“Take Mr. Lawson on a tour, would you? When you're done, find Eric.”
I glare at my mother, knowing damn good and well this is her idea of punishment from the way her eyes are glittering with malice. I don't want to speak to him. I don't want to entertain the outsider. And my mother knows it. But as much as I hate her for putting me in this position, I have to acknowledge that I'm just as much at fault.
If I hadn't slipped, if I hadn't killed a man, I wouldn't be here.
And neither would Mr. Lawson.
CHAPTER SIX
Kessler
The woman that emerges from the shadows—Mercury—is tiny and breathtakingly beautiful...but terrifying in her own right. She's not wielding a crowbar and gnashing her teeth at me, and she's not physically intimidating by any stretch of the imagination, but there's something about her that has me tensing when I stand. Something off.
Maybe it's the way she doesn't blink. Like a snake. Or the way her face shows zero signs of emotion, neither good nor bad. Her face is just kind of there. Wide blue eyes with dark lashes. Heavy makeup. Scars that even her thick makeup can't cover. Plump lips. A turned up nose pierced with a small silver hoop. On their own, her features are perfectly normal, but put together against a blank, inexpressive canvas, she looks...
Dead.
Mercury looks dead.
“Um. Hello...”
Again, like the idiot I am, I extend a hand in greeting. The manners my mother instilled in me from birth are hard to ignore even though I know from one glance that this woman's not going to touch me. But still, there's my hand, stuck out in the cold air between us. Surprising absolutely no one, this shell of a human being doesn't take it. She looks down at my steady fingers then back up at my face.
Nothing.
Just cold, empty nothingness stares back at me.
Before I know what's happening, Blair's Keeper, side piece, sex slave—whatever the hell he is—escorts us both out the door and slams it behind us, leaving me alone in the hallway with this frightening little girl. And that's what she looks like in her ill-fitting purple dress and messy hair hanging in dark waves around her face—a child. Actually, no, I take that back. With her empty eyes and frozen features, Mercury here looks like a doll. More Chucky than Rainbow Bright, which has me hoping she doesn't have a cleaver hidden behind her back.
When Mercury looks up (and up and up—thanks to our significant difference in height) I see a flicker of something barely resembling emotion when she opens her mouth and speaks, soft and slow, weighing every word. “This way.”
I follow her down the short, sparsely decorated hallway and through open elevator doors, immediately sensing this may be a bad idea. Even before I was hauled away at nineteen, I'd already seen enough horror movies to know that this—climbing into an inescapable metal box with someone reeking of danger—is fucking stupid. But I'm here to do a job, so I stand just to her left and pretend she's not creeping me the hell out.
Slowly, the doors close, trapping us inside, and Mercury points to the illuminated number two on the panel of buttons on the wall. “Madam's floor,” she says. This time when she speaks, I hear something I didn't before. A gruff texture. Grit. Not like what you'd hear in a smoker's voice, but close.
She points to the number three. “Violet living quarters.” If I remember correctly, those are the girls in training. Her hand moves again, finger extended to the number four. “Blacklighters.” Finally, she presses the number one and it lights up. “Ground floor.”
It dawns on me that this woman may sense my unease, and that'll only serve to make my job harder, so I suck it up, bury it deep, and try to relax. There's still one button she didn't point out, just below the numbers, and it's marked by a single letter. Curiosity gets the best of me.
“What's the X?”
Eyes forward, Mercury answers stoically. “None of your business.”
Well. Okay then.
Before graduating high school, I saved up enough money to go on an end of the year trip with the other seniors, and we visited Guadalupe, Mexico. While there, I charmed a female dive instructor into giving me a free pass for a cage diving adventure, and the second the cage was fully submerged and I cleared my mask, all I could see was the broad nose and wicked teeth of a great white shark, leering at me like I was lunch. Standing next to Mercury feels a lot like that.
