Always just us.
I slid inside of her, and she started rolling her hips, taking me in and out as she tipped her head back, and I squeezed her breast and bit her neck.
The snowy, silent night raged outside, our entire world right here, right now.
I wish we never had to leave the fountain.
We never did.
THE END
Thank you for reading Kill Switch!
Please keep reading for a glimpse of Nightfall,
Devil’s Night #4.
*This is a preview of Nightfall, the fourth and final installment of the Devil’s Night series. Enjoy!
* * *
Emory
Present
It was faint, but I heard it.
Water. Like I was behind a waterfall, deep inside a cave.
What the hell was that?
I blinked my eyes, stirring from the heaviest sleep I think I’ve ever had. Jesus, I was tired.
My head rested on the softest pillow, and I moved my arm, brushing my hand over a cool, splendidly plush white comforter.
I rolled my eyes around me, confusion sinking in as I took in myself burrowed comfortably into the middle of a huge bed, my body taking up about as much room as a single M&M inside its package.
This wasn’t my bed.
I looked around the lavish bedroom—white, gold, crystal, and mirrors everywhere, palatial in its opulence like I’d never seen in person—and my breathing turned shallow as instant fear took over.
This wasn’t my room.
Was I dreaming?
I pushed myself up, my head aching and every muscle tight like I’d been sleeping for a damn week.
I dropped my eyes, taking inventory of my body first. I laid on top of the bed, still fully clothed in my black, skinny pants and a pullover white blouse that I’d dressed in this morning.
If it was still today, anyway.
My shoes were gone, but on instinct I peered over the side of the bed and saw my sneakers sitting there, perfectly positioned on a fancy white carpet with gold filigree.
My pores cooled with sweat as I looked around the unfamiliar bedroom, and my brain wracked with what the hell was going on. Where was I?
I slid off the bed, my legs shaky as I stood up.
I’d been at the studio. Byron and Elise had ordered take-out for lunch, and—I pinched the bridge of my nose, my head pounding—and then…
Ugh, I don’t know. What happened?
Spotting a door ahead of me, I didn’t even bother to look around the rest of the room or see where the two other doors led. I grabbed my shoes and stumbled for what I guessed was the way out, and stepped into a hallway, the cool marble floor soothing on my bare feet.
I still went down the list in my head, though.
I didn’t drink.
I didn’t see anyone unusual.
I didn’t get any weird phone calls or packages. I didn’t...
I tried to swallow a few times, finally generating enough saliva. God, I was thirsty. And—a pang hit my stomach—hungry, too.
“Hello?” I called quietly but immediately regretted it.
Unless I’d had an aneurysm or developed selective amnesia, then I wasn’t here willingly.
But if I’d been taken or imprisoned, wouldn’t my door have been locked?
Bile stung my throat, every horror movie I’d ever seen playing various scenarios in my head.
Please no cannibals. Please no cannibals.
“Hi,” a small, hesitant voice said.
I followed the sound, peering across the hallway, over the bannister, to the other side of the upstairs where another hall of rooms sat. A figure lurked in a dark corridor, slowly stepping into the landing.
“Who is that?” I inched forward just a hair, blinking against the sleep still weighing on my eyes.
It was a man, I thought. Button-down shirt, short hair.
“Taylor,” he finally said. “Taylor Dinescu.”
Dinescu? As in Dinescu Petroleum Corporation? It couldn’t be the same family.
I licked my lips, swallowing again. I really needed to find some water.
“Why am I not locked in my room?” he asked me, coming out of the darkness and stepping into the faint moonlight streaming through the windows.
He cocked his head, his hair disheveled and the tail of his wrinkled Oxford hanging out. “We’re not allowed around the women,” he said, sounding just as confused as me. “Are you with the doctor? Is he here?”
What the hell was he talking about? ‘We’re not allowed around the women.’ Did I hear that right? He sounded out of it, like he was on drugs or had been locked in a cell for the past fifteen years.
“Where am I?” I demanded.
He took a step in my direction, and I took one backward, scrambling to get my shoes on as I hopped on one foot.
He closed his eyes, inhaling as he inched closer. “Jesus,” he panted. “It’s been a while since I smelled that.”
Smelled what?
His eyes opened, and I noticed they were a piercing blue, even more striking under his mahogany hair.
“Who are you? Where am I?” I barked.
I didn’t recognize this guy.
He slithered closer, almost animalistic in his movements with a predatory look on his face now that made the hairs on my arms stand up.
He looked suddenly alert. Fuck.
I searched for some kind of weapon around me.
“The locations change,” he said, and I backed up a step for every step toward me he took. “But the name stays the same. Blackchurch.”
“What is that?” I asked. “Where are we? Am I still in San Francisco?”
He shrugged. “I can’t answer that. We could be in Siberia or ten miles from Disneyland,” he replied. “We’re the last ones to know. All we know is that it’s remote.”
