Beware the Wicked Heir

by Mara McQueen

  The old woman toppled over just as Olivia reached the gun.

  “Nan!” Kieran yelled and dashed in her direction, arms outstretched to catch her before her head hit the floor.

  The moment of distraction cost him. Emma flung onto him and embedded the taser straight into Kieran's chest. His face split with a soundless scream.

  Emma gnashed her teeth, lips thinning so much in a vicious grin, they completely disappeared.

  Kieran's knees hit the floor. Olivia's world spun out of control.

  Olivia fired at Emma. She missed. But the madwoman let Kieran go.

  He crumpled to the floor, body contorted grotesquely next to Mrs. Bolton's limp frame. An otherworldly shriek slashed at Olivia’s throat. She swallowed it back down.

  Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t LOOK.

  If she lost herself now, they were all dead.

  Emma stood above Kieran, triumphant, eyes dancing across his shuddering body. Then she set her cruel gaze on Olivia, who tried so very hard to keep the gun as steady as her shaking limbs allowed.

  “That’s cute, you thinking you can actually shoot me.” Emma grinned. “Come on, try again.”

  Olivia didn’t need to be told twice. She fired at Emma’s left leg. The bullet hit the floor; Emma was already running out the door.

  Olivia followed.

  If the she-devil got into the tunnels, they’d lose her. There were still no police sirens outside. By the time the cops finally deigned to arrive at Bolton Manor, Emma would’ve been gone and free to prey on her next target.

  But Emma was so fast. Olivia couldn’t keep up. She had a gun, but a shit aim.

  As Emma rounded a corner, trying to lose herself in the endless corridors, Olivia fired a shot. It missed by about three feet.

  When they reached the main corridor, Olivia finally saw how much of an advantage Emma had. And she was heading for the tunnels.

  Her panic rising, Olivia desperately looked around for an idea. Something that could help. Anything.

  She raised her eyes. The glass dome. Emma was nearly under it.

  Olivia couldn’t catch up with Emma. She couldn’t shoot her. But...what if she had a bigger, unmoving target?

  Without second-guessing herself—really, who had time for that—Olivia stopped, raised the gun, bit her tongue, and fired.

  The bullet hit the glass with an underwhelming thump. Olivia’s heart stopped. It hadn’t worked.

  But the glass cracked. Tiny rivulets spidered their way to the top, the noise deafening. Emma looked up at just the right time to see the shards and filthy water cascading on top of her. She tried to shield her head, raising her arms, but it was no use. The glass knocked her to the ground, swallowing her and her scream.

  It was over in a second. Emma’s bloody body lay limp in a heap of gleaming mess, rain falling down on her.

  Olivia stepped closer slowly, gun raised. She needed to incapacitate Emma before she ran back and checked on Kieran.

  “Martin! I need some rope,” she yelled into the emptiness.

  The glass crushed beneath her feet as she inched closer to Emma. Was the she-devil dead?

  No, she wasn’t.

  Emma moved insanely fast, punching the gun right out of Olivia’s hands, then kicking her legs right from under her. She grabbed a large shard of glass, aiming it straight at Olivia.

  Olivia ducked at the last moment. That shard had been heading for her throat.

  Instead, it hit her in the arm. Emma imbedded the glass in Olivia with a satisfied roar. The air got knocked out of Olivia with that one blow. Emma’s eyes were on fire as she twisted the glass deeper into flesh. Olivia's vision blurred as a white-hot pain erupted through her.

  Then she raised the glass again, straight above Olivia’s chest.

  This is how she was going to die. In this puddle of bloody water, impaled by a madwoman. Olivia forced herself to watch.

  But instead of impaling her, Emma screamed as a bullet went straight through her shin. Tiny flecks of blood, flesh, and bone rained down onto Olivia’s face as another bullet shot straight through Emma’s shoulder.

  The woman roared in pain, slumping off Olivia into the water, clutching her floppy hand to her chest. Behind her stood Kieran, gun steady even as his entire body shook. Addie, Sarah, and Martin were a few feet away, mouths hanging open, a coil of rope dropped at their feet.

