by T. L. Martin
Arnold Murphy is the last remaining chess piece, the final of the three players behind the pseudonym Misha, and also the most elusive and cunning. He’s been the most difficult to obtain. After a failed attempt to bring him down a few years ago, the four of us agreed to hold off and save Murphy for after Hugo was finished. Who needs a fucking Katerina look-alike when I could finally get Murphy in front of me, face to face, after all this time?
Felix’s eyebrows shoot up. After watching my expression, he shrugs. “All right, man. Then let’s talk Murphy.”
I nod and push off the table, the wheels in my mind already turning. A visual of the bastard tied up, his throat against my knife as he begs for his life, sends a hot rush through me. “We keep it low-key, stay focused on the delivery this time. Do that, and Griff could be bringing him in by the end of the week.”
Felix taps a pen against his desk. “You know Raife doesn’t want him here until we’ve completely ruined him. His law firm, his marriage, his fucking reputation. He wants him crushed, and I wouldn’t mind seeing the guy watch his perfect life go up in flames before you get to him, either.”
My lips curl. “I don’t see Raife. Do you? Have you forgotten what happened after the last time we let Raife have his way with this guy? If he wants a say in what goes, he needs to actually be here to discuss this shit.” My words bite, but my voice is calm as I turn and head for the door. “Otherwise we do it my way, and that’s to cut the fucking theatrics and bring Murphy in.”
My phone goes off right as I finish. I tense, turning just enough to see Felix scan the screen. “Speaking of theatrics,” he frowns and tips his head toward it, “you might wanna stop by the dining room.”
I let out a frustrated breath. He tosses the phone to me, and I slip it into my pocket.
“You’re not even going to look?”
“Nah.” I turn toward the door. “Some things are better seen in person.”
“I want to be inside your darkest everything.”
—Frida Kahlo
I linger in the doorway, resting a shoulder on the frame. Griff’s footfalls approach to my left, but I stay focused on the sight in front of me. Emmy’s eyes flutter open. She clumsily straightens, shifting the weight of her body away from the chains and onto her feet. Contrary to the first picture Raife sent me, the chains are now loose enough that her elbows easily bend.
Her legs trembling, she spots Aubrey, who wraps a bandage around her left foot. Then her gaze lands on one of Griff’s secretaries as she discards everything on the table’s surface. And then she finds Raife. Sitting in the corner of the room, too preoccupied with his phone to fully enjoy the scene he must have handcrafted after I left this morning.
I force my eyes back to Emmy’s, fists clenching in my pockets at the effort it takes to avoid looking directly at her naked body. I won’t look. I know what would happen if I did—the temptation that would pull at me until I lost all sense of reason. Raife would get what he’s been trying to manipulate me into since she arrived.
Still, from the edges of my vision, I see it, however vaguely. Teasing slopes, curves, and dips. A glisten of sweat reflecting off smooth porcelain skin.
Heat erupts inside my veins until it burns. It’s been a long time since I’ve allowed myself such a simple pleasure. My muscles tighten and ripple against the strain of my clothes at just the thought.
One downward glance and I’d see everything. Emmy Highland at her most vulnerable. Ten easy footsteps and we could be skin to skin. Her sweat on my tongue. Hair in my fist. The curve of her delicate neck between my teeth, black strands wrapped around my knuckles.
My jaw grinds from side to side, the cool feel of my knife suddenly between my fingers. The longer I stare, the more it all blends. The dark hair, the pale skin, those fucking eyes.
The heat running through me increases to a searing boil, and for a completely different reason. Hugo’s blood still covers the basement floor. The feel of his terror still vibrates through my bones. The kill is fresh on my hands. Alive in my mind.
Dark memories and bright white lights take over until they cloud my vision. Choked cries of the past pierce my eardrums and settle inside my chest. I look at the person chained helplessly to my chandelier, and I see her.
The woman who destroyed everything.
Kept me locked in a cage, forced me to watch.
