Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Sunday night looms over me with a heaviness that feels stifling.
For three nights, I’ve endured the dream of being on the stage with the ghostly women touching but not touching me while Valdemar sits and watches, his words stoking things in me that won’t be doused.
It’s been torment, the lack of physical contact driving me to insanity. I’ve had to take matters into my own hands to relieve the pent-up pressure, and I’ve told myself that I don’t need dreams of Valdemar Montresor to turn me on, but I’m failing miserably, as every time I try to imagine some other man, my thoughts stray to him.
By seven o’clock, I’ve showered and changed into loungewear when my mobile rings with a withheld number.
“Hello?”
“Angel.” His voice travels down the line.
For a second, I contemplate the viability of his gift extending to reading my mind as I grip the handset.
“Valdemar.”
“I apologise for the wait for this phone call, but I only get one a week on Sundays.”
“And you’ve wasted it on me? Wait—how did you get this number?” I ask.
“I have my sources. I don’t have long. I just wanted to see if you’re okay.” The line crackles.
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
He pauses. “After last week? The fight that broke out.”
“I’m fine. Surely you should already know that having seen me every night.”
“Dreams are different. They don’t represent you as you are in real life. If you break your arm in reality, you don’t necessarily have a broken arm in your dreams,” he says.
“Well, I can assure you, I don’t have a broken arm. I’m fine. And speaking of dreams, you need to stop.”
“Stop what?”
“Don’t play games with me,” I say.
“I wouldn’t dare.” There’s a mocking tone to his voice that suggests the opposite.
“But you are. You need to stop visiting me.” I try to sound firm.
“Not going to happen,” he replies.
“Why not?”
“Because until I’m released, it’s the only way I get to see you without a stupid table and three guards between us.”
His words sink in .
“Until I’m released .”
“I can’t wait a week until I see you again, so the dreams are the next best thing,” he says.
“I don’t think I can stand another night of the same dream,” I confess.
“Then do something about it.”
“How?” This comes out strangled.
“You hold the cards, angel. Only you have the power to change the dream.”
Aware of what he’s asking, I close my eyes.
“Look, if you really want me to stop, then I will. It’ll kill me, but I’ll stop if that’s what you want,” he says, defeat behind his words.
Fuck.
Time ticks away. He can’t have much longer on the phone.
“Is it what you want, angel?”
“I don’t know what I want,” I admit.
A voice carries from the background, faint but undeniable. “Come on, Montresor, time to end the call.”
“I think you do, angel.”
He has one phone call. This is it until I see him in the flesh next week. Do I stop the dreams, stop his nocturnal visits, or endure the agony for four more nights until I see him on Thursday?
Static cuts down the line, and for a second, I fear he’s gone.
“Valdemar?”
No reply.
“Valdemar?”
Nothing.
The thought of four nights of insomnia grips at my insides. Four more nights of not seeing him, or four more nights of the ghostly hands touching me without any sensation.
Which of these can I endure?
“You have my consent,” I almost shout.
A buzz sounds in my ear, and I worry I’m too late. Loosening my grip on the phone, I’m about to scream when Valdemar’s voice travels through the speaker and into my core.
“Until tonight, angel.”
Clock-watching is a nasty habit, one I don’t normally have the luxury of, but tonight it’s been my sole focus. Earlier, I’d taken out my laptop and reviewed what I’d written about Valdemar, now knowing his story can never be told—not without endangering him and the other Raven Hands.
Am I cross about his ploy to lure me in with the promise of a big scoop? No. I would never have agreed to meet with him if he told me it was simply to learn the truth about my brother’s death. It would have appeared to me as if he was asking for my forgiveness, trying to assuage the guilt he’s lived with for the past ten years. The only way he was ever going to get me to listen was as a journalist.
But I haven’t listened as a journalist. I’ve listened as Ed’s sister, his twin, his other half. And although I was shocked by what Valdemar told me, it’s also opened my eyes as to why he killed Ed, and it has me wondering if I would have had the strength, the love, to have been the one to pull the trigger.
Slipping under the fresh sheets, I’m hit with the artificial smell of lavender-and-honeysuckle fabric conditioner mingling with the mango body cream I generously slathered on after a long soak in the bath. Changing the bedding had been another way of killing time before I could respectably come to bed—though at nine thirty in the evening, it’s still way too early for me to sleep. But I can’t ignore the anticipation of seeing Valdemar and of what tonight’s dream might hold.
Avoiding an analytical thought about how I feel like a teenager on a first date, I let my head sink into the pillow and wait for sleep and Valdemar to claim me.
The stage is empty, the chairs gone; instead, the hall is brimming with dancers and ablaze with light. Men are partnered with women, women swirl with women, and men embrace men as a symphony of a thousand violins fills the air.
Amongst the glittering ballgowns and sharply cut dress suits, waiters and waitresses weave between the bodies, trays held aloft, their necks extended and arms perfectly aligned, as if they’ve been choreographed.
Candlelight flickers from elaborate candelabras coupled with an impressive chandelier that hovers above. But even in the blazing glow, I can see the emptiness of the dancers, the haze around their edges, and the softness of their silhouettes. Focussing on a blonde woman, I track her as she twirls to a Viennese waltz, her eyes trained on the man leading her steps. It’s as she spins, her blonde curls blurring against the black dress, that I notice the bloodstain on the back of her head.
Looking elsewhere, I clock a man to the right. He’s smiling, his suit pressed to perfection, his back as straight as a ruler. The only thing marring this beautiful scene is the red stain on the white of his shirt.
He’s not alone in this macabre attire.
Blood envelops some of the dancers, while others suffer a broken limb or greying skin, bloodshot eyes, or thinning hair.
