Chapter 23
She didn’t stub her toe kicking the door, at least there was that. But Bea hadn’t known he could just vanish, right out of a locked basement—a nasty surprise, one that sent her stumbling backward while the force-field thingie shimmered into being.
If she hadn’t been so shocked, she might not have noticed how the walls developed a thin layer of the same weird almost-visible field, sinking in and going quiescent as she stared. Or maybe her eyes had gotten better?
He was gone, she was locked up again. And though she hadn’t expected him to suddenly listen to reason just because she’d semi-willingly fucked him, it was still a crashing disappointment.
He explained some stuff, and you got a peek at some pictures plus some new terminology. Look at the victories, Bebe. Jare’s voice, with that note of forced optimism he’d used a lot right after Mom’s passing in hospice. Though the crime scene stuff was kind of gruesome. Maybe he really didn’t…
“Shut up,” she hissed. Talking to herself again, in record time.
At least she wasn’t in pajamas. The sneakers were an absolute bonus.
She’d been afraid he would notice she wasn’t practically barefoot, afraid he would know she was lying—getting through a window while that Wren guy sat outside a door had crossed her mind more than once while she promised to be good—and terrified he would rip her clothes off again.
All in all, she could count this as a qualified win.
Plus she could dig the goddamn necklace from a back pocket—she hadn’t wanted it attached to her throat, but it was even more uncomfortable pressing into her right ass-cheek.
And really, she only had Lukas’s word about it being made from a dead green hench-thing.
Were they still henchmen if they didn’t work for him?
The photos in the file folder weren’t really the worst she’d ever seen—Don was fully tapped into the thriving trade of weird pictures claiming to be Sasquatch encounters, strange murders, and celebrity deaths with a tinge of occultism, plus she had obsessively studied Jared’s autopsy and the sight of his body in the stable never really left her.
She could have gone through the other folders. Lukas hadn’t seemed inclined to stop her, but maybe it was a show. How hard would he work to gaslight her? If the pictures were fake, it was a lot of effort getting the Wren guy to put together a propaganda package.
Why would such a powerful monster bother?
Bea studied the shimmer over the door, drawing the necklace out. Warm from her pocket, it settled over the sweater; she still didn’t want it next to her skin.
Don’t worry about what to believe right now. You have some time alone, use it.
The air was still, close, utterly dead. Now she couldn’t hear the other humans in the house again, which might be the invisible field or just regular old soundproofing.
Her vision and hearing were indeed more acute, her sense of smell not far behind, but plenty of the bigger questions remained.
Bea studied the force-field, running fingertips ever so lightly over its near-invisible border.
It gave like warm prickling taffy, unless she pushed hard. Then it hardened right back, nearly throwing her hand away, and the prickles became intense. Which was...interesting.
Finally, she headed for the iron four-poster, and grabbed one of the pillars. Someone had been down to remake the bed; she caught a faint warm scent which translated into a mental picture of Mrs. Martinez, wavering under a far stronger drench of fabric softener.
Wonder what she thinks of her boss ripping up clothes all the time. Bea set her heels and pulled, not expecting much.
Metal made a low, unhappy sound of strain. Bea snatched her hands away. Deep divots were left behind, and the iron post now slanted drunkenly.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. So this was what monster blood did. She tested her teeth again, running her tongue delicately over familiar edges—they didn’t seem any sharper.
If she could get away before the fangs, would she be okay? Folklore said killing the head bloodsucker before an infected person got a taste of human blood was the cure, and it would certainly be a lot easier if she was strong enough to bend metal.
Still, he was bound to be stronger yet, and knew how to use what he had.
Bea needed practice, a way to test her new abilities, and there was only so much she could do while locked up.
Though the room was pretty big, enough to dance in if she felt the need.
And then there was that whole thing about him being the only one allowed to ‘feed’ her, which sort of argued against the dividing event between monster and whatever she was now—
Rattlerattle. The sound was faraway, deeply muffled but almost familiar.
Bea whirled, suddenly afraid she’d lost track of time and had just stood staring for hours, or that the monster had been testing her compliance and would now set about another part of his plan, which might or might not include tearing her clothes off.
Or getting her high on his blood again. A sleepy tickle touched the back of her throat; she could almost taste the thick sweetness, the ever-changing impression of favorite or craved foods.
Rattle. Rattlescrape.
It was the locks on the door, she realized. Should she try to unbend the bedpost, cover up any evidence? Bea watched, her heart lodged firmly in her throat; at least the fear made that terrible little tickle retreat.
Scrape. Rattlerattle. Scrape. The sounds were so faint she almost doubted her ears—but the doorknob twitched fractionally, a tiny mouse-movement.
Bea waited. Trap. It’s gotta be a trap, that’s what it was last time. Right?
But if it wasn’t, if she was stronger and faster now…it might be worth the attempt. If he was waiting on the stairs to catch her, what was the worst that could happen?
Well, he’ll either kill you or fuck you, or make you drink more blood. Are those consequences you can live with?
Bea sidled toward the door, hardly noticing her sneakers made no noise at all. The necklace warmed, a change apparent even through her sweater—did this mean the little green bastards were outside looking for her? If they were, what had happened to all the people, the ‘staff’?
Please don’t let them all be dead.
The door rattled a final time, somewhat definitively. The knob kept twitching, and the scraping sound was someone pushing.
