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He remembers the first time he spent the night; a stupid dare at eight years old, just to prove he wasn’t chicken like Lawrence and those other boys said. Just stay there one night... They’d dared him. Bet you can’t. Bet you’ll run scared, big chicken-shit... So like the brazen young boy he was, he puffed out his chest and marched right in. Determined he wasn’t going to run or scream or hide somewhere. And when the door shut behind him it all went dark and he heard Sean outside whisper Oh Man, he’s dead...
Because everybody knew about the Daffodil Suite. Everybody still does.
He remembers shaking the chills from his spine and sweeping a little dirt off the night-stand before he actually got up the nerve to sit down. And when he sat, he sat ram-rod straight until his shoulders grew stiff and his back felt half-heavy. He remembers looking up at the iron hanging lamps and the peeling wallpaper, catching the glint of a headlight in the vanity mirror. Eyes constantly sliding to the bathroom door for no reason, maybe because it was half-open and that always made him feel uneasy. When he got to his feet again he jumped on reflex because the floorboards creaked. But he walked them anyway, just to push the damn door all the way open and disturb the spiderwebs he knew hung between. The maids still refused to clean the room.
He remembers nearly stumbling back at his own reflection and clapping a hand over his mouth to stop his scream. There are still no lights and he can’t turn them on or Lawrence will just call him chicken-shit again. But when he walks into the bathroom it’s pitch black, and he keeps one eye on the door just to make sure it doesn’t close itself like in Scooby Doo. It stays open and he can see the shower in the corner and the bathtub on the other side. He leaves the door as is and goes back to the bed. It’s a small safety zone.
The chair sits in the little alcove and looks out onto the street. High-backed and padded with white and yellow stripes. Victorian, like the rest of the place, but real and old and solid against time. Probably the only thing in the inn his aunt can’t get cleaned, re-upholstered or replaced. That chair is famous. That chair will never be touched again.
Back straight and palms pushing into the mattress, he sat like that all night. Stared at the ceiling and the pictures on the wall. Stared at the chair. The vanity. All the white and gold and dusty-gray.
The next morning he marched out brave and wove a fine little tale about seeing a glimpse of a reflection in the window and hearing a whisper telling him to leave or else. Sean listened faithfully with big wide eyes and Lawrence kept saying he was talking shit but kept on asking questions. He didn’t care what he told them as long as they didn’t make him do it again.
Now he’s nineteen. And it’s still his favorite place to hide.
“... And this is our famous Daffodil Suite.” Her voice floats in, heels clacking across the floorboards. “Easily the most haunted room in Cape May.”
“Excuse me, Miss?”
“No flash photography.”
“Oh, Come On!” Whoever he is, he wants to use that camera. “How else are we supposed to catch fleeing ectoplasmic orbs?!”
“If you want to investigate the Suite you’ll have to talk to our owner.” Gina puts him down neatly, heel turning in the wood. “Now, as you can see it hasn’t been cleaned in a very long time.”
“That’s obvious.” Another voice sniffs, trekking past the rest of the group and toward the alcove by the sound of the creaks. “This place-”
“It’s so charming.” A female voice interrupts. “Please, go on.”
“Well, it is said that-”
“A guy killed a maid ‘cause she was bangin’ the gardener.” That over-haughty voice sniffs again and walks around the alcove and back to the tour group. “Read the pamphlet.”
“Dougie!” The female’s maternal. He can hear that tone from a thousand miles away. “Please, continue.”
“Yes, well...” He can tell Gina isn’t sure whether she should just skip the whole story or go through with it. “Ever since... that, there have been strange happenings in this room. People claim to feel a presence here. Things have moved by themselves. Some see a vision sitting in that chair.” Of course, cue the pause. “And most importantly, it is said that if a man spends more than two days in this room-”
“He goes crazy, right?” The first voice exclaims, a little too eager. “He tries to kill himself!”
“Oh, I’m outta here.” A new voice cuts in, scratchy like cigarette smoke. “That’s one thing I don’t need.”
Shuffling feet follow as everyone seems to have the same idea. Chatter buzzes and he hears the clacking heels fade into silence. With a sigh of relief he slides down into the tub, neck draping over the lip and arms hanging weak and half-stiff. When he hears the key turning in the lock again he waits about five minutes before pushing himself out and onto his feet. His laptop just barely stuck out from under the bed. As he picks it up and folds it under one arm he feels damn lucky for not getting caught. But now that he thinks about it he should probably be in the kitchen helping Nounou cook the dinner buffet.
It always feels different after a tour passes through. The light changes and the dust is disturbed to the point where he feels a dry breeze rise past him. No windows are open. Yet even now he does not fear. He closes his eyes and takes a half-hearted breath, nerves prickling with the sensation of touching something not there. His heart beats loud and fast like he’s been running, and he can hear every drop of blood swimming through the veins in his ears, they all sound like drumbeats.
