King Among the Dead (Hell Theory Book 1)

by Lauren Gilley

  She set the knife aside with the reverence it deserved, and reached, with the same devotion, to rest her hand against Beck’s chest.

  Beneath the softness of his sweater, and the firm, warm muscle it covered, she felt the steady pounding of his heart: elevated. A fast tempo that betrayed the stillness of his body.

  “Beck.” Pleading. She didn’t know how to voice what she wanted with any sort of eloquence, not like the heroines of the books she read. She leaned into him, fingertips digging into muscle, felt herself going soft and pliant for him. Kiss me, she thought. Touch me, want me.

  But he held still, unblinking, frozen like a prey animal in a trap.

  The moment stretched, and her face flamed. He would refuse her again; would step back, put space between them, and a man could only do that so many times before it inspired shame. Maybe the blossoming she’d seen in the mirror had been an illusion, tainted by bias and naïve hopefulness. Maybe she was a child in his eyes. Unpretty, unwanted. Maybe…

  His eyes flared, her only warning, and then he moved.

  But not away.

  As she started to draw back, resigned to having overstepped, his hand moved, lightning-fast, and closed around her wrist. Gripped it tight and held her in place. His chin tucked, his gaze sharpened on her face – and then he tugged.

  He yanked her forward, and she lost her balance – gasped, tumbling in toward him.

  He still held her wrist, and pulled her arm up, around his neck. His other hand caught her face; slid back to her nape, fingers threaded through her hair. Gripped tight, blunt pressure against her scalp.

  She had to tip her head back to maintain eye contact, her body pressed flush to his, all of her open, and vulnerable, and entrusted to his care – readily so. Her pulse thumped wildly, her lungs refused to work, and his face hovered above her, all she could see – all she wanted to see.

  His hair had fallen forward, and tickled at her cheeks; framed honey eyes that seemed to glow in the dim, close space between them. His breath, harsh and heated, struck her mouth, fanned down her throat, raising goosebumps of anticipation.

  “Rosie,” he breathed, his voice raw and full of gravel.

  His hips shifted forward, and – oh. That wasn’t disinterest she felt against her belly.

  She clasped the collar of his sweater with one hand; took a grip on it at his chest with the other, and it felt like all that held her up – her grip and his, his hands knotted in her hair and locked on her wrist. Hold on to me, his hold said. Don’t let go.

  His gaze was…everything. He’d pulled back the mask, and was letting her see all that he felt. It was so much; so dizzying in its depth, and violence, and passion. She opened her mouth, as if she might drink it down, feel it mix with her own thundering want, and give it back to him. He deserved that: to be wanted in the way that he wanted.

  They hovered there, right on the precipice. If he kissed her, that would be it. She knew there would be no turning away and walking things back after that. It would be the match to the oil, and there would be no resisting; she felt it with a tug at her breastbone, a certainty that was ageless and uncivilized.

  And then…

  He let go of her.

  He released her hair and yanked his hand back like it had been burned. He turned loose of her wrist, sucked in a breath.

  Her own grip went slack, and when he stepped back, she let him go. The shock hurt; was devastating. She felt it high in her chest, a splintering pain that sent shards outward; through her ribs, and down into her belly. A cold pain that left her wanting to curl into herself. She banded her arms tight across her middle, and watched him spin away from her and pace across the room, pushing his hair back with both hands and holding them there, cupping his skull, knuckles white as he pressed with his fingertips.

  This moment stretched, too, but the precipice was an ugly one, the rocks below jagged, the wind fierce and biting. A fall here would hurt.

  Could shatter them.

  Rose drew in a shaky breath. “It’s okay.”

  Beck whirled again, and dropped his hands. His hair stood up, fluffy and ruffled, at odds with the stricken look on his face. His cheekbones could have cut glass, his face hollow, haunted. Bereft.

  “It’s not okay.” His voice was rougher than she’d ever heard it. “It’s not–” He bit his lip so hard she was afraid he’d draw blood. Closed his eyes, and let out a groan that was mostly a growl.

