Nightfall Page 11

  I knew what Damon did to sink his teeth into those around him.

  “You wanna fuck me, too?” I said in a low voice, a soft smile tilting the corner of my mouth.

  He grinned, still not looking at me.

  But surprisingly, he replied, “Sometimes.”

  I stilled.

  “Sometimes I think about her watching us,” he went on. “I think she’d like it, but she’d hate that she liked it.”

  With Damon, he didn’t see the person. He was attracted to control. Making people do things they wouldn’t normally do. It was all about the turn of the screw. Like a fish hook, he burrowed his way into heads and stayed there, long after he’d gone.

  And his friends were the most valuable thing to him. He’d die for us, but the scary part was, that might not be the worst that could happen.

  “She’ll never be to you what we are,” he told me, “because she’s too scared, too proud, and too boring.” He stopped and finally turned to me. “She’d never love you like you deserve, because she doesn’t respect you. You’re too shallow to her.”

  And I felt my insides fold in on themselves, over and over, creating this hole in my gut, because I knew he was right, and fuck him.

  What would she see in me?

  And why the hell did I care? I was William Grayson III. The grandson of a senator. The best shooter on our basketball team, and she’ll be coming to my company in ten years, begging for a grant to fund her stupid theory on the viability of rooftop farms with their own micro-climates or some such shit.

  I didn’t need her.

  I dug my keys out of my pocket, not caring where Kai and Michael had disappeared to. Everyone would find their way home.

  I turned around. “I gotta go.”

  “Will.”

  But I didn’t stop. Heading outside, I jumped into my truck and sped out of there, charging back onto the highway, and I didn’t care if that asshole pulled me over again.

  I rubbed my hand over my face, shaking my head as that whole conversation replayed in my mind.

  Emory Scott hated me, but she hated nearly everyone. So, she was making me work for it. So what? I’d be disappointed if she didn’t. She didn’t respect Michael, Kai, or Damon, either. It shouldn’t hurt.

  But it did.

  I always liked her. I always looked for her.

  And over the years, passing her in the halls and feeling her in the classroom next to me, she got hot as fuck in ways no one else seemed to notice but me.

  God, she had a mouth on her. I loved her attitude and her anger, because I was always too warm and I needed the ice.

  It made me smile.

  But I also saw things no one else did. The cute way she’d trip over a sidewalk slab or walk straight into a mailbox, because her eyes were lost in the trees over her head instead of watching where she was going.

  How she’d push her grandmother in her wheelchair down to the village, both of them smiling and eating ice cream together. Emmy would hold her hand the whole time they sat.

  The way she worked so hard, all by herself, without anyone to keep her company on her creative projects around town.

  There was so much there that people didn’t see. She shouldn’t be alone all the time.

  But Damon was right. She’d never be on my arm. She’d never let her guard down.

  I turned, going past her street, and straight to the village, stopping at the gazebo she had started building before the school year started. Some project she’d convinced the city to let her build in the park at the center of the square.

  She seemed to be here working if she wasn’t at school or band practice. I stopped along the curb outside of Sticks, looking up into the park and the beams rising up toward the sky but no roof yet.

  She wasn’t there.

  It was Saturday. She’d probably been there all day, but I’d missed it.

  Pulling back onto the street, I drove past the cathedral, about to head home, but just then, I saw her.

  She pulled the hood of her hoodie over her head, her long brown hair spilling out as she gripped the bag over her chest.

  I kept driving but kept glancing behind me, watching her.

  Her glasses made her eyes hard to see, but she had them buried in her phone anyway.

  Damon was in there two hours ago. Was she? How long had she been in there tonight?

  I thought she was Jewish. If not, I was going to feel stupid for the Yom Kippur gift I left in her locker.

  I continued driving, watching her disappear in my rearview mirror, and I wanted to go back to find her, but I knew she wouldn’t take a ride from me.

  She wouldn’t take anything from me.

