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CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHARLOTTE

W e cut across the overgrown yards, weaving through stately old pecan trees, the air damp and cold. I can’t see anything, but I keep my fingers pressed lightly against Jaxon’s back, and he moves as if it’s daylight. As if he can see everything.

It’s not long before a light glimmers up ahead, and I suck my breath in, fear surging up through my chest. This can’t be happening . And yet I keep gliding forward, weaving between the trees and shadows until everything opens up into a small, rolling hill of a backyard. The light is a swimming pool, pale and eerie and steaming in the cold.

Jaxon stops and sniffs the air, then whips his hand back and grabs my wrist. I stifle a shout of surprise.

He pulls me up to his side and presses his mask against my ear.

“There are three people on this street.” His voice is so low it sounds like the wind. “A couple four houses down. Inside. Calm. And our target.” He nods toward the swimming pool.

“Okay,” I breathe.

“Do exactly as I say.” When he talks, it seems to come from everywhere. The mask is flat and expressionless. Unmoving. “I won’t let you get hurt.”

“You threatened to kill me like five min?—”

“Do what I say, and I won’t let you get hurt.”

It sounds more like a threat than a promise of protection.

“Fine,” I whisper, my breath quickening. The air smells like the scarf, which smells like cinnamon. And, I think, like Jaxon.

“Follow me.” He moves forward, circling the pool. I follow him because I don’t want to die. Because he knows where Edie is. Because part of me still thinks I’m going to walk in that house and the man Jaxon wants to kill will call the police and I’ll be—saved, or something.

Do you want to be saved?

Jaxon glides up to the door with an easy grace, his feet barely making a sound on the wooden patio. The door is sliding glass set into more glass, a black mirror reflecting our two masked forms back at us. We’re shadows. We’re monsters.

I look so good at his side.

I shake the thought out of my head, even though Jaxon runs his hands over the door’s lock like a lover?—

Like he ran his hands over me

—And the lock snaps somehow, some piece of metal hitting the patio with a whispered clang. Jaxon eases the door open, and the curtain on the other side billows in, giving me a glimpse of the tile floor.

He gestures for me to follow him. I know I shouldn’t. But I do.

We push through the gauzy curtains and into the living room. It’s surprisingly sparse in terms of furniture, like the owner of this house, Jaxon’s victim, spent all his money on the property and didn’t have anything left for couches and chairs.

Jaxon stands still, head cocked, the antlers dark. I hold my breath, but all I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears.

He turns to me. Points up to the ceiling. Upstairs.

I’m dizzy at what he’s asking me to do, and some part of me snaps. I shake my head. Point at the floor. Here , I want to say, but I’m too afraid to speak.

The empty spaces that are Jaxon’s eyes almost seem to flash. He points at the ceiling, then grabs my wrist, and yanks me with him. I want to fight. I should fight, and scream, and make noise, and ruin everything. But that knife is gleaming at his belt, and I can see the lump of the gun underneath his shirt. That’s two ways to kill me, plus his long graceful fingers.

So I follow. Again.

We weave through the big, empty living room and a narrow foyer until we come to an enormous circular staircase. Jaxon moves through the house like he’s been here before. He does slow down a little as we go up the stairs, pausing now and then with his head tilted. Listening. Tracking. I don’t hear anything but the occasional creaking moan as the house settles into its massive foundations.

Then Jaxon moves again, more quickly. On the second-floor landing, he walks with big, loping strides. This part of the house feels as empty and unlived-in as the rest. There are no pictures on the walls. No Christmas decorations waiting to be taken down. No discarded shoes or shelves full of knick knacks.

Then I hear it—the low hum of a television. Light flickers into the hallway, spilling out of an open door. Jaxon stops and holds up his hand and I run into it, his fingers splaying across my heart.

He tilts his antlered mask toward me. I wish I could see his eyes.

Then he moves, darting forward and whipping himself into the room. There is a long, empty pause and then a man’s scream that cuts short.

“In here!” Jaxon shouts, and I feel the words vibrate in my bones. “Now!”

But I can’t move. I don’t want to move. I just stand outside the doorway, sucking down deep shuddery breaths.

“Charlotte!” he orders.

That cuts through my fear. “Don’t say my name!” I screech, the first thing I think of. I don’t move, though. Not even when Jaxon steps through the doorway, a monster wrapped in shadow.

