by Amo Jones
“What the fuck, Bishop! You selfish fucking—”
“Enough!” I snap, entering the room, my heart erratic and my eyes checking over Tillie quickly to make sure she’s not hurt. Be awfully unfortunate to have to turn on a brother…
Madison runs toward me, her arms wrapping around my waist.
“Shut the door,” I order Brantley, even though this is his fucking house and Bishop is the leader. But the leader is damaged right now, so naturally, I’m going to have to step up.
I press my lips to Madison’s head, my fingers curling under her chin to lift her face to mine. “Who do I need to kill?”
Tears pour freely over her swollen cheeks. She’s always so painfully beautiful, but it’s hard to notice that when Tillie is in the same room.
“It’s nothing.”
“Madison…” Tillie urges.
Madison swipes at her tears. “It’s nothing. I cheated on Bishop, so he hates me and we’re over and that’s why we’re fighting. I’m going home now.”
“Hold up!” I pull her back by her arm when she tries to take off. Because that’s what she’s good at—running. Except now she’s running on my patience and if it’s true, that she really did cheat on Bishop, then she and I will really have a problem. Because I’m a hypocrite like that—she can only cheat with my cock. Could. I’d never touch her now or ever.
“Nate!” Madison screams. I flinch, letting her go. She quickly bolts out the door, disappearing into the dark and I honest to God have no fucking idea what to say, so I bring my eyes to Tillie.
“Tell me everything, now.”
Tillie glares at me in defiance. “I’m not telling you shit.” Then she barges out of the room, leaving Bishop, Brantley, and Eli in here with me, standing around like what the fuck just happened.
“Bravo, boys. Way to choose your women…”
“Shut the fuck up, Eli,” I snap.
“Crazy girls fuck better.” Bishop chuckles, swiping his mouth. “But they don’t know shit about love.”
“Is it true?” I ask Bishop, wanting to hear his side.
He flings his arms out wide. “Yep. Saw it with my own eyes.”
I drop down onto the sofa, my hand running through my hair. “I swear to fuck, these girls are aging me every day. Between Tillie and—all of that—” My eyes go around to them all, and for a second they all sober. “—and Madison and this. What happened?”
Bishop drops to the floor, bringing his knees up to his chest. “Don’t know. She fucked him in our house. On my bed. It was recorded and sent to me. It was there in black and white, but I still asked her. She admitted it. That’s that. It was the day before—” Bishop pauses. “When it happened. That stunt at your house after, was the final time I fucked her. Put my cum inside her pussy to remind her who owns it.” He pauses, his eyes glassing over. “Or owned it.”
I snicker at the pussy comment. “Nice.”
“Jesus Christ,” Eli mutters, just as Hunter, Jase, and Ace pad in, all drunk as fuck.
I make sure to fill them in until we’re all sitting around on the floor.
“Did you know him?” I question Bishop, my hand covering my mouth.
Bishop shakes his head. “Never seen him before in my life, but when I do—”
I nod in agreement. He doesn’t need to say the words that he’s thinking, because it’s already done. If Bishop doesn’t find him, I sure as fuck will. In fact, it just bumped up on my list of things to feed on.
“What are we going to do about Tillie?” Brantley asks, breaking through the tension.
I exhale, leaning back on the sofa. “I don’t know, but I think it’s time to tell her why we snatched her ass and placed her in Perdita.”
“Really?” Bishop asks, his eyes coming to mine. “You think she could handle that right now, considering…”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Fuck.”
Tillie
Pain doesn’t define us, it shapes us. We come into this world as newborns, a fresh start. New life, a crisp soul. Then life happens, and every single choice you make has an implication. Every scar has a story, or it doesn’t and it’s just a scar, but whether or not it has a story, it’s still a scar, and that scar doesn’t define us, so why should pain?
I roll onto my side, closing my eyes and willing my mind to sleep. Let the alcohol pulse out from my pores so I can start fresh again tomorrow.
