Page 3 of He Who Sleeps

“You aren’t going to hurt me?” she asked, the scene inAmerican Psychowith the medical instruments playing in her head.

“We guarantee nothing... But you will walk out of here on your own, and you won’t be any worse for wear,” Neon said.

"Well, you're not going to require hospitalization," Stitches amended. "Some of us are kinky fuckers, but we know what we're doing. There won't be any scarring or lasting damage."

Jesus fucking Christ.“And I don’t have a choice, do I?” she asked, weighing the pros and cons...or attempting to in the space of a few heartbeats.

“There is always a choice,” a voice she hadn’t heard yet, which she assumed was Ghostface, spoke up. “Make it.”

Fuck it. Whatever they had in store for her was probably more interesting than ice cream and late-night television. “Yes.”

Chapter One

Three years Later.

Petra looked in the mirror and smoothed down the lapel of the long wool coat she was wearing, the black material sumptuous, her fingers catching on the small devil pin on the edge. A gift from the man himself, his choice for her this year. After three years, things had not changed, not with the seven, though they were getting more involved.

She had walked out of that arrangement on All Souls that first year and, true to their word, she had been intact. A little roughed up from what she had experienced at their hands, but only a little. The seven had pushed limits, and introduced her to things she never thought possible, or ever thought she would like. Seven orgasms each night, at least, and to her surprise some of them played with each other.

They never asked her name, never asked anything about her, and she had left the situation, and that house, altered and owned. She knew that now. The seven owned her body, her mind and everything else she was. Two days of attention. And then it was over. For months afterwards, her body felt the effects of their attentions, and she had tried to find them, but the building she had been with them in was gone, torn down soon after All Souls. No record of what happened.

And the next year, she was treated to a packet in her mailbox, no return address. Directions to get her affairs in order, and to ensure she was theirs from sundown on Black Night to dawn of All Souls. The gifts started arriving on the twenty-ninth that year—a long dress, shoes, a coat—and the same again the year after. It was no surprise when the packages started arriving this year.

A dress. Shoes. A coat.

Directions to be ready at sundown, when a car would be waiting.

Travel out of the city into the mountains, where she would meet her seven at a mansion bright with light.

Each year she would indulge their desires, and some of her own, learning things about herself. And each year she would walk out of the mansion alone, the place void of life, and drive back to the city to sleep off forty-eight hours of debauchery.

They knew who she was, where she was, things about her others did not. And she was at a loss, because the seven were ever elusive to her. They fucked her with their masks on. They welcomed her with their masks on. Their voices were always modulated, and after it all, the details of themselves were largely fuzzy. She was sure they drugged her to keep that happening.

She wasn’t sure why they had chosen her, past the opportunity. Wasn’t sure why they kept to the pact. But they had. Fall disappearances from the city were down. She knew; she’d checked. The mystery of her seven had led her to be sure that they were keeping to the pact. And so far they had.

She looked to the clock. The town car would be there shortly, to whisk her to the mansion, and she needed to be perfect.