Chapter 21
twenty-one
Sophie lay on her side, staring at the mutated rectangle of streetlamp light reflected against a blank white wall. The house was full of different smells—caramelized onions and steak, musk and warmth. It took so little to make a place into a home.
Or a trap.
She closed her eyes. The Hammerheath mansion rose behind her eyelids—granite-floored kitchen, God help you if you dropped an egg.
The marble foyer. The receiving room and parlor, the sweeping grand staircase.
The master bedroom with the huge oak bedstead she’d retreated to with increasing frequency, after Marc beat her so bad she couldn’t stand.
The maids, gliding on noiseless slippers—arriving at dawn and going home every midafternoon, so as soon as the prying eyes were safely away Marc could come home and find fault with everything Sophie had done during the day.
The landscapers constantly clipping, mowing, watering, spreading bark over the parklike estate.
The parties, worrying over the caterers, seeking desperately to avoid Marc’s drunken fists afterward. The sense of being in a pressure cooker, heat rising and tension building, each moment a potential land mine waiting to go off.
Those goddamn copper pans hanging over the kitchen island, buzzing and rubbing against each other, sounding just like a lazy rattlesnake.
I’ll bet you’ve always heard weird things, seen things out of the corner of your eye. You were a daydreamer when you were a kid, right?
That didn’t prove anything. But the vampires did. And what about the faces in the mist—and the crackling that went through Zach’s family before they changed into lean graceful figures, nothing like werewolves in the movies. No matter how good the special effects were.
She sighed, turned over, rested her head on her arm. She hadn’t wanted to use someone else’s pillow, though Zach probably would’ve found one for her. He’d watched her all evening, quiet save when Julia got a little too rowdy and needed reining. Dark eyes, his gaze nailed to every move Sophie made.
Not like Marc’s—assessing, judging, weighing. No, Zach stared at her like he was hungry, but too mannerly to insist on eating. Just like a stray cat, careful not to wear out his welcome.
Though she didn’t think of cats when she smelled them. That musk, for one thing.
I wonder what Carcajou means? He never said.
Did it matter?
Someone was right outside her door. She’d heard him settle down about a half-hour after retreating to this room—the master bedroom upstairs, with its own bath.
The shaman’s room.
They really wanted to please her. Even Julia, who kept shooting sly little glances. Checking to make sure Sophie was watching, just like a kid.
Julia wasn’t afraid of Zach at all. Each time she got a little overexcited, the “alpha” would corral her. The interactions never escalated, and that was so strange to witness.
The someone shifted right outside her door, a low subtle whisper of sound.
Oh, let’s be honest, we know it’s him.
She was helpless to stop imagining Zach leaning against the jamb, or maybe sitting with his long legs across the hall, that one stubborn curl falling across his forehead. Was he standing guard, or making sure she wasn’t going to escape?
Her back ached dully. The scab on her hand throbbed, though it had swiftly closed, healing far more rapidly than it should.
She had the peculiar head-stuffed feeling of having spent all day tramping around in frozen, drizzling sleet, following Zach’s broad back.
The side of her face was still a bit tender.
Her eyes drifted closed, which meant the faces drew closer. The reedy cricket-noise was far away, but definitely louder than it had been.
He tasted like wildness. Like pure sugared heat on a summer night.
That was the thought she’d been avoiding. Sophie almost groaned, pulled the blankets—all smelling of musk and detergent—up a little farther. She was deeply, exquisitely exhausted, so why couldn’t she sleep?
Because something was bothering her.
Why would Marc sacrifice her? He didn’t care if she lived or died, right? That was what divorce meant. Still, there were the precautions she’d taken, because he was damn near unstoppable when he decided he wanted something.
He was quite capable of killing her, if enraged enough. She knew that now. Not just accidentally strangling her or drowning her in a fit of rage, but planning and lying in wait and striking.
Like a snake, though animals weren’t cruel. Only hungry.