As she skinned, gutted, decorated.
Snapped a photo and set a price tag on her artwork.
Every morning, every night, for 721 days.
An elbow nudges my arm, and I growl. Griff snarls and stalks past me, headed straight for the table. Straight for her. He moves his hand in front of his pants and adjusts himself, his intentions as transparent as the fucking windows in Felix’s office.
My strides are long when I realize I’m matching him step for step. My stare locked on one person only. Her head whips to me, then to Griff. Her heavy eyes go wide, and a shiver passes through her limbs. Aubrey and some secretary stumble backward, clearing the way. I reach up, unhook one cuff from her wrist, and her arm falls limply to her side. I unlock the next and catch her damp body before she collapses to the ground, then pull her tightly into me.
“Gentlemen.” Raife’s amused voice is like a faraway call filtering through the screams still blaring in my mind. “Hands off my merch, please and thank you.”
Ignoring him, my shoulder bumps Griff’s suit jacket as I exit the dining room with her in my arms and pace through the halls. They both call after me, but I barely register their voices. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing, or what I’m going to do—hold the new hire or kill her just to get the screams to stop. My pulse is thumping so violently I feel it fucking everywhere—thrashing in my head, my neck, my chest, among other areas it has no business.
I shift her weight so I’m cradling her in both arms, and her head lolls to rest against my shoulder. She’s still shivering, but that’s the most she seems physically able to do. I keep my eyes straight ahead, strides long, passing door after door in a blur until I’m entering her room in the ladies’ quarters.
Standing over her bed, I release her from my grip like my fingers are on fire. It’s not gentle, the way her body hits the comforter, and she lets out a soft groan before folding into a ball.
Irritated, I toss a thin throw over her naked body to keep the biting temptation at bay, then I take a step back. And another. Stare straight ahead at the black wall above her pillows, above her head. My skin’s hot, my chest pounding the way it does when it’s been too long since I made a kill. It makes no sense. My breaths are ragged against the still air.
I should leave.
I need to leave.
I know this like I know the sun rises every morning, but my body doesn’t move.
I’m about to slip my hands into my pockets to keep me grounded when I remember my knife and drop them back to my sides. Better to keep the weapon away from my grip until I figure out what the hell I’m doing in her room. My knuckles curl until they go white.
Finally, I slide my gaze down. Past the wall, to the top of the pillowcase, to the long strands of hair fanned out behind her. Her eyes are open as she lies on her side, staring straight ahead into the open bathroom across from her, yet she’s not really looking. Her irises are blue glass, translucent and distant. Something about the expression makes the rhythm of my pulse normalize a fraction.
I like that she’s not really here.
I take a slow step forward, my pants brushing the foot of the bed. Drag my eyes down to her pink lips, then the soft curve of her cheek, her jaw.
She looks different this way. Curled up and absent.
I can’t place the tightness that pulls on my shoulders, my throat, at the sight of her like this, but a vague recognition stirs inside me. I’ve felt it before, even if I haven’t allowed my thoughts to wander there in years. I detest the feeling now as much as I did then. Perhaps more.
My brothers and I have a lot in common, one of them being our shar
ed disdain for Katerina. We were all caged. We were all on death row, waiting to become fleshless pieces of art set in a display case. Watching others come and go. But there was one major difference between them and myself.
I was the only subject Katerina kept stored inside her studio. My cage placed five feet away from her work table. I was the only person who watched it all—every fucking thing—day after day after day. The only one who spent almost two years with my face lit by rows upon rows of relentless bright lights as she worked, and worked, and worked.
The only one—for the first year.
My second year in the studio, there was another. Another with black hair, pale skin, and those haunting sky-blue eyes. Another who, with one thought, makes my blood boil for entirely different reasons.
But no. I won’t think of her. I won’t do it now, or tomorrow, or the next day.
