Some Velvet Sin, page 9
“All right, well, where’s your house?”
“You can’t drop me off out front,” she said curtly. “You have to park around the corner.”
“I can’t drop you off anywhere if you don’t tell me where we’re going.”
Cynthia pursed her lips. “Next left. Then stop at the corner.” She looked over at Victor as he turned. “Why the hell did you stop anyway? I know you don’t like me.”
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure. He’d felt inexplicably antagonistic toward her at the overlook, but when he saw her walking alone, he wouldn’t have felt right just driving past. Something was odd about this girl. Like Arlene, she was tough, not soft like many of the girls that bounced along the halls of their school, leaving a stream of giggles in their wake. Unlike Arlene, Cynthia seemed brittle and a little unpleasant. She’d been hurt, he would guess, but he didn’t plan to ask about it, and he didn’t intend to share his thoughts or make sense of the hazy reasons he’d stopped.
“It’s late. You looked cold.” Victor felt her studying him as he rolled to a stop at the corner. He let the engine idle. “This the spot?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Slick.”
“Call me Vic. All my friends do.”
“We friends now?” she asked, swinging herself out of the car. She shut the door softly and fixed him with a doubtful look.
“Maybe. What’s a guy gotta do to be your friend?”
A wry smile curved her lips, and he knew his attempt at charm had fallen flat. “Not much, stud. But you know that, don’t you?”
He couldn’t help his quiet laugh, though he was sure she hadn’t intended any humor. She’d piqued his interest and he couldn’t say why. She made him want to prove himself somehow, just because she seemed so difficult to impress.
“Get home safe, Cynthia, will ya? Maybe I’ll see you at school Monday.”
“You might.” She walked around the hood of the car and started for the corner, making it only a few steps before she looked back at him, unsmiling. “By the by, Vic. You can call me Cyn. Nobody else does.”
Grinning softly, he watched her stroll out of sight.
ELEVEN
Between
It felt like I’d been through a whirlwind since getting to the Realm. I wanted to find a place to rest. A place to get away from everyone and just think for a while.
I used to go to the beach.
The thought came to me as I paced back and forth in front of the mountain after Poisonelle jetted off. I doubted there was anything like a sandy, salty beach in the Realm, and the only thing that might match the vastness of the ocean was the starless black nothing that shrouded us.
So I wandered, watching, keeping to myself. I circled the junk piles, occasionally dodging some object tossed carelessly over a shoulder. The heaps, I heard them called. This was where everyone found their tithe, I guessed. People were highly protective of their findings, sometimes getting into physical fights over chipped dishes and books with missing pages.
When they weren’t sorting through junk, they climbed up and down the ledges, coming in and out of caves. They were racing or fighting, building things or playing games. Some appeared to be on their own, like me, but mostly they moved in pairs or fluid groups, voices rising and falling. There was always laughter and shouting, moaning and murmurs. A few cried.
This was a timeless place, despite the number of clocks that ended up in the heaps. Each one of them was broken, forever halted on various hours. All of them wrong, any of them right. It didn’t matter. With no sun or moon to mark the days, everyone kept whatever schedule suited them.
Since I was an adaptable gal, I knew I’d find my place sooner or later. First, I needed to think—come up with a plan, some idea of how I wanted to do things here. Maybe I’d even be able to recover the memories I’d lost at my death.
Privacy seemed to be a luxury here, but I needed it, and so I skirted away from all that bustle in search of somewhere quieter. As I passed a thin blond man who recited dramatic poetry to a small audience, I noticed the girl I’d helped—Moonflower—watching him from the shadow of a ledge. She paid no attention to me. No one did. That was how I wanted it.
Nearing the wood, I caught sight of a few cobblestones covered in moss and weeds. An old path. It seemed there’d been lots of talk about paths since I’d arrived. I followed it cautiously, looking back at the mountain every few feet, not wanting to end up somewhere else altogether.
