Hearts of Darkness: A Valentine's Day Bully Romance Collection

by Joanna Mazurkiewicz

  So you want something new, do you? I could beat you some more. I could freeze the very blood in your veins and make you scream until you die. I could find something in this very cellar to help me remove the skin from your fragile bones. Would that be "new" enough for you?

  I took a deep, shaky breath and tried to calm myself. It's only a ghost, it's only a ghost. I chanted to myself. I raised my eyes to once again study the rippling air before me.

  "Even if you did find something in here, it'd be made of iron. Surely ghosts haven't found a way around that little problem?" Shit. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP!

  I have discovered many things since this building was placed here, the ghost responded, his voice sounding almost wistful. Pewter things. Steel things. This strange thing known as "plastic". I am certain one of these will suffice to part your flesh from the muscle beneath.

  "Alright, fine! Just stop it! What did I ever do to you that you've suddenly decided to kidnap and torture me to death?" My voice was breathless and pitchy, and I blinked back the tears that were slowly trickling their way down my cheeks. The cold, ghostly hand released me, but I could already feel the bruises forming from his large fingers. If I made it out of this, there were going to be some very strange answers to the questions I was likely to get from family, friends, coworkers. Double shit.

  You? You personally did nothing. However your neighbors are all muscular young men or strapping and rather large women who would not be so easy to overcome. But you-

  He slapped me with another icicle-like hand and my head whipped to the side. Now I knew why I was in a corner- so I wouldn't tip over while he beat me to death.

  -you are tiny and rather frail, aren't you? Easy to overwhelm. I can bully you into submission fairly easily.

  "But why?" I whispered as more tears traced down my nose and dangled at the tip. "What could possibly be the purpose?"

  A little over three-hundred years ago, I was murdered. He sighed, loud and long, and slowly the vague presence of him became much more PRESENT. His form began to grow less obscure and more vital. I was murdered here, on the very land where this building now stands. You see, when I lived this was an inn. I was here after performing in Hamlet, me and some of the other actors. We had been celebrating and were all quite inebriated. I bragged about how I would be a far better Hamlet than a Laertes, and that the role would be mine as soon as the director realized my immense talent.

  Okay. So there I was, in dire straits and in all likelihood very close to death, and I snorted. I couldn't help it. The guy was so narcissistic it was laughable. He turned and snarled at me- and yes, now I could see him quite a bit clearer. He had some color to him now even if it was faded like an old sepia photograph. He growled and snapped his hand out as though to grab my throat- and his hand passed right through me. We both stared at each other for a moment, and then he looked at his hand, flipping it from front to back as though he couldn't figure out that just simply by being a ghost, he wouldn't necessarily be able to connect with anything.

  Curious. He muttered, tossing an almost too-casual glare toward me before semi-floating a few feet away. His back to me, he continued, his voice taking on a thoughtful timbre. As I was saying, we were all behaving like drunken fools. The pub was preparing to close, and the bar wench came over to ask us politely to leave. She was rather lovely, that girl, and I can remember...I remember... His voice trailed off, and as he tilted his face to one side I could see the far-away look in the one eye his profile bared. I swallowed thickly, almost certain I knew where this was headed and not at all sure that I really wanted to hear about his death.

  She had leaned across the table, with its rough wood and its dark rings left by ale mug and hot dish alike, probably to gather the remains of our slovenly meal. However he- er, I- feeling very chuffed over my future in theatre, assumed she was attempting to lay one on-and so I grabbed her arm to pull her over to me. She struggled a mite but not enough that I thought to release her. One of my fellows- I suppose he was trying to help the girl, although he might have only been trying to get her attention for himself- shoved me out of the way and climbed half across the table to reach her. I fell out of my chair, hit my head on the floor. I know he was bleeding when he- I mean, I was bleeding, dammit! My head must've smacked into something besides the floorboards, Lord knows that wasn't the first time I'd fallen at the pub- but I didn't think about that. I grabbed his elbow and twirled him 'round. My fist met his nose, and I know I stunned him for a bit; but when he came back at me it wasn't with a bare fist. No. He'd a bread knife to hand, and it caught me plumb through my neck. I recall falling, and it was as though time around me stopped. I hit the floor and saw him leering over me as my vision blurred. Last thing I remember is him pulling the knife out and feeling my life blood soaking my shirt. The blade had bent. And then-darkness.

