12. Aliana
ALIANA
A cold sweat breaks out along the base of my neck as I glance around the closet. My chest starts to compress and breathing becomes shallower, like the air is a thin pool and I can only take miniscule sips.
It actually happened. I actually fucked a ghost. God.
My cheeks burn in shame, and my body feels queasy.
I'm not quite sure if I want to puke or go hide underneath that scratchy unicorn tapestry for the rest of my life.
I don't know how to explain what came over me other than the fact that sheer hopelessness and drunkenness mixed to create a bizarre cocktail that I should never combine again.
I scratch up my forehead and cinch my hair while I gnaw on my upper lip. How does one move forward from a one-night stand with a ghost?
My gaze sneaks around, wondering if the ghost is still here—or if I’ll be ghosted . Ha, my brain is cracked, and I smile at my lame pun even as a tear gathers in the corner of my eye. I don’t know how to follow this situation up—whether I should try to contact him or ignore him completely.
I mull it over as I sort through the pile of clothes and find myself a bra. It’s a bit too small, the tops of my nipples and the upper half of my breasts spill out over the top of it, but it’s better than the chain-link crap I wore in here yesterday, so it stays.
There is no matching set of panties for the simple white bra though, and I’m forced to don fire-engine red panties with scalloped lace edges.
I struggle into some tight black yoga pants that suction onto my every curve and then toss on a tight T-shirt, not because I’m looking to appeal to this fucker who bought me but because if I do get a chance to escape, I don’t want my clothes to get caught on something…
Escape.
Would the ghost—a former human—be able to help me escape?
That thought blows my mind as I try to match my socks, fuzz-balled loners dangling in my hands as my jaw goes slack.
I’m seriously disappointed in myself for the fact it took me this long to think of it. That ghost could be my ally. My ticket out of here.
Suddenly, sex with him is not at all regrettably shameful, and a smile darts across my face. A tiny chuckle erupts from my lips. I could have help.
Wantonly fucking a wine bottle could be my salvation.
I stand up after putting on my boots and spin in a slow circle, eyeing the scattered clothes and the stone walls. “Mr. Ghost?” I err on the side of politeness. “Sir? Are you here?”
There’s no response.
I swallow hard when I realize that maybe the ghost was a woman, not a man, and I just offended her. “Ma’am?” pops out of my lips before I realize that might be insulting. Who calls people they fuck ma’am? Dammit. I don’t get around enough to be smooth at this shit. I’m not like Chase.
The silence feels deafening, or maybe that’s the way my pulse is pounding in my ears.
My stomach clenches and unclenches nervously, the same way it did when I was twelve and was stuck on a mission hunting acorns with George.
Every time he’d gotten close to me, I’d wondered if he was going to kiss me.
And I’d both wanted him to and not wanted anything of the kind.
I have the same feeling now. A ghost could help me so much in this situation—in this bleak, desperate, hopeless world. But did I really want to tie myself to a ghost? What would a ghost want as repayment? More of the same? Or…something more sinister?
If the ghost does help me, I don’t think I’ll have much choice but to pay any price. With the information I’ve got on monsters, getting back to the rebellion now could be so damned helpful that even if I condemn myself to a nightmare…it would be worth it.
Besides, what nightmare could possibly be worse than this?
Sex slave to a monster. A vicious, huge, brutal monster who resembles a gigantic wolfman.
Goose bumps form all along my spine at the thought of him, and my belly tightens.
I try to ignore the way just his mental image brings up such a visceral reaction in me, and I keep my eyes on the clothes.
Yesterday, a shirt sleeve wiggled. I’d thought it was a tooth. But what if it was my ghost friend?
I walk slowly around the closet, staring at every item of clothing without blinking. But none of it moves. No wind blows the door shut.
I exit the closet and look around my room, whispering softly, “Ghost?”
The chandelier is silent and still. The lantern from last night is dying.
Dammit.
I am being ghosted.
I blow out a breath as disappointment trenches a well inside me, making me realize just how much the idea of an ally was boosting my hopes. I force myself to swallow.
Fuck it. The plan hasn’t changed just because ghost men are as inconsiderate as real men—get their rocks off and leave you behind.
Though technically, I don’t think my new little ghost friend got his snake tamed, if you know what I mean.
All of the pleasure that happened last night was solely my own.
I finish putting on a set of mismatched socks and toss on some boots that thankfully, surprisingly, fit. Then I walk over to the lantern and switch it off. I might need the light later.
I plug my nose and force myself to use the “facilities.” After that, I grab Diana and the lantern, looking around the room for anything else that might be useful.
I end up tucking the string used last night into my pocket—I could use it to strangle a monster if I have to.
Maybe. Possibly. Even if I can’t, I’ll sure as fuck try.
It wouldn’t be the first time I had to be creative on a hunt.
