Terrorscape (2 page)

“Something a Philistine such as yourself couldn't
possibly appreciate.”
She made a moue of annoyance. “An insult?”

“One must have the capacity for chagrin if one is
to be insulted.”

“You're a fine one to talk.” He was pleased to
detect a snarl of annoyance in her voice. She prided
herself on her control; he prided himself on his ability
to make her lose it.

“I appreciate beauty where I see it.”
“And I cannot?”

“You are blind to everything that exists beyond
the frame of your bedroom mirror.”

 

She smiled. “You think I am beautiful?”

“I think you are foolish.” He made a slash of
charcoal on the page and caught himself wishing it
were her throat instead. “Where is your husband?”

“Not here.”
“He served his purpose so quickly, then?”

“He isn't dead,” she snapped, “though he might
as well be. I don't let him touch me.”

 

He chuckled. “How very unfortunate for him.”

“Oh yes. It amuses me, to see him sweat and beg
like a stinking pig.”
Gavin stopped laughing. She was wearing a thin
shift of silk and lace. Distaste filled him. White was no
color of a blonde. Certainly not this blonde. It was a
elicited thoughts symbolic of purity and innocence;
his sister possessed neither.

He drew himself up and pulled away before their
lips could brush. “Leave.”

 

She knocked his sketchbook out of his hands.
“Not until you look at me.”

He did, with irritation he no longer made any
attempt to hide. “Pick that up and hand it to me.”
“You like having people obey you, don't you, my
dark Adonis?”

He continued to meet her pale blue eyes levelly,
saying nothing. Thinking, though. Always thinking.

“I know you killed that plaything of yours.
Celeste told me everything about—what was her
name? Valerie? You did the right thing, irregardless.
She was weak, and not very pretty.”

His lips twitched into a sneer at her use of the
word
irregardless
, and, mistaking it for affection, she
wrapped her slim, strong fingers around his wrist.

“I never said you could touch me.”

She pressed his palm against her breast and
arched against him. Through the thin layer of fabric
he felt the nipple harden.

“Make love to me,” she said. “My husband is as
impotent as he is pathetic and stupid.”

 

“A man without parallel, your husband.”
“I want to feel a real man inside of me. I want to
know what it is to be fucked.”

“It doesn't sound as if you need any help in that
quarter. You chose your bed, poor choice though it
was; I'm afraid your only option now is to lie in it.”

“You insult yourself then. You were always my
choice. My
first
choice.”

 

“No.”

“There is steel in our blood. It is our duty, yours
and mine, to carry on the family legacy. Luca thinks
only of his books, and Dorian prefers the company of
men. Leona and Celeste—well, they are foolish, silly
creatures who will marry foolish, silly husbands—”

“As you did.”

She grabbed him between his legs. He growled
and swiped for her arm but Anna-Maria had been
fastest and she used all her weight to shove him back
against the mattress, gripping her prize tightly.

“You are hard for me, and I will not be denied.”
“I am not thinking of
you
. My plaything, as you
call her, lives.”

Her smile snagged. “What?”
“Did Celeste neglect to inform you of that trifling
fact? Oh dear. Perhaps your influence here is not as
great as you have thought.”

“You self-satisfied catamite son of a bitch—”

He shoved her off the bed with his outstretched
legs. She fell to the floor in an ungainly heap, with her
shift around her thighs.

“I suggest you save your conjugal visitations for
your husband,” he said, “but since you are down
there, perhaps you might make yourself otherwise
useful and hand me the sketchbook.”

She threw it at him. “Bastard.”

 

“Bawd.” He caught it easily. “You may leave
now.”

He didn't look to see if his words had drawn
blood. They had rung true, and new ideas fueled by
his disgust at his half-sister and his anger at Val
poured
forth
from
the
charcoal
onto
the
page,
forming a nimbus of sketches, scribbles, and cursive
notes.

You were always my choice
, she had said.
My first
choice
.
There were choices, weren't there? He had quite
forgotten. Other choices. Other women, with red hair
and insolent eyes. He ran his fingers along his neck,
tracing the ridges of the scar left by that jagged blade.

