Horrorscape

by Nenia Campbell

  You have to trust me, because I no longer trust myself.

  “OK, but why are you crying?”

  “I can't tell you.”

  “Can't?” he said, “or won't?”

  “I don't know.”

  She felt an arm wrap around her, and she burrowed into his armpit, burying her face into his shoulder. “Please stop.” She felt him turn, as if he was afraid someone would see them. “Val, please. Don't cry. Not here. Not now.”

  “But I hate this game. I hate the white team. And I hate GM.” Val said, but her words came out muffled.

  James bowed his head lower. Even if he hadn't exactly heard her words, he understood the tone. And naturally, he assumed that he was the cause, the star around which his girlfriend's world orbited. “I'm sorry.”

  His solid warmth was like coming into a safe harbor after a vicious storm. James could be rather childish and annoying sometimes, but it didn't make him dangerous. That required a more calculated, purposeful form of cruelty. I like being safe, Val told herself. I don't like being scared.

  They stood like that for several minutes, and James was painfully aware of her soft skin, the sweet smell of her hair, the press of her breasts against his chest. And he realized, for the first time since the party started, that they were finally alone. His arm around her tightened, pulling her closer, and his other hand went around her waist, stroking the gap between her shirt and jeans. She's fucking crazy, he thought resignedly. He wondered if it was true what they said, that crazy people were better in bed.

  “Can I kiss you?”

  She nodded. His lips were soft, unobtrusive, and he still tasted vaguely like the cider he'd drunk earlier, though it had soured on his breath. He kissed with an awkwardness that was minimized by his confidence. Val closed her eyes and her heart trembled that the same form of contact could differ so vastly between two men.

  I like this, she instructed herself. I prefer this.

  “Oh, wow. That was…that was…. Minty,” James murmured, smiling a little, though he looked confused. Not suspicious, though. Not yet. “Were you chewing gum?”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  “God damn her.”

  The chess piece flew from his hand, momentarily transformed into a dangerous projectile—at least, until it collided with the wall across from him and fell to the floor with a clatter, before rolling underneath a table with carefully arranged chessmen carved in black and white.

  “Running straight to him.” He was breathing hard. “As if he could protect her from me.”

  Anger spiked through him again. When his hand slammed down on the table, the organized ranks of the chessmen dissolved into chaos. “As if she could fight me. As if she could run if she tried.”

  His face darkened, in response to some private, inner thought, and he sighed.

  “No,” he said aloud. “That's hardly appropriate.” He paused, bending to scoop up some of the pieces from the floor. The set was ancient, the pieces carved out of ivory and ebony, steeped in history—and blood. He found himself holding the queen. “There is,” he concluded, “A time and a place for everything.”

  He sat down on the edge of his bed, his features haggard in the dim light. There was a flash as his pale eyes moved downward, to regard the wooden piece of carved ebony in his hand. His thumb traveled over the well-worn notches, his mind on a very different piece—flesh, instead of wood. Fair, instead of dark. The taste of her was still in his mouth, salty and sweet, the thrum of her pulse like a spicy tingle scalding the tip of his tongue.

  His belly clenched like a fist, as he recalled the sensation of rough lace and smooth satin yielding to soft, bare skin. His fingers tightened around the black queen and he leaned back. “There is a time and place for everything,” he repeated softly, his anger spent but not exhausted.

  After a few minutes he sat up, and let out a deep breath. He let the chess piece drop from his hand as he headed for the door, pausing only to pick up a top hat from his desk.

  It's time to play another game.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Castling Into It

  Was it the insult to his intelligence or the mention of Blake that had set him off? Either? Both? It hardly mattered. She cried out when his grip tightened—his arms were surprisingly strong—sending a bolt of pain through her belly and making her feel, momentarily, as if she urgently had to pee. “You think you're better than me,” he breathed against her ear, his voice rough with anger.

  And something else—something worse.

