ARC: Crushed (14 page)

Chapter 16

Every day consists of waiting for night. Usually I try to sleep after supper, but tonight I don’t bother.

It’s Tuesday, a week after Armand first arrived, and he’s late. I watch the clock slowly tick past midnight, the same way I sat here since dinner and watched it crawl to midnight, and I can barely contain my fury. Not at Armand. At everyone else. The taunting by the student body has gotten worse, spearheaded by Isaiah and his besties. Jo tries to apologize, but I won’t let her; not as long as she’s locking my door each night. Chi and I are still on speaking terms, but he’s not often at the school. As warned, he, along with Zee and some other seniors, were drafted into service covering beacons nearby when their Crusaders are called elsewhere. He’s in and out, and when he’s in, he’s with Jo.

Before, I was partially off-limits, thanks to my connection to Chi. Now, with my apparent break from them, the gloves have come off. Rumors that the nicer kids wouldn’t believe seem suddenly plausible now that I’m shunned. Before, I could laugh off the shunning by the student body with Jo. Alone, it doesn’t seem so funny.

But at least I have Armand. He’s the escape valve on the pressure cooker of my rage. The longer he takes to get here, the more it builds. If he doesn’t come soon, I’ll explode.

Finally I hear a quiet creak in the hallway. It’s so low, anyone listening less intently would miss it. But it’s the sound I’ve been waiting for all day. When Armand slides the key in the lock and pushes the door open, I’m already there.

He sees the thundercloud roiling under my skin, feels my electric rage crackling in the air. In one look he knows what I’m feeling; in just one look I know he knows.

He takes in my thunderous expression, and doesn’t offer me words. Instead, he reaches out his hand for mine and offers me what I really want: escape.

I take it.

We climb to the roof, and he doesn’t hesitate before throwing a leg over the side of the building. His eyes spark when, this time, for the first time, I don’t stop him, but follow him over the side. We move silently in the dark, sliding from shadow to shadow, as smoothly as pools of liquid, merging with the inky darkness. We work in concert, flowing across the school grounds. Guards are everywhere, but they’re focused out, not in. We slip into the tree line, working from tree to tree, up the side of the mountain. Hot rebellion pumps through my blood, reckless and wild. A cool patch remains, a crisp voice in my head.

You can’t trust him
.

But you can’t trust anyone. And if Armand betrays me, at least I can fight back; he’s the enemy. I can’t kill Isaiah, I won’t kill Jo. I can’t fight the whole school. But if need be, I can make Armand hurt as badly as he hurts me.

More so.

There’s freedom in that – expecting nothing from someone and owing them nothing in return. Our time together is temporary. No, it’s
stolen
. We both know how this is going to end. Oh, he may scheme otherwise, thinking he can stop me by making me like him. He’s an incubus – manipulating through emotions is his stock in trade. He thinks that when the time comes, I won’t have the heart.

He’s part right.

We’ll face each other in battle, and when that day comes, we will do our utmost to reduce the other to bloody pieces. And we will do it unapologetically.

We know what we are.

Just because our relationship has a bloody expiration-date doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it while it lasts. Unlike the Crusaders, I can appreciate something for what it is, without demanding it be more. If anything, it makes our scant hours more precious.

I turn to him now. We’re crouching behind a giant spruce, and he’s looking at his watch, waiting for the next gap in the guard rotation. He’s been busy. I’m impressed.

As if he can feel my regard, his eyes rise to mine. Only inches separate us, and I’m hyper-aware of just how short those inches are. I’m overcome with another wave of rebellion, and my eyes move to his lips.

He tears his gaze back to his watch. “It’s time,” he mouths, and we’re off again, fleeing as lightly as deer. We do this several more times as we make our way to freedom. Finally, we’re on the last ring. Beyond lies open forest and freedom. We crouch, our muscles tense as we prepare to run. He watches his watch, and angles it toward me so I can watch as well.

10… 9… 8…

“Wait,” Armand suddenly breathes, and reaches in his pocket. He pulls out the amulet and, to my surprise, he slips it over my head. His fingers trail along my neck and I shiver. “Just in case.”

He grabs my hand. I let him.

… 2… 1.

We’re off, into the night.

Once we’re past the last guard, we don’t stop running. We run for miles. I’ll be back before morning, before they notice I’m gone, before Jo lets me out of my cell, but for now I’m free. I pound the earth with my feet, taking my rage out on it as I kick harder and higher. I aim for branches, for logs, destroying them with my hard stomps and kicks. Armand is right beside me, delighting in my wild violence. We kick and crash and laugh and run. Two terrors, destroyers in the dark, letting off steam.

But the frantic destruction isn’t enough. It will never be enough, because it alone isn’t what I crave. Instead of calming me down, the cracking of wood in my hands only serves to remind me what it is I truly want. I catch Armand’s eye. “Where is
he
?”

The slow, wicked grin that stretches across his face says he needs no further explanation, and when he turns right, I follow. We run for miles and, though we’re nowhere near a town or settlement, I know we’re close when his ground-eating stomp is replaced with the silent lope of a jungle cat. He slows further and waits until I’m beside him. “I came across our…
friend
when I was scouting the area.”

I peer into the darkness, but we’re still deep in the wooded mountains, without the slightest hint of human habitation. “How do you know he’s my type?”

Teeth flash in the dim wood. “Trust me. You’ll see.”

Presently the outline of a structure takes shape against the darker stripes of tree trunks. It’s small, more shanty than house, really, and appears to be an unskilled man’s DIY project. The house of a squatter, or an illegal hunting cabin more likely. Armand has a sneaky smile on his face as he gallantly bows for me to precede him. I trot toward the nearest – and potentially only – window, obviously recycled from another structure.

I was right; it is a hunting cabin, complete with his trophies mounted on the wall. Only his prey isn’t four-legged.

