Page 87 of The Phantom's Vice

Ghost pulls me into his arms, nuzzling the top of my head and caressing every inch of exposed skin.He moves toward the basement stairs, and I look up with an alarmed look.

“What about Jim?” I ask, daring a look back. He’s still passed out on the floor, that pool of blood growing larger by the minute.

“I’ll take care of him,” Ghost promises, taking the steps two at a time back to the main level. “But first, I need to make sure you’resafe.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

GHOST

After securingBrett in the passenger seat of the truck, I head back into the basement where Jim is crawling on his belly toward the torture table. I scoff, rolling my eyes as I stalk toward the useless lump of human refuse. His eyes scream for mercy as I reach into my jacket pocket, then harden with resolve as I plunge the sedative into his vein. In a few moments, his eyes roll to the back of his head, and I grunt in disgust as I sling his body over my shoulder.

The truck bed dips as I throw Jim’s body inside, and Brett looks back in alarm. I give her a little waggle of my fingers, then secure the tarp over Jim’s body.

Brett’s hand finds mine as I pull the truck outonto the main road, her dark blue pools filled with worry as she sneaks little peeks at my profile. She wants to know my plan and why I’m taking Jim with us. Truthfully, there’s only one reason. Usually, I would kill him here and be done with it, but he hurt Brett.MyBrett.

For that, I’m going to make his death nice and slow.

Drip… drip… drip…

Jim’s eyelids twitch as his brain fights to regain consciousness, the steady drip of water on his forehead the catalyst.

While he fights against the sedative coursing through his system, I take a moment to admire my handiwork. Jim is currently tied to a chair with his head tilted back, the contraption above him slowly dripping ice water onto his forehead. It’s a form of white torture—and though it’s notpainful,it does have the capacity to drive someone mad.

“Wh… where am I?” Jim’s mouth fumbles around the words, wounding like he has a wad of marbles stuffed in his cheeks. He attempts to raise his head, but the thick leather strap across his eyes makes that an impossibility.

“H-hello?”

An eerie cackle rings across the stone walls of my torture room, the sounds reverberating through Jim’s bones and causing him to shake.

“Oh God, oh God,” he whispers, straining desperately against the restraints holding his wrists and legs to the chair. “Please, God, help me.”

“Your God can’t find you down here,”that horrible voice spits, venom lacing every punctuated syllable. “And if he could, he would praise me for what I am about to do.”

“NO! Please, don’t!” Jim gasps, his chest heaving as that slowdrip… drip… drip…continues. “P-please. I’ll do anything!”

“It’s too late.” I stalk across the room, stopping at the head of the apparatus and twisting a little knob toward the top. The electric heater fires to life, and in a few minutes, scalding water drips onto Jim’s forehead.

His screams fill the room, raising the hair on my arms as satisfaction courses through me.

Yes. This is better. This feels right.

“Stop!” Jim begs, his face beet red from screaming. Little blisters are forming on his forehead fromthe boiling drops, growing larger and more painful looking by the second. “Please, stop!”

I reach down to the spout, turning the dial slightly to make the stream faster. “I haven’t forgotten that night youspiton my darling Brett. I have spent many nights awake, pondering the ways I would like to make you pay,” I muse.

“Wh-what the fuck are you talking about? I never?—”

“At the masquerade ball,” I growl. Jim’s screams are drowned out as a heavy flow of boiling water pours onto his face, covering his eyes and splashing into his nose and mouth.

Choked, animal-like screams pour from Jim’s blistered mouth, the skin around his lips blackened and oozing like a piece of seared mahi. I want to keep the stream going until he’s an unrecognizable lump of flesh, but I know if he takes any more, he’ll drown in his own lungs.

With a sigh, I turn off the faucet, earning a choked gasp from Jim as his raw skin is exposed to the air.Not much better, is it, buddy?

Deaf to the sounds of his pain, I undo the straps holding Jim’s torso and head to the chair, then work on the bindings on his arms and legs. As soon as he’s free, he slumps to the floor in convulsionsof agony, in far too much pain to fight me off—or to stop what’s going to happen next.

Stalking over to my torture table, I grab my scalpel and a thick ball of rope, pocketing the sharp object before returning to Jim and tying the rope around his ankles. He tries to wriggle away, but all he ends up doing is smacking his face against the rough stone floor.

“Goddammit, Jim. That’s going to leave a stain.” I roll my eyes as I stand, grabbing the end of the rope and feeding it into the steel lever system attached to the ceiling. I press the red button on the side of the machine, and Jim’s body is slowly raised into the air. He screams as the blood rushes to his face, pooling through the open wounds and onto the floor.

---