Payback Princess (Lost Daughter of a Serial Killer Book 2)

by C. M. Stunich

  I don’t know how I know that, I just do.

  “I’ll … excuse myself,” X offers, looking like he’d rather crawl into a hole full of black widows than sit here and listen to me talk about sleeping with Parrish. He starts to stand up when I feel a familiar buzzing in my pocket.

  My phone is ringing.

  I slip it out of my blazer pocket, eyes widening as I see a familiar number on the screen.

  Daddy’s calling.

  I stand up so suddenly that the bench slams into the window behind me and several people turn to look our way.

  “No, no, I’ll … I’ll excuse myself,” I blurt, even though that makes no sense, excusing myself from a conversation about my own sexual conquests. “I have to take this. It’s my … it’s Lumen.”

  Without waiting to see what either of the Maxes thinks about my crazy behavior, I take off for the back patio. Coincidentally, it’s the same spot where Tess caught me talking to Saffron. It’s thick with bad juju, but where else can I go to have a private conversation with a serial killer and his hostage?

  Thankfully, it’s raining again, so the patio is unoccupied. I tuck myself beneath the eaves and answer the call just before the last ring.

  The wine cellar—one of my only good clues—appears on the screen, but I don’t see Parrish. Instead, there he is, the man in the black sweater, slacks, and stag mask with real antlers, sitting in a chair with his legs crossed at the knees, hands folded neatly over them.

  “Mr. Volli?” I query dryly, and he smiles at me. Well, I guess most people smile when they’re happy. This smile looks more like an admonishment than anything else. It almost stings to look at.

  “Mr. Volli is a pet who knows the length of his own leash; he knows how to respond when I tug on it.” The words are creepy enough as is, but since they’re quite literally coming out of Mr. Volli’s mouth, they’re beyond disturbing. My sixth period teacher delivers his self-proclaimed master’s words without skipping a beat. Either he’s got an earbud in or something and is listening to Justin Prior talk through it, or else he’s just a crazy person who refers to himself in the third person.

  Either way, I want to see Parrish.

  “Where is he?” I ask, anxiety making me feel dizzy. The rain comes down in sheets, cutting me off from the rest of the world. The brick wall at my back doesn’t help. I feel trapped. Just … not physically. I’m trapped in a game I never asked to play, one where I’m not sure that I understand all of the rules.

  “He’s here, of course,” Mr. Volli explains calmly as I kick myself for not recognizing his voice the first time we talked. He leans to one side, and my heart stops.

  Parrish is there, as promised. He is not, however, looking at the camera.

  Instead, he’s still sitting in that goddamn chair, his head hanging down, his body limp and motionless. A cry escapes me as I step forward into the rain. I don’t even mean to do it; it just happens. The rain is coming down all around me, soaking my (thankfully) waterproof phone, plastering my hair to the sides of my face.

  “Parrish!” I call out, but he doesn’t stir. “Parrish, wake up.” This time, my words are more of a sob than anything else. There’s so much blood, I can hardly stand the sight of it. He’s shirtless, his chest and belly drenched with red-brown patches of dried blood. I can hardly tell where his tattoos are underneath all of it. “Parrish.”

  A pleading, a desperate cry.

  This time, he blessedly, thankfully, mercifully responds.

  His head lifts up like he’s coming out of a daze, blinking glassy eyes at me. I’m not sure what he’s watching me on, a monitor of some sort I’m assuming, but he shakes his head like he’s having trouble focusing.

  “Gamer Girl,” he whispers with cracked lips. “I’m so tired.” Even though he told me multiple times to let him go, to tell the police, to save myself from all of this, I can see in his gaze that he wants to live. His expression cuts straight through the screen of my phone and hits me like an arrow to the heart.

  I’m hurting and aching and crying for him all at once. My tears blend with the rain as it falls in a silver wave all around me. How could his condition have deteriorated so quickly since yesterday?

  “If you really are my father, you must hate me,” I choke out, forcing myself to take a step back so that I’m out of the rain again. Doesn’t matter anymore, I guess. I’m soaked to the bone already. “Why are you doing this? I don’t understand.”

