Wicked Nights (Angels of the Dark)
Page 2
“Stop,” she cried, and it thrust its tongue so horribly deep she gagged all over again.
When it lifted its head, it left a white-hot slime behind, the disgusting substance coating the lower half of her face. Ecstasy shone in its eyes. “Now, this is going to be fun,” it said, and then it was gone, vanishing in a puff of putrid smoke.
For a long while, Annabelle felt paralyzed in mind and body. Only her emotions were on the move, and they were escalating at an alarming rate. The fear…the shock…the grief…each pressing against her chest, nearly suffocating her.
Do something! Finally, the flicker of a thought. It could return at any moment.
The realization gave her the strength to free herself from the prison. Slipping and sliding, she made her way to her parents’ bodies. Bodies she could not put back together, no matter what she tried.
Though everything inside her rebelled at the thought, she had to leave them behind if she hoped to save her brother. “Brax!” she screamed. “Brax!” She tripped her way into the house and called 911. After a hasty explanation, she dropped the phone and ran upstairs, again shouting for her brother. She found him in his bedroom, sleeping peacefully.
“Brax. Wake up. You have to wake up.” No matter how hard she shook him, he merely muttered about wanting a few minutes more.
She remained with him, protecting him, until the first responders arrived. She showed them to the garage, but they could not put her parents back together, either.
The cops arrived soon afterward—and within the hour, Annabelle was blamed for the murders.
CHAPTER ONE
Four years later
“HOW DOES THAT MAKE you feel, Annabelle?” The male voice lingered over the word feel, adding a disgusting layer of sleaze.
Keeping the other patients in the “trust circle” in her periphery, Annabelle tilted her head to the side and met the gaze of Dr. Fitzherbert, otherwise known as Fitzpervert. In his early forties, the doctor had thinning salt-and-pepper hair, dark brown eyes and perfectly tanned, though slightly lined, skin. He was on the thin side, and at five-ten, only an inch taller than she was.
Overall, he was moderately attractive. If you ignored the blackness of his soul, of course.
The longer she stared at him, rebelliously silent, the more his lips curled with amusement. Oh, how that grated—not that she’d ever let him know it. She would never willingly do anything to please him, but she would also never cower in his presence. Yes, he was the worst kind of monster, power hungry, selfish and unacquainted with the truth, and yes, he could hurt her. And would.
He already had.
Last night he’d drugged her. Well, he’d drugged her every day of his two-month employment at the Moffat County Institution for the Criminally Insane. But last night he had sedated her with the express purpose of stripping her, touching her in ways he shouldn’t and taking pictures.
Such a pretty girl, he’d said. Out there in the real world, a stunner like you would make me work for something as simple as a dinner date. Here, you’re completely at my mercy. You’re mine to do with as I please…and I please plenty.
Humiliation still burned hot and deep, a fire in her blood, but she would not betray a moment of weakness. She knew better.
Over the last four years, the doctors and nurses in charge of her care had changed more times than her roommates, some of them shining stars of their profession, others simply going through the motions, doing what needed doing, while a select few were worse than the convicted criminals they were supposed to treat. The more she caved, the more those employees abused her. So, she always remained on the defensive.
One thing she’d learned during her incarceration was that she could rely only on herself. Her complaints of abominable treatment went unheeded, because most higher-ups believed she deserved what she got—if they believed her at all.
“Annabelle,” Fitzpervert chided. “Silence isn’t to be tolerated.”
Well, then. “I feel like I’m one hundred percent cured. You should probably let me go.”
At least the amusement drained. He frowned with exasperation. “You know better than to answer my questions so flippantly. That doesn’t help you deal with your emotions or problems. That doesn’t help anyone here deal with their emotions or problems.”
“Ah, so I’m a lot like you then.” As if he cared about helping anyone but himself.
Several patients snickered. A couple merely drooled, foamy bubbles falling from babbling lips and catching on the shoulders of their gowns.
Fitzpervert’s frown morphed into a scowl, the pretense of being here to help vanishing. “That smart mouth will get you into trouble.”
Not a threat. A vow. Doesn’t matter, she told herself. She lived in constant fear of creaking doors, shadows and footsteps. Of drugs and people and…things. Of herself. What was one more concern? Although…at this rate, her emotions would be the thing to finally bury her.
“I’d love to tell you how I feel, Dr. Fitzherbert,” the man beside her said.
Fitzpervert ran his tongue over his teeth before switching his attention to the serial arsonist who’d torched an entire apartment building, along with the men, women and children living inside of it.
