Pieces of Autumn (14 page)

When I heard the sound of his footsteps, my heart jackhammered against my ribs. I crawled up the stairs, clutching at the banister, my muscles screaming from being too still for too long.

The door swung open, and I had to duck to avoid being winged across the head. The light blinded me, and I felt something tumble down the stairs, knocking against my shoulder. The door slammed shut again, and I rasped his name.

"Tate!" I was trying to scream, but my throat was still too raw. "Tate. God damn it! You can't do this!"

It took a few more moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness again. Defeated, I went to find whatever he'd thrown down here for me.

A bottle of water and a loaf of bread. It was better than nothing.

Once I was sated, I took a deep breath and began to form a plan.
 

It would have been easier if the door swung outwards, rather than inwards. But I was pretty sure I could break my way out, with enough leverage.

I waited for the sound of the rushing water in the pipes, and began my work.

There was a loose board on one side of the wall, near the glow of the security camera. I just had to pray that he didn't actually have screens in the bathroom, mounted on the shower wall.

With a small amount of effort, the board broke free. I dragged it up to the door and pulled back on the lower corner, with all the strength I had, until I could wedge the board in the crack.

My hands ached, and I probably had a hundred splinters, but I was about to be free.

How had things deteriorated so quickly? Why had I taunted him? Why had I let myself become so intoxicated with such a dangerous man?
 

I leaned on the board with everything I had, with all the weight of my body, straining and heaving, and hearing the encouraging creaks and groans of the wood. I'd never break the lock, but I could loosen the hinges. There was a chance.

Finally, there was a popping sound, and then a crack, and I knew I was on my way to freedom. Heart leaping, I gave one last push, and the door gave way just enough.

The slice of light was almost more than I could bear, but I couldn't afford to lose any time. I slipped through the gap, ignoring the scraping and scratching against my skin.
 

I looked longingly at the bottles of water and a few more loaves of bread in the kitchen, but if I was going to take the time to gather any supplies, a weapon made the most sense.

Tate kept his guns locked up, obviously. And a quick glance around the kitchen indicated he'd put locks on some of the drawers. No doubt, anything sharp was housed in there.

There were several rooms down here on the main level I'd never seen before, and I figured they were worth a shot. The water still rushed through the pipes. Thank God for psychopaths with luxurious showering habits.

The first room I checked was locked. I moved on to the next, feeling the handle give immediately, and breathing a silent prayer of thanks to whoever might still be watching over me.

A light flickered dimly in the corner, and I gasped at the sight in front of me.

The room was utterly destroyed. Furniture upended, the fine leather upholstery ripped and stabbed, stuffing scattered across the floor. I was walking across a graveyard of books, their pages torn and spines ruined, like I had fantasized doing to the ones in my room. One of the bookshelves lay on its side. Every lamp was knocked over, and one of the bulbs had shattered. I stepped gingerly around it, heading for the desk. I had a feeling that I'd find something I might use to defend myself, and my instinct was right. An old fashioned letter-opener wasn't much, but it was something.

I wondered if that was what he had used to destroy his furniture. Even in my frantic state to get out of this house, back out into the world, into the clutches of the devil I knew, it was hard not to picture it. To see him flown into such a rage that he thought nothing of tearing all these things apart. Most of them were probably irreplaceable, especially now.
 

I couldn't believe I ever thought I could stay here.
 

Clutching the letter opener, I made my way back towards the front door. Just then, I heard the sound of the water subside.

A stab of panic went through my chest. I ran to the door, struggling with the complex locks for a moment before it finally swung open. I didn't dare turn back to see if I was being followed. I didn't even bother to close the door.

I just ran.

Running, running, with my brain pounding fit to burst in my skull and my lungs heaving, I ignored the pain and ran some more. On the streets, I'd been pretty wiry and pretty fast, whenever I wasn't badly malnourished. But since Stoker, since Tate, I had grown soft and easily fatigued. My leg muscles were already tensing and burning. How much longer could I keep up this pace?

Long enough.
 

It has to be long enough.

How far had I gone? Could I still see the lights of Tate's house in the background, or was that the moon and the stars glowing behind me? I couldn't stop, couldn't even pause, to turn and look. What if I saw his shadow coming after me?

Just a little farther. Just a few more steps. A few more minutes.
 

You have to.

Just a few more -

I stepped on something that felt strange under my feet, not like the rocks and grass and dirt. But I barely had time to feel it before my foot was airborne again, before a sharp burst of pain made me stumble and lose my footing.

I cried out, unable to stop myself.

It was agony. The way I imagined a bear trap must feel, snapping shut on my ankle. For one brief moment I wondered if Tate had actually done that, scattering his own backyard with sharp vicious jaws to snap my leg in two if I tried to run away.

A moment later, I remembered.

Careful. There's snakes.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Fever

Tate

Her scream made the hairs stand up on the back of my neck.

Such a peculiar sensation. I couldn't remember feeling it before, although I must have. Everyone has. It's purely visceral, a reaction, a warning sign. Perfectly normal.

When was the last time I felt normal?

I was half-dressed, still damp from the shower, but I only took time to throw on a pair of jackboots and grab a flashlight before I slammed the front door open and leapt over the stairs, skipping them completely, running across the tall grass towards the sound.

The Viper was still standing by my vanity mirror, fiddling with his cufflinks.
Let the stupid bitch die.

