by Amy Cross
Broken White: The Complete Series
(All 8 books)
by Amy Cross
Kindle Edition
Copyright Amy Cross, All Rights Reserved
Published by Dark Season Books
This edition first published: September 2013
http://amycrossbooks.wordpress.com
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment. If you enjoy it and wish to share it with others, please consider buying them their own copy. Feedback is always welcome. The author reserves all rights in respect of this work.
COMING SOON
Countdown parts I and II (The Shades 1.5 & 1.6)
Day Eleven (Mass Extinction Event 2.3)
The Letting (The Devil's Photographer 1.3)
The Promise (The Devil's Photographer 1.4)
ALSO BY AMY CROSS
Horror
Asylum
American Coven
The Night Girl
Devil's Briar
The Vampire's Grave
Fantasy / Horror
Dark Season series 1, 2 & 3
The Hollow Church (Abby Hart)
Lupine Howl series 1, 2 & 3
Grave Girl
Ghosts
The Library
Romance / Thriller
Other People's Bodies (The Heights book 1)
Dystopia
Mass Extinction Event series 1
Erotica
Broken Blue
Table of Contents
Book One:
Affection
Book Two:
Suspicion
Book Three:
Friends
Book Four:
Torn
Book Five:
All That You Are
Book Six:
Romance
Book Seven:
Knives
Book Eight:
Dramatis Personae
Broken White: The Complete Series
Book One:
Affection
Prologue
He opens his eyes and stares at the darkness. Everything seems normal, but he knows there has been a change. It's small, almost imperceptible, but he can sense a shift, as if something long expected has finally come to pass. He's tempted to believe that in some way, he can pick up on intangible changes to the fabric of the game, but he knows that this isn't true; instead, he assumes that he has simply come to a new level of understanding.
She is ready.
He opens his mouth and lets out a sigh. His body is old now, wretched and torn. Most men would have allowed themselves to die long ago, but he has forced himself to hang on, never allowing the possibility of death to cross his mind. It won't be long now, though; once he has seen her, he will be able to let go, and death is sure to come swiftly. He's not scared, nor does he have any regrets. He's merely thankful that he has been given this opportunity to witness the day when so many promises are on the verge of coming true, and when so much hope looks set to be brought back to the world. Although the game has always been a secret, its shadow has spread far, and the old man knows that a faint pressure would be eased if the game were to come to an end.
For a moment, he thinks of his mother. Long dead now, she was the one who raised him and taught him the ways of the game. She was not his birth mother, of course, since his biological parents both died within a few hours of his birth. His birth mother was a rabble-rouser, an aristocrat who descended to the floor of public debate, while his father was a conman and a charlatan. He was raised by a much better person, by someone with a strong sense of right and wrong. He often likes to remember his mother's final words, when she whispered that he had changed her, and when she thanked him for helping her become less of a monster. He often wonders precisely what she meant, but he knows he can never find out for certain. He was only fourteen years old when his mother died, and he figures it's only natural that she didn't open up to him fully. If she had lived longer, perhaps she would have told him why she cried whenever she thought no-one was watching.
"Am I a monster?" she asked him at the end of her life.
"You could never be a monster," he told her.
He still remembers the look in her eyes, however, and the way that she rambled about being a monster while she was gripped by death's fever. Something from her past had tormented her, and Thomas - so young back then, and with little experience of the world - was hopelessly unable to help.
Other mothers followed. After Elizabeth, there was Alison, and then Claire. By the time Claire died, he was more than forty years old, but a new mother came along anyway. Louise was his mother for eleven years, followed by Jacqueline, and then Carol, and then Susan, and then finally his current mother, Alice, arrived just after the turn of the millennium. By that point, of course, he himself was a very old man, and he believed that Alice would be his eighth and final mother, not counting the woman who had given birth to him, but now he realizes that he might receive a ninth mother before he draws his final breath. Nine mothers, each of them different, all of them hugely important to his life. He knows that he has been lucky, and he knows that some men never even have one mother.
When the door opens, he realizes that it's time to get up. He spends most of his days in bed at the moment, but for special occasions he's raised from the sheets like the wreck of a boat, and placed in a wheelchair. Usually he resents the imposition, but today he understands that his presence is required. If all goes according to plan, this is the day when the game will begin to unravel, spinning furiously until there's nothing left but a strand in the darkness, and then this strand will flare and burn. The moment has been a long time coming, and the game has claimed many victims, but the old man knows that the final moment could never have been rushed. This is how it always had to end.
"Is mother ready for me?" he asks, shocked as always by the sound of his own voice. So old, and so frail. He still feels young in his heart, and every time he sees his own reflection, he hopes that this ghastly old body will have returned to its youthful form. He never asked to live so long. In some ways, he feels as if his own body is torturing him, refusing to die and forcing him to experience more days.