A gazebo stood at the end. It looked out of place in the elegant, glowing wood, a structure half-decayed and choked with the remnants of dead, twisted vines. I ascended the creaking steps and kicked aside a broken piece of crenellation that had fallen from the roof. Listening to the distant rumble of the city, I sank down to the splintered floor planks and took several deep breaths.
No memories came rushing back. I realized how lost I felt without all that weight on my mind.
I didn’t like it.
The buzz of a single buggy reached my ears, the harsh, tinny sound whizzing past the gazebo and quickly fading.
If I’d been alive, sitting on the sand at night, I’d have had a bottle of liquor to soothe whatever troubled me. I would’ve liked one now, just to ease myself into a cloud of blissful nothing. This was all so new and overwhelming. For a second I wished I could forget this too and just… exist.
Oh well. I’d never gotten anywhere feeling sorry for myself. It was a waste of energy anyway. I knew I’d be better off just accepting this for what it was, no matter how weirdsville it seemed. I’d get used to it—my stubborn nature would make sure of it.
Suddenly I heard a shout. “Challenger!!!” The word echoed through the trees, seizing my attention. I spun toward the sound, one hand gripping the rickety little wall surrounding the gazebo. My wide, wary eyes caught a rush of chaotic movement in the distance, on the other side of the wood—people spilling from their caves as if outrunning a fire, leaping down from the ledges and taking off at a run, shrieking and shouting. They tripped over one another in their haste to get somewhere, everyone funneling in one direction, and I was sure something terrible had happened.
No—the screaming and running was just excitement. I relaxed a little when I realized this and rose to my feet, brushing splinters of wood from the seat of my shorts. Then I made my way toward the crowd.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I demanded of the first person I found. I had to ask three more times before someone stopped to answer me.
“A duel. Storm has been challenged.”
“Huh.” Poisonelle had mentioned challenges when I’d questioned her. Curious, I fell in with the crowd.
After a few minutes of walking through the wood, I saw it. An enormous clearing revealed a huge, jagged hole in a field of black stone. It looked like an arena, deep and vaguely ominous, with rows upon rows of tiered ledges carved roughly into the sides. Eagerly, the dead flowed into it from all directions, heading down the ledges in search of open seats. Bits of conversation teased away from the deafening chatter, drifting past me as I drew closer to the edge.
“Who’s the challenger?”
“—no challengers in years—”
“—never beaten him—”
“—end up with his skull adorning the gates—”
It didn’t sound as if whoever had decided to challenge this prince would end up the winner, which was more or less what Poisonelle had told me. I stepped down onto the top tier and slipped into the nearest seat. The arena was almost completely full now, bodies occupying all the rows, some of them standing, all of them fixated on the circular area at the very bottom, where a guy stood waiting.
“He’s a dead man,” someone commented, earning a crazed laugh in response.
“Storm’s wrath! Storm’s wrath!” a nearby group chanted.
I craned my neck to see the challenger. He paced the center of the circle on restless feet, head tilted back at an arrogant angle as he idly scanned the crowd. Shards of bone littered the ground around him—remnants of those who’d been in his place before. Those who’d lost.
“Did I miss anything?” Poisonelle wriggled her way into the space beside me and plunked herself down.
“I don’t think so. Is it always like this?”
“Oh, sure. Duels are huge events in the Realm, especially since they don’t happen often.” She paused and looked at me, as if wondering how I’d take all this. “It probably won’t turn out any differently than the rest.”
“You mean the prince is going to win. He’s going to take the challenger’s skull for the gates.”
“It’s likely, babe. Very likely indeed.”
“And everyone’s going to watch. Bloodthirsty,” I remarked.
“That’s entertainment,” Poisonelle said with a shrug. “Besides, it’s hard to feel too much sympathy when everyone knows what Storm does to the losers. At this point, it’s pretty stupid to challenge him, given the risk. Winner may get the throne, but the loser gets whatever the winner decides. In Storm’s case, an eternity of singing in a bone chorus.”
