by Mara Black
If only it were that simple. If all he wanted was to drink my blood, we could figure out some kind of arrangement. But whatever was going on inside Tate's head was much more sinister and mysterious than that.
Many of the doors upstairs were locked, too. I found a few that weren't, mostly empty, some with furniture arranged haphazardly, but critical pieces missing. One room had only a few chairs, and a fireplace, but the rest was empty. It seemed like it was wanting a desk, or a bed. It did have a window, though - which struck me by surprise, although it was small and dingy and seemed to be stuck closed.
I spent a few minutes trying to pry it open, to no avail. It looked like the wood stain might have been painted over the seam. It was a small thing, but I felt frustration building. All of the negative feelings I'd been bottling up since I got here were starting to rise to the surface.
Finally, with a massive sigh, I plopped down on the floor and hugged my knees into my chest.
Stupid window.
Stupid dust rag.
Stupid house.
Stupid me.
As I sat there, curled up on the floor, something bumped into me. I nearly jumped out of my skin, staring at the offending creature.
Only, it wasn't a creature at all. It was an object.
Round and black, about the size of a dinner plate, with a little blinking light. It revved up, rotated slightly, and charged forward again.
Squealing, I jumped to my feet and out of the thing's path. It reminded me vaguely of the little robot vacuum cleaners that had been popular years ago, but surely, nobody still had one.
Except for Tate, of course.
It made sense, I realized, as I dodged the robot's path. I couldn't exactly picture Tate pushing a vacuum cleaner around this place. Laughing at the absurdity of it, I watched its little zig-zag pattern across the floor.
"Jesus," I muttered. "I guess it's nice to know I'm not completely alone, here."
I sat on a chair and drew my feet up, out of its way. Although I hadn't actually lost enough of my mind to believe that the vacuum could hear me, it was still a relief to talk to something that I didn't have to be afraid of.
"I bet you've seen some shit, huh?"
Whirrrr.
Giggling at myself, I felt some of the frustration melt away. If Tate wanted his windows glued shut, it was certainly no business of mine.
Walking back out into the hallway, I almost collided with the man himself. He cleared his throat, staring me down with an unreadable expression.
I braced myself.
"I have to go take care of something," he said. "Stay in the main part of the house. Don't open the door for anyone. Understood?"
I nodded.
The idea of being alone in this house was strangely thrilling. I probably had been, before, without realizing it. But this was different. Tate trusted me enough to leave me here. Peculiar, but I wasn't going to question it.
The click of the front door closing was deafening. I locked up after him, as I'd been instructed, and began to walk the empty house.
His presence was still so heavy, and it only seemed to grow the longer I was alone.
I had always been a practical person - skeptical, most of the time, because it was necessary. I hadn't been surviving on the streets since I was a teenager by believing in things without proof. But I'd once been told, by an old woman who told fortunes in the park, that a house takes on the characteristic of the people who live there. It breathes you in, absorbing aspects of your soul. That was the reason, she explained, that some houses felt haunted, even by people who were still alive.
I had just nodded politely, having absolutely no idea what she was talking about. But I did now. Tate's ghost followed me from room to room. There was no mistaking it. When I laid my hand on the doorknob that led into his bedroom, I felt the hairs on my arms stand on end.
It was locked, of course. But I lingered for a while, and I couldn't stop shivering.
He absolutely permeated this place. I closed my eyes for a moment, running my hand along the wood, is if I could somehow read his memories off of the walls.
I want to know you.
How could one man be so full of contradictions? Acting so cold, while the ice laced with fire in his veins? He was filled with desires that seemed hell-bent on destroying him. I thought I'd never seen someone so tormented as he was when he dragged me into his room. He looked like he wanted to rip out a part of his own soul.
He must have been a customer of Stoker's, a long time ago. But what had happened between him and the girl Daniela? What was so terrible that he was inspired to hate them? And why did this "H" think that a gift of another girl would be enough to smooth things over?
