A Poised Nuisance (Lithe Book 1)

by Iris RIvers

  Kai reached for Baker’s phone. “Please, don’t,” he said as he attempted to pull it from their grasp. But Kai was weaker than he’d realized. They ended up wrestling one another, Kai grasping for the phone and Baker pushing him away.

  “Fine!” Baker yelled, laughing. “Fine.”

  Kai let out a sigh of relief, leaning back on the couch.

  “Why are you so against dating?” Baker asked. “Wouldn’t you like someone to spend time with?”

  “It’s not that—” he started, cutting himself off. He wasn’t sure why he hadn’t been in a relationship before. It wasn’t that he actively avoided them, more so that his mind was constantly occupied with other things. With other people. How could he dedicate himself to one person when his mind was already filled with another? He shut his eyes every night thinking of someone he shouldn’t.

  It wasn’t the bronze shimmer of her skin or the plumpness of her lips that mesmerized him though. It was her betrayal. He gravitated toward the suffering that came to him whenever he was around her, cherished it like an ache constantly tugging the arteries around his heart. It wasn’t the type of suffering he felt when his parents died—morbid and excruciating—but the type that shattered his bones and splintered his skin. The type that made him feel like he was dancing, his toes cracked and sore.

  It was the type he wished to live off of for the rest of his life.

  “I just don’t have the time,” he said finally.

  Baker let out a loud sigh. “You’re annoying,” they said.

  “Thank you.”

  Baker closed their eyes, trying their hardest not to break out into laughter.

  ORION STARED AT HER reflection, admiring her full lips and slender nose, her dark skin and darker hair. She grew up incredibly insecure; she’d always hated the person who stared back at her from the mirror, avoiding her at all costs—but, somehow, in college she’d learned to love herself. It was a startling accomplishment, one she did not handle lightly.

  So each time she passed a mirror, she’d decidedly face her reflection instead of ignoring it, praising the person she saw instead of criticizing her.

  Orion’s phone sounded from the bathroom counter. She lifted it up and turned off the bathroom light, walking back to her bedroom and sitting on her bed. The message had been from Lilah.

  Have you heard from Lara? it read.

  No, why? Orion answered, typing quickly.

  A few seconds passed. Then: No reason, I was just wondering how she was handling all of this.

  She seemed fine the other night.

  Exactly, Lilah sent. The typing bubble popped up then back down, then up again. How is she so fine with everything? It took everyone else a while to stop freaking out.

  Orion saw her point. She herself had taken a month to handle Lithe and the things they did, which was supposedly fast compared to the other girls. Except Violet—she’d taken a good two weeks, unsurprisingly.

  True, Orion typed. Maybe she’s a secret sociopath.

  Or maybe she’s more scared than any of us have ever been.

  Orion stared at Lilah’s words. She wasn’t sure what to text back, so she didn’t. Orion clicked the dial button on her phone. Lilah answered on the first ring.

  “Hi,” Orion said.

  “Hi,” Lilah replied.

  “I don’t know why I called,” she admitted.

  “I’m glad you did,” said Lilah. Orion smiled.

  Their phone call ended up lasting two hours, consisting of long conversations but also minutes of silence as they each listened to the other breathing.

  Orion fell asleep on her back, her phone resting beside her head. She wondered if Lilah was thinking of her—thinking of her the same way Orion thought of her.

  She hoped she was.

  TODAY WAS THE DAY OF Lara’s first kill.

  She stood outside her apartment, head leaning against the stone of the building, and stared up into the night sky. It looked like a reflection to a desolate sea, hidden underneath an alcove, the only light coming from the dimming moon—but even then, the moon was small, barely visible. There was nothing but darkness. Lara sensed that even the stars felt like she didn’t deserve their light.

  Lara began laughing—feeling both humorous and anxious. Of course the weather was going to be gloomy. She couldn’t imagine it being anything but dark and lifeless; couldn’t imagine taking someone’s life if the sun was out, the birds chirping while the rays warmed her skin.