  Kieran limped toward Emma and turned her onto her back, weapon aimed straight at her forehead. “The antidote.”

  “T—ten million dollars and I—I get to walk ou—out of here,” Emma managed between jittering teeth.

  Kieran nodded curtly.

  Emma shuddered out of control, the little color she had in her cheeks quickly vanishing as the blood gushed out of her wounds. “N—necklace. The p—powder’s in the flower, p—pour it d—down her throat.”

  Kieran ripped the necklace from her neck and threw it into Addie’s hands, who bounded down the hallway. Then he nodded at Martin, not taking his icy eyes off Emma. “Throw me the rope.”

  Emma began thrashing, struggling to get up. She didn’t get the chance. Kieran pushed her arms behind her back and tied them and her feet securely.

  “W—we had a deal,” she shrieked, thrashing between the broken glass and dead leaves. Her blood colored the water red. It got into her blonde hair, painting her tips pink. The light shone on the glass, casting an unnatural shine. Emma looked like a fallen angel.

  A fallen angel that had tried to kill them.

  “I don’t negotiate with people who threaten the women I love,” Kieran hissed and righted himself shakily. Only when his eyes found Olivia did the grimace disappear from his beautiful face.

  Mustering up the last of her strength, Olivia got up, too. A vile, primal, uncontrollable desire flared through her as she watched Emma struggle uselessly.

  The pain whitened Olivia’s vision even more as she and Kieran limped toward each other, falling into a wobbly embrace. Olivia finally breathed a sigh of relief when she felt his erratic heartbeat against her own.

  “You’re okay,” they said at the same time, breathing the other in.

  They’d survived. They were safe.

  In the distance, police sirens howled.

  Normal

  A doctor with an endearing lisp kept reassuring Olivia that Milo would be okay. No internal damage, but she strongly advised to find a good therapist for him.

  Mrs. Bolton had woken up halfway to the emergency room, asking for Kieran, who was right by her side, a hoard of doctors after him.

  He'd given Olivia a quick apologetic kiss and a promise he’ll come back within an hour and disappeared behind a heavy set of doors. Darryl and Bertha were only dehydrated and had to deal with a few muscle spasms.

  A nice doctor had stitched up Olivia’s arm right away. She was the first one to get out of the emergency room.

  Mrs. Bolton would be as okay as she could be, given the situation. The woman who had claimed to be called Emma had just amped the last dosage of the drugs no doctor in this hospital recognized, and Mrs. Bolton had fallen into a very deep sleep because of it. The supposed antidote was nothing but white, useless powder, a last-ditch effort from “Emma” to save her ass.

  The more pressing danger was staving off Milo’s infection. His ordeal had left him covered in life-threatening debris if it infiltrated his bloodstream.

  When Olivia mentioned his seizure, the entire medical personnel stiffened. They theorized it was something “Emma” had given him, but whatever she'd used, it didn’t show up on any of their normal tests.

  “So there will be no more seizures?” Olivia asked the petite doctor, who studied Milo’s chart with a vulture-like stare, nodding to herself.

  “The next twenty-four hours will be decisive,” the doctor said in a clipped tone and grimaced, the little dimples in her cheeks more pronounced.

  Olivia nodded, absentmindedly toying with some frayed strands off the bottom of Kieran’s jacket. He’d insisted she
wear it after she had started shaking in the ambulance, coming off her adrenaline rush, even though he shivered right beside her.

  “We’ve started Mr. Underwood on antibiotics to stave off any infection. He has a few broken ribs and lacerations all across his torso. His heels show signs of repeated blows.”

  Olivia closed her eyes and swallowed thickly.

  “But I expect him to make a full recovery. The psychiatrist is with him right now,” the doctor went on.

  “No concussion? No other broken bones? No brain damage from lack of oxygen?”

  The doctor shook her head and wrote something down on Milo’s chart before disappearing at a brisk pace.

  “Okay, gentlemen,” Olivia turned to the two burly detectives who had been questioning her ever since she’d stepped into the hospital. They’d even stood right beside her while the good doctor had stitched up her arm, deeming the injury harmless. It sure as hell didn't feel harmless to Olivia. “Where were we?”

