Chapter 31 #2
The minute I enter the maze, the sounds of the party hush, replaced by the brittle crunch of dry corn stalks and dead leaves beneath my boots and the sound of my own breath, a little too fast and shallow.
I take a left, then a right, quickly losing my bearings.
Now and then I catch distant sounds, muffled giggles, a sudden gasp.
I catch glimpses of a group of partygoers a few rows over or lovers tucked into the corners for privacy.
Above me, the full moon glows white and watchful behind a veil of shifting clouds. One drifts across the sky and blocks the moonlight, casting everything in shadow.
When it clears, I startle at the apparition before me.
A man, judging by his size, in a plague doctor’s costume.
The mask is grotesque, cracked leather stitched into a long, hooked beak.
In the 1600s, doctors stuffed those beaks with herbs to block the stench of illness and death.
This one has polished glass lenses instead of eyes, blank and reflective.
A belted coat falls to his boots, stiff and heavy-looking.
I think it’s Jackson, but I can’t be sure since his face is hidden.
“H—hello?” I stutter, fear trickling down my spine. Goosebumps break out, rushing across my skin. I rub my hands over my arms to chase away the sudden chill, but it stays, clings.
The person doesn’t answer, just takes a menacing step closer.
I force myself not to back away.
Instead, I straighten my spine and lift my chin, even as my heart pumps hard in my chest. “Nice costume,” I say, injecting forced casualness into my voice. “Very historically accurate. You get points for commitment.”
Still, he says nothing.
Another step. Closer now. Close enough that I can see the cracked lines in the leather of his mask, the faint glint of moonlight on the curved beak. I can’t see his eyes behind the lenses, but I can feel him watching me.
My palms sweat. With effort, I keep them at my sides.
“Look,” I say lightly, “I get it. You’re scary, but unless you’re planning on giving me candy or telling me where the exit is, I’ve got places to be.”
Still silent. Still moving closer.
Each step slow. Intentional. Like he’s enjoying this.
I match his next step with one of my own, backward this time. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of seeing me frightened, but every cell in my body is screaming, run, run, run.
“I said hello,” I try again, this time sharper. “You want to tell me who you are?”
The clouds chase the moon and win, covering its light so I’m plunged into a murky darkness.
That’s when he makes his move.
He lunges toward me, a motion I sense more from the sound of his footsteps than with my eyes. I spin to the side, but it’s too late. His hand clamps on my wrist. The grip is vicious, grinding my bones together. I cry out, twisting, as I try to break free.
Moonlight reappears, and I wish it didn’t because now I see that terrifying mask inches away from my face. I can smell the leather and glue that was used to make it. Underlying that is something else, something sweet but stale. Familiar.
The beak hovers close. Then he inhales. Long and deep. Like he’s a dog scenting me.
“You smell like him, Carrson. It’s all over you. You’ve been letting him stick his dick in you like the little slut that you are,” says a deep voice, distorted by the mask so it sounds low and warped.
Still, I know that voice.
It’s Jackson.
Relief pulses through me. My plan worked. My moment of celebration is short-lived when his grip doesn’t loosen. Instead, cruelly, painfully, it tightens.
“I’m going to scrub that scent off you,” he says with chilling calmness. “Replace it with my own. After I fuck you.” A low laugh follows, smug and certain. “I’m taking everything Carrson has. His power. His place in The Order. You. It’s already done. Promised by my father and others.”
He lifts his free hand, sheathed in a black glove, and strokes my cheek. I jerk away, but his hold is too tight. I can’t escape it. He caresses me again.
“Carrson’s little pet,” he sneers. “I’ll make you mine. Put a collar on his tiger. Parade you around on a leash so everyone can see.”
His thumb brushes my lip.
I twist away, but he presses harder, pushing his thumb past my lips into my mouth. He keeps going, shoving it deeper, invading me, until I gag and wretch.
He laughs, the sound maniacal, totally unhinged.
I realize that this isn’t Jackson pretending to be a monster.
He is a monster.
Just when I think I’m going to vomit, he pulls his thumb free.
My spit dribbles down my chin. I bide my time, deliberately holding back, not using a single move Carrson taught me.
For this to work, for my plan to matter, Carrson has to see this.
They have to see it. The Order needs to witness exactly who Jackson is.
So they understand why Carrson has no choice but to retaliate.
“You’re so predictable, Jackson,” I say, my voice hoarse but taunting. “I knew you’d follow me in here. You gave Carrson the perfect excuse to come after you.” I force myself to lean closer and hiss, “You just signed your own death warrant.”
That’s when he…laughs.
High and loud and joyful.
He wheezes, “Predictable? Really?” His laughter cuts off as abruptly as it started. He squeezes my arm so hard I can’t help it. I cry out in pain.
“Let me know if this is predictable.”
He whistles.
A low, eerie sound.
Two men step out of the corn.
My heart stops when I see the teardrop tattoos on their cheeks, three on the man on the left of me and five on the man on the right. They grin at me, teeth yellow and jagged, like wolves that haven’t eaten in days.
I start to fight for real.
Kicking, punching, yelling for help, but it’s no use. They’re too strong. Too fast. Together they cage me in. One grabs me and holds me down by my arms while the other gets my legs.
Once I’m immobilized, Jackson crouches beside me, laughing again. A sound made for nightmares.
“Predict this, bitch,” he says, right before he punches me in the side of the head.
The world goes dark.