The Monster of Farewell (Blacklighters Book 1)

by Catherine Black

  “I'd never do anything to risk your safety, Mercury. I swear on my fucking life.”

  “Why?” I ask again.

  “A woman died here, Mercury. I just wanted to do what was right. I wanted to help.”

  That stops me cold.

  Many men have died on this property, but that's not what he's asking about, so I'll be damned if I confess that. Women on the other hand...

  Only one woman has perished on this land, and she sure as hell wasn't murdered.

  “Tasha?” I ask, my mind jogging in circles. “You're here because of Tasha?”

  “Griffin showed me the photos. She had chain marks around her neck.”

  “I know she did!” I yell, exploding with uncontrollable rage. “Because she wrapped a chain around her throat, climbed the concrete barrier out front, and hung herself from the gate!”

  “I know,” he whispers. “Eric told me—”

  “He told you what? That she wrote a letter to her Keeper, telling him—telling Ice—that she couldn't do it anymore? That she couldn't watch from the sidelines as he fell in love with someone else? That she ended it because it hurt too much to know that she wasn't enough?”

  My voice is hoarse as I scream the walls down, purging all the words, all the feelings that are boiling inside of me.

  “Her Keeper tore this entire place apart looking for her, and when he went outside, there she was! The police were there too, cutting the chain she hung herself with. So this...this entire investigation and your reason for coming all the way to Farewell? It's bullshit! They knew, Kessler. They fucking knew!”

  “Mercury—”

  I ignore the anger lacing my name when he speaks it.

  “How little do you think of us, huh? You think we'd string up one of our own and murder her for the hell of it?”

  “No, of course I don't—”

  “Please stop talking.”

  Any other time, I think he would soldier on, but he doesn't. Because even to my own ears, I can hear how broken I've become. The words are all mine, but the emotion coating every syllable, that I have no control over.

  A long while goes by as I try to get the tears to stop, try to get the pain to ease, but it doesn't. And with every passing minute, the wound in my chest only intensifies, growing wider and deeper until I'm not sure how to mend it. How to mend me.

  I still don't know what to say or do when Kessler releases me and leans back and asks me a question he has no right to ask.

  “Did you know that man?”

  Every defensive wall he's managed to tear down inside me rises, ten times higher than they were before.

  “What?”

  “The man in the photo Griffin was asking about. Did you know him?”

  More tears collect in my eyes, but I say nothing.

  How do I do this? How do I confess that I am the person they all say that I am? How do I tell Kessler that I am, indeed, a monster?

  “Mercury, did you—”

  “Get out.”

  Kessler's head rears back, and he looks up at me through a mixture of hope and outrage and confusion. “What?”

  “I said...get out.”

  Something inside of me snaps. The lock. The door. The emotional barriers I keep between me and the rage I never in a million years planned on turning Kessler's way. It's all gone.

  “I don't want to see your fucking face. Not tonight. Not tomorrow. Not ever. Get out, Kessler.”

  He opens his mouth, but I can't take another lie. I don't have it in me. Not anymore.

  “GO!” I shriek, shoving him away.

  He raises his hands in surrender, and my chest heaves through the misery of being blindsided for the first time in my pathetic life. He doesn't argue. He doesn't push. In fact, he keeps his eyes to the floor, never once looking back to get one last word in.

  He doesn't fight for me.

  And when the door slams shut behind him and a clock falls off the wall, I pick it up and hurl across the room.

  Collapsing into a million pieces, I succumb to the pain of knowing I've just lost the only person that was ever truly mine.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kessler

  The night of the wreck that claimed my father's life, I had it out with my then-girlfriend Michelle. She was petty and insecure, demanding that she be the only girl I spoke to when we were out in public. Said it was 'poor form' to converse with other girls when my girlfriend was by my side.

  By the time I left the party, she was in the arms of a guy three years my junior, kissing him like she was trying to suck his tongue out of his head. We'd been going steady for six months—a hell of a lot longer than I've even known Mercury—but the hurt I felt leaving her behind doesn't hold a candle to this.