He pulls the knife off his belt, the metal gleaming. It’s clean.

“What did you do?” I whisper.

“Knocked him out.” Jaxon’s fingers tighten around the handle of the knife. “So you won’t have to fight him.”

It takes me a moment, a long moment, to register what he’s saying. “Fight him?” I shake my head. “Why would I?—”

Jaxon grabs my arm and jerks me forward, yanking me through the doorway and into a bedroom, the TV on the wall still softly playing some old sitcom. When I step inside, the canned laughter kicks in.

There’s a man slumped on the bed. Middle-aged, with short dark hair, a stocky build.

“You knocked him out?” I sputter.

“I’m not human,” Jaxon says in a slow, dangerous voice. “I can do things you wouldn’t expect.” He looks toward me again, his hand still wrapped around my arm. His touch softens, although only a little. “You need to do it.”

“What?” I wrench myself away from him, stumbling sideways. He stares at me, a monster offering me a big silver blade. “Why?” Panic bubbles into my throat. “Is this some kind of—blackmail thing? Are you recording me?”

“No.” He steps closer, slow and threatening. I bump up against the wall, knocking my head against the TV. One of the characters says something and the room fills with laughter again. “It’s nothing like that.”

“Then what is it ?” I look over at the man, willing him to stir. To open his eyes. To save me, somehow.

“It’s—” Jaxon steps in front of me, blocking my view of the man. I don’t even know his name because Jaxon doesn’t know his name. Maybe he’s a criminal—a drug dealer, a human trafficker. I still don’t want to kill him.

Pain throbs behind my left eye, the start of a headache.

“Tell me!” I shriek. “Why are you doing this?”

“To show you what you are,” Jaxon says softly, still holding out the knife.

Realization hits me like a punch. “You think I’m like you ?” I sputter out. “No. No, absolutely not.” I shake my head furiously, so hard the scarf slips back. Jaxon lifts his hand and I flinch away, but all he does is pull the fabric back over my hair.

“It’s complicated,” he says.

“Don’t ever say those two fucking words to me again!” I dive sideways, desperate to get away, but Jaxon squeezes my waist and pulls me up to him and whirls me around to face the bed. The knife presses against my stomach, it’s metal cold even through my sweater.

“I’ll help,” Jaxon murmurs into my ear, the mask cold against my skin. He steps forward, forcing me to go with him. His cock is hard, which both disturbs and arouses me. “I’ll guide your hand.”

“No!” I scream. Jaxon grabs my right hand and pries my fingers open.

Over on the bed, the man groans.

“Hurry,” Jaxon says. “So you won’t have to fight him.”

“Help!” I scream, bucking back against Jaxon. My head throbs. I can’t believe I’m getting one of these headaches now. And this one has come on so fast . The pain is sharp enough that light flickers in my vision, and pale haloes settle over everything.

The man rolls onto his back, eyes still closed.

Jaxon snarls something in that strange, alien language, then slides the knife handle into my palm and pushes my fingers closed, his hand wrapped around mine.

“Help me!” I scream at the man. “He’s going to make me kill you!”

The man doesn’t move.

Jaxon forces me forward, pressing me between his body and the mattress. I scream as he forces my hand, and the knife, up over my head. It catches the light and shines silver.

“Why?” I sob, tears streaking down my cheeks. “Why are you doing this?”

Jaxon answers in that ugly, cruel language and tightens his grip around my waist, pressing me into him so that his cock presses into the cleft of my ass.

“Just once,” he says. “Just once.”

My headache flares, but I still fight against Jaxon’s strength, my arm muscles straining as I push back against him, trying to keep the knife lifted.

“Just once,” Jaxon keeps whispering. “Just do it once. That’ll be enough.”

The man groans. His eyes flutter open, settle right on me, and widen with fear.

And, to my horror, my clit throbs.

That’s enough. I lose what little leverage I have against Jaxon, and he overpowers me, pushing the knife down. It swings in a wide arc.

At the last minute, Jaxon lets go.

But the knife doesn’t stop.

It arcs through the air until the blade parts the flesh of the man’s shoulder, until it splits through fat and muscle, until it lands in the jarring obstruction of bone.

Blood spurts.

The man screams.

And I?—

I keep going.