Chapter 19
Sable
There are a lot of things worse than dying. Only two come to mind as I search the corridors of the east wing: sleeping with a demon and having sex with the man who murdered me.
I should get an award for crossing both off in one go.
I’m not sure which I hate more: myself, the fact that I liked it far too much, or that I want a repeat of what we did—less the part where I fell to my re-death.
But I know which part pisses me the fuck off the most: Lynx going missing right after he came in me.
This is like a horrific one-night stand—they’d make movies about this shit. I’m killing that rat bastard the moment I find him because blaming it all on him is a far easier pill to swallow than admitting I’m embarrassed about how it ended.
I don’t know what I expected after we had sex, but I damn well knew we weren’t about to cuddle. I knew that, and still, like an idiot, I was disappointed when it didn’t happen.
What was I seriously thinking? That we’d sit outside and stargaze or some shit?
Dying has made me stupider.
I just—I’m not sure. I wanted it to be special. For the first guy to notice only me to show some inkling of intimacy beyond bending me over.
My boot catches on an empty beer bottle, and I kick it across the hall, glaring at the guest bedroom I pass. Where the fuck is that prick?
Do I know what I’m going to say to him? No. Not really. But he sure as shit is going to know that I think he’s a damn coward for hiding away like he has. I’ve been growing more and more desperate the longer he’s missing.
A sour taste forms at the back of my throat when I get to the room the magic happened—the sex, not the literal magic. What if he’s avoiding me because he regrets it? Because it was a heat-of-the-moment thing and he’s back to being repulsed by me?
That can’t all be true. I could practically feel the tension in my dead soul all the other times nothing more than a couple layers of fabric separated us. He’s attracted to me, and he hates it.
I understand the feeling.
“Lynx, you fucking cunt. Get out here,” I growl, throwing open the door to a cupboard.
I highly doubt he’s hiding in here, but I’m pissed off enough to look anywhere—especially when my core still aches every time I move.
“I swear on my goddamn corpse that if you don’t show yourself in the next ten seconds, I’m going to shove my foot so far up your ass, you’re going to be tasting ghost rubber for the rest of your pathetic existence.”
Nothing.
As I expected.
I grit my teeth and storm into the study near the end of the hall. What remains of Mother’s favorite place in the house is ripped wallpaper, broken white bookcases, and cobwebs strewn across every corner and creating a second layer of fabric over the mold-dotted curtains.
Even as the dead, I don’t feel welcome in here. There’s always been some kind of aura about the room that repelled me.
Ella loved coming in here in the mornings when Mother graced us with her departure. My sister would sit in the alcove against the window, overlooking the marble fountain, down the long driveway and into the forest, soaking up the brisk early sun as she studied or read.
I never joined her. I’d only ever watch from the doorway, as if there was an invisible force field keeping me out.
It feels no different now, yet it’s something else entirely. Cathartic, almost, to see the remains of my mother’s godlike life reduced to trash and decay.
My attention drifts to the dent in the dirty rug where an antique executive desk once stood in front of a Goya painting.
Then to the spot in front of the table where the events of my first childhood memory occurred—Mother striking me across the face for failing my second spelling test in first grade.
This entire building is a haunted house of memories, and Lynx has taken it upon himself to make it worse.
My hands curl into fists. I’m going to figure out how to push him out of the window. And if not the window, off the roof will suffice.
“Jackass,” I grumble under my breath.
Not only did he chase me. Not only did he shove his demon semen in me—he let me fall through a motherfucking window and didn’t even check on me. He could’ve kissed my booboo or at the very least pulled my dress up so my tits weren’t out in the open for any other ghost to see.
That’s why I’m mad.
It’s the only reason.
Not because I let go of my inhibitions and foolishly thought my life would miraculously improve and I’d finally get to feel all warm and gooey inside like in all those bullshit romance movies Ella would watch.
I stomp up to the window seat my sister was always so fond of. I still remember the feeling of the morning sun—like honey on my skin—the rare few times I dared venture this far into the room. Now, in the darkness of the afternoon, all I feel is cold. Always so goddamn cold.
My gaze follows the shadows cast by the trees into the forest, down the path where my body is laid to rest.
Blowing out a breath, I stare at my feet.
