by Jasmine Walt
“Well, I do care.” I square my shoulders harder to exert my authority. The muscles scream at me in pain, and I try not to wince. “And for the last time. Watch. Your. Freakin’. Mouth.” I know she’s going to ignore me, but I have to say it, anyway.
Reflex.
I also know she’s about to get dramatic when she leaps to her feet, hands ready on her hips.
I lean back and cross my arms behind my head. “Make it good. I haven’t watched Jersey Shore since all this crap went down.”
She stamps her foot. “I’m serious!” Her voice gets higher on the whiney ass kid scale. “I don’t want you to do it. I want you to let them die.”
I wince away from her words. “Don’t talk like that.”
She pouts and slumps down into her chair. “Just call me and let better people start over. Because that crap out there isn’t worth saving.”
I have to strain my ears to hear her. Then, her words settle into my skin like toxic fumes. The kid used to have so much lightness in her. She was actually a fucking figure skater. No joke, Olympic potential good. I used to braid ribbons into her hair for flair during competitions. It was our thing.
I even offered to adopt her after I killed her mother, but she threw a tantrum and went to stay with an aunt.
She eventually came around and we were good before all this started.
What the hell has she seen? How much worse has shit gotten since C6 locked me into the Pit? When she meets my eyes, she fills me with nothing.
“Call me,” she whispers.
My jaw tightens. “Never.” It’s the firmest my voice has sounded in my ears for months. “Not while there’s still any other option.”
The nothing in her eyes flashes to hate. It only lasts a second, but that’s all it takes to stir the need in my blood.
“If you don’t do what’s right, I’ll never speak to you again.” She jumps up, storms to the door, and knocks three times.
I swivel in my chair and throw my arms up. “Come on, shorty…”
The door swings open and Sadie says, “I’d like to go to my room, please.” An answering female says something I tune out. When the door shuts again, I sit alone and the silence around me piles on.
Slowly tears my flesh.
Pecks at my insides.
The defeat in Sadie’s eyes flash in my head like a broken movie reel. My chest sinks in. My vision tunnels. Everything I’d been holding onto dissolves, and I can’t imagine Sadie’s laugh.
The grind of her skates on the ice distorts in my memory and stabs my eardrums. A low roar starts whining in my ears.
The sounds drops me to the carpet. I curl up under the table and cover my ears. The whine gets louder. Invisible nails stab my skin.
I breathe slowly and try not to die. I’d like to laugh, but my muscles tighten like a day old corpse. I might be screaming. I can’t hear over the crash of waves in my head. Then, it starts to take my sight.
My reality washes away and brings flashes of all their faces. Mostly women. Different sizes. Varied colors. Some with sad, appealing smiles. It’s my life flashing before my eyes.
And it’s showing me all the people I’ve killed.
Sadie’s mother, dark and delicate in her scrubs, lingers awhile. Then, a jolt of black electricity stills my convulsing body. The vision fizzles out as I descend into the darkness.
When my eyelids flutter open, everything is blurry. I blink, trying to figure out where I am. It’s like trying to see through rushing rain. The more I blink, the clearer things get, and slowly, my other senses return.
A blur of movement sweeps across my gaze. I squint it into focus and make out a stranger. She is rubbing, nah, make that scrubbing some greasy shit onto my chest.
My mouth opens to ask what the hell she’s doing, but my throat closes around the words. Glancing down, I spot a spider web of raised scars on my stomach and chest, which is where this strange female is rubbing the greasy shit.
Souvenirs of Pitch and me playing a game of master and slave. With narrowed eyes, I peer through rising steam and realize I’m in a bathroom. I’m also skin ass naked and suspended in a marble tub.
“Ow,” I mutter, swatting the stranger’s sponge away. I take a whiff. Smells like a witch’s garden.
“Mr. Richards, welcome back.”
My eyes tiredly lift toward a kind, heart-shaped face. She wears a gentle smile. And she’s hot. Too bad I feel like something death shat up.
I sniff again. “What is that?” My voice crackles in my ears. “Eucalyptus?”
