Horrorscape

by Nenia Campbell

  “He wouldn't lock it unless he had something to hide,” Lisa pointed out.

  “Or maybe he just doesn't want people snooping around in his room.”

  Lisa's eyes narrowed. “I am not snooping!” Blake raised one tawny eyebrow but said nothing. Her irritation soared. “Don't look at me like that. I'm not.”

  “Then what exactly are you doing?”

  “I'm…investigating. It's because I'm worried about Val!” she added, when Blake affected pointed silence. “GM gives me bad vibes. I want to find out more about him, and why he's interested in her.” I want to make sure he doesn't have any actual skeletons in his closets.

  “And why he won't tell us his name?”

  “That, too.” And why he threatened me. And why Val is so terrified of him. And why James refuses to take a stand against him. And why the white team is perfectly happy to act as his pawns. “I think it's really strange that there's no family pictures.”

  “Some families aren't into that sort of thing.”

  “You'd think that there would at least be baby pictures, little league pictures, school pictures, prom or graduation pictures—something. I mean, it's not like he's bad-looking.” Quite the opposite, in fact There was a pause, longer than usual, which prompted Lisa to add, “Blake?”

  No response.

  Lisa turned around slowly. An empty hallway greeted her. “Blake?” He was here a moment ago. Where the hell had he disappeared off to? “Blake!” Lisa repeated, stepping away from the door. “Goddammit, Blake,” she muttered, pulling up the bodice of her dress. “This is starting to turn into a bad movie.”

  The narrow hallway branched off into several doors, lit by a lonely bulb swinging lazily from the ceiling. Something about that image struck her as wrong. It took her a moment to realize why:

  There's no breeze.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Attraction

  Lives.

  The word stretched across the white paper in spidery cursive—vague and infuriating, just like him. That's all? She glanced at the place GM had been standing moments before. He was gone, though he had left the door ajar. Taunting her. Daring her to follow. After all that…. She quickly did up her shirt, feeling a wave of loathing so strong she was unable to stand from the force of it.

  Even now, she was overly aware of the feeling of her clothes against her skin: a sweet chafing that buzzed with the hollow echoes of pleasure as yet unfulfilled. He had done that to her and she hated him for it, because it was never like that with James—and she hated to think about what that might say about her.

  Broken glass crunched beneath her feet as she made her way to the door. She wished he'd been cut, that her attack had drawn blood. Just once.

  He was leaning back against the wall with one knee bent, his arms folded over his shirtfront, which he hadn't bothered to do up all the way. The light sheen of sweat on her back turned to crystals of rime. It's like he's reminding me he didn't finish what he started.

  She averted her eyes and realized only too late that might be taken as a sign of weakness. She needed to get out of here. She was afraid of what she might do if she stayed in his presence a moment longer. Tears seemed to be the most likely candidate, and she'd be damned before she let him see her cry again, but violence was starting to look like a viable option, too. When she had thrown that lamp at him, it was as if her common sense had been obliterated by white-hot rage. Part of her had wanted to kill him.

  If he succeeds in taking away my self-control, he wins. I won't let him be the master of me. I'm the master of me. Nobody else.

  He still hadn't said anything, so she turned away and began to walk briskly in the opposite direction. She heard a sound that might have been a chuckle but could have easily been a warning. It must have been the latter, because seconds later he grabbed her by her upper arms.

  “I don't recall saying you could leave.”

  “Tell me what you want or fuck off,” she said shakily.

  “Ah, Val—ever the charmer. But then, you do have such a way with words.”

  Val pulled away, and he let her. She stumbled several steps away before she hazarded a backwards glance. He hadn't moved, and was watching her with thinly-veiled amusement. There was a flush of color in his face that hadn't been there before. “You,” she said, in a shaking voice, “you are fifty different kinds of twisted.”

  “Only fifty? Val, you wound me.”

  “I want to leave.”

  “Without your gift?”

