The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1)

by Catherine Black

  “I didn't take you for a dirty cop.”

  Griffin laughs, but there's not a trace of humor behind it. “It's all subjective, brother. Dirty or clean, only one of us here has a criminal record.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Mercury

  Knocking at my bedroom door savagely drags me from a coma-like sleep. I crack one eyelid open, glaring at the door. If I was dreaming, I don't remember it, but I enjoy sleep, so this intrusion is unwelcome.

  Before I have the chance to grab my boot off the floor and fling it at the murderer of my REM, Layla bursts through the door, marching straight for the curtains. Her long red hair billows out behind her like a villain's cape, and a second later, sunlight floods the room, illuminating tiny specks of dust dancing through the air. Even they shimmer in outrage when Layla opens the window, welcoming in the tepid Missouri air she loves so much.

  “Get up. You missed breakfast.”

  I'd hope so. Seeing as how, according to the clock on the wall, it's closing in on noon. I stretch both hands toward the ceiling, wincing as every part of my body lights up in agony. It's a sweet, hard-fought type of discomfort, one that reminds me how much ass I kicked to land myself in this position.

  “C'mon. Up,” Layla waves. “Let's see it.”

  Perpetually cold hands grab hold of mine and jerk me upright. I could fight back, but Layla has even less patience than I do and she doesn't take shit from anyone, even me. This isn't the first time she's inquired about Ice's handiwork, so I expose my midriff, yawning as she examines the new bruises. One from the boot to my ribs, the other from a fist to the stomach.

  She tsks, shaking her head. “Still letting him get a shot in, I see.”

  Smirking, I raise two fingers.

  “Two?” She rolls her eyes. “You're such a dumbass.”

  My lack of articulation doesn't bother Layla the way it does everyone else. In fact, I think she prefers my silence. The less I speak, the fewer questions I can ask, and that's an admirable trait under this roof. Blacklighters like Layla go to great lengths to protect their privacy—to protect their darkest, dirtiest secrets—even from other Blacklighters.

  “You look like hammered shit, Mercury.” She delivers the insult with a ghost of a smile before grabbing a compact off the dresser and pulling a clear plastic baggie from her pocket. I suppress a groan as she empties a tiny pile of white powder onto the face of the mirror, her hands steady and practiced as she straightens it into two thin lines before setting it on my bedside table. “Lunch is in thirty. Don't be late or your mother will flip her shit. And do something about your lip, please. It's grossing me the fuck out.”

  The door slams behind Layla when she leaves, and I listen to her heels click down the hallway. Once I hear the elevator ding, I slip out of bed, stretch, and lazily pad barefoot into the adjoining bathroom, coke in hand. Leaning over the sink basin, I twist both faucet knobs and let clear rivulets dance on the surface of the mirror until the powder disintegrates and washes down the drain.

  The other girls may need blow to function, but I don't.

  When I look up and meet my reflection in the mirror, I smirk. Layla was right, I do look like shit, but I'm used to it. Dark shadows below my lashes make these blue eyes of mine look too big for my face. A smattering of scars paint my right cheek, reminding everyone of the time I jumped through a plate glass window—that was a fun birthday—and yellow spots indicating the healing of old wounds dot my entire jaw. If my face were a story, it'd be a painful one.

  I run my tongue over the week-old split in my lip that's almost completely healed, remembering why Layla hates split lips and black eyes. The wounds remind her of a life before Blacklighters. A life spent chained to an ungrateful man who communicated with fists instead of words. That asshole is probably the reason Layla is so devoted to this life.

  As quickly as I can manage, I wash my face and roughly give my teeth a good brushing. The concealer and foundation I apply perfectly match my porcelain skin, covering the wreckage that is my face, and once I finally look like a presentable human being instead of a walking nightmare, I slip into a purple dress and black heels before leaving my room.

  Same shit. Different day.

  Downstairs, the rich aroma of roast beef and sauteed onions permeates the air, making my empty stomach growl. The click-click-click of my heels against hardwood signals my arrival to the dining hall, and when I duck through the giant archway, I come face to face with a room full of people waiting for me.

