by Mason, V. F.
They never do, no matter if they are made of metal or rope; after all, I’m the master of wrapping them.
“It happens, because you can’t control this.” I point at my heart and sigh dramatically. “They act out; you just want them to stop.”
“They never do. I warn them,” he mumbles, and I clack my tongue, clicking my fingers to the especially high note, and his gaze shifts at the sound. “And then when they don’t, all those desires rise up to teach them a lesson, right?” I come closer, stepping on his teeth and tongue and then bring the burning poker to his face. “The monster inside you demands blood for their disobedience, for their disrespect.” His eyes widen and something akin to relief enters it, and he nods in acknowledgment, almost relieved it seems that someone understands him. “Too bad that even when they stop acting up, the monster still wants to punish them.” I lean closer, whispering in his ear. “Funny thing about monsters though? They can never be cured.” With that, I stab the poker in his groin, and his shout reverberates through the space along with the smell of burned flesh that fills my lungs.
Taking it out, I stab his toes one by one while his cries block out even the music, and I can almost get off on the sound of it, enjoying every minute of his agony. “They are not sorry. They always mean what they do, and they don’t apologize for it,” I say and then stab him in his side, burning everything on my way while his protests die down as his strength leaves him, but his eyes are still clear enough to understand what I’m saying. “Isn’t that right, Julian?” He breathes heavily, while blood drips around us, smearing my pants and shoes.
Stepping back, I deliver the last blow to his head, and it snaps to the side with him whining like the little bitch that he is. I go back to my table just as the doors to my dungeon open, bringing bright sunlight that blinds me for a second.
Annoyance zips through me at anyone who dares to interrupt my time.
A blue-haired guy flashes me a smile, and his silver eyes fill with boredom when he scans my victim from side to side before he heads down the stairs, his leather shoes slapping against the concrete.
The victim lifts his head with difficulty and mumbles words to him that I don’t give a shit to understand, but he shuts up really quick when the man speaks. “May I offer a suggestion before you send him to your kingdom, Poseidon?” He chuckles, and I flip a finger at him, fed up with this joke.
Arson can stay all high and mighty, but he is no Zeus in their kingdom in New York.
We both know who rules that city.
“Be my guest,” I reply, pouring myself more coffee when Arson grabs the gasoline from the table and fetches a lighter out of his pocket, flipping it between his fingers while he cocks his head to the side, assessing the victim. “Who burns flesh like that?” he asks in distaste, but I shrug, not caring much.
He is the one obsessed with fire and the pain it can bring; the amount of torture this guy can dish out with burns alone is an art form.
Too bad for him I don’t give two shits about it, because water has more appeal to me.
Besides, the dude is insane. I mean, I’m no better, but even I have certain limits. Arson though? He has none, and I pity anyone standing in his way.
Sighing heavily in disappointment, he splashes the gasoline all over the victim’s body and then lights the fuel, and the guy cries out yet again when the fire circles him and consumes his body, burning the flesh right in front of our eyes. The smell reminds me of a barbecue.
That’ll be fucking hard to wash off but whatever.
Pressing on the remote, I allow the remains to be taken down to the pool under us, as this house has two places of torture. When I’m in the mood for sharks to have their go at them, the bodies go to the ocean. When I decided to burn them and smear them in all the shit that might hurt the precious sharks, they go to the pool.
Finally, when the lid closes, the silence envelops us since the music has stopped. Arson turns to me, clicking his fingers. “This sucked big time.”
“Well, if you want amusement, go back to New York. I don’t remember inviting you.”
He comes to me and leans on the table next to me, while I continue to sip my drink. “It’s Micaden’s land.”
“It’s no-man’s-land, because it borders with mine. He has no more say in it than I do. If you want Micaden’s land, I suggest you drive a few more hours to the other side of the island.”
Why the fuck is he here anyway?
It’s not like I mingle with their social circle of serial killers that they have created.
Especially not with Lachlan, as our relationship can be called difficult at best for what he has done to me.
Fucked-up at worst.
Needless to say, Arson’s presence—who happens to be his right hand—doesn’t please me one bit. “What do you want?” I ask, cutting straight to the chase, because both of us can do this for hours.
I have no time for this shit.
I have to handle one sinner who is about to inflict her first dose of venom, and a clueless idiot priest who notices women when he shouldn’t.
“You can’t touch her” comes instead, and I freeze but then gulp my coffee.
“Is that an order?”
“It’s a fucking suggestion. She is untouchable and you know it. She is like a sister to all of us.” He emphasizes each word as if it’s supposed to mean something for me.
He could go and fuck himself with his suggestion. “You don’t tell me what to do.” My voice drops a few octaves so he is not mistaken where I stand. “Cassandra is mine.”
Arson chuckles, but it lacks any humor. “Remember the deal, Madman,” he tells me, and anger travels through me at the reminder of the deal I struck with Lachlan all those years ago.
But even back then, I never vowed to stay away from her. They told me they would take care of her, and instead they claimed her as their sister and cut me out of her life completely, not so much as mentioning her new name.
