The Horror Emporium: A Horror Anthology

by K. A Knight

  At this point, if Hell has food, I’ll be okay with that.

  I turn as an old man steps in front of us, a ring of pretty yellow flowers in his hands. He bows his head and holds up the crown, murmuring.

  “He said he made it for you,” Dante translates, his lips pressed into a thin line.

  “For me?” I ask in surprise. “That’s . . . wow, they’re beautiful. Thank you.”

  I bow my head for the old man and let him set the ring on top of my sweat-drenched hair, smiling at his generosity, but he doesn’t look relieved or happy. Instead, the old man bows his head again and darts away as fast as he can.

  “Why give me the flowers?” I remark, touching my fingers to the waxy petals.

  “Here, flowers have many meanings. They can be for love, for celebration, for friends, for a funeral.” Dante stares in the direction the old man left, his own frown pulling at his lips.

  “And which of those was intended for me?” I already know the answer. It isn’t for love or friendship because I’ve never met that man before. Celebration is a very small possibility, because it’s the Day of the Dead, but as far as that man is concerned, I’m not celebrating anything. No, it was meant to be a funeral. Combined with the odd actions of the locals, it’s enough to force me to stop walking, for Dante to turn and look at me in question when I threaten to pull my fingers from his.

  “Why does it matter?” he asks. “Earlier, you did not seem to care I was dangerous.”

  He’s right, of course. Why am I suddenly listening to my instincts? Still, I don’t move to follow him, not yet. “I want to hear you say what the man intended with these flowers.”

  The street immediately around us is emptier than the others, less people to stare as Dante moves closer, the fingers of his free hand reaching up to cup my chin. “You want to hear me tell you that the man gave you flowers for your death?” he asks, his words more of a purr than a question. “You want me to tell you those are meant for your grave at the end of the night?”

  “Honesty is important,” I whisper, my voice husky. Really, it shouldn’t be a turn on for him to be talking about funerals. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.

  “He thinks you’re going to die, so he was adorning your body early.” His red eyes search mine and for a moment, it feels like he’s giving me a moment to run away. “Does that bother you, dulzura?”

  I think about it, wondering if it bothered me. Obviously, it does or else I wouldn’t have asked, but maybe it bothers me for a different reason than it should. Instead of being afraid of my funeral, it just makes me sad for Dante. I don’t know what it is that causes him to be so feared, but it can’t help that any interest he shows in a woman earns stares, Hail Marys’, and people passing out flowers for funerals. “Does it make you sad?” I ask, staring deep into his eyes. “To be treated like this, does it make you sad?”

  Dante blinks, and then blinks again. “You’re asking me how I feel after everyone treated you so poorly?”

  I shrug my shoulders. “Yes.”

  “I,” he stares at me, but instead of answering, my stomach gives another loud grumble and the corner of his lips kicks up. “Come, let’s get some food in you.”

  Dante led me to a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant I would have missed had he not veered off the road and pushed through the worn and faded door. Some sort of symbol is etched into the frame, but I can’t get a good look at it before Dante is pulling me through into the empty restaurant. A man, just a beautiful as Dante appears from the back, carrying a tray of drinks.

  “Beinvenidos,” he murmurs. He goes out of his way not to make eye contact with Dante. Me, however, he stares openly at me, his eyes are red, just like Dante’s, and he looks me up and down.

  Dante waves his hand and the man starts setting down the glasses on a nearby table.

  “What is all this?” I ask, staring at the five glasses he set down in surprise.

  “Different drinks for your tasting.”

  Dante drags me to the table and takes a seat. I move to take the other chair, but Dante’s fingers don’t release mine. He tugs me backwards until I stumble and land in his lap, his arm wrapped around me like a steel trap.

  “I can sit by myself,” I point out, looking down at him and curling my arm around his neck. “I’m a big girl.”

  His eyes flash, a wicked smile curling his lip. “Oh, that I can very much see, Mallory.” The way my name rolls off his tongue does silly things to my stomach and I shift a little on his lap. He sucks in a breath, his fingers beginning to caress me through my clothing, remaining respectful, but bordering the line of inappropriate in public. There’s no one else here though, so I can’t complain as his knuckles brush against the hard bud of my nipple through my dress.