As the group discussed feelings and urges and ways to control them both, Annabelle distracted herself with a study of her surroundings. The room was as dreary as her circumstances. There were ugly yellow water stains on the paneled ceiling, the walls were a peeling gray and the floor carpeted with frayed brown shag. The uncomfortable metal chairs the occupants sat upon were the only furniture. Of course, Fitzpervert luxuriated on a special cushion.
Meanwhile, Annabelle had her hands cuffed behind her back. Considering the amount of sedatives pumping through her system, being cuffed was overkill. But hey, four weeks ago she’d brutally fought a group of her fellow patients, and two weeks ago one of her nurses, so of course she was too menacing to leave unrestrained, no matter that she’d sought only to defend herself.
For the past thirteen days, she’d been kept in the hole, a dark, padded room where deprivation of the senses slowly drove her (genuinely) insane. She had been starved for contact, and had thought any interaction would do—until Fitzpervert drugged and photographed her.
This morning, he arranged her release from solitary confinement, followed by this outing. She wasn’t stupid; she knew he hoped to bribe her into accepting his mistreatment.
If Mom and Dad could see me now…. She bit back a sudden, choking sob. The young, sweet girl they’d loved was dead, the ghost somehow alive inside her, haunting her. At the worst times, she would remember things she had no business remembering.
Taste this, honey. It’ll be the best thing you’ve ever eaten!
A terrible cook, her mother. Saki had enjoyed tweaking recipes to “improve” them.
Did you see that? Another touchdown for the Sooners!
A die-hard football fan, her dad. He had attended O.U. in Oklahoma for three semesters, and had never cut those ties.
She could not allow herself to think about them, about her mother and father and how wonderful they’d been…and…oh, she couldn’t stop it from happening…. Her mother’s image formed, taking center stage in her mind. She saw a fall of hair so black the strands appeared blue, much like Annabelle’s own. Eyes uptilted and golden, much like Annabelle’s used to be. Skin a rich, creamy mix of honey and cinnamon and without a single flaw. Saki Miller—once Saki Tanaka—had been born in Japan but raised in Georgetown, Colorado.
Saki’s traditional parents had freaked when she and the white-as-can-be Rick Miller had fallen hopelessly in love and married. He’d come home from college on holiday, met her and moved back to be with her.
Both Annabelle and her brother were a combination of their parents’ heritages. They shared their mother’s hair and skin, the shape of her face, yet had their father’s height and slender build.
Although Annabelle’s eyes no longer belonged to either Saki or Rick.
And oh, no, no, no. As the trust circle yammered on, two creatures walked through the far wall, pausing to orient themselves. Heart rate spiraling, Annabelle looked at her fellow patients, expecting to see expressions of terror. No one else seemed to notice the visitors.
How could they not? One creature had the body of a horse and the torso of a man. Rather than skin, he was covered by glimmering silver…metal? His hooves were rust-colored and possibly some kind of metal as well, sharpened into deadly points.
His companion was shorter, with stooped shoulders weighed down by sharp, protruding horns, and legs twisted in the wrong direction. He wore a loincloth and nothing else, his chest furred, muscled and scarred.
The scent of rotten eggs filled the room, as familiar as it was horrifying. The first flood of panic and anger burned through her, a toxic mix she could not allow to control her. It would wreck her concentration and slow her reflexes—her only weapons.
She needed weapons.
The creatures came in all shapes and sizes, all colors, both sexes—and maybe something in between—but they had one thing in common: they always came for her.
Every doctor who’d ever treated her had tried to convince her that the beings were merely figments of her imagination. Complex hallucinations, they said. Despite the wounds the creatures always left behind—wounds the doctors claimed she managed to inflict upon herself—she sometimes believed them. That didn’t stop her from fighting, though. Nothing could.
Glowing red gazes at last settled on her. Both males smiled, their sharp, dripping fangs revealed.
“Mine,” Horsey said.
“No. Mine!” Horns snapped.
“Only one way to settle this.” Horsey licked his lips in anticipation. “The fun way.”
“Fun,” Horns agreed.
Fun, the code word for “beat the crap out of Annabelle.” At least they wouldn’t try to rape her.
Don’t you see, Miss Miller? one of the doctors had once told her. The fact that these creatures will not rape you proves they are nothing more than hallucinations. Your mind stops them from doing something you can’t handle.
As if she could handle any of the rest. How do you explain the injuries I receive while bound?
We found the tools you hid in your room. Shanks, a hammer we’re still trying to figure out how you got, glass shards. Shall I go on?
Yeah, but those had been for her protection, not her mutilation.
“Who goes first?” Horsey asked, drawing her out of the depressing memory.
“Me.”
“No, me.”
They continued to argue, but the reprieve wouldn’t last long. It never did. Adrenaline surged through her, making her limbs shake. Don’t worry. You’ve got this.
