Big Bad Academy

by Sophie Stern

  But the biggest clue came when one of our people went missing and there were signs of a struggle where they were abducted. There was a piece of paper left behind. We’d already suspected Heather Smith of being involved in the abductions somehow, but finding a piece of paper from The Wolves and Their Beloved Mate really sealed the deal.

  Now we’ve got Heather Smith. We’re going to stop at her house and maybe there will be something else there we can use to get her talking. Who knows? Maybe she has one of those walls in her house that serial killers are known for with maps and strings and pictures sprawled across it.

  Maybe.

  Somehow, though, I can’t shake the feeling that Heather Smith just isn’t capable of something this evil.

  Somehow, I think we’re missing something.

  “YOU’VE GOT TO BE SHITTING me.”

  It’s nearly four in the morning by the time we reach Heather’s residence. The tiny house is located at the end of a long, winding private drive, and it looks like something out of a fucking storybook.

  “This is the address on the license,” Gaston assures me. Is it just me, or is he biting back a laugh?

  “This? This is where she lives?”

  “Come on, man. Let’s just get in there.”

  “Is she still asleep?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Stay with the car,” I mumble. “I got this.”

  I walk up the brick sidewalk. Yes, the sidewalk is made out of beautiful bricks. I mean, did she lay these herself? I eventually reach the little two-story cottage. It’s painted blue and has white shutters. Even in the darkness, I can see the carefully planted flowers that surround the little front porch.

  It’s beautiful.

  It’s absolutely beautiful, and I hate it. I hate that this is her house. It’s much too perfect and pretty to house something – someone – sinister, but this is it.

  I walk up to the front door and listen for a minute. I don’t hear anything. Good. If there’s someone inside, they’re fast asleep. I’m planning to pick the lock, but before I get started, I decide to take the easy way out and look around.

  Is Heather Smith, or Heather Miracle, the type of woman to leave a spare key outside?

  She seemed pretty trusting when I met her. She seemed almost innocent when it came to dealing with the world, and I can’t help but think she just might be the type of person to hide a spare key she can give to guests when they come over.

  I check the obvious places: under the mat, on top of the door frame, and under a potted plant. It’s not until I notice a little garden gnome off in one corner that I start chuckling. I reach for it and sure enough, there’s a key beneath it.

  You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

  I toss the key up and catch it easily, proud of just how simple this is all turning out to be. Then I unlock the front door, turn the knob, and step inside.

  Easy peasy.

  Instantly, though, something hits me in the face. It’s loud and sharp and soft all at the same time. I screech, and I hear Gaston slam the car door and come running. I fight whatever is on me. Is it a pillow? Knives? I can’t tell.

  “Fuck!” I cry out, and I try to push it away. The thing falls off my face just as Gaston steps inside and flips the lights on. Instantly, he starts laughing.

  “Cats,” he laughs, kneeling over. “You got scared by cats!”

  Not just any cats.

  Nope.

  Heather’s cats are practically guard cats. They’re both standing a few feet away from me and hissing and spitting at me like they hate me. I don’t believe in any sort of second sense or intuition type of stuff, but suddenly, I wonder if there’s any way these kittens can know what I’ve done.

  Guilt washes over me, but I shake my head.

  “Kill the lights,” I say to Gaston. “Someone will see.”

  “We’re surrounded by forest,” he points out. “And this is at the end of a private drive. The nearest neighbor is half a mile away. No one’s going to see.”

  He’s right, but I kind of hate that he’s right.

  Why does Heather live all the way out here by herself?

  Doesn’t she get lonely?

  “She just lives here with her cats?”

  It seems almost...sad.

  But these cats don’t look neglected or evil. They look very well taken care of, and as I look around the little living room, I can see pictures of cats on the walls. There are paintings and drawings. I wonder if Heather made these pictures herself. There’s a big sofa in the center of the room, and once the cats realize that Gaston and I aren’t going anywhere, they scurry up to the sofa and jump up on it. They turn around a few times before sitting down.