She nods, screwing a top onto a white jar. “You know your herbs.”
“Won’t work,” I say, trying to sit up straight.
“I know, this is just to keep you well until you can…” She turns toward a table sitting next to the tub.
I almost smile. Until I can kill someone. I can see why she doesn’t feel the need to say it. I bend over my knees as she turns back toward me. She leans over me, with a thin glass in her chocolate hand, and presses it to my lips.
Raising an eyebrow, I sniff. The stench punches through my nostrils and burns my throat. I hack, eyes watering, and pull away. “Hell no.” I massage my eyelids.
“It’s for the pain.”
“No cayenne,” I say leaning back. “I’m good.”
She casts a stern look with her cool, dark eyes. “Drink.” She presses the glass to my lips and I force it down, gagging. Once the glass is empty, she wipes the dribble from the sides of my mouth and nods, satisfied.
As she stands up I lean over and dry heave.
She giggles. “Drama queen.”
I ignore her. She walks behind me in the tub while I try to swallow the rest of the burn. My muscles begin to numb, and I start to feel a little more alive. Not that I’m going to admit it.
There is a squirting noise behind me. I start to turn to see what it is, when this girl digs her fingers into my scalp and jerks me up and down. The scent of patchouli saturates the bathroom.
“Ugh,” I mutter as she scrubs my long, dreaded hair. Brown crap drips down my shoulders and tints the creamy water, turning it the color of dirt and blood. “Damn, girl. Take it easy.”
Without warning, she dumps scalding water over my head. I cough and swipe my hands across my face, trying to get the water out of my eyes.
She walks back around the tub and holds a towel out to me. I blink up at her and snatch it away, then wipe off my face. A half grin settles on her lips.
Now that the pain has subsided a bit, I can appreciate her smooth skin and short, curly hair. I scan her up and down and wish she weren’t in baggy, light blue coveralls so the below the neck goods were easier to make out.
I eye her up and down. “Now that you’ve shampoo-raped my head, can I get your name?”
She smiles and holds out her hand. “Kenya.”
“Kenya.” I toss the towel over my shoulder and grip the sides of the tub to pull myself out. I wobble on my feet and she rushes forward to steady me.
I chuckle. So much for any smooth move. “Thanks, I’m good.”
She lets go and I wrap the towel around my waist and slowly get out of the tub. I run a finger over my scars and snort.
“I look like a roots extra.”
She frowns. “They’ve already starting to heal.”
I nod. She’s right. The scars used to be gaping and blackened with blood. Now they’ve healed into a gentler pink. Won’t last long unless I do my thing soon. With a sigh, I glance around at the sandy brown tiled bathroom with its large vanity mirror and pedal operated sink.
It’s the nicest bathroom I’ve ever been it. Seems kind of wrong, like my situation doesn’t match the scenery.
“Where are we?” I ask as I stumble toward the middle of the room.
“The Fox Estate,” Kenya says. “This is your bathroom, and your room is just through there.” She points to a door to the left. “Your roommates are on the main grounds, they’ll...”
I shake my head. “Where is S
adie?” My arms cross over my chest. “And Oscar? I need to see Oscar.”
“Oscar?” Her lips turn down. Then, a glint sparks in her eyes. “Oh, your bird? He’s fine. I’ll bring him to you tomorrow. You also have time with Sadie scheduled tomorrow. Tonight you must rest for the Presenting.”
A zap of pain races up my spine. I swallow and steady myself on my feet. “The Presenting?” I stumble left. An instinctual burn sears my throat; it’s hard to swallow.
“You okay?” She drags a chair over to me and I slump down onto it. She puts an arm out to steady me. I gesture her away with a hand.
Another shock buckles me over at the waist.
I’m about to lose my shit. Four months without it, the song, is too much. I’ve been hanging from a death ledge for too long.
Another zap steals my air. Pain twists my mind, tunneling it around one thing. The thing that turns me into a monster. The instinct to drink down need. Another jolt. I jerk backward and clench my jaw.
