Roaring

by Katie May

  “No,” I spit out, and I leave it at that.

  Frankenstein nods his head once more, turning the cup around and around in his hands.

  “A lot is planned for the second game.” His head whips up to pierce me with an unreadable look. Just as quickly, he ducks his head and begins to hum softly beneath his breath. “It’s going to break you. Break your little vampire. Break the entire monster world.”

  “What are you talking about?” I sit up straighter, my mind processing this new information. Magically, Frankenstein is prohibited from giving me any details about the next two games. He’s quite literally enchanted not to.

  So why is he risking his life to tell me this? Is it another trap? Something else entirely?

  “Death is coming to us all, my boy,” he sings, his low, eerie voice causing goosebumps to skitter up and down my arms. “Because even when you think the games are over…they have only just begun.”

  CHAPTER 37

  JACK

  “What is a panty liner?” Hux asks abruptly, and I stumble to a stop. My brother, utterly oblivious, continues walking, and I quicken my pace to catch up.

  “W-What?” I stutter out, his murky silhouette nearly indistinguishable. My eyes have somewhat adjusted to the darkness, but I’m still unable to see any of his features. It somehow makes him even more eerie and malevolent—a shadow waiting for its moment to pounce.

  And then he goes and says stuff like…

  “Panty liner.” He pauses, and I nearly plow into him until I manage to catch myself. Slowly, as if speaking to an imbecile, he repeats, “Panty. Liner.”

  “I heard you the first time.” I’m sure my cheeks are on fire. Actually, can I even blush in this disembodied form? Do I even have a body? I suppose it’s within the realm of possibilities that if I so desired, I could contort my body in whatever form I wish. Afterall, I’m quite literally nothing but a figment of my brain. “Why are you asking me about a…” I practically choke on my own spit. “Panty liner.”

  “It was in the pink device,” Hux states, as if that explains it all.

  “Hux.” Honestly, that’s all I can say at the moment. Just his name, over and over again.

  “The…what’s that word…phoney? Violet’s.”

  “So you saw a panty liner in Violet’s phone?” I squeeze my eyes shut to fight off the inevitable encroaching headache…before remembering that I don’t actually have a body and I sure as frick don’t have a head for it to ache. I suppose it’s phantom pain from all the times before when I had to deal with Hux’s nonsense.

  “It was in a speech bubble,” Hux continues, almost nonchalantly, as he continues walking. I don’t know how long we’ve been trekking forward, each step taking us farther and farther away from where we saw the portal of light. All I know for certain is that panic grips my heart as I think about the unidentified person currently inhabiting our shared body. Is he with Violet right now? Has he hurt her? Hurt the others? I don’t think either of us will be able to forgive ourselves if anything happened to any of them. “Jack, are you listening to me?”

  I shake my head vigorously, ignoring the ominous voice in my head warning me that Violet’s in imminent danger. I know it’s nothing but my own subconscious and anxiety, but a niggle of doubt still remains.

  “Sorry, continue, brother.”

  “Panty liners,” he repeats, and I swear if I have to hear my brother say “panty liners” one more time, I’ll go insane. Well, more insane than I already am, considering I have his psychopathic butt in my head. “She asked Cynthia to pick some up for her.”

  “First, why are you going through her phone? That’s an invasion of privacy, and she’ll be extremely mad when she discovers that you read her text messages.” I can only imagine the unrepentant eye roll that he’ll be giving me. I’m not surprised, though. Violet’s the only person he has ever allowed himself to care about. He still doesn’t quite understand societal norms and human decency. In his mind, it’s completely acceptable for him to snoop through Violet’s personal belongings, because he cares for her and has no malicious intent. It’s wrong, of course, but that mentality has been ingrained inside his brain for centuries.