They make a rhythm that stays with him as he leaves, somehow unfulfilled.
“Nonna, I-”
“You make me wait an hour for you? And you come down like this?!” Her fingers snap the dust-covered shirt back against his skin. “You do not expect to earn money, do you?”
“I was cleaning!” His lie goes unheard, hangs useless in the air.
“You will come back in five minutes, Thierry, and you will look better than your Grand-père on our wedding day, comprenez?”
Bowing his head in defeat, he brushes a hand down his shirt and lets dust fly. “Oui.”
Though he loves his Grandmother, this is not the first time she’s sent him back to his room cursing the very boat she sailed in on. Her prim French dresses and her prim French accent with the butchered half-English even she barely understands... Sometimes he wants to ship her right back to Bayonne. In a crate. With duct-tape over her mouth.
He pauses as he passes the Daffodil Suite. The only thing that sets them apart from the rest of the Bed and Breakfasts in Cape May. True, the story is overdone at best, but at least they have proof. Wealthy coal magnate Frederick Breech had fallen in love with Olivia Sellers, one of the maids the old owners had only just hired. The pretty young thing got around however. She was sleeping with a gardener named Walker Schosse. Once Frederick found out about it he took matters into his own hands. Tied her to that chair and beat her to death as she cried out the window for a helping hand. Bereaved by his own actions, the angry man paced the room and let her body rot for three days before burying her somewhere in the basement and shooting himself. It is said he haunts the room, driving men to the edge of their sanity. Thierry thinks it’s bullshit.
But he knows there are reasons to wonder. Before Aunt Gina got rid of the spare room key (or thought she did) three men had ‘succumbed’ to the Daffodil Suite Curse. And if she ever finds out he snatched it out of her trash when he was seven she’ll have him visit an exorcist before she kicks his ass to Philly and back. Not that he’d mind seeing the old neighborhood. He misses the soft pretzels.
By the time he gets back down there Nounou has already carved the beef and is placing it on the good china. Her hair is pulled back, neat and tight, gleaming a shiny silver in the luminescent lamps. Tut-tutting as she recognizes his presence, she examines the new shirt and tugs on the hem leaving a little finger-shaped flour print. “Don’t you have anything nicer?”
“What’s going on, Nonna?” He’s out of the loop as usual. “We only use that stuff for Christmas.”
Smiling wistfully at the china, she throws on a set of oven gloves. “The woman who sold this place to your Aunt Gina, she is staying for the weekend.”
“Oh.” His eyes wander over the expanse of food his grandmother has already prepared. Practically a feast. But when she pulls the chicken from the oven he nearly melts. It steams to the ceiling, smelling perfect and cooked just right. “Okay.” The smell is making his mouth water. He should really leave the kitchen.
“Carve this on the plate with the oranges.” She orders, dropping the dish into his outstretched hands...
... Neglecting to notice he isn’t wearing any oven gloves.
“Shit!” He curses loud and boisterous, legs half-buckling as the dish sears his right index finger to hell. It wobbles in his hands and Nounou screams, grabbing it from him before he can drop it. Cursing again and again, he rushes to the sink and turns on the cold water.
“Why didn’t you put on your gloves?!” She’s hovering over him like a crow. “They’re right on the hook! You should’ve had them on before you even came in!”
“Jesus, Nonna, I thought I was just carving!” He holds the finger to his lips and sucks on the burn. A shot of sweet adrenaline runs down his spine and he closes his eyes but refuses to think of it. “Shit!”
“Forget the carving, I’ll do the carving!” She’s a little irritated but not as pissed as he expected. “Go, bring out the bread!”
When she bodily shoves him away from the sink he knows it will be a long night.
“Hey,” He gives them an amicable smile, hand in his pocket while the other sets the rolls down on the table. “Welcome to the Meadow Hare Inn. I’m Thi-”
“Hey, thanks!” The purple-haired one grins wide. “These look great!”
“Yeah.” The blond grabs a roll and starts feeling around for the butter packets. “Really good.”
“So how long you been workin’ here?” They both pause and look up, watching his face way too close for comfort.
“I, uh...” He laughs a little. “Five years.” Since Gina ran out of non-familial wait-staff...
“Five years.” The blond sends a pointed look across the table. “Wow.”
“So you must know all about this place, right?”
“Like, you know, daily schedule...”
“... Anything that goes wrong...”
“... Anything that happens in the Daffodil Suite-”
“Yeah.” He cuts them off with a forced smile. “‘Scuse me.”
