Chapter 41 Neve
FORTY-ONE
NEVE
“Did you do it?”
The question I asked Sylvan last night, before Faust met me at Afterlife.
I needed to tell him Sylvan saw me the night the latest victim—Mitchell—died. I needed to tell him I had called Sylvan myself and asked him straight up if he did it.
I only told him one of those things.
Now, head down, fur-lined hood up, matte black duffel bag on my shoulder and hands jammed into my pockets, one clenched tight around my phone, I know I should have told him everything.
But when I glance over my shoulder to see the winding road dusted with snow that leads to his castle, Faust sleeping in a cavernous, darkened bedroom, unaware I snuck away—or maybe he suspected I would, the way I eyed the alarm code he put in on his security system last night so I could break free without waking him up—I know it’s too late.
I’m not going back.
It’s Halloween morning, and Drayton is celebrating.
I need to clear my head.
When I reach the brick walkway that’s officially part of campus, I pass spider webs in trees and skeletons having picnics, artfully set up over top black and red striped blankets, pinned down with bricks so they don’t blow away in the late-autumn winds and gusts of occasional snow.
I glance at the library, pumpkins on either side of the stone columns, and a chill runs down my spine. I never saw Will’s body, still don’t know his cause of death, but what once felt like a sanctuary now feels like a mausoleum.
Even so, I decide to take the narrow pathway between House Memorial and the science lab. It’s another brick walkway and it shaves five minutes off the rest of my walk back to Cathedral Street.
I need to talk to Cyn, I need to rest before the poetry workshop—if I decide to go—and yeah, maybe I need to eat, too.
The alleyway is empty, the parking lot dead ahead scattered with cars, and the sidewalk that’ll lead me straight to my street is sprinkled with salt in case more snow falls for Halloween tonight.
I miss parts of what it used to be for me and Nolan.
Mom made our costumes—pantyhose, toilet paper rolls, toothpicks—whatever it took to get it just right and save money while she did it.
All three of us would cheer and laugh every time we scored a house with full-size chocolate bars.
But there was a dark side too, wasn’t there? One I never examined until now.
Nolan picking through my candy. Taking away nearly everything. I watched the shiny bars like stolen gold, and I did nothing to save my earnings.
Mom never knew. Nolan was always careful like that.
I ignore the pang in my chest, thinking of Mom. How nice it would be if I still had her to talk to. But Marty didn’t want us, and she agreed to give him all of her time, resources, attention, easily quitting on us because we were old enough to take care of ourselves.
Marty flat-out told her I could go to university, move out, or live on the street which was all essentially the same to him: Me, out of her hair.
Sometimes I think I’m a baby about it. Yeah, I was old enough to leave. And it all worked out, didn’t it? I’m here, mostly happy. She’s there, probably taken care of.
But the worst part is she never calls. She rarely texts. She doesn’t… try. He gave her an ultimatum on me and it’s like she one-upped it on my entire existence.
I’m so lost in thoughts of her that I don’t hear anyone behind me until a hand clamps over my mouth halfway through the shaded alley, and when I try to scream, the sound can’t escape.
A hard body at my spine.
Another arm around my waist.
I let my bag drop, then dig my nails into the lowest arm, shifting all my weight to attempt to break their hold.
I feel their muscles flex, but they don’t move.
I’m not going to fucking die here.
My pulse thrashes inside my ears but I don’t let the panic overcome me. Cynthia and I took a basic self-defense course our freshman year. I only remember a little, but maybe a little is all it’ll take to save me.
I take a breath, crisp fall air filling my lungs as I let myself go momentarily limp. Then I shove down again on their arm banded around me, letting my feet lift from the ground as hard as I’m pressing. Their arm tightens, trembles, then miraculously, I break free.
I don’t bother looking at my attacker: Put distance between you. Drilled into us in self-defense. You don’t want to fight if you don’t have to.
Immediately—leaving my bag—I take off into a sprint, boots churning over the frosted brick walkway decorated with salt.
My pulse thrashes inside my ears and I curse myself for not warning Cynthia. For not giving her a head’s up that the killer isn’t just coming for men. They’re coming for everyone.
I should’ve stayed in Faust’s bed. If I had, they wouldn’t have found me here and they wouldn’t go to my apartment next, thinking Cynthia will be alone and thus, more vulnerable.
But Tylone will be there, right?
He fucking has to be.
Nolan is going to kill me if this person doesn’t.
And they are.
Because this is the killer, isn’t it?
Who else could it be?
My lungs expand as I run, but I hear them on my heels. Not their breath, no. Just their footsteps.
That means they’re strong. Athletic.
