by L. T. Vargus
She was gagging on it. She flailed her arms and kicked her legs, not so much trying to fight as to claw her way to fresh air. But the grip did not loosen. She felt herself being dragged backward, toward the drooping branches of the overhanging trees.
Her vision began to pulse in and out.
Black.
And then the sky, the first shading of dusk already visible overhead.
Black.
A bough overhead, just a smudge of dark green against the night.
Black.
Chapter 103
He watches the feline shape next to him as he drives. She is his. For now and for always.
He makes himself look back at the road. Hands quivering on the wheel. Bolts of lightning sizzling all through him.
This one feels more momentous than the others. More important. More significant. The queen of the la-de-da girls. He can set something right with her in a way he couldn’t with the others.
There are no words for it. Just a feeling. A surge of power that forms in his chest and shudders all through him.
She lies slack in the passenger seat. Looks more like a pile of limbs than a person for the moment.
Her head leans his way. Dangling forward. Held up only by the seat belt that keeps her shoulders from folding into her lap. She is close. Yes. But they hit a bump and now her hair obscures the face. Ruins the moment somehow.
The chemical smell wafts from her mouth with every breath. Pungent. A little fruity. Like a mix of red wine and rotting toilet paper. The stench seems to fill the car.
He cracks the window to fight it. The cool air making his eyelids flutter.
The street blurs a little outside. The grass and houses and concrete and asphalt all smearing together. Everything grayed out from the dusk settling toward dark. The fumes must be getting to him a little.
But it’s no matter. The storage unit isn’t far off now. It will be done within minutes. He can seal their matrimony with a single kiss from his blade on the soft flesh of her neck. A flick of the wrist. The slightest tug of steel through skin. And she will be his like all the rest.
For now and for always.
Chapter 104
The world faded back in little by little.
Black.
White.
Black.
White wings.
Black.
Not white wings. Her hands. Splayed awkwardly in her lap.
Her fingers twitched involuntarily, and it occurred to her that she should pretend she was still out.
Where was she?
It was dark now. She could tell that. Her head felt thick, as if it were packed full of gauze. The way her dentist packed those little cotton wads in her gums when he had to fill a cavity.
She swayed, a lock of hair falling into her face, and a wave of nausea rolled over her. It took every ounce of willpower she could muster not to retch. When the feeling passed, she realized she was in a car. Yes. She felt the constricting pressure of the seatbelt over her chest. And then a sound to her left, a sharp, wet noise, like someone’s throat clicking when they swallowed.
It was him of course. The comprehension hit her all at once, like a punch in the gut. Oh dear God, it was him.
The pieces all began to fit themselves together then. He must have been at his mother’s house. He must have seen her, known who she was. If that was the case, he could have been following her.
A second later, she realized how bad it really was. Luck and everyone else were still back at the station. Still questioning Kurt Van Ryper. Still under the impression that they’d found their killer.
She was on her own.
Her breath hitched in her chest when the full understanding of it came. He had taken her like he’d taken the rest. He had knocked her out, dragged her to the car, and then… well, she knew quite well what happened after that. And it happened quickly. He liked his playthings to be dead first.
He must have sensed something had changed with her — maybe he heard the change in her breathing. Whatever it was, through the haze of her barely-parted eyelashes, she saw movement. He was grabbing for something, and that’s when she noticed the smell that filled the small space. The sick, stinking reek of the chloroform.
She spun in the seat, planting her back against the door and turning on him, folding her feet up and kicking out with both legs. She’d only meant to kick with one leg, but she saw now that it was beyond her control. He’d already taped up her ankles, several loops of duct tape encircling the hem of her pants. It didn’t matter, because it worked. The drooping washcloth he’d been ready to hold over her mouth and nose flew from his hand, landing somewhere in the back of the car.
He cried out, hand instantly moving to try to catch the rag. It was a stupid move, she thought. He left himself completely open to her then. She supposed it was just instinct that made him do it, but she seized the advantage. Her hands — also wrapped in tape at the wrists — balled into fists, and she swung at him, raining down blows upon his head. She was vaguely aware of the car swerving over the road as he struggled to drive and fight off her attack at the same time, but she cared not. She was some kind of feral beast now, dead set on wreaking the most havoc possible, whether she lived or died.
There was a cracking sound and then a stinging on her knuckles as her hands collided with his mouth, her bones scraping over his teeth. And then as fast as lightning, he brought his hand up. It wasn’t the rag though. The rag was white and irregular, and what he held now was dark and angular.
It was a gun. Her gun. He pointed it at her face. She wanted to flinch but forced herself not to. She was about to tell him to do it. To shoot her. But before she could get the words out, his wrist rocked back. As quickly as a striking cobra he smashed the butt into the side of the head, and she was out.
Chapter 105
Blood seeps from his lip. He watches it in the rearview mirror. The rivulet of red draining down his chin. His teeth all gummy with scarlet.
What the fuck? Stupid bitch.