  Neither one of them goes to sleep.

  They don’t close their eyes and they don’t turn their backs. They’re still wildly suspicious of us, but they wait patiently.

  “Let’s search the house,” I say, warily eyeing the cats. “I don’t want to be here a minute longer than we have to.

  “Understood,” he says.

  “I’ll take the second floor.”

  “I’ll start down here.”

  I move toward the little staircase and head upstairs.

  Let’s see what Heather Smith is hiding in her bedroom.

  Chapter Three

  Heather

  The sound of the door slamming wakes me up.

  I’m groggy, and my entire body hurts, and everything is dark. I’m lying flat on a hard surface. Where the hell am I?

  And then it hits me.

  Everything comes rushing back in one swift, horrible wave of emotions and memories.

  He took me.

  The man from the book signing took me.

  My hands are bound, but they’re in front of me, and my ankles are free. Crap. He tied me up and shoved me somewhere. I roll around. I’m in...a trunk, maybe? Yes, definitely. Fuck. I feel like I can’t breathe. Suddenly, the world around me starts to feel like it’s closing in. Is the trunk getting smaller?

  It’s definitely got to be getting smaller, right?

  “Think,” I mutter to myself. I know he drugged me somehow. I feel a little groggy still, but I’m otherwise okay. I don’t think he hit me on the head or anything serious, and my legs are free, so he didn’t bother taking the time to tie them up. Apparently, he didn’t think I’d try to get out of the car.

  He was wrong.

  We’re stopped. The sound of the car door slamming is what woke me up, so I have to act quickly. I can tell that there’s no way for me to get the actual trunk open, but what about the backseat? Can I break into the backseat?

  Some cars have an emergency level that let you easily access the backseat. The way my hands are bound, I could probably grip one. The problem is that it’s just so dark, and I don’t have a lot of time for messing around. Still, I try, but I can’t seem to reach or find any suck lever.

  No worries.

  It’s time for plan B.

  I roll around, adjusting my position so that my feet are against the backseat of the car. I shove my feet hard. Once, twice, and then a third time. The seat jerks a little, but doesn’t break free. It’s okay, I remind myself. It’s okay. I know that I don’t have a lot of time. I’m not sure if the kidnapper went to the bathroom at a gas station, but if he did, I can probably flag someone down for help. Screaming in public is a good way to be saved, right?

  I kick again and again. It could be my imagination, but I think I felt the chair loosen a little. I kick again and again, feeling tired and sweaty, but then I give it one final kick, and the chair pops open. I’m free. I wiggle around and crawl out of the tiny opening. I pop my head into the backseat and look around.

  All my crap is here: my suitcase and even stuff from my hotel room that I definitely hadn’t packed. Shit. This guy is a professional. He really wanted me, didn’t he? I don’t have time to wonder if he’s some sort of insane stalker or just a weirdo because I don’t know where he is or how much time I have.


  Stumbling around, I manage to get into the backseat. I reach for my bathroom bag, which is sitting on the backseat. Pulling out a pair of nail clippers, I cut the plastic zip ties that were on my wrist. Everything hurts, but I have to get out of here and fast. I don’t see my phone. Maybe he took it. Either way, I’m out. I shove the nail clippers back in the bag, and then I open the door. I don’t close it. I don’t want him to hear the sound and come running.

  I’m not at a gas station, though.

  Once I’m out of the car, I realize that I’m in the woods, and not just any woods.

  My woods.

  Fuck.

  Are you fucking kidding me?

  I turn around in a blaze of fury and see that the lights in my house are on. He’s here. He’s at my house. Why the hell is this guy at my house?

  For a second, I worry about Maple and Syrup. They’re in the house with the crazy guy, but I know my cats, and I know that they aren’t going to let anyone touch them. I fight the urge to go storming into the house. Instead, I give a quick, high-pitched whistle. It’s the sound I make to let my cats know it’s time to go play outside. Hopefully, they’ll hear me and go running out of the back kitty door.