  “You're late,” Blair scolds. She snaps a finger and points to the empty seat at her right.

  I make quick work of sitting down and hanging my head in admonishment. It seems the closer I get to my initiation, the easier it is to disappoint her. Last week I showed up to dinner without eyeliner and she lost her shit, banishing me to my room for the remainder of the night. You never know what's going to set her off, so I've tread carefully.

  Heavy footsteps sound and every woman in the room turns to face the swinging kitchen doors. Ice steps through, carrying a plate in each hand which he delivers to the head of the table. First Blair, and then me. Following him are the rest of the Keepers—men employed to ensure our lives as Blacklighters run smoothly—each delivering food to the table full of women. When everyone has a plate, we wait for a sign, like always. Even though half these girls look like they're starving to death, no one moves a muscle until Blair reaches for her wine glass. That's our cue. Once that Cabernet touches her lips, the tinking of forks against ceramic and the squishy sounds of mastication fill the room.

  It's easy to tell which of these women have been here long and which are newcomers. Aside from the purple verses black attire, the trainees—Violets—all eat like wolves. Like every meal could be their last. Not surprising, since Blair saves most of them from pimps, destitution, or abusive relationships. But the Blacklighters—the women who have chained themselves to this life—they eat like they're dining with the queen. Back ramrod straight, white linen napkin laid over their lap, chewing each bite twenty times before swallowing. You'd never guess that, underneath the etiquette and false lashes, these women are savages. Potential killers in heels. Perhaps that's why I've idolized them for so long. Because like me, they too have inner demons fighting to be set free.

  I nab a piece of roast with my fingers and pop it in my mouth, enjoying the rich flavor, but belatedly realizing that Blair is watching me. She gives the tiniest, almost imperceptible shake of her head, and I reluctantly grab a fork and jab it into the meat for my next bite. That's not acceptable either, judging by the annoyed sigh that slips through her lips. Doesn't matter. At this point in time, nothing I do will please her.

  Once everyone at the table is finished, we all stand and exit as one, leaving the men behind to eat their meal alone. Our heels click in sync as we head down the corridor toward the front door, beating out a rhythm that has become the background track to all my favorite nightmares.

  Click-click-click-click.

  Click-click-click-click.

  If I close my eyes, I can almost imagine we're one impenetrable unit—a single entity. When I'm in this line, I'm not different, and I have yet to figure out if that's good or bad. I know I come off as reserved and seemingly heartless to every other woman here, but there's a reason. I—Mercury Havenworth—am not an average Violet, and I won't be just another Blacklighter. Because unlike every other soul living in Farewell, I wasn't saved or found or recruited or even bought.

  I was born here.

  That fact is my biggest curse, and simultaneously, my greatest blessing.

  For mid-May, the weather outside is unseasonably warm for Missouri. The rolling hills and high post oaks are as beautiful as always, but I can't appreciate them in this weather, not with perspiration beading on my upper lip and smearing my foundation. Luckily, the walk from the main house to the bar—to Blacklighters—is a short one.

  When locals venture here, they see a watering hole filled with cheap liquor and sexy women bleed
ing for entertainment's sake, but it's so much more than that to those of us lucky enough to call this place home. Not only is it a means of income, but it's also a haven. We work here, we fight here, we play here, and we're safe here. To some, that's far more than they think they deserve from this life, and they are more than willing to sustain bodily injury if it means they get to stay.

  Leading us, Blair comes to a stop beside the open door at the side of the bar and nods to every woman as they enter. She seems tense today, more so than usual, especially when she holds out a hand, keeping me from entering.

  “A word, Mercury?” Everyone ahead of me keeps marching forward when I freeze, and eventually, the metal door slams shut, offering us the illusion of privacy. “Stick with Layla today. You're done training for now. Observe with her, offer guidance if you see fit, but don't step onto that mat. Do you hear me?”