  It was 9:45 p.m., and the boy was meant to arrive at the church fifteen minutes from then. Lara wondered if he was already there. She stepped away from the wall—away from the looming of the sky—and began walking. She shoved her hands into her pockets, feeling the cool metal of a blade graze against her skin. Evelyn had given it to her a few days earlier, telling Lara it was the same knife she’d used when she’d made her first kill. She’d sat Lara down and explained the different ways she could hurt her victim—a stabbing to the chest, a blow to their head.

  A cut across their throat.

  Lara looked around her, wondering if anyone could tell that she was on her way to spill someone else’s blood. The streets were feasibly empty, and the few people that surrounded her ignored Lara as they would a ghost.

  They’re walking alongside a murderer, she thought as she turned a corner. A future murderer.

  Eventually, she reached St. Patrick’s cathedral. She stared up at the structure, her eyes gleaming in reverence. The building was near white, almost spotless if not for the charcoal-like blemishes that discolored the walls. Lara looked to the stained-glass windows, making out various shapes and lines, before peering at the arches that lined the top. It looked like a palace, and she was about to become its bloodthirsty queen.

  Walking up to its entrance was incredibly daunting; she couldn’t help but hold her breath as she took in the details indented into the stone, feeling horribly sinful compared to the virtuousness of the church.

  Lara pulled open the door with shaky hands. The creak made her feel nauseous as she stepped inside. She almost expected a force to stop her from going through, as if God himself would prevent her from committing such devilish deeds, but she was met only with silence. The tranquility of it all stunned her motionless.

  What was I expecting? Carnival noises?

  The inside was near empty, save for one figure sitting on the very first pew. It had to be him—Colin. His fingers ruffled his blonde hair as he rested his head in his pale hands. She stood there, watching him for a long time, breathing as quietly as she could. The blade in her pocket begged to be touched.

  She gathered up her courage and turned around, locking the doors to the cathedral. She began to walk over to Colin, her white Converse making little to no sound against the tiled floor.

  “Hello,” Lara said, her voice loud against the jarring silence. Who says hello before killing someone? Lara bit the inside of her cheek.

  Colin jumped in his seat, turning around swiftly. His blue eyes somehow shone in the darkness, the candles in the room reflecting across his pupils. “Oh,” he said when he saw her, “you scared me.”

  Lara laughed silently, sliding her fingers across the pews as she neared him. “I’m sorry,” she said. Once she reached his pew, she sat beside him, avoiding eye contact. “I didn’t think anyone would be here this late.”

  “Me neither,” he replied.

  Lara could feel his heavy gaze on her profile.

  “Pretty lipstick,” he said, looking down to the fullness of her red lips. Lara grinned in response. Before leaving, she’d applied a thick line of eyeliner across her eyes, then wiped a near-empty tube of crimson lipstick on her lips.

  Colin looked down to the plaid of her tennis skirt, which had ruffled inward to show more of the fishnet tights she wore underneath. She turned to avoid his stare, clenching her gloved hands. She hadn’t even thought to wear them—it was Evelyn who had given them to her. There was a tag on the inside reading E.W. Lara’s first thought was
that they were Evelyn’s initials, but that couldn’t have been right. Evelyn’s last name started with a B.

  Colin reached for her face, pulling at Lara’s chin. “Don’t look away,” he whispered. His breath smelled of stale food and cheap beer. Lara wanted to vomit. “Want to get out of here?” he asked, his voice a relentless vice compared to the morality of his surroundings.

  Instead of answering, she shoved her lips to his, silencing him with her mouth. Colin opened her mouth with his tongue, pushing it past Lara’s teeth. Seduce him, she remembered Evelyn telling her as she felt her lipstick smear against his lips. It’s the best way to get a man to succumb.

  She needed to get him under her, needed him to be completely submissive, so she pushed his body down to the pew, his shoulders meeting the polished wood. Colin let out a breathy laugh. “You’re wild,” he said, then pulled her down to him, connecting their mouths once more.