But that’s not how it works.
Tears slip down the sides of my eyes as I flip onto my back. Everything feels heavy. Weighted. I don’t want to live within these walls anymore, living for what?
“Puella,” Daemon whispers from the other side of my room and I jump up when I see him standing at my doorway. He’s been quiet all night, and I feel awful that I forgot he was here.
“Are you okay?” I ask, because I always need to know that he’s okay. My beautiful saving grace isn’t grace at all. He’s weeping with darkness and demons, but he’s still mine.
Calmness takes over me as he comes closer to my bed. His hand comes to my cheek where he swipes away the fallen tears. “To cry is to feel.”
I swallow. “That’s the problem,” I jest, chuckling softly.
“I never cried.”
I swallow. I know that. Daemon is as cold as ice, but he melted parts of him to let me in, and for that, I am so grateful. He has saved me in ways that he will never know. I crave his presence. “It’s okay, Daemon.”
“Lie down.” He points to the bed.
I do as I’m told, lying on my back, my nerves relaxing at his touch. He pats my forehead and it feels like a light of healing every time he caresses me. He doesn’t fix my broken parts, he just fills them with peace.
A small bottle of blue liquid is sitting on a table. My feet are covered in wooden shoes with red tips, pointing upward. What the fuck? I search around the room. There’s nothing in here, just that small bottle. I try to take the liquid, but my hand can’t grasp it. I get frustrated, sweat spilling out over my flesh. Why can’t I touch the stupid bottle? I finally grab it, flicking the cork off. A tag is around the neck, on it reads “Drink me.” Okay, so I’m Alice in Wonderland? Those boys are clearly fucking with me again.
I drink the liquid in one go. Sour goo clings to my tonsils, reminding me of that time when I tried to eat Play-Doh. The glass enlarges in my hand. What! It grows bigger and bigger, expanding as the seconds pass. Suddenly I’m standing beside the now monstrous-sized glass bottle.
The room has proliferated. Everything is so much fucking bigger!
The table leg catches my eye, because there’s a book shape that’s carved into the wood. I step closer. It’s an opened book, carved with perfect precision. Weird. I step even closer and run my fingertips over it. Puer Natus.
I suck in a breath, turning to see who it is that’s playing a sick joke on me, but as soon as my finger touches it, a black hole opens up and sucks me in.
I wake up in a graveyard.
DAEMON reads over the stone.
I’ve been here before. What is going on? The grass melts away from my feet as I sink six-feet under. I know what happens next, The Kings bury me alive.
The dirt flies over the grave, their faces not clear enough to make out. My barefoot steps on something that feels like jelly. I look down, only to see Daemon’s eyes gaping up at me from beneath the dirt. He’s angry, his eyebrows pulled in harshly. His fingers grip around my ankle.
“Have it your way!”
He yanks me under the dirt.
“No!” I scream, launching off the bed. That dream was scarier than the first one, and I feel like they’re getting worse and more vivid as time goes on.
“Nightmare?” a dark voice asks from the corner. I instantly recognize that it’s Nate.
I slither backward until my back is pressed against the headboard. “Yeah.”
“Nightmares make you appreciate the good. They remind you that your life could be worse,” he answers, his voice level.
I’m un
sure what Nate I’m getting, and not being able to see him isn’t helping that fact either.
“I guess.” I don’t know what else to say. He’s not helping my inconsistent heart rate. I’m all over the place from last night and honestly, still feel slightly drunk. I hate drinking.
“I lied to you,” he whispers hoarsely.
“I figured,” I answer, lying back and pulling my covers up to my chin. If I can’t see him, I may as well feel safe under some blankets. It’s like when you leave your leg to dangle over your bed, but then you can’t because you think a demon is going to grab you by the foot. Well, Nate is that demon and the probability of that happening is way too real.
“I hate you, Tillie. There’s always going to be a part of me that hates you, and I think that’s something you’re going to have to come to terms with.”