But I was running.
 

The closer I got, the more I could hear the sounds she was still making, teeth-gritting moans, choking sobs, sounds that made something jagged and raw scrape against my heart.

Finally, I could see her. She was crumpled on the ground, her hands clasped around her calf, jaw slack and eyes streaming. I knelt down on the ground and gathered her into my arms, without a word.

The Viper had murder in his eyes, but I set my jaw and started running again.

By the time we got inside, and I was able to drop her on the lounge in the main living room, her sobbing was loud and incessant. I knew there was no point in trying to quiet her without something for the pain. I knew what it felt like.

Moving swiftly, I went to fetch supplies, ignoring everything except the task at hand. Including the voice in the back of my head.

Let the stupid bitch die.

I could hear her keening, all the way to my office and back.

Dropping an armful of supplies on an end-table, I knelt down to examine the puncture wound. Copperhead. Naturally.

"Open your mouth," I said, and she didn't hesitate, although she trembled with the exertion of doing anything at all. Setting the pill on her tongue, I closed her jaw for her and said, "swallow."

Finally, her body relaxed. Chest still heaving, she stared at me, even as her eyes started to go a little glassy.

The puncture site was turning ugly, but I was already drawing the syringe for the anti-venom. The first dose went in under the skin, near the bite, where her skin was starting to turn purple. The second...

I looked up at her. She was only half-there, and the morphine couldn't be working that well yet.
Fuck
. I put my wrist to her forehead. She was starting to feel hot, clammy, and in a second she would start shivering.

The tissue damage would be trivial, as far as these things went. But the venom had pumped through her too fast for me to prevent the sickness. She'd be feverish for days, weeks if she was unlucky, and...

Let the stupid bitch die.

I paced the room, watching her slip in and out of consciousness. The Viper just smiled, knowingly. He didn't need to say it.

"Shut up," I muttered, aloud. She didn't stir.

The Viper just chuckled. He knew what I wanted - what I would deny myself, for as long as I fucking lived, just to prove a point.
 

You're so stubborn. Just do it. Take what you want. She won't even remember.

"But
I
will," I growled.

Nothing ever silenced him for long. But I poured myself a glass of whiskey, and waited.

I was going to be waiting a long time.

For most of the next few days, she was murmuring, delirious. The Viper finally stopped plaguing me when he realized there was no use. I became absorbed with caring for her, nursing her back to health.

I couldn't let myself think about how I'd told her my protection only extended to this house, and that if she left, it was all over. I'd acted in full defiance of that, and she couldn't know that she was my weakness.

But in her feverish state, I had nothing to worry about. She wouldn't remember this - and if anything did stick in her mind, she'd write it off as a dream.
 

So I allowed myself to hold her tenderly, stroking her hair while I coaxed a drink of water down her throat. I kissed her forehead. I let myself pretend. For a little while, I was normal. I was unguarded.
 

When the danger had passed, the darkness started to creep back in.

I didn't have much of the good whiskey left. God only knew how long it would be until I could get my hands on it again. But I finished off the bottle anyway, slouched in a chair in the corner of Autumn's room. Watching her breathe, quiet and steady at last.

This girl had the audacity, the sheer fucking
balls
to assume that I was a human being. That I could be trusted to treat her with a modicum of dignity. And how did I repay her?

Anger. Cruelty. Neglect.
 

I remembered that moment, just after I rutted against her like a fucking dog, when the shame coursed through me and all I could see was red. I threw her in the basement, because it seemed like a good idea at the time. Because I was a brutal fucking animal without a soul. Without a conscience. Without anything to stop me from acting that way.

I remembered, and I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper.
 

This wasn't how things were supposed to be.

I was supposed to live out the rest of my wretched existence in peace. I was supposed to stay here, alone, where I couldn't poison any other women's lives. They'd be poisoned regardless, by someone - I wasn't stupid. I knew that. I didn't care. I just didn't want to be a part of it anymore. I couldn't.
 

Daniela had ruined me for that.

As I polished off the last of my whiskey, the memories slipped over me, like a cold blanket of water just before drowning.

Mr. Holland was his name. That was how he introduced himself to me, at any rate. Real names didn't mean much anymore, if they ever did. He handed me his card, and a sticky sweet bun that smelled like heaven. I hadn't eaten in three days.

He said: "There's plenty more where that came from, if you come and work for me."

Back then, nobody knew much about Stoker. Mr. Charles was still just one of the Seven, the board of directors that pulled all the strings. I knew they dealt in girls. It was distasteful, but not as distasteful as starving to death. Not as distasteful as the shit I'd seen on the streets, the girls - and the boys - who would suck cock for a scrap of bread, and more often than not, wind up dead and robbed for the clothes on their backs.
 

Stoker seemed like a viable alternative. I didn't want to think about what I would have done, if they hadn't come along.
 

As it turns out, I would have been better off stabbed in an alley. At least that would have been quick.

Mr. Holland took a particular liking to me. I soon realized this was a double-edged sword. If I recruited twice as many girls as the other headhunters, it still wasn't enough. I could always do better. He kept telling me I had a handsome face. Trustworthy. I should never have to take no for an answer.
 

And then, before long, I was training them too. The first time I slapped a girl, Holland convinced me I was doing her a kindness. He was very persuasive.