  “I wanted to make sure there was no threat,” Hux states, only confirming my suspicions. “Now, what is a panty liner? And why doesn’t she trust me enough to provide one for her?” A hint of vulnerability creeps into his voice, as if he’s genuinely upset that she didn’t contact him first and foremost. It’s just another thing that has been drilled inside of him—only he can adequately provide for his mate. I’m pretty sure he doesn’t even trust the other men to protect and care for her without his presence.

  Clearing my throat against a knot the size of Texas, I mansplain, “A panty liner is…errr…something that females put in their underwear.”

  His body goes rigid, visible even in the inky blackness. “Are her other mates not providing her with satisfaction? I will have to have a talk with them on how to properly please a lady.”

  Horror consumes me. Now, I’m picturing Hux sitting opposite Mason, Vin, and Frankie as he gives them the birds and the bees talk.

  I’m just waiting for the day when he discovers the dildo in Violet’s nightstand. He might actually go insane, believing some monster left his dick behind.

  “No!” I blurt, waving my hands in the air, despite the fact that he can’t see the gesture. “It’s not for pleasure.”

  “So why would she put it in her underwear?” His shadowy head cocks to the side.

  “Okay, listen,” I begin, desperately trying to remember what Violet told him before. “You have heard of the, um, Great Period, correct?” At his barely decipherable nod, I hurry to continue, “Well, a panty liner helps capture all the blood that is dispelled.” There. Straight and simple.

  But, of course…

  “Wouldn’t a tarp be more effective in eliminating all of the blood? You place the dead body on the tarp, roll it up, and barely any blood remains on the floor.” Hux points out matter-of-factly. “Is a panty liner another name for a tarp?”

  “Yes,” I blurt before I can stop myself. “Yes. Yes, it is. Now, can we talk about something else? Please?”

  The last thing I want to do is continue talking about my girlfriend’s panty liners with my sort-of brother.

  Hux resumes walking, his gait confident and determined. The tension he emanates hangs palpably in the air between us, nearly suffocating.

  “Who is this fucker that dares try to take control of my body?” Hux hisses. When I obnoxiously clear my throat, he relents, “Our body.”

  “It could be one of Frankenstein’s tricks,” I point out, but Hux is already vehemently shaking his head.

  “I don’t think so. I think…” He trails off with an agitated grunt. “Maybe it’s someone wanting revenge for your past transgressions.”

  I can’t help myself; I break into raucous laughter, bending at my knee and holding my stomach. Surely, Hux hears the words he says when he speaks them, right?

  “You’re joking.”

  When he remains quiet—the silence explosive—I reel on him with tightened fists. “For all of these years, I have done nothing but cover for you. Every murder. Every ‘accidental’ death. Every mistake. Don’t you dare turn this around on me.”

  “What the bloody hell are you rambling about?” Hux asks, exasperated.

  “The massacre in the eighteen-hundreds at the governor’s home,” I state as I begin ticking them off on my fingers. My blood boils at the memory. I had allowed Hux one month of free rein, only to reawaken to see myself standing in a bloodbath. Body parts littered the ground, staining the tiles red with blood. Male. Female. Young. Old. No one escaped my brother’s brutality.

  And maybe I’m just as bad, for I immediately contacted my father, and together, we set fire to the Victorian mansion. All traces of Hux’s illicit activities were covered up, never to be talked about again.

  “Or the time that you hanged all of those men in London
,” I continue. Sure, those men had been vile, disgusting creatures intent on raping and murdering women, but that still didn’t give Hux the right to play judge, jury, and executioner. Once more, he left me alone to deal with the aftermath.

  “You don’t have the right to judge me,” Hux huffs. “Not that I did any of those things. You’re the one who was given the nickname of Jack the Ripper.”

  His words send me staggering back a step as horror consumes me.

  “What are you talking about?” I gasp, and though I can’t see him, I have the distinct impression he’s rolling his eyes.

  Abruptly, the room around me begins to change and distort, the darkness transforming into distinct shapes. A bed. Canopy. Distressed wooden desk. A window overlooking the Thames.

  I’m in a memory.

  Hux’s memory.

