Chapter 17
A few hours later her head hurt like a bitch, possibly from low blood sugar since she couldn’t eat, too busy worrying about this fucked-up situation.
If Bea considered everything he said a goddamn lie, she wouldn’t have to worry about changing into a monster, just about getting killed as soon as she put a foot wrong.
Right?
Attempting to think about something productive took concerted, heavy effort. Trying to piss him off didn’t work, and God alone knew what he’d do to her next.
Either way, it will be pleasant. The way he just said stuff like that, with utter certainty.
If he was really telling the truth about everything...but no. Attempting to consider that notion caused a deep unsteady feeling somewhere in the middle of her bones, as if the world was about to shred itself to pieces, starting with her own body.
There was nothing about ‘lemans’ in any occult research she’d done or seen. Sure, witches were accused of fucking the Devil but it wasn’t the same thing—was it? And the Brides of Dracula stuff was a relatively modern pop culture invention.
Of course, plenty of legends about goblins and alien abductions seemed to overlap awfully well with the little green henchmen, and word was any type of bloodsucker could get all sorts of critters to do their bidding.
Someone out there probably believed bloodsuckers overlapped with extraterrestrials, too.
Imagine being able to answer that definitively, right from the source. She could open up whole new vistas in folklore studies, she could go on all the underground podcasts. Don would be avid to hear any details of the Chicago stuff she could dig out of the monster.
If she survived. If she escaped. If Don was okay; the monster hadn’t mentioned him. Hope was a torment all its own.
Then there was the brand new toothbrush, set opposite the soap-divot on the ‘saferoom’s’ pedestal sink.
A high-end natural tooth-scrubber, still in recyclable packaging.
How the hell had he done that? Texting someone when she fled to the master bathroom and hyperventilated, running the sink faucet to cover the sound?
She wouldn’t put it past him, and it was a far better explanation than FM—Fucking Magic, as Don and Jared christened some of the weird stuff they so avidly researched.
Bea had been the skeptical voice of reason all through childhood, her teenage years, and pretty much until the night she peered through a filthy stable window.
Now she knew better. Still, it was probably best to attribute whatever she could to regular, normal causes.
She was already crazy enough.
The monster’s employees—or human henchpeople, maybe that was a better term—probably hated her causing them more work and trouble. How big a hold did he have on them? They didn’t seem like soulless zombies completely dedicated to helping with evil hijinks. Mrs. Martinez was really nice, in fact.
I will return before dawn. I can make you rest until then, or…
He hadn’t bothered to threaten. No, he just gave her the options, with a smile saying he didn’t mind either way—an almost human expression, tilting his head and studying her intently.
Like a reasonably confident guy in a bar, shooting his shot; at the costume party, she would have assumed he was flirting.
Can we talk about getting fucked by a monster? Are we allowed to even think about that? Because if we are…
“Jesus.” Her voice broke the hush; Bea flinched, and couldn’t even feel ridiculous. “I’m using the royal we.”
She wandered to the saferoom’s door. She couldn’t even tell if it was locked, for God’s sake. The way he moved…
If she turned into a bloodsucker would she be that scary-fast, that casually strong? Maybe able to tear down human interior construction? Or did he have his houses built vampire-proof?
The strangest thing was a semitransparent sheet of resistance extending inward about six inches from said door.
The curtain became almost-visible as she approached, like a force-field special effect in an old sci-fi movie, and rippled into solidity when she gave it a good old-fashioned donkey kick, suddenly solid as a brick wall.
Other than that, it yielded with increasing reluctance to slower pressure, causing a prickling up and down her arms like sunshine on already-burned skin.
That was fucking weird, and no natural explanation for it either.
At least she wasn’t trapped wearing only a slip. Terror was a lot easier to take in pajamas. Of course, what she wouldn’t give for jeans, boots, a sweater and parka, why not some gloves as well? Plus the cherry on top, a way out of this house.
But then what?
He’d let slip that his security had noticed her before the party, so maybe they’d been watching Don too—depending on how paranoid ‘Chris Everly’ was. Clearly the stake hadn’t put him down for long.
Imagine, if he’d woken up while you were on the roof. She couldn’t; her brain, usually so wildly hyper, completely refused to run that particular scenario.