  He took a few deep breaths, and opened his eyes. His stare pinned her in place, hot and searching and hungry. “I want you.” Like a raw confession; like she’d hurt him.

  She swallowed. “I want you. What’s wrong with that?”

  “I don’t…” He glanced away, throat moving as he swallowed. Breathed harshly through his mouth, chest heaving. All his usual polish had abandoned him; he was stripped down to his most basic, animal layer, and it excited her, even as he refused her. “I don’t know if I can – keep my distance.”

  “Then don’t.”

  He looked to her again, his turn to plead with eyes that glimmered in the firelight. “I can’t be objective about you, Rosie.”

  “I don’t want you to be.”

  “I’m not like the men in your books. I’m not safe.”

  “You are for me.”

  He stared at her a long moment, open-mouthed, just breathing.

  Rose forced her arms to loosen, and straightened her spine. Lifted her chin. “It’s okay if you’re afraid, but I’m not. I’m not a child. I’m not naïve. You can keep your distance, if that’s what you need to do, but don’t do it for my sake, because that isn’t what I want at all.”

  His eyes widened. He walked back toward her – slow, stalking steps, cautious, like she was the wild thing, the danger that needed tip-toeing around. When he reached her, he took her face gently in both hands – but she knew already that the moment of heat had passed. This was careful, and caring, but it wasn’t the desperate grip of moments ago. This was how he always touched her, with the utmost respect, as if she were a flower whose petals he was afraid to crush.

  He kissed the top of her head, and lingered there, his breath warm against her scalp as he sighed. “You’re a marvel,” he said, voice soft, wondrous. Another kiss. “Happy birthday, my sweet thing.”

  Then he pulled away and left the room.

  Rose stood staring at the fire, listening to his footfalls quickly recede; he walked so soft and sure-footed in his socks that he could only be heard when he was very close – and he wasn’t that anymore, was he? Fleeing again. Denying her – denying himself.

  What was he afraid of? she wondered. She’d seen him kill; had fired guns with his arms around her as he helped her aim, in his secret basement training center. She knew that he used his dead brother’s name on his credit cards, and that he used to kill for the mob, and that he killed, still, several times a week. He’d just given her a set of knives for her birthday.

  She’d seen him unmasked tonight, in those quivering moments when she’d thought – prayed – that he would kiss her. She’d seen beyond the veils and shields and into the animal heart of him. He had to know that; had to know what he’d revealed to her. Did he think something even worse remained? Still hidden somehow?

  How could he think that he would hurt her?

  She blew out a breath, and went back to the table. Each knife had its own worked leather sheath, butter-soft and gleaming. She sheathed them all, one-by-one, and began to plan where she’d wear them. She wondered…and then she spotted it, laid out at the top of the velvet under-cloth: a mass of stacked straps: holsters.

  She grinned, despite the persistent ache in her chest. He’d thought of everything.

  SIXTEEN

  A week later, Beck came to the library one evening while she was reading, came to stand in front of her chair, bristling with unspoken energy, and said, in a deceptively mild voice: “Would you like to go out tonight?”

  Then she lifted her head and saw his boots: the heavy black ones th
at laced up to mid-calf. His hunting boots.

  She met his gaze, sparkling and stark with his hair pulled back in a tight knot at his nape. His face seemed paler against the black of his turtleneck, save the two burning spots of color high on his cheeks.

  “Really?” she asked, pulse already leaping.

  His smile was tiny, but full of promise. “Really.”

  She scrambled to her feet.

  “Wear something dark,” he called after her. “And boots.” He didn’t tell her to bring her knives, because he knew he didn’t have to.

  She nearly fell going up the stairs at a run. Dressed in her darkest jeans and sweater, her brown boots – wishing, a little, that they were black, like his. She thought of his little bun, and braided her hair back quickly, but tightly, so it was out of her face.

  She took greater care with her knives, securing them the way she’d been practicing: in her holsters at back, and hip, and under her arms. Strapped one to her forearm, and tucked the little one down into her boot.