And then they hid her from me for ten long years, and I couldn’t even demand revenge, because they were the only ones who knew where she was.
As far as I’m concerned, the deal was off a long time ago. “All of you broke it first.” A betrayal that still stings, because I never imagined they would turn their backs on me without an explanation.
Arson huffs in exasperation, pushes off the table, and hooks his thumbs on his pants. “I’m here to warn you. You will start a war. Do you want a war with us?”
I tsk my tongue. “How quickly a suggestion turns into a threat.”
“Everyone will be on our side. You can’t fight with us all. It’s a miracle Lachlan didn’t kill you after you went rogue.” He takes out a lighter, flipping it through his fingers and then opening and closing it again. “Don’t push your luck.” With that, he walks to the stairs, but my cold laughter stops him in his tracks, and he glances over his shoulder.
“I have people on my side. And that’s what scares you, Arson.” He half turns to me and his face darkens, so I know I touched a sore spot. “After all, they don’t much like Lachlan’s veto either.” All things aside, I admire Lachlan for what he has done for the likes of us and the deep loyalty everyone feels toward him. He might be the darkest and meanest fucker I’ve ever known, but he rules with an iron fist.
Those under his protection know no sorrows—well, not after meeting him.
I did too.
But no one tells me what to do, especially warning me off my mission of a lifetime. “I’m trying to stop a war, Madman. Let her do her thing. Do not interfere.” He waits a bit before adding, “Then and only then, can you do whatever else you want.” Throwing these last words at me, he quickly goes upstairs, shutting the door behind him and leaving me with his fucking suggestion.
What none of them knows though is that I can’t let her do it.
Because her revenge means death for my twin, and I can never allow it.
Let them have a war.
Even I’m interested to see who will w
in it.
Chapter Eight
“The mistakes of our past don’t rule our lives. They let us learn that every mistake has a meaning, because they make us into stronger people.”
Ms. Ava used to say that to me a lot during our piano practices, claiming that with my talent I should be traveling the world and going to the best schools.
It usually happened when I told her that all those notes are shit and I had no desire to learn something that I truly sucked at.
But the funny thing about that speech?
It’s not true.
Some mistakes have the power to rule our lives as they haunt us and remind us that our mistakes have the ability to hurt innocent people who least expect it.
From the memories of Arianna Griffin…
“We are here, sweetie,” Mom says, dipping her head to glance through the windshield at Cole’s house, the whole place covered in various lights, and her brows furrow. “Why does their house have so many lights on?”
I’m hectically searching for a believable enough excuse, because I have no freaking clue either. But I’m not sure Mom will appreciate the fact that I don’t know Cole very well.
I should have taken up Patricia on her offer to pick me up from my ice-skating practice and get ready at her house, but I didn’t feel like making her wait. Mom was on her way to get me anyway, since she had to discuss my upcoming championship with the coach. And besides, if Eachann was there, I wanted to look pretty.
Although she was surprised with such a late invitation for the party, we swung by the mall to buy a gift for Cole, and then I quickly got ready at home, picking a pink summer dress that ended just slightly below my knees and sneakers, finishing the look with my hair falling loose down my back.
I might be desperate, but I didn’t want anyone else to think so.
“He is an artist, so I think all the flashing lights inspire him.” The lie rolls off easily, because I suspect that’s the case. Cole always explains everything with his art, and based on how colorful or darkish his attire gets depending on his mood, I think his parents go along with whatever he wants.
No wonder Cole never feels the pressure to be anyone but himself.
Mom’s mouth twitches a little and a small smile appears on it. “I hope you have a good time. You deserve it after all this hard work.” Her hand gently pats my head, and on instinct, I lean forward to wrap my arms around her, breathing in her scent.
Lying to my mama sucks big time, because she is my best friend in the whole wide world, and she understands me like no other. I can’t remember a time when I couldn’t go to her with my problems. She wouldn’t shame me for it or scold me; she would always listen and offer me a solution or tell me where I was wrong.
Just like my dad. They are a tight unit of two and both work at the mayor’s office. Mom once said they loved each so much they couldn’t imagine being apart for too long.
And they always support my love for the sport, so much that they allowed me to get back on the ice after my knee injury, even though the doctors claimed that if I had one more injury, I could lose my leg.
All the riches the founding five families have will never top my parents and their love that always wraps me in a tight cocoon. I’m not sure why I need her arms squeezing me tightly right now, but I do. “I love you, Mom,” I whisper.
“I love you too, sweetie.” She leans back and cups my cheek, worry etching her face. “Is everything all right? Not that I don’t appreciate your hugs, but if you don’t want to go to the party, don’t.” I wish I could tell her to drive us back home where I can wear my pajamas and watch some movies to wallow in my misery, but I can’t.
I can’t be a coward anymore, and I’ve promised Patricia to come here and help her with her crush anyway, and being a shitty friend is not on my list of things to add to this disastrous day.
Not to mention Cole expects me to be here; Patricia made me text him in the car and his only reply was a thumbs-up.
“I do. Just felt like it.” I wink at her and open the door, picking up the gift for Cole from the backseat. “I’ll come home with Pat.” I saw her car on the side of the road, and she pinky swore not to drink.
