My eyes snapped open as his wandered over to Austin, who was too lost in his own pleasure to notice.
He did mean… “No.”
“He’s not who you think he is, Poppet.” Felix leaned in to whisper in my ear, “Let me show you.”
Flashes of images flew through my mind. Various women with tears streaming down their faces. One after another, pleading for mercy, screaming, then silent. Behind each and every one of them was Gina and Austin, laughing. They killed them all.
They faded away, and all I could see was Austin’s dark eyes.
I don’t know how the knife got into my hand. All I remembered was plunging it into his chest, the feel of us falling, and blood dripping off my hands as I drove it into him over and over again.
December 31, 11:47 pm
The first thing I heard when I came to was the sound of a clock ticking. There was nothing else—just that.
Tick…
Tick…
Tick…
Slow and patient, like calm breathing.
For a moment, I thought I had escaped The Craven, or the nightmare of it. But when I opened my eyes, I knew better.
The bed I was lying on had black sheets and a grey blanket. A thin white gown wrapped around me, and my hands rested on my stomach with the fingers laced, like someone had laid me to rest. But most disturbing was how clean I was. There was no blood or other fluids. No evidence of any of the atrocities I’d committed. Nothing but the clean smell of soap.
I stared up at the chandelier overhead. Its dull crystals caught the light but refused to sparkle, and while the ceiling looked darker, with the same age cracks as the rest of the hotel. I was still here. In a different room, but still in The Craven.
The realization settled heavier than panic ever could. Panic meant escape. There was no escaping from this place, or what I did. There was more blood on my hands. It wasn’t staining my skin in bright red, but I could see it.
Sighing, I turned my head to the right. That was when I realized that something had shifted.
Felix stood near the far wall. His reflection caught in the fractured mirror behind him. The creepy smile that was usually on his face. He wasn’t watching me or playful in any way. His attention remained fixed on the clock mounted above the door—a large antique one with a face yellowed by time.
Flynn sat on the floor at the foot of the bed. He rested his back against the bed frame and bowed his head. The white paint on his face looked cracked, and the black lines around his mouth were deeper and darker as if they’d been carved in, instead of drawn.
He wasn’t looming or sinister. He was simply there.
For the first time since I’d seen them, they both looked tired. Exhausted even. Neither one of them spoke or looked my way when I shifted, which was so much worse. I didn’t like the sudden silence.
“What is this place?” I asked while pushing myself up.
Two words. That’s all I got from the normally talkative Felix. “You’re awake.”
“Where’s Austin?” I looked down at my hands, searching for signs of blood.
“Gone,” Felix said.
“I killed him.”
Felix sighed, “He was already dead. He made his choice.”
The clock’s minute hand moved, and Felix’s jaw tightened while Flynn’s finger twitched.
That was when I knew. Whatever room this was, whatever night this marked, I wasn’t here to perform.
I was brought here to witness something. It wasn’t Felix or Flynn. It was this place—The Craven—that wanted me here. I felt it when I first walked through the doors. “What is this place?”
