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“Did you drug me with chloroform?”
“You know I did,” he replies. He glances at the pillow, his frown creasing.
I laugh. It’s a bitter sound that echoes through my hollow chest. “You drugged me more than once?”
He stares up at me like I’ve gone insane. Maybe that’s what he’s always wanted. After all, he’s the only person in existence who encouraged me not to take my meds. Now I know why. He gets off on seeing me unstable, off-balance, broken.
Xero Greaves is the worst kind of sadist. He combines psychological manipulation with schadenfreude and sexual assault.
“Amethyst?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“How many times did you drug me?”
“Are you upset about the somnophilia?” He twists his arms, trying to break out of one of his cuffs. “Because it’s one of the kinks you agreed to in our contract?—”
I slam the pillow over his face, already sick of his gaslighting.
“I agreed to having sex with you while I was sleeping, and that was only theoretical,” I scream. “How the fuck was I supposed to know you weren’t going to die?”
Xero bucks his hips and throws me to the side, but we’ve practiced this move so many times that my hands still cling to the pillow I’ve wrapped around his head.
He gasps beneath me, the cushioned fabric muffling his protests. I clamber back on top of him and dig my knee into his stomach, using every pound of my body weight to keep him down.
I don’t let up, keeping up the pressure, even as his struggles weaken. Freezing is a perfectly legitimate response to danger. In Xero’s case, he could be holding his breath and biding his time until I get tired.
Some people can hold their breath for as long as a minute. I expect a man with Xero’s training can last much longer. Counting off the seconds, I ready myself for his surprise attack.
At about two minutes, his body jolts with enough force to launch me off the bed. I land on the concrete floor, knocking aside the washing-up bowl and its contents. Pain explodes across my hip, but it’s still muffled by the numb shock of his betrayal.
At the clanking of metal from above, I glance up to see Xero ripping his cuff from the bedpost. Alarm shoots me in the solar plexus, and I grab the somnochlorate. I jump to my feet, just as Xero is breaking through the second set of cuffs, and I smash the bottle over his head.
The glass shatters, releasing the sleeping agent. I hold my breath and step backward.
Xero stares at me, his eyes wide with disbelief. That’s when Irealize he must have thought I was playing… Or not as deathly serious.
“Amethyst,” he says, his eyes glazing.
I gather up my supplies and skitter toward the door, not daring to turn my back on Xero. It’s only when his eyes roll back into his skull and his body falls limp that I know I’m safe.
For now.
Running will only give me a tiny head start. If I leave him alive, he’ll recover and drag me back to face an even worse punishment. Maybe this time, he’ll let me get fucked by a corpse.
I have to end him, now. Not after he’s abused me so badly that there’s nothing left of my mind. Then I’ll drive to Alderney Hill and end Mom, too.
Excellent plan.
I set down the bowl, open the disinfectant and pour it around the bedroom door. Ideally, I would douse Xero in the flammable liquid, but I can’t allow myself to fall unconscious from inhaling the somnochlorate.
Instead, I fling cooking oil into the room along with paper towels to serve as kindling. Ignoring the butter, I strike a match, light the cardboard tube, and toss it into the room.
Flames race along the paper towels and catch onto the oil-splattered bedding. In moments, the room fills with smoke. At any moment, someone outside could notice the fire and break in, so I don’t stay to watch Xero burn. Cold determination and survival instincts fuel my movements as I race into Mrs. Baker’s crawlspace and close the door.
I run through the dark tunnel like I’m being chased by hellfire, not slowinguntil my nostrils fill with the unearthly scent of bones that signal the start of the catacombs. I pause for the time it takes me to send an anonymous text to Mrs. Baker, telling her to check her house for smoke, and continue toward the bones.
For the first time in over a decade, I’m no longer afraid of the dead. Ghosts could float through the walls of broken skeletons, but my steps wouldn’t falter. They can’t hurt me. Not compared to the living.
I inhale, expecting to smell flames, but the only scents I detect are from the skulls piled up on the wall. Hurried footsteps echo inmy direction, and I duck into a crevice barely large enough to fit me sideways. Closing my eyes, I continue, suppressing shudders and gasps as the bones protrude into my front and back.