  I move toward the woods quickly. It’s dark, so I have that going for me. Under the cover of night, this guy isn’t going to be able to find me in the woods. This is my place. It’s only a 10-minute walk through the woods to Henrietta’s house. If I can make it there, she’ll let me use her phone to call the police and I can tell them exactly what happened and what this guy is up to.

  I wait patiently, and sure enough, my cats come bounding out of the house a few seconds later.

  The asshole inside doesn’t even notice them leave.

  My cats run to me and jump up into my arms. I hug them quickly and then turn to start the trek to my neighbor’s house. I’m not going to slow down until I get to her place. I can’t really run through the woods. Even in the daylight, these woods are full of holes and fallen tree limbs and other things you can easily fall over. Now, at night, it’s going to be slow going.

  That’s fine.

  I just have to keep moving and pray he doesn’t find me.

  My cats are silent in my arms as I move away from my house and deeper into the woods. Stepping carefully, I keep an ear open, but I don’t hear any sounds. Good. Maybe he doesn’t know I’ve escaped. Maybe he doesn’t know where I’ve gone.

  Maybe...

  But then I hear shouting, and angry voices.

  Fuck.

  There are two guys.

  Of course.

  Why wouldn’t crazy man have a driver?

  “Shit,” I grumble, and I start trying to run. It’s a stupid idea to run in the forest at night, but I’m desperate. My heart is practically beating out of my chest as I move, racing into the darkness. My cats are weirdly silent as I move. I think they can tell that I’m scared. Cats can sense emotions, right? I’ve always thought that Maple and Syrup could. They have a great habit of always calming me down when I’m starting to feel tense.

  I keep going, breathing heavily. I will myself to stay silent. I do not want these guys to find me. I don’t even know what they’re going to do. I mean, why are they even at my house? What are they looking for? And out of all of the girls in the world, why would they want to kidnap me?

  I’m nobody.

  Nothing.

  Ordinary.

  I trip, stumbling over something I can’t see, and I catch myself just before I fall, but not before I make a little sound of surprise.

  Suddenly, the forests fall silent, and even though I can’t hear the men, I’m very aware of the fact that they heard that sound. Worse: it might very well be my undoing. They heard me trip, and now they’re going to find me.

  And I don’t know what I’m going to do.

  Think. Think.

  I know these woods better than anyone else, but I know them in the daytime. I don’t know them at night. I hold perfectly still for a very long time. My ears are open. I’m listening. I can’t hear them, though. I can’t hear anything over the sound of my own racing heart. Even my cats are silent as I’m standing perfectly still in the darkness of night.

  What do I do now?

  I look down at Maple and Syrup. It’s dark out and there’s just the tiniest sliver of moonlight shining through the tops of the trees. I can do this, I tell myself. I’ve got this. It can’t be too far to my neighbor’s house. All I have to do it keep moving.

  One thing is for certain: standing still and being scared is the fastest way for me to get hurt, killed, or captured. Whoever took me isn’t messing around. He knows where I live, he knows I have cats, and he knows I’m a writer. The fact that he came up to me at the book signing makes my skin crawl. What was he trying to do, anyway? Taunt me before he murdered me?

  I take a step forward, and then another.

  There.

  That wasn’t so bad.

  I take another step.

  My cats are such good cats. Both of them hold perfectly still as I carefully begin moving again. I just have to get to my neighbor’s house, use their phone, and all of this will be over. Who knows? Maybe it’s all some sort of elaborate prank. Maybe it’s part of a joke I didn’t know about. Is that it? Am I just waiting for the punch line?

  I doubt it.

  Somehow, even though I don’t have an explanation for what’s going on, I can’t even lie to myself.

  Much less anyone else.

  I take another step. Carefully, I gingerly place my feet down one at a time. I point my toes, feeling around on the forest floor before dropping my full weight. I’m terrified that I’m going to step on a stick or a branch or something else that’s going to make noise.