  Before I can even contemplate the ramifications of this new discovery, I’m propelled forward until I can’t differentiate where he ends and I begin.

  I STARE at the ink blobs dotting the yellow parchment, the words glaring back at me and hardening my heart.

  Brother, Jack’s familiar messy scrawl states, You have one month.

  My scowl deepens as I crumple the paper into a ball and toss it across the room. It hits the bed, sliding unceremoniously onto the ground.

  Jack thinks he’s doing me a favor by setting me free, but he’s only prolonging my torture. The darkness…the darkness, I’m used to. It’s the light that scares me, the sheer brilliance of it all. I can hide in the darkness, but the light illuminates everything I wish to remain hidden.

  Every time Jack pulls me to the forefront of our shared mind, I’m forced to relearn an entirely new world. Doesn’t he understand that a monster like me deserves to be contained to the shadows?

  I finally allow myself to survey my surroundings, noting the minuscule details, such as the canopy over the bed and chaise lounge adjacent to it.

  And the body lying haphazardly on the ground, coated in blood. Her hair is orange and stringy, lying in clumps around a pretty face, and her dress is ripped down the seams, baring her breasts. A single slash wound stretches across her throat.

  “What did you do, Jack?” I whisper in horror, knowing he won’t be able to hear me. What did this woman do to deserve such a brutal end?

  But if there’s one thing that has remained consistent over time, it’s that murder—especially the cold-blooded type—has consequences.

  With a sigh, I make quick work of wrapping the body in an ornately detailed rug. Then, I tentatively venture down the grand staircase, staring at the pebbled road and numerous horse-drawn carriages.

  Satisfied there are no wandering eyes, I head directly towards a carriage I can only assume belongs to Jack.

  “How the bloody hell do I work this thing?” I ask scathingly, circling the majestic horse. I haven’t the faintest idea how to connect a carriage to it.

  Releasing another heavy sigh, I plop the body over my shoulder and walk aimlessly down a side street.

  I’m desperate to ask my cohabitor—there’s really no other word for the man who shares my body—why he murdered the woman. But alas, the world may never know. I’m not one to shy away from death, but this murder seems senseless. Jack has never been one to murder someone in cold blood, but maybe I don’t know my brother as well as I thought.

  After only an hour of trekking through heavily dense forests, I come to a stop in front of a cerulean, sparkling lake. Whistling beneath my breath, I waste no time in dumping the body into the water, watching the waves lap at it until it’s completely submerged.

  A sharp intake of breath has me glancing over my shoulder at the man staring at me in wide-eyed horror.

  “Oh bloody hell,” I gripe again as I lunge forward, easily snapping his neck. I watch him fall to the ground with a thud before I pick him up and place his body in the lake as well.

  Thirty years later, when Jack allows me control of the body again, I discover that the “lake” had been the river Thames and the city was London. I also discover that countless bodies—all murdered the same way as the one in Jack’s home—were found throughout London, some with their internal organs removed.

  I never asked Jack about the girl, and he never brought it up.

  But the media quickly coined him…us…Jack the Ripper.

  I’M WRENCHED out of the memory with a gasp, once more completely engulfed in darkness. I stumble forward desperately until my hand connects with Hux’s shoulder.

  “What the hell was that?” I breathe.

  “What was what?”

  “You didn’t see that?” I’m beginning to believe I’m losing my mind. Ironic, considering I’m currently trapped in it.

  “See what?” Now, Hux sounds annoyed, as if I’m purposefully being dense.

  “What were you thinking about just then?” I demand, and something in my tone causes his own to sharpen.

  “The late eighteen-hundreds, when you allowed me out to play for a month. Why?”

  I swallow heavily, wringing my hands together as I attempt to articulate the thoughts running rampant through my head. “Because I think I just saw your memory.”

  He freezes before taking a step closer and squeezing my shoulder.

  “I never blamed you for what happened,” he admits after a moment, and I know he’s talking about the woman’s death. “I knew you had your reasons.”