  He was waiting for her in the foyer downstairs, wearing his flaring back coat – holding another length of black leather folded over one arm.

  She paused on the final step, still holding the bannister, and watched as he unfolded it and held it out for inspection: it was another coat, just like his. With a high collar, and a flared hem, and a hood. A hunting coat. A killing coat.

  “Is that for me?” she asked, breathless.

  He gave her another tiny, electrifying grin. “Who else?” And held it up a little higher, encouraging.

  She turned and slid her arms through the sleeves; let him settle it on her shoulders – and then place his hands there, heavy and grounding save for the way she could feel the fine tremors of anticipation moving through him.

  “Are you ready for your first hunt?” he asked, warm breath tickling her ear.

  She shivered. “Yes.”

  They set out on foot, in the alley beyond the garage, hoods pulled up against what was, thankfully, a light mist and not a downpour. Beck set an unhurried pace – “The trick is not to look like you’re running toward or from anything” – and Rose walked a half-step back, trying to mimic the way he surreptitiously scanned their surroundings without moving his head much.

  Because this was a nice neighborhood – or, nice for post-Rift without being ostentatiously rich in the way of the elites – security lights burned at intervals along the garages and housebacks of the alley. They pressed the dark back in blurry coronas, the wet pavement gleaming below. Rose wondered, briefly, if a curtain in a lighted window would twitch, and if someone would see them, and call the police, but they reached the mouth of the alley unscathed, and headed down the sidewalk, along a low wall tagged with layers and layers of graffiti. Cars trundled past, tires hissing, headlights skimming across them. But no one slowed, or gawked. No one cared.

  That was the thing about the Rift, a truth she’d lived with her whole life: people minded their own business, now. A blanket of fear that allowed dark things to creep through shadows and wreak havoc.

  Dark things like them, she supposed.

  Rose expected them to head toward the Bends: some flophouse or crack den or a place like the one Beck had taken her from, down in Tabitha’s mildewed basement apartment.

  Instead, they ended up only a few streets away, in a neighborhood of townhouses nearly as nice as their own. These were modern structures: two and three story, but flat-faced, stucco, and painted brick, without ornamentation. Wide, sleek windows, most of them barred with black iron.

  Beck turned and motioned for her to follow, then ducked down a narrow walkway between two homes. Halfway down, in the shadows of the buildings, they reached a section of wrought iron fence, spiked with blunt finials.

  “Get over,” he whispered, “lower yourself slowly, and then drop. It isn’t far.” He laced his fingers together to provide a step, and boosted her up effortlessly.

  They’d not practiced this particular scenario, but she was so much stronger than she’d been before. Though the finials were rain-slick, she gripped them, pushed up from his hand, and swung her other leg up. Got the toe of her boot on the top rail and pulled herself up, up. Over, a graceful swing, her core muscles burning pleasantly. Lowered herself, until she was hanging, and then dropped. He was right: it wasn’t far. A satisfying impact of her boot soles on pavement.

  Beck, of course, didn’t need a boost. He levered himself up and over with the grace of a gymnast, made it look easy, and landed lightly beside her.

  “Show off,” she whispered, and felt a smile tug at her lips.

  She caught a fast gleam of white in the dark as he smiled back. “Only for you.”

  Behind the house was a row of trash cans, big, sturdy, wheeled plastic bins. And above them a window – whose bars hung crooked, already loose.

  Beck climbed up onto the can, used a small tool from his coat pocket to unfasten the rest of the screws, and then handed the grate down to her. It was a small window, just big enough for a person to slide through, but the bars were solid and heavy. For one awful moment, she thought she’d drop them, dreading the clatter they’d make; but she managed to set them off to the side in a patch of fake turf.

  The window wasn’t locked, because whoever lived here was both confident in the bars’ security, and careless about maintaining them. Beck worked it open with the tip of a knife, pushed it open, and then slipped inside, into darkness, head-first.

  Rose climbed up onto the trash cans as quietly as she could, and followed.