  The three of them stood between a coffee dispenser that rattled and shook each time someone dared insert a coin into it, and two idiot parents with five—five—unruly children, telling anyone who’d listen they were against vaccines.

  If the detectives were as bothered by the display as Olivia, they didn’t show it. Instead, they kept asking her about “Emma”, while she tried to give them coherent answers.

  No, she didn’t know why “Emma” had done it—not really. Best ask Kieran.

  No, Olivia hadn’t thought “Emma” would be capable of something like that when they had first met.

  No, she hadn’t known Milo was being tortured. Going to the boathouse had been a fluke.

  Yes, she had found him by accident. And yes, she had eye-witnesses who could confirm her being in the manor at all times.

  No, she didn’t suspect any of the other guests knew what was happening to Mrs. Bolton, though Darryl might’ve accidentally helped “Emma” because he was an idiot.

  Of course she still had the video Milo had recorded, and, yes, she’d give them her phone if they really insisted on it.

  The questions stopped as soon as the psychiatrist opened the door to Milo’s private room. The detectives rushed inside. Olivia sat down on the closest uncomfortable chair that didn’t have drool or putty smeared all over it.

  Then Milo started talking.

  At first, Olivia let her curiosity take the better of her and listened to Milo recounting, with a shaky voice, everything “Emma” had put him through.

  Olivia barely got through two sentences before she left, fresh tears clinging to her eyelashes.

  The images that flashed before her eyes as Milo offered grueling details about his capture made her bile rise.

  That woman had done terrible, excruciating things to him.

  The ripped shirt on his body concealed the burn marks on his back. She’d gotten creative and ripped his flesh with fishing utensils, and then slashed her way through the rest. He had been tortured repeatedly. Without mercy.

  Olivia wandered aimlessly in the hospital’s halls for a long time, not really seeing anyone else around her. The smell of chemicals and general cleanliness wafted through the air. If she hadn't felt every bruise on her body, she would have thought she was floating.

  The entire day felt surreal. It hadn’t happened to her. She couldn’t possibly be the woman who went through it all. Some other Olivia, a much stronger, intangible version of herself, had survived it.

  She stopped to get some shitty coffee from a dispenser when she first noticed him. A man in the crispest shirt she had ever seen lurked just far enough from her to be considered inconspicuous. It might’ve been her paranoia talking, but he seemed to be following her, a slight limp to his gait.

  It didn’t matter. He could trail behind her all he wanted. The most he would get out of it was a nice view of the bandages on her arm.

  Olivia dragged herself back in front of Milo’s room, her newfound shadow not far behind. The idiotically loud family had mercifully left. She collapsed on a chair, far away so she wouldn’t accidentally eavesdrop on the conversation.

  Numb. Her body and mind were sinking fast and deep into the spiral of sensory withdrawal brought on by her fatigue. Olivia let it consume her. After the onslaught of emotions, she welcomed the stillness.

  It had only been a week. A week at Bolton Manor, and now it seemed she belonged to a new life, another universe altogether. How worried she had been with a meager commission only days before. How stupid she felt now.

  The door opened suddenly and one of the detectives tilted his chin in Olivia’s direction.

  “He’s asking for you,” he said.

  The few steps it took to get to Milo’s bed seemed more daunting than the ride to the hospital. No words of endearment could do the situation justice. Olivia didn’t know what to do. What to say. Human emotions were a territory she had stumbled through her entire life.

  Would he want to talk about it? Did he want a familiar shoulder to cry on? Would he accuse her of not saving him sooner, not seeing the signs right in front of her the whole time?

  “Did a bird crap all over your hair, Abbate?” Milo said when they were left alone and the door was tightly shut. He grinned at her and tried to wink with his one good eye; the other had a round patch on top of it.

  Olivia smiled warmly and sat down at the foot of the bed, trying to keep as much distance between herself and Milo as possible.

  “Want another pillow? I can call the nurse and bring a few over,” Olivia said quickly, feeling her throat constricting.