  Call it fate. Call it destiny. Call it a stroke of fucking luck, I don't care how you label it...what I had with Mercury was real. It may have been new and fragile and turbulent, but it was real. I felt it, deep in the pit of my stomach, the way she felt as I held her, kissed her, made love to her...she was the adventure.

  Which is why it irks me so badly that I didn't get a chance to explain things from my side. She doesn't know I was all but blackmailed into coming here. She doesn't know the kind of relationship my brother and I share. She doesn't know how I feel about her.

  In short, she doesn't know shit.

  And that's my fault.

  That's all I can think about as I sit, secluded in shadows at the end of the hallway, and watch as Mercury quietly exits her room—our room—and tip-toes to the elevator. She does a quick scan of her surroundings, but the overhead light is out and the moon is surrounded by a bank of thick clouds. All she has to guide her is the dim white circle she pushes to summon the elevator.

  I don't know where she's going, but I do know I plan to follow. If I get yelled at again, if she takes another swing, so be it. I'm already inured beyond measure.

  The numbers illuminate as she descends through the house.

  4

  3

  2

  1

  X

  It stops.

  The bright red X taunts me as I stand before the doors, counting to two-hundred before I press the button myself. What the hell could she possibly be doing in the basement at this hour?

  The possibilities are endless. Mercury is a mystery, one I thought I'd have time to unravel, but if she's dead set on kicking me to the curb, I have no other choice than to cooperate. Might as well piss her off one last time. Give her an actual reason to push me away.

  It takes forever for the ancient elevator to make it all the way back up, but when it does, I ride it all the way back down, pacing the metal box like a caged animal, not knowing what I'm in for.

  The doors slide open silently, and I'm instantly hit with a barrage of smells that have me holding my breath. Unlike the rest of the house which often smells of stale cigarette smoke and a mixture of twenty different types of perfume, this place smells like must and mildew and a strong, pungent scent I can't place. It's not chemical, exactly, but it's close.

  It's all concrete and cobwebs for as far as the eye can see. A huge open space with random boxes and exercise equipment and clothing racks strung haphazardly about. A few bare light bulbs hang by cords from the ceiling, but the halo of yellow that draws my eye isn't coming from above. It's peeking out from the only door I see, set dead center in what looks to be a small room—so small a tall person would have to squat to make it inside—crudely constructed using plywood and two-by-fours. I once had a tree-house about the same size, back when my father was still alive and I wasn't a convicted felon and life made fucking sense.

  Inching toward the cracked door, I'm mindful of the mouse traps and crumpled beer cans littering the floor. It's only then that I realize what the acrid smell is. It's piss. It smells like piss down here.

  My heart takes on a rhythm I can't control as I peek around the door, noting the hinges are crooked, causing it to hang at an awkward angle. Faint scuffing and dragging sounds
echo through the air from just inside, and when I finally let the light hit my face, what I see doesn't make sense.

  The room, which is almost the same size as a prison cell, is painted bright pink. A child's bed sits in one corner, neatly made, the white iron headboard in perfect condition, minus the large brown spider spinning a web between two curlicues. The linens are yellow, but something tells me they were white once upon a time. Crude drawings cover the walls, the thick crayon marks telling me they were made by a child. A makeshift bookshelf sits in another corner, loaded down with books and toys, most of which are broken. At its side sits a small plastic toilet—the kind toddlers use while potty training—adorned with flower stickers. The only other things inhabiting the room are the five cardboard boxes strung across the floor, and one frenzied Blacklighter, tearing into the boxes and sifting through their contents like her life depends on it.

  Mercury discards one box, then grabs another, ripping tape off the top and throwing it over her shoulder. A sigh escapes her once she glances inside the open flaps, and then she stands, holding the box to her chest as she turns around...

  “What's that?”