“Okay, review.” She tried to treat it like a weird story she was picking apart with Don.
“Original name Lukas if he’s not lying. Alive for a lot longer than we thought, if he’s not lying.
” Akkad, the monster had said, and digging that name out of half-forgotten history reading had taken her a few seconds.
“Maybe listening to this if the room’s wired for sound, fine, oh well.
Had security following me before the party, maybe, if he’s not lying.
But found out my name...not so strange, since I mentioned Jared.
” Hopefully, if room was bugged or camera’d, they would think she was crazy, muttering to herself.
Who wouldn’t, under these circumstances?
“Says he didn’t kill Jared.” Again, if he’s not lying.
There had just so happened to be a hole in the hayloft roof, as a matter of fact.
Pointing eastward, so far as she could remember.
Getting it patched was a Jared Project put on indefinite hold when the freaky shit started—the misshapen tracks in the mud, the rocks thrown from the woods, Snowball’s barking and growling when the ear-whine started at irregular intervals, the greasy yellow mist at the edge of the yard where undergrowth began.
Squishing and rattling at the windows late at night.
The time she’d walked up to the mailbox after dark and could have sworn she was followed back to the house by wet, splorching footsteps.
None of that really seemed ol’ Chris Everly’s style.
Or Lukas, or whoever the hell he was. He’d probably honestly believed throwing money at Jared would make her brother fold, and if not, showing up in all his monster glory and applying invisible pressure might do it.
Christ knew she might have told Jare to sell after meeting the guy—if he’d been wearing the affable, smiling face from the party.
Bea had spent a lot of time wondering about the conversation between her enemy and her brother before the murder; now she could almost believe none had happened. Unless the monster was playing a part with her too, like switching between Everly and Andranov.
He was a third person when alone with her, an unpredictable fucking hurricane—literally. A chameleon with fangs. Each version of him looked slightly different, moved differently, spoke just a little differently as well.
Which sounded exhausting. When he didn’t have anyone to perform for, did he just sit and stare?
He’s out ‘hunting’. You caught that, didn’t you?
Christ, she wished she hadn’t. Did he treat all his victims like this? If he was busy sucking her blood, why was he out topping up with more? Was he looking to replace her as soon as she bored him? That bullshit about lemons and rarity and not hurting her…
Bea discovered she had drifted back into the bathroom, staring at the neatly packaged toothbrush. Her fingers wrapped over the sink’s cold porcelain rim, squeezing hard.
Did she imagine the faint creaking? Was it her bones, or the ceramic? And she realized two things, catching a stray motion in the mirror flush to the wall, probably safety glass. She could find a way to test that later.
First, she was rocking back and forth, her mouth moving slightly as her thoughts raced.
And, second, the lights weren’t on. It was pitch-black down here.
Yet she could see—dim suggestions of shapes, sure, but way more than she should be able to.
She’d seen the shimmer-curtain in front of the door, too.
Were there divots in the sink’s rim? She ran her fingertips along the edge, and when she remembered there was a light switch she almost laughed. Thin, crazy giggles, boiling in her dry throat.
The lights flicked on when she flipped the switch, decorative frosted bulbs bursting into life. Her eyes stung, watering hard; she couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe there were small cracks at the sink’s edge.
Okay. What now? There was no shelf for the white towels, piled on the sunken bathtub’s margins. But maybe she could tear up some of the plumbing, give herself a weapon?
He shook off the stake and turned a poker into a pretzel. You’re gonna need a tank, Bea. And maybe a grenade launcher as well.
A metallic rattle brought her out of the bathroom, her heart deciding to leap up and block her windpipe once more. The sound, weirdly muffled but definite, came from the door to the stairs—and the rest of the house.
He’d said before dawn, had she wasted all night swaying in front of a mirror talking to herself? Or had he lied? Gone out ‘hunting’, maybe he’d gotten what he needed?
Oh, my God.
The faint sound continued, and with the bathroom lights burning the larger, just as empty room was full of soft shadows. The huge iron bed sat smugly in the center, a tiny green wink near its foot—the necklace, tossed there because if the monster wasn’t lying about how it was made…