I still shudder at the memories of her barfing down the side of my car when we celebrated her seventeenth birthday two weeks ago. She is not a fun drunk.
“Remember to be careful.”
“Yep, I’ll be home by twelve.” With that, I get out, closing the door and waving at her as she drives off into the distance until she is out of sight. I turn to the house, studying the Christmas decorations.
The old house has two levels, each one of them sporting around five windows, and oddly enough all have their lights on despite it being bright outside.
The brick color is silver, and it has this weird structure about it that the various statues of beasts scattered all over the place add to, each one of them shaped into the mythical creatures I’ve seen in art books.
Their grass is neatly cut, but they have no flowers or bushes around. It’s merely there it seems because Campbell ordered everyone to have one.
A narrow concrete path leads to the porch with several steps leading up to the massive oak doors.
“They sure have a depressing house,” I mutter, walking to the door and frowning at the red drops all over the grass.
Was Cole painting outside? But there are no canvases around.
When my sneakers slap on the first stair, I feel the vibration under them, and it takes me a second to understand it’s the heavy metal song blasting through the speakers inside. The music resonates through the inside of the house, along with laughter, shouting, and a scream of, “One more time!” Even though it’s a female voice, I don’t recognize it.
Dear God, what am I doing here?
Wiping my sweaty hands over my dress, I finally reach the door and press on the bell, wondering if they’ll even hear it over all the chaos.
Surprisingly, it opens swiftly, Cole greeting me with a grin, his eyes sparkling in excitement. “Arianna!” he cries out, wrapping his arms around me and squeezing me so tight I gulp for breath. I push him away and he lets go. “You came.” His gaze shifts to my hands and he snatches the present from me, holding it to his ear. “What is it?” Then he slaps his forehead with his palm and drags me inside, shutting the door behind me. “Where are my manners. Come on in and have fun. I have margaritas to make!” he exclaims and darts off and disappears down a dark narrow hallway.
The inside of the house is even gloomier than the outside, with walls colored in black and brown with several paintings displaying scenes of torture.
Weird as hell.
Following the sound of the music, I swing to the right and enter the living room, and instantly the scenery changes. Here the party is in full swing. My eyes widen at seeing around thirty people, from popular jocks to science nerds, and each of them engages in a different activity.
Some occupy couches and chairs, making out on them. A bunch of others are dancing in the middle of the room and drinking from their plastic cups, probably beer, since there is a keg in the right corner.
The artists stand in a circle, discussing something with their hands doing weird movements, and the science students bang their heads to the beat of the music but mostly stay silent.
All in all, it’s like a normal party around here, except that I have come to expect anything but normal from Cole.
An arm wraps around my waist, and I jerk to the side, but the person doesn’t let me go. Instead, he presses firmer against me, and I look up to see Ethan’s smiling face. “Hey, pretty girl. I wondered when you’d get here.”
“Um, hi,” I reply and wiggle free of his hold.
He sips his drink and then motions with his head toward the keg. “Want some?”
“No, thanks. I don’t drink.” Not that any of us are supposed to, but hey, rules don’t seem to exist in here. I know Ralph always finds a way to sneak alcohol in just like Pat does.
He whistles to St
an, who is standing by the table and munching on chips. “Can you throw me a soda?” he shouts, and Stan picks up a purple can and throws it across the room. Ethan easily catches it—he isn’t a wide receiver for nothing—and flicks the ring pull up before giving it to me. “Does this work?”
“Sure.” Dumbfounded, I take it but then shake my head as if in a trance, finally snapping out of my shock at what this party represents with all the jocks here, because hello, Cole? And finally Ethan’s weird attitude. “What’s going on?”
He frowns, his cup pausing midway as he shoots me a curious look. “What do you mean?”
“Well… this.” I point my finger between us. “You invited me to homecoming and now getting me a drink.”
Relief crosses his face for some odd reason, and he shrugs, grinning once again. “You are the prettiest girl in town. Why not?”
Give me a break.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I lift my brow. “Sam told me you kissed her last night. Was I the prettiest girl then too?”
He coughs in his drink. “Well, we’re not exclusive, so…” I just tap my foot and continue to drill my stare into him, so he sighs in resignation. “Okay, we had a bet.”
I blink at this and clear my throat. “A bet?”
“The football team didn’t want to go to homecoming. It’s for chicks. No offense.”
“None taken.”
Encouraged by my nonchalant tone, he elaborates. “So anyway, then Stan came up with a game that we would throw names of all the hot chicks in school in a hat and take out one. I took out your name, so here we are.” Oh my God, they are all bunch of immature assholes.
But even though I should be annoyed with this, I’m more relieved than anything. The last thing I wanted was to deal with a guy who thought he had a crush on me, especially one who’s part of the football team. “I see. I don’t want to go.”
He frowns and groans. “Oh, come on, Arianna. We’ll have a good time. You are hot and I am too. Together, we can be….” He shifts closer, fanning my cheek with his breath, and wiggles his brows, so it’s not hard to guess where he went with his thoughts.