So many means of killing
.

 

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

Seasons changed, but his thoughts remained the
same: boiling, frenetic, and impure. But now—now he
had a purpose to filter them through.

His mother did not question his late arrivals, nor
did she pause long enough in their terse exchanges to
notice the drying blood beneath his nails. And even if
she had, she would have said nothing. Done nothing.
Whether he was an innocent man or a guilty one
mattered not, as long as she was left out of the affair.
It all came down to self-preservation in the end.

He rather liked to think that she was wary of him,
as well. For all intents and purposes, he was the
patriarch; as Anna-Maria had pointed out, his was the
name
through
which
the
family
lineage
would
continue. His mother needed him, and that unnerved
her; she did not dare risk his displeasure.

He went to the chessboard, moving like a panther
in the darkness. He picked up the black queen,
running his thumb along the grainy surface of the
hand-carved wood until he hit cold metal. A nail
protruded from the piece, where its heart would have
been had it been human.

Some
of
those
women
had
gone
with
him
willingly. Others—he smiled—not quite so much.
They had all screamed at the end.

That had been his mistake, giving her so much
power. He continued toying with the damaged queen
as his other hand snaked into his lap to flick open the
button of his fly. Treating her as an equal. Letting his
passions rule where reason alone should be king.

Not this time.

No, this time he would be patient. He would bide
his time and strike only when she was completely
defenseless—after
he
had made her so.

When she had no more shields—after
he
had
knocked them all down.

 

When she had no more pawns—after
he
had
killed them all.

 

He tilted his head back, and let out a husky laugh.
Checkmate
.

Chapter One
Meadowsweet

On the other side of the window, the cobalt
waters of the Pacific Ocean broke against the jagged
shoreline of rock. Though it was late August, the sky
was obscured by lingering vestiges of morning fog the
color of slate.

From the seats of the Intracoastal Express Line
Valerie Klein watched the frothing sea foam scatter
over the granite fingers of rock that were clawing
their way out of the sea. It looked, she thought, as if
some stone creature were drowning in the depths,
and making a last desperate appeal for survival.

She had been sipping tea but then, as phantom
water filled her nose and lungs, choking her, killing
her, she spat out her mouthful with a wheezing gasp.

No
.

People looked in her direction. She heard their
whispers rustling through the passenger car, and felt
trapped. Trapped and lost in a forest of lies and
speculation, with nary a breadcrumb to find her way
out again.

(How can you live, when you're so repressed?)
This wasn't living.
She swiped the back of her hand against her
clammy forehead, then pressed the cold glass tea

bottle against her skin. The orange bottle had a
picture of a peach. She stared at it vacantly. She could
have been drinking ash this whole time and not
known the difference.

This wasn't living at all.

 

Wasn't there a belief somewhere that near-death
experiences left a part of your soul in the afterlife?
I am the living dead. A hungry ghost.

The train turned sharply, jolting her back against
the seat and the bottle thwacked painfully against her
forehead. She placed the tea bottle in the cup holder
with a shaking hand and looked at her frosted
reflection, superimposed over the pebbled beaches.

She reached up to touch the dark strands of hair
framing her incongruously pale face. Each time she
saw herself, she gave a little start and wondered,
Is
that really me?

It was now.
For better or worse, Valerian Kimble was dead.

“What have you done to your beautiful hair?” her
mother had asked, upon seeing the bathroom stained
with ink-black dye.

“You don't need contacts, Bunny,” her father had
said, staring at her newly blue eyes with something
like betrayal. “You're beautiful just the way you are.”
But that's not the point.

She could still see their shock. Their pity. Their
desperate need to understand. The knowledge that
she had hurt them tore at her from the inside like
barbed flechettes, but only when she had the presence
of mind to think outside of her own snarled sense of
self. In truth, her parents couldn't understand.

Nobody could.
But this was something she must do.

