by Poppet
It makes me smile when I open the bedroom door, thinking of Dustin calling me poison.
“I'm glad you're so happy. Mind toning it down a bit? This is a day of mourning.”
Narrowing my eyes, I stomp to my phone, slipping it into my pocket.
“Let's go,” I order, shoving past him to the door.
Securing the pearls around my neck while walking to his car; I was mad to agree to go with him. This day is going to be longer than the Civil War.
He opens the door for me, and I get into his silver Buick Regal. Catching his greedy gaze tracing up my thigh when I move my legs, a repulsive shiver screeches down my spine.
I've never been a fan of sedans, and this just serves to highlight the enormous differences between snobby creep, and Mister Wildchild.
The leather seats invade my senses, but there's no thrill this time.
He gets in, buckling up, shooting me a hard stare of dark gray eyes. Starting the car, he shoves it into gear, pressing play on the sound system before we're even at the end of my road.
Looking for traffic, he speeds into the next lane, while I'm shocked silent when the interior of the car is shunted into growling riffs. Art of Dying's, Die Trying, pins me to my seat.
He glances across, catching my eye.
“Appearances are deceiving. Don't look so surprised.”
He's referring to the music. But mercy, the lyrics to this song? Seriously? Is he trying to tell me something, or am I just reading into things that aren't there?
“What are you doing, Sarah?”
“What do you mean?”
Turning onto Mopac, he puts his foot down, torpedoing us to Forest Oaks Funeral Home and Memorial Park.
Now that he's out of suburban driving, he can pay more attention to me. Flicking his eyes down me, and back up, he holds my gaze with arrogance.
“Why are you socializing with meatheads?”
“That's none of your business, Erik.”
He looks back at the road, snapping impatient focus to the rearview mirror, then back to me.
“You're an intelligent woman. Don't sell yourself short.”
Annoyed, I change the subject.
“Why did you wait so long to hold the service?”
“I was in Leningrad. You know that.”
“Are you going back to St Petersburg?”
“No.”
No?
“Why not?”
“Home is where the heart is. I belong here.”
The inflection of meaning in his tone isn't lost on me. Oh God. Good thing we're going to church, I need to get on my knees and pray real hard this nightmare will end.
“What did you teach?” I ask.
“Applied mathematics.”
Nerd. All nerd. I don't care if you like Art of Dying. You need to tattoo a big L on your forehead so women know to run the other way when they see you approaching.
I stare out the window, sucking my lip in to stop myself from asking him if any of my underwear is in his pockets.
Turning into William Cannon Drive, he slows down to double back to the funeral home.
Halting the car behind a crowd of others, he shuts off the engine, staring strangely at me.
“This is hard for me, Sarah. It's my mother's funeral. Have a little heart.”
He's right of course. Ruth was wonderful, and she'd disapprove of my tone. It's just, she never mentioned him. Not once. Not once in ten whole years.
Bracing myself, I open my door, squaring my shoulders and walking to the red and white interior, barn inspired, pew filled room. Melissa must have organized it all. She has Ruth's favorite flowers spilling out of tall vases at the front and back.
Heads turn, even though our footfalls are hushed by thick carpet. Erik puts his hand on my back, guiding me to the front. Suppressing the jeeblies rippling through me, I take a deep breath, suddenly tearful now we're here.
The sun goes down before six at this time of year, and twilight is closing in when we finally leave. Sitting in his car, now crooned by Theory of a Deadman, I feel numb, staring out the window at a blurring landscape.
I'm jumpy. Whenever I look at him in my periphery, he looks different. Bulkier, sharper features, taller even. But when I look directly at him, he's still loser Erik.
Then it hits me, we're not going back to Bushy Creek.
“Where are we going?”
“Cedar Park.”
Scowling at him in the dim light, I try and hide my panic, “Why?”
“My mom's place is on Remington.”
“Why are we going to your mom's place?”
He shoots his attention to me, “For the people coming for drinks.”
“Oh.”
I can't think of anything else to say. I still feel guilty. I should have been putting those books away. You don't let old ladies climb ladders.
He pulls up in front of an imposing two-story. I guess Ruth wasn't hard up for money.
“Where's your dad?”
Driving into the garage and closing the door with his remote, he kills the engine and the lights, “Long gone.”
“Did he leave this house to your mom?”
“No, I bought it for her.”
He ends the discussion by opening his door, coming around and opening mine. This time he doesn't touch me, letting me follow him into the house.
Going through the laundry, past a dining room, we get to the living room. He strides away, opening the front door, before switching on the lamps in the living room, and igniting the gas fireplace. It's warm in here, so it must have thermostat control.
Opening doors to a large bar, he gestures to the velvet sofas, “Make yourself at home.”
Only one car's lights flash in through the front door, an engine dies, and high heels click toward us.
I've been duped.
Melissa walks in, giving Erik a big hug when he meets her in the foyer.
“Oh, honey. Are you okay? Do you have dinner? I'm just down the road, it'll be no trouble bringing a casserole over.”