  “I’ve already explained as much to you, Mia. Do you really believe the world runs on compassion and love? On empathy and kindness? That’s ignorance at its finest. The world runs on blood. Blood is power. I’m giving you all the tools to take some of that power for yourself.”

  “I don’t want it,” I snap back at him, my eyes still on Parrish. He’s watching me, but he looks like he’s on death’s door. No matter how strong he is, how strong he wants to be, how hard he fights, we all have our limits. Our bodies are organic, not robotic. Eventually, his will give out.

  Parrish Vanguard will die.

  He will be as limp and lifeless as JJ was inside that awful, awful box.

  “I just want Parrish back; I just want you to fuck off and die.”

  Mr. Volli sighs heavily, adjusting his chair so that Parrish and I can see one another more clearly.

  “If you’re so worried about the boy, come and find him. Daughter, I’m giving you all of the tools necessary to accomplish your task.” Mr. Volli shakes his foot absently, tapping it in midair as if he’s lost in thought. “As I said before, I’m only doing this because I care for you. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t bother.” He stands up and moves over to the chair, putting his hands on the back of it. “Go on now. Tell her what she needs to do next.”

  Parrish starts to cough then. It gets so bad that his body strains against the ropes holding him to the chair. For a second there, I really think this is it, that he’s going to die in front of me, today, now.

  “I love you,” I tell him, because he needs something more to get through this. A glimmer of hope to grasp in his hand and hold onto like his life depends on it. “I love you, Parrish. I know we’ve only known each other for three months and … well, fuck I don’t care. I don’t care if my feelings are hormonal or immature or stupid. It’s how I feel right now. It matters. It means something.”

  He looks up at me again, breathing heavily, and attempts to wet his lips. They’re dry, his tongue is dry, and the move does nothing to help him.

  “I love you, too,” he tells me, wasting what little energy he has left to deliver the news. “I feel the same. I …” he trails off as Mr. Volli puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes hard enough to make him wince. “Dakota, you need to tell Maxine that you don’t want to see her anymore.”

  The blood drains from my face and I’m forced to lean my body back against the wall to keep from falling over. No. Please no. Anything but this. Fucking anything but this.

  “You need to tell her that she isn’t your real sister, that she never was, that you don’t love her like you thought you did. You can’t see or talk to her anymore. Not on the phone, not via text, nothing. No more contact.” Parrish exhales sharply, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back. “Fuck, I’m so sorry, Dakota. I’m so sorry.”

  “Wait,” I call out, before the video call ends, and I’m left drifting in the hateful winds of my own fate. “Just … wait. I want to make a deal.”

  “A deal?” Mr. Volli queries, and I wonder yet again how I never realized that his behavior was just that of a puppet. The more I look at him, the more I see it. I can’t entirely rule out the possibility that he’s just crazy, but I really don’t think so. “What sort of deal, sweet daughter of mine?”

  “I want you to give Parrish a bed and unchain him. I want him to have access to a shower. Clean water. Food. Ointment.” I lift my chin up and square my shoulders, gathering my resolve together into a single blow. The thought of saying those horrible things to Maxine is … it’s staggering. Like
my soul is being drawn and quartered. But I can live through that hurt. I can apologize and explain things to my sister later.

  Parrish cannot be brought back to life. As much as I love necromancers in video games, as much as I enjoy the fantasy and mysticism of that, it isn’t real life. This is. Death does not come with the option of a continue or a new game, a restart, a do-over. It’s the great equalizer, the final act.

  “That’s quite the ask,” Mr. Volli tells me, releasing Parrish’s shoulders and moving around him to stand in front of the camera again. He looks right at the screen, his gaze penetrating straight through me. Even though I know this is the same man that I saw at school today, the vibe is completely different.

  Justin’s vibe. The Seattle Slayer’s vibe. My bio dad’s vibe.

  “I will not give you all of those things at once. I will, however, allow you to choose a few in exchange for an equal return on your end.” He nods at me, the glittering black stag mask stuck firmly to his face. “Which of those items do you want: his freedom and a bathroom, the bed and some ointment, or the food and water. Granted, he is being nourished and hydrated through IVs currently.”