The crowd began to heckle the challenger, booing and chanting at him in mocking tones, all the noise so layered and chaotic it didn’t sound like anything at all. I looked down at him again just as he sliced a reckless grin across the crowd, lifting both hands to give every single one of us the bird.
My heart skipped a beat at the sight of his handsome, sneering face. All of a sudden I heard his name clearly in the crowd’s ominous, melting voice: Killllgrave. Kiiiiillgrave.
“It’s Killgrave,” I said to Poisonelle, my tone sharp with odd worry.
She fixed her eyes on him, nodding without an ounce of surprise. “Yeah, he’s a character. I hope he knows what he’s doing.”
“He doesn’t look scared.”
“None of them ever do.”
I’ve got ambition, he’d told me. But ambition didn’t mean much if some crazy underworld prince was going to strip the skin off your head and put your skull up like a deranged trophy. I’d only just met Killgrave, but I didn’t want him to lose. Not to that jerk who called himself a prince. I felt nervous just thinking about it, picturing his skull clacking along with all the others at the gates. A collection of anonymous bones.
“This must be important to him. I guess he wants to be on top, you know?” Poisonelle mused. “Probably has some kind of chip on his shoulder. Most fellas seem to.”
“That’s the truth.”
And it was, wasn’t it? Boys were always trying to show off and impress somebody. I could almost hear the echo of raucous laughter in the high school halls. No names or faces came to me, just the posturing, the preening, the casual cruelty, the slick grins and sanctimonious attitudes.
But not all of the boys. It seemed to me there had been one… one who was different.
Only I couldn’t remember anything about him.
“It’s starting,” Poisonelle said, her voice hushed as she nudged my arm.
An eerie silence descended. The prince had arrived. Storm. He walked down the tiers, the crowd rippling in his wake as people stepped out of the way to let him pass and then closed the gap behind him. That ghastly, crooked smile appeared as he stopped at the bottom of the arena, just a few feet from Killgrave.
“Why have you come?” Storm shouted in his booming voice.
“I challenge you for the throne!” Killgrave shouted back, sounding fierce and fearsome. His crackling energy sent a shiver up my spine.
A ripple of anticipation passed over the crowd. Storm’s unfeeling eyes scanned his opponent’s lean form and seemed to find him lacking in some way. “Are you certain, little one?” A hint of amusement colored his tone.
Killgrave gave a brisk nod. “Dead certain.”
Storm widened his stance and rolled his shoulders. Killgrave cracked his knuckles, staring at the prince from beneath lowered brows, his mouth twisted into a determined snarl. He was taller than Storm, but next to the prince he looked too slim and easily broken. Storm was thicker and somehow more solid. Like a brick wall.
“Then face the Storm’s wrath!” Storm declared.
“The what?” I muttered just as Poisonelle grabbed my hand and the crowd began to roar, thirsty for blood. Chants of “Storm’s wrath” picked up again.
Then the fight began.
The fervor of the moment swept over me. Riveted, I found myself rising to my feet along with everyone else to watch. Poisonelle kept gripping my hand, shouting encouragement to Killgrave every few seconds though her voice was lost to the din.
I kept silent. My eyes followed the two figures circling each other below. They drew closer with each prowling step, Storm moving with an easy arrogance that sat well on his bulky frame, Killgrave tense and watchful. His focus was on the prince, while Storm seemed to care more about the people watching. He threw a conspiratorial glance across the crowd, his smile conveying boredom and arrogant confidence. He’d win this easily, that smile said. He’d toy with Killgrave for the sake of the spectacle.
And it was a spectacle. I knew arrogance like that. He wanted to keep everyone afraid so fewer people would want to duel him—lessening the chance that he might one day lose a duel.
A few encouraging cheers rose up, and then Storm made the first move.