He holds one hand on her as he drives. Palm and fingers applying pressure to the nape of her neck. Pressing her down into the seat. Her breath going ragged from the way he constricts her. Hissing and crackling like radio static.
It makes him feel better somehow. To push her torso into the car seat. To hold her down. Hold her still. Even if she is unconscious. Even if she isn’t going anywhere. It feels good.
He felt so small in that moment when she’d busted him in the mouth. Opened him up. And now he wants to lord his power over her in turn.
It wasn’t fair. What she did. It wasn’t fair. Those are the only words he can conjure for it. Things didn’t work that way. It wasn’t fair.
Anyway. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.
He jerks the wheel left. The tires slide a little as they rattle over the gravel. Rocks flinging in all directions as he tears through the parking lot.
They’re here.
Chapter 106
Thump.
A familiar sound, that thump.
There were other sounds in the darkness. Scrapes and crunches. Less familiar. She tried to focus on the thump. Wanted to make sense of it. Felt some urgency to do so.
No, it wasn’t the sound she was concerned with. Something else. Something else was more important.
Her thoughts spiraled for a moment, like sugar swirling in a glass of iced tea, and then they settled.
She remembered.
He had taken her. They had struggled in the car. He’d knocked her out with the gun.
As if the amnesia had been acting as an anesthetic, her head suddenly throbbed with pain at the memory of it. Her jaw ached, and her tongue felt swollen and strangely numb. She thought she might have bitten it at some point.
It wasn’t only her head, either. The tape around her wrists was so tight the tips of her fingers pulsed with her heartbeat.
The ground beneath her was cold and hard, pressing its chill into her shoulder blades.
Careful not
to stir, and to keep her breathing regular, she peeled her eyes apart. Slowly and barely a crack.
It was dark, yes. But not completely. Not as dark as she’d thought when her eyes were closed. Light bounced off the ceiling overhead, and off the roll-top door.
She was in the storage unit.
Panic struck her then, thinking of Sierra’s panicked 911 call.
Oh God, why had she gone off alone? Why hadn’t she stayed and just listened to Luck?
She thought of Sierra again and this time, a tiny burst of warmth filled her chest, a sensation almost like a shot of whiskey.
Sierra had gotten away. Once.
She could get away, too. If she was lucky. If she fought for it.
Another thump, and her ears practically swiveled like a cat’s. A car door. Or maybe the trunk?
Carefully, she rotated her eyes around to peek out through the door. She didn’t have the best angle, the way her head was slumped to one side. She had to sort of stare down her nose. It was a move that for some reason heightened the sick feeling that still roiled in her gut, making her dizzy.
It was no use anyway. The headlights shone directly into the space. It was too bright to see out. And then she heard the scrape of feet over the concrete floor.
She forced herself to relax. Played dead… or close to dead. Not close enough for him, that was for sure.
She was just barely squinting, her head lolled to one side. Peering straight out through her lashes, she saw what looked like a dismantled mannequin next to her. The arms and legs all jumbled up in a pile with the head propped up and facing her.
No, no, not a mannequin. A girl. The girl. Sandy Metcalf. Taken apart like a broken doll.
There was a tremendous, deafening rumble and then the whole world was plunged into darkness.
Chapter 107
This time the darkness was a blessing. As was the roar of thunder that turned out to be the metal door rolling shut. Both served to conceal Darger’s dry heaving, her entire body convulsing in a lone spasm of horror.
There was the sight of it. The careless tangle of limbs. The pooling blood on the plastic sheet. And then there was the smell of it. Rot and decay so thick it felt like a warm, wet blanket on her skin. And then over top of that, the salty chemical tang of bleach.
She didn’t let herself dwell on it as she lay there in the dark. This was it. She needed a weapon. Something. Anything. Her hands scrabbled over the cement, feeling around on the floor, but there was only what felt like another plastic sheet beneath her.
Shit.
What did she have? A pen? Anything. She patted around in the darkness, over her pockets, on her jacket and her shirt. Her fingers brushed over a sharp edge.
Click.
A beam of light. He held a flashlight now. Violet froze, not daring to even let herself breathe. He stooped, fumbling with something in the corner.
There was another click and a work light flooded the room with brightness. Too much light now. He could see her. She shut her eyes all the way, afraid he’d catch her peeking. It was hard not to squint even then, the halogen bulbs were so blinding.
She heard him. The soft patter of his footsteps contrasting with sharper metallic sounds. His knife, no doubt.
God, she hoped she’d get a chance. She would. She had to. He’d have to get close. Close enough to slide the blade across her neck. That would be it.
She waited for what seemed like a long time, trying not to gag on the stench of death. Trying not to think about the mutilated corpse of Sandy Metcalf next to her.
Finally, he was there. The plastic crinkled as he closed in on her, but more than that, she could feel him next to her. A tingle almost like an electric charge.
He smelled like wet leaves.
He inhaled. His breathing was slow and deep. Relaxed sounding.
He bent over her. She could sense his body heat and his form blocking out the light through her closed eyelids, and then she felt the cold touch of metal on her neck. So sharp.
