?” Steven asks. He tips the water bottle into my mouth, and I drink until it’s all gone. Steven grabs the bag Kristen left then sits on the bed. I shrink away. Shaking his head, he pulls out a banana, peels it, and puts it against my mouth. Hunger replaces common sense, and I eat.

Nick returns with sweatpants and sheets, tossing them at Steven. “I’m gonna take off,” Nick says. “If anyone asks about you?”

“Taken care of.”

“Okay. Artie’ll stop by tomorrow afternoon to check on her.”

“Okay. Safe drive back,” Steven says.

“You too.” Nick barely glances at me before leaving.

A smiling Steven looks down at me. “Still hungry?”

“Fuck you,” I slur.

He’s taken aback. “You know, that’s the first time I’ve ever heard you cuss. Doesn’t sound right coming from you.” He picks up the peanut butter and spoon from the bag, feeding it to me. I spit it out. “You know I’m trying to make this as painless for you as possible.”

“Let me go.”

He stuffs more peanut butter in my mouth instead. This reminds me of the time he had this horrible virus and was bedridden for a week. I came over and fed him soup, much like he’s doing now. “Sorry. Not happening.” This time I spit the food right into his face. He flinches then smacks me across the cheek, fresh pain blossoming through the haze. He raises his hand again but groans and hits his leg instead. “Jesus Christ, Bea! Why’d you make me do that?”

My cheek throbs so bad. I stifle a sob. “What are you going to do to me?”

“We’re going to sacrifice you. To a troll.”

Okay, not expecting that answer. “
What
?”

“Six months ago Kristen inherited this place. She was surveying it and found an old mine shaft. It led to a cave, and there he was. Best we can figure, her great-grandfather kept it as a pet. She found his journal, and apparently once every two months, it came out on the new moon. After he fed it, it passed out and he harvested some of its blood. Bea, the man died at age one hundred fifty! You have no idea what this shit does. I can bench press four hundred and run ten miles without stopping. It’s fucking amazing!”

“You’ve done this before?” I ask, shocked. “You’ve killed people?”

“But I’ve saved more! I stopped a gangbanger with my bare hands. Jawan ran down a pedophile for three miles. We usually only take the homeless. Criminals. It’s for the greater good.”

“And doing this to me? Is that for the greater good?”

“I just figured your blood is special. It can only add to the potency of the troll’s.”

I feel sick to my stomach. Two years. I was with this man for two years. I let him into my life, into my
body,
and I never had even the slightest inkling he was capable of something like this. I choke back vomit. “Who
are
you?”

“I could ask you the same question,” he says, visibly hurt. “You served me up to that vampire like a rib-eye.”

“You remember that?”

“Troll blood,” he says with a shrug. “You let that vampire attempt to mind fuck me without batting an eye. Not to mention the fact we were together two
fucking
years and never told me you could move shit with your mind. How could you do that to me?”

“I didn’t trust you.” I hold up the chain. “Gee, wonder why?”

He stands up, folding his arms across his chest. “I loved you. I wanted to marry you. Fuck, I wanted you to be the mother of my children! And you lied to me.”

“At least I didn’t kidnap you and feed you to a troll!”

His hands ball up into fists. “Shut up.”

“You’re pathetic. Any way you dress this up, it’s murder. You’re a monster.”

“Well, you’re the lifelong expert on monsters, right? Takes one to know one.”

“You won’t get away with this. Eventually, someone will figure out what you’ve done to me.”

“I’m a better actor than you give me credit for. I’ve been playing the concerned friend to perfection. Not even your FBI pals have a clue. I am
that
good.” He reaches in his back pocket, taking out a syringe. “If it makes you feel better, your death won’t be in vain. I promise to use this gift for good. It’s the least I can do for you.” He moves too fast for me to stop him. The needle goes into my arm, and the void returns. Good. Rather have it than spend another millisecond with that man.

When I wake for the millionth time in the bomb shelter or whatever the heck it is, I find that someone has changed my urine-soaked pants, sheets, and underwear. Fear grips me again, but from what I can tell he didn’t go any further. I still feel unclean.

I manage to stay awake through sheer force of will. Not easy. I do jumping jacks. I eat. I sing show tunes as I examine every inch of the room. There’s no door handle, no windows, and my power is on
the fritz from the drugs. Next I try to pull the chain out of the floor, but it’s futile. Same with the shackle. It’s just the standard opened with a handcuff key. Really wish Will had gotten around to teaching me to pick a lock. I could always break my ankle to wiggle out of it, but I’d still have the door to contend with and God knows how far away I am from civilization.

So I pace. And I plan.

An hour or twelve later, I can’t tell in here, I hear footsteps descending the steps. Then the familiar unlocking of the door. Who steps in, I don’t know. I lay on the bed with my eyes closed playing the part of drugged-out troll meat. Not hard as there are still drugs making me woozy. But I
can
do this. He or she sets a plastic bag by the bed before sitting down. A second later, the person opens one of my eyelids. Artie. I groan and “slowly” come back to consciousness.

“Let me go,” I slur. With unsteady arms I weakly push him away, but he grabs my wrists. “Don’t touch me.”

“You know,” he says, pinning my arms on either side of my head, “Steven said you were a shitty lay. But you look like a wildcat to me.”

“Stop,” I whimper.

“Make me.” He bashes his lips against mine, but I move my head side to side and whimper.

“Please don’t hurt me. Please,” I cry.

He moves my wrists up above my head, holding them down with one hand while the other clumsily works his belt. His attention diverts down, his head swiveling so he can see the problem. The opening I need.