“Oh, Armand,” I breathe. “He’s
perfect
.” My fingers stroke the glass, my nails making a rasping noise, as I pet the sleeping form rolled in his sleeping bag.

His eyes gleam. “I knew you’d like him.”

I purr agreement, turning back to the peacefully sleeping man.
Tap, tap, tap,
I rap on the window, not unlike how Armand had done on mine, just a few days ago.
Tap, tap, tap.

Groggily the man’s eyes open, and he finds my face in the window. He’s not scared, merely curious, at the appearance of a young girl at his horrific little hut. I smile and he smiles back.

“Come out and play,” I say in a voice that’s mostly a sigh. I doubt he can hear me, but obeys anyway, scurrying toward the door with the eagerness of a mouse toward an apparently-unguarded piece of cheese. He stumbles but doesn’t stop to turn on a light. He wouldn’t want me to notice his trophies. Not yet. Not while I can still run.

He pushes open the door, my little rodent man, and I can’t see him anymore, but I know he’s coming.

He rounds the corner and upon seeing me, he hesitates. Just for a second, as a little suspicion niggles his ratty brain: “
What an odd place to find a piece of cheese…
” His eyes slide from side to side, but he’s unable to find Armand’s shadow among the many.

He suspects, of course he does, the trap that’s about to spring closed. But he can’t resist. They can never resist.

“Come,” I call, but I don’t need to. He’s already moving, furtively now as he ignores his better judgement. “Come out and play,” I murmur, soft, sing-song. Again, the words just are just the ones Armand said to me.

But what happens next isn’t the same at all.

Snap.

Squeal.

Of all the virtues I lack, patience isn’t one I’ve particularly missed – until now. Armand though… I shiver. He cats better than I, toying with our victim, drawing out the inevitable long after I would have given in. He draws us closer, closer to the knife’s edge of satisfaction, until I think – as much as I can think at that point – that, now,
now
it must happen. But then he pulls back at the last second, pulls
me
back, leaving me trembling with hunger. Shaky, dizzy with it.

Then he does it again.

Delaying our gratification over and over again, prolonging our joy, building the anticipation until I can’t stand it, till I could climb the walls with it.

And he wants it. Oh, he wants it as badly as I do. Each movement is brutally controlled, vibrating with carefully controlled savagery. His eyes burn with it, but there, too, I can find a terrible, implacable patience, more frightening than the violence.

To me at least. Most likely our little rat would disagree. Would
have
disagreed, because the end did finally come; of course it did.

And. It. Was. Glorious.

Again I shiver,
shudder
, remembering, and lose my footing for the briefest moment. As if he knows what I’m thinking, his eyes flare.

And there, just there, I see it again. That terrible patience.

I shiver again and blink it away. Now isn’t the time.

Soul drunk we race toward the mountain lake, giddy, almost hysterical. High. I don’t hesitate before I rip off my shirt and sweats, and dive into the water in just my bra and undies. Likewise he strips to his boxers and follows with a splash.

“Race you!” I shout, and point to a mostly-rotted dock on the other side of the lake. He grins, shoves a huge wave of water in my face, and starts swimming. “Cheater!” I gasp, and take off after him. We splash through the water, swimming as hard as we can and snatching glances at each other between strokes. His head start wasn’t nearly long enough, and I overtake him, reaching the platform with enough lead-time to work in a bored whistle as I wait. A pretty breathless whistle, but good enough for him to make a face as he pulls up panting beside me. I grin and leap at him, wrapping my hands over his shoulders and dunking him. His hands slide over the bare skin of my midsection as he wraps his arms around me and pulls me under with him. We wrestle, dunking and diving, hands gliding over skin, intertwined under the water. There’s a wildness to it, an edge to our play-fight, a sharpness to our laughs.

Finally, the rush of the soul drunk slows to a trickle and we break away to tread water in the dark, moon-stained lake. Dark spikes of pines line the edges, like jagged teeth ripping at the star-freckled sky.

I kick off the platform and backstroke toward the rocky shore, hearing the rhythmic splashes of Armand following. We make our way leisurely this time with long, slow strokes until it’s shallow enough to walk. I drop onto the beach. As Armand rises out of the water, it runs down his body in little rivulets.

I know it’s fake. It’s not his body. It’s a demonic trick.

It doesn’t make a damn bit of difference.

I force myself to look away. And to breathe.

He collapses next to me and we’re quiet for a moment.

I remember one of the few (awkward. Oh God, so, so awkward) sex-centered conversations I had with my mom. It was right before she… died, and she’d caught me checking out a guy while we waited in line at a store. She waited until we were in the car, thank God, before she said anything. I felt her worry long before she said anything.

“Don’t ever… give yourself to someone you don’t trust, Meda,” Mom finally started.

I’m pretty sure I had a bratty comeback regarding the euphemism “give yourself”. Probably paired with the classic snotty-shit eye roll I’d managed to perfect in my fifteen years on earth.

She ignored me like the brat I was, and kept talking. “When you sleep with someone, whether you know it or not, whether you want to or not, you give them a little piece of you they can break.”

I had another dismissive comment on the tip of my tongue, but there was something in her voice that stopped me. Something dark and sad. Something that scared me enough to shut the hell up and just nod. She’d turned toward me. “You may think you’re different, but you’re not.” Her eyes grew distant. “Trust me.”

Having gotten to know him, I know Luke would never have broken my mother’s heart, which means that look was put there by my father. Her expression, those words weren’t from someone who was forced. They were from someone who’d made a decision. A bad one.

Now sitting next to Armand’s mostly-naked-spectacular-ness I could see how it could happen.

But I won’t be that girl. I won’t follow in my mother’s footsteps.

I eye his damp muscles and swallow.