  “Is this all part of your big plan to seduce me?” I purr, tangling my fingers in his hair. The position is a little awkward, especially when I’m trying not to flash anyone, but I don’t really care. His hair is my new favorite thing.

  “Is it working?” He leans down and presses a kiss to my collarbone.

  “Maybe,” I breath.

  The waiter comes back out, sees me sprawled across Dante’s lap, and his eyes dance away again, as if he knows not to look. Dante hums in pleasure as the man sets down a plate filled with cut fruits, before hurrying from the room.

  Dante waits until the man is completely gone before he reaches forward and plucks a strawberry from the tray, the skin ripe and juicy. He holds it up to my lips and I take a bite in what I imagine to be the sexiest way possible. I’m nearly certain it isn’t, but I don’t think too hard on it, especially when Dante’s eyes follow the action with hunger of a different kind. As if he can’t resist, he leans forward and captures my lips once I stop chewing, no doubt tasting the fruit. His tongue darts out and tangles with mine, his knuckles running across my nipples with more purpose. I squirm in his lap and he pulls back a breath.

  “If you keep moving like that, dulzura,” he purrs. “I’ll end up taking you right here on this table.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I breath, my eyes hooded.

  He lifts me suddenly from his lap, but I don’t get a chance to be upset before he pulls me back down, my back to his chest, my legs spread around his. Thankfully, I’m wearing a knee length dress, or the position would have been much more risqué. His hardness presses into my ass, seeking attention, but apparently, he isn’t interested in going that route yet.

  His breathe fans across the nape of my neck as he pushes my hair to the side. When he lips land there, I tilt my head to give him better access. His hands circle me to cup my breasts through my dress, rolling my nipples. My breath stutters and I reach backwards to thread my fingers back into his hair, holding him to me.

  “Eres tan hermosa,” he purrs against my skin, and I moan as he begins to pay special attention to the muscle between my neck and shoulder. “Las cosas que quiero hacerte, you should be afraid, dulzura.”

  One of his hands trails down my stomach and to my thigh, his fingers clenching in the fabric.

  “Why should I be afraid?” I ask, my head thrown back with wild abandon.

  Slowly, he begins to bunch my skirt up until his fingers touch my bare thigh, until the position is far more revealing than it had been before. “Te voy a destruir.”

  That should scare me, but hearing ‘I will destroy you’ in Spanish as his fingers trail up the inside of my thigh has a way of clouding your judgement. And when his fingers meet the lace between my thighs and circle there, my breath stutters.

  “What if I’m okay with being destroyed?” I murmur, and for a moment, his fingers stop their caress, but then he rewards me with pushing the lace aside and stroking me right where I want him to.

  “Cuidado, dulzura,” he groans against my skin.

  My fingers clench harder in his hair to the point of pain when his teeth scrap my flesh, and my wrist brushes against his ear, an ear that’s pointed rather than round. I don’t have a chance to study it furt
her because at that moment, one of his slender fingers slides inside of me and curls. My head falls back against his shoulder in pleasure as he strokes inside me before adding another. His thumb circles my clit, cranking my arousal higher. I no longer care if the waiter comes back out, or if other customers decide to come inside. Who could care about such trivial things when such talented fingers decide to stroke them?

  “Oh, God,” I moan, rolling my hips in an attempt to ride his hand. His other hand holds me steady, making sure I can’t control his actions. I turn my head and let him capture my lips, the kiss a little more intense than it had been before. I bite at his lip and his cock jumps against my backside, his fingers moving a little faster until I’m a great big ball of nerves.

  My breathing comes quicker, my hips attempting to roll, as he releases my lips to trail his tongue down my jaw, nipping at my skin. “Ven por mí,” he groans against my skin, and either it’s because of his command or because I’m already on the edge, I cum around his fingers, quivering with my release. I moan and clench my jaw to keep from screaming out in pleasure, but there would be no doubt that anyone would know what we are doing. There’s no way to stay so silent with his fingers still gently stroking inside me. His lips press against my neck, the kisses so tender, they make me shiver again. Dante removes his fingers and adjusts my skirt, covering me again.