He heads to the next occupied table quickly. Man, guys like those practically swarm the place during the summer months. Can’t go a week without being cross-examined by ghost-hunting super-nerds. Usually it’s kind of funny. But he’s not in the mood. Strung out by the feel of the denim against his damaged skin. Frustrated because he can’t do anything about it here. Annoyed that Aunt Gina can’t keep another work-slave for long enough to give him a break.
Gritting his teeth and smiling without them he hands the bread basket to the freckled red-head slouching across the table. The composed but even less happy man sat with him and barely looked up as he spoke. “I’m sorry, could we get your help for a second?”
“Sure.” Surprised to even be noticed by the brooding duo, Thierry stands poised. “What d’ya need?”
“Can you point us to the nearest Walmart or-”
“Payless!” The freckled boy perks up a little as he realizes salvation is near. “Is there a Payless somewhere around here?”
Raising an eyebrow at the less-boisterous of the two, he points a thumb over his shoulder. “There’s one in the strip-mall two blocks away.”
“Oh, Hell Yes!” When the red-head stood the guy in the suit stood with him. And even as he’s telling Thierry to give their table away he’s being dragged out of the dining hall like a captive. Though he must be pretty damn willing the way his eyes never leave what little ass isn’t covered by the guy’s overobnoxious green jacket.
And yes. He’s staring too. Just a little.
Next table is this blond pug-nosed kid with his mother and he knows them immediately. Joanne Letzer and her son Douglas. Twelve year old brat’s never seen a day outside the Letzer Estate. Home-schooled and everything. Poor kid.
“Hey mom, check out the waste case roll-guy. No wonder you sold the place. Neighborhood must’ve gone straight to hell.”
Or not.
Make My Day, you little... Smiling wide he drops the bread on the table and tries to escape fast before-
“You’re Gina Dollier’s nephew, am I right?” Plastic nails clutch his sleeve and he turns to face the woman who once signed his aunt’s paychecks. Striking brown eyes that show every little flit of her mind and brittle pale fingers remind him of icicles, cold and sharp. She is not powerful like some women try to be. She does not attempt to hide her slender legs or the curve of her waist, but she does not flaunt her skin. Subtle make-up touches her face and leaves her painted for an evening but no more lovely than she would be without it. He would like her if he didn’t like men so much.
“Y-es.” He bows his head and smiles at her, every bit the charming servant. “What can I do for you?”
“I, well...” She reaches into her purse and he knows it almost before it’s on the table. “I wanted to send it in the mail, but-”
“I can’t-” The bills are half-way sticking out of the envelope. “Thank you, but-”
“No- no, please, take it.”
Her eyes beg him and the kid takes a huge chomp out of a roll. He slips the damn money into his apron pocket and nods, feeling like an asshole all the way to the next table.
A feeling settles over him like he’s not really breathing, like his lungs are collapsing in on themselves. His blinks and his limbs become stone and when he can see again it’s not because his eyes are open. The whole room is faded but the colors are extra-sharp and he can hear a buzzing like house-flies are nipping at his ears. But it never goes away and he can’t move his arm to shoo them.
It becomes louder, the colors more intense, each time his heart beats. And he can hear the beating too, mixing in and disturbing the buzzing before he knows the two are not the same. His throat constricts and he is mellow, trying not to want to panic even as his mind races in frightening detail.
The colors are screaming now and the buzzing is biting holes in his skin and his heartbeat is punching low sweet rhythms and-
-New sound, everything stops. Wicked sound, tick-tacking beads, clacking against each other like the way his Nonna’s rosary sounds when it rolls between her fingers. Boot-steps. Heavy and meant to be that way. Meant to let him hear, so he can hear the beads and the boots and the bones crack in his fingers. This man wanted him to listen.
“Sad little boy,” A low, smooth voice as dangerous as a wolf’s growl but far from angry. More amused than anything. “Takin’ everythin’ you’re offered jus’ ‘cause you wanna get out.”
He wants to rebuke it. He wants to turn roll over and look at him. But when he orders his mouth to move it doesn’t. When he tells his body to roll it doesn’t. He feels his lips so strongly closed, welded together with iron between them. They refuse to yield, no matter how he tries. And his body is a weight to him now. More than he can lift and more than he can push. Immobile and solid and sticking to the satin. He can’t feel anything else.
“I bet that money gon’ come in real handy once you get back home, ain’t that right?”
How do you know me... ? His mind can’t stop spinning and he can’t stop trying turn or look. Why am I so heavy...?
Calloused fingers grip his chin and turn his face so easily he’s in awe. He can see now, half-revealed in streetlamp light stolen by the window. His features are sharp and almost hellish, jaggedly angling in high cheekbones and a Roman nose. Thin eyebrows and arcane light-colored eyes, hair ink black and barely noticeable through the shadows if not for the way it shines, held back and tied behind his head in a sloppy attempt at taming it. He has thin lips, not really wide but somehow heavy in the shadows. And his gaze holds a personal joke Thierry doesn’t quite get.
