Terrorscape (Horrorscape)

by Campbell, Nenia

  He threw her down on the bed and her shoulders buckled under the weight of him as he slid forward to straddle her from behind. Her face was buried in the coverlet. She could not lift her torso to take the pressure off her chest. She could not breathe.

  He took two fistfuls of shirt and pulled. There was a tearing sound. Several buttons popped loose and rolled beneath the bed. Val gasped, sucking in air, and lashed out with her foot. She came into contact with something too firm to be mattress and too yielding to be bedpost. His back, she thought. She kicked at it, as hard as she could, putting vengeance into every strike. The thick leather jacket cushioned most of the impact, but it couldn't feel good, either.

  Gavin slid off her, twisting her around so that she fell sprawling onto his lap. Her flannel shirt clung tenuously together by one lone button.

  His lips mashed against hers as he twisted the button free, flipping the cups of her bra. He produced a sprig of jasmine from the leather jacket and teased her nipples with the star-shaped flowers. “Jasmine, for desire.” He closed his eyes and exhaled, slowly. “What a fine specimen you are.”

  Specimen. Something trapped in a jar, in a cabinet somewhere, or pinned down for dissection. When she felt his hands on her like that, claiming her like so much meat, something inside her snapped. She hooked her fingers into the chain around his throat and tugged—hard. His grip on her tightened involuntarily as he choked from the garrotting. Yes, she had tried this before. But this time she didn't want to hurt him; she wanted to kill him. She knotted her fingers in the chain, leaving no slack. The metal bit cruelly into his skin. He began to struggle.

  She bared her teeth at him in a silent hiss, pleased she could hurt him in such a way. Pleased that she was capable of hurting him at all. But then she realized he wasn't just struggling; he was rolling back and forth, gaining momentum, and just as she realized this he had gained enough force to trap her beneath him.

  With a ragged gasp, he released the catch on the chain and tossed his necklace aside with a heavy clank. Above the red marks left by the metal, a string of infinity symbols, was a pink scar she remembered all too well. He ran his fingers across it. “I'll have your blood for striking me.”

  She gouged into him, sliding her hand into his open shirt and raking a trail of scratches over his right shoulder all the way across to his left nipple. Beads of blood welled up from the broken skin. He snatched at her hand and she went for his eyes with the other, and when he covered his face she wove her fingers through his matted chest hair and pulled as savagely as she could.

  He tore her claws out of him and in doing so, released her other wrist. She shoved at his wounded shoulder and he snatched her hand out of the air before she could score him again with that one, too. The pressure was agonizing and she made a small piteous cry when he bit her, rather hard, on the shoulder. “Do you want to fight me? Is that what you want?”

  “N-no.” “Your body is telling me otherwise. Lower your eyes. Bare your throat. Show me that you understand. Yes, that's quite good,” he said approvingly, when she turned her head. She had only been moving away because she thought he had intended to kiss her.

  She whimpered when his hand approached her face, but it was only to tuck another flower behind her ear. “Tiger lilies, for hatred.”

  He raised himself up to finish unbuttoning his shirt. Val pulled her knees together and bucked. There was a loud thud. Val didn't bother checking to see if he was conscious or note. She scrambled off the bed for the door—

  Only to have him yank her legs out from beneath her.

  For the second time that afternoon, she hit the floor hard enough to make her skull rattle. And then her scarf wound tightly around her throat, forcing her to back up, to ease the pressure, and when she moved to examine the damage she found that her wrists were bound, too, pinioned behind her back by the tail ends of the soft, stretchy wool.

  He pushed her back on the bed so that they were in the same position as before.

  With one difference. “Shall I tell you what I did to those other girls, Val? How they screamed? How they begged? They all asked the same question—why are you doing this? But not you. You know very well why.”

  The blade smelled of flowers, and was stained with pollen and—she swallowed—what could have been old blood.

  Val made a small sound as the icy blade of the knife slid down her ribs. Fear made her bladder heavy and her head light. She squeezed her eyes shut. Yes, she knew why.