They’re dead.
All of them.
This is the dance of the dead.
I’m about to bolt when I spot a flash of black. It’s solid, wholesome, not like the shimmering edges of the deceased.
A shoulder, an arm, the dark hair pulled back in a low bun.
It’s him.
Valdemar is here, and he’s looking for me.
I push my way through the crowd. The dancers continue to churn around me as my flowing silver gown swishes around my legs.
Not taking my eyes off Valdemar, I slide through the throng, wondering how the dead can be so difficult to navigate through.
The tempo builds and the dance along with it, the dancers’ rotations increasing to a dizzying speed until I feel like I’m being twirled around with them, thrown between couples like a lost sock in the washing machine.
Fighting the tide, I try to reach Valdemar, glimpses of him getting more and more infrequent as I fear he’s heading away from me. I try to call out, but it’s as if his name is useless, having no effect at all. Hands reach for me, pale and withered as if the bodies are decaying further with every step they take. My dress catches on something, and I’m forced to take my eyes off Valdemar for the briefest of seconds, but it’s long enough for me to lose him amongst the gaggle of rotting bodies.
Sequins swamp me, empty eye sockets glare at me, and tiaras glisten amidst straggling curls as the dead surround me, roiling and curling like a human whirlpool. And just as I’m about to be swallowed by them, they vanish.
Blackness surrounds me. Nothing but blackness until he walks towards me, his white shirt blaring against the black hole we’re now enveloped in, his skin glowing compared to the dead who were just here.
Taking my hand, he kisses the back of it.
“I thought you weren’t going to find me.”
“I will always find you, angel.” His eyes smoulder, his touch soft. “Shall we?” When he extends his other arm, the ballroom reappears, empty and inviting.
He holds me like a professional dancer, and the violins return. The room spins as we take flight across the polished floor, Valdemar’s swift moves and strong hold ensuring I never miss a step.
It’s blissful abandon, sheer frivolity as we cover the entire ballroom until the music slows, and our embrace tightens before he sweeps me up into his arms and carries me over to the abandoned stage, the orchestra having vanished.
Setting me down on the edge, Valdemar stares at me. “Angel.” Pushing my hair off my shoulders, his fingers graze my skin and send a pack of wolves howling through my body. “So beautiful. I wanted to tell you that on the first day I met you.”
“Then why didn’t you?”
He smiles. “Because you wouldn’t have believed me.” Taking a step closer, he buries his face in the crook of my neck, his arms encircling me like my favourite blanket. “You are more beautiful than the moon and the stars.”
Moving my head back to let Valdemar nuzzle my neck, I catch the glimmer above us. The ceiling of the ballroom has melted away and left us with an unobstructed view of the clear night sky. Stars dazzle, blinking in unison, watching us from their perfect vantage point.
I keep my eyes on the stars as Valdemar steps back and runs his hands under my dress and up my legs.
“It was torture, listening to you beg me to touch you, knowing those women were doing my job. It’s a good thing they were already dead.”
The magnitude of his words means nothing as his hands travel higher.
“You are mine, angel. You’ve always been mine.”
The stars spin as he reaches between my legs and strokes me softly.
“Valdemar.”
Clinging to the back of his neck, I push myself against his hand. The last few nights, I’ve been shaken like a fizzy drink, the pressure having mounted to a dangerous level. Valdemar is about to make me explode, so I tighten my grip and hope I can make this last as long as possible.
“Look at me,” he commands.
My eyes rise to his, and I swear I see stars glinting behind the darkness of his pupils. How easy it would be to get lost in his eyes. How easy it would be to become lost in him.
But I don’t feel lost.
I feel found.
Circling my tender spot with his thumb, he slides two fingers inside me, and the stars in his eyes dance as I moan.
This is bliss. Pure bliss.
I want to lie back, but I don’t want to lose this closeness, the glint in his eyes as he watches me come undone. This is the first time I’ve been able to see his face when he’s made me come, and I can’t ignore how intimate it feels to be locked in his gaze, this private moment shared by only us.
“Hold on, angel.”
I interlock my fingers, my lips parting as my orgasm mounts, the overwhelming feeling of it about to wash through my body and shake me to my core. He knows I’m near, has done this enough times now to know my body, my little telltale noises, my facial expressions. No one has ever made me feel like this. No one has ever paid me this much attention. No one has ever touched me the way he does.
With a knowing smile, he slips one more finger in, and I’m undone, the stars exploding above me as I press my forehead to his, my body shuddering beneath his touch.
“Valdemar.”
He pushes my hair from my face and stares at me intensely as pleasure courses through my body like a dam has burst.
“I didn’t think you could be any more beautiful, but the sight of you coming for me is sublime.”
Waves crash around me. My body trembles against his. Tears swell at the corners of my eyes.
Cupping my head in his hands, he tips it upwards.
“Angel?” Concern morphs his face as he wipes a tear away with his thumb. “What is it?”
“This isn’t real. None of this is real.”
It’s as if I’ve been submerged underwater for the last hour as I heave the night air into my lungs. The sheets have been thrown off the bed, and Valdemar’s T-shirt has ridden up to my waist, but there’s no evidence of him here.
I’m alone. Like always.
It’s just a dream.
Always a dream.
And what breaks me more than anything is that it will always remain a dream. How could I let a man like him get close to me in real life? And why would I want to? Because he listens to me? Because he’s the only living human with whom I can be myself, who knows what I am and what I can do? Or is it because he makes me feel alive even though I’m surrounded by the dead?
But I shouldn’t be feeling these things for him. He’s a monster. A murderer. At what point did I forget what he is?
Wiping my face with the back of my hand, I realise that my tears are the only thing that is real.