“You gon’ buy a car, drive back to Philly so you can kick the shit outta your wort’-less old man?” A little barking chuckle that reeks of stale champagne, and the fingers pull through his brown-streaked-blond waves, tangling them around his face and impairing his vision. “Or, what, gon’ hit the road an’ forget you was here?”
He can’t see past his hair, acid bottle blond making his mousey brown look greasy and ugly. He feels like a kid looking at this man. Lungs threateningly short of air, he has to force them back to living.
“Know all ‘bout you, don’t I? Know ‘bout your daddy,” Approaching the side of the bed he leans in, revealing the whole of his face to Thierry’s dazed and panicked eyes. “Shootin’ your momma in the head an’ gettin’ out after three years. Know he done good work on that shoulder o’ yours.”
Motherfucker, what the hell... In his mind he counts the ways he can get out of this. There are none. My shoulder...
“Like the way you get after you been workin’ all day.” When he leans over him he can see the dots of gray in the blue. The eyes are startling, smiling when the world spins neat. “When you come in smellin’ like you showered in duck broth. All caked in your gran’ma’s flour and tired and sad...” The hand lingers in his hair and drops down against his cheek. “And when you get a burn from grillin’ onions...”
His body heats up and he can’t seem to breathe like he should, taking quick catatonic huffs of air and trying to ice the white fire pouring over his stomach. Brilliant and sweet that alcoholic scent dips to kiss his nose and the hand slips to cup his cheek and move it. Soon he’s marking Thierry’s lips, thumb chasing sparks along the nerve. His body is hot-wired, responding to the feel of skin and nail like second nature. Against his will his lips part and the journeying thumb pauses there.
“... I hear you when you do it, Thierry...” It sounds like a breath, breaks his own, lungs too tired and helpless to go on. “... You sound so good, bitin’ the skin, makin’ love to yourself and shakin’ me up ‘cause I swear you know I’m there...”
Who the hell are you? He tries to shout it but he can’t, not with his lips disobeying and his tongue lying dead against his teeth. He sees a small winking dot under his eye and curses himself for trying so hard.
“Little boy...” He whispers, jolting bitter sweeps of mercury through his spine. “You’ll be so good here...”
And the thumb is gone, pressure in his lungs released, and he comes reeling out of his stillness at a thousand miles an hour, gasping and struggling through the murky waters of his mind. His eyes open, this time for real, and he sees not a single thing out of place.
His paranoia comes from three separate sources.
One: He’s already been accosted by the purple-spiked dude twice that morning, only saved by Aunt Gina and her list of chores.
Two: That little brat Douglas is out for his blood. Stomping on his foot every time he walks past, shaking his ladder as he screwed a new lightbulb into the chandelier before lunch, tossing little candy-mints at him from behind the reception desk. One more stunt and Thierry declares war.
Three: Aunt Gina’s trying to get him to rake the leaves. Not gonna happen.
Retwisting his hair back he gives up on the window and decides he’s done for the day. No way is he going to work his ass off like yesterday and crash like the friggin’ Hindenburg. It’s not like he’s Superman. And besides, he’d barely gotten any sleep last night. All that tossing and turning. And that dream. He closes his eyes and leans against the sill just to focus better. That weird dream with black-haired guy...
“Boy!” Nonna calls and he exhales rushedly as the window falls again. “Help me chop these!”
Rolling his eyes, he heads to the kitchen and looks over his shoulder at the boiling broth on the stove. Duck broth. “Where’re the carrots?”
“Over by the coffee maker.” She beams as he comes in and rests a hand on his shoulder. “It will be a lot easier with you here. Ah, if you’re not busy.”
“Nope,” He makes sure his hair is completely back before he picks up the blade. “Been wasting my time all day.”
“I saw the lightbulb in the dining hall.”
“Lightbulbs take like two seconds.” He grins wide and starts peeling the carrots quietly, eyes only half on the job. His burn is healing fast. The skin is still tender and red, but it’s no serious thing. And there’s a pot of boiling broth on the stove. “Been trying to fix that window.”
“We called Teller and Co. yesterday.” She stirs it and chops a couple of large potatoes. “They are coming Monday.”
“Then why’d Aunt Gina tell me to fix it?”
“So she wouldn’t have to pay for it.” He’s watching the pot bubble. Something stirs in the pit of his stomach. Nonna reaches into the cupboard for an onion. “She get’s that from your Grand-peré you know.”
“Okay.” He takes the onion and looks down at his fingers. It surprises him how much he wants to. Just press his hand to the pot and let the heat singe through. Just the way it feels... The rush of the burn, the hard heat and sharp stab of adrenaline... Feeling it afterwards. The slow spine-shifting ache that courses through him every time his hand may move...