  “Get it over with. Please. Whatever you're going to do—” The knife blade pressed against her mouth, silencing her retort. But not cutting.

  Not yet.

  “Such a perfect martyr.”

  She braced herself. The knife cut through her bra straps. Then she heard it fall to the floor with a clatter as he hurled it across the room.

  “But then, we feel most alive when we are closest to death.” He shrugged off his jacket, scattering a handful of green leaves over her prone body. “Basil. Also for hatred.”

  His tongue circled her breast, nudging one of the basil leaves aside, and her strangled gasp brought those pale, hooded eyes back to her face. His mouth closed around the nipple and swallowing, for Val, became impossible as his tongue did what the sprig of jasmine had done earlier. She stared up at the ceiling, with her heart crashing against her chest as if it were trying to break free.

  “No.”

  “You don't agree?”

  His teeth stung.

  “Or you don't believe I could—would—kill you?”

  She flinched, her muscles tautening as he blazed a trail of hot sticky kisses across her skin.

  “Oh, Val.”

  He nipped her in reproof. Not quite as hard as before, but it was still painful. “You underestimate me.”

  His tongue circled her aureola.

  “You always have.”

  He blew a jet of cool air on her damp skin, raising goosebumps, and then, in a long stroke that lasted from hip to ankle, stripped off her jeans and underwear, keeping her legs parted with his knee. Without breaking eye contact, he lifted his hips so he could slip down his jeans.

  He wore nothing beneath them. Val started to scream. He covered her mouth with his hand—the hand he had used to touch himself— and she felt the head of his penis rub against her inner-thigh, leaving a trail of damp stickiness in its wake. She sank her teeth into the fleshy knot of skin at the base of his thumb and writhed angrily, trying to get free. To her horror, she felt him jerk and harden.

  He slid his fingers between them, to toy with the nub of flesh that twisted her mind and body both. Discomfort became agony, with pleasure sparking the edges like sizzling flame.

  Her hips bucked, and his smile turned wry. “Yellow roses,” he ground out. “For infidelity.” He cocked back his hips and Val realized what he intended to do only when he rammed into her, tearing into her, and the ensuing pain flooded between her thighs to form a cradle of fire.

  She felt the rumble of his satisfaction, deep, all the way from the very nadir of his belly and she dug her nails into her palms. He was breathing harder, and the pupils of his eyes had dilated making his irises look black. “Scream for me, my flower.”

  Sobbing, gasping so hard she could barely speak, she told him what she thought he wanted to her. She told him until she was hoarse.

  It changed nothing.

  It changed everything. Chapter Eleven

  Hyacinth

  Jade knocked on Val's dorm. His relief when it opened was palpable, though his face fell when he realized that the girl framed in the entryway was Mary.

  “Jade! Hey! Long time no see. How's it—” she saw his expression and faltered “—hanging. Is something wrong?”

  “Is Val with you?” “No. She said she was going to see a friend. I guess I thought she meant you.” Understanding dawned, and her eyes narrowed. “Did she give you the runaround? Do she and I need to have words?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Jade drew in a deep breath. “Shit. Um, ca
n I come in? Please?” The anger disappeared from Mary's face, leaving only confusion. “Sure, but—the room's a mess. What's wrong?”

  “There's something I need to talk to you about. Inside.” Jade glanced at both sides of the hall. “Basically, I think Val's in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble are we talking here? Like, trouble with the law trouble? 'Cause I don't want any part of that.” She smiled; it was a hard smile, bitter and jaded. “For obvious reasons,” she added.

  Jade flushed. “No. But…it's bad.” Mary allowed the door to swing open a little wider, only then noticing that Jade was carrying a shoebox under his arm. “What's in that box?”

  “I'll show you. Close the door.”

  “Oh heck no.” She slammed the door. “You didn't bring drugs or anything like that in here, did you?” “No.”

  “A bug? There isn't anything alive in there?”