Shutting the front door, he seems paler than he was two minutes ago, like an actor, portraying grief. That's just it, I don't get the impression he's really grieving.
Which just opens my floodgates again. Spying a bathroom off the living room, I rush to get tissues.
His baritone carries through, while I dab my eyes and blow my nose.
“I'm taken care of, thank you Mel. The housekeeper is good to me.”
“Your mother was such a wonderful woman. I'm going to miss her.”
And she's wailing, hugging onto him, crying into his shoulder when I walk back to my chair. Catching his expression when I sit, he looks choked up. Maybe he's just too proud to show people what he's feeling?
Pulling out of his arms, she steps back, “I'm sorry I can't stay. But call me if you need anything. I mean it, Erik. Don't be stubborn and proud. It's no trouble.”
He nods, compressing his lips, opening the front door for her again.
“Thank you for coming. Your words at the memorial mean more than you know.”
She sniffs, patting his arm, hugging him again before clicking back out, in a hurry.
This is just peachy. I'm alone in Erik's place, and he's my ride home. Shoot me now.
Waiting for her to drive away, he closes the front door, walking to the bar.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
I note he's pouring himself bourbon.
“Whatever you're having's fine.”
He comes back, handing me a glass, sitting in the chair next to mine and staring moodily into the flames in the hearth.
The silence is uncomfortable. I'm getting nervous.
“I want to know everything.”
Snapping my attention back to him, I numbly hold my glass, “Excuse me?”
“Every detail. How did my mother end up dead? With you as the only witness?”
It sounds like he's accusing me of murdering his mother.
“We were packin
g books away at the end of our shift. I was on the other side of the reference library when I heard her scream. I swear, I dropped the books I was holding, and ran. She had the ladder out. It can't come away from the wall, it runs along the shelves. She must have been packing books away up at the top, and lost her footing. I called the hospital, next door. They sent two medics over immediately. It couldn't have been longer than two minutes. But she'd snapped her neck, she was already dead.”
Telling him, reliving it in my head, I can't stop the tears. Looking down, I dab at my eyes with the scrunched up tissue.
He reaches his hand over, running it up my skirt, lifting it higher on my thigh.
“It's okay. I'm not accusing you. I need to know the details to wrap up the legal side.”
I stare at the hand, willing it to move.
“Sarah?”
Lifting my focus, I look at him again. Flinching when he looks different, a long slender tongue lashing out, like a depiction of a medieval gargoyle.
“What is it?”
Blinking, my heart pounding, he looks meek and normal again.
I think I'm overtired. Pressing my sore eyes with cold fingertips, I release a sigh.
“Sarah?”
Swallowing, I stare at him, “What?”
“Are you okay?”
“Not particularly. I'd like to go home.”
He nods, setting his glass down and standing. Wandering to the fireplace, he turns and faces me, hands in his pockets.
“You can see it, can't you?”
My stomach twists with instant anxiety.
“See what?”
“Who I really am.”
A douche with an overinflated ego? Oh yeah, clear as day.
“What do you mean?” I say instead.
“You've reacted to me countless times over the last hour, but you're doubting what your eyes are showing you.”
Now I'm getting scared. How does he know?
“What do you mean?” I say again, like an idiot.
“You keep seeing this.”
And in an instant, he's standing in front of the fire, a foot taller, as bulky and strong as Dustin, opening wings wide, which span to each side of the room. His face is completely different.
A cruel smile twists it when he laughs.
Chapter 8
Diving off my chair, I'm sprinting for the front door.
Sharp, angular, 'things', hook my arms, yanking me back. Dragging me over the floor, depositing me at his feet.
It was the wings. He folds them, somehow diminishing their size. I can't hear, my blood's pumping so loud. His eyes are graphite. Glittering a strange light in them, like stars.
“Don't run from me. Don't you ever run from me again.”
I have overwhelming fear coursing wild through me, making me shiver; trembling, clattering my teeth.
He steps over me, going back to his chair, sitting down with two sharp triangles showing behind either shoulder now. They're like gargoyle wings. Bat wings. His shirt and tie are gone. How did he even do that?
God, please hear me. Save me from this madman. This... creature.
“Please, sit down.”
“No!”
Scrambling to my feet, darting my focus, looking for an exit, an escape –
“I have warned you, Sarah. If you run again, I will show you no mercy.”
Swallowing hard, I think I need to pee – or vomit – or faint.
“Sit down!”
My legs buckle anyway, and I sit heavily in front of the hearth. Staring at him, with black hair now, almost black eyes, his skin tone has deepened several shades, his voice deeper; threatening, booming. No wonder he wasn't afraid of Dustin.
Dustin! He'd better not hurt him.
“Whaaaah – uh?” I clear my throat, stiffening for a fight. “What are you?”
“This is why my mother never mentioned me.”
“Let me go! I want to go home.”
“No. This time you aren't getting your way. I've given you more patience and understanding than you deserve.”
My stomach is lurching, yet still I can't back down.
“What the hell is that supposed to mean? You're a stalker! You have been a total creep!”