He rushed Killgrave with surprising speed. But Killgrave was faster by far, scrappier. Ducking under one of the prince’s outstretched arms, he whirling around to face the prince’s back. Bone shards scattered beneath his feet. Storm turned, irritation tightening his features, and tried again. His meaty fists swung for Killgrave’s face, but Killgrave, severe and determined, elegantly dodged each one, silvery light shining on his black ‘do.
Storm’s arms fell to his sides as he paused and stretched to his full height, rolling his neck, preparing himself to strike again. He’d seen Killgrave wouldn’t go down easily. I bit my lip worriedly, knowing this was about to end. With the difference in their sizes Killgrave should have appeared less intimidating than Storm, but he didn’t. He expected to win this fight.
“Come on,” I muttered to myself. Poisonelle’s fingers tightened around mine.
My stomach dropped as Storm surged forward to Killgrave once again. I gasped when Killgrave swung himself up on the prince’s back, a movement so fast I hardly registered how he’d done it. The crowd went wild, spitting with excitement, screaming for blood.
I wanted him to win.
Killgrave locked an arm around Storm’s neck, squeezing so hard veins popped from the prince’s forehead. In his free hand he gripped a bone shard he’d gotten hold of at some point. He lifted it high and then brought it swiftly down, jabbing the sharp end into Storm’s eye. Blood spurted from the wound, coating Killgrave’s hand. A ferocious howl filled the air, and Storm began to turn in desperate circles.
“No!” he shouted. “No! No one has ever beaten me—”
With a wrenching motion, Killgrave silenced the prince and flung himself back, teeth bared with exertion. Storm fell face first to the stone.
“He ain’t done yet,” Poisonelle said.
And it was true. Even with a broken neck and a foreign object blinding one eye, Storm was trying to stand up, to continue fighting for his position. It was a ghastly sight, blood smeared down his face, head hanging from a limp neck as he lifted himself.
Kicking aside some bone, Killgrave walked around Storm’s body. He put his foot between the man’s large shoulder blades to keep him down, leaving it there until he stopped struggling.
Then he lifted his foot and stomped the back of the prince’s skull in one swift, brutal motion.
Some sound of surprise and horror left my throat, but I couldn’t hear it over the crowd’s roar. I stared at the carnage below, unable to tear my eyes from the bloody pulp of Storm’s flattened skull. He’d stripped skin from bones to cement his position, but Killgrave had gone right ahead and smashed those bones to bits. Showing everyone exactly how little mercy he possessed. How far he was willing to go to get what he wanted.
Blood gleamed on the toe of his boot, and I suppressed a shiver of dread and delight.
He looked up then, scanning the crowd, and for a second, I thought his glinting, triumphant eyes met mine.
“He did it,” someone in front of me said in awestruck tones. “He faced the Storm’s wrath.”
“Finally,” another replied.
“Hey—what was that?” I asked, squinting down at the scene. I’d thought I saw something like smoke float up from Storm’s flattened body and disappear into the air.
“That was just his soul going on to the shining paths,” Poisonelle said. “It’s been released. That means Killgrave showed him mercy.”
“It didn’t look like mercy.” I shivered. “So Storm went… elsewhere?”
“Yeah, he’s gone. And he isn’t Storm anymore—just energy, going back into that cycle of life and death.” She laughed with delight. “No more tithe. Ain’t that something?”
The noise around us gradually lessened until a restless hush settled over the arena. Then someone shouted. “Prince Killgrave!” Another shout followed, and another, until dozens of voices had chimed in to honor the new prince of the Realm. On the arena floor, Killgrave just stood still and let the accolades roll in.
“Well,” said Poisonelle appreciatively, “at least he’s keen. Storm wasn’t much to look at.”
Killgrave threw back his shoulders and finally began to make his way out of the arena. The crowd parted as he ascended the tiers, giving him a wider berth than they had Storm. He’d killed the man they’d all feared, and so they feared him too.
But not everyone. I noticed tentative hands reaching out to brush him arms, people waving to capture his notice. A few girls my age, a couple of women. They called his name, and though he smiled darkly at the attention, he didn’t stop.