  “No, nothing like that.” Jade paused and said ominously, “I wish it was.” “Christ.” Mary crossed herself. “I can't stand it. My imagination's running wild. Open the dang thing.”

  Jade slid off the lid and tilted it so Mary could peer inside. She stumbled back with a cry. “Is that blood?”

  “It's paint.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yeah. Smell it.”

  Mary took another step back. “Uh-uh. I don't think so.” Jade reached into the box, ignoring the red flakes of paint that speckled his hands like sores. He showed her the mutilated chess piece. “I think…I think that this is supposed to be me.”

  “That's sick. So, so sick.” She shook her head. Her skin lost a few shades of color. “Have you called the police?”

  “Not yet. I wanted to stop here first. I was hoping to talk to Val—look.”

  She read the card he held out. “Valerian Kimble.” She frowned. “Who's that?”

  “Our Val, I think.” “No. Our Val is Valerie Klein…though the names do sound similar, I'll give you that.”

  “I don't think that's her real name.” Quickly, he relayed the details of his earlier conversation with Val. When he finished Mary said, firmly, “You need to call the police. Now.”

  “And tell them what? That someone left me a big scary box? Maybe when they finish laughing me out of the station they'll start to feel sympathetic.”

  “They won't laugh—that's a threat. And Val is missing.”

  “It's a college town. People who are 'missing' are usually having one-night stands or are crashed out in the twenty-four-hour study room for finals. They won't take it seriously, not unless she's been missing for a while, several days at least, and they'll say that this is some kind of fraternity prank.” He held up the box. “Fucking Rush Week. Do you have internet in here?”

  “Through the ethernet, yeah.”

  “Can I use your computer?”

  She waved permissively at her open laptop. “What are you going to do?”

  “I'm going to Google this. Valerian's an unusual name. We should get a hit, easily.” Despite his reassurances, he wasn't expecting much. Honestly, even though it always worked on TV, real life was far more disorganized and vague. He was surprised when the first search result was a match, for a local newspaper called The Derringer Tribune. He was even more surprised when he saw the headline: TEENAGE GIRL FOUND LEFT FOR DEAD IN HOUSE OF HORRORS.

  “Dead?” Mary was reading over his shoulder. “Holy hell.”

  “Quiet a sec.” Jade's eyes scanned through the article. He could feel his stomach plummet with every word. Ignoring Mary's questions, not that he even registered them, he pulled up several more articles. Some were from larger newspapers and after skimming through about three of them, he was able to assemble the whole story.

  Valerian Kimble (17) had attended what she believed was a theme party, along with her three friends including then-boyfriend, James Lewis (17). The host had been a man named Gavin Mecozzi (21), a world-class chess player who had been, according to the article, charged and then acquitted of sexual assault—Val, at age fourteen.

  Fourteen. Just a child. The party had been the pretext for a hideous revenge scheme. The party guests had been encouraged to murder one another under threat of a more imminent death at the hands of their so-called host. Charlene Benveniste (18), Jason McLeod (18), and James Lewis were listed among the deceased.

  Lisa Jeffries (18) and Blake Dawson (17) had been able to escape and alert the police shortly before Gavin burned the place to the ground. Blake was hospitalized immediately afterward for a knife wound that had turned septic. Brent Baylor (17), charged with the murder of James Lewis, had been captured while fleeing the scene and was currently pending trial for second degree murder.

  Valerian had been fished out from the bottom of the swimming pool as if she were garbage, bruises around her neck, lungs filled with water. According to Nancy Ramirez, the paramedic who had resuscitated her, the local officials had barely gotten to her in time. She had been hospitalized for a broken rib, hypothermia, and other complications that weren't detailed but were almost certainly psychological in nature.

  She had been so young—what would trauma like that do to an impressionable mind? (He didn't rape me.)

  Was that true? Did it matter?

  (It's just that I'm too selfish to be alone.)

  The bastard had tried to kill her and all her friends. If he could do that, he could do anything. (I'm a terrible person.) The sadness written on her face could fill entire volumes.

