When they’re out of earshot, James grabs my hand. “When you walk in there, the droning in your head is going to feel like a million killer ants eating your brain.”
His eyes are dead serious and the hard line of his lips uncompromising. My heart takes a leap and runs, scared like a jackrabbit. James takes my hand and puts a wide ring in my palm. The ring is pretty, with red stones inlaid in three rows. I stare at it, rendered speechless by surprise and confusion.
“When that happens and you feel you’re about to lose control, you can use this, if you need to.” He presses a button on the side of the ring. Little, sharp needles spring out on the inside. “Pain is your friend, Marci. Remember that. I’m taking a big risk bringing you here, but I have my reasons. I wish I could have prepared you better for this, but lately time has become a luxury. Don’t worry, you’ll learn everything soon enough. For now just remember, I need you on board. There’s something that makes you special. Being here will help you understand that. And I need you to understand. Fully. I know you’re strong. You can do this.”
Putting an instant smile on his face, James loops his arm around mine and ushers me along. We fall in step with the others as they’re about to enter the house. I slip the ring on my index finger, sparing a frightened glance its way. James just handed me a tiny and beautiful torture device. He’s crazy if he thinks I’m going to use it.
Nuts.
Relax.
Totally cracked.
Blare leaves Xave’s side and gives me a look plastered in ice. James nods slightly toward Xave. I know how to take a hint too and rush to my friend’s side.
“What was that all about?” Blare asks James between clenched teeth.
James’s answer to her question is lost to me as we step inside and the sound of voices, classical music, and wine glasses clinking in toasts fills the air. I barely have time to register all these details before the back of my head explodes into a maddening buzz. I grip Xave’s arm, my knees turning into rubber. My vision blurs.
“Are you okay?” Xave asks, putting a hand around my waist.
Calm down.
Connive. Fractious. Incisive.
Breathe.
My eyelids grow heavy and I fight to keep them open. Shadows spread over my thoughts like never before. They take macabre shapes that make me want to weep in terror.
“Marci, what’s wrong?” Xave is holding most of my weight now.
I can’t … lose control. There … are … no—
Suddenly, James is at my side, grabbing my hand and pressing the button on the ring. The needles spring out and stab my finger, sending a jolt of pain up my arm. My eyelids shoot up and a fierce clarity floods my brain, shining a brilliant light over the shadows and breaking them apart. Surprisingly, no one notices, and I even have enough presence of mind to choke the cry that wicked pinprick kicked into my throat.
Now I’m very much in the moment, wrapped in layers of extravagance and luxury. Yet, as I stare into James’s intense, gray eyes, I realize I’d rather be in hell.
Chapter 14
Xave frowns at James’s hand over mine. I pull away and try to look calm and unaffected.
“What’s going on?” Xave asks. “You’ve gone pale.”
“I’m fine.” My voice comes out cracked. I clear my throat and make a show of looking around the room, when what I really want to do is run, run, run. “L-look at this place. It’s … huge.”
Reluctantly, Xave unlocks his gaze from mine and checks our surroundings. A hard line forms between his eyebrows. “I don’t like it,” he says. “Not one bit.”
In a place like this, there should be nothing to dislike. Every wall, every piece of furniture, every single detail spells opulence. Crystal chandeliers, marble floors, exquisite art work, a grand staircase. Wealth drips from the ceiling like rain from a leaky roof. It’s despicable. The vibe is all wrong.
As people mingle, toasting each other, gossiping, laughing, my head drones and my skin crawls with a million spiders. Xave feels something, too. I can tell by the muscle jumping on his jaw, and the sweat building on his brow. Whatever it is, it hangs thick in the air, like the stench of road-kill right against our noses.
James motions for us to move deeper into the crowd. My knees lock, and I consider bolting, forgetting him and his gang and even my intense desire to find answers and a cure. But who am I kidding? I’d sooner click the ring’s button again than lose this chance.
I square my shoulders. I’m strong. I’m my father’s daughter, and I don’t give up. I will stay here with my throbbing finger and buzzing head. I will find out what this curse is, and I will free myself.