  Lara slipped her hand into her pocket, searching for the blade, her other hand reaching for his pulsing neck. Colin sucked in a startled breath as she wrapped her thin fingers around his neck, squeezing lightly.

  “You’re into that?” he asked. Lara nodded, tightening her grip. Colin shrugged, wanting nothing but to continue the feel of his mouth against hers.

  Lara moved her lips down to his neck, leaving a trail of red as he tilted his head up, exposing his throat. She smiled. “Thank you,” she whispered. Colin’s brow surged downward in confusion. Lara grabbed the blade, feeling steadier than before, and brought it to his skin, where her kisses had painted across his throat.

  “What the hell—” Colin yelled, grimacing as the blade sliced into his neck against his struggle.

  “It’ll hurt less if you’re silent,” she whispered, the control in her body vanishing in an instant. It seemed as if she was hovering above her own lifeless corpse, hearing her body speak to Colin, watching her hand hold the blade steadily against his throat.

  Is this really me? she thought. She hadn’t known this part of her existed—but somehow it was out, revealing itself like it had always been there, like it’d been waiting for this.

  “Stop!” Colin begged. Tears lined his lower lashes. “Please.”

  They will always beg, Evelyn had said. Do not surrender to their lies. Cherish the sound of his voice as he pleads for his life—it is the only time you will hear a man beg so pathetically.

  “I’m sorry,” Lara replied. She wasn’t sure why she’d apologized—she was not sorry; she did not feel remorse. Perhaps she was apologizing to herself, apologizing for the part of herself she was losing, doing this. Or perhaps she was apologizing to the church, for committing the sin of all sins in its interior, tainting its innocence, its godly existence.

  Then Lara pushed the blade deeper into his throat, watching his blood drip solemnly from the wound. Colin let out one last whimper before Lara quickly slit his throat, closing her eyes as she did so. She heard the sick noise, heard his skin slice open and his blood bubble, and nearly gagged.

  Finally, after a few moments, once the noises had subdued and Colin’s heart stopped pounding, Lara opened her eyes and stared down at her victim, her eyes trailing over what she’d done. The remnants of her blasphemy stared back at her, taunted her.

  Is this what I’m capable of? Is this the part of myself I’ve been hiding from all along?

  She realized she was crying, tears trailing silently down her face. When had they started? When Colin was kissing her, shoving his tongue down her throat? Or when she’d finally killed him, drained the blood from his throat?

  She wasn’t sure if she wanted to know.

  His body was completely limp beneath her legs. It was eerie, to be alone, but also not really alone. She sat with a person, which surely made her accompanied, but no, he was dead, he’d been killed, so she was alone. Alone with a warm body that would soon go cold. It was a sickening oxymoron.

  It was when Lara began sobbing that she realized what she’d done. Her eyeliner melted underneath her lids, trailing down to the flushness of her cheeks. It dropped the same way her tears had dropped before she’d slapped Kai, before she’d felt the burning in her hands as she’d anchored her palm to his cheek. The memory thickened her tears.

  How am I going to face him after this? Lara thought, removing herself from Colin’s lap. How is he meant to touch me, knowing someone else’s blood coats my hands? She wasn’t sure why she had inserted Kai into the situation, into what she had done, but he fit perfectly. He fit like it was where he belonged.

  Lara looked to her shoes, no longer white but soiled with Colin’s blood—leaden and gruesome. She wondered what Kai’s blood looked like, if it was as bright as poppies or as dark as his riveting eyes.

  A small noise paused Lara’s tears. She looked around nervously, prepared to be caught. Had someone seen her? No, it was only Colin’s wristwatch, still ticking though his world had already stopped. It was odd to see something alive—working—against his lifeless body. By the fourth tick, Lara began moving. She had to get out of there before someone came looking for him—before someone found her standing above him, weapon in hand.

  So she did what she knew best: she ran.

  When she was far enough from the cathedral to feel unseen, she pulled out her phone, opening her messages.

  Done, she texted Ana, pulling the gloves from her shaking hands.

