Terrorscape

by Nenia Campbell

  He rather liked to think that she was wary of him, as well. For all intents and purposes, he was the patriarch; as Anna-Maria had pointed out, his was the name through which the family lineage would continue. His mother needed him, and that unnerved her; she did not dare risk his displeasure.

  He went to the chessboard, moving like a panther in the darkness. He picked up the black queen, running his thumb along the grainy surface of the hand-carved wood until he hit cold metal. A nail protruded from the piece, where its heart would have been had it been human.

  Some of those women had gone with him willingly. Others—he smiled—not quite so much. They had all screamed at the end.

  That had been his mistake, giving her so much power. He continued toying with the damaged queen as his other hand snaked into his lap to flick open the button of his fly. Treating her as an equal. Letting his passions rule where reason alone should be king.

  Not this time.

  No, this time he would be patient. He would bide his time and strike only when she was completely defenseless—after he had made her so.

  When she had no more shields—after he had knocked them all down.

  When she had no more pawns—after he had killed them all.

  He tilted his head back, and let out a husky laugh. Checkmate.

  Chapter One

  Meadowsweet

  On the other side of the window, the cobalt waters of the Pacific Ocean broke against the jagged shoreline of rock. Though it was late August, the sky was obscured by lingering vestiges of morning fog the color of slate.

  From the seats of the Intracoastal Express Line Valerie Klein watched the frothing sea foam scatter over the granite fingers of rock that were clawing their way out of the sea. It looked, she thought, as if some stone creature were drowning in the depths, and making a last desperate appeal for survival.

  She had been sipping tea but then, as phantom water filled her nose and lungs, choking her, killing her, she spat out her mouthful with a wheezing gasp.

  No.

  People looked in her direction. She heard their whispers rustling through the passenger car, and felt trapped. Trapped and lost in a forest of lies and speculation, with nary a breadcrumb to find her way out again.

  (How can you live, when you're so repressed?) This wasn't living.

  She swiped the back of her hand against her clammy forehead, then pressed the cold glass tea

  bottle against her skin. The orange bottle had a picture of a peach. She stared at it vacantly. She could have been drinking ash this whole time and not known the difference.

  This wasn't living at all.

  Wasn't there a belief somewhere that near-death experiences left a part of your soul in the afterlife? I am the living dead. A hungry ghost.

  The train turned sharply, jolting her back against the seat and the bottle thwacked painfully against her forehead. She placed the tea bottle in the cup holder with a shaking hand and looked at her frosted reflection, superimposed over the pebbled beaches.

  She reached up to touch the dark strands of hair framing her incongruously pale face. Each time she saw herself, she gave a little start and wondered, Is that really me?

  It was now.

  For better or worse, Valerian Kimble was dead.

  “What have you done to your beautiful hair?” her mother had asked, upon seeing the bathroom stained with ink-black dye.

  “You don't need contacts, Bunny,” her father had said, staring at her newly blue eyes with something like betrayal. “You're beautiful just the way you are.” But that's not the point.

  She could still see their shock. Their pity. Their desperate need to understand. The knowledge that she had hurt them tore at her from the inside like barbed flechettes, but only when she had the presence of mind to think outside of her own snarled sense of self. In truth, her parents couldn't understand.

  Nobody could.

  But this was something she must do.

  Her psychiatrist had tried to dissuade her at her parents' behest. “I don't think you are ready for steps quite this extreme,” she said. “You might consider starting somewhere closer to home, so you can be nearer to your support system.”

  It wasn't about comfort, though. It was about escape.

  But she was eighteen now. She had control over her future. Nobody else. Nobody.

  To hell with her psychiatrist.

  (You've become fearful and weak.)

  To hell with him.

  She sent out the application forms and waited, giving the farewells in her head in advance. Cutting the people she loved out of her heart one by one, like severed lifelines. She did not have to wait long.

  Goodbye, Mom and Dad.