I once managed to kill a dirt dweller with nothing but a bag full of rocks.
Then, deciding I’ll improv as I go, I walk over to my door and start pounding on it.
“Water!” I screech. My throat is dry as fuck, but getting a drink is low on my list of current priorities. I slam my fist into the wood as I repeat my plea.
Satisfaction unfurls a red carpet for me when I hear footsteps approaching. Finally. Yes.
I lift Diana, ready to crack her skull against whoever opens that door.
The chain tinkles, and the click of the lock releasing travels through the door. I inhale, tightening my fingers around Diana’s neck.
Filia’s head pokes through the door, and the tiniest bit of regret flashes down my spine.
I swing my hand down as hard as it can go.
The crackling snap of the glass as Diana shatters and the dazed, “Whaaa—” when Filia falls face-first to the stone floor are gratifying in the way insulting Chase used to be.
For the first time since I’ve been taken, I feel powerful. In control. Superior.
I don’t linger though, knowing time can’t be on my side. I quickly set what’s left of Diana on the ground and yank on Filia’s arms, dragging her passed-out ass inside. I shove her into the bathroom. Hopefully, the stench will hide her for a bit.
Inspiration comes to me, and I fumble for her pockets, then retrieve a key that looks like it fits the padlock on my door. Will it do me any good? Maybe not. But it’s better to have more tools than fewer. I shove the key into my right boot.
I wish that Filia carried a gun on her, but nope. Of course not. I do steal the water bottle she was bringing me though, a metal thermos that I can refill once I bust out of here.
Her orange eyelashes start to flutter, so I stand and hurry out of the bathroom.
I bolt across my bedroom, shove open the door, and lean out to spy the lock and chain she set on a table just beside my door.
I snatch them up and run at the speed of light back to the bathroom door.
I run the chain through the handles of both the bathroom and closet doors, then bring the ends together and lock them tight.
I’m not a moment too soon because I hear Filia moan.
Time to book it. I take a quick swig of water to appease my dry mouth before snatching up what’s left of Diana, skirting her sparkling, scattered green remains on the floor, and moving toward the hall.
Glancing in both directions, I realize the hallway is empty.
Since we came from the left yesterday, I decide to go right.
Our path was long and winding last night, and I don’t think I could retrace my steps fast enough in order to find a way out.
I’ve got to hope the end of the hallway is near and there are some windows I can open or break instead.
I tiptoe along as best I can in the dimly lit hallway.
Electricity somehow manages to function in this museum, but lights aren’t what they used to be in pictures.
All light bulbs are old now. Half are burnt out.
The other half are powered by monster magic I know nothing about, but they only glow dimly.
As I walk, I curse my boots. They are leather and at least they don’t weigh ten pounds like some army boots, but the right one does have a bit of a squeak with each step. It’s a challenge not to grind my teeth to smithereens each time I hear that faint sound. If these boots give me away…
Blowing out a breath, I reach the first doorway beyond my own. It’s got the same massive, oversized arched wooden door as my room. I put my ear to it to see if I can hear anyone or anything inside.
I wait for at least twenty heartbeats, painfully aware of how exposed I am in the hall.
I don’t hear anything, so I push down on the metal handle, swinging the door open.
I’m immediately disappointed when I see a twenty-foot long space with no door at the opposite end.
There are windows, but they are all high and angled, designed to provide light, not a means for escape.
The entire space is filled with various sculptures and religious paintings.
I’m about to turn away in disappointment when my gaze lands on a sword across the room that’s a mottled, oxidized green—some ancient relic of religious might.
“Fuck yes. Sorry, Diana,” I whisper as I abandon her on a nearby display of Medieval illustrated texts.
I walk toward the sword as if in a trance. Laid out on a white pedestal, it gleams in the weak light, its poisonous color beckoning to me the way the sword in the stone must have beckoned to King Arthur’s knights in the stories my best friend likes to read.
When I close my hand around the hilt, I breathe out a sigh. This feels like destiny.
“Monster Killer,” I whisper to the sword. “That’s your new name.”
I lift the weapon from the nocked display stand, and the weight of it feels perfect in my hands. Confidence sings through my system. It’s a sign. I’m going to escape—
“What the fuck are you doing?” A snarl tears through the air and my hopes.
My gaze flies up to see the light from the doorway blocked by a huge figure. The Devourer’s red eyes gleam just like the demons in the religious illustrations that surround us. His gaze burns right through me.
I toss aside my lantern and water bottle, ignoring the way they smash and clang as they roll along the cement and bump into other display stands. I raise my sword and take on a fighting stance as I stare up at my arrogant oppressor.
So much for sneaking out. No time for regrets or wishful thinking. Adrenaline surges through my system because my body knows exactly what time it is. It’s time to fight.
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” I mock his tone. “I’m going to gut you like a pig. And then, I’m going to escape.”