  Mercury jolts in surprise, her blue eyes going wide as I step inside. I was right. I have to crouch down to make it through the door.

  “Kessler,” she says breathlessly. Guilt thickens the air between us. Her guilt. “What are you doing here?”

  Now's not the time for her to ask questions. I don't care how little she thinks of me. I don't care how pissed she is. This is too much.

  “This your old room?”

  She glances around the small space, her shoulders inching toward her ears. “Yes.”

  I scratch a hand through my beard, trying to imagine a tiny Mercury with pig-tails and overalls playing with dolls here. No windows. No friends. Just a lost little girl imprisoned because her parents didn't deem her important enough to be loved.

  Maybe this is why Mercury is the way she is...

  “It's pretty.” I don't want her to think I'm judging her, because I'm not. A lot of people have ugly things they carry with them from childhood; hers just happens to be uglier than most.

  “So...what's in the box, Mercury?” I try to keep my voice level as I shove my hands in my pockets. All the anger and resentment she was hurling my way only hours ago is gone, and in its place is a stoic silence that speaks louder than any scream.

  She swallows, looking around the room for an escape, but she and I both know there isn't one.

  “What's in the box, Mercury?” I repeat.

  I can see the wheels spinning as she tries to find a way out of this altercation, but I'm not backing down this time. Nothing she can say can make me leave. I need to know what she's hiding, for both our sakes.

  I inch closer, causing Mercury to retreat. She grips the box tight, like she thinks I might try to take it from her and dig for answers myself...and she's right.

  That's exactly what I do.

  I grab one of the flaps keeping the top closed and pull, causing it to fall from her arms and land on the floor, scattering the contents. Mercury squeaks in protest, but that's all she does because she's too busy staring at what landed between my boots.

  Bending down, I grab the leather wallet and slap it against my palm. “I'm gonna take a wild guess and say this isn't yours.”

  She doesn't say a word. Doesn't nod. Doesn't look away. She just stands, rooted in place, as her chest heaves with anxious breaths.

  I open the wallet and extract a license.

  Joshua Antonio Oakley.

  I don't recognize the name, but the photo is another story. It's the exact same shot Griffin slid across the table earlier.

  All at once, it hits me like a fucking sledgehammer straight to the sternum. Mercury knew him. More than knew him, if the bloodstained clothes lying in a crumpled mess on the floor are any indicator.

  And she's destroying the evidence.

  “Dammit.”

  Griffin isn't looking for Joshua so he can help with a case, and he's not asking around because he needs to bring him in on charges...my brother is working a missing person's case. And judging by the state of Joshua's belongings and the guilt pulling at Mercury's shoulders, I'm gonna go out on a limb and say he's not missing.

  He's dead.

  “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

  Mercury's head snaps up. “Knew what?”

  “That eventually something would pop up. Something wrong. Something damning.” I launch the wallet across the room. Dollar bills and credit cards scatter along the floor when it makes impact.

  Dragging burning eyes back to Mercury, I find her face shielded in a blank mask. She's completely void of emotion, much like she was when her mother first introduced us.

  “It's one thing for you to kill a man, Mercury, but this?” I gesture to the remaining boxes. “This is fucked up. What is this...your trophy room? Are these boxes your souvenirs? Mementos from your kills? Christ...”

  “You should be happy,” she says, voice even and quiet. “This means your little coup isn't as fruitless as you thought.”

  How can she do this so easily? Go from one extreme to the other in the blink of an eye? I don't know, but I wish I could do the same. Especially now that my future as a free man is hanging by a fucking thread.

  “No, Mercury, all this means is they were right. You really are a fucking monster.”

  She can stay in the room from Hell for all I care, but I'm not sleeping on a cold, hard hallway floor. Not after years spent sleeping on an equally hard prison cot. I march all the way back to our room, intent on taking a shower to wash off the multitude of unpleasant scents lingering on my skin before falling into bed, but my anger has other plans. As soon as I walk through the door and see the discarded corset lying on the floor, reminding me of how beautiful she was tonight, rage overcomes me and I lose it.