  “I don't think,” she snapped. “I know.”

  “Do you want to know what I think?” Ignoring her growl to the contrary, he went on, “I think you're overcompensating for something.”

  “Shut up.”

  “But what? Life must be so hard when you're beautiful. Though, perhaps you weren't always this pretty.” She stiffened when his other hand sketched down her front. “Are you an ugly duckling, Lisa? Did some guy break your heart by deciding that you weren't fit to suck his dick?”

  She drove her elbow into his ribs. Hard. “You bitch.” He tightened his grip around her waist. Turning her around. Lisa was ready for this. Blinking away the tears in her eyes, she raised her knee and ground it into his crotch. He released her then, with a gasped, “Jesus fucking Christ,” all traces of sleaziness gone now from both his face and his voice.

  Jason doubled over, one arm wrapped around his midsection, the other cupping himself. He gagged. Lisa hoped he'd throw up. Hoped he'd choke on it. “That hurt,” he whimpered.

  “Good.” Her eyes were still unnaturally bright. She took a step closer, keeping out of reach. She didn't think he'd grab for her again—not now—but she couldn't be sure. “Where's Blake?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Lisa lifted her foot warningly, spiked heel first, and was gratified to see him flinch.

  “All right,” he said nervously. “All right. You called my bluff. Hall closet. Two doors down.”

  She was tempted to kick him anyway. For a moment, they stared at her in mutual dislike, like two animals locked in combat. Her legs were still trembling. She could still smell whatever vile cologne it was that he was wearing. But most of all, she was scared how easily he'd read her, how easily he'd managed to catch her alone. Slowly, Lisa backed away from him. She refused to show fear.

  “If you ever touch me again—” almost out the door “—I will make you so—” just one more step “—so sorry. Is that clear?”

  He growled and made a threatening move towards her.

  She decided now was as good a time to leave as any.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  Mint. The bitter taste of it hung between them like a silent accusation. Val held her breath when James opened his mouth but it was only to kiss her again. As if being driven by some primal urge to wipe all traces of Gavin away. She drew in a breath when his hand went up her shirt.

  He pulled back, as if he'd been burned. “I'm sorry,” he said, lowering his eyes.

  “I need to sit down,” said Val. “I feel dizzy.”

  “I'll choose to take that as a compliment,” was James's dry response.

  You do that. They sat down on the steps, Val holding her head to keep the floor from spinning. James was looking at her; he seemed both worried and irritated. Why, she could only guess. For several minutes they were silent, though he eventually put an arm around her.

  (“Has James ever touched you like this, Val?”)

  She must have made some sort of movement—a shudder—because suddenly James moved to the step below hers, nudging himself between her legs, and kissed her again. She didn't stop him this time, and it quickly deepened. He groaned softly, and Val opened her eyes in annoyance.

  His were open, too. “You have gorgeous eyes.”

  She smiled, but only a little.

  “And gorgeous freckles.”

  He moved forward, and began to lap at her face with his tongue. Soon, she was laughing, laughing so hard that
it hurt, because oh god, it tickled. She felt James smile against her skin as he gently nudged her backwards. “Stop,” she protested.

  “Make me,” he growled, and an unexpected thrill shot through her.

  “Oh.” The sharp edge of the step was digging into her back, achingly familiar and excruciatingly uncomfortable, reasserting its presence every time she drew in a gasping breath. “James.”

  “They all look the same.” His voice was husky as he moved down her neck. “Do they all taste the same?”

  (“Does he know what you taste like, Valerian? Would he like to? I think he would. Perhaps I'll tell him, and spare his curiosity.”)

  It was as if someone had splashed her with ice water. She realized with horror that she had forgotten to do up one of the buttons Gavin had unfastened. She gave him a nervous push. “Someone might see.”

  “Come on, Val. Just a peek.”

  Val froze, her eyes staring at the second floor, at the shadows cloaking the hallways. Is someone there? Is someone watching us?