  Her voice is as cold as the Arctic Tundra but as beautiful as the Northern Lights. It's the kind of voice that sticks with you long after she's left the room. The kind of voice that serves as a siren's call to men, and a warning to anyone with ovaries. On top of that, she really is a breathtaking woman, all subtle feminine curves and bright blonde hair. Beneath that beauty, however, lies a dormant danger. A coiled rattlesnake, poised to strike at a moment's notice. Her temper is a wildfire once it's unleashed, consuming everything in its path, killing thoughtlessly, wreaking havoc on the planet. And it's my absolute favorite thing about her.

  I nod a curt yes, answering her question, and she smiles. The expression softens her features, smoothing away the tension and fire lining her eyes, giving the illusion of serenity. It's a rare occurrence, one that baffles me every time. “I know seven years is a long time to wait, but it will be worth it, I promise. You've worked hard for this.”

  She's right. I did work hard. But I don't say that. Instead, I lift my lips in what I assume is a smile, prompting her to lean forward and kiss my forehead. Her lips don't actually touch my skin, but her breath does, so it counts. “Make me proud, Mercury.”

  Blair stares down at me with the intensity of a mountain lion honing in on a fawn, awaiting a reply I'm obligated to give. My bottom lip burns where a bead of sweat lingers, but I lick along the healing cut, open my mouth, and force words out into the space between us, because that's what she's waiting for. Even though she knows I detest speaking, she demands it of me. Every damn day.

  “I will, Mother.”

  Training begins as soon as Ice arrives. Since I'm about to transition from Violet to Blacklighter, I'm not permitted to train, and I thought maybe observing with the rest of the Blacklighters would be a welcome reprieve, but it's not. It's torture. Layla keeps whispering in my ear, talking about all the trouble her and her Keeper got into last night, but I couldn't care less about her and Eric's relationship. Listening to her ramble while spectating instead of throwing punches is so mind-numbingly boring that I let my mind wander, and an itchy feeling sinks in the second my walls are down.

  I've never been an anxious person, not ever, but now it's there. Tingling hot. Putrid and thick. Anxiety overcomes me once I realize my life as I know it is over. As soon as my initiation is complete, everything will change. I'll no longer live in the cramped Violet quarters with my single bed and barred window. Instead, I'll have my own permanent set up on the top floor with the rest of the Blacklighters, and I won't be alone. I'll share the space with a partner—a Keeper—and there's nothing I can say or do to work my way around that. It's tradition. And because the blood flowing through my veins also belongs to the Madam, I will be watched at all times. From now until the end of days. When she steps down, I'll step up, and this...this will all be mine. It's what I've always wanted, ever since I was a little girl and used to watch my mother take down her opponents in the cage, so I don't understand why unease has me by the throat, breathing down my neck. Perhaps this is my new norm; maybe this is how my mother feels every morning when she wakes.

  The thought is amusing but impossible. My mother is too strong for such weak emotions. Fear, unease, distress—these things do not belong in her world.

  After an entire day of training, the Violets linger to spar and gab, and the Blacklighters invite me to stick around and have a drink. But I don't indulge. I head back to my room, ready to bid adieu to the most boring day of my life. I'm not like the other girls. I've never seen the point of idle chit-chat or insincere platitudes. The hair flipping, eye-lash batting, peacock strut is something I've never understood. They speak of celebrities I don't know, gush over movies I've never seen, and sing lyrics from songs I've never heard. Their references and jokes are foreign to me, and I suppose that's part of the reason they avoid me. We could never understand one another, and perhaps they sense that just as easily as I do.

  Back in my room, I twist the lock and reach for the light, much like I've done a thousand times before. But just as my fingers reach for the switch, I freeze. I stop breathing. Even though my senses are screaming at me to flood the room with light and bask in its safety, I don't. Not even when the tiny hairs at the back of my neck stand on end.

  Something's different.

  Something's wrong.

  It doesn't take but a millisecond to register. Because on my next inhalation, I smell them.

  Aftershave with notes of cedar. Motor oil. Cigarette smoke. These scents don't belong in my room, and they sure don't belong to me, which can only mean one thing.

  Intruders.

  I tilt my head to the side, listening, and catch the barest sound of someone wheezing softly. Then, a hard, nervous swallow. Nothing else. There are two men hiding in the dark corners of my room, and they are waiting for me.

