Elle Jasper: Everdark

I knew I was being useless right now; crying and whining, doing the wall-slide while my best friend sat, prisoner of a vicious killer. What the freak was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I find him myself? Why couldn’t freaking Victorian help me find him?

Preacher would know what to do. Maybe there was something he could give me, I didn’t know. To help me find Nyx? I concentrated—hard—on my new senses. Maybe I could hear her, if she was close enough? I strained my ears, and a flood of sounds fell in. None of them was distinctively Nyx. I sighed and dropped my head against the wall.

The thought lingered in my brain, and lingered a fraction too long. Just when I’d made my mind up to run next door, heaviness settled over my body, weighed me down, nailed me to the very spot I’d fallen to the floor. I tried to speak; I tried to move. My arms, legs were like anvils, and I could move neither. My insides wretched because I knew what was coming. Even in my paralyzed state, I knew.

My eyelids fell, and darkness fell behind them, a menacing shadow that no matter how hard I tried to lift, it wouldn’t. Finally, it did, and I found myself looking through his eyes once again; I tried closing mine, fearful of what I’d see. I couldn’t. I felt the pleasure he took in knowing me now, in knowing I unwillingly watched, partially participated, and it made me wonder if he hated me that much; that he’d kill Nyx just so I’d have no choice but to be a part of it. Nausea swept over me, but I couldn’t even relieve the sick sensation myself by vomiting. He moved. I moved with him.

We were downtown, on the other side of Bay Street and over the bridge; an old apartment building, dark, a bad neighborhood. He pushed into a side door and entered the building, taking the first set of stairs to the right. Climbing three flights effortlessly, he passed no one. On the third floor, he opened the door and stepped into the corridor. A small dog barked its head off in some random apartment close by. Otherwise, no one was about. He walked to the end, to the very last room. The apartment number was 340. He knocked. The door opened, and relief washed over me as a woman, not Nyx, stood there. She stood in the doorway, in a short blue skirt that barely covered her ass, a thin black vest that laced up the front, barely containing the extraordinarily large, perfectly round fake breasts, and high leather boots that reached her thighs. A stripper, maybe? A hooker? A cigarette dangled from her mouth, and without touching it, she pulled on it, inhaled, then blew a plume of smoke in his face. Early thirties, she wore heavy makeup, thick black eye liner, electric blue shadow. Her hair, several shades of blond, was braided back from her face, then left to fall in dreads halfway down her back.

She removed the cigarette from her lips. Her nails were painted the same blue as her eye shadow. “I have to work in an hour,” she said, her voice low, husky from years of smoking. She knew him. And he knew her. He liked her.

She reached down then, grabbed my hand—his hand, and pulled him into her apartment. Seductively, she leaned into him, locked the door, pulled the chain latch. She let her hand trail down his chest, down his stomach, to his belt where she loosened it and slid her hand down the front of his pants.

“Oooh,” she crooned, her eyes growing dark with lust. “Cock’s already hard for me, huh baby?” She rubbed her thumb over it, squeezed, then let go. “Wanna show first? Like always?” Crooking her finger, she beckoned him. “This way.”

She sauntered backward, then turned and moved seductively through the small apartment. He followed, with me, trapped in his filth. The girl leaned over the kitchen counter where she already had a line of coke, snorted it, then rose up, wiping her nose and sniffing. A glass with amber liquid sat nearby. She grabbed it, downed it, and licked her lips. Setting the glass down, she kept her eyes trained on him.

I fully understood her; the only way she could stand being in Valerian’s presence was to first do a line of coke and down some liquor. Didn’t blame her for that.

The woman moved toward him, then led him by the hand to an overstuffed chair in the living room. She playfully pushed him into it, then backed away, keeping her eyes on his. She began to sway seductively; her fingers grasping the laces holding her vest together and tugging slowly until her breasts spilled out. Wasted now, she licked her fingers, one by one; groped her breasts; grazed her nipples and moaned.

His cock stiffened, and nausea swept me as I felt his excitement grow to a fever. He knew I hated this; he did it on purpose to torment me.

The woman continued her seduction; it worked on him. She moved toward him, slowly lifting her skirt, revealing nothing below, all hair shaven. She touched herself, moaned again, and as she grew close, draped one long, booted leg over one arm of the chair, the other leg over the other arm. She wiggled her bareness into his lap, and his adrenaline pumped hard.

With haze-filled, high-as-a-kite eyes, she stared into his. Her fingers fumbled in his jeans and freed his hardness. Taking it in her hands, she stroked it, and just when she was about to straddle it, he pushed her back.

“Suck me,” he instructed.

With a slow smile, she slid off his lap and knelt between his legs.

The moment her mouth encased him and she drew him in, he came. He grabbed her by the hair hard and held her mouth in place. At first, she moaned in pleasure. I never wanted to throw up so badly in my entire life. I bucked and writhed inside, and still, I could do nothing. I couldn’t even close my fucking eyes.

He knew it, too. The sick, sick bastard knew it. I’m pretty sure that turned him on as much as the woman had.

I knew the exact moment he decided to kill her.

He thrust once more, yanked her up by her hair, and stared into her eyes for a split second. Her large breasts dangled. She threw a leg over his arm, hoping there’d be more.

There was, but not what she’d imagined.

He changed; I saw nothing but the look of terror in her eyes.

Then, he covered her mouth with his hand and plunged his fangs into her chest, ripped into the cavity, and entered her heart. It pumped for nearly a full minute, warm blood squirting deep into his throat. Before the last beat, he flung her from him. Her body crumpled to the floor, her face turned just enough to stare lifelessly at him.

At me.

He rose, belted his pants, lifted his zipper. Without another glance he walked right past her body.

In the small foyer, he stopped, looked left, and stared directly into a mirror.

“That was for you, Riley Poe,” he said, his voice making me physically shake inside. “I thought of you while I came.”

In my dark purgatory, I screamed, kicked, swore, cried.

He laughed.

“Dusk, girl. Don’t be late. And don’t goddamn bring anyone with you, or your little friend will die way worse than this one did today.”

“Riley!”

My eyes fluttered open, and I stared into the dark brown orbs of Preacher’s worried gaze. “Girl, what you doin’ on the floor? Git up now,” he said, grasping my arm and helping me to stand. He peered at me. “You seen somethin’ bad, right? I could tell on your face, baby. You seen somethin’ bad.”

I nodded. “I did, Preach.” I hugged him. “I hate this. It’s got to end,” I said, holding back tears.

He pulled away and looked at me for several seconds. “It’s goin’ to, baby girl,” he said. “I promise you dat. But you gonna have to pull some strength from down there,” he said, tapping my heart. “I talked to Gilles. I know dat Valerian monster has Nyx.” He stared hard at me. “Dem Duprés, and dat Noah—dey on dere way now. You watch yourself till dey git here, dat’s right. Now I gotta go back to your grandmodder. I don wanna leave her alone wit all dis goin’ on today. Might take her to da Dupré House.”