Xave’s feet are glued to the ground. I try to pull him along, but he doesn’t budge. Leaving him behind, I follow James and Blare.
“Hey!” He catches up and takes my hand in his. “You’re not going anywhere without me.” A crooked smile touches his lips, but not his eyes. He’s just as scared as I am, but he’s also brave.
I let my eyes travel over the room. Everywhere I look it’s the same. Men and women hanging out in couples, feeding each other, locking arms, dancing, kissing. It’s like Saint freakin’ Valentine’s day. A tall brunette walks beside me, wearing so many diamonds she literally sparkles. She’s dazzling, but the sight of her kicks up the hammering inside my head. I look into her companion’s face, a man with angular features and the most perfect eyebrows I’ve ever seen. The droning quiets down one degree, and I can think again.
As I assess everyone, I realize my head hums for one member of each couple, but not the other. It puzzles me, then—as I remember what James said in the car—it begins to make sense. “Everyone is expected to bring a date.” My gaze darts around the room, validating the pattern. The more couples I evaluate, the more certain I become. They’re all like Xave and I, like James and Blare.
One of them has shadows eating their brains out, while the other is normal and unaware that their companion is a freak. They’re happy and carefree, laughing, making conversation, nuzzling each other’s necks and laughing again. I feel like I’m going to scream, lose it, ruin this whole plan that I’ve not yet begun to understand.
Just when I think things can’t get any worse, the sound of leather soles against the marble floor enters my awareness. Each step beats in the back of my head, as if I’m being carved out of stone and the sculptor stands behind me pounding away with his tools, moving the chisel a tiny fraction after each blow and hammering with all his might over and over again.
Sweat slicks Xave’s grip in my hand. I’ve gone cold and my knees refuse to hold my weight. I’m at the brink of collapsing.
The ring.
Pain.
My thumb fumbles for the release. I look up and find my gaze locked on a pair of golden eyes. They seem to float toward me before I realize there’s a face that goes with them, the face of the person whose steps are pounding my brain into mashed potatoes. Those eyes narrow and fix on mine. Flecks of copper surround pupils that seem to be nothing but pinpricks. Their strange, animalistic quality terrifies me to the bone. He smiles at me.
I push the button. A thousand piranha teeth pierce my skin. It takes all my willpower to stifle a cry along with the panic that begs me to check if my finger’s still attached to my hand. Instead, I smile back at Golden Eyes, return his gaze and act as if this really is Valentine’s Day and blissful chocolate is about to start pouring from the ceiling.
“My dear James,” the man says in a thick English accent. “What a delight to have you here tonight. So glad you could make it.”
“Hello, Elliot. Back from the motherland?” James says, shaking his hand.
The man smiles with so much English charm, I feel like puking. I lean on Xave as I take the man in. He’s in his early fifties and wears a dark tailored suit and some sort of silky mess around his neck. What posh name do they call those things? Cravat? Oh heck, I don’t know, but the pattern looks like cat puke and the whole style is just too effeminate for my taste.
<
br /> I blink several times to clear my head. I should be scrambling out of here and this is what I’m thinking about?! Obviously, random thoughts have taken over as my default self-preservation mechanism.
Elliot takes Blare’s hand. “And Veronica, as staggering as always.” He plants a kiss on her hand and nothing but the smallest tightness around her eyes reveals any emotion besides pleasure.
Veronica? I wonder if that’s her real name.
“Same to you,” Blare says.
“And who do we have here?” Elliot turns.
His eyes, those iridescent, spell-binding eyes, land on me. I feel hypnotized by them and their strange, inhuman color. My breathing quickens, and suddenly I need pain to ground me, to stop the incessant droning that beats to a new, unprecedented rhythm.
Pain!
I bite the inside of my cheek, until my teeth mash together. My mouth fills with blood.
Awkwardly, James steps in front of Xave, jolting my attention to his gray eyes. “This is Marci and her friend Xave. Guys, this is Elliot Whitehouse.”
Elliot frowns and his nose flares like those of the guards outside. One of his eyebrows goes up, appraising me, revealing a small hint of suspicion. I know I must pull it together. Something big is at stake here, even if I don’t know what.
