Page 34

THIRTY-FOUR

AMETHYST

I stand frozen in the hallway, staring up at Chappy’s unmoving body, which hangs from a rope. Ezekiel and Relaney fill the house with screams, but I’m still gasping for air.

My eyes water. My throat is still clogged with plaster dust. My mind is still trying to catch up with the night’s events. I still don’t remember how we went from a séance to a slaughter.

“Is he dead?” Relaney screams.

Ezekiel ascends the stairs, each step making the treads groan. Realizing I’m half naked, I retreat into the spare bedroom and peep through the door.

“Chappy?” Ezekiel asks.

When the taller man doesn’t answer, Ezekiel continues to the top of the stairs and turns on the light.

“Oh, fuck,” he roars.

“What is it?” Relaney screeches.

“There’s blood.” He gags. “It’s pouring from his mouth.”

My breath catches. I shut the door and rest my head on the wood, all the while trembling at the presence in my room. It’s strange how it’s finally dawning on me, after all this time, that Xero is dangerous. I knew he was a killer all along, yet I still wrote him those letters.

Even after discovering the extent of his murdering, I continued our relationship. I felt safe in the knowledge that he couldn’t touch me on death row. I could open up to him in a way I couldn’t with other men because our association would be finite.

Now, as a ghost, his actions are a betrayal of our sacred bond. Sure, I failed him, but the Xero I grew to love knew me to the depths of my soul. He would have understood why I wasn't at the wedding.

I thought I knew him, but seeing Chappy's body tore off my rose-tinted contacts. Xero isn't just a tortured soul who avenged his childhood tormentors. He's a murderer. I can't allow him to continue this jealous killing spree. I need to end this, even if it means taking a boatload of my meds.

Relaney rushes up the stairs and wails at Ezekiel to check that I’m alive. When he doesn’t make a move, she sobs harder.

“Turn around,” Xero says.

“No.”

“I will not ask you twice. Turn, or watch your other friends swing.”

I push back from the door to meet his eyes.

The entire room is encased in darkness. I turn to the window, but the curtains are now shut.

“Where are you?” I whisper.

“Watching.”

My stomach churns. “What do you want from me?”

“Get dressed. Go downstairs and return to number 13. Shower off that dust and wait for me on your bed.”

“What about the police?”

“Mention anything about ghosts and you’ll become one.”

“So, I’m still alive?”

He chuckles. “Without me to brighten your days and nights, you’d still be dead inside.”

I swallow hard, hating that he’s right. Writing to Xero was the most exciting thing that ever happened to me, which isn’t difficult, considering over a third of my memories are blank. It’s almost like I didn’t exist before the age of ten, but the photos I found in Mom’s album prove otherwise.

A knock sounds on the door. “Amethyst?” Ezekiel asks. “Are you alright? ”

“Get rid of him,” Xero hisses. “If he sees any part of your body, I won’t just pluck out all four of his eyes. Trust me when I say you won’t like where I’ll put them.”

Shudders run down my spine, and I grimace. Somehow, I don’t think he’ll stuff them into an envelope under my pillow. Ignoring Xero, I say, “I’m fine.”

“Come out,” Ezekiel says. “Relaney’s just called for an ambulance and the police.”

“Wait a minute. Let me get dressed.”

My fingers fumble around the wall for a light switch, which I know is stupid, considering I just pulled down the entire ceiling. I flip it anyway and am not surprised when nothing happens.

I find a second switch that activates faint wall lamps, but when I turn around to look at Xero’s ghost, he’s gone. All that’s left of his presence is a broken chair and a room strewn with rubble.

“Xero?” I whisper.

His lack of answer gives me another clue to his vulnerabilities. Ghosts disappear in the light.

By the time I find my overnight bag and put on what’s left of my clothes, a heavy fist pounds on my door. I open it to find Officer Vayne standing in the hallway, his walrus mustache twitching.

The cop’s beady eyes sweep up and down my body. I’m not sure what he’s trying to find because everything is covered in dust.

“What can you tell me about what happened to Mr. Wright?”

My gaze darts to Chappy’s swinging corpse, and it takes a second for me to realize they’re one and the same.

“Miss Crowley?” he asks.

“I woke up last night to a lot of screaming, and I got scared. Then Ezekiel knocked on my door to ask if I was alright.”

He glances over my shoulder. “And the rubble?”

Shit.

I should have led with the ceiling falling down on my head. Clutching my temples, I sway on my feet.

“My medication always makes me drowsy and disoriented. The ceiling thing must have woken me first and then I heard all the screaming. I’m sorry. It’s still jumbled. ”

“Show me.”

“What?”

“Your pills.”

I walk to my overnight bag, extract two bottles, and shove them in the officer’s face.

He has to squint to read the labels. “What do they do?”

“Am I a suspect?”

He bares his teeth. “This information may be helpful in our investigation.”

“If you’re suggesting that a five-foot five woman can drag a fully grown man out of bed and lift his body up in the air and hang him, then I think you’re the one who needs the pills.”

He shoves the bottles back into my hands. “How do you explain the red marks around your neck?”

“What marks?” My fingers twitch toward my throat, which is still raw from being suspended from a noose.

He glances up at the ceiling, his eyes darkening. “Ms. Cymbal and Mr. Janus were woken up by a crash and went upstairs to find Mr. Wright hanging. I think the murderer tried to hang you and failed.”

My eyes widen. Maybe he’s not so useless, after all. “Oh.”