  “Whoa.” She felt a tug on her blouse. “Did you wear this for me?”

  She slapped a hand against her shirt, pinning it to her front. “James!”

  He tore his eyes away from her chest. “What?”

  “I…I think there's someone up there.”

  She was almost relieved for the interruption—and then she saw the expression on James's face.

  “There better not be.”

  Val grabbed his sleeve. “What are you doing? Don't go up there.”

  “I'm not going to let some creep get away with whacking off to—”

  “James.” She felt like she was chastising a small but persistent dog. “For once, just stop.”

  “I've had just about enough of this goddamn party. We're leaving. After this round, I'm taking you home.”

  Val opened her mouth to issue a retort. A slight tintinnabulation startled them both. It sounded, to Val, like the ringing of a servant's bell. Her eyes flicked up to the ceiling again. There was only one person she knew, who would find it appropriate to summon party guests like that.

  “Duty calls,” James said, in a stuffy voice undoubtedly supposed to resemble an English butler. He fixed her blouse for her and chucked her jovially under the chin. “Come on, poppet.”

  His voice, though, was tense. Val managed a watery smile that probably looked just as unconvincing.

  They ran into Blake and Lisa a little farther down the hall. Val flushed at the thought that one of her friends might have been their hidden observer—but no, a second later, she dismissed it. Lisa would have made a joke, and Blake … well, his face wasn't nearly red enough.

  If there even was a person there, she chided herself. Which there isn't. Wasn't.

  Val looked at Blake and Lisa a little more closely. The two of them looked surprisingly grim.

  “What's wrong?”

  Lisa shook her head. “I don't want to talk about it.”

  “You hear that? She doesn't want to talk about it, Val.”

  “I heard her, James.”

  “Let's try to make this last round pleasant.” James pushed open the door. “Ladies first.” He smirked at Blake, clearly including him in that category, which earned him a half-hearted punch to the shoulder that fell short of making its target. “Oh, too slow.”

  “Don't be an asshole, James,” said Lisa.

  “What? I was just joking.”

  “The two aren't mutually exclusive,” she bit back.

  “Are you calling me an asshole?”

  “The brownest.”

  “Quoth the biggest.”

  “You would know,” James said, deadpan, and for some reason—really, it was a little funny—Lisa got mad enough to slap him.

  “Lisa!” Val said, shocked. James was staring at her, open-mouthed, one hand pressed to his reddening face.

  “That's enough,” Blake said. “You're both big, brown… er…assholes. Okay? It's not something to be proud of.”

  “Here, here,” Val muttered.

  She surveyed the room nervously. Only Charlie had beat them to the parlor. She was sitting by herself towards the front, her legs neatly crossed at the ankle. Her eyes flicked over them dismissively, a cruel twist to her mouth that made Val's stomach plummet.

  Was it her?

  Even if it wasn't, she certainly seemed amused enough now. They were putting on quite the little show.

  “She started it,” said James.

  Val quickly sat down, yanking James down with her on her left. Blake sat on her right. Lisa was sitting on the other side of Blake but kept shooting her these meaningful glances. Val looked up when the door opened but it was only Brent. He looked a little dazed, as if wondering how he had come to be in a room full of people. Jason was the last to enter. There was a thin sheen of sweat, and he kept touching his stomach through the fabric of his shirt. Their eyes met. Then he threw a dark look at Lisa, who stiffened.

  Val felt a fleeting bolt of panic that mimicked her friend's. What is that? If it was something, it would be all her fault. What have I done?

  The parlor door swung open and GM walked through, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes, reminding her exactly what she'd done. His hair was mussed, and Val realized, with a not-entirely-unpleasant pang, I did that. There were other differences, too, small ones mostly, but the easiest to place was his attire. He was still dressed in the white pants and the black shirt—rumpled now—but sometime between now and his ventures through the halls, GM had managed to acquire a black hat: a top hat, perched at a jaunty angle on his head.