  I swallow hard, trying not to get too excited.

  As I said before, I do enjoy a good idiom. And if it sounds too good to be true … Whatever I offer up in return is going to hurt. Badly.

  I run through my options for a minute.

  Food and water are, ironically, the least important of my requests. Justin has already agreed to keep Parrish alive, so he has to provide those things. I’m certain that Parrish isn’t getting nearly as much food as he should, nor do I feel that an IV is equivalent to actual food and drink, but it isn’t as important as the other items.

  A bathroom would be nice, especially since infection is a concern. But again, antibiotic ointment would help with that.

  So … the bed and the ointment or his freedom and a bathroom?

  “If I choose the bed, how will he be restrained on it?” I ask, and Mr. Volli pauses for a moment. I recall the first time we spoke, the way he kept pausing and glancing offscreen, as if he were communicating with someone else. It lends credence to the idea that he’s receiving instructions from someone else.

  “On his back. Bound by his wrists to the headboard.”

  I consider that.

  “If I choose his freedom, he’ll be able to move as he wishes around that room?”

  Another pause, a nod.

  “An empty room with no windows, but he will be free to move around, yes.”

  I lick some of the cool rain droplets from my lower lip.

  Being able to move around freely is a huge deal. Not just for Parrish’s physical state, but for his mental and emotional well-being as well. Only … he doesn’t seem to have enough energy to keep his head lifted, let alone do jumping jacks or something in a cold, empty room.

  “The bed,” I say, trying and failing to keep my hand from shaking as it clutches the phone in stiff fingers. “But it has to be a proper bed with a real mattress. In exchange …” I run through all of the things that I’ve had to do thus far, searching for something appropriately terrible to offer up. May as well be something this bastard would make me do anyway at some point.

  But what?

  “I’ll … I’ll tell Danyella that I’m the one who set the fire.” Even as the words are coming out of my mouth, I’m regretting them. Oh god, I’m regretting them. The thought of telling Danyella what I did, destroying our burgeoning friendship, opening myself up to the possibility of punishment, expulsion, criminal charges.

  It’s a lot.

  For a second there, I can’t get a read on whether I’ve suggested a good or a bad thing. Mr. Volli is as blank as a porcelain doll. Once he receives confirmation from either his crazy other half or, more likely, Justin Prior, he seems pleased. A psychotic smile takes over his lips.

  “I like the way you think, princess,” he says, nodding again. “Yes. I accept. You will tell Danyella that you set the fire in the theater. If you’re asked why—by her or anyone else—you will explain that your homelife is a mess. That Tess is a terrible mother. That she drove to you to do it. Is that clear?”

  “It’s clear,” I whisper, hoping that the bed provides at least some small amount of relief for Parrish. “Once I do that, I’d like to bargain for the other items.”

  “As you wish,” he replies, and then the video cuts off.

  I slip the phone back in my blazer pocket and head inside.

  There’s not a patron in that café that doesn’t stare at my sopping wet form as I trudge back to the table and sit down hard in my seat. Maxine is gaping at me; X is gritting his teeth. He looks pissed off again. At me? Or did he and Maxine have a conversation while I was gone? I have no idea.

  “K-kota?” Maxie asks, blinking big, beautiful eyes at me. Her auburn hair is in a French braid and slung over one shoulder, a single strap of her overalls hanging loose over her PNW t-shirt. She looks so calm, so cool and collected, so worried about me.

  It hits me then that Justin’s tasks are not so random as they seem. They’re calculated, intended to drive a wedge between me and everybody that I know and love. He wants me isolated and desperate, lonely.

  Chasm.

  I need to call Chasm.

  I am not alone, no matter how much it feels that way.

  He asked me to contact him before taking on any new tasks, but this is … it’s too personal. There is no body for him to shove in his trunk, no pervert with a gun to tackle, no fire to set. This is between me and Maxine.