  I was nothing, and she knew it, and in ten years, she’d be amazing, and I’d be nothing.

  She would never need me.

  Within minutes, I was descending the steps of the catacombs, hearing whispers below and knowing which room Damon liked best.

  I leaned on the door frame, seeing him toss his shirt onto the floor before lifting his mouth off the girl he had laid on the table.

  His eyes met mine, the other chick still in her clothes and straddling a stool in the corner.

  Damon smiled, standing up straight. “Get your ass in here.”

  Emory

  Present

  I popped my head up, my eyelids heavy with sleep and my head pounding.

  White filled my gaze as I jerked my head left and right, realization settling in.

  It wasn’t a dream. I was at Blackchurch.

  Checking the door across the room, I saw it closed and the chair still fixed underneath the knob. I exhaled, pushing myself up from where I’d crouched in the corner to keep all angles in view.

  I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. I looked around for a clock, but there was nothing.

  How long had I slept? I rubbed my eyes, pulling open a curtain and seeing that it was still dark outside. The forest laid beyond the tree line, the great expanse nearly pitch black under the cloud-covered moon.

  Would I still be alive if I were out there now?

  Releasing the curtain, I eyed the two-way mirror to my right, wondering if they were watching me. Did all the rooms have those?

  And why?

  The floor above me creaked, and I shot my eyes up to the ceiling, the floorboards whining with someone’s weight.

  Where the hell were we? Think, think. The foliage outside, the trees, the moss on the rocks, and the air, heavy with moisture… Maybe Canada?

  And we couldn’t be as secluded as they thought. Checking out the fancy woodwork, ornate doors and fixtures, and the chandeliers I’d noticed in the house, I knew one thing for certain. Blackchurch wasn’t always a prison. It wasn’t functional as one.

  Someone built it as a home, and a home this size was built for more than a family. It was built for entertaining. A place this size didn’t run without support from a local population—servants, craftsmen, farmers…

  My stomach ached with hunger as I looked at the pasta Aydin Khadir had left me on the bench at the bottom of his bed. The sauce had settled, and the noodles had yellowed, less opaque, but my mouth still watered looking at it.

  I’d refused to eat it on the chance it was drugged—which was an entirely reasonable concern, since I must’ve been drugged when I was first brought here, but… I’d also slept without incident, so they clearly weren’t waiting for me to be less on guard to attack.

  This was his room, he’d said. He would’ve come back here to sleep if it was that time of night. Where was he?

  Leaving the food behind, I twisted around, looking for the knife, and I grabbed it off the floor where I’d dropped it when I was sleeping. Taking it, I dashed into the bathroom, filled a glass of water, and downed a cup before wiping off my mouth and heading past his treadmill for the door.

  I only hesitated a moment before pulling the chair away and slowly twisting.

  The pulse in my neck pumped hard, even though I knew I wasn’t in any more danger outside t
his room than in. If they had wanted to get in, they would’ve. I only put the chair up to give myself a warning before they broke through.

  But I needed food not made by someone else, and I needed a better look at my surroundings.

  Peering into the hall, I glanced left and right, half expecting to see a guard posted at my door, but the night outside the windows around the foyer darkened the floors and walls, the beautiful glow of the glass chandelier the only thing lighting the empty second floor.

  There was no one.

  That was weird. Were they that confident I wouldn’t try to run again?

  I looked right, scanning the wall and seeing the crack in the paneling. Doing one more sweep to make sure I was alone, I stepped out into the hall and dug my nails into the crack, trying to pry the panel away.

  I knew it opened. Maybe someone hadn’t been watching me in that mirror, but I knew the room was here, dammit.

  After it didn’t give, I planted both hands on the panel and pushed instead, hearing the springs snap and watching as the door immediately opened.

  My heart skipped a beat, and I almost smiled.

  I swung the door wide and looked inside the small room, seeing a chair sitting on a concrete floor, surrounded by concrete walls. I stepped inside and walked to the glass, turning to look into Aydin’s room, the view spanning the entire width.