Clearly, Stoker thought of us as replaceable commodities. That didn't surprise me. But did Tate?
In spite of what he said, I didn't believe it. He did care about whether I lived or died. He cared far too much, for his own good. It had been a struggle for him to help me, like he feared some negative consequences for doing it.
Of course, he couldn't trust me. Just like I couldn't trust him. We were still circling each other cautiously, trying to read each other's intentions. Mine were simple enough. Tate, however, couldn't seem to accept that. Something inside him was too warped to understand that I simply wanted to say alive. He was searching for something sinister.
I almost hated to disappoint him.
But you did lie.
Of course I'd lied. I had no choice. Frustrated, I tried to smother the guilt in the back corner of my mind. Tate wasn't someone worth feeling guilty over. He was cruel and ruthless. He actually thought I deserved to be treated like a possession, all because I made a desperate choice. It was easy to judge, from his ivory tower. He had everything he could possibly want here. It must be hard to imagine how someone could be so cold and hungry and afraid that they'd be willing to sell their body.
Anger roiled through me, as I remembered some of the things he'd said. He'd concocted a very nice justification for himself, so he didn't have to feel bad about buying girls. I'd disabuse him of that notion, somehow. He needed to understand.
When I heard the door unlatch, my heart jumped. What was I supposed to do? Go and meet him? Had I forgotten something he told me to do? Panic coursed through me, and I was frozen in my spot, sitting at the kitchen table.
Tate stormed in, and didn't even pause to look into the kitchen as he passed. I heard him slam one of the upstairs doors open.
He was looking, I realized - for me.
My stomach flipped.
And then, I heard his voice.
"COME!"
Tate's voice boomed through the house, making the short hairs on my body stand on end.
He was beyond angry. Before I even got close to his room, I could feel it in waves.
When I walked in, heart pounding, he didn't turn around. I walked in hesitantly and sat down on the chaise lounge, trying not to remember what had already happened here.
At last, he turned to me and spoke. His face was twisted with rage.
"You want to explain this?"
He threw something at me. A pile of wrinkled, yellow newsprint, and I flinched away in spite of myself. His eyes burned into mine, showing true fury.
I looked down at the paper, at the little blurb he'd circled in red pen. I knew it well. I didn't have to read the words, but I did anyway, letting my eyes drift over the familiar paragraph that summed up the worst day of my life.
Finally, the last line.
Autumn, their fifteen-year-old daughter, remains missing. Presumed dead.
I swallowed.
"What is this?" I managed to whisper.
Tate let out a scornful laugh. "You think they didn't tell me your name, Autumn Laramie?" He stalked up to me, jabbing a finger at the article. I flinched. "What happened that day?"
Taking a deep breath, I kept my eyes fixed on his finger. "Apparently, I died."
The sharp connection of his palm against my cheek came so hard, so fast, that I had
no time to react. He slapped me. Hard, without mercy or remorse.
"Do you realize what you've done?" he demanded. "Do you have any idea what's going to happen now?"
I shrugged, feeling the heat bloom across my cheek. "Probably nothing good."
"That's for God damn sure, Autumn," he snarled, snatching the paper away and throwing it on the floor. "You witnessed a crime by the most ruthless, notorious street rat fuck of this century - and you got away from him. You've been on the run for five years, and you didn't think that was worth telling?" His tone was harsh and mocking. "Thought you'd keep that little detail to yourself, did you? Wouldn't want to burden me with the knowledge, after all."
My breathing sounded harsh in my own ears. I stared at him, guilt and shame crawling through my veins. He was right. He was absolutely right to be angry, but I still felt furious, rebelling against his unjust treatment of me. I might have used him, but he'd used me much worse.
"Didn't think it mattered," I said. "Birdy doesn't care about witnesses."
Tate laughed again, chilling me thoroughly. My nipples pricked against the bodice of my dress. "Lies upon lies. What else haven't you told me?"