I force my gaze toward Kenya, whose face is becoming a milky blur. “Get.” I gulp. “Out.”
Kenya’s mouth forms a small “o.” Her face dissolves in front of me. Soon, I won’t be able to see her as a person.
The pain knots my muscles and I contort into exorcist like angles. I smile up at her with a face full of crazy, but manage to jerk my head at the door.
“Now.” The command stutters out of my throat.
Her form dissolves and I feel it. Fear. A sense of being trapped.
“Oh.” She turns and her blurry form rushes across the room.
But somehow I’m on my feet, and I’m after her. I reach out to grab her arm. She twists out of my grasp and I jerk to a stop.
A manic growl escapes my burning throat and beats against the walls. Glancing down, I grunt at the line of rusty brown powder at my feet. It’s thick and airy looking, like cinnamon. A sweet smell rushes up my nose.
Sandalwood.
Slowly, my mind unfolds. Away from the twisted animal. Back to myself. The smell takes me somewhere. My brain slows, and I can hear skates scraping on ice. My favorite sound. I can even feel the bite of frost on my fingertips.
It makes me feel a little more human. Or something.
My lips twist into a tight smile. Sandalwood. Forces people into a meditative state. Smart girl.
I stand there for several moments getting my shit together. Sucking in large breaths and letting them out after a few moments. This isn’t how I get down. I haven’t been that out of control since my first time. When I’m sure I’m in control, I pass over the powdered herb and into my room.
Well, the room. Nothing at Compound Six is truly mine.
The room is draped in pale, yellow light and furnished with maroon furniture. I glance to the corner and find Kenya cowered there, a look of obvious fear on her face. I hold up my hands and make no move to close the distance between up. “My bad. Not a great apology, but it’s all I got.
She glowers and points to the desk beside the full sized bed. “Eat.” She tries to straighten. “Then, someone will be by… For you.”
I nod.
“If you don’t need anything else…”
I wave her off. I just tried to kill her, and she’s asking me if I need anything. “I’m good. Go.”
She hugs the walls, never taking her eyes off me as she creeps toward the door, then vanishes behind it in a rush. I reach up to rub my shoulder and glance at the beige tray. Steam rises from a small, ceramic bowl and something thick and mushy is piled onto the tray. I shuffle toward the desk and sit in a ratty old office chair with chunks of leather upholstery missing and grab a water spotted fork.
As I shovel food into my mouth—tasteless beans, a hard roll, and watery cream of something soup. I think about almost ripping Kenya’s head right off. I almost lost control. Been locked in silence for too long.
When the last of the roll and the rest of the food are gone, I toss my fork down and brush crumbs out of my unkempt goatee. It’s probably more of a gross, homeless dude beard at this point, but at least it matches my insides.
My stomach growls, still hungry. Sure, the food is crap but getting something in me helps drown out the other hunger. For a while.
Drawing in a deep breath, I stand and pace. I try to feel my legs under me. I try to steady my movements. I try to focus on anything other than that cool spray of a kill that nourishes the burning inside my chest.
I’m not doing a good job.
A knock on the door halts me. I gaze toward the sound and after a few seconds, it comes again. Trudging across the room, I pull the door open. Another strange face is staring up at me.
I raise an eyebrow and scan her up and down, from the rusty mess of wild curls to the light blue slippers on her small feet.
“Yes?” I open the door farther and lean against the back of it.
“Um.” She twirls a few curls and teeters between both legs. “I’m here for Pike?”
She speaks in whispers and doesn’t seem very sure of what she’s saying. It makes me grin.
I point at myself. “Pike.”
Her moss green eyes lighten, reminding me of sunlight darting through leaves. “Nice to meet you. Juliet sent me.”
Now that she sounds sure, I have no idea what the hell she means. My face tightens.
“Sent you for what?”
She frowns and fiddles with the pockets on her coveralls. Her full lips part, then she wrinkles her nose and shrugs. “Um, I’m here to… Help you heal?” Unsure again.