I’m lying to myself. I mainly want to find Lynx because I’m… It’s so quiet. The groans of the house and the birdsong have become deafening, and when he’s around, it’s… I can hear clearly again.
He doesn’t feel the same as I do, and I need to get over myself. I’ve had a year to practice living in silence. I need to learn to be content with keeping my own company. Dead, alone, and empty. That’s how I was before I became a corpse; that’s how it’ll always be after.
With that thought, suddenly the room is just a room. This house is just a house.
It’s always cold no matter how many layers of material I conjure onto my body. It’s always quiet even if I scream until my throat tears. This is it. This is what remains of my existence. Locked in a place where the only person I can speak to wants nothing to do with me.
There’s Tony—or Tidus, I should say—but it isn’t the same. He’s not around much, and talking to him feels more like a balm than a cure. Whereas arguing with Lynx sparks something I thought was dead.
As I move through the manor, going through walls, drifting down the stairs, I truly feel like a ghost. A hollow shell. A specter floating between space and time. Unseeing. Unbreathing. Staring at the ground, hoping it might swallow me whole and make it all end.
I’m alive again, wishing for death.
I have no path in mind. No aim. I don’t notice the grass beneath my feet or the wind rustling through the leaves. I don’t feel it. I’m lost. It isn’t until I’m staring at a mound of dug-up dirt that my mind comes to.
Frowning, I stare at the torn fabric that’s been dragged out of the hole and the gaping wounds in the corpse where limbs should be. My corpse. The same corpse that’s lying above the earth instead of beneath it. My forearm and both my legs are missing. As is half my other hand.
I stagger back, clutching my stomach as I hunch over. Nausea pushes air out of me in place of bile.
My body—the only evidence that I existed—has been defiled. Reduced to a fucking chew toy. What? Not even nature thinks I’m worthy of respect. So every single thing I’ve done in my life amounts to—to—
Is this what Grandma wanted for me? To be buried in the dirt without a coffin so I could become as disfigured as I am on the inside?
The animal didn’t even find my flesh acceptable for consumption. Sinew and meat are scattered amongst the roots and twigs. Beneath a nearby bush, there’s a gnawed leg. Like a pack of wolves took turns playing with it.
Alarm bells ring in my head, snatching me out of my pity party.
If anyone stumbled upon this, the cops would be here in no time. Once they inevitably identified me, what are the chances that a distant relative or my parents swoop in and put the place up for sale?
I’d be stuck watching people live their lives every day while I wander the halls. Maybe even my parents if they successfully appeal their case.
Not to mention they’d be stuck with a goddamn demon.
How would that even work?
Or worse, what if they raze the manor to the ground and put an IKEA or something here? Lynx would go on a murder spree.
No one can find out there’s a murdered corpse buried on the property.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” I snarl, heading deeper into the forest to look for my own body parts.
It was probably a wolf or coyote—no, those bite marks look far too big for any animal I’ve ever seen roaming around here. A supernatural creature on the other hand?
Fucking Tidus.
I’m throwing him off the roof too.
Grumbling and cursing and wishing I could understand the grimoire so I could smite the hellhound, I start the painstaking task of combing through the forest in search of my severed limbs. This is all one bad joke.
Hours pass and all I manage to find is half a finger that I gave up on carrying and gave a mini burial instead. Fingers crossed a rat doesn’t dig it up. I make it near the driveway before spotting a bone that could be the length of my forearm.
It could be mine or belong to another animal that died here recently and became vulture chow. I haven’t got a clue.
I’m not even sure what type of wildlife exists in this part of the country, even though I’ve lived here most of my life.
I bend down to investigate it with my zero years of experience as an anatomist. I mean, it looks like it belongs to a human, but it’s too thick to be mine. The back of my neck prickles with awareness, and I whip round, expecting to see the culprit of my dismemberment.
But it’s worse.
“I’ve been fucking looking for you,” I hiss, storming toward Lynx, who’s glaring me down, hand suspended in the air like he was midway through reaching for something. “Where the shit have you been?”
He sneers at me, giving the black jeans and thick knitted sweater I’ve conjured a once-over, and every one of my nerve endings comes alight.
I can hear the chirping of the insects, the soft hum of the wind, and feel the kiss of the breeze against my cheek.
It’s what I’ve been looking for since I woke up naked and alone two nights ago.
“In Hell.”