  “FUCK!”

  Knuckles collide with sheetrock, sending dust and paint fragments dancing out into the air when I punch the wall. All I see is red.

  “Whoa, Tiger. Ease up.”

  I spin around, ready to break someone's face, only to find Harper leaning against the door frame, smoking. The sickly sweet smoke permeates the air as she blows out a ring, perfectly framing her angelic face.

  “What do you want?” I growl.

  She smiles wide, offering me the joint, and even though I'm pissed, even though I want to be left alone, even though I'm fucking reeling...I take it.

  Two long drags. That's all it takes to ease my shoulders down.

  “Better?” Harper whispers, leaning into my face.

  “Yup.” I hand it back but she lifts her hand.

  “You keep it. Seems you need it more than me.”

  Moving to the bed, I allow my body to liquefy into a puddle, and Harper follows. She looks down at me with an amused expression, bruises and choke marks as prominent as her blue eye shadow. I've never realized how tall she is, all long legs and subtle curves, but now I do. By any man's standards, she's a fucking knockout.

  But she's no Mercury.

  “Why do you stay here?” I ask.

  Harper looks at me like she doesn't understand the question, so I rephrase.

  “What's the fucking draw, Harper? You look like someone's punching bag.”

  A sad smile tugs at her painted lips as she looks around the room, chest rising and falling with a heavy sigh. “Oh, Kessler...this is my Heaven.”

  “You're fucking with me, right?” I laugh, which she doesn't seem to appreciate. “I don't see any pearly gates here.”

  “Then you're not looking hard enough.” She pats my hand, stands from the bed, and walks away, leaving me even more disgruntled than before.

  I smoke the whole joint, just because I fucking can, and drift off to a dreamscape filled with broken toys, soiled sheets, and one sad girl with pig-tails and wide blue eyes.

  The sun isn't shining in through the curtains. People aren't milling about outside. My alarm isn't blaring. So I d
on't know what just pulled me from sleep.

  Until I hear it again.

  A soft, metal-on-metal click.

  When I blink through what lingers of my high, I find Mercury kneeling beside me on the bed, her hands at work above me, securing a pair of handcuffs...chaining me to the headboard.

  “What the fuck?” A quick tug tells me I'm well and truly bound, the chain slid through two thick wooden spindles. Toxic, putrid anger rolls through me as I remember everything that happened last night, and I look up to the woman at fault.

  She's so beautiful. So graceful. So fucking evil. “This isn't funny, Mercury. Take them off.”

  “No.” She settles back, lacing her fingers together in her lap.

  I'm in no mood to play games. Not after what I witnessed. “Take them off now.”

  “No,” she says again, pulling her shoulders back. “You're going to listen to what I have to say.”

  “There's nothing you could say that—”

  She slaps me across the face. So hard my head whips to the side. The faint taste of copper fills my mouth and I glare up at her, knowing she just bloodied my fucking lip. The mask she's wearing today is one of indifference. Not even a hint of regret shines in her deceitful blue eyes.

  “Josh was the one that attacked me.” She points a finger to her chest, leaning in close so I feel the warmth of her exhale. “He knew what he was risking sneaking into my room and waiting for me. He knew damn well what he was doing when he cornered me and pressed his dick against my leg. So, you'll have to forgive me if I'm not falling apart over the idea of ending someone before they hurt me. I wasn't the one who approached that situation with intent, Kessler. That was him. I wasn't a monster lurking in the shadows, waiting to steal an innocent person's life, so if that's what you're thinking, you're wrong.” Her bottom lip trembles, but that's the only glimpse into her true feelings that I'm allowed. “He attacked me. I told him not to touch me and when he didn't listen, I defended myself. And yes, I killed him. I sank his own knife into his leg and watched him bleed out. I did, I killed him because I was angry, because there were two men in that room with me and I wasn't about to become some kind of victim...and I will not apologize for that.”