Chapter 21
Oliver
"Letting go is sometimes the bravest thing you can do for those you love."
My stomach turns with the lock, knowing that when she realizes what I have just done… she may never forgive me. The ache in my heart expands as what I planned would be my last resort has grown and bloomed before me—a carnivorous plant of doom, hungry and ready to consume all Happy Endings.
I place my hand on the door, “Please forgive me, little bird. The time for me to tell you everything… will be upon us soon.” I swallow hard, “I only need you to hold on.” My fingers drag over the oak door, disembarking one after the other till they all meet at my hip.
In the time it took me to walk through the manor, I was able to reflect on all my choices. To set aside a few, well-needed seconds to form a game plan on how things were going to play out.
How was I going to tell Emory?
What is her choice going to be?
Did I do enough...
on my part to convince her to stay with me?
Did I even deserve that...
after all my lies and betrayals?
I stop for a moment beneath the portrait that looms over the grand staircase.
Removing my Scally, as my thick black locks fall to one side—I place the cap over my heart.
“Ger, I could really use your wisdom in a time like this.” Sniffling as I straighten my back.
“In all my existence, Love has never been an option. You, on the other hand, were so good at it.”
“I miss you,” a single, woeful tear falls down my cheek, “Old friend.” Placing my hat back on my head, I tip it before continuing my path back to Brennan.
On my way back through the cellar, I am stopped in my tracks by an unforeseen obstacle.
Peter! He falls face down at my feet. His eyes blackened as bruises began to form—A kaleidoscope of grotesque-beautiful swirls, and a resemblance to the modern-day science experiment (where you put milk on a plate, drop color dye in sporadic places, then, with a Q-tip dipped in dish soap, you place it in the milk and watch as the colors twist together like magic).
Dry, crusted blood coats his pathetic face as he whimpers.
Pleading. Reaching his hand out, feeling my presence, while every morsel of my soul begins to roister harshly, watching his hands as they grasp at my ankles, only to find himself grabbing air.
The laughter that’s projecting itself from my core may have enough power behind it for him to hear, especially in the state he’s in, being as close to death as he is.
The walls begin to echo with a well-known sound, "I’ve seen the best and worst of humanity.
” Brennan’s voice creeps down the hall, clinging to the rock like tar with every harsh tone—It’s full purpose to torture his prey.
“The thing is, there is nothing different. ‘Will’ disguised as intentions—the weak following the strong.”
Even without the knowledge of this man's past, I would still tremble at his voice. “I led a small team, then. Performed undesirable things to worse people.” The timbre in his voice churns like curdled milk, blending with his footsteps as they inch ever closer.
“I reveled in the screams I brought forth under the staccato of the machine guns, the thrumming bass of the artillery. During that time, learning I had a penchant for information... well, the extraction thereof—I could make any imprisoned ‘soldier’ sing as if he were one of the greats:
Luciano Pavarotti, Andrea Bocelli, Celine Dion.”
Peter swivels, leaning in with his good ear, searching for the direction of Brennan’s voice—no doubt trying to gauge the time he had to get away.
“Command took notice of my instinctual ability to get ‘proper’ intel.” A screech erupts, metal to cobblestone, piercing even my ears.
The way this man could manipulate sound and strike fear with just the knowledge of knowing what tool it was coming from, had me petrified—and I’m dead.
His voice booms again, “I began to hone my skills. I became a seeker of the voids between lies, where the truth hides." A crack breaks the sound barrier—an ear-bleeding sound in such a confined space.
"You see here, it came from the most basic desire in all humans... to inflict." The cat-o’-nine tails sounds once more as Brennan emerges from the shadows, coiling it around his waist. He crouches in front of Peter, stroking his jaw. Smearing the blood that has mostly hardened now, all over his face before removing his hand, bringing his palm back to kiss Peter’s cheek.
He flinches, releasing a small whimper as Brennan draws his fingers together, pinching Peter’s face, causing his lips to pucker.