Though no other patients were aware of what was going on, they were all sensitive to her shift in mood. Grunts and groans erupted around her. Both men and women, young and old, writhed in their seats, wanting to run away.
The guards posted at the only exit stiffened, going on alert but unsure who was to blame.
Fitzpervert knew, pegging Annabelle with his patented king-of-the-world frown. “You look troubled, Annabelle. Why don’t you tell us what’s bothering you, hmm? Are you regretting your earlier outburst?”
“Screw you, Fitzpervert.” Her gaze returned to her targets. They were the bigger threat. “Your turn will come.”
He sucked in a breath. “You are not allowed to speak to me that way.”
“You’re right. Sorry. I meant, screw you, Dr. Fitzpervert.” Unarmed did not mean helpless, she told herself, and neither did bound; today, she would prove it to the creatures and Fitzpervert.
“Feisty,” Horsey said with a gleeful nod.
“So amusing to break,” Horns cackled.
“As long as I’m the one to break her!”
And so began another round of arguing.
From the corner of her eye, she saw the good doctor motion one of the guards forward, and she knew the guy would take her jaw in an inexorable grip and shove her cheek against his stomach to hold her in place. A degrading and suggestive position that humiliated even as it cowed, preventing her from biting so that Fitzherbert could inject her with another sedative.
Have to act now. Can’t wait. Not allowing herself to stop and think, she jumped up, pulling her knees to her chest, sliding her bound arms underneath her butt and over her feet. Gymnastics classes hadn’t failed her. Hands now in front of her, she twisted, grabbed and folded the chair, and positioned the metal like a shield.
Perfect timing. The guard reached her.
She swung to the left, slamming her shield into his stomach. Air gushed from his mouth as he hunched over. Another swing and she nailed the side of his head, sending him to the floor in an unconscious heap.
A few patients shouted with distress, and a few others cheered her on. The droolers continued leaking. Fitzpervert rushed to the door to force the remaining guard to act as his buffer, as well as summon more guards with the single press of a button. An alarm screeched to life, tossing the already disconcerted patients into more of a frenzy.
No longer content to bicker on the sidelines, the creatures stalked toward her, slow and steady, taunting her.
“Oh, the things I’ll do to you, little girl.”
“Oh, how you’ll scream!”
Closer…closer…almost within striking distance…totally within striking distance… She swung. Missed. The pair laughed, separated and in unison reached for her.
She used the chair to bat one set of hands away, but couldn’t track both of her adversaries at the same time and the other managed to scratch her shoulder. She winced but otherwise ignored the pain, spinning around to—hit air, only air.
Laughter growing in volume, the creatures ran circles around her, constantly swinging at her.
I can handle this. When Horsey was in front of her, she rammed the top of the chair under his chin, knocking his teeth together and his brain, if he had one, into the back of his skull. At the same time, she kicked out a leg, punting Horns, who was behind her, in the stomach. Both creatures stumbled away from her, their grins finally vanishing.
“That all you got, girls?” she goaded. Two more minutes, that’s all she had, and then the summoned guards would rush inside and tackle her, pinning her down, Fitzpervert and his needle taking charge. She wanted these creatures finished.
“Let’s find out,” Horsey hissed. He opened his mouth and roared, his awful breath somehow creating a strong, unstoppable wind that pushed the arsonist at Annabelle.
To everyone else, it probably seemed like the guy was leaping at her of his own volition, intending to restrain her. Another swing, and the chair sent him flying through Horsey’s body and to his butt, as if the creature were nothing more substantial than mist. To Fire Boy, he wasn’t. The creatures were only ever tangible to her and whatever she held.
Sometime during the exchange, Horns had moved beyond her periphery. Now he managed to sneak up behind her and rake his claws against her already bleeding shoulder. As she turned, he turned with her, once again raking her with those claws.
The pain…oh, the pain. No longer ignorable.
Stars winked in her line of vision. She heard laughter behind her, and knew Horns was there, ready to claw her again. She darted forward, out of the way, and tripped.
Horsey caught her by the forearms, preventing her from falling. He let her go—only to punch her in the face. More pain, more stars, but when he lifted his hand for a second blow, she was ready. She jerked the chai
r up and nailed him under the jaw, then spun so that he broke his knuckles on the seat of the chair rather than her cheekbone. His howl rent the air.
Footsteps behind her. She kicked backward, connecting with Horns. Before her leg landed, she spun and kicked out with the other, scissoring her ankles to double tap his gut. When he collapsed, wheezing for air, she flipped the chair upside down and finished him off, slamming the metal rim into his trachea.
Black blood pooled and bubbled around him, frothing and sizzling as it seared the tiled floor. Steam rose, curling through the air.