I exhaled sharply, looking at his raised hand. Daring him to do it again.
"Think carefully," he warned.
Unlike Stoker - apparently - Birdy still had to deal with the law. If I'd ever chosen to testify, if he ever actually went to trial for anything, he'd rot in prison for the rest of his life. It was worse than ever now, everyone languishing five or six to a cell, never enough food, the guards not bothering to stop the inmates from thinning out their own ranks. Birdy had a lot of enemies. He wouldn't last long.
He was afraid of me. I'd evaded him, and I'd kept evading him, month after month, year after year. We both knew it couldn't last forever. One of us would slip up, and it would most likely be me. But until then, I refused to give in.
I would survive, no matter what.
"That's it," I said, flatly. "Birdy wants to kill me. I'm sure if you got in touch with him, he'd pay you a handsome finder's fee."
Tate's lips thinned, his eyes flashing anger. "Shut up," he snapped. "That smart mouth of yours has already gotten you into enough trouble. I suggest you learn how to keep it quiet."
"I'm not being sarcastic," I said, quietly. "He really will pay you. Booze, pills, whatever you're into. I'm sure he wouldn't be hard to find."
"For God's sake, shut your fucking mouth before I shut it for you." Tate was pacing the room again, fists clenched at his sides. "How am I supposed to believe you, when you lied to me already? What else aren't you telling me?"
"Nothing," I insisted, feeling cold, empty despair claw out whatever was left in my chest. "Nothing."
He paused in his pacing, turning suddenly to look at me. "How long?" he demanded. "How much longer do you think you have, before he tracks you down?"
I shrugged. "I was hoping that Stoker would hit the reset button on that. Whatever else they are, I've heard they'll protect their investments."
The expression on Tate's face gave me goosebumps. "Not from men like him," he said, darkly.
"Well," I said, quietly. "My mistake, then."
"You got that fucking right." Tate snatched up the newspaper, crumpling it in his hand. "All it takes is one weak link, do you realize that? If your driver talks, if anyone who saw you getting into the car says a word - he'll find a way to trace you to me." He stopped again, taking a few steps in my direction. But I refused to flinch. "Is that what you want, Autumn? Is that why you came here?"
There was absolutely no blood left in my face, but if there were, it would have drained at that moment. "Of course not," I said. "Why the fuck would this be about you? I have no idea who you are. I just want to fucking survive."
He rolled his eyes.
"But you're a ticking time bomb," he said. "Well. Isn't that a fucking treat."
I sat there, awaiting my fate. The air was heavy with dread.
"You could always bring him my head on a stick," I suggested, to break the silence.
Tate glared at me. "Would you shut up? Let me think."
What was there to think about?
A tendril of hope was making its way through my chest, and I didn't want to let it. Hoping led to a path of nothing but desolation and ruin. If I expected the worst, then nothing could hurt me.
Stopping his pacing again, he turned to me. "How long did you think you could hide this?"
I took in a deep breath. "Long enough."
Something flashed across his face. An expression that wasn't anger or frustration, but almost...understanding? Like he knew what it was like, living on borrowed time.
Did he think Stoker was coming for him?
Did he think I was their assassin?
My stomach plummeted. It made perfect sense. Sent to gain his trust, to seduce him, and then, when the moment was right -
Or, more diabolically on their part, they could have picked me on purpose. Knowing who was after me, and knowing that Tate would be caught in the crossfire if he tried to protect me.
But why would he protect me? Nowadays, there weren't many people left who would. Let alone a man like him, who clearly didn't care much for the concerns of anyone but himself. No. That plan only made sense if Stoker expected him to care for me. Deeply.
Swallowing hard, I stood and walked towards him. He froze, staring at me apprehensively, but not saying a word.
Silently, I knelt at his feet.
I looked up at him, seeing the confusion on his face, and the glimmer of lust in his eyes.