Nonna knows he’s clumsy in the kitchen. She doesn’t know he’s clumsy on purpose sometimes. And he’d really like to keep it that way.
He loves the smell of onion even when it’s making him tear up. When he cuts it he breathes deep and lets his eyes water because the smell reminds him of home, what he remembers of it. Sweet onion smell and beef on the grill. They lived two buildings away from ‘JoAnne’s Steaks and Wings’, and they made the best cheesesteaks in Philly no matter what anybody said about Gino’s. The smell used to chase him for miles and miles, reminding him how hungry he was...
“Wipe your eyes,” Nonna sighed, throwing him a towel. “You’ll get tears all over that onion.”
“Oh,” He forgets himself for a second and drops the knife on the counter, catching the hand towel in mid-air. “Sorry.”
“You’re looking white.” Her eyes scrutinize his face and he looks down a little. “Very white. Have you eaten anything today?”
“I had two slices of toast for breakfast,” He starts rattling them off because Nounou doesn’t give up until she knows you’ve eaten enough for a small army. “A turkey sandwich for lunch, five of those biscuits you made Thursday in between, plus some of those really good after-dinner mints that kid keeps chucking at me...”
“Then why are you so white?” Her spoon clunks to the counter and she’s on him like a mothering harpy. She’s twittering over him, completely ignoring the mint comment as though she hears something like it every day. “You’re warm too. Are you sleeping alright?”
A face, half-shadowed and deadly sharp, peels through his mind and sticks to the inside of his eyelids. “I’m okay.”
“Look at you, look!” She’s pointing at him gravely and his head falls. “Your eyes are glassy and you’re pale as a ghost! You’re sick! Get out of my kitchen!”
“But Nonna, I’m not-”
“Out!” Her hands are on her hips and she’s glaring like hell. “I’ll not have you infecting guests through my stew. Out, now, before I have Regina call a doctor.”
By the time she finishes the sentence he’s down the hall, walking double-speed and praying she isn’t serious.
But when he makes his rounds he realizes vividly that the two clucking hens might be on to something. His head is pounding and he feels like he’s underwater. When he turns around too quick he gets this turning feeling in the pit of his stomach like he’s going to lose his footing. He can’t focus. Can’t even dodge Dougie’s spit-balls.
... Or the purple-spiked idiot.
“So nothing’s happened in there since the room stopped being used?” He’s chewing gum and it’s making loud popping noises as he chomps it through his teeth. The malnourished blond isn’t with him.
“No, I mean...” His eyes gaze past him, toward the kitchen where Nonna is plating cake. The burn on his finger itches and his skull feels too small for his brain. “... Nothing that I know about.”
“Where’s the chick buried? The maid chick?”
“Never found her.” Lips are dry. He picks up the glass of water he’d just poured and takes a long gulp. “They think she’s buried in the basement somewhere. Under all the concrete.”
“Well that’d piss her off... And the Breech guy’s entombed in Florida...” His eyes focus on his face behind the bug-glasses. “You okay man?”
“I’m fine, I’m good...” He takes another gulp before he realizes he’s drinking from the purple-haired kid’s glass. “Sorry.”
“What about the gardener guy?” He ignores him, taking the pitcher out of his hands. Good move because he’s actually about to drop everything he’s holding. “What’s his side of the story?”
Room’s turning sideways. The lights are too bright. He chews the inside of his mouth to keep from passing out. “Doesn’t have one.” He rasps, eyes everywhere at once. “Skipped town that night. Nobody could find him.”
“You sure he’s not-”
“‘Scuse me.” He can barely say it before he’s sliding past him, legs criss-crossing at an odd angle and hands grabbing onto anything they can hold. A light gleams into his eye and he squints as he tries to keep his balace.
Swimming in a lop-sided room, he grips a hand into his hair, shields his eyes from the light and tumbles past the tables. He bumps into two people, side-steps them both and grips the wall to get steady. His body wants to fall. Slide down against the wall, sprawl out on the floor and stay there. His headache drags over him like sandpaper and people are staring. He can feel it.
“Thierry?”
It’s his aunt’s voice. He lets go of the wall and turns to look at her but stops when he sees someone else. Someone tall with dark hair and sharp features, hellish glass-blue eyes and shadows following him like loyal dogs. He’s watching from the main entrance with this grim smile on his face that makes his whole body shake. And it’s like he’s the only thing in the room not sideways.
“You’ll be so good here...”
And he’s stumbling away from the wall, tripping and reeling into the bathroom where he spends the next twenty minutes losing his lunch.