  Halcyon University had awarded a scholarship to Valerie Klein. Impressed by her touching personal statement, detailing personal growth she had yet to feel, and her good grades, their Financial Aid department awarded her with enough money to cover the out-of-state tuition fees.

  It was Valerie Klein who was heading towards North Point, Washington, to settle into what would become her home for the next four years.

  Valerian Kimble was dead and gone. Buried in an unmarked grave, out of sight but never out of mind. Goodbye, Valerian. Requiescat in pace.

  Her hometown, in Derringer, California, was located in the middle of a valley ringed by duncolored hills and, in the distance, hazy, purple mountains. It rarely rained. The winters were cold, but mostly dry. Tumbleweeds, eucalyptus, windmill grass, creeping juniper, mustard seed flowers, oaks, evergreens, and the eponymous California poppy— all these plants had formed the backdrop of the scenery from her child- and young adulthood.

  She watched them scroll past the window. The dry, desiccated scrub grew sparser and less frequently further north, as burnished gold ceded to green.

  It was as if she had tumbled down a rabbit hole and found herself in a forested wonderland. She had never seen so much green in her life, so rich and lush and vibrant. The many shades and hues made her eyes ache from attempting to take in the sheer intensity of it all. There were oaks, but also birches, aspens, cottonwoods, alders, maples, and yews. Trees with exotic names and feathery branches and trunks carpeted in soft green moss. Trees that would be out of place in Derringer.

  Just like her.

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  The station was thick with friends and family members waiting to greet the incoming freshmen. The weather was cool but humid, with beads of moisture hanging low in the air. Val began to sweat. She didn't like crowds, she never had, but now—

  (It takes many sheep to satisfy one wolf.)

  Things had gotten worse, not better.

  She found herself scanning the sea of faces, looking too closely and intimately for the tacit norms of polite society. Her blood roared in her ears. Some of the people stared back. Others looked away. Wolves, she thought. Wolves and sheep.

  None of the faces were familiar.

  It was little consolation.

  (If you run, I will pursue.)

  One of the buses pulled up to the terminal across the street from the train. Several people Val's own age were boarding. Val broke out into a run, dragging her heavy suitcase behind her. She came to a skidding stop just before the doors closed.

  “Does—does this bus go to the Otoño dorms?”

  The bus driver shook her head. “This is the onefourteen.” She said this as if it should be obvious. At Val's blank expression she added, “The inner-city commuter line. Are you an incoming freshman?”

  Was it that obvious? “Yes.”

  “Here—take a schedule. The bus you want is the seven-W. It'll take you where you need to go.”

  Laughter reached her ears. Maybe they weren't laughing at her, but—oh, who was she kidding? Of course they were. Her face flamed. Even if she no longer had the hair that went with it, she still had the complexion of a redhead. Her shame and misery were apparent to all.

  The bus doors closed. Val sat on the bench to wait. That was all she seemed
to do now. Wait. Wait while life passed her by. She closed her eyes and sucked in a mouthful of the cold, damp air. The seven-W did not come for another twenty minutes.

  When the bus arrived she repeated her question to the new bus driver. He nodded and beckoned her aboard. “No fare,” he said, when she tried to put her money in the box. “Today, for students, is free.”

  “Oh.” Val stared at the crowded bus. Well, that explained a lot. “Thanks.”

  The Otoño complex consisted of brown building trimmed in orange, russet, and gold. It could have been hideous, but the vibrant groves of deciduous trees made it work. Otoño meant autumn in Spanish and the color scheme reflected that perfectly.

  Arrow signs erected in the well-watered lawn read THIS WAY FOR RESIDENT CHECK-IN. She followed the signs, looking around at the silent trees, and felt as if she were in the middle of the wood.

  The pointing arrows led her to a large, chocolatecolored building with a built-in porch swing hanging from a gracefully bowed evergreen. Balloons were tied to the front door handle in neon colors that clashed with her present mood. Written in large bubble letters were the words RESIDENT CHECK-IN HERE.