The elevator doors open and we step out into a long hallway. Every wall is painted white. The floors are white tile. And the only splash of color—if you can call it that—are the doors, which are painted flat black with glass door knobs. Unlike at the bar where all this started, the main house is silent. The place is deserted. Each time we pass a closed door, Mercury speaks in that gritty, clipped tone of hers. “Kitchen. Dining room. Den. Library.”
I stop short, staring at the closed door. “Library?” I'm shocked to find something like that in a place like this. Then I remember what Blair said about rehabilitating women so they can take over the world or whatever. Makes sense that she'd want them to be intelligent and well read.
“It's where we keep books.” Mercury's explanation is so odd I do a double take, wondering if she's made a joke, but when I see the blank, placid look on her face, I realize she hasn't.
“I know what a library is.”
Without a word, she nods, turns, and carries on down the hall, and I half expect her head to spin all the way around until she's looking back at me while still marching forward, but the Exorcist moment never happens. Thank God.
We exit out the huge double doors at the front of the building and Mercury continues on across the gravel drive leading back to the bar. Blacklighters is scrolled across a large black sign, each letter of the word a different neon color. Everything else on the bar is black. The siding, shutters, windows, steps. Everything.
We enter the bar together, only to come face-to-face with complete anarchy. When I first stepped inside mere hours ago, the place was dead. Now, there are bodies occupying every booth, every chair, and every square inch of the dance floor. Music blares from boxy speakers mounted on every wall. The air is filled with cigarette smoke, tinged with the earthy aroma of marijuana. I'm a little scared to pull in a deep breath, lest I get higher than a kite. After all, it's been a while since I've partaken in debaucherous acts of any kind and my tolerance is fucking gone.
A group of women dressed in black catch my eye at the bar. Drinks in hand, they watch the locals throw back shots and grind against one another on the dance floor. The group's general air of superiority and thinly-veiled sense of danger tell me everything I need to know: These are the famed Blacklighters.
Mercury, seemingly indifferent to everything going on around her, marches us right up to the bar. Or, at least as close as we can get. A tall, gangly man stands in our way with his back to us, clearly drunk off his ass if his unsteady gait is any indication. Mercury makes it a point to clear her voice, and the guy turns, takes a drag from the cigarette dangling from his lips, and blinks through a haze. The very instant his eyes come into focus, he freezes.
“Mercury.” He says her name like he doesn't believe she's standing a foot in front of him. Like she's an apparition darkening his nightmares.
“Move.” The single word is clipped and cold, but she may as well have shouted with all the authority it carries.
He's so quick to comply, he stumbles out of the way, arms and legs flailing as he disappears into the crowd. The encounter strikes me as odd, seeing as how he has a good hundred pounds on Mercury and shouldn't be terrified of her five-foot-two frame, which just goes to reinforce my previous notion that this girl is a dangerous creature cloaked in beautiful wrappings.
I chuckle under my breath, looking down at Mercury. “You always have that effect on men?”
She says nothing, ignoring me completely as she steps away and approaches a tall blonde with unnatural green eyes. “Where's Eric?”
Blondie smirks. “Layla went to grab another bottle of bourbon from the stock room.
I'd check there. Knock first.”
Mercury nods and then we're off again, not stopping until we're at the end of a long hallway, safely tucked away from the heinous music wreaking havoc on my eardrums. She reaches for the doorknob, clearly intent on opening it, but when we hear voices beyond, she pauses and chooses to knock instead. Seconds later, it swings open, revealing rows of top-shelf liquor, cleaning supplies, a whirlwind of red hair, and Eric.
Even though we've clearly interrupted something, I've never been happier to see another sane individual in all my life. Although, after enduring both Blair and Mercury's company, I'm not sure sane is a word I could use to describe anyone who willingly chooses to work here.
Clothed only from the waist down and dripping with sweat, Eric offers Mercury and I a cheeky grin.
“Badass,” he nods slowly, flicking his eyes to me. “Welcome aboard, brother.”
“Thanks.” I think.
The redhead shuffles into the door frame with him, righting her jeans and skimpy black top. A full bottom lip juts forward as she pouts up at my friend. “You have to leave?”
