She didn’t stub her toe kicking the door, at least there was that. But Bea hadn’t known he could just vanish, right out of a locked basement—a nasty surprise, one that sent her stumbling backward while the force-field thingie shimmered into being.
If she hadn’t been so shocked, she might not have noticed how the walls developed a thin layer of the same weird almost-visible field, sinking in and going quiescent as she stared. Or maybe her eyes had gotten better?
He was gone, she was locked up again. And though she hadn’t expected him to suddenly listen to reason just because she’d semi-willingly fucked him, it was still a crashing disappointment.
He explained some stuff, and you got a peek at some pictures plus some new terminology. Look at the victories, Bebe. Jare’s voice, with that note of forced optimism he’d used a lot right after Mom’s passing in hospice. Though the crime scene stuff was kind of gruesome. Maybe he really didn’t…
“Shut up,” she hissed. Talking to herself again, in record time.
At least she wasn’t in pajamas. The sneakers were an absolute bonus. She’d been afraid he would notice she wasn’t practically barefoot, afraid he would know she was lying—getting through a window while that Wren guy sat outside a door had crossed her mind more than once while she promised to be good—and terrified he would rip her clothes off again.
All in all, she could count this as a qualified win. Plus she could dig the goddamn necklace from a back pocket—she hadn’t wanted it attached to her throat, but it was even more uncomfortable pressing into her right ass-cheek. And really, she only had Lukas’s word about it being made from a dead green hench-thing.
Were they still henchmen if they didn’t work for him? The photos in the file folder weren’t really the worst she’d ever seen—Don was fully tapped into the thriving trade of weird pictures claiming to be Sasquatch encounters, strange murders, and celebrity deaths with a tinge of occultism, plus she had obsessively studied Jared’s autopsy and the sight of his body in the stable never really left her.
She could have gone through the other folders. Lukas hadn’t seemed inclined to stop her, but maybe it was a show. How hard would he work to gaslight her? If the pictures were fake, it was a lot of effort getting the Wren guy to put together a propaganda package.
Why would such a powerful monster bother?
Bea studied the shimmer over the door, drawing the necklace out. Warm from her pocket, it settled over the sweater; she still didn’t want it next to her skin.
Don’t worry about what to believe right now. You have some time alone, use it.
The air was still, close, utterly dead. Now she couldn’t hear the other humans in the house again, which might be the invisible field or just regular old soundproofing. Her vision and hearing were indeed more acute, her sense of smell not far behind, but plenty of the bigger questions remained. Bea studied the force-field, running fingertips ever so lightly over its near-invisible border.
It gave like warm prickling taffy, unless she pushed hard. Then it hardened right back, nearly throwing her hand away, and the prickles became intense. Which was...interesting.
Finally, she headed for the iron four-poster, and grabbed one of the pillars. Someone had been down to remake the bed; she caught a faint warm scent which translated into a mental picture of Mrs. Martinez, wavering under a far stronger drench of fabric softener.
Wonder what she thinks of her boss ripping up clothes all the time. Bea set her heels and pulled, not expecting much.
Metal made a low, unhappy sound of strain. Bea snatched her hands away. Deep divots were left behind, and the iron post now slanted drunkenly.
“Holy shit,” she breathed. So this was what monster blood did. She tested her teeth again, running her tongue delicately over familiar edges—they didn’t seem any sharper.
If she could get away before the fangs, would she be okay? Folklore said killing the head bloodsucker before an infected person got a taste of human blood was the cure, and it would certainly be a lot easier if she was strong enough to bend metal.
Still, he was bound to be stronger yet, and knew how to use what he had. Bea needed practice, a way to test her new abilities, and there was only so much she could do while locked up. Though the room was pretty big, enough to dance in if she felt the need. And then there was that whole thing about him being the only one allowed to ‘feed’ her, which sort of argued against the dividing event between monster and whatever she was now?—
Rattlerattle. The sound was faraway, deeply muffled but almost familiar. Bea whirled, suddenly afraid she’d lost track of time and had just stood staring for hours, or that the monster had been testing her compliance and would now set about another part of his plan, which might or might not include tearing her clothes off.
Or getting her high on his blood again. A sleepy tickle touched the back of her throat; she could almost taste the thick sweetness, the ever-changing impression of favorite or craved foods.
Rattle. Rattlescrape.
It was the locks on the door, she realized. Should she try to unbend the bedpost, cover up any evidence? Bea watched, her heart lodged firmly in her throat; at least the fear made that terrible little tickle retreat.
Scrape. Rattlerattle. Scrape. The sounds were so faint she almost doubted her ears—but the doorknob twitched fractionally, a tiny mouse-movement.
Bea waited. Trap. It’s gotta be a trap, that’s what it was last time. Right?
But if it wasn’t, if she was stronger and faster now…it might be worth the attempt. If he was waiting on the stairs to catch her, what was the worst that could happen?
Well, he’ll either kill you or fuck you, or make you drink more blood. Are those consequences you can live with?
Bea sidled toward the door, hardly noticing her sneakers made no noise at all. The necklace warmed, a change apparent even through her sweater—did this mean the little green bastards were outside looking for her? If they were, what had happened to all the people, the ‘staff’?
Please don’t let them all be dead.