  “I don't want anything from you. I want to go.”

  “You don't even know what it is.”

  “I don't care. With you, nothing is free.”

  GM slipped an envelope from the pocket of his pants, somehow managing to take a step closer as he did so. “How true that is.” She eyed it warily, her attention wavering between the bit of parchment and its wielder. It was just like the one she'd received before, the invitation.

  This letter—if it was a letter—was sealed with wax, though. Her name was written on the outside in ink that glittered like mica. She started to reach for it, checked the impulse, and folded her arms.

  “I said no.”

  “It's not like I'm asking you to sell me your soul.” He chucked her under the chin with the envelope. “Just don't open it until I say so.”

  “How would you know?” she said numbly, staring at the envelope, weighing it in her hands. How had it gotten there? She couldn't remember taking it from him.

  “What was that, Val?”

  It took her a moment to realize what she'd said. “I…how would you know? W-what if I just read it when you leave?”

  For a moment, he seemed taken aback, as if such a magnitude of defiance was beyond him. But then he laughed, and she wondered if he hadn't been expecting such a response after all. In either case, he regained his composure so quickly, it didn't really matter. “That would be cheating. I think we both know how that fits in with your…moral code.”

  The envelope crinkled as her grip around it tightened. “I don't cheat,” she hissed.

  He shot her a meaningful look that made her insides shudder. She clenched her jaw and prayed that her body's subtler movements were not quite so betraying in the dark. “But since you ask, I'd be able to tell if you broke the seal. Perhaps not right away…but soon enough.”

  She picked at the wax rebelliously, causing reddish fragments to flake to the floor. “So?”

  “I don't think it's in your best interests to do that. There will be consequences. Collateral, you might call it, to ensure this arrangement is honored by both sides.” He plucked at his necklace and said, “Yours, specifically.”

  The hand holding the envelope became a fist. “What—”

  “If you open the envelope—assuming you do decide to defy me—you have to give me seven minutes of your time.”

  Seven minutes? “I…I know that game,” she said faintly.

  “Then I won't need to explain the rules to you.”

  “But—that's a child's game. You want to play a child's game for—for seven minutes?” She might as well just kiss the bastard now and get it over with. It was no worse than anything he'd done to her already.

  “You aren't a child,” he said. “You aren't bound by a child's rules—or a child's imagination, for that matter. Yes, now you're beginning to understand,” he said, as her features rearranged themselves into something that must have remembered horror. “You still have an imagination, don't you, Val? You're going to need one—to play with me.”

  Val punched him. And then, she punched him again. And again. It didn't matter that he managed to dodge two of them; it made her feel better. At the very least, it had wiped the satisfied smirk from his lips. “Take it back then,” she snapped, in between blows. “Take it back!”

  “I don't think you'd like the consequences of that, either.” He managed to catch one of her swinging fists, and squeezed absently, making her yip. She felt his fingers wrap around her other wrist and her shoulders s
ank, prompting him to lean in. “Or perhaps…you would.”

  She stomped his foot—hard. He hissed in mingled pain and surprise, and his grip loosened. Val slipped out of his grasp, rubbing her wrists. All she could hear was her heartbeat. GM looked at her, his eyes slightly narrowed, reevaluating his approximation of her.

  “I'm not opening it.” Val shoved the envelope in her jeans. Or tried to. She missed the first shot; her hands were trembling too violently.

  “You never know,” he mused. “Accidents happen.”

  And remembering his threat from earlier, she gagged.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Bulbs did not just move of their own accord. Not without some kind of draft…or someone to cause said draft. The instant the thought occurred to her, Lisa whirled around, nearly tripping over the heels of her shoes. As soon as I get home, I'm donating these to Goodwill.

  “Blake?” She kept her voice low. “James? Val?” She hesitated a long moment. “GM?”

  Lisa rubbed her bare arms. She felt cold, suddenly, and was beginning to wonder if there wasn't a window open somewhere after all—it was pretty dusty and disgusting in here—when somebody grabbed her arm from behind. She let out a startled shriek. “What the hell? Who's there?”