“I won't be long,” he assures her.
“No worries.” She pats his chest, and the gesture is tender enough I know there's something going on between the two of them. Something deep. “My shift's over so I'll walk back with Mercury. I'll see you back here later?”
His eyes bore into her, so filled with heat I have to look away. It's a private look—a lover's look. “I'll be here.” That seems to appease her, but then Eric turns to Mercury, and his eyes clear. “Good luck tonight. You nervous?”
“Hell no, she's not nervous!” Red squeezes Mercury in a hug, and I watch her shoulders stiffen. So this strange woman hates physical contact of all kind. From anyone. Noted. “She was born for this. Ain't that right?”
We all wait for an answer, but it never comes. Mercury just continues staring at a blank spot on the wall, never moving her eyes to reply or even give a hint that she's heard someone speak. Red just waves away her indifference and turns to leave, clinging to Mercury's arm. “Have fun, boys.”
They disappear, and I turn back to Eric, who flings the door wide open. “C'mon in, man!”
I don't move a muscle. “Dude. I'm not getting in a closet with you.”
He rolls his eyes, reaches back, and bangs a fist into the wall between shelves, dislodging a door. It swings open on creaky hinges and a blast of unnatural light pours through. “Don't be a dick. There's another door, but it's all the way on the other side of the building. I'm lazy and got shit to do. Get in.”
All things considered, walking blindly into a strange room with a half-naked dude at my back isn't the worst decision I've made today.
I crouch through and straighten on the other side, quickly taking inventory of the huge room we land in. It's cavernous, and judging by the five rubber mats dotting the floor, I'm guessing this is where the women train. Lining the walls are racks of free weights, punching bags, water coolers, and tables housing various items I can't identify from a distance. The air in here is a good ten degrees cooler than the bar, and a shudder runs through me.
“So...what do you think?”
I turn to my friend, ten thousand questions posed on my tongue, ready to leap, but I settle on just one. “Is the redhead yours, Keeper?”
Instantly, Eric's shoulders fall. His cheeks flush red and he rubs a hand along the back of his neck. “Damn. Blair cut straight to the point, didn't she?”
“Eric...” I wait for my friend—excuse me, my former friend—to meet my eyes, which he does, reluctantly. What I see reflected back at me throws me for a loop. The man is drowning in shame. “What the hell did you get me into?”
Eric's back stiffens and he slowly approaches, diminishing the distance between us. “This place can get pretty crazy, but after eight years inside, this should be a breeze for you.”
That didn't exactly answer my question. “Is that so?”
“It's just one fight, Kess. You'll be fine.” Eric lifts both hands between us in a placating gesture, but my mind is fried. Short-circuiting.
Fight?
Me?
Maybe I should have read the fine print...
“What do you mean, one fight? What the hell are you talking about? She said the Blacklighters trained to fight, she didn't say shit about me.”
“Normally, yes, but...” He rubs at his temples before jerking his head in the direction of a threadbare sofa. “Just sit. I'll explain everything, but then we have to go.”
“Go where? And who the hell am I fighting? And why?” I start to pace, beyond irritated. Ironically, after being behind bars for eight years, this right here is the most trapped I've ever felt. I feel caged. Buried.
“Just sit your ass down!” Eric's voice echoes off the metal walls, assaulting my ears and making my hackles rise. I don't let people talk to me like that. Never have. Never will.
“Talk.” I jab a finger into his face when he takes a seat, knowing I have too much nervous energy running through me to plant my ass anywhere. “I want to know everything. Because something tells me if I'm left in the dark I'm gonna end up leaving this place with fewer appendages than I had when I arrived.”
“And you'd be right.” He doesn't blink, doesn't smile, only stares.
Fucking wonderful. When Eric made the call, I assumed they'd stick me behind the bar or make me stand guard at the door. I was ready for that. This? Not so much.
“Blair said she needed a warm body. What the hell's that mean? You never said squat about using my fists, Eric.”
“You scared?” He arches one blond brow in a clear challenge. Asshole.
