Page 16 of Haunt

Even though there are twelve cold years to say otherwise.

Right here, now, him and I, it feels like everything.

I do not know why he is here. Why he chose now to come for me. But it feels like the beginning of somethingmore.

“Death, Little Lamb, is only just the beginning,” he whispers between us like we are mere spirits walking another plane. “For people like us.” I breathe hard, his hands on my face brutal, he could crush my skull and I would love him anyway. “You and I, we are something else. Higher,” his lips brush mine with every overly pronounced word, “more,Penelope.Everything.”

His hands loosen as the pressure in my temples threatens to explode brain matter across the cobbles of this footbridge. Decorate the quiet, quaint street in red and black, blood and bone.

“Tell me now, Nellie. This is your only chance to tell me no, because after tonight, you won’t get an opportunity like this again.” It feels as though it takes something monumentally soul destroying to speak those words, like he really would let me go if I wanted it. “Do you want this?” he licks his lips, the tip of his tongue wetting the Cupid’s bow of my own.“Me?”

It feels like an offering. Sacrificial in the way he speaks his last word. As though, if I were to say no, it would kill him dead where we stand.

But Billy Blackwell is not a man of sacrifice.

He knows I could never say no.

To him.

And I am sure he would neveractuallylet me go.

And it makes me love him all the more.

Perhaps his intentions are pure, perhaps, he truly believes he could do it. Walk away from me again, a second time, but this time because I so wish it. I know him differently. Understand the darkness of his possessiveness towards me because I have the same in me for him.

He smiles wider, manically, as though he really can read my mind. His lips still not fully on mine, he makes no move to close the distance between us and I almost whine for his kiss. He draws back further as if he knows, and I squirm in his hold, my hands on his chest, but he is waiting for his answer.

I am drunk on you, Billy Blackwell.

Intoxicated.

Plagued.

Lovesick.

Broken and desecrated and utterly obsessed with you.

It’s a confession that needn’t be spoken, he knows this, but I confirm it anyway.

“My heart has always been for you,” the words are barely audible, and he cants his head once more, dipping in further towards me, tip of his nose against my own. “Ihave always been for you.” My eyes flicker over his face, vision blurry at his closeness. “Keep me, Billy. And never let me go.”

Orange and green and purple. That’s all I can see as we reach the first cobbled street decorated for Halloween. The rest of the journey toCasa Nera, all of the winding streets, houses and lampposts between, will be lit up as I ordered. There’s no funfair here like there was when we were young. I probably could have demanded one, The Obsidian’s reach is global, creeping ghostlike fingers delving into brains, planting seeds. I didn’t organise a funfair, but I think she’ll enjoy this all the same.

It is officially October thirty-first. Early morning on All Hallows Eve. The day before the first of The Obsidian’s new year.

The first of November is our equivalent to what New Year’s Day means for the rest of the world. The first day of our calendar so to speak. Something, I would quite like us to be home in time for.

We like it, the celebrations,Halloween, but we do not usually get to indulge in parties and drinking or treats of any kind. It is all rituals and sacrifice and signifying the year’s end. However, this year, this day is mine, andhers.Not something I would usually spend with anyone but my brothers, Gore, Bram, Tolly. But I remember it so well, how much she so does enjoy this holiday.

I watch her deep brown eyes light up as she sees the first hint of decorations. A huge, towering arch in illuminous orange and yellow skeleton lights, round, grinning pumpkins with triangular eyes framing it.

It does not excite me, the thought of celebrating, something we would do slightly different at home in England, usually a funfair, something I know she used to love.

I snuck her out of the children’s home we shared, fourteen bedrooms, twelve to a room, but it always felt like it was just us two when we crawled into her bed together. Hidden beneath the thin cotton sheets as I watched her sleep until the sun came up.

There was zero nefarious intent back then.

I never looked at her with anything other than an innocent kind of love. I felt like a protective older brother. In an obsessive sort of way, I suppose.

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