It’s unlocked. But the invisible stuff is holding it closed. She tried to focus on every clue he’d given about the force-field, backing up nervously in case the little green men came boiling through. The hinges were on this side since the door opened inward, maybe she could work on those?
Finally, after a long nerve-stretching quiet, she edged closer, laid her palms against the invisible wall once more. Once more the prickling threatened when she pushed too hard.
But if she was slow, and patient, maybe something was possible.
Sure, superstrength and speed were handy to have. But tiny, incremental efforts were more often than not surprisingly effective. If he was waiting outside, at a certain point he might make it easier just to draw her out, and then he’d have a reason to do what he wanted.
Just like a man.
Bea pushed, very gently. The prickles intensified, quickly mounting to the threshold of actual pain.
But they didn’t get worse. The sensation seemed to top out, and the shimmer wobbled unhappily.
Her hand closed over the doorknob; a burst of wild, terrible hope inside her chest made a small whining noise slip between clenched teeth.
A slow, slow turn, fighting invisible recalcitrance.
The prickles still didn’t get worse; the necklace was a hot coal glued to her chest.
The knob wouldn’t move any further. Setting her sneakered heels again, Bea leaned back, easing the slab of wood free of its socket. Hinges rasped, metal grinding; half-inch by grueling, painful half-inch the door swung inward.
Holy shit.
Her hand left the invisible field’s border six inches inside, and the relief was so intense she almost lost her grip on the still-resisting door.
The wooden rectangle fought her, trembling as its inner edge hit the border of the invisible field; she had to not only ease it through resistance at that slow, steady pace but also force it to obey, the pressure calibrated just right.
Beyond lay a short landing and the stairs going up, sunk in near-absolute darkness despite the empty archway at the top holding a faint tinge of electric light.
When she pushed a sneakered foot into the field, the prickles intensified. Bea strangled a gasp, listening intently as she worked her leg into the shimmer. Sure, it felt awful, but it didn’t seem to do any actual damage.
Which might change if he came back and found her like this, trapped like a fly in sticky paper.
Fuck it. Bea leaned into the invisible field, turning in slow motion, and began easing herself into the tense, resisting gap.
* * *
The worst moment wasn’t holding her breath until soft black splotch-patterns bloomed at the edge of her vision, nor was it the sudden cessation of resistance after a terrible, squeezing crunch at what had to be the midpoint of the ‘seals’.
It wasn’t popping free and spilling onto the stairs, her body twitching and suddenly halfway up the long flight, nearly overbalancing, her shoulder clipping the wall hard enough to send a hot jolt down her entire right side.
Nor was the worst a sudden flood of sound assailing her ears, the volume turned down with a reflex she hadn’t known she possessed, or the necklace suddenly cooling as it lay against her sweater, sending a venomous green glitter into the dimness.
The worst was hearing heartbeats at the top of the stairs—two of them, both popping along quickly as her own—and fighting the urge to dive back into her prison, hoping nobody had noticed. If he caught her…
But the pulses weren’t Lukas’s slow, somehow more intense beat. Mortal death is a process, not a terminus.
He could put that on a T-shirt, make some pocket money. Bea pushed herself away from the wall, crimson fear pouring down her back, stiffening each hair, every inch of skin still ringing with that terrible prickling pressure.
Instinct took over. She bolted up the stairs, unprepared for how lightly her feet landed, how each push suddenly provided a lot more oomph.
In fact, she was at the top in an eyeblink, whirling, and the house throbbed with voices, movement, bright light, smells concentrated and fired past her because she was moving with inhuman speed.
Someone shouted as she burst from the staircase’s gloom and bounced off a wall, her sneakers barely touching carpet before she was at the far end of the hallway.
The sound was behind her in a trice, falling away like a train whistle dying in the distance.
Her body suddenly knew what to do, careening through brightly lit passageways, and maybe she’d been subconsciously planning because before Beatrice was quite ready her arms had come up, shielding her face as she burst with a crackling tinkle through a wide picture-window looking over the grassy expanse before the mansion.
A moment of weightlessness, then the new, undeniable reflexes took over, tucking her into a compact ball just before she landed.
The world turned over, a furrow dug in soaked turf and she was running again, streaking for the driveway’s wet glistening.
Heavy icy drops pelted her face and hands, her hair stripped back by a stiff breeze mostly made of her own motion, and she streaked down the hill faster than the BMW had mounted it upon their arrival.
Holy SHIT. Crazed glee mixed with a bright white diamond glare of fear—what if he was waiting in the bushes? What if this was all part of the trap?
The big wrought-iron gate reared before her. Bea screamed, a harsh rising caw of effort, and her body, fueled by hallucinogenic monster blood, uncoiled in a terrific leap.
She overcalculated, landing in a tangle of vines and cold-dripping underbrush, but that was okay because she’d cleared the fucking gate, and the wild pounding drum that was her heart sang.
At least for a little while, she was free.
The road rose up under her—another leap, she’d somehow also freed herself from the bushes’ stick-arms, was over before she could quite brace herself.
She hit and staggered drunkenly, the sudden certainty of pursuit, of the trap closing on her, giving fresh hysterical strength to every muscle.
The necklace jounced against her sweater, tapping with the rhythm of desperate escape.
Bea put her head down, her arms pumping, and streaked into the night.