  Some Keepers have a bad habit of venturing into the rooms of Violets, looking to either indulge in a good time or take what they think is theirs before the girl claims Blacklighter status and is untouchable. Such habits may be okay to some degree, even welcomed by some, but this is my room. And they just made a big, big mistake.

  Slowly, I spin around to face my intruders. Not even moonlight seeps into the room, so I can't see their silhouettes, can't make out the distinct shapes of furniture, but I don't have to. Pitch black is my favorite color. I don't need light. I don't need eyes.

  But they do.

  “Now!”

  Four hands grab onto my arms, clamping down hard, but they misjudge the distance from me to them and I'm able to shrug them off easily. They're persistent, however, and as soon as I'm free, they come again. The globe of a kneecap grazes my side, not even close to causing harm, and I'm both shocked and pissed when a weak slap of a palm meets my cheek.

  Slapping?

  Really, guys?

  My once tranquil room comes to life violently and loudly as the two men try their damnedest to subdue me, but they're floundering. Stumbling blind. Hitting and missing. Panting through their exertion while my breathing is shallow and even. I'm sure I'd find the situation humorous if I had a sense of humor.

  It doesn't take much for the duo to tire. Messy shots drain energy faster than clean, concise ones, and they're all over the damn place. Clearly, their little attack isn't enough—they aren't enough—and I think we all know it. Still, I don't reach for the light. Not even when I hear it. The flip. Metal snapping into place. It's a new shift, something unexpected, and I hone in on the man wielding the weapon. Two men and a knife against one woman? Outside these compound gates, that would be an unfair fight, but here in my room? They'll need a little more than a blade to win.

  I step back, inching deep into the corner, and they mistake my retreat for cowardice.

  That's right. Follow me.

  A firm, broad chest bumps into my shoulder as a man towers over me, so close I can smell his rank breath. Mistake number one. I jerk his arm, he jerks me back, grabbing a handful of hair. Mistake number two. Pain sears my scalp, but I block it out. Behind him, the second man paces wildly. “Just get it over with,” he hisses.

  “No hard feelings, Mercury.” The blade presses aga
inst my throat and I have a sudden urge to laugh when it breaks through the first layer of skin. His fingers jerk at my tangled hair, wrenching my head back, but I spit in his face. We turn, and his substantial weight pins me into the corner.

  That's when I feel it. The hard bulge pressing against my hip. For a moment, my breath stalls. Not in fear or worry, but in pure, undiluted fury. It races through me, molten and fluid, filling every crevice of my being, burning me up from the inside out, and for the first time in years, I let my carefully-held control slip a fraction of an inch.

  This is no longer a game.

  I don't care why they've come or what purpose they serve, but I'm done.

  Fucking done.

  They may watch in awe when I fight, but they don't know what I'm capable of. They've never seen me at my worst because there's never been any reason for me to come out of my shell and allow that to happen. But thanks to their ignorance, I'm on the verge of letting go and letting the chips fall where they may.

  All it takes is a slip, a carefully orchestrated loosening of my fingers, and the walls come down. Concrete bricks tumble as my defenses lower, revealing the door inside of me—the one keeping my rage carefully locked away—and once my anger beckons for it to join the party, the wood splinters open, leaving the door hanging crooked on its hinges.

  “Don't. Touch. Me.”

  I don't recognize my voice, because it doesn't belong to me. It belongs to the woman I am when I let the ugliness take over. Filled to the brim with fire and venom, I know there's no stopping now. I'm out for blood. The unwelcome erection continues to press harder against my hip, and arms wind around my shoulders, intent on disabling me. But I'm stronger. More viable. Better in every fucking way. Nails dig into his wrist, drawing blood as I spin his arm with ease, repositioning him like a doll until the blade turns down. He grunts in pain, fighting against me, but I'm faster than he expects.

  With absolutely zero thought of what the repercussions of my actions may be, I slam his hand down with all my strength, sinking the knife into his thigh before pulling up at an angle, severing his femoral artery. I yank it out and plunge it into him again, this time through his pectoral muscles.