  “Me matas, dulzura,” he groans, bringing his hand to his mouth and licking.

  I watch him, enraptured, as he cleans his fingers of my juices, as he moans in pleasure at my taste and his hardness grinds against my ass. Never have I ever wanted to have sex in such a public place before as I do then.

  “Vamos.” He lifts me from his lip, and I sway on unsteady feet, my body weaker than I remember. I clutch at his shoulder and his hands steady me, and that damn sadness passes in front of his eyes again. “Let’s go enjoy the festival some more.”

  We’re out the door and down the road before I realize I never ate anything, but oddly, my stomach isn’t growling.

  It’s like I don’t have the energy to be hungry.

  Chapter 6

  The next hour goes by in a blur of exhaustion and sexual tension. We don’t dance anymore, but we watch the other dancers. There is something relaxing about watching their skirts flaring out with the festival, their faces painted like sugar skulls, flowers threaded into their hair, and then the dancers to start dropping off one by one as they grew too tired to continue. But no one returns home. The square is just as packed as ever, some preferring to stay where the music is, but others leave for the cemetery.

  I’d forgotten why I needed to get to the cemetery in the first place, so I never follow them. I just stay with Dante and watch the talented dancers.

  “Do you ever wish you were a different person?” Dante asks suddenly, and even though the music is loud, I hear him loud and clear. We’re sitting on one of the worn benches, the metal cold beneath me even through the material of my skirt. For the most part, we aren’t touching, not in the normal sense, but I’m hyper aware of him. Our hands rest on the bench between us, a centimeter apart from touching fingers. After our trip to the restaurant, we’ve both been a little tense. Me, because it isn’t like me at all to let some stranger bring me to orgasm in public. I don’t know why he’s so quiet, but with his question, I can only imagine.

  “You mean be an entirely different person? Like you wake up one day and you’re someone else?” I don’t turn to meet his eyes, not yet. That question feels loaded and the conversation much deeper than I expected we would get into.

  “Sí,” he mumbles. “An entirely different person.”

  “I don’t anymore.” I turn to look at him. “I used to though, a couple of years ago.”

  “Why only a couple of years ago?” Dante’s eyes meet mine, and although there is still danger and mischief in his eyes, sadness is there too, shining brightly. Something about that sadness speaks to me, draws me in, until I found myself revealing things I never intended to reveal.

  “When I was a freshman in college, I went home to visit my mom. Her and my dad split years before that, so it’d been mom and me for a while. But going off to college was hard for the both of us. I knew she felt alone but she didn’t want me to give up my dreams.” I chuckle, the sound humorless. “Not that she would have ever let me not go to college, anyways. She’d been there for every admission packet, every essay I had to write. She made sure I went after what I wanted.” I took a deep breath. “But when I came home that day, I hadn’t been able to get ahold of her for a few hours. She didn’t know I was coming home. It was going to be a surprise, and that morning, she’d sounded so sad.”

  “What happened?” Dante’s finger finally moves to touch mine, his warm skin relaxing me just a little more.

  “When I walked into the house, I knew something was wrong, because cartoons were playing on TV. Mom never liked cartoons and she hated when I watched them as a kid, but she always let me watch them. The fact that they were on was a red flag. And then I saw the slipper. In the house, my mom wanted us to wear slippers, so we didn’t scuff up the floors. I remember thinking, ‘why is there only one slipper in the middle of the floor?’ and then I looked up.” I watched a new set of dancers join the fray, the woman wearing skirts in fuchsia, the color a beacon under the night sky. Her appearance makes others join back in, as if they have to dance near her, as if they had been waiting for her. “She’d been hanging up there a few hours,” I murmur. “It took me five minutes to call the cops, because my fingers wouldn’t work like they were supposed to.” I stare at the dirt beneath my feet. “The news spread like wildfire not only in town but at college, too. After all the ‘Sorry for your losses’, the ‘she’s in a better place’, and my favorite ‘suicide is a sin’, I wished really hard to be someone else.”