“Ms. Greaves, I believe tonight was supposed to be a double murder.”

My brows rise, and I step back. “You finally believe I have a stalker?”

He nods. “Parisii Drive is no longer safe for you. Someone out there wants you dead. Is there anywhere you can go?”

I shake my head.

“Friends, parents… lover ?”

“No.” Why the hell does he keep asking me that?

He sighs. “Book a hotel. Whoever killed Mr. Wright will probably return to finish you.”

I want to roll my eyes at this outlandish suggestion. Who has hotel money in this economy? With the creator fund no longer supporting my lifestyle, I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bills.

Actually, I do. If I call Mom and Dad, they’ll gladly transfer any amount of money to keep me on the other side of town. Their rejection doesn’t just sting—it’s a gaping wound.

“Can the police provide protective custody?” I ask.

“I’ll double the patrols down Parisii Drive,” he mutters, ignoring my request. “Speak to your neighbors to see if any unusual characters have been hanging around. Keep your windows closed and don’t open the door to strangers.”

Later, I descend the stairs to find a forensic team piling in through the front door. A homicide detective takes me to Relaney’s kitchen to make a statement. With Xero’s warning not to speak to the cops, I regurgitate a more polished version of the bullshit I told Officer Vayne.

As I’m about to leave the house, Relaney steps into my path and stares down at me through bloodshot eyes. “Chappy was only responding to your advances. He didn’t have to die.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You were flirting with him the entire night and the time before. If you didn’t want him in your room, you should have said no.”

My jaw drops. How the hell did she know Chappy was trying to hook up with me? Did she arrange it in an attempt to lure me into her stupid cult? I glance over my shoulder to see if any of the people in white jumpsuits overheard her accusation. They’re all too busy collecting evidence to notice the ramblings of a grief-stricken woman.

Leaning into her, I whisper, “I didn’t hang Chappy, and I sure as hell didn’t invite him into my room.”

“But you control the spirits,” she whispers back. “Mark my words, Amethyst Crowley, you may command the dark, but one day you will be consumed.”

Cold seeps into my bones, turning my blood to sludge. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. I’m no killer, nor do I consort with evil spirits.

Well, not on purpose. Fuck. When did I start lying to myself? I was slapping my own tits and coming at Xero’s command moments before I found Chappy hanging. And technically, I am a killer. Even if I did have a good reason.

“I’m sorry,” I murmur .

She gestures at the open door. “Get out of my sight.”

I step out into the chilly morning. “One more thing.”

“What?” she snaps.

“How do I get rid of a ghost?”

“Google is your friend.” She slams the door.

When I turn around, Parisii Drive is jammed with cop cars. Every resident either stands in their open doorways or gapes at me from their windows. My skin itches from the intensity of their stares. When a pair of men in black suits exit a car at the end of the road, I duck my head and scurry back to number 13.

The discomfort only accelerates when the door closes behind me, and I’m trapped in my haunted house.

Xero told me to take a shower and wait for him in bed. The thought of him emerging from the shadows to finish me off with that thick, silicone dildo makes my pussy throb.

This is insanity. A man just got murdered, and my body is thrumming with desire. It’s just like Dr. Saint said. I have violence-induced arousal because the wires of my libido are jumbled. Even so, I can’t have a relationship with a vengeful spirit.

I refuse to be the puppet to his perverted proclivities. There’s so much more at stake here than my dignity. If I continue along this path, I might lose my sanity, my very soul. Mom might find out I’m communing with the dead and carry out her threat to have me institutionalized.

Shudders travel across my skin, reminding me that I’m still covered in shit. Before I know it, I’m tearing through the hallway, into the kitchen, and washing off the plaster with my wet fingers.

Xero’s invisible presence looms over me like a noose of Damocles, and an invisible chill sweeps down my spine. His malevolent gaze bores into the back of my head, but I refuse to turn around and meet those glowing eyes.

I have to remind myself that ghosts are powerless in the light. It’s morning, and no longer dark. Until nightfall, I’m safe from his grasp. After that, all I need to do is keep my bedroom bright.

The thought gives me the courage to creep upstairs, so I turn to the door. As I pass the kitchen table, my gaze falls on the sex contract. Several items are now underlined in a color that resembles dried blood.

Breast slapping

Degradation

Erotic asphyxiation

Forced orgasm

Humiliation

Somnophilia

Toys

“Bastard,” I whisper. “What are you saying? That I consented?”

But I did consent. In my letters. During phone sex. During those strange conversations I had with him in my dreams. I’ve never once told him no.

A sick part of my psyche, the one I want to suppress with prescription drugs, enjoys Xero’s attention. It revels in the thought that a man wanted me so much that he rose from his own death to carry out my sickest fantasies and slay any man who comes too close. I’m ashamed to admit that being loved so unconditionally, even if it’s twisted, is intoxicating.

Shaking off that thought, I hurry upstairs and enter my bedroom. The comforter has been drawn back, revealing the silk sheets, but beneath the pillow is a flash of red.

My breath stills.

Another envelope?

“Xero?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Of course he doesn’t. The room is drenched in morning light. That murdering monster draws power from the dark, and possibly even from my terror.

On legs that won’t stop trembling, I approach the bed, already guessing what’s inside the envelope. It’s probably that letter I wrote him about wanting to be dragged around on a collar and leash.

When I finally muster the courage to pick it up, it’s heavier than a few sheets of paper. My fingers shake as I tear it open and check its contents.

Inside that fucking envelope is an extra-long tongue.

And it’s studded.