Slowly, I realize what she means. My eyes narrow. I can’t decide if Juliet is sicker than I thought, or if I should be grateful. The burn sears my throat. I wince. The girl bites her lip, clearly uncomfortable.
I get myself together so I don’t freak her out. “Right.” I pull the door all the way open as I step back. “Come on in.”
She nods, bobbing her wild curls, and saunters in. My gaze follows her nice round ass as she does.
Nice. Very nice.
I shut the door and clear my throat. Gesturing to the bed, the most comfortable place in the room, I say, “Have a seat.”
She lets out a giggle of nerves and bounces across the room. She sits cross-legged on the bed. How adorkable.
I walk over and hold out a hand. She places her own in my palm, and I bend to kiss it. I get another girlish giggle.
Smiling as I straighten I ask, “Got a name, giggly?”
She nods. “Tahlia.”
“Tahlia.” I sit on the chair next to the bed. “I’d offer you something to eat, but all I have is beard crumbs.” I smile.
She laughs again and waves me off. I find myself leaning over, as if the sound of her laugh has strings that pull me in.
“I already ate. But thank you.” She tucks her hair behind her ears. Her eyes meet my gaze, a half smile on her lips. “So, how does this work?”
My mind stutters, unable to think of an answer. “How… this works?”
“Yeah, you know… You calling me.”
“Calling you,” I mutter, a surplus of useless replies. My body slowly tightens as the reality of the situation sets into my muscles.
Juliet sent this girl here for me to kill.
I squeeze my eyes shut, disgust swarming my insides. Not because it’s not the same thing that I just realized only moments ago, but because this is not how I do things. Not anymore.
What’s even worse is that I don’t know if I’m disgusted by the fact Juliet sent this girl here to die, or by the fact that I’m going to kill her anyway.
3
I pace the room while this girl, Tahlia, prattles on like I’m not about to take her life. Her youth and eagerness crash into me like jagged waves. Thoughts roar in my head at high speeds, none of which stick around for very long. Well, none but the one.
Juliet sent this girl here to hear my song. For me to kill.
Like I’m one of her murderous Enforcers.
And I want to.
I grit my teeth and dart my gaze a
t her. I want to real bad.
Her energy jabs at me like a heavyweight pinning me to the ropes, until my throat is an ache of rug burn. Sweat beads up on my brow, and need sends jolt after jolt of pain through my body.
Yeah, I’m going to kill this fine ass, prattling girl.
No!
I stop pacing and ball my hands up at my sides.
I try to inhale control on my breath. As I hold it into my lungs, I repeat a revised version of the little engine mantra.
I will not kill. I will not kill.
“Pike?” Her strained voice darts through my storm-swept thoughts, and I pause to glare into those thick, green eyes. She stands and inches toward me.
I go rigid.
She juts up her chin, an expectant look on her face.
My eyes narrow. “You say something?” I back a few inches away from her.
She folds her arms with a smirk on her lips. “I asked if you play.” She gestures across the room toward the bed. I follow her gaze and spot a worn, black guitar case leaned against the foot of the bed.
My body jerks in pain.
She gasps. “You okay?” As her arm reaches to steady me, I stumble a few feet away.
I breathe through the pain and force my attention back to the case. It’s the first time I’ve noticed it. Almost killing Kenya must have distracted me. I gulp down the even stronger want—no, not want, need--to kill Tahlia-and clear my mangled throat.
“Uh, yeah. That’s Gip.”
Her footsteps shuffle and my gaze follows as she moves back to the bed and runs a finger down the case. She turns her head, a sly smile settled on her face.
“Gip?” she asks.
“It’s what I call my guitar.”
She giggles. “I’ve never known a guy that named his instrument.”
I grin at the double meaning and she blushes.
“Will you play for me?”
The laugh I choke up almost sounds demented. “Nah.”
Her eyes go wide and white. “Why not?”
I reach behind my head and pull my dreads back. I need a hair tie; this shit is hotter than a mofo. But pulling on it delivers sharp little pains to my scalp. It distracts me from the fact that I want to kill her now.