Air is heavy with the scent of rain and he knows there will be lightning before he sees it. The storm seems more fitting as he lays, fingers scaling over the satin and leaving creases to trail. The vanity reflects the lightning and the crash that follows sticks straight in his heart. There he is. Sitting in a haunted bedroom in the middle of a thunderstorm. Freak.
His eyes close and he feels a weight rush over him. Pressing him neatly still, just as before. And when he opens them again he knows he can’t speak. He knows he can’t move and he knows breathing will be difficult. The man is with him and he can feel it. There’s an extra light in the room he can only see out the corner of his eye. All the grays look yellow in that corner, all the golds look orange. And they shine as though just cleaned. The light flickers and he hears the boots track into the carpet.
What’s happening...? He doesn’t know. He can’t move his head to see. A million questions are blinding his eyes. And the air feels so heavy... Who is he...? Why is he doing this...? What’s going on...?
“Relax.” With that deadly voice, he can’t refuse. Lightning sweeps the room with light for a split second and he listens to the boots as they hit the floor. “You got nothin’ to be scared of.”
His shadows circle him but he can see. The bitter angles of his cheeks and chin, dipping and hollowed with darkness untouched by the window light. And his eyes strike Thierry breathless in the candlelight, flicking from blue to gray careless as a chameleon. His hair is back again, shining jet black and a little blue in the right way. Gazing over him he slips a small smile over his lips and the boy feels scrawny and weak against him. Pale and thin, down to his briefs and displayed like bad art.
Thunder rolls and the man sets the candle down for a moment. It’s white, maybe four inches high, and he stares as he feels cool fingers skate across his skin. Stretch against his stomach, slide up his chest and thumb his nipples as they rise. His face hides in something deep, but the candlelight gives him an edge of wild beauty he’s never seen. He feels everything this time. Every touch and scratch and sweep of wind. It’s breathtaking.
His hands press into his chest and slowly pull his arms above his head. He feels like his body is made of sand. “Fight this.”
It’s a command, he knows it, but he can’t bring himself to follow. His heart is pulsing, shuddering and pounding and he can’t tell whether it’s about to stop or just speeding up. The face above him is watching, leaning over him and finally sliding one knee onto the bed. His other lands over him and he leans in, taking everything as he digs cool fingers into his shoulders and presses their stomachs together. Thierry feels trapped but not scared. He should be scared. Why isn’t he scared?
“Fight it.” He thumbs his way down his chest again and rests one hand on the hip as the other moves away. “C’mon... I wanna hear you...”
The colors are sharp and his face is inches away. Their lips fold together and he understands now why he’d never be scared of this. Never be scared of him. Whoever he is, he makes him feel so fucking good with just one kiss he’s hot already... His tongue tastes like champagne and feels unbelievable with his, meeting and twisting and making them both dizzy. When he pulls away his lips are sweet and red, and he stares until he feels something...
... He feels something hot and searing and fucking amazing, sending him gasping and free-falling in a beautiful adrenaline rush he wants to keep forever. Centers on his collarbone, shocks right down his spine, bringing sweet crystal pain that makes him just fly-
-Shit!-
Again, below the collarbone now, coupled with a beat of his heart and a roll of his hips and an arch of his back that isn’t real-
-Oh God-
Down his chest and by then his eyes are focused again, darting to the hand that left him for the candle. Hot white drips fall from the wick and-
-Fuck!-
Above his nipple as the man in control looks on, eyes blue and steady and hungry in the flickering light. He tips it again, drizzling a long line now because he knows Thierry’s caught up. The way he watches it fall makes him burn on the inside, lets his body arch so quick into the beat as long white loops trail down his chest. They both see it land and the boy can feel it in every hypersensitive nerve.
The other hand tugs at his briefs and pulls them down nice and slow, dragging the fabric along the line of his erection just to smart it. He’s not sure whether he’s really breathing anymore. Thunder crackles through the sky and he feels the body against him shift. It slides to the edge of the bed and takes position between his legs as the candle drips smaller dots onto his abdomen. His stomach contracts and flip-flops.
“Fight this, Thierry...” His voice is harsh and sweet to his ears. “Tell me how this feels.”
-Fuck, it feels so incredible when you do that-
Cool lips close over the head of his erection and his whole body jolts because his tongue lands right on the slit and presses there. His eyes roll back and his spine shoots halfway off the bed, it feels so fucking sweet. And it gets even better when his mouth starts to move down on him and the candle drips a molten line of wax down his thigh. It dribbles between his legs and the lips encase his penis halfway down the base before he begins to suck. Thierry feels it. He wants to scream, the way the heat battles the man’s cool tongue. He wants to buck into his mouth and feel it. But he can’t move himself and it’s killing him.
The sucking stops for a moment as he sweeps his tongue over the head, tasting his want and sampling the salt of his skin. He dips the candle again and lets the wax run down his leg as he twists his tongue around him. The boy is panting for air, watching the show with rapt fascination if only because that’s all he can do.
