There had just so happened to be a hole in the hayloft roof, as a matter of fact. Pointing eastward, so far as she could remember. Getting it patched was a Jared Project put on indefinite hold when the freaky shit started—the misshapen tracks in the mud, the rocks thrown from the woods, Snowball’s barking and growling when the ear-whine started at irregular intervals, the greasy yellow mist at the edge of the yard where undergrowth began. Squishing and rattling at the windows late at night. The time she’d walked up to the mailbox after dark and could have sworn she was followed back to the house by wet, splorching footsteps.
None of that really seemed ol’ Chris Everly’s style. Or Lukas, or whoever the hell he was. He’d probably honestly believed throwing money at Jared would make her brother fold, and if not, showing up in all his monster glory and applying invisible pressure might do it. Christ knew she might have told Jare to sell after meeting the guy—if he’d been wearing the affable, smiling face from the party.
Bea had spent a lot of time wondering about the conversation between her enemy and her brother before the murder; now she could almost believe none had happened. Unless the monster was playing a part with her too, like switching between Everly and Andranov.
He was a third person when alone with her, an unpredictable fucking hurricane—literally. A chameleon with fangs. Each version of him looked slightly different, moved differently, spoke just a little differently as well.
Which sounded exhausting. When he didn’t have anyone to perform for, did he just sit and stare?
He’s out ‘hunting’. You caught that, didn’t you?
Christ, she wished she hadn’t. Did he treat all his victims like this? If he was busy sucking her blood, why was he out topping up with more? Was he looking to replace her as soon as she bored him? That bullshit about lemons and rarity and not hurting her…
Bea discovered she had drifted back into the bathroom, staring at the neatly packaged toothbrush. Her fingers wrapped over the sink’s cold porcelain rim, squeezing hard.
Did she imagine the faint creaking? Was it her bones, or the ceramic? And she realized two things, catching a stray motion in the mirror flush to the wall, probably safety glass. She could find a way to test that later.
First, she was rocking back and forth, her mouth moving slightly as her thoughts raced. And, second, the lights weren’t on. It was pitch-black down here. Yet she could see—dim suggestions of shapes, sure, but way more than she should be able to. She’d seen the shimmer-curtain in front of the door, too.
Were there divots in the sink’s rim? She ran her fingertips along the edge, and when she remembered there was a light switch she almost laughed. Thin, crazy giggles, boiling in her dry throat.
The lights flicked on when she flipped the switch, decorative frosted bulbs bursting into life. Her eyes stung, watering hard; she couldn’t be sure, but she thought maybe there were small cracks at the sink’s edge.
Okay. What now? There was no shelf for the white towels, piled on the sunken bathtub’s margins. But maybe she could tear up some of the plumbing, give herself a weapon?
He shook off the stake and turned a poker into a pretzel. You’re gonna need a tank, Bea. And maybe a grenade launcher as well.
A metallic rattle brought her out of the bathroom, her heart deciding to leap up and block her windpipe once more. The sound, weirdly muffled but definite, came from the door to the stairs—and the rest of the house.
He’d said before dawn, had she wasted all night swaying in front of a mirror talking to herself? Or had he lied? Gone out ‘hunting’, maybe he’d gotten what he needed?
Oh, my God.
The faint sound continued, and with the bathroom lights burning the larger, just as empty room was full of soft shadows. The huge iron bed sat smugly in the center, a tiny green wink near its foot—the necklace, tossed there because if the monster wasn’t lying about how it was made…
Rattlerattle. Scrape. Rattlerattle. Tiny sounds, and now that she thought about it, distorted by the invisible force-field.
Someone trying the door? The monster, attempting to drive her even more bugshit? No, he’d probably just walk in and...have her. Bea clutched at the doorframe, her knees pressing together against a hard shiver.
Trap. If I touch the door, does it count as an ‘escape attempt’? Or—and here was an awful, sickmaking thought—was it the little green henchmen, coming after the necklace like he said?
Either way, if she was going to escape, she had to wait and plan for a more-than-good opportunity. If he wasn’t lying about this leman thing, she might have some way of exerting a little control over the situation—but if she tried and it wasn’t part of his script, he might get annoyed and just tear her head off. Or juicebox her to death.
She couldn’t decide what to believe, so Bea just stood stock-still, hoping inaction was the right choice. Finally the door quit making those tiny scratching rattles.
In the end she grabbed the white comforter and settled in a corner. She braced her back against the wall—wood paneling over concrete, it felt like—and wrapped the blanket securely. The necklace lay on the floor nearby, glinting at odd moments; had she simply not noticed its habit of random scintillation before? Her own perceptions were untrustworthy as fuck, the world turned into carnival funhouse distortions.
If the little green fucks burst in, she would throw the jewelry at them and run. Bea hugged her knees, put her feverish forehead down, was dimly glad her hair blocked out the surroundings, and eventually drifted into thin troubled semiconsciousness.
A draft of warm air, the sudden sense of breathing presence. Bea lifted her aching, pounding head, peering through clinging strands of hair.
The monster had appeared without bothering to make a real sound, just that soft rush. The door was still shut tight, the shimmer-curtain undulating like seaweed. He crouched before her, balanced easily, elbows braced on knees. White dress shirt with sleeves rolled casually up, silver watch on his left wrist, dark tailored vest, trousers, those wingtips with the tactical soles, his hair ruffled and spotted with a few drops of ice. The aroma of night and fresh air hung on him.
He’d been outside. Lucky him, getting to stroll around.
He gazed at her steadily, unmoving. Which way was this situation going to go? Would he say anything about the trap?
“Ah,” he breathed, a soft syllable as if she’d behaved as expected. “The Gift is wearing through quickly.”
