Page 44

FORTY-FOUR

AMETHYST

After dark, I hunker down inside my windowless green room, surrounded by bedside lamps, ring lights, flashlights, and lit computer screens. The space is flooded with every type of illumination imaginable, and I’m sitting within a circle of salt.

I wrap my arms around my shins, trying not to fall into despair as I take stock of my predicament:

Xero has trapped me in my own home.

He’s sealed every door and window.

He’s confiscated my phone and turned off the internet.

I’m too paranoid to alert the police in the house next door in case they discover traces of the man I killed.

My ghostly tormentor wants to punish me for something I can’t even remember.

And he’s thrown away my holy water.

The worst part about this is not knowing what happened to Myra. Xero has a nasty habit of punishing people who overstep his boundaries. Kayla choked on the dildo she stole from him, Gavin lost his fingers for touching me, and Chappy lost his life for making me an indecent proposal. Xero even cut off his tongue for offering me oral.

Also, what’s he going to do to me for all my transgressions?

Hours pass, and the concern churning in my gut escalates into a full-blown ulcer. He should be here, rattling the windows, or whatever ghosts do when they’re thwarted, but there’s no sign of my spectral stalker.

Is that because he’s busy chopping my best friend into little pieces for touting the manuscript? My eyes burn at the thought of Myra being at his mercy. For the longest time, she’s been my only source of companionship. Unlike my parents, she’s never abandoned me and doesn’t mind that I’m slightly unhinged. I bow my head, resting it on my bent knees.

What possessed me to write to a man caught carving out his stepmother’s heart? How on earth did I allow his beauty to blind me to his inner beast?

Dr. Saint would say I got caught up in the mass hysteria, and it brought me out of a deep depression about my failed manuscripts. If I couldn’t get agents to acknowledge my writing, then maybe I could prove myself with Xero. But is it the same principle as a bunch of kids meddling with a ouija board on a sleepover, not thinking their fun would land them in mortal peril?

When he replied, I should have been satisfied with achieving his attention, but that dopamine rush became addictive. It only got better when I posted about it on my failing social media channel and it went viral.

Then I got caught up in the phone sex, and Xero’s story of his corrupted childhood, then the online fame, the gifts, and Xero himself. He was so charming. Grateful. Humble. Each conversation was a thrilling escape into a reality where I was desired and connected.

Xero made me feel like I was the only thing making his imprisonment tolerable. He told me I was the light to his darkness, but he was my sun and his presence made me bloom.

If I’d known his fixation would continue beyond the grave, I probably would have stopped at the first letter.

Probably.

Who am I trying to kid?

Xero Greaves, good or evil, alive or dead, loving me or hating me is everything. He’s all-consuming, yet he’s the fire that animates my being. And there’s a tiny kernel of my psyche aware of the painful truth that without him, I cease to exist .

A sharp pop from above has me jerking backward. My stomach leaps into my throat. He’s just broken the lightbulb, making the room darken several watts, but the ring lights still provide ambient illumination.

Seconds later, they switch off, plunging me into semi darkness. I scoot to the edge of the circle and lean forward, careful not to disturb the salt. My gaze drops to the laptop, which is now running on battery power.

I glance at the SIM-less phone I left to charge, and it’s no longer powering on the mains.

Realization has my heart skipping several beats.

That cold-hearted bastard just turned off my electricity.

The only powerful source of illumination in the room comes from a pair of battery-operated flashlights. Both of them point at the door. But when a knock sounds on the opposite wall, I point one at the source of the sound.

“Xero,” I whisper. “Is that you?”

One knock.

“What do you want?”

He taps out a sequence in Morse code, but there’s no Ezekiel here to translate. He probably got arrested alongside Relaney for the basement drug farm. If I’m going to communicate with this ghost, then I’ll have to ask more specific questions.

“Xero, I don’t understand. Can you just talk to me?”

Two knocks.

“Why not?” I roll my eyes at my open-ended question. I know exactly why he doesn’t want to communicate like a normal ghost. I’ve made this room Xero-repellent. “You want me to turn off the flashlights?”