"I know there's nothing I can say to convince you I'm telling the truth," I said. "But I am. I never wanted to hurt you. I thought I'd be safe here."
He flexed his fingers, staring down at me. "You thought wrong," he said, his voice dripping with sin.
My heart pounded. A distraction was good, but one wrong turn down this path and he'd be throwing me right at Birdy's feet.
"I don't believe that," I said. "He's no match for you."
Tate's eyebrow lifted. "That's not what I meant," he said. "As well you know. And flattery will get you absolutely nowhere."
I blinked innocently. "What if it's true? Even Stoker is afraid of you. Birdy doesn't stand a chance."
His mouth twisted. "Keep talking," he said. "Your punishment gets worse with every word."
Punishment?
"How could it possibly get worse?" I breathed, feeling the tendril of hope squeeze tighter around my heart.
"Oh, wouldn't you like to know." He shoved his hands in his pockets, regarding me with a studied detachment and disdain. But he was fighting hard to push other emotions back, to hide them, to suppress them. I could see them flash in his eyes, before he was able to wrestle them back down. But I could only identify a few.
Lust. Curiosity. Fear. Apprehension.
Lust.
"By punishment," I said, carefully, "do you mean that the terms of our agreement..."
"The terms of our agreement stand until I alter them," he said, sharply. "I can do that at any time. But at this moment, I choose not to. You will be punished. It will be fitting, for what you've hidden from me. You'll think twice before you dare lie to me again."
My heart leapt.
A moment later, a chill ran through me. Punishment. It was a better option than Birdy, but I still had to consider my fate.
I looked up at him, and said two simple words:
"I'm sorry."
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sorry
Tate
Sorry.
What a useless word.
Broken things stay broken. Nothing changes that.
When I was very young, before the world went to hell, in a time I can barely remember - I learned that lesson. Everyone does, at one time or another. These memories are like ancient books, pages that might crumble if you touch them wrong. When I was first taken by Stoker I would revisit them again and again, to remind myself that they were real.
It
was a film that my parents used to watch. A regal woman, fiery red hair belying her age, lifted her chin high. "When did sorry ever mend a harm?"
I remembered that, always, when my parents taught me the importance of apologies and I nodded and did as I was told. I knew it wasn't worth arguing over. But really, why did it matter?
Sorry doesn't fix a careless mistake.
Sorry doesn't change what kind of person you are.
A stupid, useless word.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.
When I think of sorry, I used to think of Daniela. She was the personification of sorry, the vivid, blood-soaked reminder of the uselessness of apologies.
Now, my sorry is Autumn.
From the moment I saw her, I wanted to say it. To her. To myself. To the ghost of Holland, his face twisted with disappointment at my weakness. But what could I possibly apologize for?
Everything. Nothing. It didn't matter. So many things I could say to Autumn, and none of them would mean anything.
I'm sorry about your parents.
I'm sorry this is your life now.
I'm sorry about me.
I'm sorry about the Viper.
I'm not insane. I understand the Viper is not real. Or, more accurately, he and I are the same person. I am him and he is me. The Viper is my self-preservation. The Viper is my id, or possibly my ego, if you're into that sort of thing. I could argue for either.
The Viper watches me while I do stupid things. He smirks and he winces and he grows angry, because when I am punished for my good deeds, we both suffer. We merge back into one body. Just me. Just Tate. And we both howl with the pain.
Don't tell me I'm dissociating. I know the fucking difference. If were dissociating, the Viper wouldn't suffer when I suffered. The Viper is my regret. The Viper is who I wish I could be.
The Viper is my cruelty. But when I hurt someone, we merge again.
I'm not fucking dissociating. If anything, the Viper makes me even more aware of who I am. Not less.
The Viper is who Holland wanted me to be. He's the one who gave me that name, a long time ago, hoping to kill what was left of Tate. It didn't work and I hated that it didn't work, because most days there's nothing I would love more than to become the Viper. Always and forever, no more regrets.