"Lady Red requests the pleasure of your company," Mr. White replies, sounding irritated at having been given such a mundane assignment. "She was very insistent that I should get you ready. She even proposed that I should bathe you, until I reminded her that you'd been visited by your nurse last night. Sometimes, Lady Red gives out orders without thinking about the fact that other people have lives. I swear to God, this whole mess could have been avoided if we'd just stuck to the original rules of the game."
"What is the girl like?" the old man asks.
"She's a girl," Mr. White says as he positions him in the wheelchair. "Aren't they all the same?"
"No two are the same," the old man tells him.
Mr. White mutters something under his breath before turning the wheelchair and pushing him toward the door.
The old man narrows his eyes a little as they leave the dark room and emerge into the bright, over-lit corridor. This is the journey he has always wanted to make, and he hopes that there will be no need of a similar journey in the future. He prays that this will be the girl who has been promised for so long, and although he has been in this position before, he can't help but feel that maybe, this time, things are different. The game was originally supposed to be fun, but over time it has mutated to become a curse. If the game itself is now able to end, there need be no more suffering and no more death, at least not of the game's particularly cruel variety. Still, he knows that he shouldn't get his hopes up. Not yet, anyway. The girl could turn out to be a failure, despite everything that has be
en said of her. She still needs to be tested before she's given the ultimate role. If all goes according to plan, however, she will soon be on the cusp of greatness.
Elly
Today
Standing at the huge glass window, staring out at the vastness of Zurich as it dazzles beneath the night sky, I'm momentarily lost in space and time. It's as if all my thoughts, all my fears and excitement and memories, lift a little from my mind, allowing me to stare blankly out at the millions of lights that blaze on either side of the Limmat River. Looking up, I see that the sky is a kind of dark blue color, and most of the stars are obscured by the bright haze that rises from the city itself. Finally, as my mind clears and my thoughts come back to me, I'm filled with a feeling that somehow this isn't real.
I'm so far from home.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone and bring up my mother's number. It's strange, but having not heard from her for a couple of weeks, I feel a strange desire to make sure she's okay. She must have been struggling to deal with the empty house following my father's funeral, and I know I should have stuck around longer in order to help her out. Then again, she'd never have accepted my help, and we'd have ended up at each other's throats. My mother and I work best at a distance.
"You've reached the voice mail service for -" says an automated voice, before I cut the call. It's quite out of character for my mother to be so elusive, and I can't help wondering if I should be more worried. I guess I'll pop by and see her next week when Mark and I get back to London. Right now, though, I need to focus on the fact that I'm living the most amazing life out here in Zurich. We're only here for a few days, while Mark concludes a business deal, but everything seems to be whizzing past in a blur of parties and shopping. I have to keep checking my reflection throughout the day, just to make sure that I'm still myself.
"There you are," says a voice nearby, and I turn to see Isabella Raynard coming through from the bar. We're at a drinks reception in one of Zurich's most prestigious banks, perched high up on a skyscraper that towers over the Bahnhofstrasse. "Having a thoughtful moment?" she asks in her clipped French tones as she reaches me. "Don't worry. It happens to us all. Just don't let the men see".
Turning to look over at the bar, I see Mark talking to Isabella's husband Frank. It's weird, but despite all the high-tech surroundings in this place, I feel as if I've stepped back in time, to a world where women have to dress up and look their best while men conduct business deals worth millions, or even billions of dollars. Glancing back at the window, I see my own reflection, and it's hard to believe that I'm standing here in a little black dress that cost almost a thousand pounds. I feel like I don't belong here, and I can't shake the suspicion that everyone else at the reception thinks I'm no better than mutton dressed as lamb.
"How long have you and Mark been together?" Isabella asks.
"Not long," I say.
"Days?"
"A few weeks".
She smiles. "You have a lot to learn. For example, this dress". She steps back and takes a good look at me. "Who chose it? Him?"
I nod.
"Big mistake. Do not let the man choose your dress. He will make a bad choice. Look at me. Do you think Frank chose this?"
Staring at her dark green dress, I have to admit that it doesn't really look like something a husband would buy his wife. For one thing, it's so tight, I can't help wondering if she's having trouble breathing; for another, the front is open to an alarming degree, revealing almost the entirety of Isabella's large breasts, with just a small piece of fabric covering the nipples and underside. She might be in her forties, or perhaps even her fifties, but she looks stunning.
"You need to show off more," she says. "Wear a dress that's a little more daring".
I look down at my black dress. The front is almost up to my neck, hiding my cleavage well away, while the hem comes down to my knees. It's quite tight, but I'm not sufficiently confident to wear anything that's too revealing; after all, I have the kind of figure that wouldn't really be flattered by a dress squashes everything into an unnatural arrangement.
"You need to get better at playing the game," Isabella says suddenly.
I stare at her.
"What's wrong?" she asks. "You've gone as white as a sheet".