One knock.

“If I do that, will you hurt me?”

He hesitates for several seconds before replying with two knocks.

“You’re lying.”

Two knocks.

“Then why did it take you so long to answer? You want me to turn off the light so you can slither inside and tear me to pieces.”

Two insistent knocks.

Xero is protesting too much. A sure sign that he’s now saying anything necessary to make me drop my safeguards. “Was it another ghost who hung me from a fucking noose?”

Two knocks.

“Well, thanks for the confession, but I think I’ll stay here until sunrise. Then tomorrow, I’ll bang on the window and scream until the police notice me and kick down the door.”

The sound of something heavy hitting the door sends my heart leaping to the back of my throat. I release a strangled shriek.

“See?” I say with a hysterical laugh. “Why would I expose myself to your violent temper?”

The pounding continues, making every hair on my body stand on end. It’s like being on a plane in the middle of a thunderstorm and then suddenly losing altitude.

My heart beats hard enough to muffle the sounds outside the door, but it’s still loud enough to rattle my bones. Cold terror seeps into my marrow, and the pulse between my legs throbs hard enough to send reverberations to my toes.

Images flicker in my mind’s eye, starting with the leaked crime scene photos of the brother and stepmother Xero murdered. It’s followed by the picture of Kayla choking to death on a throat full of silicone, the envelope full of fingers, and then Chappy’s limp body swinging from a noose. Not to mention the morning’s delivery of his pierced tongue.

“Myra,” a voice rasps in between the sounds of chaos.

My breath stills.

“You have my friend?”

One knock.

Shit.

“Is she hurt?” I ask, my chest tightening, my voice rising with panic.

Two knocks.

I exhale, but it’s too early to feel relief. Gulping, I pluck up the courage to ask, “Is she a hostage?”

One knock.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes, the sting spreading across my sinuses. I couldn’t do a thing to save Kayla, Gavin, or Chappy, but if there’s a chance I can help Myra, I’ll do whatever it takes .

I choke back a sob. Nothing with this new version of Xero is simple. I rephrase my question to, “Will you release her if I agree to your terms?”

One knock.

“Okay… Okay. What do you want me to do? Turn off the lights?”

One knock.

“Anything else?”

One knock.

A shudder runs down my spine, and chills spread across my skin. “And step out of the salt circle?”

One knock.

My stomach dips. It’s that jumping-off-a-dive board sensation where I’m free-falling into an empty swimming pool. I try to rise, but my legs have turned to jelly. It’s too much. I’m not brave enough to sacrifice myself to a ghost, but then a fresh set of images assaults my mind: Myra screaming under torture, hanging from the ceiling, or lying on an operating table being carved by shadows.

Cold panic punches me in the chest, making me scoot out of the salt circle. I crawl on my hands and knees, turning off both flashlights and the lamps I set around the room, and I close the laptop’s lid.

There’s a beat of silence before the ceiling flares with light. I scramble to the farthest edge of the room, press my back to the wall, and watch the display.

Two naked men sit side by side on a bed. The smaller of the pair is thin with a soft body, a red face, red hands, and horns. Between his skinny thighs are genitals resembling a trio of button mushrooms set within a thicket of salt-and-pepper pubic hair. His companion, with a perfect body but an unfortunate-looking face, sits with his penis tucked between his closed legs.

Nausea clogs my throat as I recognize them from the book fair. They’re both in the champagne-colored decor of a luxury hotel suite, but there’s no sign of us in the background.

“Roger Stern.” Xero’s voice is so loud and deep that my bones rattle. “Also known as Big Dick Johnson. You have been found guilty of date rape. ”

“What?” I whisper, my hands flying to my mouth. I’m breathing so hard and fast that I barely hear the voice actor’s reply.

“Put down the gun, man,” BJ says. “I didn’t touch her. You stepped in before I could get my dick wet.”

My lip curls with disgust. Does that mean he stripped us naked?