  I stared at him in horror and awe that he could remember his death- well, somebody's death, anyway- up to the very instant that he'd gone, and in such detail that he even recalled the bent knife blade.

  "And then? Do you remember the first thing upon-what? Waking? As a ghost, I mean." I stumbled over my own tongue as I asked him that, hoping that he wouldn't hit me again. He turned to study me, and I caught a glimpse of a rather Romanesque nose and a slightly jutting chin before a sharp blast of freezing wind blew past me, hitting the ghost with the force of an American linebacker taking down his opponent. I saw the dust rising in a swirl from the filthy floor, enveloping the fellow in a dirty, brownish-grey tornado. He opened his mouth wide, a screeching roar escaping his throat, and vanished into the ether. The wind swirled and solidified into a male shape, shadowy at first until he lowered the dark brown wool hood that covered his head, and I catalogued his features as well, though with a fluttering beginning in my belly and a lump forming in my throat. He was still mildly transparent, though I couldn't see the opposing wall as easily as I could with the other one. His hair appeared to be a medium brown, curling nicely at the nape of his neck, barely over the loose collar of his flowy white shirt. It looked like one of those poet shirts from a Musketeer movie. His pants looked to be leather- dark, suede, probably quite expensive in his day. He had perfect, full lips- the kind I dreamed about and that graced many of the most popular celebrities, pouty, sullen. His eyes were dark, liquid, sensuous. If he were alive today, he'd probably be the type of actor that young women swoon over. There was something extremely dangerous about this dead man, oh yes, of that there was no doubt. But there was also a sort of tragic melancholy to him that made my heart ache.

  Shit. Was I feeling Stockholm Syndrome? No, wait- that was the one where the captive fell in love with their captor. I thought I was just going crazy, the whole situation was insane. I was not the kind of girl who got crushes on dead guys. At least- I never had been. Shit.

  I watched him begin to pace and noticed there was definitely more of a stepping pattern to his gait, it wasn't nearly as floaty as it was before, with the other ghost. He sighed and rubbed his hand down his face. One finger stroked his lower lip thoughtfully, and it's only then that I notice the facial hair, the light furring of a triangular goatee and a small, neat mustache. It suits him.

  Ugh!!! Okay, I needed to stop that particular hormone train before it could even build up the steam to leave the station.

  He startled me by swiftly crouching down in front of me, his face mere inches from mine. I knew that I couldn't- by simple reason of the fact that he wasn't alive- possibly be feeling his warm breath on my cheek or his body heat through the linen of his shirt. He was a ghost. Cold. Dead. No-longer-in-existence. But my mind was playing tricks on me and began blaring warning signals. It was like a flashing red stoplight blinking madly, but this one had a loud, obnoxious voice and it kept screaming WARNING: DANGEROUS MAN! POSSIBLY A MURDERER!

  I wanted to roll my eyes at my own stupid thoughts, but I was afraid that if I did he might take it personal. He seemed the type. So instead I flicked my tongue over my dry lips and attempted to meet his eyes.


  Listen. I think we got off on the wrong foot here. He met my gaze unabashedly, his hand stroking his mustache. I know you think you know what you saw before, what you heard. I know you're probably very confused right now. Understandable. But I am not your enemy. He is.

  "He slapped me with icicle hands. Twice!"

  He never actually struck you. We can't actually make physical contact. Well. I mean, we can manage to throw the odd inanimate object, but we couldn't actually physically assault you.

  "Whatever. I felt it cut my cheek open!"

  Yes, but not by his hand. He was inside your mind. He could- can- make you think he was doing anything to you, and you would believe it. He manipulates you even now, clouding your very mind against me. I only want to help you and receive your assistance in return. The tale he told you was my own, stolen and warped by him.