I shed pounds of repulsion and put my hand out. I open my mouth to speak and, for a second, I fear nothing will come out. Yet, my voice is steady, pleasant even.
“Elliot.” The name rolls off my tongue, as if I’m savoring it, but it nearly gags me. “May I call you that? I’m Marci … Milan. I hope you don’t mind, James took the liberty of inviting us.” I pull what I think is my most enchanting smile.
Xave gapes. Blare reevaluates me. James smiles with what I know must be relief. Elliot inclines his head and gives a slow nod. A smile stretches his lips, revealing perfect teeth, erasing the suspicion that never quite materialized.
He takes my hand in his and says, “Not at all. Any friend of James is welcome in my humble home.” He leans a bit closer and inhales, as if I’m some sort of flower and he a proud gardener. “Ah, such youth. A new generation full of promise. Well done, James.” He pauses, then releases my hand at last.
He spares a curt nod for Xave before his attention shifts back to James. After all that charm and manners, I feel like protesting his rudeness toward my friend, but that would be a mistake. Those eyes need to shift their attention elsewhere. The quicker, the better.
“A nice new addition to your small circle of friends, James,” Elliot says. Then he turns to Blare. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Veronica, I will borrow your date for a few minutes. In the meantime, enjoy the party. My entire house is at your disposal.”
Elliot walks away, and in spite of my little performance, he leaves me feeling desolate. I take two ragged breaths, trying to pretend the world keeps on turning outside this nightmare.
“I’ll be right back,” James says. “Don’t go far.”
We stay behind, our body language screaming for James not to leave us.
Xave clears his throat. “Is that the monster James was talking about? What does he do? Kill you with … charm?”
Blare spins around. “I need a drink,” she says, walking toward a large table laden with hors d’oeuvres and champagne.
“Me, too.” Xave turns and follows.
I stay planted like a sapling, weak and new to this cruel world. My forefinger throbs and it feels as if I’ve grown a second heart. I squeeze it with my other hand and feel the wetness. When I examine it, I discover thin streaks of blood decorating its full length and am reminded of a candy cane.
Wincing, I search the crowd for James and find him standing with Elliot, his back turned. Elliot looks past James and locks his gaze to mine. They’re talking about me. I know it. Suddenly, I want to hurt him, to rip that ridiculous thing off his neck and stuff it down his bloody throat. I never knew there was hatred at first sight, but there you have it.
Elliot gestures to a waiter, who brings over a tray with drinks. James takes one and brings it to his nose. He closes his eyes and smiles. After a few sips, they walk over to a painting on the wall and examine it. Bored and disgusted, I look away and go back to face-surfing. I study the crowd, wondering what all these people are doing here.
A blond man dances with a brunette.
She’s petite and curvaceous.
He is one of them.
One of me.
A middle-aged woman with cruel features leads a younger man toward the grand staircase. She looks delighted as they ascend.
He’s barely thirty and average looking.
She’s one of them.
One of me.
I shiver. Fear brews inside my ribcage, turning dark and viscous, like spent motor-oil. I think of my bedroom, nestled in whirring computer equipment and my father’s old books. There’s comfort there, safety. I look toward the entrance and imagine myself walking away, turning my back on IgNiTe and this place. I can go home to my sanctuary—the only place where I can be myself.
Be myself. Be myself. Be myself.
Looking at all these faces, the lie echoes louder than ever before. How can I be myself if I don’t know who—no, what—I am? No, I can’t run. I can’t hide from this no matter how terrifying. I have to know and, maybe then, I will be free.
Suddenly I notice James at my side. He’s saying something, but his words float away before I catch their meaning.
“Here, take this.” He hands me a handkerchief.
For an instant, I wonder about its purpose, then, cottoning on, I use it to clean the blood on my hands.
“Who’s that guy?” I ask.
“Elliot? A man with exquisite taste in Scotch and art, but terrible respect for others.”
What is that supposed to mean?
“C’mon,” he urges.
“Are we leaving?” My question is really a plea.