  She opened the door and managed to squeeze herself and her suitcase inside with a bit of effort. The room was warm and smelled like baking. Someone had set up a little mini buffet with candy and cookies and bottles of water and soda dotted with beads of condensation. Val helped herself to one of the each of the latter, ignoring the food. Her bumpy stomach seemed to think it was still on the train.

  She shoved the soda into her purse and took a long swig from the soda. A girl in a green- and whitestriped polo was taking down names at the back. Val got in line behind an attractive-looking boy with flaming red hair the exact same shade hers used to be.

  No. Don't think about that. Forget.

  “Next!” piped the girl, with assembly-line cheer. She glanced up at Val. “Name?”

  “Um. Val—Valerie.” The girl made a forwarding motion and she added, “Valerie Klein.”

  “Klein…like…Calvin Klein?”

  That was where she had gotten the idea from. She hoped it wasn't that obvious. “…yes.”

  The girl rifled through a Rolodex on the makeshift desk. She handed Val an envelope marked with her name and room number. “Any relation?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. Well. Too bad. Room key and laundry card are inside the envelope. The laundry card is prepaid with one free wash and dry, courtesy of your Resident Advisers. Don't lose either of them.”

  Val shoved the envelope into the pocket of her dress. “Where's room three-fourteen?”

  “Ordinarily you would take the elevators just over there—” she pointed to twin metal doors wearing identical out-of-order placards “—but as you can see, they're not working, so you'll have to make due with the stairs. Sorry about that.”

  The people in line behind Val were starting to grumble. She swallowed nervously. Heat was crawling up her neck. “The staircase is—um, where?”

  Behind her someone said, “Oh, come on.” “Hey, give her a break,” another voice said.

  Don't talk about me like I'm not here. Dull rage bled into helpless despair. That was one of the unavoidable side-effects of blending into the woodwork.

  “Go down that hallway. The staircase will be on your immediate right.”

  Hallway. Immediate right. Staircase.

  “Got it?” Her smile was too bright; she made Val feel slow.

  “I…I think so.”

  She didn't. Not really. But she was too conscious of the other freshmen eying her with their illconcealed impatience and contempt to ask for further clarification.

  Left on her own, Val drifted.

  Parents and freshmen clotted the halls. All of them were loaded down with boxes and furniture and various miscellany of luggage. A few stragglers milled about like lost ants separated from the colony.

  But at least they have a colony to return to.

  Nobody noticed that she was the only one alone.

  The door to three-fourteen, when she got there, was already ajar. Val froze, uncertain whether to search or bolt. She could hear sounds coming from within. Domestic rustlings. Absent-minded humming. The kind one did when alone.

  Val held her breath and peered around the corner.

  A curvy black girl was bustling around, whistling to herself as she tacked up a poster with a yellow tabby clinging to a rope by its stripey forepaws. The caption said, “Hanging Loose!”

  Perhaps the girl had seen Val's shadow, or perhaps the feeling of being watched simply became too much to ignore, because the girl froze abruptly. Whatever the reason, the girl glanced over her shoulder, then did a double-take. “Oh my gosh—”

  Watching the girl's fingers convulse at her breast, Val felt another surge of self-loathing. Her first day and she had given somebody a heart attack. “Uh, hi?”

  “Jesus.” The girl hadn't lowered her hand from her chest, leading Val to suspect she suffered from drama rather than edema. “You scared the heck out of me. Is that how you always say hello? Sneaking up on people?”

  Her voice was pleasant, lower than one might have expected and mellifluous. Though slightly shaky, it was not without a twinge of humor.

  “No. I'm sorry.” Val looked down both sides of the hall, then back into the warm glow of the room. She hesitated. The dorm, decorated in its various shades of pink, already looked like somebody's home. “This is three-fourteen, right?”

  “Yes,” the girl said, drawing the word out into three full syllables. “It is. Oh. Oh, oh, oh, you must be my roommate. Vanessa. No, Verity. Um. Veronica?” “Valerie.”