  He pulled it off with a flourish and bowed, like a magician performing his final act. He paused, as if expecting applause, before setting the hat down on the table beside him and producing a white envelope from his shirt pocket that was nearly identical to the one in her jeans pocket. Ignoring them now, he tore it open and a flurry of white papers cascaded into the hat's velvet-lined interior.

  Was this for a raffle of some sort? For a prize? Advantages in the next game?

  “Abracadabra,” James whispered.

  Val giggled. It was a wild, desperate-sounding gasp, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, glancing quickly around to make sure nobody had heard. She happened to catch Gavin's eyes, and her laugh died in her through when she saw the expression on his face.

  Oh God, his eyes. She scooted back in her chair, her heart pounding.

  “There are six slips of paper inside this hat,” GM said at last, looking away from her to meet the eyes of the other players in turn. “Each of you must draw one. You are to draw your slip of paper silently. Do not discuss them with those around you. There will be serious penalties if you do.”

  Again, his eyes returned to hers, and she felt herself begin to sweat.

  “Only six?” Blake asked, pushing his glasses up. “But there's eight people.”

  “I'm aware,” GM said coolly. “Why don't you go first…Blake, isn't it?” His eyes flicked briefly towards Val again, and he added languidly, “You can proceed clockwise from there.”

  So I'll be last. He had something planned and he was making a point to drag it out.

  With nothing better to do, she watched Blake reach into the hat, his eyes closed, before selecting a slip at random. His brow creased slightly as he read over the words written there silently to himself, before slowly making his way to his seat.

  The others had similar reactions—ranging from confusion, to disgust, to boredom—as they mulled over their papers before inevitably crumpling them up into a fist or a pocket. One by one, they went up to the hat, until, finally, it was her turn.

  A warm flush crept up her neck when she realized that the other players were staring at her. Lisa hissed, from across Blake, “Go, Val. He's waiting for you.”

  She clenched her fists and marched over to the waiting grandmaster, her feet seeming to grow heavier with every step. She stuck out her hand defiantly, flinching when he seized her wrist in a firm grip. “So kind of you to
grace us with your presence. I do hope I didn't interrupt anything, Val.”

  “You're hurting me,” she said. His fingers tightened imperceptibly, the only indication that he'd heard. And that was when her fear turned to terror. Because, clearly, he didn't care.

  “That envelope I gave you; when this round is over, you have my permission to read it. Out loud, if you please.”

  Abruptly, he released her and dropped something light into her upturned palm. It wasn't paper. Val glanced down at the object in her hand. It was a blackened rose, curling slightly at the tips. Every flower has a meaning, she remembered him saying so. Looking down at the withering blossom in her hands, she wished she knew the meaning of this particular flower.

  “I'll deal with you later.”

  She had to repress a shudder.

  It's wrong, she thought. It's wrong that he can still sound calm, with eyes like that.

  “A flower,” James said suspiciously, when she returned. “He gave you a flower?”

  “What I have passed out to you,” GM said, ignoring James, “Is the main theme of the game.”

  “And what is the theme?” Jason asked huskily.

  “That you must figure out for yourself.”

  “Oh please, the theme's obviously chess,” Lisa said. “I mean, black, white—it's not rocket science.”

  Charlie sent the other girl a dark look, “It's not that simple!” Her eyes went to GM. “ Is it?”

  “It is a bit more complicated than that, Lisa. Keep in mind that there is more than one theme,” GM continued, “But you are right, chess is one of the themes. One of the most important, by far.

  “There are only a few rules you should keep in mind,” GM continued, turning away from Lisa. “I'll remind you of them periodically as we get closer to the final round. One; you can't tell anyone who is on your paper, two; you can give one person one clue to what is on your paper. I strongly suggest you start thinking as to who that one person should be.”

  James rolled his eyes, but even he was keeping quiet.