Chapter 9 #2
Oh, God. No need to swear, in fact. The crimson dots were indubitably real, waxing and waning as he regarded her.
The monster turned his head slightly, dropping his chin. He wore yet another grey suit, but this jacket was torn to ribbons and his trousers soaked to the knee with something viscous-dark.
“Sir?” A voice from behind him, a pleasant tenor.
Bea’s heart leapt with sudden, frantic hope—another human, maybe capable of helping—but the yell died in her dry, scraped-raw throat.
There might not be any point; this stranger sounded like the big mustachio’d bodyguard who ran some part of ‘Everly’s’ security apparatus, the one who liked to wear bowler hats. “I believe they’re gone.”
“Clear the building and leave.” The monster did not deign to truly look at whoever it was, simply continued issuing orders.
“Wind down the business concerns, torch the Everly and Jamison identities, make sure Comptain is also thoroughly gone, since I am rather uneasy about current events. Ready Andranov and Caine for use, prepare a matching set of alternates for my lady. Use whatever bolthole seems best for tonight; I shall meet you tomorrow at the lair upon the north hills.”
Everly. Jamison. Comptain. She knew about Everly, and Comptain was the name she and Don guessed the monster had used as late as 1905, still occasionally mentioned about on podcasts and niche radio shows dedicated to the unsolved mysteries of Chicago.
Hearing it was like being pinched in a sensitive spot, and she couldn’t even feel good about their theories being correct. Jamison must be similar. How many names did he have?
Another little detail: lair on the north hills. If she escaped this, maybe digging through more public records would—but that was stupid. There was nowhere to go, she was even more fish-in-a-barrel than under the bed.
Still, she had the knife.
“Yes, sir.” Nothing else, just a dead silence and a shadow passing behind him before the faint whoosh of a fire door’s controlled closing, a final deadly click.
Oh, sure, that guy can use the stairs. He’s a henchman too, I bet, or five of them stacked under a bowler hat.
The monster stared at her, his sandy head cocked, and his hands—broad, capable, with blunt square nails—hanging at his sides.
The goo on his shins dripped from trouser hems; his shoes weren’t shiny any longer.
His lower lip relaxed, showing two tiny divots where the longest fangs just touched the skin, almost worse than the red pinpricks.
Almost.
Do it fast, Bebe. Jare’s voice in her head sounded tired. Auditory hallucination or actual ghost, she’d find out in a few minutes at most.
Her arm bent. The knife’s sharp, cold tip pressed cold against her own throat. The monster tensed, his shoulders swelling under strips of grey wool. He leaned forward, his toes still just at the elevator’s verge.
Does he need an invitation to come in? That would be hilarious. “I’ll do it,” Bea said, amazed at how normal she sounded. Husky, as if coming down with a cold...but matter-of-fact, determined. “Believe me, I will do it.”
“I cannot fault you for attempting escape, with the greiben so insistent.” Every word edged, the monster enunciating carefully. Maybe because of the fangs, they had to be sharp. “But I warned you about self-harm, Beatrice.”
Hearing her first name was a nasty shock even if he accented it all weird, bay-ah-tree-cheh, very Italian. Had he been pretending not to know? She flinched, and the knifepoint jabbed hard against her pulse.
One little push. It wasn’t so difficult, all she had to do was make up her mind.
A thin hot fingernail traced down her neck. See? Just rip the bandaid off, Bebe. Her arm tightened.
The monster might even go for the blood like Snowball after a piece of dropped Havarti, and wouldn’t that be laughable as well?
Hilarious. You’re a very funny girl. “See you in hell,” she said, and stabbed.
Or tried to, because there was another of those skipping timestream-stutters, this time followed by a metallic clatter as the knife went flying.
Her blanket-toga was ripped clean away, cloth shearing neatly.
The monster hissed, a sharp indrawn breath, and her head lolled drunkenly as fangs pierced, driving deep.
Go ahead. Juicebox me, I don’t care.
Her shoulder rubbed hard against slick cold mirror, metal dragging briefly past her hip—the brass rail, useless because she was lifted, pressed against the wall.
The elevator rocked; Bea let out a surprised little cry as her knees were pushed apart.
Heavy warmth spread from her throat; for a moment she thought it was arterial spray and all her problems were over.
The monster growled again, biting down. It hadn’t hurt the first time; now the sensation was doubly odd, spreading warmth, the rest of her body just plain refusing to work. Her arms were stretched overhead again—he has a real thing for that, she thought, with slow, dazed amazement.
Rough, scorching fingertips slid up the inside of her left thigh. She realized he wasn’t going to stop just as they found what they sought, tender flesh parting.
Her lungs wouldn’t work. Tiny helpless sounds echoed against glass, mixing with a low insistent noise—the stop-elevator alarm, she realized, amazed her ears were still on the job.
She was floating just outside herself, hearing a series of strengthless moans, and figured out it was her own voice just before he shifted, fingers withdrawing.
Another faint sound, a tiny shhhip of zipper, and dear God, he was working on his pants with one hand while holding her against the elevator wall, pinning her wrists more firmly.
The pressure at her throat retreated, sharp intrusions sliding free of yielding flesh. Fire spread as his tongue moved, caressing the wounds, flicking a sweat-damp hollow. An insistent, scorching probe between her numb legs; her back arched, a last useless resistance.
Hot, hard, undeniable, the monster thrust into her. Bea tried to scream again, but his mouth was over hers, a narcotic sweetness filling tongue and throat. He growled again, a low chest-rattling sound, and surged forward a second time, then a third.