Laughing, he cracks his neck, rolling it from one side to the other, "Your screams are my masterpiece…” he raises the opposite hand, his fingers like a basket in the air, as though an invisible piece of art resides there.
“Your blood is my bourbon.” His saliva-clad tongue, shining in the dim light, as it lubricates his dehydrated lips.
“My pleasure is watching your body seethe in pain.”
Squeezing his fingers even tighter, causing cuts to form in Peter’s mouth as the flesh slips between his canines…
leaving lacerations in its wake. “I have been known to rival the greats, Rachmaninoff, Bach, and Shostakovich.
I promise you, I will dream of your deformed, and blood-drenched body for years to come with an utterly delicious satisfaction. "
A metallic rustling maneuvers its way through the air as he detaches the whip, allowing it to twist and sprawl out like the makings of a mushroom cloud—much like my good little romance readers have done to these pages, making it this far… you are such a good girl.
He snapped the whip, lightning quick, accompanied by a crack once it reached its apex. A visible shiver dances over his body in anticipation of the opening chorus of pain he is about to receive from his victim.
Excitement charges through my veins—I have never been so eager to witness someone join me on this side of the veil, more than I am in this moment.
Wet and uncontrollably, my mouth starts to salivate.
My soul is famished, craving such violence as this.
Brennan begins to oscillate his arm, making the whip cavort, a serpent of deliverance—you may know her as Karma.
"Now you will tell me everything!" The length of Brennan’s arm brought the tips to a blinding, flaying speed, just before the whips strike Peter across the chest. Layers peel away, liquifying the skin so perfectly that I can see the multitude of flesh coats that structure his chest. I watch, imagining it pooling at his knees, giving the portrayal of a Dali painting.
The cut reveals the deep crimson of his pectoral muscles, a masterpiece of revenge for all the pain and hurt he and his family have inflicted on others.
Brennan then kneels in front of Peter, taking one of the nine tails and wrapping the end around the eye that dangles from its socket.
Jerking both ends, he uses the whip like a garrote and severs it, "Now let me show you who you truly are.” He picks the eye up from the ground, turning it on Peter.
Brennan releases a thunderous laugh before dropping the appendage and smashing it beneath his boot.
The lashings proceeded, one after the other—his screams only audible in the catacombs of this labyrinth where only the dead can hear him now.
Wiping the sweat and blood from his brow, Brennan stretches and rolls his shoulders—a boxer warming up before a fight.
As his eyes shut momentarily, Peter sees this as an opportunity and takes off as fast as his damaged limbs could carry him.
He weaves and dodges down darkened corridors, tripping over pebbles, completely unaware of me and my abilities.
The candles spring to life—centerline lighting on a runway for Brennan to follow.
This parasite will never harm another loved one of ours again.
He breaks through the cellar door and out into the open air.
Brennan is on his heels, but that doesn’t stop Peter as he turns the corner, heading to the front of the estate.
Rain is still falling, forming puddles, providing the water that kicks up around his shoes.
He is slipping and sliding all over the gravel with the appearance of a newborn deer.
The fact that he thinks he can escape Brennan is hilarious… in itself.
Setting back on my heels, I watch as Brennan stalks after him. Terror exudes from Peter’s eye as he pauses to look behind him.
It must be difficult with the swelling.
The delight and jubilation delivered by the trauma this man is enduring has me bathing in joy.
.. that is, until I am interrupted by a small whimper—breaking my concentration on him.
My eyes follow the sound, and that is when I see her.
She is clinging to the banister, her legs swaying like a flag, as it waves in the breeze.
What is this feeling, this warmth?
It doesn’t last long when I realize she is slipping—no, quickly it is replaced with a sense of urgency.
With no thought for my actions, I jump into Peter.
His broken body and pleading thoughts make it taxing to take control of.
I also haven’t possessed anyone for decades—nevertheless, someone this close to the other side.