  I thought about that statement for a moment. It was possible- probable, even- that a ghost could enter one's thoughts and create the illusion that pain had been inflicted when it actually hadn't, the idea that it was by another's hand that one suffers. So technically...

  And that was where things got confusing. I shouldn't have been speaking with a ghost, of all things. It shouldn't have been possible. I wasn't exactly raised to believe in supernatural or paranormal events as being real things. Although I thoroughly enjoyed all manner of entertainment involving ghosts and werewolves and vampires, make no mistake. That stuff was hot. But I never in my life had suffered under the delusion that anything like what I read and watched and fantasized about could become my reality.

  Besides that, there was the looming question-what did that other guy want, why would he have abducted me and brought me to the dingy cellar of my apartment building? I needed answers and I needed them fast.

  "Where exactly are we?"

  He told you. With one small yet very important difference. This is the cellar of your home. Where the building stood in which I met my end. Where he killed me.

  "Why? He never answered that, never told me much beyond his- your- story. I mean, it isn't like I'll be able to help you. You died a long time ago and..."

  Yes. But I desire to know why my "friend" seemed glad to be rid of me. Why, when he drew the bent blade from my throat, he smirked with such ill will, with such malevolence, that the question of it has kept me from moving on to whatever heaven or hell exists for me. Why he thinks that impersonating me in death will release either of us. He sneered at me, his cold hand caressing my cheek gently, in total opposition with his expression. He tangled his fingers in my hair, his hand becoming a fist as he pulled my head back. I winced from the pain of my hair feeling as though it were being pulled out, slowly, root by tender root. As though my head was a garden and my hair the weeds within, and an uncaring caretaker was weeding the garden with agonizing slowness, threading the roots through the soil one at a time, not caring that it was utter torment for the plant.

  I searched his eyes from my tilted position, wondering at the look of combined turmoil and discomfiture on his face. He drew closer, his eyebrows furrowed, the dark pools of his eyes flicking back and forth between mine, as though he were desperately searching for something.

  "What?" I whispered. My voice cracked- my throat and tongue felt parched. I couldn't remember the taste of water.

  What is this word-parapsychology? Why are you thinking this?

  I grunted as he (inadvertently, I think) tugged on my hair. "If you let me go, I'll tell you."

  He slowly released me and withdrew a few steps, giving me a little breathing room. I wanted to reach up and rub my tender head, but I couldn't with my wrists still bound. I shrugged a little and tried to moisten my lips, but everything was dry and sticky.

  "I need water," I croaked softly, motioning toward a shelf where several cases of plastic water bottles sat, gathering dust. "If you want me to talk, I need a drink."

  He took the few steps toward the shelf, his long legs making short work of it, and studied the packaging for a moment.

  What is this material? I've seen it used for many things, but I have no word for it. It didn't exist in my time.

  I couldn't help but smirk the tiniest bit. "It's called plastic and it's what is slowly poisoning the planet and killing everything. But right now all I care about is the water inside it, so would you please do your poltergeisty thing and bring me one?"

  He snorted and glanced at me with a smirk of his own that made my heart skip a beat, then turned his gaze to the case of water and focused, staring through slightly narrowed eyes at the plastic wrap where it'd been torn open, exposing the bottles within. I could see that a couple were missing- probably the maintenance guy's stash. Boy would he be shocked when he came in after we'd gone and there's ectoplasm on his water bottles. My ghost (whoa, wait, when did he become my ghost?) extended a hand toward the bottles, concentrating, and wrapped his long fingers around the neck of one of them, drawing it up from the packaging and out. He sighed, still watching the bottle as he turned and brought it to me. He was reaching it toward me when his eyes met mine and his focus snapped, causing him to lose his hold of the bottle and sending it to the floor where it rolled toward me and stopped when it hit my shoe. I looked up from the bottle and grinned, then held my bound hands out.

  "Unless you can concentrate long enough to feed me that, I need my hands. Please."