  One step.

  Two steps.

  Three steps.

  On the fourth step, I do it, anyway. I cringe as my shoe crunches down loudly on a stick. The sound seems to echo for what feels like miles. I stop and stand perfectly still, listening.

  Maybe they didn’t hear.

  And then I hear a stick crunching to my left, and I know that there’s no such luck.

  They’ve found me.

  Now I have to run.

  I take off, not caring that it’s dark or that I’m making a ton of noise all of a sudden. I just move. I’ve got to book it to my neighbor’s place. If I can just get there, then everything is going to be okay. I hear someone shouting from behind me, but I keep moving. I’m not giving these guys anything that they want. No thanks, no how.

  It’s not going to happen.

  I run and run, but then I trip. This time, I can’t stop my fall. This time, my cats leap out of my arms as I fall straight down and slam into mud, sticks, and rocks. I drop my hands to brace the fall, but it doesn’t seem to help much. It fucking hurts.

  Everything hurts.

  I push my hands into the dirt and twigs to push myself up, but I suddenly feel something pressing down on me between my shoulder blades.

  A boot.

  “Not so fast, love,” the man’s voice is thick and heavy.

  Shit.

  It’s him.

  I know without a doubt it’s the man from the signing: the one who kidnapped me. Where is his partner?

  Suddenly, Maple and Syrup both start squealing loudly, and I hear a sigh.

  “Found the cats,” the man says. It’s the partner.

  “Don’t hurt them!” I cry out. My voice is strained and my throat hurts. My words come out raspy and unfamiliar.

  “Don’t move.”

  “Don’t hurt them,” I repeat.

  The boot digs deeper into my skin.

  “And I said don’t move.”

  “For fuck’s sake, Flynn, give it a rest,” the partner says. I crank my head back to look up and see the man. He’s got one cat under each arm, and is it just me, or does he look amused?

  “Seriously? Names?”

  The partner shrugs.

  “She’s going to learn your name sooner or later.�
�

  “I didn’t hear what it was,” I lie quickly. “You don’t have to kill me.”

  “Shut your mouth,” Flynn says.

  “Come on,” the other guy says. “You’ve got your prize. Grab her and let’s go.” He looks around and shivers. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  Flynn doesn’t move his boot, though, and I get the distinct impression that I’ve somehow both pissed him off and offended him somehow. I’m not exactly sure how I’ve managed to do that, but there you go.

  “You shouldn’t have made me chase you,” he says.

  “Well excuse me,” I snap, completely pissed off. “In case you’ve forgotten, I didn’t exactly consent to being kidnapped or shoved in a trunk!”

  His boot lifts from my back, but it’s replaced with his hand. Suddenly, he’s kneeling beside me. His hand presses between my shoulder blades and he holds me right where he wants me.

  “Let’s get something straight, writer,” he says my career title like it’s some sort of insult. “You’re in my world now.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yeah, I’d say that’s fucking so.”

  He grabs my hair, fisting it, and yanks it back so I’m looking him in the eye. Is it horrible that the movement makes me suddenly feel completely wet? Like, how long has it actually been since I had sex? Shit. I rub my legs together, trying to ignore the sensation, but that only makes things worse for me. I’m suddenly going from nothing to fully charged, and I roll over so suddenly that he lets go in surprise. Then I reach for the man – Flynn – and I pull his lips to mine.

  I kiss him wildly, running my hands through his hair. I kiss him like I’ve never been kissed before: like I was made for this damn moment. He hesitates for only a second before kissing me back. He takes over the kiss, dominating our movements.

  Flynn slides his hands under my back and lifts me, pulling me closer to his body. Why am I so turned on right now? Why does just the sound of his voice turn me on so very much? I groan, running my hands through his hair, and then suddenly, I realize what the hell I’m doing, and I pull away.

  He’s the bad guy here.

  The enemy.

  He’s someone I need to hate: not someone I should be loving.