Page 16

SIXTEEN

AMETHYST

Upstairs at Relaney’s place, I lie within a surprisingly clean room decorated in white. She set my overnight bag at the bedside while I was still reeling from being mentioned in the séance. That, along with the words fuck, kill, and claim, not to mention the little explosion, would be enough to make anyone question their own skepticism. Maybe that’s exactly what she planned.

Relaney explained that the spiritual realm was mysterious and that I shouldn’t take what Xero said to heart. When I asked about the unsettling language, she said he was probably still processing the violence of his crimes.

I still can’t make up my mind.

Moonlight streams in through a chink in the curtains, illuminating the empty side of the bed. After ten minutes of not being able to sleep, I lean across the mattress, reach into my overnight bag, and pull out a bottle.

I gulp down mouthfuls of water, trying to wash away the unease of staying in a strange house occupied by even stranger men. The four I met tonight seemed alright, but they’re nothing compared to some of the other characters I’ve seen leaving Relaney’s at all times of the day and night.

After downing half the bottle’s contents, I flop back on the bed and sigh. Xero’s spirit, or whoever was impersonating him, disappeared before I even got a chance to explain why I left him at the altar yesterday. I don’t know how JakeRake69 got hold of that picture of me as a child or what it means. My troll died before I got the chance to ask.

The only people who can answer those questions are Mom and Dad.

Moments later, my eyelids grow heavy and I melt into the mattress, my body dragging me to sleep. Disembodied thoughts swirl through my mind like wraiths, haunting the beginnings of my dream.

What if I wasn’t hallucinating and Xero really is haunting me for revenge? Everyone else who has wronged him is dead, except for me. I fall into a vortex of the events of the past day and a half, my thoughts spinning until everything goes black.

Hours pass, and a floorboard creaks, waking me up with a start. My eyes flutter open. The room is so dark that there’s little difference between my surroundings and the patterns behind my eyes.

An outline of a hooded figure emerges at the foot of my bed, its eyes emitting a faint, silver glow. I try to jerk awake, but my body won’t move.

I know this state: sleep paralysis, where the mind is awake, but the body is still stuck in REM. Focusing on my breathing, I command myself to twitch a finger or a toe.

The figure drifts toward me, its movements so fluid that it must be a dream. Its glowing eyes lower to the level of my face. I stare ahead, unable to rotate my eyes.

This is just a dream.

I don’t need to panic.

So why is my heart galloping across my chest like the March Hare being chased by a feral Cheshire Cat? I want to close my eyes, but they won’t move.

The comforter slides off my shoulders, down my chest, and gathers at my waist. Even though I had the good sense to sleep in my clothes, a cool draft still penetrates my hoodie. My breath quickens, and I concentrate every ounce of effort into moving my pinkie.

Cool fingers ghost down my neck and lift the slider of my zipper. They draw it down gently, exposing my skin. Underneath, I’m wearing a sports bra and tank top, but I can already feel my nipples tightening.

After opening my hoodie completely, a cool hand slides over my breasts, making me exhale a soft moan. The touch is gentle yet determined enough to not be a figment of my imagination.

Chills run down my spine and settle between my legs. My clit awakens, and the muscles of my pussy spasm.

I want to tell myself this isn’t real. It’s a dream brought on by Officer Vayne reading out my somnophilia fantasy.

The fingers roll my nipples, infusing me with sparks of sensation. My back wants to arch, and my body craves more. I’m so touch-starved that I’m picturing Xero escaping his cell to reenact some of the fantasies in his phone calls and letters. I swear I can hear his deep groan.

Xero was so perfect for me, so generous with his time, and so understanding of my dark past. All he asked for in return was the short window of time before his execution, and I left him hanging.

My body tries to drift back to sleep, but I force my mind to stay alert. The comforter around my waist disappears, revealing my leggings and socks.

A distant voice echoes through the room, a rich and throaty sound that sends shudders down my spine. I feel my tank top rise, exposing my belly as I fight to stay awake and aware in the darkness. Every nerve ending tingles with anticipation of what will come next.

Cool lips press into my skin, making it erupt into goosebumps. This feels so real, but I’m slipping away. I send what’s left of my consciousness into my pinky finger, urging it to move, urging myself to stay awake, but slumber drags me under, and my thoughts go black.

Hours later, my phone rings, pulling me out of sleep. I jerk awake in an unfamiliar, white room, my heart pounding. My thighs clench, only to find my clit is still swollen and aching.

Right. I dreamed that the Grim Reaper came to my bedside to play with my nipples. The little I remember from last night was hot enough to keep me aroused the entire night. I try to chase the memory, but my phone won’t stop ringing.

I roll to the side of the bed, still fully dressed in my hoodie and leggings, and rifle through my open overnight bag.

“Hello?” I croak.

“Amy?” The anguish in Myra’s voice breaks through my lingering drowsiness.

“What’s happened?” I ask.

“It’s Kayla,” she says, her words choked with sobs. “The assistant who re-mailed your packages and letters?”