  “What changed it for you?”

  “My friend, Myrna. She was there for me when I needed her. She didn’t say all those things, didn’t ask me to elaborate. She was just there, and it made all the difference.”

  Dante seems to contemplate my words for a moment before he kisses the back of my hand. “If only we could have been different people when we needed it.”

  “See, that’s the thing. I don’t think I should have been a different person, because how else would I be who I am today?” I move closer to Dante until our thighs touch. “We’re meant to be who we are, whether that’s a criminal, a lover, a poet. We are who we are, and that’s okay.”

  His eyes flash, those red irises growing brighter in the moonlight. “Would you like to dance again?”

  I think about it, taking stock of my body, and shake my head. “I’m a little more tired than I realized. I don’t think I can dance.” He flinches backwards, as if I slapped him, and I wrinkle my brow in confusion. “Are you okay?”

  “Sí, dulzura. Let’s go somewhere else.”

  “Somewhere a little quieter,” I stipulate. “I might need to take a power nap to keep going for the festival.”

  Dante stands and pulls me to my feet quickly enough that I stumble. “Would you like me to carry you?” he asks, leaning down to meet my eyes.

  I shake my head and let him lead me back down the street, to another doorway where there are less people milling about. Another symbol is etched into the wood, either a warning or a promise. Maybe both. “What is this place?”

  “There are certain places in Matamoros that I’m welcome. This is one of those.”

  “I’m not about to be kidnapped, am I?” I asked, eying the worn door.

  “No. You wanted a quiet place, yes?”

  “I did.”

  “So come along, dulzura.”

  Dante pulls me inside and I’m surprised to see it’s some sort of hotel. There is no attendant at the front, only a wall of keys. Dante grabs a set and leads me to the stairs, and finally to a small door with the number eleven etched into it. When he opens the room, it’s clean and pristine, completely at odds with the dingy façade out front.

&n
bsp; I stand at the door, refusing to walk inside, my instincts screaming at me to run away. I don’t understand why because it’s a simple room, nothing out of the ordinary inside except for the man who stands in the center and stares at me.

  “You can run,” he whispers. “I won’t chase you, even though I’ll be tempted.”

  “Why would I run?” I ask even though I’m standing at the door, clearly contemplating that very action.

  “Because I’m a monster, Mallory. I understand that. My nature won’t allow me to walk away from you, no matter how much I might like to. But I can let you go if you turn and leave this building. Puedo hacer eso para usted.”

  “Should I be running?” My fingers are clenching the doorframe a little too hard, a little too necessary to hold myself upright. My legs feel weak, and honestly, I don’t think I can run if I wanted to.

  “Yes.”

  “Because you’re a monster?”

  He grits his teeth, the muscles in his jaw ticking with the movement, and he slides his hands into his pockets. “Sí, dulzura. Because I’m the monster everyone warned you about.”

  But they never said those monsters would wear a pretty face, I think, staring into his eyes.

  “Do you want me to go?”

  “Yes,” he whispers. “And no. I can’t be a different person. I can’t change my nature. No matter how much I wish I could right now.”

  “It’s the thought that counts,” I reply automatically, a silly line my mom used to say. Really, it’s nothing more than an excuse to not do something you know you should, like thinking about telling your child happy birthday, only to not say a word and pretend in your own mind that the thought is what counts. I always hated that line.

  “Does it?” Dante tilts his head to the side, and in the light of the fluorescent bulb, I see for the first time his ear revealed. Normally, that wouldn’t have given me pause, because it’s just an ear, but Dante’s aren’t like mine. Normal ears are round unless there is some odd reason for it not to be. Dante’s, though, has a very distinct point. “I doubt the thought counts when you are dead.” He takes a step towards me, but I don’t move. I don’t run or move closer. I just stay perched in the doorway. “Are you going to run, Mallory?”