  “Me,” the someone said unhelpfully.

  She recognized the voice, though. Only one person was so obnoxious, so socially-challenged, that they would think this an acceptable form of greeting “Jackson.”

  “Actually—” the voice sounded affronted “—it's Jason.”

  “I don't care if it's Kris Kringle,” she said coldly. “Let go of me right now.”

  He clicked his tongue. It made her want to slap him. Everything he did made her want to slap him. “Why am I getting the feeling that you don't like me very much?”

  “Probably because I don't, you utter freak of nature,” she snapped. “I swear, if you don't let me go right now—”

  “You know,” Jason interjected, “You're not as dumb as I thought. When I first saw you, I figured you were an airhead.”

  “Funny,” Lisa said, starting to become frightened in spite of herself. “I had you pegged as a dickhead.”

  “But you aren't an airhead,” he finished smoothly, as if she hadn't spoken. “I overheard part of your conversation with GM, you see, so I know. So why are you pretending to be something you're not?”

  Lisa yanked her arm. “Let go, Jason.”

  “You got my name right. That's a start.”

  Thin tendrils of fear wrapped around the logic center of her brain. She felt herself on the verge of losing control. She balled her hands into fists, wincing when her long nails cut into her palms. “What do you want?” she snapped, after an interminable silence.

  “A partnership.”

  “Ask your own team.”

  “I'd love to,” was the dry response, “But GM and Charlie have their own agendas and Brent—well, Brent just sits around like a bump on a log. Not exactly the best material to work with.”

  “My heart bleeds for you.” Lisa filed the bit about Charlie and GM away. She wondered what they did, when they went off on their own. Was GM using that time to harass Val? Jason would know, probably. He'd already established himself as residential spy. Stealing GM's intimidation tactics, to boot. Too bad for him, he was way too pathetic for it to be even half as effective.

  Though half as effective might be bad enough.

  “So fuck off,” she added. “I have my own team and, unlike yours, they're actually functional.”

  “Oh really,” he sneered. “Val seems to be doing a lot of disappearing herself. James, too.”

  Something about that needled her, though she couldn't quite put her finger on why. “Doesn't matter,” Lisa shot back. “We have Blake, as well—and he's twice as smart as you think you are.”

  Even in the darkness, she saw his face grow rigid. And she had time to think Oh crap right before he lunged.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  She had performed a complete roundabout, heading away from the parlor in the process, and now the hallway was beginning to widen as Val came to the place where it branched off into the staircase.

  The thick envelope crinkled as she turned to regard the hallways, reminding her of its presence.

  Dust hovered thickly in the air, and when Val breathed in next the inside of her mouth was coated with it. She coughed and swallowed dryly, wincing at how loud the sound was in the silence. She wished she'd had the forethought to steal a bottle of water from the buffet table in the starting room, but her mind had, of course, been on other things. She covered her mouth tightly in a futile attempt to muffle the sound, and heard a furtive movement only partially eclipsed by her own.

  Her eyes jumped from one end of the hallway to the other, before swinging up sharply at a sound from above. Val froze like a rabbit. From the groans of the wooden boards, somebody was descending those steps. Unlike the stairs in Val's own home, however, this staircase had a slight curve, so that someone on one of the higher steps would be able to view those below without being noticed.

  Can they see me? Are they looking at me right now?

  “Val?”

  The stunned fearful expression slowly gave way to relief. “James?” He stepped into her line of sight. His face was taut, grave, and his hands were tightly clenched at his sides. He looked as tense as she felt, and that pained her. It was like seeing her own misery reflected back at her.

  At that thought, Val was overcome by a wave of…something—not quite affection or sympathy, but more of a cathexis, instilled with a sense of duty and emotional obligation. She bounded up to the brown-haired boy, wrapping her arms around his waist, and breathed in the scent of fabric softener and Old Spice on his starched black shirt. It was a little comforting, but not by much.