-I wanna, I- Shit, don’t stop-
He sees it first, feels it seconds later. The man sheaths his erection in his mouth, rubs the head with his tongue and stops there. But the candle drips a wavy ribbon just below his navel and he sucks, slow and gentle in a way that makes Thierry groan inside, wish for the power to thrust into his lips. Wish for control over his own body. He’s sweating now, inside his soul is writhing and gasping for air. But his body is not following. His body is breathing heavy, arms over his head, legs spread apart and hips achingly still.
But he’s shaking with need. He knows it, feels it. And this man is smiling around his erection, sucking on it teasingly as his other hand traces loops and swirls in the wax on his stomach. At one point he draws a smiley-face. It all seems surreal.
He sucks him hard, gripping his thigh and letting the last of the wax melted zig-zag down his hip. The world blackens and he can feel, feel, his body arch off the bed. Split in two pieces. And he hears his own voice-
-“Yes, Fucking Hell Yes!”-
-break everything as he pours into the man’s waiting mouth.
Minutes, seconds, hours later he feels his body go limp. His paramour slides to his feet, dabbing his lips with his hand and still holding the candle. It flickers a little and he blows it out in a quiet puff. His eyes pierce the darkness and change it, shifting the shadows to his face to make him half-disappear. Thierry is still trembling. Feeling cold without his hands and unable to warm himself. The wax is already mostly cool.
“You gotta stay...” He whispers grimly, and Thierry hears it. “You’re so perfect... You gotta stay here...”
Lungs screaming, he takes a long gulp of air and lets his eyes flutter closed. The thunder outside rumbles far away. He doesn’t care.
His clothes are folded neatly on the chair and he realizes he’ll have to touch the artifact to pick them up. He’d never been near the thing before. After all, a woman died there. But if he leaves his clothes Gina will find them on the next tour. Sighing to himself he slides off the bed and feels all his bones crack as he stretches. The welts ache and he closes his eyes to feel them. Popping shocks of nerve scream all throughout his skin and he loves every last one. Just the feel. Just knowing they’re there.
Just remembering what made them.
Fuck... His mind whispers as he grabs the clothes and dashes back. The way he touched him... God, he loved it so much. The candle, his hands, his lips... He can’t believe it’s real...
He changes fast and slips out of the Suite, refusing to look back because if he does he’ll finally decide to be scared.
Aunt Gina. Nonna. And a boy, about his age or maybe a little older. Striking with his dark chocolate hair and deep brown eyes that seem to steal his soul. He looks at Thierry and straightens, taking him in from head to toe. Thierry does the same, making a quick assessment of him and waiting for an explanation.
Finally, he decides to speak. “Um, hey.”
“Why aren’t you working? Go oil the door to Room Seven.” Aunt Gina points out and usually that would be enough for him. But her face is a ghastly white.
“Did that yesterday.” He walks in smoothly and reaches out a hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Thierry.”
“I’m Colin.” The guy smiles somewhat grimly.
“What about the fence outside? Did you paint it?”
“It rained last night, it’ll rain tonight.” He throws it over his shoulder and shakes Colin’s hand. “So what’s up?”
“Nothing-” But Nonna is cut off. Colin looks toward her with a deep and unwavering stare and she stops completely. Aunt Gina drops her face into her hands.
“I’m here to talk about the Daffodil Suite.” He says when he finally turns back to Thierry. “Correct a few mistakes in the old legend.”
“What mistakes?” He asks, furrowing his brow and looking from his Nonna to Aunt Gina. “What’s going on?”
“Olivia Sellers was my grandmother.” He smiles a little and runs a hand through his maple waves. “She died three weeks ago.”
Shock falls over him like Niagra and he feels something dark and unyielding press into his stomach. A face falls before his eyes, dark and piercing with a blue and gray stare unlike anything he’s ever seen.
“Lemme sit down...” He trails off, falling into the chair across from Aunt Gina, completely unsure of whether or not he’d be able to get up.
So why the Hell did Breech shoot himself?
“Who knows?” Colin shrugs and bumps his shoulder against Thierry accidentally. A slow hum of pain thrums from the center of his forehead. “I’m just here to set facts straight. If you’ve got a body in your basement, it’s not Grandma.”
“Oh God, I’m so sorry!” Aunt Gina looks terribly guilty, long painted nails extended in a gesture of atonement. It’s the fourth time he’s seen it in less than an hour, which makes him feel even worse because she’s usually such a collected person. Wringing his hands, Thierry brushes past their guest and goes to her side.
“It’s alright,” He tries, feeling the beginnings of a headache coming on. “We’re okay. Right?”