“No, Marci.” Sympathy flashes across his gaze but it’s quickly replaced by determination. “We haven’t done what we came here to do.”
Chapter 15
We find Xave and Blare by the banquet table, each holding a glass of champagne.
Xave spits something into a napkin and says in a muffled voice, “It’s disgusting.”
Blare laughs, but grows serious as soon as she sees us. Her eyes snap to James’s arm around my waist as he offers me his support.
“Let’s go upstairs,” James says.
Blare takes Xave’s glass and sets it on the table. “Help your girlfriend,” she orders him.
James and Xave switch places.
“Time to do that bit of acting,” Blare says.
As we head for the staircase, James leans toward us and whispers, “Don’t drink anything up there.” He turns his attention to Blare. His large hand runs down the length of her back and he whispers something in her ear. She laughs and looks into his eyes with something like hunger, then kisses him on the mouth with exaggerated, soap-opera passion.
I blush and look away.
Mid-stairway, a warm caress travels down my neck. The tender touch startles me. Xave plants a kiss on my bare shoulder and pulls me close to him.
“You look beautiful tonight,” he says in a deep voice. His hazel eyes twinkle with mischief.
He’s acting. At least that’s what I tell myself. I’m supposed to do the same.
“You really think so?” I flirt.
At the top of the stairs, James takes Blare’s hand and leads her down a hall as wide as my house. Both smile and chatter, as if on a real date.
I try to act as if I know what I’m doing, but I have no clue. I’ve never been on a date. Not when every time I get close to a boy, the nervous fear sends the shadows over the edge.
We’re behind James, walking down the carpeted hall. The padding under my feet is so soft it feels like walking on pillows. Huge flower arrangements decorate the way, filling the air with nauseating sweetness. The road to hell couldn’t be more deceiving. I’m sure o
f it.
There are many doors at every side of the corridor. I get the impression I’m in a grand hotel and expect to see numbers on the doors and card readers to allow entry. Of course there aren’t any, but my idea, it turns out, isn’t ludicrous, because there are “do not disturb” signs hanging from several door knobs.
A couple walks behind us. The woman giggles, unaware that this place is all wrong and she should be running, getting as far away as possible from whatever is behind those closed doors. But she doesn’t suspect a thing. How could she?
She’s not one of them.
Not one of me.
If I die in the next few minutes, I deserve it. I know better than that poor woman and I’m still here. Every nerve in my body urges me to flee. My feet are restless, the back of my head tolls like a bell, and my heart thunders. Yet, I press forward, and I allow Xave to keep walking into the gaping jaws of this unknown beast.
We walk deeper into the hall, as James surveys each door. To our left a man with gray hair steps out of one of the rooms. He has an arm around a young woman, whose legs seem unable to hold her full weight.
He gives us a rueful smile. “One too many cherry martinis,” he says, leading her forward, supporting her limp, scarecrow body.
“What kind of place is this?” Xave whispers in my ear. “I’m pretty sure whatever’s going on here ain’t legal.”
He’s on to something, but I doubt they even have a law for what’s really happening.
James comes to a stop in front of a door without a “do not disturb” sign.
“Have fun,” he says, directing his pointed gaze toward another vacant room next to theirs. The couple behind us picks the room past James’s.
Xave gets the hint. “You too.” He wraps an arm around my shoulder and ushers me into the room.
An admiring whistle leaves his lips as we walk in. “Look at this place.”
I don’t know what I was expecting. Torture devices? A wormhole? But the room is just normal. Well, not normal. It is … exquisite.
I don’t think I’ve ever used that word to describe anything before, but that’s the only adjective that comes to mind. The place is exquisite, and I feel like I’m going to vomit. The ambiance is subtle, with warm lamps glowing in each corner. At the far end, sheer curtains cover a large set of floor-to-ceiling windows. Heavier drapes made out of something that looks like golden velvet hang at each end. Luxurious, yet comfortable and utilitarian furniture is placed strategically throughout. Museum-worthy art hangs from the walls. A massive bed commands the eye to the middle of the room, its duvet silken and embroidered in golden thread.
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