“Suit yourself,” Atlas says. “But just keep that in mind.”
“So now what?” Dex says. “The biggest issue here is your mother, Atlas. And what she wants with Perry.”
Atlas studies me. “I don’t know what she wants with Perry,” he says. “Maybe she’s trying to manipulate you the way she manipulates me. Maybe she’s trying to glamor you, or compel you.”
My heart thuds in my chest. “To do what?”
“Get her free?” He gives me a wan smile. “If it puts your mind at ease, she loves women. She hates men. I don’t see her wanting to harm you, a woman that she doesn’t know. It doesn’t make sense to me.”
But her demon thing, I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t mind slicing me up. And that thing is the one in control, apparently.
“None of this makes any fucking sense,” Dex says with a shake of his head. He glances up at Atlas. “But I have to thank you for meeting with us and finally telling us the truth.”
“May it set us free,” Atlas says, abruptly getting to his feet and taking a black leather wallet out of his trenchcoat. He tosses down a five-dollar bill and gives us a nod. “I’ll be seeing you. Maybe.”
“Will you at least return my calls next time?” Dex yells after him as Atlas strides to the door.
Atlas glances at him over his shoulder but doesn’t say anything. Opens the door and walks out into the rain, disappearing from sight.
“Well, kiddo,” Dex says with a heavy sigh, putting his hand on top of mine. “That was fucked up six ways from Sunday.”
“You can say that again.”
“I almost feel sorry for the guy. Can you imagine growing up in that house? Seeing that shit? Still being controlled by your dead mother? Granted, I did go through that for a bit so I’m not one to talk, but still. No wonder he’s so fucking weird.”
“I wonder if he’s a witch. A warlock? A wizard?”
“He’s a something, I’ll say that much.” Then he raises his other hand, trying to attract the attention of the waitress. “Hello, Flo? Can we get more coffee and some of that apple pie?”
“Dex,” I chide him.
“What?” he says to me, wagging his brows. “I think we need dessert after a main course of witchcraft and demon talk, don’t you?”
Not really, but there’s no arguing with Dex’s appetite.
Apple pie it is.
Three o’clock in the morning.
With a melancholy sigh, I put the phone facedown on the dresser after glancing at the time.
It’s the worst hour to wake up in the middle of the night. The hour when all the bad shit happens in scary movies…and in life. I’d hoped it was at least six a.m. so I could get up and start the day, but no such luck.
I’m lying on my back, staring up at the ceiling while the streetlights dance through the curtains. It’s still pouring outside, and while the sound was soothing when we fell asleep to it, now it just sounds haunting. It sounds like laughter.
I glance beside me at Dex, sleeping on his stomach, sprawled out across the bed, the covers half off. His hair is dark and messy, his back rising gently with his deep breathing. My eyes dance over the tattoo on his shoulder, the words he inked there just for me. That I’m his light.
Only right now, I feel darkness. It’s this thick, oily black feeling pressing down on me like an invisible cloak.
My hand reaches out, hovering inches above the tattoo. I can feel the heat of his skin rising up to my fingertips, like it’s greedy in its need for connection, its need for touch. The energy inside him yearns for the energy inside me. I want to run my fingers over him, borrow some of his light, make me feel warm inside when my blood is running incredibly cold.
But I don’t want to wake him up. It would be selfish of me, just because I’m scared and can’t sleep.
So I take my hand away and get out of bed carefully, sliding my feet into my sheepskin slippers and then grabbing my fluffy robe from the chair. It’s cold in here, colder than it should be.
I go to the thermostat and notice that it’s not even on. I’m relieved there’s an explanation. I turn it until I hear the heater click on, then I step out into the apartment.
It’s cold out here too. I pad my way to the kitchen, listening to Fat Rabbit snoring loudly from the couch. He used to have a dog bed at some point, but we finally admitted that it’s his apartment now and we’re just his guests. It’s better that he has the sofa than our bed.
I get a glass from the cupboard and fill it up with water from the tap, wishing I had some sort of trick or drug that would help me get back to sleep without fucking me up the entire next day.
I turn around to drink it, leaning back against the counter. If I’ve learned anything in this apartment, it’s to not let your guard down at three a.m. and to never have your back face any room.
Drinking the water slowly, I’m unable to keep from feeling on edge. That thick, inky darkness still smothers me, like it’s trying to seep into my veins, and it’s becoming impossible to shake off. Every second that I stand here, I feel like I’m just waiting for something to happen to me, and the more I think about that, the more I feel like I’ve been lured out of bed, that I was never in control to begin with.
Am I really thirsty?
Why am I here?
And that’s when it happens.
My eyes focus on the space in front of the bathroom.
At the slow spread of darkness seeping out from under the door.
Bloody water.
Oh, fuck no.
I put the glass on the counter before I drop it, and that’s the last thing I’m able to do, because suddenly my limbs freeze and I’m paralyzed. I can’t move; it’s like I’m glued to the floor, as if someone went into my mind with a pair of sharp scissors and cut the command center in two.
My eyes go over to Fat Rabbit who is still sleeping soundly, then back over to the bathroom. My mouth opens to yell for Dex but no sounds come out. My vocal chords have also been slashed.
Then, with a slow creak, the bathroom door opens. From the side view here I can’t see who it is, but there’s no point in wondering when I know it’s her. I just don’t know how she’s going to come out. Walk out slowly? Or run quickly on all floors? Or will the demon, the curse, be the first one out?
A foot appears.
A dainty foot, pale as the moon, steps out onto the hardwood floor.
Samantha follows.
A cry freezes in my throat.
But this Samantha looks different from the Samantha of before.
She’s still bleeding profusely from the wrists, the blood running in rivulets to the floor, but her skin is different. It’s smooth, nary a blemish in sight. Her white nightgown has no stains, flows freely around her body like silk. It’s slightly see-through and I can see her nipples through the material, the shape of her taut body underneath. She’s built like a supermodel.
And she looks like one too.
Her face is porcelain smooth, with big dark eyes, long lashes, a full red mouth.
She’s absolutely beautiful, can’t be more than thirty-five.
I know I shouldn’t be thinking this, I know I should be freaking out, but I can’t help it. Samantha Poe, whether she looked like this before death or not, is gorgeous.