“Why?” I choke on my words, and I instantly hate that I’ve shown emotion.
“Because you remind me of everything that I lost. You remind me of her. Everything about you is a reminder of her. Your smell, your laugh, your smile.”
I can’t stop the tears now. They’ve got free rein over me. I don’t answer. I’ll let him finish.
“Everything that I came to love about you was buried with our daughter. The way you would make her laugh in the morning when you’d change her diaper, or when you’d put her in the bed with us and we would just fucking admire the perfection that we both created. But that’s all gone, Tillie, and now all that’s left is anger and hurt, and a whole lot of fucking pain that I can’t afford to be feeling. It makes me distracted.”
I can feel myself slowly slipping away. “Then let me go.”
There’s a pause. “I can’t.”
I stop breathing. Will he finally admit it?
“This is your world too. You deserve the crown that has been given to you, and also, you deserve the closure that I do too.”
“Closure?” I ask, my attention spiked. “What do you mean closure?”
Pause.
I rip the blankets off, the dark room serving as a blanket of safety. I tiptoe to where I think he is, reaching out aimlessly to see if I can feel him.
My hand lands on his hair, and I quickly flinch away, dropping to my knees when I have found him. I don’t want to touch him any more than I have to. His touch is everything good and bad for me. I can’t lose myself in him again. I have to be smart. I have to make him pay. No, you don’t. Yes, I do.
“Tell me what you mean,” I whisper. I can almost feel his heavy breath falling on my lips, the smell of whiskey and cologne filling the space between us.
“When I tell you this, Tillie, I need your word that you will do as you’re told and not be reckless. I think this will—” He pauses. “I think having you help us, and us getting our closure will help you.”
“Help me?”
He changes the subject. “Do I have your word?”
“Yes,” I answer instantly. “You do.”
He exhales. “We think Micaela didn’t die of SIDs.”
I freeze, inching back.
His arm hooks around my waist. “I’ve got you. Can you handle this?”
Can I?
No.
Yes.
I have to.
“Yes…”
His arm tightens around my waist, but he doesn’t pull me into him which I appreciate. It’s a subtle hint that he’s there. He will catch me.
“We think she was murdered, and we think Hector has everything to do with it.”
Everything goes black.
Tillie
My skin swells with heat. An arm tightens around me. The smell of old whiskey is being breathed into my hair. My eyes pop open and the room is bright, the morning sun coming through the small window at the top of the wall.
“I’m trying really hard to be sensitive because I’ve just told you something dark as fuck, but your ass is pressing into me and if you wriggle it one more time, my dick is going in whether you want it or not—but let’s be real, you’d want it.”
I turn in his arms, ignoring the typical Nate antics. “You slept in here with me.”
“I did,” he agrees, his sleepy eyes searching mine, but they’re guarded. I don’t know if he’s always been like this and I haven’t noticed before, but he’s more shielded than before. It’s troubling.
“Why?” I ask, my voice husky and desperate. “Why did you sleep in my bed?”
“Because knowing you’re okay is worth the pain that having you in my arms causes.”
I wince, my heart twisting in my chest from his words. “I don’t want you in pain, Nate.”
“It’s just the way it is. I’m used to it.”
My head thuds as I turn to face the ceiling. “He really did this?”
Nate’s silent, so I turn to face him, desperate for answers that I’m not sure I want.
“Yeah, we think he did. I need to ask you a few things about that night. Do you think you’re up for that?”
My brain blurs like a television channel without reception. I exhale, closing my eyes. “I have to.”
He inches up onto one elbow, studying me. I ignore the way the sun sets behind him from the window, highlighting his dark blond hair, or the fact that first thing in the morning Nate is always a nicer version than the afternoon Nate.
“When you went to bed that night, was there anything that felt odd? Out of place? Anything.”