  He caught her around the waist when she was halfway through, and lifted her up, set her on her feet. Raised a gloved finger to his lips for silence.

  She nodded, and glanced around the room they’d entered. A kitchen, sleek, and open, and modern, its chrome surfaces gleaming faintly in the diffuse glow of a light turned on in some neighboring room. It looked like a showpiece: unlived in, sterile.

  Beck led her forward, walking softly on the balls of his feet, making no sound. The floors at home were old, full of charming creaks. But these wide, glossy tiles held them silently.

  They went down a short hallway, where a lamp burned on a side table: a waste of electricity; a comfort to someone, she thought, should they wake and go wandering in the middle of the night. A photo sat beneath it: a couple sitting pressed together on a sofa beneath an elaborate art installation. Both middle aged, though the woman was trying to look younger, breasts about to spill from the tight bodice of her dress. Bot held champagne flutes and wore wide smiles – that didn’t touch their eyes.

  Rose wondered who they were, even as she followed Beck up a flight of modern glass steps, across a landing, and to a closed door.

  He paused there a moment, rolling his shoulders. Produced a knife from one of the holsters inside his jacket.

  When Rose saw the wink of its edge, she drew her own. Was ready when he met her gaze, and nodded.

  He nodded back, took a breath that flared his nostrils – then turned the handle and swept into the room.

  It was pitch black. Rose was aware of furniture, could tell the shape of the room based on the startled gasp and the rustle of sheets. The hallway had been dim, but offered enough light to lay a panel down on the floor, on the foot of the bed. Enough to see kicking feet, and flying blankets.

  Beck was ahead of her.

  “What the hell?” a man’s voice roared. “What do you think you’re–” The words morphed into a choked-off sound of pain.

  A woman screamed.

  Rose caught a glimpse of flashing white satin, and she didn’t think – she struck. Her knife bit into flesh, and there was another scream, this one ear-piercing. A punched-out sound of pain. She withdrew the knife, and struck again, higher, and the scream became a liquid gurgle.

  She stepped back, and heard the body drop; heard it thrash against the fibers of the shag rug.

  The lights came on, and she squinted against the brightness.

  Two bodies lay on the ground, the man d
ead, the woman still dying. The man had been killed swiftly and neatly, a puncture in the side of his throat that had sent a waterfall of blood down his bare torso. He’d fallen back against his nightstand, sitting upright, eyes glassy and unseeing, hands open in his lap, wet and crimson where he’d flailed at his wound before weakness overtook him. The blood dripped down onto the cream rug; it had smeared on the cream bed linens.

  The woman – Rose’s kill – died as she watched, her face going slack, her hands uncurling. She was not the woman in the photo downstairs, but a much-younger blonde. Rose had gotten her between the ribs, first, and then found her throat on the second try, a messy, inelegant cut that had nonetheless done the trick.

  Beck came to stand beside her, surveying their work. She could feel the energy pouring off of him, tightly-leashed; knew that if he met her gaze now his eyes would be sparking.

  But he nodded, and wiped off his knife with a cloth that he then passed to her. As she cleaned the blood from her blade, he produced another knife: a cheaply-made thing she hadn’t ever seen before. He pulled it from its plastic bag, with gloved fingers, and carefully went to both bodies, wetting the blade with blood.

  “Let’s go.”

  He left the lights on, and went back out into the hall, and halfway down the stairs, where he set the knife, carefully. The plastic bag got crumpled up and put in his pocket, and he motioned her along in his wake.

  Back through the kitchen, back out the window – he replaced the bars, adding an extra screw from his pocket so they were fixed securely: no signs of forced entry. He led her along the backs of several townhouses, and pulled her down behind an artificial hedge, where they crouched on the wet tile of a darkened patio, and waited. For what, she didn’t know – and then she saw headlights.

  A sleek, expensive car rolled past, turning in at the house they’d just left. It disappeared inside the garage, and a moment later, a light came on in the kitchen window they’d used as an entry point.