Unfortunately for him, I don't care about his well-being. My only concern is that he harbors enough energy to manifest my own.
Struggling.
Fighting.
Punching.
Using his fists against his legs, popping bones back in place, resetting them—I can’t feel his pain, nor do I want to, I only need him to move. “Please save me!”
I roll his eye in response to his own thoughts.
“You are a fraud to your core,” I answer to his unspoken cries.
“I am not here to help you. I am here to…” His left foot moves forward.
“Save…” Then, the right, as I struggle to maneuver his dead weight and before I know it, Peter is running. “Her!” I yell in Peter’s voice.
Reaching his arms out, I catch her just in time. Her heart is racing, and her eyes are wide with fear. “Peter, what-”
I shake Peter’s head, “I already told life you were mine.” I respond to her, “I will be damned if death takes you away from me.”
The recognition hits her. “Oliver!” Nodding, I look back as Brennan continues to stalk Peter.
“There is no need to run, little snake.” His voice is dampened by the rain and rolling claps of thunder, but that doesn’t make a difference in his deliverance. “You have entered my garden and meddled in things you cannot… come back from.”
Using the limited vision Peter has, I scour the terrain looking for somewhere safe to drop her off.
“Your family has taken everything away from me. So, I’m going to return the favor.
” With my destination in mind, Brennan calls out his next threat.
“I am going to smash your brains in, then fuck the hole it leaves behind so I can be the last thing on your pitiful fucking mind.”
I dart into the garden, kissing Emory on the forehead as I set her down on the bench—managing an apologetic expression before disappearing beyond the brush.
Fuck I must redirect him.
Then, it clicks. I am going to attempt to have a conversation with Peter’s conscience. He is screaming, “I know this isn’t me! My own body is betraying me!” I make a noise, equivalent to clearing my throat, but he continues. “I would have never saved that Selby bitch.”
His screaming was too loud, and he has more than angered me with his last statement.
So, I try again to get him to calm down for a moment.
“Wait, maybe I’m not crazy. Is someone else there?
” The fear in his tone was the sweetest form of justice, but I had to keep my eye on the prize: getting him away from Emory.
“Yes, Peter.” The relief in his voice was disgusting. I had to keep telling myself, ‘He will be getting his’. “I am your conscience.”
“Ok, Peter. I need you to listen closely.” Focus, Oliver. “That man will be waiting for you at the entrance. We must think of our point of attack.”
I feel the body stiffen as he fights me. “Attack! I am not ‘attacking’ anything in the state that I am in.” My patience is running thin, and his whining is not helping.
I think: Does he have enough energy to charge him?
I try lifting his arms to his face, only making it to about chest level.
Hm, not as much as I’d hoped.
I try to picture the garden maze, but since I have only taken the light away from Peter, and his mind is still readily available, the image is diluted.
I know there is another exit.
Think.
Think.
Think.
That's it, through Niven’s Secret Garden.
“What am I seeing right now?” Peter voice, rakes through the hollow halls of his mind. “I don’t recognize what is in this vision.”
“Look,” Now it’s time to put my manipulation to work. “Do you want out of this?”
“Yes, please.”
“Then you will relinquish all your energy to me.”
I can hear the stutter before he continues, “You promise you’ll get me out of this fucking maze?” I give him my word to get him out... of the Garden.
The path gets a little more vivid, and then I am booking it through the tall hedges bursting from the hidden entrance mere feet from where Brennan stands. His head turns at just the right moment. Looking in our direction before he disappears, to reappear even angrier and back on track.
“Now, it is all you.” I tell Peter. “Run!”
A banshee-like jeer breaks from his mouth as he sprints through the driveway of the manor, and just before his fingertips touch the wrought iron gates, I leap from his body.
“I hope you suffer!” were the only words I left him with before he was rewarded with a ‘pretty silver necklace’.
Peter goes flying, his gurgling and gasping, frantic as his back slams into the ground.
Standing there, I watch as his flailing steadily weakens with his surrender.