  I shook my head. Unbelievable. Was Will here hours ago? Watching me?

  Was someone else?

  So many questions, but mostly…were there more secret rooms and were they here when Blackchurch was someone’s home?

  Or were they installed when it became a prison?

  Because if so, that meant there was indeed some kind of surveillance. Someone might be checking up on them more than just every thirty days. If there were hidden chambers, then there were hidden ways for people to get in and out.

  I backed out of the room and closed the door, scanning the landing again. The shadows of the leaves on the trees outside danced across the railing that loomed over the foyer, and the water falling outside surrounded the house like a metronome—steady and constant.

  Inhaling, the scent of old books and burning wood hit my nose, and I clutched the knife tightly at my side as I descended the staircase.

  I wanted to go everywhere. See every room, inspect every closet, and get the lay of the land, but I had no idea what time it was, or which rooms would be occupied at this hour.

  Stepping off the staircase, I walked through the foyer, passing a dark and empty drawing room, as well as a dining room on my right, and a ballroom and library to my left.

  Candles flickered on antique silver candelabras that stood as tall as me around the foyer, and I stopped at one, staring at it for a moment.

  The place had electricity. Why the ambience?

  I picked up the matchbox on the nearby table and stole a couple of matches out of it, sticking them into my pocket.

  Lightly stepping through the house, I sneaked right, toward the kitchen, but a cry echoed down the hall from my left.

  I stopped and looked, the hair on my arms rising as I heard a grunt.

  “Just leave it, Will!” someone growled.

  I narrowed my eyes, inching toward the voice even though I should just run.

  I passed a sitting room and an office, and kept walking down the hall, seeing movement on my left.

  I turned and looked into a home gym, much like the wrestling room back in my old high school. A wide open-area mat surrounded by equipment—treadmills, ellipticals, free weights…

  Taylor Dinescu did push-ups on the mat, his eyes darting up and locking with mine.

  His sweaty brown hair stuck to his scalp as his naked chest and back glistened. My stomach dipped at the look in his eyes as his push-ups got faster and faster, and he continued to stare at me like I was something on his plate.

  My heart beat in my throat, and I turned away, hearing a grunt from farther down the hall.

  “Goddammit!” And then there was a crash.

  I jumped, fisting the handle of the knife. What the hell? Following the noise, I stopped near a cracked door and peered inside.

  “Just leave it!” Micah growled, falling into a dark wooden secretary, the books on the shelves tumbling out behind him.

  Tears wet his cheeks, but fire blazed in his eyes as he pushed Will away.

  I inched closer.

  Blood was dripping out of Micah’s nose. He was dressed in black pants while Will wore jeans, both shirtless, their forms lit only by the glow of a small lamp.

  Will grabbed the back of Micah’s neck and brought him in, forehead to forehead as Micah shook.

  My heart ached a little, despite itself. What was wrong with him?

  Will stared at him as their deep breaths fell in sync, harder and louder like they were getting ready for something, and then Will took hold of Micah’s arm, grabbed the side of his neck with his other hand, and shoved hard, a low, hollow pop sounding as Micah cried out.

  “Ah!”

  I winced.

  “Motherfucker!” he shouted as his shoulder was snapped back into its socket, choking on the pain and shoving the secretary over until it crashed onto the floor.

  Jesus. How the hell did that happen?

  Sweat coated Micah’s black hair, which hung over his eyes, ears, and down his neck, and he leaned into the wall, gasping for breath as the color drained from his face.

  I wasn’t sure how old he was, but right now, he looked twelve and helpless.

  Will handed him a bowl of something with an eating utensil.

  But Micah pushed it away. “I’m gonna be sick.”

  And at that moment, he grabbed the copper waste basket and leaned over, spilling whatever was in his stomach.

  I looked away for a moment, but then I heard more growls and grunts coming from farther down the hall and looked toward it, but couldn’t see anything.