But why on earth would he also want Lucy dead? Unless it was pure revenge. He had to have suspected Luce helped her escape. But Sophie had been so careful, planned for every eventuality to cover their tracks….
Still, he wasn’t stupid. He had to have guessed, especially since Luce had showed up in the courtroom. Lucy was the only friend she had. Other than all the old-money wives, but none of those were in the least friendly.
And Delia Armitage, iron-haired but oddly unlined, which wasn’t strange because she could afford the best facials in town.
Always turned out beautifully in sober designer originals, mostly in black-and-white—pretentious, sure, but also supremely fashionable.
Always watching, queen of the social scene, her beady little eyes often fixed on Sophie.
That was one thing she didn’t miss—all those eyes, watching and weighing and judging.
But Zach was something different. She could still feel his hands on her, calluses rasping against her skin. A gentle touch, as if caressing something precious, soft reverent fingers instead of hard biting knuckles.
Will you stop, Sophie?
The cricket-voices got louder. She pushed them away, the maneuver easier with a warm lump of food in her belly.
Finally, a meal that wasn’t all industrial grease.
Julia was a good cook, if impatient. And Sophie had obsessed over every meal even before the last chef was fired for burning Marc’s potatoes.
Between the two of them, everything had turned out fine.
She was warm enough, and so very tired. Every inch of her was weighed down with soft downy fatigue.
The streetlamp outside faded a bit. Maybe her eyes were playing tricks. Her lids drifted closed, and when they lifted heavily some while later, the room was much darker.
A faint brush of moving fabric. Zach, shifting outside her door. The cricket-buzzing voices rose, then fell away as she concentrated on making them shut up so she could get some rest. It was like a radio playing softly in a nearby room, just loud enough you couldn’t simply tune out.
And highly, highly annoying.
The rectangle of light on the wall blinked, fuzzed. The sense of someone breathing outside her door leached away, the hall floor squeaking slightly. There were other quick little sounds, too, as if others had gotten up.
What’s going on? She rolled over again, irritated, and arranged her head on a bent arm once more. God, can’t I just sleep? Please?
The room darkened. The wind picked up outside, sleet rattling against the roof, and a bitter taste invaded her tongue. Maybe it was indigestion.
But it tasted like dirt. Something ugly, rotting, and covered with grimy slime.
She pushed herself up on her hands, her left palm—despite seemingly happy to heal up quickly—sending a bolt of red pain up her arm. Ow. I hope that’s not getting infected, that would just cap the whole damn—
The window exploded inward, glass raining down. Sophie cried out, curling up, arms reflexively raising to protect her head. A staticky half-breath sense of thunderstorm building, the hair-lifting moment before the first lightning strike.
They poured into the room, a tide of jerking, leaping, half-seen shapes.
There wasn’t even time to scream before they were on her, cold hands gripping like iron vises, their eyes dripping bleeding hellfire, a tidal wave of rank foulness.
Blankets tangled around her like a shroud before she thrashed, striking out with hands and feet, realizing she was, after all, screaming.
The last things she heard were crashing howls and Zach yelling her name before darkness closed over her head.
* * *
Utterly black, and it felt like a very, very small space. Flat hard floor—cold, probably concrete. Something was dripping, and there was an odd jumble of sounds—screeching, clicking, tearing noises like thick dark meat pulled from recalcitrant bone.
“That’s just fine,” a woman said, and Sophie recognized the voice just as she realized she was tied up. Thick coils of rope cocooned her body. “We’ll make an example.”
What the hell? The last she knew, she’d been in bed—no, the window had broken.
And now…
“She’s my sacrifice,” Marc said petulantly.
She’d know that voice anywhere; her heart fell before leaping to block her throat.
It was odd, though—it sounded as if he had something in his mouth. Her ex-husband lisped over the sibilants, and Sophie had a sudden, horrible vision of yellowed, malformed fangs, long and sharp, affecting the way the tongue moved.
It was so dark. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed; she only listen. No, that wasn’t quite right.