  “But that’s the thing, Hux. I didn’t murder that woman. I didn’t murder any of those people.” The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach. I’m no saint—you can’t live as long as I have and still have clean hands—but senseless murder has never been my forte. Bile churns in my gut as a shocking revelation sits in my stomach like poison.

  “You claimed you didn’t murder those people I accused you of. Were you telling the truth?”

  Hux scoffs once, actually sounding offended. “Of course I was telling the truth. I take credit for my kills.”

  My breathing is erratic as I struggle to hold on to my sanity.

  “M-Maybe we’ve had a third interloper longer than we expected,” I manage to stutter out at last. Hux’s hand tightens on my shoulder to the point of pain.

  “What do you mean, brother?” The ire in Hux’s voice makes his accent thicker.

  “It means…” I lick my unbelievably dry lips. “It means that I don’t think we’re the only two in here. I don’t think it’s ever been just us two.”

  CHAPTER 38

  VIOLET

  I was once slapped in the face with a flaccid dildo. Honestly, I have no idea why they even make those things. Yes, it is a thing—if you don’t believe me, look it up. To make a long story short—one of my human girlfriends accused me of kissing her boyfriend. I hadn’t—girl code and all—but she didn’t believe me. The next thing I knew, she was whacking me across the face with said flaccid dildo. I remember being both shocked and horrified as I rubbed at my reddening cheek.

  Seeing Barret alive and well, grinning shyly? It was the monster equivalent of being bitch-slapped with cock.

  “Barret?” I breathe as I stare at him like he’s a mirage, an illusion capable of disappearing with the next gust of wind. “How are you…? Why are you…? How?” I scrub a hand down my face as the beginning tendrils of hope bubble low in my stomach like a corrosive acid. But hope is an immensely dangerous emotion to have. What happens when the hope fades? You’re left with nothing but crippling pain and loneliness.

  Is this another game? Another aspect of the Roaring?

  “How are you still alive, man?” Mason queries, disbelief and suspicion evident in his tone. “Cal and Violet watched you die.”

  My nails dig into my skin as I ball both of my hands. “You better start explaining, Barret, because I’m sort of crapping my pants right now. Figuratively. And soon to be literally if you don’t start talking.”

  His beautiful face is pinched in confusion as he cocks his head to the side. His green-tinted hair billows in the breeze from my open w
indow as he regards us curiously. I half expect him to dissipate into a cloud of smoke. The dead can’t come back to life, can they? It’s not possible. Not even Dracula can escape death by the hand of a god-blessed dagger. I saw Alex shove it into his heart. I saw him fall, blood forming around his mouth.

  So how is he here? How is he standing in front of me with a confused smile?

  “Didn’t Alex tell you?” His large eyes blink innocently up at me, but my unease only ratchets up a dozen notches.

  “That fucking asshole?” I hiss through gritted teeth. “If I saw him, I would sooner stab my blade through his chest than partake in a conversation. Unless the conversation is how to effectively remove the balls off a male while he’s still alive and screaming.”

  Vin, beside me, winces and cups his crotch. “That’s nasty, Vi.”

  Ignoring him, I refocus my entire attention on the dead guy. “How are you here? I saw you die.” My voice breaks on that final word, and that memory will forever haunt me like a tattoo that has embedded itself on my heart. No matter what I do, I can’t remove it, and I’m beginning to think that I don’t want to. A part of me wants to live with the hurt and pain—to remind myself that I survived it once, and I can survive it again.

  “I ran into Alex when I first stepped out of the portal.” Barret still sounds confused as his dark eyes flicker from first my face, then to the guys’ on either side of me. “He told me that he knew of a way for me to save your life.” He shrugs once, his large shoulders reaching his ears. “And I did it.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” I interrupt. For a lot of reasons, actually. The most important being that Alex hates me and wants to wear my innards like some sort of fucked up scarf. And I, similarly, want to use his head as a basketball. Obviously, Alex was playing Barret, but I just can’t understand why.