  “That's it. I knew it began with a V.” The girl shoved the pin she was holding into the wall, not noticing that the poster now hung crookedly. “I'm Marianne Fox—Mary, for short.”

  “Val.”

  “Cute. Here—lemme get you a hand.” She was wheeling Val's suitcase over to one corner of the room before Val even thought to respond. “Where's the rest of your stuff?”

  “…the rest?”

  “Yeah. I'll help you bring it up. Elevators are broken, you know.”

  “This is it.”

  “You're kidding. You only brought one suitcase? What, are you a townie?”

  Val squirmed. “I thought I'd just go out and buy food and books and things, so…”

  “Oh, Lord. That's not going to be anywhere near enough. This is a dorm, girl, not a convent. And have you tasted the food in the Dining Commons? You're going to want to stock up. Trust me, unless you want pizza all day, every day, for the rest of the year.”

  “Oh.”

  “Hey, it's okay.” Mary flounced onto her bed. “Look, my sisters are coming by later this afternoon. We're going out to dinner and then shopping. It's going to be so fun. Girls' night out. You know?”

  “That sounds fun.” Val unzipped her backpack and began hanging up shirts.

  “You should come with us.”

  “I don't know…”

  “You look like you could use some fun.”

  Fun. The thought was alien, bewildering. She knew there had been some happy moments in her life since that horrible night, but she couldn't recall a single event offhand.

  “If it's a family thing, I don't want to impose.”

  “No worries. My sisters are real cool girls. They won't mind one more head. In fact, they'll be glad you have one.”

  “Have one?”

  “A head. I tried to call you this summer. I wanted to introduce myself since we were going to be roomies, but your number wasn't listed. I was beginning to think I'd shacked up with Little Miss Serial Killer or a ghost or something. No offense, but you can't be too careful these days.”

  How true that is.

  “Trust me, you'll be thanking me for this once you taste what what they call food up in the DC.” Only half-listening, Val said, “DC?”

  “Dining Commons. DC.” Shaking her head but still smiling, Mary glanced back at the post
er she had just finished hanging up. “Aw, heck, it's hanging crooked.” She scrambled onto her bed to fix it, her back now facing towards Val.

  The conversation, it seemed, was over.

  I wish I could think of something to say . She would be living with this girl for the next year and was failing to keep the ball rolling on day one.

  Social skills, like muscles, could atrophy.

  The weeks ahead yawned before her. Awkward silences. Uncomfortable maneuvering. “This is my roommate. She's…weird.” Val unzipped her suitcase too roughly. This was supposed to be a fresh start and she was already reverting to old patterns.

  A quilt printed with yellow roses went on her bed. The yellow sheets and pillowcases were from another set and didn't quite match, though they looked decent enough. The plush toy cat she received for volunteering at the animal shelter went on her pillow. She looked at it sadly, and wished she had a real pet. Something that would be content to cuddle with her and listen to her without judgement.

  “That's cute,” Mary observed, and Val realized belatedly that her toy resembled the cat on Mary's poster. Yellow tabbies. Marmalade cats.

  I got it from the animal shelter I used to work at. The words stuck in her throat like burrs.

  “Where?” would be the next line of questioning and then she would be forced to lie. She would have to remember the lie, as well, since the only thing worse than lying was being caught at it.

  And you're a terrible liar.

  But that was spoken in his voice, not hers.

  Val paused in front of the closet. Mary's unanswered comment hung between them like a grudge, and the room seemed to rock and sway.

  “Are you okay?”

  Val had never told anyone she could still hear his voice in her head. Because she knew that if she did, it wouldn't just be pills and a pat on the head. No, they'd lock her up with the real crazies.

  (Poor traumatized Val.)

  “I…just got up a little too fast. Low blood pressure.”

  She hadn't brought much, like she could simplify the more abstract problems in her life by taking command of the physical ones. Maybe the purity of a monastic lifestyle would chase the demons from her head. Or maybe—maybe it would make things worse.