  “Maxine,” I start, swallowing hard. I’m shaking so badly that I might very well give away the ruse, but there’s no way for me to stop it. Not only am I freezing cold and wet, but my heart is as soggy as my clothing. It feels so fragile, like a dandelion puff waiting for the breeze so it can scatter to the ends of the earth. “We can’t keep doing this.”

  “Why are you wet?” X asks me, his tone dark with suspicion. “Kota, if there’s something going on, you need to tell us. We can help you.”

  I ignore him.

  As much as I don’t want to do this, it might help with the Maxx Wright problem I’m having. He says he believes me, but after this, he’ll be too angry to think straight. He’ll start to despise me, and he’ll leave me alone. At least … I hope so. I have to pretend there’s some silver lining to all this, or I’ll break.

  My sister has always been my rock. She’s the most pure and perfect person I have ever met. Blood related or not, she’s a genuine human with a soul crafted of all those things that the Seattle Slayer just mocked. Compassion and love, empathy and kindness.

  This is going to destroy her.

  I close my eyes.

  My words, when they do come, are wooden and disconnected, like parts of a puppet as easily manipulated as Mr. Volli.

  “You are not my real sister.”

  There it is. The phrase drops from my mouth like an atomic bomb, decimating everything in its path. I cannot bear to open my eyes right now. I cannot bear to see Maxine’s face.

  “Wha… Dakota, what’s going on?” She sounds panicked, desperate. One of her soft, warm hands touches my arm and I jump. I hear the sound of chair legs scraping across the floor. It’s X, I know it is, even without looking.

  “Why would you say something like this?” he breathes, but I don’t care about him right now. Only Maxine. My sister comes first.

  “You never were. Maxine, I thought I loved you, but really, I was just obligated. We were family; I had no choice but to feel that way. But now, I do. I have a choice.” Open your eyes, coward, my heart hisses. Because if my sister’s hurting then I deserve to hurt, too. I deserve that and more. I flick my eyes open to find Maxine sitting there, staring at me with huge, fat tears streaming down her pretty face. “I don’t want to see you anymore.” Here my voice cracks, shatters, twists into something ugly and hateful. I’m crying now, too. I fling her arm off of me. “I don’t want to talk to you; I don’t want to see you.�
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  “Why are you … why would you say those things to me?” she asks, struggling to catch a breath. She’s starting to pant, putting her hands on the table and staring down at the well-worn surface. Maxx is just … he’s quivering with anger, looking at me like I’m a crazy person.

  I must’ve really exceeded his expectations today.

  Wonder if he’s as confident in me now as he was last night? Or if he’s regretting apologizing to me. I would be, if I were him.

  I’ve done what I needed to do; there’s nothing more to say. I stare Maxine down, keeping our gazes locked, hoping beyond all hope that she’ll let this go, that she’ll walk away and keep herself safe. I couldn’t bear it if she ended up like Parrish, tied to a chair and bleeding to death. I need her to walk away until this is over.

  “Dakota, this is bullshit. I’ve told Maxine everything that I know, all the strange things you’ve been doing since Parrish went missing. Neither of us believes that you mean any of the things you’ve been saying or doing. Whatever’s happening, you can trust us.”

  “Leave me the fuck alone,” I grind out, realizing suddenly that Maxx is the one that brought me here. I need to call Chasm for a ride. I ignore them both, pulling my phone out and sending a quick text. Please come get me quickly. At the coffee shop.

  He responds so fast that I catch the message before slipping the phone back in my pocket.

  OMW Little Sister.

  “I don’t know why you’re saying these things to me, but for the record, I don’t believe any of them.” Maxine rises to her feet, tears still streaming down her face. I do my very best not to look at her. There’s nothing I can do about the tears on my own face, but I keep my gaze focused on the table, as if I truly don’t care that I’ve just hurt the person I love the most in all the world. “We’ll talk about this later, but I’m … I’m hurt right now. I just … I need to go.”

  She grabs her canvas bag and takes off; X follows after like the good boyfriend that he is. He truly cares about my sister, that much is obvious. I’m glad that she has someone to take care of her right now; she deserves that.