Page 20 of Antihero (Tregam’s Fractured Souls #3)

Chapter nine

Wraith

Y ou’d think the asylum would be in more of an uproar, what with their CEO of over twenty years having been just murdered. That schedules would be out of whack, meals forgotten, staff wandering, lost and guideless.

But lo-and-behold, it turns out the old fart had very little to do with the actual running of this place. He just profited. Like he did back then. Well, fifteen years is long enough for him to enjoy the fruits of our pain. He’s worm food now.

No, the only untoward thing that happens as I show up like usual for work, donning my bleached cleaning uniform in the lockers and feigning shock and horror at the news of Nick Pastryachi’s death, is the ten-minute vigil we need to hold off on our chores for.

We solemnly stand in the dining hall, looking at the floor.

My hands grow humid in my blue rubber gloves as they talk about what an entrepreneur the always-rich man, who found his way through nepotism to the leading position of this grand estate, was.

Under his reign, the asylum turned itself and its reputation around.

True enough, never mind that the man has never stepped foot in this place, conducting his business instead from the comfort of a room in his holiday-home in Feston when he deigned to steer his yacht to the island.

Or that ‘turning the place around’ led to being able to sell rooms to rich addicts and certainly turn the profits around.

But sure, let’s all believe it came from the heart. Truly a great guy.

This ‘great’ old guy was also almost embarrassingly easy to kill.

Harry might be delayed for now, but Nick was frequenting the island less and less, staying for tiny periods of time only. Maybe he feared the Wraith. As he should have, considering how things turned out for him.

We’re released from the silent respect, and workers and residents alike amble off to continue their days. I turn around, coming up short.

His gaze pins me, even from several metres and a few bodies away. I pick up my bucket and aim for the door via him. “John,” I say in greeting. “Sleep well?”

To say I’m just slightly nervous about what his reaction will be to me essentially roofying him would be a lie.

“Soundly,” he answers flatly.

I suppress the urge to gulp. There can be no doubt in his mind now that I’m targeting people connected to the old asylum. Probably plenty of people are working that much out about Wraith. But it doesn’t matter. Just Harry and the two others to go now, and I’m done.

“I’ll see you around, John.”

***

The baths are usually only open on weekends, when housewives bring their screaming children to splash around in the pool-sized bath, central to the complex.

Certainly not after dark on a Tuesday, when the aged glass walls and roof give an amber-tinted view up to the stars, and out to the rockpools that the back of the building drops off to.

The thick iron framing has kept this place standing through the violent storms and furious winds of White Rock for almost as long as the asylum itself has stood.

But the baths are mostly disused now, though the waters are as warm as ever, fed from a hot spring underneath, the excess running off under the back wall.

It's possibly my favourite spot on the island. One of the few places I feel my bones thaw from the constant chill that hangs over White Rock, even if they’re frozen again by the time I make the hour-long walk back home in the cold night air.

Still, breaking in for a private bath in the dark is worth it. No one is any the wiser.

Tonight, feeling that the dark will hold too many shadows and ghosts, I’ve risked switching on the two iron lights that dangle on long cables from the high atrium ceiling.

Normally, the place would be lit up, visible from afar.

But the weather rages outside, spitting and thrashing at the glass, so I trust no one is curious enough to come closer.

I’m wearing a one-piece bathing suit, though I’m considering taking even that off as I lean forward on the edge of the wide pool, cheek pressed into my crossed arms, listening to the muted sounds of the weather.

Only three more to go. The last one went smoothly, without interference or setback.

Thanks to drugging Tristan, that is. Since I doubt he’ll fall for that again, I’ll have to work out how to get around him for the last ones.

For now, I open my eyes, idly watching the spray of waves crashing upwards from the rocks out the back bay window, my whole body comfortably warm in the water that smells mildly of sulfur.

That’s when the lights cut out.

For a moment, I don’t move, waiting to see if it’s a mere short-circuit, and they’ll come back on themselves.

They don’t. I lift my head, glancing around the large room as my sight adjusts.

