The house seemed to be humming, buzzing its anxiety. A stranger is here. A killer is here. The lights crackled and flared, the static from the stereo rising.
“Calm down,” Alex told the house as she pounded down the hallway, back to the stairs.
“You’re too old for this shit.”
But the house continued to whir and rattle.
Blake tackled her from behind. She hit the floor hard. “Be still,” he crooned in her ear.
Alex felt her limbs lock up. She didn’t just stop moving—she was glad to do it, thrilled,
really. She would be perfectly still, still as a statue.
“Dawes!” she screamed.
“Be quiet,” said Blake.
Alex clamped her lips shut. She was happy to have the chance to do this for him. He
deserved it. He deserved everything.
Blake rolled her over and stood, towering over her. He seemed impossibly tall, his golden, tousled head framed by the coffered ceiling.
“You ruined my life,” he said. He lifted his foot and rested his boot on her chest. “You ruined me.” Some part of her mind screamed, Run. Push him off. Do something. But it was a distant voice, lost to the contented hum of submission. She was so happy, so very happy
to oblige.
Blake pressed down with his boot and Alex felt her ribs bend. He was big, two hundred
pounds of muscle, and all of it felt like it was resting just beneath her heart. The house rattled hysterically, as if it could feel her bones crying out. Alex heard a table topple somewhere, dishes crashing from their shelves. Il Bastone giving voice to her fear.
“What gave you the right?” he said. “Answer me.”
He’d granted her permission.
“Mercy and every girl before her,” Alex spat, even as her mind begged for another command, another way to please him. “They gave me the right.”
Blake lifted his boot and brought it down hard. Alex screamed as pain exploded
through her.
At the same moment the lights went out. The stereo went with it, the music fading, leaving them in darkness, in silence, as if Il Bastone had simply died around her.
In the quiet, she heard Blake crying. His left hand was clenched in a fist, as if readying
to strike her. But the light from the streetlamps filtering in through the windows caught on
something silver in his other hand. A blade.
“Can you be quiet?” he asked. “Tell me you can be quiet.”
“I can be quiet,” said Alex.
Blake giggled, that high-pitched giggle she remembered from the video. “That’s what
Tara said too.”
“What did she say?” Alex whispered. “What did she do to make you mad?”
Blake leaned down. His face was still beautiful, cut in sharp, almost angelic lines. “She
thought she was better than all my other girls. But everyone gets the same from Blake.”
Had he been stupid enough to use the Merity on Tara? Had she realized what he was
using it for? Had she threatened him? Did any of it matter now? Alex was going to die. In
the end, she’d been no smarter than Tara, no more able to protect herself.
“Alex?” Dean Sandow’s voice from somewhere down below.
“Don’t come up here!” she screamed. “Call the cops! He has—” “Shut the fuck up!”
Blake drew back his foot and kicked her hard in the side. Alex went silent.
It was too late anyway. Sandow was at the top of the stairs, his expression bewildered.
From her place on the floor, Alex saw him register her on her back, Blake above her, the
knife in his hand.
Sandow lunged forward, but he was too slow.
“Stop!” snapped Blake.
The dean went rigid, nearly toppling.
Blake turned to Alex, a smile spreading across his lips. “He a friend of yours? Should I
make him throw himself down the stairs?”
Alex was silent. He’d told her to be silent and she just wanted to make him happy, but
her mind was mule-kicking around her skull. They were all going to die tonight.
“Come here,” Blake said. Sandow strode forward eagerly, a spring in his step. Blake bobbed his head at Alex. “I want you to do me a favor.”
“Whatever I can do to help,” said Sandow, as if inviting a promising new student to office hours.