  James didn't respond, but she felt him stiffen beneath her touch. She let her arms fall away as she took a slow step back. The blankness on his face frightened her. “James?”

  Very slowly, he turned to look at her. His sea-foam eyes burned with a soft charge that trickled into his features like drips of water from a melting glacier, slowly transforming the overall whole. And, she couldn't help noticing, he didn't seem especially pleased to see her. Then again, he hadn't the last time she'd seen him, either. Because the last time she had seen him, she had failed to defend him properly in front of GM, in spite of her own fears, and in a fit of temper he had left her—left her—convinced of treachery before she'd committed the crime.

  What if he saw Gavin kiss me?

  GM had left the door open. Perhaps there had been a purpose to that. Wound two birds with one stone.

  Or maybe Jason had broken his promise, which would mean that she had betrayed Lisa for nothing.

  Val swallowed, hard, and sneaked another look at his face. He was glaring, now, and a bolt of panic flashed through her like lightening. He knows. The pit of her stomach lurched like a small boat caught in the ebb of the same storm. She ducked her head again, trying to keep from hyperventilating. Somehow, he knows.

  “James, I—”

  “We need to talk.”

  His words, and the tone they were spoken in, send a wave of coldness through her. “I…I…can explain…”

  “I don't want to hear it.” James shook his head firmly, and Val thought she might vomit. “I've had some time to think—because this so-called game is pretty much shit—and…well, I'm not very good at this kind of thing, but…” He sighed angrily, and his bangs blew upwards in an indignant puff. “I've been an asshole. There.”

  This was so far from what Val had feared that for a moment she could only blink rapidly. “But—”

  “Before you say anything, Lisa already chewed my ass out,” he added. “She thinks I should have been more understanding about your, uh, issues.” Then, seeming to realize that this invalidated his apology, he added hastily, “And she was right. About that. GM was being an even bigger asshole and I shouldn't have left you alone with him when he was m
aking you so uncomfortable. Especially with what…with what, ah, happened.” He paused. “I feel like a fucking tool.”

  At his earlier words, Val froze again. James didn't notice.

  “I shouldn't have let him provoke me into being a tool, but he's just such a fucking asshole—GM is, I mean—and I don't like the way he speaks to me, or the way he looks at you. I mean talk about goddamn balls—” James glanced at her, seeming to only just realize the depth of her unease. “You're shaking,” he said, seeming surprised. His eyes narrowed. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No,” she said, too quickly.

  But he did. And you liked it, you know you did. Because deep down, you're fucked-up. Just as fucked-up as he is. Maybe more so. After all, you know better—you know what he's like.

  “Val—”

  “No,” she whispered.

  Under her boyfriend's penetrating gaze, she faltered a little, the blush draining from her complexion like water down a sewer, leaving her face bleached and pallid. And she shook her head, recalling even as she did so how right it felt to have him on top of her, walking a thin line between dangerous and deadly. How he could do things with his mouth she only thought possible in books, and how she had never imagined that pain could exist apart from agony, and oh, if he could do those things with his mouth, what could he do with the rest of his body?

  Val thought all these things, and shuddered so violently that she nearly stumbled, and suddenly she was in James's arms, and her stomach hurt, and her head hurt, and her heart hurt worst of all, and before she knew it, she was crying, even though she had promised herself she wouldn't.

  Because she was good at that, breaking promises.

  James looked horrified. Or disgusted. Perhaps both. Or maybe she was just projecting her own feelings onto him. She wasn't exactly her own favorite person right now.

  “Val?”

  “I'm not crazy,” she whimpered. “I'm not.”

  “I didn't say you were.” But his eyes said he was thinking it.

  Val looked away from his face. “I know…I know the things I think and say might sound that way, but they aren't. As ridiculous as it might seem, you have to believe me. You have to trust me.”