  Then, a few minutes later, as she jogged home, blade hidden in her hoodie’s pocket, she heard it: the bell. The same bell she’d heard after seeing Ana murder a boy; the same bell that echoed across the city each time a boy lost his life to a woman.

  Against her will, a smile spread across Lara’s face, pulling her dirty skin. She looked up to the starless sky, feeling the blood rest on her palms, and shut her eyes. She counted each ring of the bell, feeling it pound in time with her palpating heart.

  When the bell stopped after its thirteenth chime, Lara thought of the saying that had been cemented into her skull, the same words Lithe had written across the now unmoving bell: Solitudine cum execratione maledicta congessit. Solitude is a curse.

  Lara was beginning to understand exactly what that meant.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” ––Oscar Wilde

  1929

  Elizabeth has slept horribly. There was no doubt in her mind that the nightmares that tarnished her sleep had been a gift from Charles—her one-time fiancé. She looked down to her bare ring finger, mind reeling.

  Had he always been a monster? she thought. Was it possible that he had been, but she’d been too blinded by her own adoration? Yes, she admitted, I must have been.

  “Elizabeth, are you ready? We’re leaving in ten minutes,” said Anabelle from her doorway, knocking quietly. Was it dawn already? Elizabeth turned to the open window beside her, eyes wide, and realized it was—the night sky had enveloped her bedroom and allured its shadows. She’d spent the entire day in bed, wholly miserable and discontented.

  “Okay,” she answered. She listened as Anabelle walked away from the door, her footsteps quiet and soft, then quickly pounced from her tousled bed, moving to the closet. On the top shelf rested a large antique box, locked away from years of isolation. It had been her late mother’s, a box filled with trinkets and memorabilia alike, both the last remnants of her mother. Elizabeth pulled it from the shelf, lifting up the silken top, and shuffled through with a purpose, looking for something—something she hadn’t seen in a great number of years.

  Ah, she thought. There it was: the necklace that had been gifted to Elizabeth on her mother’s deathbed, the same necklace she swore she’d never revisit, in hopes of forgetting her mother’s tragic death. Something in her had whispered to her heart, telling her to pull it out, to wrap it around her pale neck. So she did, admiring the golden locket in the mirror as she fastened it behind her neck. It was dainty, beautiful. She swore to never remove it.

  Elizabeth’s door opened. She dropped her han
d from her neck, turning. “It’s time,” said Lillian, looking grim. Elizabeth sucked in a shaky breath.

  Then the three were off, leaving the apartment with nothing but blades tucked in their pockets and sweaters for the cold. The streets were empty and quiet. They linked hands, squeezing each other’s shaky fingers with silent love. Elizabeth smiled at the small embrace.

  Anabelle’s heels sounded throughout the street as they approached Charles’s quant apartment, all looking up to its startling height. They seemed to pull in a simultaneous breath as they opened the glass door, heading toward the stairs. They walked and walked, up the concrete stairs, hands touching the rusted rail, until they reached floor ten. Two below thirteen—the top floor.

  “Remember what we said,” whispered Anabelle. There they stood, before apartment 113, all staring, unsure of who would first knock on the door. Surprisingly, Elizabeth reached her fist to the closed door, pounding on its wood. Lillian smiled proudly.

  The door opened. “Hello?” said Charles. “Oh,” he said upon seeing Elizabeth’s face. “Hello.”

  Elizabeth nodded, not trusting herself to utter a word. She was sure it’d come out breathy, barely a whisper.

  “May we come in?” asked Anabelle.

  Charles stepped back an inch. “I suppose,” he said. The girls walked in, hands admirably concealed behind their backs. He hastily shoved his own hands in his pockets, uncomfortable in the drawn-out silence. “What is the meaning of this?” he said finally.

  “We wanted to talk,” said Lillian, pacing his apartment, observing the framed photographs lining his walls.

  “I can see that,” he replied. “But what about?”

  “Last week,” said Anabelle, lifting her chin in confidence. “We know what happened.”

  Charles feigned confusion. “I’m sorry,” he said, looking to Elizabeth, “but I’m afraid I don’t know what you are speaking of.”