“Scared? No. Pissed? Getting there.”
“Okay, okay.” Finally, Eric's tough guy facade breaks and he gives me a shit-eatin' grin paired with playful eyes. He looks so much like the kid I took under my wing all those years ago, I almost let myself relax. “Just...sit the fuck down. I'll sort you out.”
I don't want to sit. I want to slap the smug grin off his face. But I want answers more than I want to rearrange Eric's features. Something tells me I'm about to fall down a rabbit hole, and once I hit bottom, there'll be no way of climbing out.
“You better,” I grumble, dropping down beside him.
“Okay. The redhead, Layla? She's not mine.” He takes a deep breath, holds it for a beat, then releases it. “I'm hers.”
I take in what he says and turn it over in my head. Blair referred to the Blacklighter/Keeper dynamic as a partnership, but I have a feeling she's the kind of person who keeps her cards close to her chest. There's so much I don't know about this place, so much I need to know if I plan on surviving. “Go on.”
He chuckles, hanging his head. “She says jump, I ask off which bridge. She tells me to bleed, I strike a vein. She asks for the moon, I scale Everest and start building a ladder.”
“Didn't look too one-sided to me,” I point out. “Hell, not ten minutes ago you were fooling around in a dark supply closet with her.”
Eric was never exceptional with the ladies when we were younger, which tells me he's the kind of man who can appreciate the opposite sex for all the wondrous things they bring to a man's life. And judging by the lovestruck look plastered across his face, I'd say he's thoroughly whipped.
“It's not about sex, man. I mean, yeah, we've shared a bed plenty of times, we fool around a lot, but it's more than that. Here, sex isn't about pleasure or attraction or getting off, and it definitely isn't about love.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
“Currency.” Eric lifts his head, finally looking me straight in the eyes. He may seem like a good little manservant who likes dipping his wick in the occasional bar wench, but right now, while we're away from prying eyes, I have my friend back, and all I see before me is a man in pain. Not physical pain, but the kind of static burn that sets up shop in your chest when you're well and truly enamored by another human being. I don't know what it's like to feel what he's feeling firsthan
d, but I've seen those same eyes on dozens of inmates I met on the inside, all pining for a woman on the outside well beyond their grasp.
This fucker is in love.
“Dude...you've got it bad.”
“I know!” He laughs, raking both hands through his short hair, clawing like he wishes he could pull every strand out by the root. “It's so fucked up. She'd string me up by my testicles if she even thought I felt that way, but shit...did you see her? I mean, did you really look at her?”
“I did.”
“Four years ago she showed up looking like she'd gone ten rounds with Mike Tyson, begging Blair to take her in so her dick of a boyfriend couldn't get to her. Blair helped—she always helps these girls—and when we were both initiated and thrown together into a room alone, I didn't know what to think. I mean, at first, it was fun. Like, really fun. We'd come back from fights and she'd be so high on adrenaline she'd tear my clothes to shreds just to get to me, but now...” He sighs heavily; the exhalation of a man truly struggling to right every wrong in his life. “Now, things are different. And the worst part about it is she's so thoroughly invested in this, this fucking lifestyle, that she'll never leave. Even when she gets to a point where she can't fight anymore, she'll find a way to stay, and so will I, so we're here for the long haul. In it for good.”
“Lucky you,” I grumble.
“Enough about me,” he says, shaking his head. “Let's talk about this fight.”
I wave a hand through the air. “By all means.”
“Tonight, if Mercury wins, she'll be initiated. She'll be a full-fledged Blacklighter. And not only that, she'll be slated to claim ownership of everything here in Farewell—everything Blair owns. But if she loses...she doesn't get shit. Not ever.”
“Okay...what's so special about crazy pants?”
“Everything.” Eric takes time to drawl out each syllable. “For one, the girl is a machine. Most Blacklighters are only in training for six months, but they've been at her for seven years. She's the first woman to ever be born to an active Blacklighter here in Farewell, so, she's kind of legendary.”
The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1) Page 7