The ghostly faces were visible, not quite glowing with their own light. They pressed close, and the cricket-sound as their lips moved had a hard time getting through all the squealing and ripping, the thumping, and the wet dripping.
“She’ll suffer later. We’re going to send a little message to those animals.
That’s enough, children.” Delia Armitage sounded normal, at least. Except for the cold, suppressed glee in her tone, as if gossiping over a table at a charity dinner.
Sophie had heard that particular tone many times, usually just before someone’s reputation was stained. “Be mannerly, now.”
Sophie blinked, tried to move, strained to see. It smelled so horrible, spoiled meat and a queer brassy tinge, the reek clogging her nose, sending icy shivers down her aching back. The crunching and slurping tapered away; in the pregnant pause afterward the reedy cricket-sounds grew clearer.
They almost, almost became real words. The ghost-faces pressed close, some contorted with worry. Others looked painfully sad; no few of them had sharp teeth, bright and regular like Zach and his family when they went werewolf. Carcajou, that was the word.
Zach. Had they hurt him?
Another question rose, foggy at first through the various noises competing for her attention. Why didn’t they kill me? I thought that was what they wanted, right?
She was already dead so far as the newspapers were concerned. Logic dictated that Marc had something bad in store for her. Really bad, not just a shot to the kidneys or a bloody nose, or the sudden blow to her stomach that made her lose all her air, or—
Oh, God. Did they kill Zach? Or the others?
The ghost-faces crowded close. They whispered to each other, the cricket-buzz rising.
Or maybe it was the sounds of movement just outside her prison growing fainter.
“Come along, children,” Delia’s voice was still clear. She was close, and a sudden mental image of the woman making a little shooing motion intruded, vivid inside Sophie’s skull. “You too, Harris.”
Like she’s hurrying the caterers at an event. Bleak hilarity clotted in Sophie’s throat, screamy laughter just this side of screaming.
She pushed it down, a sharp almost-physical effort. Making a peep now was definitely a bad idea.
“What if she’s awake?” Marc, petulant again, with the edge of bafflement that meant he hadn’t gotten something he wanted. The edge that used to make Sophie’s mouth dry and her heart pound.
He sounded so petty. So spoiled. Had he always? Nobody else seemed to see what he was. How many times had she been complimented on her husband? You’re so lucky to have him.
“Leave the little mouse in the dark, we’ll deal with her soon enough.” Delia laughed, a giggling little titter like razors drawn through broken glass.
There was one final wet sound, a hungry little moan, and Sophie had another sudden, vivid mental image of Delia, her eyes no longer dark and cold as leftover coffee but bright with liquid crimson.
She was pulling Marc’s blond head down, her pale pink pointed tongue sliding snakelike into his mouth, and the heavy smacking of a deep, violent kiss echoed in the confined space.
The vision included a single dim bulb, hanging from a cord over them.
The walls were splashed with thick black gleaming liquid, and the light flickered out as Sophie tried to shake her head.
An unwelcome hallucination—or was it real? Either way, it vanished.
Sophie’s head dropped, her temple hitting the concrete floor as if she’d been punched, bright spangled stars threading through the wall of foggy faces pressing close, closer, closer to her.
Silence, now, except for the cricketsong. It almost made words.
Hot tears filled Sophie’s blind, staring eyes. Oh, God. All I wanted was a night out. She wriggled, testing the ropes. Nothing. No give.
As if she’d know how to escape this, anyway.
The ghosts—spirits, majir, whatever they were—drew closer.
They brushed her with spectral fingers, singing like soft-rushing wind and water now.
Each touch insubstantial as smoke, yet leaving a strange sort of calm in its wake.
They ruffled her hair, brushed her wet cheeks, drew the pain out of her fingers, attempted to soothe the burning in her legs.
One drifted closer—a girl’s face, wide shadowy eyes full of terrible knowledge, her small mouth moving soundlessly.
I’m going crazy. Sophie lay still, petrified, and wished the darkness would take her again.