My throat tightens and I churn my arms at my sides, almost free of the alleyway. Maybe I can scream then. I should see someone else; a professor, a jogger, someone forced to take their dog for a walk in this cold.
But when the buildings drop away, someone hauls me backward, their fist in my coat which is zipped tight around my body, and I’m pulled back, flush against a hard chest as my mouth is covered, sealed, once more.
A voice hits my ear before I can try and escape again.
“Did you fuck him?”
My blood runs cold and I freeze, jerking my chin up and staring straight ahead at that parking lot I might not make it to.
I don’t fight anymore.
I don’t try to twist my head from his grip.
If this is the killer, I can’t get myself out of this. Not with physical force.
His hand loosens slightly on my mouth.
I know he wants me to answer him, and I don’t want to fucking die yet, so I do.
In a way.
“How do you know that?” And it’s not really an answer, and I didn’t fuck him, not really, but Sylvan Connor at my back knows something impossible. Something he shouldn’t.
I start to tell myself perhaps he saw me leave Faust’s street, which in itself is stalking, but at least it’s better than the next thought.
The one that has me stiffening in the freshman star’s grip.
The thud against the back window last night with Faust.
The sound we lied to ourselves about: Just snow. Just ice.
It was too loud.
Too human.
And it was…
“It was you, wasn’t it?” My voice is hoarse, the same way it was when I asked him a similar question last night on the phone, before everything with Faust.
“Did you do it?”
And he answers the same way he did then.
“Maybe,” a smile curving against my skin from his lips so close to the shell of my ear.
Cynthia.
Darkmouth.
He knows where I live. And he can charm his way inside. He doesn’t need to break in. Cyn will open the door for him if he mentions me.
“Let me go,” I whisper, my voice shaky. Maybe if I’m compliant, he’ll release me. I hate the thought; all I want is to smash my knuckles into his face, but I want to get away more.
He runs his nose down the side of my face. A primal, possessive gesture.
I am too still.
“You seem so scared,” he observes, his lips on my skin as he holds me tight. “I won’t hurt you.”
I clench my teeth to stop from whimpering.
In my head, I see Jackson. His eyes wide, staring at the sky. Was that the last thing he ever saw, or was he dead before he rolled into that pose? Did Sylvan put his hand over his mouth, too, to cover his cries?
My stomach lurches beneath Sylvan’s tight hold on my waist.
“Shh,” he says, his temple to the side of my head so his mouth grazes my skin when he speaks. “You’re safe with me, Neve.”
I squeeze my eyes shut tight so I don’t cry.
He sounds like a serial killer.
I would know. All my studies, all my memorization, processing, isn’t this what they are?
“I’m going to let you go,” he croons, “but don’t run, or I’ll have to stop you, okay?”
I swallow hard but hope blooms inside my chest. I force my eyes open. Air into my lungs beneath his hand over my mouth. Then I nod very deliberately.
“Good girl,” he says, so different from when Faust said it to me.
Slowly, he unwinds his hand from my waist, then drops his other from my mouth. He takes one step back, and cold rushes in to fill the gap between us.
I can’t move.
I’m too shaky.
Lightheaded.
I glance down and see my bag, like he brought it when he ran after me. Because the panic is sending signals to my body to do something despite my dizziness, I quickly lean down to swipe up the duffel, but when I try to come back up, gray spots pop in front of my eyes.
My feet feel clumsy, unsteady.
And before I know it, I’m falling.
Sylvan rushes in, catching me before I hit the ground. He simply scoops me up, one arm beneath my back, the other under my legs, then he’s cradling me to his chest like I’m nothing but a child.
I can’t protest, because the spots are still there.
Everything is fuzzy.
I’m going to faint.
“Breathe,” he instructs me, his voice the clearest thing about my surroundings.
I can’t move my arms, lolling at my side, because my limbs feel numb.
But I listen to him.
Sips of air through my nose.
“Now out through your mouth,” he instructs, clinical and demanding. Almost like Faust. Almost, but colder.
I do as he says.
“And again.”
Slowly, on the fifth breath, the dark sky overhead clears. The buildings surrounding us in the alley come into view.
I’m not about to faint, and my fingers tingle and blood returns to them.
But I’m not in any position to squirm down from his hold.
Reluctantly, I shift my gaze to his.
Gray-silver irises. Too intense.
A lock of blond hair fallen just above one eye.
He has such a beautiful nose.
I suppose the devil really was an angel, wasn’t he?
Then he narrows his eyes, the cold prominent in the cut lines of his jaw, his cheekbones, his nose.
“Now we’re going to get you some fucking food.”