Pain grips onto my heart, squeezing while not letting go. I don’t want to think about this. I don’t want to let the memories seep into my already unstable soul. But it’s too late, because images are flashing through my head a hundred miles per hour, blinding me with their speed.
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Yes, there was something.” The words come out softer than I intended.
Nate remains quiet.
I shut the door that night, the cool wind brushing through my hair as I closed it. I climbed into my silk sheets. I fell asleep. I woke up in a sweat, my face drenched. Why did I wake at this time?
No, I didn’t.
Did I?
My eyes snap open and I fly off the bed, tearing the covers from my body. “I don’t think I locked the door, Nate…”
He searches my face. “That’s not your fault. My house is safe enough to be able to do that. No one would set foot on King soil without given access. No one except Hector. He would have found a way in even if you did lock the door.”
I start pacing back and forth, my legs tingling with speed. I need to exercise or I’m not going to make it through. “What does this mean? Is that why you kept me locked up—” The color in my face drains and my blood turns cold. “What about the masquerade party…”
“Don’t know,” Nate mutters, climbing out of the bed and removing his shirt, making his hair stand all over his head again. “But we’re finding out tonight.”
“How?” I ask, once again needing to stretch my legs. Surely Brantley has a gym in this house.
“There’s another dinner party tonight. Same attire. You’re coming with us, but you’re sticking close to us.”
I nod, rubbing my sweaty palms down my legs.
“Oh.” Nate pauses at the threshold right before he disappears. “And this is a bigger dinner party than last time. Kings from all over will be there, and other girls. Girls I know.” He pins me with a stare.
I pause. “Why would I care? I know your ho past.”
“That’s the thing, it’s not really a past. I’ve known these people since I was little. There’s someone there who I haven’t seen since I was fourteen and she is the one that took my virginity.” He watches for my reaction, but my poker face is too good, because he’s not going to get one.
“Why are you telling me this? We’re not together, Nate.”
“Well aware of that, but just so you know, she’s meeting me there—”
“—You’re disgusting, and you can leave.”
Which he does.
I want to ignore that once again, Nate has hurt me
. But it’s my own fault for having emotions. Feelings. I’m curious to know who this girl is, but as far as he and I are concerned, we’re obviously finished. I need to remember that the only reason why he’s being civil with me about this is because of Hector. Because he wants revenge, and so do I. Once that’s done, he will throw me away like a bad memory—I know this.
I exhale a shaky breath. “Pull it together, Tillie. Just play the game.” I flash a fake smile to myself, because you know, practice. If he wants to bring his ex—whatever she is—that’s fine. I’ll play, but I’m playing to win, and my first move after rolling the dice is being the hottest bitch in the room.
I’m walking past Daemon’s room when I peek in, wanting to ask if he will come with me. He’ll be wearing a mask and Madison most likely won’t be there, so what’s the harm, but his room is empty.
Again.
The space looks untouched, the bed covers are neat, like no one has so much as sat on the bed.
Maybe he’s clean and he makes it tidy. He must be out again doing God knows what, or maybe The Kings have him back on Lost Boy duties.
I sigh, marching up the stairs and heading straight for the kitchen. I’m hungry and I want pancakes.
No one is in there when I arrive, so I start searching through the cupboards to find all of the ingredients I need.
Flour, eggs, butter, milk. I fucking love pancakes.
I turn the sound dock on and push play. I need something to make me feel better about Nate and his stupid confession this morning. I hit play on Halsey’s “Young God,” tossing all of the ingredients into the bowl and stirring it together. I start beating it fast until my hair comes out of its bun.
I stop, swing my head over by bending at the waist and rake all of it to the front before knotting it into a high bun. When I fling back to standing position, Brantley is standing directly in front of me, leaning against a cabinet.
“What are you doing?” he yells over the sound.
“Making pancakes!”
I swipe some of the batter with my fingertip, just as Halsey sings, “if you want to go to heaven then you should fuck me tonight,” and I keep my eyes on Brantley, sucking the batter off my finger. This will be fun.