  Micah wiped off his mouth and set the tin down as Will set the bowl on the little table.

  “Eat it when you’re ready,” he told him.

  “I can’t take your food.”

  Will picked up an elastic bandage and started unraveling it, probably meaning to wrap up Micah’s arm.

  But Micah pushed that away, too. “Don’t,” he said. “I don’t want him to see.”

  Who? And see what? That he was hurt?

  Just then, Micah looked up and met my gaze, finally seeing me hiding behind the door.

  I straightened as Will followed his gaze, noticing me, too.

  Walking over, he kicked the door, slamming it in my face, and I blinked, startling.

  Prick.

  Ruckus sounded from somewhere down the hall, and then a growl, and I looked toward the kitchen and back again, gauging my choices as my knee bobbed.

  I should get back to the kitchen. No one was paying attention, and for all Aydin knew right now, I was sleeping. I could grab some provisions and be two miles downriver before he realized.

  But…

  Another cry pierced the air, and my curiosity got the better of me.

  Continuing down the hall, I followed the sounds and rounded a corner, seeing white and blue ahead, as well as steam rising into the air through the open door down the hall.

  Hiding behind the frame, I peered inside, taken aback by the sight of an indoor pool.

  And heated, judging by the steam rolling off the surface.

  I scoffed. Rich boys…

  Two men rolled around on the mat laid out on the white-tiled pool deck, and I inched in, hearing Aydin talk to Rory as he pinned him to the mat.

  “Ask for it,” he taunted him. “He can have it. All you have to do is ask.”

  Rory Geardon shot up, grabbing Aydin by the neck and trying to throw him over, but Aydin flipped him over, his naked chest on Rory’s bare back as he whispered something in his ear.

  Rory bared his teeth, pain in his blue eyes at whatever Aydin was saying. And déjà vu hit me, remembering a similar wrestling match I�
�d seen with Will.

  Wood creaked next to me, and I tore my eyes away from the match and looked at the wall, feeling a vibration behind it on my shoulder.

  It sounded like the movement I heard upstairs.

  I stood up straight, ready to lean in and listen some more, but then I saw shadows fall behind me and turned my eyes to see Taylor, followed by Will and Micah, heading for the pool.

  They stalked past me, each one throwing a look before stepping inside the room. I hung back, watching as Rory growled under Aydin’s attack.

  “All the pleasure you got from their pain,” Aydin told him. “You knew it was going to cost something someday, didn’t you?” He bit his ear, pulling it as every muscle on Rory’s body tensed.

  Aydin released it.

  “But no,” the alpha continued, “you only dish it when you’re sure you can win. On girls who couldn’t even tell you were coming for them. You knew that wasn’t going to last forever, right?”

  What was he talking about? Was that why Rory was here?

  Taylor smiled, clearly enjoying the scene. Micah stood at the edge of the mat, looking helpless as he stared down red-eyed.

  Girls who couldn’t even tell you were coming.

  What did that mean?

  “Say it, socio.” Aydin leaned into his ear again. “‘I’m. So. Fucked. Up.’”

  Rory resisted, trying to turn away—find a way out—but the cut on his brow dripped blood into his eye, and he just remained silent.

  “I’m,” Aydin recited, egging him on, “so fucked up.” And then he dropped his voice to a hard whisper we all could hear. “In the head.”

  A sob escaped Rory, and he squeezed his eyes shut like he was afraid it was true.

  I looked over at Will, his gaze locked on the scene playing out.

  But he must’ve sensed me watching because he looked over at me, his expression unwavering but his eyes hard.

  Why aren’t they helping him? The only person who seemed to be enjoying the show was Taylor. Was this how Micah got injured? Fighting Aydin?

  “They’re never going to let you out,” Aydin told the man under him. “I’m your family now.”

  Rory gasped, not looking happy about it, and Aydin shot off him, standing up and walking to the small table at the edge of the pool.