“StephenGlick, also known as the Well Hung Man. You have been found guilty of attempted date rape.”

The hangman splutters. “This wasn’t my idea. I only squeezed one tit.”

My nostrils flare. Only?

“If I hadn’t interrupted, you would have taken what was mine,” Xero snarls.

I clutch at my throat. He’s talking about me. BJ must have targeted Myra and left me for the hangman.

“One of you will die tonight,” Xero says.

“Kill him,” the hangman shrieks. “He’s the one who lined their glasses with Rohypnol. I thought tonight was going to be a regular hookup.”

BJ shakes his head. “But he touched your woman. That other chick was fair game. He’s the one who deserves to die.”

“You make an excellent point,” Xero says.

“Yeah.” BJ gulps. “I would never encroach on another man’s territory. I knew to steer clear of the woman who ran your official fan club.”

“But this is your modus operandi,” Xero says. “You target women with small followings, knowing that they won’t be believed. Tonight, you invited Amethyst and her friend, hoping they would stay silent for the promise of you being the voice of Xero Greaves.”

“It wasn’t like that,” BJ sobs.

“How many victims have you silenced with cease-and-desist letters? How many have you doxxed? The information is all there on your phone.”

“I swear to God,” cries the hangman, “I’m not a serial rapist.”

“What about the Helsing Island Book Fair?” BJ screeches. “Or Southampton, or Granville? ”

“Pathetic,” Xero snarls. “But since neither of you raped the girls this time, I’ll give you one chance to earn your freedom. Whoever wins this game gets to go free. Understood?”

They both give him eager nods.

“Get on the bed. The first man who comes inside the other gets to live. Loser dies.”

BJ skitters backward. “But I’m not gay.”

“Then you both die.”

“No fucking way.” The hangman wrestles BJ to the bed.

I clap both hands on my mouth, watching the men grapple on the mattress. The hangman grabs the smaller man by the neck and then holds him down with one muscular forearm, while he pumps his own flaccid penis, which has an overhanging foreskin.

“Fight him, not me!” BJ flails his arms and legs, trying to break free.

“Fuck, no,” the hangman snarls. “You’re the one who got me into this mess.”

BJ grabs the hangman’s balls and yanks downward.

With a blood-curdling howl, the hangman releases his hold on BJ and rolls backward on the mattress. BJ advances on him, already rock hard.

“I’m going to take your ass, big boy,” BJ snarls in a deep voice. “Fuck you hard and fast. Fill you with buckets of cum.”

The pulse between my legs pounds, and I squeeze my thighs together, trying to stem a surge of excitement. This is wrong. Even though both men are rapists, I should be horrified at seeing them assaulting each other.

But I’m not.

If Xero hadn’t floated to our rescue, Myra and I would have woken up traumatized and with no memory of what happened to our bodies. We dropped our guards, thinking the world of publishing was a tight-knit community, and Big Dick Johnson swooped in to take advantage of our desperation for success.

BJ pounds into his friend’s ass at a relentless pace, and the hangman finally gets an erection. Just as his leather pants suggested, it’s long and thick but with a narrow head, trapped within its foreskin. With an almighty bellow, he rears off the mattress and slams his fists into BJ’s face .

My hands slide over to my eyes. I can’t watch this. No matter what these men have done, I can’t stomach seeing them fight so hard to rape each other.

The snarls and shouts and slaps subside, giving way to grunts and groans. When I peek through my fingers, they’ve arranged their bodies in a 69 and are thrusting into each other’s mouths.

My clit throbs at the sounds of their fucking, then my pussy clenches and releases and aches. I’ve never seen anything so primal, so raw. Two men fucking each other’s throats for their own survival. This is madness.

“Does this make you horny?” asks a deep voice sounding so close to my ear that I flinch.

I pull my hands away from my face to find a cloaked figure looming in the shadows, his eyes glowing.

It’s Xero, and he’s holding a sack.

My gaze darts up to the scene playing out on the ceiling. How much do I want to bet that Xero is about to present me with one or more of their body parts?