  (I thought you wanted me.)

  His penis jerked at the memory.

  (Not like that—like this.)

  How could one girl—one person—go through so much and still live?

  “Valerian has vanished from the public,” he read aloud, shifting his legs, “out of concern for her own personal safety.”

  “Oh my God.” Mary's voice startled him; he had forgotten she was there. She was pointing at a picture, an old school photograph. The girl on the screen had red hair instead of black, green eyes instead of blue, but her face wore the same haunted expression.

  (My name isn't really Valerie Klein.) “It's her.” Jade reached out to the image, wishing it was the real thing. He dropped his fingers, and the hand made a fist as it hit his thigh. “It's really her— fuck.”

  ▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

  She awoke to the silvery-blue light of the predawn alone. For a moment, she thought it—everything—had just been a horrible dream. A wonderful, horrible dream that she could one day forget. She might even have been able to convince herself that it hadn't happened, like she did so much else these days, but then her eyes landed on the sheets in their various hues of rose, now dappled by peculiar brown stains.

  Bloodstains.

  Her blood.

  And then she realized that she was naked, her clothes lying tattered on the floor like rags. What remained of her clothes. It was the second-worst thing in the world. The first was the act that had precipitated the ache of her ill-use; her memories of the night before were coming in on a tide that bore insanity and made her want to scream.

  She wasn't quite sure how she had managed to fall asleep, though she must have because the bedside clock read 4:55 A.M. She remembered him collapsing, slinging an arm over her waist with an easy possessiveness. She had tried to slide out from under him after several minutes, because she had thought he was asleep, only to find herself trapped. He said, coldly, “I don't recall saying you could leave.”

  Then he ensured that she couldn't. After he finished—more quickly this time, since her cries of pain seemed to spur him to climax—she had lain there, mute and paralyzed with fear, while he caressed her trembling, unresponsive body and whispered terrible things in her ear. He had told her in that soft seductive voice generally reserved for sweet nothings exactly what he had done to each one of those girls.

  She had wept. The thought of those families, puzzled and bereaved, broke her heart, and she wept because she alone knew why they had been killed— she and Gavin, both. She wept, because she k
new that those families' grief would explode into hatred, because they, too, would blame her as everyone else had. As Gavin himself did, after each horrible recollection while stroking her hair and licking the salty tears from her face.

  How dare you run from me. Did you think I would let you get away? I let you run as far as you felt safe, and then I hunted for you. You are mine. Your heart is mine. Your body is mine. Your flesh, and your blood—all mine. You are my trophy, Val, and I will mount you as I best see fit.

  And then he'd laughed. Until Gavin, she had never seen a man's naked body. She had never realized how overpowering the male form could be. How much of a weapon it was. The female form, by comparison, was naught but an open wound, easily hurt unless carefully tended.

  The tiger lily, now limp, was pressed against her cheek. Leaves of basil were plastered to her body, and a few star-shaped jasmine flowers were scattered over her breasts. There were roses now, too. Yellow ones. He must have stolen them from the front garden; drops of dew still spattered their velvet petals.

  Yellow roses, for infidelity—and for dying love. Festering love. Love turned wicked and spiteful and cruel. She started to sit up. That tenderness made her sob, and she clapped a hand over her mouth before the sound could escape because she saw now, in the gloom, that he was up and sitting at the chessboard, which he had righted upon the broken nightstand and set up for play.

  Val hugged the sheet to her chest when he rose, silently, bringing the chess journal with him. Had he added her name to those long lists of wins and losses? No doubt which column she would fall under now. He caught her looking and closed it with a muted thump that brought her eyes to his face.

  “You always struggled so in chess,” he said, “I wonder if that gave you a taste for it.”

  “I hate chess.” She had to force herself to remain still as he approached. He bent from the waist to kiss her, raking his nails lightly down her bare back. She could taste vintage on his tongue; it was port, and the metallic taste of the tannins, which reminded her so much of blood, made her want to gag.