“We?”
Who else was here? And where were they?
And where the hell was I, for that matter? What was Blackchurch? How could he not know where he was? What city or state? Or country even?
My God. Country. I was in America, right? I had to be.
I felt sick.
But water. I’d heard water when I woke, and I perked my ears, hearing the dull, steady pounding of it around us. Were we near a waterfall?
“There’s no one here with you?” he asked as if he couldn’t believe that I was really standing here. “You shouldn’t be so close to us. They never let the females close to us.”
“What females?”
“The nurses, cleaners, staff…” he said. “They come once a month to resupply, but we’re confined to our rooms until they leave. Did you get left behind?”
I bared my teeth, losing my patience. Enough with the questions. I had no idea what the hell he was talking about, and my heart was pounding so hard, it hurt. They never let the females close to us. My God, why? I retreated toward the staircase, moving backward, so I didn’t take my eyes off him, and started to descend as he advanced on me.
“I want to use the phone,” I told him. “Where is it?”
He just shook his head, and my heart sank.
“No computers, either,” he told me.
I stumbled on the step and had to grab the wall to steady myself. When I looked up, he was there, gazing down at me and his lips twitching with a grin.
“No, no…” I slid down a few more steps.
“Don’t worry,” he offered. “I just wanted a little sniff. He’ll want the first taste.”
He? I looked down the stairs, seeing a cannister of umbrellas. Nice and pointy. That’ll do.
“We don’t get women here.” He got closer and closer. “Ones we can touch anyway.”
I backed up farther. If I bolted for a weapon, would he be able to grab me? Would he grab me?
“No women, no communication with the world,” he went on. “No drugs, liquor, or smokes, either.”
“What is Blackchurch?” I asked.
“A prison.”
>
I looked around, noticing the expensive marble floors, the fixtures and carpets, and the fancy, gold accents and statues.
“Nice prison,” I mumbled.
Whatever it was now, it clearly used to be someone’s home. A mansion or…a castle or something.
“It’s off the grid,” he sighed. “Where do you think CEOs and senators send their problem children when they need to get rid of them?”
“Senators…” I trailed off, something sparking in my memory.
“Some important people can’t have their sons—their heirs—making news by going to jail or rehab or being caught doing their dirty deeds,” he explained. “When we become liabilities, we’re sent here to cool off. Sometimes for months.” And then he sighed. “And some of us for years.”
Sons. Heirs.
And then it hit me.
Blackchurch.
No.
No, he had to be lying. This place was an urban legend wealthy men told their kids to keep them in line. A secluded residence somewhere where sons were sent as punishment but given free rein to be at each other’s mercy. It was like Lord of the Flies but with dinner jackets.
But it didn’t exist. Not really. Did it?
“There are more?” I asked. “More of you here?”
A wicked smile spread across his lips, curdling my stomach.
“Oh, several,” he crooned. “Grayson will be back with the hunting party tonight.”
I stopped dead in my tracks, lightheaded.
No, no, no…
Senators, he’d said.
Grayson.
Shit.
“Grayson?” I muttered, more to myself. “Will Grayson?”
He was here?
But Taylor Dinescu, son of Dinescu Petroleum Corporation I now gathered, ignored my question. “We have everything we need to survive, but if we want meat, we have to hunt for it,” he explained.
That’s what Will—and the others—were out doing. Getting meat.
And I didn’t know if it was the look on my face or something else, but Taylor started laughing. A vile cackling that curled my fists tight.
“Why are you laughing?” I growled.
“Because no one knows you’re here, do they?” he taunted, sounding delighted. “And whoever does, meant to leave you anyway. It’ll be a month before another resupply team shows up.”
I closed my eyes for a split-second, his meaning clear.
“A whole month,” he mused.
His eyes fell down my body, and I absorbed the full implication of my situation.
I was in the middle of nowhere with who-knew-how-many men who’d been without any source of vice or contact with the outside world for who-knew-how-long, one of them who had a great desire to torture me if he ever got his hands on me again.
And, according to Taylor, I had little hope for any help in the next month.
Someone went to great lengths to bring me here and make sure my arrival went undetected. Was there really no attendant on the property? Security? Surveillance? Anyone with control of the prisoners?
I ground my teeth together, having no fucking idea what the hell I was going to do, but I needed to do it fast.
But then I heard something, and I shot my eyes up to Taylor, barks and howls echoing outside.
“What is that?” I asked.
Wolves? The sounds were getting closer.
He shot his eyes up, looking at the front door behind me and then back down to me. “The hunting party,” he replied. “They must be back early.”
The hunting party.
Will.
And how many other prisoners that might be just as creepy and threatening as this guy…
The howls were outside the house now, and I looked up at Taylor, unable to calm my breathing. What would happen when they came inside and saw me?
But he just smiled down at me. “Please do run,” he said. “We’re dying for some fun.”