  He narrowed his eyes, glancing from my face to the rope around my wrists and back again, then rolled his eyes and waved his hand. The rope slipped from my wrists and vanished, and I jolted a little in astonishment, turning my arms and hands to and fro. I looked up to see him smirking again, crossing his arms across his chest.

  "It wasn't real? Just another mind trick?" He nodded, the smirk becoming a self-satisfied smile. "It felt so real."

  We've both had plenty of time to pick up a few-what was it you called them? "Poltergeisty things"? Two-hundred years of time. Now- parapsychology. What is it?

  I studied his face in silence, then nodded. I picked up the fallen water bottle, twisted off the lid, and took the longest drink I'd ever taken. Half the bottle disappeared down my throat before I even realized it.

  "It's a very strange word for something quite simple. It just means the study of unexplainable psychological phenomena. Seeing hallucinations or "ghosts" with no reasoning behind it, for example. No drug use, not being drunk, not being psychotic- those could all easily explain this entire experience. If I were under any of those influences. Which I'm not." I brought the bottle to my lips again under the furtive scrutiny of Mr. Hot Ghost. His eyes fluttered to half-mast and the tip of his tongue moistened his full lips as he watched mine close around the opening. I smirked as I teased the moisture within with my own tongue, watching him with great personal amusement as he gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing.

  "What a way to celebrate Valentine's Day," I muttered under my breath.

  Valentine's Day, really? I had no idea. Worst day ever created.

  I choked and sputtered, my laugh escaping as a gurgle. I ran the back of my hand across my chin before a dribble of water could land on my shirt.

  "Worst day ever created?" I repeated, the humour evident in my voice. "Why do you say that?"

  Because my name is Valentine, girl. Can you just imagine the glee with which the other children in the schoolyard teased, tossing manipulations of my name about with utter abandon. He kicked at some dust on the ground in an unusually human- er, living- gesture, his face echoing the loneliness he must have experienced in childhood. It was a relatively new concept when I was young, the giving of love letters and handmade cards and presents-but still. Having a name like mine among so many Thomases and Johns and Marys and Janes-it was torture. You wouldn't begin to understand-

  "You don't know that," I argued bitterly. "I hate the name I was born with. Changed it when I turned 18 and never looked back."

  You can do that?

  "Yes. And did. Proudly."

  What was it? Your birth name.

  "Har
rison. Bloody Harrison. Can you imagine the names I was called? I was bullied my whole life, until I changed it. Wretched excuse for parents, giving me a boy's name."

  He huffed, and I watched suspiciously as his shoulders began to shake. It only took a moment, but then he suddenly doubled over, clutching his knees so as not to tip over, as he roared with laughter. I frowned, crossing my arms beneath my breasts, and settled further into my corner. I wished I hadn't told him, although he was beautiful when he laughed. I kept glaring at him because he deserved to see my displeasure after all the crap I'd been put through.

  "Shut up, Valentine."

  As you wish...Harry.

  "Oh, well spotted. You've hit on exactly the most popular nickname for me in grade school. Glad to see men were just as immature in your time as they are now."

  He fell silent, and I could feel his eyes studying me. His hand cupped my jaw and he lifted my face so that I had to look at him. He pressed his lips together as he stared into my eyes, then nodded grimly. Not before eyeing my lips with a hungry expression, though.

  I'm sorry. It won't happen again.

  "Whatever," I huffed, struggling to my feet and stretching. I tossed him a look as I crossed to the shelves to grab another water. "I go by Sarai these days. Do you want my help or not?"

  Yes, though I am uncertain where to begin. Is there even a way to locate the information I need in this day and age?

  I caught my bottom lip between my teeth and nibbled on it as I pondered. "Well, I suppose the internet wouldn't be of much help, but it might make for a decent starting point."

  What is this in-ter-net? It sounds painful.

  I bit back a giggle. "It can be, although in all fairness it's usually the twerps on social media who cause the pain-" At his head-tilt and look of confusion I shook my head. "Nevermind. I forget that you don't know any of our modern terms. Suffice it to say, I have a device in my flat that I can use to access a...well, kind of an all-knowing realm. There's more information available on there than one could hope to use in a lifetime."