She’s not like Katerina. They will never be in the same category. She doesn’t burn my veins with deep hatred. I can deal with that. Hell, I thrive on it. Hatred’s the fuel that keeps me alive. Sofia, though . . . the things she ignites inside my chest are darker than that. Raw. Damaged. Everything I depend on forgetting.
For the sake of keeping my chaos locked inside my mind, packed in tight where it can’t escape, I intend to never think of her again.
My gaze slips down to the smooth curve of Emmy’s slender neck, her protruding collarbone. The fragile slope of her left shoulder, damp and slumped forward. My fingers squeeze into fists at my sides. I fan them out and roll my tight shoulders back. Before my gaze can travel any lower, I turn on my heel and pace straight out the door. There are many places in this house I should be right now, and none of them are here.
“Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.”
—Victor Hugo, Les Miserables
(Thirteen years old)
My throat burns like I swallowed a lit match. I wince when I suck in a deep breath, rolling over to lie on my other side, but I don’t bother to open my eyes and check the dispenser for water. Eleven months of being locked in here and it still sets my teeth on edge to use the handmade plastic bottle wired to the iron bars like a damn hamster’s cage. And anyway, no one’s stepped foot in the studio for a day and a half. So there’s no one to refill the thing.
It’s weird being alone. I want so badly to feel relief in the peace and quiet. To finally get a few solid hours of sleep and forget everything for a little while. But all it does is unsettle me. An unnerving feeling crawls up my spine at the strange absence in the air, and I don’t like it at all.
The seconds creep by, each one reminding me I’m still here, and I’m never getting out.
A thunk crashes outside the door, the steady turning of wheels following. I don’t even blink. I know what that sound means.
New arrival.
Poor bastard. I remember being the new kid. Waking up confused and cramped inside a crate. Being lifted onto a trolley and rolled through the narrow, rotten-smelling hall. Dropped off in a room filled with more crates just like mine. More kids just like me.
But that was a different time. A different me. After all the crap I’ve already gone through trying to survive on the streets, all the messed up things I’ve witnessed and pulled, I thought for sure I’d seen the worst parts of evil and had outrun them.
Turns out I’d never seen the real thing up close before. And you can’t outrun something you can’t see.
It’ll be a while before the new kid is brought to the studio. For their sake, I hope it’s a long while.
Moving slowly, I use my forearms to push off the ragged wool blanket draped across the steel flooring. I know from experience how quickly I’ll black out if I move too fast after going this long without a meal tray. Once I’m sitting up, I lean back against the cold wall for support as I stare into the empty cage across from me. Two weeks since it’d been set up there, and it’s still got no one.
I haven’t yet figured out why it’s here. Either Katerina decided she’s done having only one ‘pet’, or the thing was set up to taunt me with crap I’ll never have.
The new cage is larger than mine, running half the length of the wall instead of one-third. It also has a small built-in toilet and sink, and a plush-ass looking cot with blankets I’m betting can warm one’s body even in a freezing room like this one.
I fold my legs into my chest then wrap my arms around my knees, narrowing my eyes. After a second, I force myself to look away, but that only sets my gaze on the display case along the wall to my right.
My shoulders fall forward as I take it all in, the way I do every day. From here, the items behind the glass are passable as art. I never went to school, and I don’t know much about the subject, but New York City is full of starving artists camped out on the streets with their hats turned upside down for tips.
Some pieces behind the glass are big, like the skulls. Others are smaller, like the fingers, or long, like the arms. Some are dressed in animal skin, some in feathers. Most are painted—dark and gothic or light and majestic. A few are decorated in the kind of fine jewels rich people lose their shit over. The kind of jewels I would have stolen at the first chance I got if I were still on the outside.
In front of each piece sits a framed card-sized note with a stage name and some bullshit poem. I can’t read what they say from this far, and I don’t think I want to anyway.