Several steps across from the edge of the pool, a block extending the length of the atrium houses the changerooms and showers.

My clothes are within, through the pitch-black doorway leading into the women’s side.

If I go outside without my jacket, I’ll be hypothermic in a minute for sure.

But the idea of walking into that black room blind makes me shudder.

Behind me, the side-glass looks straight out onto low, dark brush.

With the lights out, I can pick out shadows cast by what moonlight is pushing through the clouds as the rain eases.

But with the wind, everything is moving anyway, so even if someone were creeping through the bushes, I wouldn’t see.

The hair on the back of my neck pricks, and I turn slowly in the water, the soft sound loud in the otherwise quiet interior.

I drift towards the shallower end, my feet finding the smooth bottom.

My heart jumps, and I very nearly don’t swallow the sound that erupts from my throat as a loud clang reverberates through the iron supports behind me.

I go still, peering into the back of the room, the view over the ocean stretched out behind.

But I can barely pick out the far end of the pool with any distinction.

What light there was fades as dark clouds cross the moon.

I refuse to be the idiot that shouts ‘hello’ into eerie spaces.

So, I shut my mouth and merely think of several curses to myself instead, as I back towards the shallow edge of the pool.

It takes me less than one elevated heartbeat to identify that the new ripples disturbing the water are not coming from me.

They’re coming from the direction of my escape route.

I stop, barely breathing.

If this is Tristan, he’s quieter than I’d give any human credit for. But then, he has managed to murder several dangerous people… not a comforting thought, given the game we’ve been playing. And if is him, he’s scaring me on purpose.

I can’t stop my mind from tracking to the other possibility, wondering who or what could now be in the water with me.

From animals, to monsters, to people I don’t like very much.

All the options seem reasonable and even likely as I retreat, the water coming back up to my chest. The glasshouse gathers and holds the heat of the day long into the night, so the air above is chill but not bone-shaking.

I could pull myself up the edge of the pool, but that would make too much noise, would put my back to him…

Unable to bear it anymore, I surrender to being that person, and speaking to the darkness.

“Tristan.” My voice is level, though it intrudes on the darkness, feeling too high pitched.

“Is that you?” Silence answers, not even a swish of the water to break it.

“I don’t like this game,” I say, trying to sound more irritated than frightened.

I don’t really expect an answer to that, either. But I get one.

And the voice that comes back isn’t his.

“Paige.”

The words seem to come from no direction, low and harsh in the dark.

My teeth press together as my pulse races.

It’s not his voice, but it’s not anyone else’s, either.

Not a normal sound, but something uncannily like a monster in one of those ridiculous b-grade horrors I like so much.

Low, altered, like it's coming through something that adds a metallic quality.

Then it's right by my ear, the water disturbed against my back. “ Don’t you like games? ”

This time, I do squeal. I spin around, the large shape pressing in on me, pushing me back towards the edge.

His silhouette towers over me against the blackness, and my shoulder blades come up against the cool tiles of the side.

There’s the impression of tousled hair, of a low brow and glinting eyes that briefly catch the light.

Tristan. I’m not sure if the realisation scares me more or less as he closes in on me.

He’s as likely to want to drown me as anyone these days. But that voice…

His hands brace either side of my shoulders, caging me in.

He must be able to see better in the dark than I can.

He comes in close, and I turn my face away, feeling his breath on the corner of my jaw.

At the touch of his hand, thumb bracing where his breath just struck, fingers curling over the other side of my jaw, he tilts my head back until my breathing strains.

I’m overly aware of how easily he could break my neck.

“Don’t make the mistake of thinking I won’t do it,” that guttural voice, low, murmurs against my ear as he keeps one side of my face turned from him. Voice alteration, of some kind.

The hard muscles of his legs brush mine under the water, coarse to my smoothness, huge where I’m small.

My voice is hoarse, but I manage to put a smile in it. “I know you won’t,” I say, though I know no such thing. More of a hope, really.

A light vibration against my neck could be a laugh. His breath is hot, whatever is changing his voice turning any audible breath into a harsh rasp.