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The horsemen will return!
Did you know Will’s cousin, Misha, has his own story? It can be read as a complete stand-alone and is available for download. Turn the page to sample the first chapter of Punk 57!
Dear Misha,
So, have I ever told you my secret shame?
And no, it’s not watching Teen Mom like you. Go ahead and try to deny it. I know you don’t have to sit there with your sister, man. She’s old enough to watch TV by herself.
No, actually, it’s far worse, and I’m a little embarrassed to tell you. But I think negative feelings should be released. Just once, right?
You see, there’s a girl at school. You know the kind. Cheerleader, popular, gets everything she wants… I hate to admit this, especially to you, but a long time ago I wanted to be her.
Part of me still does.
You would absolutely hate her. She’s everything we can’t stand. Mean, cavalier, superficial… The kind who doesn’t have a thought stay in her head too long or else she needs a nap, right? I’ve always been fascinated with her, though.
And don’t roll your eyes at me. I can feel it.
It’s just that…given all of her detestable attributes, she’s never alone. You know?
I kind of envy that. Okay, I really envy that.
It feels like shit to be alone. To be in a place full of people and feel like they don’t want you there. To feel like you’re at a party you weren’t invited to. No one even knows your name. No one wants to. No one cares.
Are they laughing at you? Talking about you? Are they sneering at you like their perfect world would be so much better if you weren’t there, messing up their view?
Are they just wishing you’d get the hint already and leave?
I feel like that a lot.
I know it’s pathetic to want a place among other people, and I know you’ll say it’s better to stand alone and be right than stand in a crowd and be wrong, but... I still feel that need all the time. Do you ever feel it?
I wonder if the cheerleader feels it. When the music stops and everyone goes home? When the day is gone and she doesn’t have anyone to entertain herself with? When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day, do the demons she keeps buried start playing with her when there’s no one else to play with?
I guess not. Narcissists don’t have insecurities, right?
Must be nice.
My phone buzzes from the center console of my truck, and I look away from Ryen’s letter to see another text roll in.
Dammit. I’m so late.
The guys are no doubt wondering where the hell I am, and it’s still a twenty-minute drive to the warehouse. Why can’t I be the invisible bass player no one cares about?
I stare at her words again, running over the sentence in my head. When she removes her makeup, taking off her brave face for the day…
That line really hit me the first time I read this letter a couple years ago. And the hundred times since then. How can she say so little and yet so much?
I go back and finish the last part, already knowing how the letter ends but loving her attitude and the way she makes me smile.
Okay, sorry. I just had a Facebook break, so I feel better now. Not sure when I turned into such an idiot, but I’m glad you put up with it.
Moving on.
So just to set the record straight from our last argument, Kylo Ren is NOT a baby. You understand? He’s young, impulsive, and he’s related to Anakin and Luke Skywalker. Of course he whines! How is this a surprise? And he’ll redeem himself. I’ll bet you on it. Name your price.
Alright, I gotta go. But yes, to answer your question, that lyric you sent me last time sounds great. Go with it, and I can’t wait to read the whole song.
Good night. Good work. Sleep well.
I’ll most likely stop writing you in the morning,
Ryen
I laug
h at her Princess Bride movie reference. She’s been saying that for seven years. The first year, we were required to write each other as part of a fifth grade project, pairing students in her class with students in mine.
But after the school year ended, we didn’t stop. Even though we live less than thirty miles away from each other and have Facebook now, we continue to communicate this way because it keeps it special.
And I do not watch Teen Mom. My seventeen-year-old sister watches it, and I got sucked in. Once. I’m not sure why I told Ryen. I know better than to give her ammo to tease me, dammit.
I fold the letter back up, the worn creases of the black paper threatening to tear if I unfold and read it even one more time. A lot has changed in our letters over the years. The things we talk about, the subjects we bicker over, her handwriting… Writing that has gone from the big, unpolished penmanship of a girl who has just learned cursive, to the sure, confident strokes of a woman who knows who she is.
But the paper never changes. Not even the silver ink she uses. Seeing her black envelopes in the pile of mail on the kitchen counter always gives me a nice shot of adrenaline.
Slipping the paper into my glove box, among a few other of my favorites of Ryen’s letters, I take my pen, hovering it over the notepad that sits on my lap.
“Spread on your bravery, line the eyes and the lips,” I say under my breath as I write on the paper, “glue up the cracks and paint over the rips.”
I stop and think as I pull my bottom lip in between my teeth, grazing the piercing there. “A little here,” I mumble, the lyrics turning in my head, “to cover the bags under your eyes, and some pink on your cheeks to spread the lies.”
I quickly jot down the words, my chicken scratch barely visible inside the dark car.
I hear my phone beep again, and I falter. “Alright,” I growl, willing the damn texts to stop. Can’t my bandmates host a party without me for five minutes?
Kill Switch Page 55