I bolt upright. “What’s happened?”

“Her roommate found her dead. It was horrible. She choked on a dildo. Suffocated. How the hell does something like that even happen?”

Cold dread grips my stomach, twisting it into knots. I double over on the mattress, remembering the image of that woman deep-throating a thick black toy that looked nearly identical to the one on my nightstand.

“Amy? Amy, are you still there?” Myra asks.

I gulp. “Yeah. Sorry. Did the roommate call the police?”

She hesitates. “The officers who came said there were no signs of a break-in and it was probably an accident. People die from kinky shit all the time.” She sniffles, and I can tell she’s started crying again. “Her roommate said she was fully clothed.”

I’m on the verge of arguing back and repeating what I told her yesterday, but my phone beeps and vibrates with a call waiting alert that has every fine hair on the back of my neck standing on end.

My anxiety spikes, and Myra’s words fade into the background. Without meaning to, I blurt, “Listen, I’ve got another call waiting. Can I ring you back?”

“Sure. I need to open the store, anyway.” She hangs up.

Thunder rumbles through my phone’s receiver, making me stiffen. “Amethyst,” a deep voice says through the sound of heavy rain. “Look under your pillow.”

“Hello?” I pull the phone away from my ear to check its screen, but they’ve already hung up .

Why did his voice sound so much like Xero's when he called me during that lightning storm?

Because he’s upgraded from text messages to brief phone calls, idiot. Maybe yesterday’s session wasn’t bullshit, and the four of us really summoned his spirit. As Relaney suggested, it must have given him power. If a ghost can make a stereo explode, then it sure as hell can make a phone call.

What I can’t get over is Kayla’s death. Would Xero kill her over a dildo? Probably not. But over the theft of his mother’s locket? Maybe.

I fire up the texting app and scroll through the messages, only to realize he sent the photo to the phone I put in my nightstand.

Another message pops up on the screen:

Look under your pillow.

I message back:

Who is this?

He replies with:

Do you need me to spell it out for you again? Which do you prefer: Roman letters or Morse code?

“Asshole,” I mutter.

Another message appears:

Do it now, or there will be consequences.

“Shit.”

I should resist, but I’m still haunted by the photo of a woman choking on a dildo. The last thing I want is to be found dead with a flogger around my neck.

Closing my eyes, I clench my teeth and clasp the edge of the pillow. I lift it a fraction, checking for something ominous, but all I find is the rest of the white bedsheet. With a deep, fortifying breath, I gather my courage and raise the pillow completely to reveal another of my red envelopes.

My name is written on the front in Xero’s spiky handwriting, along with exactly where I’m staying at Relaney’s address: Upstairs spare bedroom, 11 Parisii Drive.

“Cute,” I mutter. “Does this contain my invitation to Hell?”

The contents are bulky, appearing more like a set of marker pens than a piece of parchment. I turn it around and lift the flap, releasing the stench of charred meat .

Inside are what look like fingers. To be precise, four long digits and a thumb. A chill runs down my spine, my pulse quickens, and my breath turns frantic and shallow.

Every instinct screams at me to deny what I’m seeing—to chalk it up to another compound hallucination. I can’t because the coincidences are stacking high, cemented by all the other evidence saying that it’s real.

Officer Vayne saw the letter from under my pillow. Myra just confirmed that the photo of the woman and the dildo was Kayla. The time for hiding behind delusions is over. I need to woman up and face this grotesque reality.

I reach into the envelope, extract the thumb, which is seared at the root, and place it on the sheet.

“He cauterized it,” I whisper.

The phone buzzes with another message:

No man will ever touch my precious jewel. Not even with his blood.

“This is twisted, you know,” I say through gritted teeth.

He texts back with:

Keep going.

I should be freaked out at the implications of why he’s replying to my voice, but I’m more concerned about the owner of these fingers.

The phone buzzes again.

NOW .

“For fuck’s sake. I’ve heard of vengeful ghosts, but I didn’t know they were impatient.”

I extract the longest finger, finding it tattooed with an D.

My stomach drops. “No…”

My phone buzzes.

KEEP GOING.

I already know what I’m going to find. Silent and frozen, I stare at the screen, and the bastard texts again.

Don’t make me tell you a third time.

Exhaling a shuddering breath, I upend the envelope, letting the fingers fall to the mattress. My heart skips a beat, my stomach twisting with revulsion. The morbid side of me muses that whoever detached them did a great job of keeping them preserved and clean.

“What do you want from me?” I ask my phone.

A message pops up saying:

Arrange them.

I lay them out in order, with the thumb on the left, since I already know they belong to a right hand.

The letters spell BDSM.

“Gavin…” I say to the screen. “Is he dead? Did you kill him?”

He doesn’t answer. Of course, he doesn’t. He wants me to find out for myself. Xero, or whoever’s impersonating him, won’t leave me alone until I’ve lost what’s left of my sanity.

I need to warn Myra and get the fuck away from Parisii Drive.