"The game?" I say, my heart racing. Mark didn't tell me that anyone here would know about the game. I thought the game was a secret, to be kept by a very small group of people. "You know about the game?" I ask cautiously.
"Of course!" she says, laughing. "Everyone here knows about the game! But you don't, clearly, otherwise you wouldn't wear that dress!"
"I know about the game," I reply earnestly, feeling as if maybe I have a chance to talk to someone who can help me. "Are you playing it? Are you part of the game?"
"What do you think?" she says with a smile. "Why else would I wear a dress that practically lets my tits hang out?" She puts an arm around me and leads me past the bar, heading toward the far end of the corridor. "I'm going to teach you something very important about the game, Elly. Something Mark could never tell you".
"Okay," I say nervously, glancing over at the bar and seeing that Mark is keeping an eye on me.
"The game is so important," Isabella continues, steering me through a door and into the bathroom. "The game is everything. If you go wrong, you lose the game, and the consequences can be catastrophic. Do you understand?"
I nod. "But Mark said -"
"Don't listen to him," she says, turning to the concierge who's sitting politely by the sinks. "Please, give us some privacy".
Smiling meekly, the concierge gets to her feet and hurries out of the bathroom. I'm left to watch as Isabella walks over to the mirror and checks her make-up.
"How long have you been playing the game?" I ask.
"Long enough," she replies, turning to me. "I'm still alive, as you can see. The game is not easy. There's no list of rules, no website that can give you hints and tips. You're lucky, Elly, that you ran into me. I've been through some of the same rituals that you've been through, and that you're going to go through in the next few weeks. I can't guarantee that you'll succeed, of course, but I can definitely point you in the right direction. Now, don't get me wrong, but the first thing I must ask you is rather intimate. Have you ever considered plastic surgery?"
I stare at her, not sure how to reply.
"Look," she says, slipping her dress down to expose her breasts. It's immediately clear that she's had surgery to make them bigger and more firm. In fact, they look painfully tight, as if the surgeon squeezed in every last possible amount of silicone. It's hard not to worry that, at any moment, her nipples could be forced off by the pressure inside the two large globes of flesh. "Don't be shy," she continues. "Some people like fake tits, some don't. I think I went a little too far, but it's too late now. What matters is that you get a surgeon who knows what he's doing. Come on, let's see them".
"What?" I ask, finding it hard to keep up with her train of thought.
"Don't be shy!" she says again, almost shouting. "If you want my help in the game, I need to see what we're working with here!"
I glance over at the door.
"I'm not gonna do anything," she continues. "Believe me, honey, I'm as straight as a beam. I just want to help you out, and... Well, don't take this the wrong way, but you look like you need helping out. You want to keep this thing you've got going with Mark, don't you?"
I nod.
"Then accept a little advice when it's offered. Unless you think you can go off and win the game without any help?"
After pausing for a moment, I decide I might as well let her give me some pointers. I slip my dress down, exposing my breasts.
"Not bad," she says, stepping closer. She reaches out and cups my left breast with a surprisingly cold hand. "Firm. Not too big but not too small, good shape. You've got something to work with here, honey. You definitely need to wear different clothes, though. You're doing yourself no favors at the moment. You want to f
latter yourself, not hide everything away. You're not ashamed of your body, are you?"
I shake my head. As soon as she takes her hand away, I pull my dress back up.
"Now," she continues, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper, "I'm not gonna ask to take a look this time, but let me just give you another word of advice. If you don't shave downstairs, it's time to start. I don't know why, it's one of the big mysteries in life, but rich men like a narrow landing strip or, better still, nothing at all, if you catch my drift".
"I -" I start to say.
"I don't need to know," she says, interrupting me. "Just take my advice".
"But the game," I say, frowning. "What's all this got to do with the game?"
"It's got everything to do with the game," she replies. "You can't win the game if you don't know what your man wants. Let's face it, all these modern ideas are nice, but a woman has to be physically appealing if she's going to get a decent guy".
"But how's that going to help with the whole Mr. White thing?" I ask.
"The what thing?"
"The Mr. White thing," I continue. "I'm supposed to be meeting Mr. White for the first time when we get back to London. I feel like Mark's delaying things a little, but it's going to happen eventually, and I'm..." I pause for a moment. "Can I ask you something? What was it like when you first met Mr. White? What did he do to you?"
She stares at me.
"Did he hurt you?"
"I have no idea what you're talking about," she says flatly.
"Mr. White," I continue. "The game".
"The game, yeah," she replies, "but who's Mr. White?"
"It's part of the game," I say. "It's all about Mr. White and Mr. Blue and -" Suddenly I stop speaking, as a moment of awful realization hits me. How the hell could I have been so stupid? "Okay," I say slowly, furiously trying to think of some convincing way to backtrack. "I think we've been talking about different games. What game were you on about?"