  “Nah.” He shrugged. The ensuing grimace and tensing of his body clearly showed that even the smallest movement caused him pain. He glanced at the IV lodged in his arm. “I’d like some normal food, but they insist on hooking me up to this crap. Something about readjusting to nutrients or some other bullshit like that. But at least the room’s clean. And smells like it.”

  “You thirsty?” Olivia got up. She kept gulping and felt an uneasy tingle across her skin. “I’m sure I can convince them to give you some ice chips you can munch on.”

  “I’m not in labor, Abbate.” Milo clenched his teeth. “I’m me. I need to feel like me. So...please. Don’t treat me like a poor sod. Cause I’m not. I’ll be out of this bed before you’ll find anything decent to wear. Just...act normal. I need to feel normal to know I'm free again.”

  The ache in Olivia’s throat intensified and she swallowed down her apprehension. If that’s what Milo needed, that’s what she was going to give him.

  “Looking forward to your vacation, Underwood?” she asked in a shaky voice.

  Milo’s good eye started watering and his chin trembled. The look of gratitude on his face pierced right through Olivia’s soul. They looked at each other, basking in the silent understanding.

  He cleared his throat, visibly relaxing. “Jealous? I’m gonna sunbathe in areas that’ll make you blush.”

  “I’m guessing the listings I’ll get while you’re gone will be consolation enough.” She sat back down, scooting closer to him, careful not to touch any of his injured limbs.

  “Keep dreaming,” he said and coughed, doubling over as the tremors wracked his body.

  “Easy there.” Olivia leaned back as soon as Milo’s coughs subsided. “I’ve had enough of your saliva on me.”

  “So that wasn’t a dream, was it?” Milo grimaced and flicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “Ever heard of boundaries, Abbate? Keep your mitts to yourself.”

  Olivia rolled her eyes and laughed. Milo’s strained cheer made her forget, for no more than a second, where they were and why.

  Some poor soul attempted to use the coffee machine and the thing clanked loudly. Milo froze, eyes darting to every corner of the room, a small whimper on his lips. As soon as he realized what had happened, he reclined back, licking his lips obsessively. He avoided Olivia’s gaze.

  “The past few days are a bit blurry,” he said, looking off to the side. “But one thing I do
know. I owe you my life.”

  “Don’t say that.” Olivia placed her hand on Milo’s knee as gently as she could. She made the movement slower so that he could see exactly where she was going to touch him. “I...I thought you were trying to...scare me off. Or keep me busy until you convinced the Hendersons to sell their home through you. I’m sorry. I should’ve looked for you. I should’ve done something. You could’ve died a few hundred feet away from me.”

  Cold guilt wormed its way into her heart. She could’ve saved him. Spared him further agony. “Milo, I...I’m—”

  “Don’t,” he said sharply. “It wasn’t your fault. I should have told you the moment I realized there was something wrong, but I..." He swallowed deeply, his lips pressed in a straight line. "I wanted to find solid evidence, impress Bolton, and secure the bloody contract. There, I said it. My greed almost killed me.”

  “I didn’t know she was using it on Mrs. Bolton, I thought they were some weird smelling drugs she sold on the side, I swear.” He fixed his stare on the wall and didn’t move. "I wanted to get a picture when she handled the drugs, that’s why I pretended to go away. I was so desperate to not let anyone know what I was doing, scared you’d find out and win...But the smell in the attic was just like the one in the tunnels, and then I felt the same scent on Mrs. Bolton’s tea cup...that’s how she found out, you know? Emma caught me inspecting one of those blasted cups. And she knew I’d stumbled onto something. She didn’t know how I found out and no matter how hard she hit or how deep she cut, I didn’t tell her. I guessed she’d kill me anyway, and this way, at least there was a chance someone else would discover what she’d been doing and f—find my body.”

  “Nobody else has a nose like yours.” Olivia kept on rubbing Milo’s shin in a soothing motion. As curious as she was, she’d never coax him into retelling the most harrowing experience of his life.

  “She forced me to drink something. And...how did she manage to carry me to the boathouse? She was so small...”