Page 44 of D for Dead

He read from the page.

‘We have a connection, Amy. We both have that darkness living inside us. You’ve channelled yours into your stories and brought them to life. I need to learn how to use mine before it spirals out of control. There are things I would like to do and the need inside me is growing. I must take my darkness and my desires and make things happen.’

Sullivan glanced up at Amy. ‘You really believe he’s talking about writing a book?’

‘Isn’t he?’

At Sullivan’s raised eyebrows, she reddened, feeling stupid she’d never thought anything of the letters before. Her fans tended to say some weird stuff now and again. She honestly hadn’t read anything into it. But now he had put a different spin on it, the words had taken on a sinister edge.

Sullivan picked up the shoebox, starting flicking through the remaining letters. He shot another glance at Amy, his lips twisting.

‘Guess we’d better see what else Mr X has to say.’

15

The air around her was cool and damp, thick with a musty, earthy scent. Something else clung to it: another smell. Like copper or rust. As she took a further step down, her sense of foreboding grew. The stairs were steep and narrow; the only light was coming from an open door at the bottom. A faint bulb flickered, threatening to disappear altogether.

She should turn and go, before anything bad happened. Instead she was compelled to continue; driven on by an overwhelming need to know what was in the room at the bottom of the stairs.

As she neared, her heart thumped uncomfortably in her chest. The only other noises were the sound of her own quiet footsteps, each one much louder in the silence than she wanted them to be and, as she got closer, the monotonous drip, she guessed from a tap.

The coppery smell was growing stronger, clogging her nose and her throat. She should go. Although her head instructed her to leave, her feet continued, and she couldn’t stop them.

The light from the room flickered again and she heard the sound of shuffling and what she thought was a low moan.

Stop. Go back.

Her foot hit the final step and then she was standing on the stone floor, a few feet away from the room, its heavy wooden door wide open.

She paused, her shoulders tense, fists clenched by her sides. Her breathing was too loud and she tried to steady it. She crept along the passage, her legs leaden, each step taking seconds, but feeling like minutes.

Readying herself, she peered through the door. And screamed.

* * *

Amy shot upright in bed.

Something, someone grabbed hold of her by the shoulders.

Panicking in their firm grip she screamed again, thrashing out wildly with her fists.

‘Hey! Stop it.’ A male voice, one she recognised, sounded annoyed. ‘It’s Sullivan.’

He let go of her shoulders; caught hold of her wrists.

‘Let me go.’

‘Then quit hitting me.’

It was dark, but she could make out his silhouette in front of her. Taking a moment, she drew a deep breath, forced herself to relax. Her skin was hot and clammy; sweat beaded on her forehead and upper lip; droplets slid down her back, between her breasts.

It was okay. She was in her apartment, in her bed. The long curtains drawn across the open balcony door billowed in the breeze. She could hear the reassuring tick of her alarm clock, smell the familiar scents of her room: her perfumes and creams, the fabric conditioner on her sheets. On the floor beside the bed, Huckleberry let out a woof.

Sullivan let go of her wrists, leaned past her to switch on the night lamp. Amy caught the familiar scent of his cologne. It mingled with the feminine scents in the room, jangling her senses.

Soft light fell on the room. Sullivan sat back on her bed, a scowl on his face.

‘What the hell was that about?’ he demanded, dark eyes glaring.