There’s a Brazilian thing: There’s no good that lasts forever nor evil that never ends. I was still a baby when my mom fled from Brazil and illegally immigrated us to America, but I saw it on a bumper sticker a few years ago, and it stuck. Watching Katerina in the studio makes me realize the words are bull. At least the last half.
My lips curl, and a familiar unease stirs in my chest. My eyes dart to the work table not far from my reach. The silver surface is pristine, all shine and gloss. Just like the walls and floors of the place.
I never knew hell would be so spick-and-span.
The door creaks open, and the skin on the back of my neck prickles as Katerina steps inside. Lifting a hand, she flicks the expanse of switches beside the door. The brightest lights I’d ever seen before arriving to this place fill the space. I squint against the harshness. If she only flicks the top two, it means she’s just stopping by. But the whole switchboard? That means she’s here to work.
A mixture of disgust, turmoil, and apprehension unfolds in my stomach. I get the feeling that if I have to stay in this place much longer, those lights alone will make me go insane.
She takes another step, and the door swings shut behind her. I wait, knowing what’s coming.
To my surprise, she isn’t alone.
A small girl pokes her head out from behind Katerina’s legs. Her little arms are wrapped around the woman’s thigh, her eyes scanning the room with a look that reminds me of the apprehension I feel. Katerina pats the girl’s hair, and searing hot anger spikes inside my gut.
The hell?
I jump to my feet, grabbing one of the bars for balance when a wave of dizziness rushes straight to my head. Katerina ignores me, ushering the girl to the left—to the empty cage.
My throat tightens, and my breaths grow short, my fingers curling around the iron bar. This can’t be right. The girl can’t be older than five or six. Katerina never takes them this young.
Once the girl is settled behind the bars, Katerina sets down a large bag I hadn’t noticed before. She opens it, then kneels and starts removing items one by one. Old, worn teddy bears, dolls with tangled hair, the kind of packaged kiddy snacks I didn’t get to eat even before I wound up here. Last is a large set of oil crayons.
Katerina leans in and gives the girl a hug. I have to rub my eyes to make sure I’m seeing clearly. “You’re going to love it here, once you get past the initial adjustment,” she says, her voice soft. “Now, Mommy has a lot of work to do and can’t miss any more days, okay?”
Mommy? The devil has a fucking kid?
I squint and tilt my head. Of course she does.
Replace her tattered white dress with a sleek black one, and the little girl looks just like her. Their straight black hair swings past their waists, and the girl’s is straggly like it’s never been cut before. Their blue eyes are as close to seeing the sky that I’ve gotten in eleven long months. Their skin is the same pale shade, like they’ve never seen the sun.
The girl glances at me, then back at Katerina. She seems unfazed, despite the prison-like bars caging us in, the torn condition of my clothes, my dirty hair, and the odor I know is coming from my cell. Makes me wonder what the hell her life has been like before now for her to be so unaffected.
She nods.
“Thank you.” Katerina gives her a peck on the nose then stands and walks to the display case. She opens one of the cabinets at the bottom and withdraws something, then walks back to the girl’s cage.
“Baby girl. You still like to color, don’t you?”
Again, the girl nods.
“Well, you know Mommy plays with colors, too. And today, we both get to play. Isn’t that fun?”
When the girl only continues to nod, unease spreads through my body. Why isn’t she saying anything?
“I just prepared this piece last week.” Katerina sets down the item in her hand, and my empty stomach lurches until I dry heave.
It’s a forearm, nothing but skinless bone.
I’ve been watching Katerina ‘work’ for so long I eventually learned to hide my reactions in front of her. Some days, I’ve even grown numb to it. But seeing her hand someone’s body part—a seventeen-year-old who was living and breathing in this studio just last week—to her own kid, that’s sick on a new level.
“This boy was very lively,” Katerina continues, “but this particular piece of his didn’t speak to me like the others. You know, I think you might do a good job telling his story with your pretty new coloring supplies.” She spreads the crayons along the cement floor and places the bone between them and the child. “Will you do that for Mommy, Sofia baby?”