Her psychiatrist had tried to dissuade her at her
parents' behest. “I don't think you are ready for steps
quite this extreme,” she said. “You might consider
starting somewhere closer to home, so you can be
nearer to your support system.”

It wasn't about comfort, though. It was about
escape.

 

But she was eighteen now. She had control over
her future. Nobody else.
Nobody
.

To hell with her psychiatrist.
(You've become fearful and weak.)
To hell with
him
.

She sent out the application forms and waited,
giving the farewells in her head in advance. Cutting
the people she loved out of her heart one by one, like
severed lifelines. She did not have to wait long.

Goodbye, Mom and Dad
.

Halcyon University had awarded a scholarship to
Valerie Klein. Impressed by her touching personal
statement, detailing personal growth she had yet to
feel,
and
her
good
grades,
their
Financial
Aid
department awarded her with enough money to
cover the out-of-state tuition fees.

It was Valerie Klein who was heading towards
North Point, Washington, to settle into what would
become her home for the next four years.

Valerian Kimble was dead and gone. Buried in an
unmarked grave, out of sight but never out of mind.
Goodbye, Valerian. Requiescat in pace.

Her hometown, in Derringer, California, was
located in the middle of a valley ringed by duncolored hills and, in the distance, hazy, purple
mountains. It rarely rained. The winters were cold,
but mostly dry. Tumbleweeds, eucalyptus, windmill
grass, creeping juniper, mustard seed flowers, oaks,
evergreens, and the eponymous California poppy—
all these plants had formed the backdrop of the
scenery from her child- and young adulthood.

She watched them scroll past the window. The
dry, desiccated scrub grew sparser and less frequently
further north, as burnished gold ceded to green.

It was as if she had tumbled down a rabbit hole
and found herself in a forested wonderland. She had
never seen so much green in her life, so rich and lush
and vibrant. The many shades and hues made her
eyes ache from attempting to take in the sheer
intensity of it all. There were oaks, but also birches,
aspens, cottonwoods, alders, maples, and yews. Trees
with exotic names and feathery branches and trunks
carpeted in soft green moss. Trees that would be out
of place in Derringer.

Just like her.

 

▪▫▪▫▪▫▪

The station was thick with friends and family
members waiting to greet the incoming freshmen. The
weather was cool but humid, with beads of moisture
hanging low in the air. Val began to sweat. She didn't
like crowds, she never had, but now—

(It takes many sheep to satisfy one wolf.)
Things had gotten worse, not better.

She found herself scanning the sea of faces,
looking too closely and intimately for the tacit norms
of polite society. Her blood roared in her ears.
Some of the people stared back. Others looked
away.
Wolves
, she thought.
Wolves and sheep
.

None of the faces were familiar.
It was little consolation.
(If you run, I will pursue.)

One of the buses pulled up to the terminal across
the street from the train. Several people Val's own age
were boarding. Val broke out into a run, dragging her
heavy suitcase behind her. She came to a skidding
stop just before the doors closed.

“Does—does this bus go to the Otoño dorms?”

The bus driver shook her head. “This is the onefourteen.” She said this as if it should be obvious. At
Val's blank expression she added, “The inner-city
commuter line. Are you an incoming freshman?”

Was it that obvious? “Yes.”

 

“Here—take a schedule. The bus you want is the
seven-W. It'll take you where you need to go.”

Laughter reached her ears. Maybe they weren't
laughing at her, but—oh, who was she kidding? Of
course they were. Her face flamed. Even if she no
longer had the hair that went with it, she still had the
complexion of a redhead. Her shame and misery were
apparent to all.

The bus doors closed. Val sat on the bench to
wait. That was all she seemed to do now. Wait. Wait
while life passed her by. She closed her eyes and
sucked in a mouthful of the cold, damp air. The
seven-W did not come for another twenty minutes.

When the bus arrived she repeated her question
to the new bus driver. He nodded and beckoned her
aboard. “No fare,” he said, when she tried to put her
money in the box. “Today, for students, is free.”