Her eyes snapped open, and she brought her fist up to his face, aiming for his eyes. Stabbing with the pathetic pin at the end of her brooch. It couldn’t have been more than an inch-worth of weapon, but it was all she had.
She smashed him with it over and over, and at first he struggled with her, trying to catch her wrists, but she pulled away from him, striking again. This time she got him in the eye, and she heard the clatter of the knife hitting the floor. He brought both hands up to his face, howling like a wounded dog. Forgetting the pin now, she grabbed for the knife, scooting away from where he writhed like a rat with a broken back.
Her shoulder bumped into something metal that rang like a gong when she hit it — the door. Still watching him, she slit through the duct tape wrapped around her ankles and started working on her hands, but it was awkward, and she’d forgotten she had to watch, too. He slammed into her, crushing her against the door, knocking the wind from her lungs.
Somehow she managed to keep her grip on the knife, and she swung wildly with it, the blade glinting in the light. Just as it was about to sink into his thigh, he knocked it off course with a blow to her forearm. Instead of his flesh, the knife missed and lodged into a stack of old tires. Her hand slid down the shaft and along the sharp edge, but the pain barely registered. Her only thought was: Do not let go. She tried to wrench it free, but her hands were slick with her own blood now, and she lost her grip.
He was grappling at her, trying to get his hands at her throat. His fingers crawled over her face, down her chin. Too close to her mouth for his own good. She lashed out, getting two of them between her teeth and biting down as hard as she could, feeling the ligament and bone crunch like gristle on a steak. He screamed, pulling his hand away and holding it to his chest, and she used the moment of disorientation to bash her elbow into his groin. Another low growl came from deep in his throat, and the veins and muscles in his neck bulged.
She turned away, looking for the way to open the door. A handle, to her right. She gripped it, lifting. The door was heavy, but she got it open enough to duck under and slither through.
The chill of the night air was a shock against her face after the heat of their struggle. And the air out here was fresh, clean. She sucked big lungfuls as she ran blindly down the row of identical concrete units. She rounded a corner and flattened her back against one of the doors, listening. She held her breath, worried she wouldn’t be able to hear over her ragged gasps. She heard nothing.
She sprinted for the floodlight illuminating the office at the front of the complex, keeping to the shadows as much as possible in case he followed. There was nowhere to hide here, but at least the dark concealed her a little bit.
As she scurried over the gravel lot, she tugged at her wrists, trying to loosen the bindings. She brought the mass of tape to her face, the stink of the adhesive filling her nose as she tore at the bonds with her teeth. It was no use, at least not for the moment. Trying to work her canine under the tape while she jogged wasn’t going to happen.
Her feet thudded over the wooden ramp that led up to the office. She banged both fists against the glass, rattling the door in its frame. She pressed her face to the window, but all was dark and quiet inside. No one was there.
She turned, gazing down the straight drive that led to the road. Beyond on it, the gym was partially lit by a streetlight. No hope there either.
But then she saw a pale glow approaching and a truck whooshed past on the road. She took off so fast that she stumbled in the gravel, falling hard on her knee and elbow. Barely registering the pain of the sharp rocks digging into her flesh, she scrambled back to her feet and down the driveway.
Her biggest fear as she ran toward the road was that no one would come. She’d missed the only passing car on this road by thirty seconds. But when she reached the point where the gravel met the smoother surface of the road, she turned her head to the right and already could see a set of headlights approaching. She thrust her arms in the air, screaming and ju
mping up and down in the opposite lane as it rumbled down the road. The vehicle slowed.
Chapter 108
The pain is everything. Blinding. Piercing.
His fingers scrabble over his eyelids. And in his mind he sees them slicked with gore. Covered in blood. Opaque juice like seawater flowing from his punctured eyeballs. Spilling out everywhere.
But no. That doesn’t make sense. Does it?
He takes a breath. Forces himself to peel his eyes open. His hands gliding away from his face in slow motion.
Barely any blood at all. Just a rust-colored smear. Whatever damage she’s done is minor. Superficial. No matter how bad it hurts.
But she meant to maim him. She meant to wound him. She stabbed him for God’s sake.
The words echoed in his head again.
That’s not fair. They weren’t supposed to do that.
And then he’s on his feet. Moving. Scooping the gun from the cement floor. Running for that rectangle of light that leads outside.
His feet pound over the gravel. Propelling him into the brush headed toward the road.
Movement catches his eye. Bright light shining everywhere. Blinding him for a moment.
Headlights.
And in that moment as the flash hits and squints his eyes to slits, he sees the silhouette of her bound arms waving back and forth like crazy. He is too late. She is flagging someone down.
Breath sucks into him involuntarily. Painful and dry. The void contracts the walls of his chest. Threatening to implode his ribcage.
And all is lost. Everything.
She will slip away from him now. She will escape. It will all end here.
But the car zooms past. Oblivious. Uncaring. She waves her arms for a long time in the red glow of the taillights.
He can breathe again. His chest no longer sucking in.
And heat flushes his face. Some kind of hate he’s never felt before.