“Yeah, no worries.” When Colin smiles at him his head pounds worse. Steeling himself against it, he nods and pats Gina’s shoulder lightly. It’s not as if he can do anything more.
The second she realizes he’s still in the room, his aunt pushes him toward the door. “Get Colin a room, Theirry! He obviously needs-”
“It’s fine!” Colin interrupts. “It’s fine. I’ll go with him.”
A sinking feeling hits his stomach and he finds himself praying the older boy will disappear. But he doesn’t. He follows Thierry through the hallway, back to the main entrance, past the dining hall and into the check-in. Smiling pleasantly. Trying to talk along the way.
“So you work here?”
“Yeah.” The answer is short, but he feels like he might throw up.
“And you’re Regina’s nephew?”
“Yeah.”
“You live here, right?” He asks, touching his shoulder and making him turn around. His head feels like his brain is swimming. “‘Cause of your dad.”
“You want a twin or a queen?” He asks testily, touching his forehead and trying not to think for a minute. “No kings available.”
“You look sick.” When Colin speaks, it sounds too loud and makes him jump a foot in the air. “You okay?”
“Here.” He slaps the keys on the counter and tries to breathe. It’s not working; his chest isn’t moving, his lungs aren’t filling. His head is tilting and his body is following, holding onto the desk but slowly, slowly leaning. It’s upside down and just too bright. His head is full and topped and close to exploding. White fingers dig into the desk but all they feel is cold metal and strong wood.
A startled shout, “Hey!” and he’s on the floor and he can’t see who’s standing over him, but the shadow-clothed man in the corner with eyes blazing. Blazing...
He didn’t have to lay down. His stomach wrenched and he shut the door, holding onto it as though he’d been punched. His vision went fuzzy, his head seemed lifted of its natural control, and he held himself still because he could not move himself.
His brain was saying Run! But his body refused to obey.
“You spoke to him.” The voice roared and he shook, body finally moving, turning, to see his great puppeteer.
He was pacing, cloaked in the shadows of the windowless part of the room. Eyes rocking through Thierry as they held him still. He was agitated, steps taking on an echo as the presence made itself deep. Took hold, planted roots. No one was going anywhere.
“You let him touch you. Descendant of slime.”
He reached for him, and his feet moved. He tried to work his voice and it had all changed. He could feel the vibrations of his throat. His chest felt less heavy, but there was room to breathe. Collecting his thoughts, he tried to speak.
“Who are you?”
He didn’t speak. Simply beckoned for him to come closer. And Thierry came, moving faster without his own will than he ever had with it. A cold hand clapped onto his shoulder and he looked up. Saw the face of his body’s master.
He was beaten. There were bruises along his eye and cheek. His clothes were torn, but poor anyway, and his skin was blue-pale. The eyes were blazing black, coals still flaming in the dead of winter, and his hair strung around his marred chin in long inky strands. His cool fingers dug into his shoulder, steadied there and pulled hard. Trembling, he almost tripped into the embrace.
In a possessing grip, he reached behind the frightened boy to steady him. His icy hand clasped the back of his neck and his voice rasped like the crunch of autumn leaves. “Your tiny fingers touched that blanket when you were eight and you knew me...”
“Walker!” It’s a gasp, because he’s lost his breath again and it’s forced out anyway. Something his tongue had to say. Something his mind had never approved.
But now he knew it. Now those blue lips curled in an unholy smile and his mouth opened wide in a scream forced back down his throat so hard he choked on it. And Walker held his neck and pulled him in for a kiss he didn’t want; one that tasted of dirt and stone and ice. He tried to push away, tried to run and scream and punch but his lips followed in suit. Kissing as though they needed it. As though they were begging for it.
And as if he was a monster, the phantom threw him away, let him fall limp and airless to the floor with a loud cracking thud. “You smell of that stink.” He stalked above him, looking down at him as though he were trash. “You came to this room, you stayed here. You belonged to me, always, the moment you entered. I knew how good you’d be...”
His hands grabbed him and pulled him up, angrily pushing him back onto the bed. “I let you live!”
A shiver fell over him, charging through his spine and he knew his body was falling apart. Breaking apart.
“I let you live, and you betray me with that whore’s relation!”
His body was falling, smashing, crumbling onto the bed. Numb. Destroyed.
“You won’t do that again, boy.” The fog carried over him and he was weightless, soul ripping and losing itself in the obsidian eyes of his captor. “Gon’ put you where you belong. You’ll be so good here...”
His neck felt tight. There was darkness.
Everybody wondered where he got the belt, made out of leather over a hundred years old.
Thierry lounged, watching from the chair by the window, legs hanging off the armrests, and stared at Colin as he sat down on the bed to talk to the police. “He looked sick yesterday...”
He’ll Be So Good Here...
To Be Continued, Halloween 2008
Happy Halloween