“You don't know the half of it.”
He relaxes back, extending scary looking big legs, picking up his glass, sipping, watching me non-stop over the rim.
“Why?” I ask.
“Why did I show you?”
I can't speak. My fear is getting the better of me, squeezing an invisible hand around my throat, silencing me. A primal survival instinct, probably. I answer him with a nod.
“Because you obviously like big men. You judged me on my appearance. I'm bigger than Dustin. If it's big you want, you're looking at the baddest motherfucker on the planet.”
“Nnnnn–”
God dammit! Why can't I make myself speak. I can't form words.
He's also not pretending to be a gentleman anymore.
Leaning forward, he perches his elbows on his knees, bunching his enormous build into a caricature, pinning me to the spot with the danger in his expression.
“I thought, naively, that if I appealed to your brain, rather than your body, we could build a bridge to friendship. Dustin's timing was fucking impeccable. You are still who you always were. Rating speed, agility, strength, above a mastermind. Above brilliance. You disappoint me, again.”
“N-no. No. None of this is making any s.sense. I don't know you! I met you three weeks ago. I've done nothing to you! You're full moon kinda crazy.”
He stands, crushing the glass in his hand, the snapping of crystal is enough to make me shrivel inside.
“Come here.”
“No.”
“I won't ask you twice. You have pissed me off for the last time.”
I couldn't stand even if I wanted to. I'm terrified, even my ankles are like spaghetti.
He takes one wide step, and is on me, lifting me off the floor by his grip on my arms.
I can't breathe, he's too close, too huge, too insane. I think I'm having a heart attack. My chest hurts like someone drove a stake through it.
“I have never hurt you. Not once. Why have you programmed yourself to flee from me?”
“It's instinct. Sane women run from monsters.”
His grip tightens, it hurts so bad. Can he break bones the way he broke that glass?
“You're hurting me.”
“I am not a monster. Close your eyes, and just breathe.”
His grip lessens, marginally. I want to rub my arms. I'm going to have bruises for a year with the pain in my muscles.
“Breathe!”
His shout in my face makes me jump, tears are running; I'm going to die.
Why did I wear a dress? Now I can't even knee him. The skirt is slimline, like a pencil skirt. Wearing stupid heels, that you can't run in.
“BREATHE!”
Gulping down bile, I inhale deeply. Exaggerating it. Before he goes batshit on me for not breathing.
“Smell it?”
He smells like Dustin. But hotter. And, another strange smell. Like the ivory keys on a piano.
“Dustin is cut from the same cloth. And still I repulse you, yet with him your hormones were literally erupting out of you like a catherine wheel.”
“What do you want, Erik?”
It's a gasping whimper. I'm tired. I don't even know how to react to this. He's mad, and clearly not human. If this day gets any better, I'll end it in little square plastic bags at the back of his ice-box.
“My name is Erra, not Erik.”
“Then why did you –”
“I didn't. It was my mother's idea.”
“Was she,” I pause, daring to look into his eyes, startled by the gentleness in them. His grip is threatening, but his expression isn't. “Was she, like you?”
He releases me, dropping his arms to stare down at me, “It's a long story. Call me adopted, for lack of a better term.”
; Adopted? I was never adopted. No one wanted me.
Rubbing my arms, looking down, hiding the tears. It's been a long and emotional day.
“No one adopted you, because I wouldn't let them.”
Rearing my head, I want to spit in his face for being such a cruel bastard.
“Leave me out of your nastiness. I'm not a rock. I'm fragile.”
My voice is cracking, becoming hoarse, but I need to fight back. I just know I can't show weakness. It's whipping me, in the back of my head, screaming at me not to back down.
“I'm older than I look. I'm not being malicious,” he says in a milder tone.
J.j.jesus. He's been stalking me my whole life?
“Say my name,” he orders.
“No. This is ending right now. Take me home or I will scream so long and loud, SWAT will be blowing you up.”
“I'm faster than I look too. Do you really want to press your luck with me? It should be clear to you, even in your grief, that I have run out of patience today.”
“What do you want?”
“You. It's always been, as always will be, you.”
“You're insane. I'm. Not. Interested. How can I make that any clearer? I think you're a complete asshole. And everything you do just proves it more. Fuck off! Fuck you! Get a fucking life! Is that clear enough?”
Wings flare out, blocking out all light, closing in around me so fast, I don't have a chance to react. In a nanosecond, I'm shut in complete darkness, with two pinpricks of glittering starry eyes in front of me.
Chapter 9
“Scream all you want, no one will hear you now.”
I belt it out, my rage, my fear, my panic. Slamming forward, rallying fists into an immovable bulk. Using everything I remember, I elbow hard into his solar plexus, shoving the heel of one hand up and against his jaw, following through by ramming the heel of the other hand up into his nose. Fighting blind in this pitch ink around me.
“Fuck you!”
Stomping a sharp heel onto a foot, boxing around myself into his groin, I smash my head back into him, giving myself an instant concussion when I connect with bone.
“Are you quite finished behaving like a wildcat?”
