Page 62 of Dark Things
The both glare at each other before Vince steps away and goes through the plastic curtain. Stan grumbles, and both our attentions snap back to him.
“You’re both starting to piss me off. Explain to me why the fuck Mario isn’t dead. What the fuck have you been doing? It’s been a month, and I haven’t seen any results!” he screams.
I try not to flinch, but the reaction to memories of Stan’s cruelty is reflexive by now. It’s ingrained in me. I’m not afraid, but I’m conditioned to this response and it’s a hard habit to break.
“Again,” Stan screams.
I lock my knees and wait for the next punch to land. Vince has been torturing me for the last three hours. Hits to the face, torso, legs. I’m suspended over a small drain with my arms stretched above my head. The smell of my fresh blood mixes with the scent of animals and farming equipment. The barn that we’re in is used for special practices, or at least that’s what Haunt told me.
Vince’s next punch lands on my already sore ribs, and I wince back in pain. “You’re going to break, and when you do I’ll be sure to lick up all those tears.”
I close my eyes and try not to think of that night, the one where everything I am died, but it’s so fucking hard when all I’m feeling is pain. It’s been a little over a month since I’ve been trapped here, but my torture has never escalated to this before. Training consisted of working out, fighting with knives, target shooting, but since I’ve excelled at most of those, Stan thought I needed some other tools in my arsenal. Mainly how to withstand torture.
“Tell us your name!” Stan screams in my face, gripping my chin, his nails digging into the soft flesh. My jaw sometimes is still sore from the surgeries, but after being hit repeatedly it feels like it’s on fire.
“Pitch,” I say, ripping my face from his hold and spitting blood out of my mouth onto the floor.
“Your real fucking name!”
I glare at him. He wants me to break so he can punish me, but he hasn’t been able to yet. I don’t think of myself as tough, just not stupid enough to get killed. Stan needsme, and so these little activities are just that—experiments designed to scare me enough to give in, but I won’t. My brother is missing, and only Stan knows where he is. Nothing he does will prevent me from getting to Magnus. I’ll be whoever he needs me to be, become his weapon, and do everything he wants for as long as it takes me to find Magnus.
“My only name is Pitch.”
“We’ve made headway. We have access to the back rooms at Haven. Our plan is to set up cameras and watch their movements before we come up with a solid take down. We’ve been establishing our cover, plus the other jobs we’ve been tasked with. We’ll get it done soon,” Haunt says, hands behind his back like a good little soldier.
“You two are getting too comfortable. Maybe I should leave this job to Pitch and you, my son, can go work on establishing our foothold in the city,” Stan says, stepping into my space. Unlike with Vince, I can’t pull my knife, even if I want to.
I clear my throat and lock my knees so I don’t take a step back. “Haunt is my handler. I need a second in order to make this clean. Unless you want a bloody mess like Prague, he needs to be here.”
I’m pushing it, speaking to him this way, but I can’t be separated from Haunt. Not only will our plans be derailed, but my soul can’t be away from him for long.
Stan growls and grabs my hair, tilting my head back at a bad angle. I hiss but don’t complain otherwise.Out of the corner of my eye, I see Haunt twitch, but he gets it under control.
“You have a week to get this done, or you’re going to be separated until I say, understand?” he yells in my face, spittle flying from his mouth.
I nod as much as I can with his fist pulling my hair from the root. “Yes, sir.”
He pushes me away, and I stumble for a moment before catching myself.
“Now, tonight you’re going to fight. Two death matches. Don’t make me fucking look bad,” he says looking right at me before stalking away.
Haunt releases his control and storms out of the room. I’m behind him, cursing under my breath. I haven’t been in a death match in over a year. I fucking hate them almost as much as I hate Stan, but there’s nothing to be done. I’ll have to add two more deaths on my soul, because losing isn’t a fucking option.
26
Haunt
Every underground fight club reeks of the same rot—sweat, piss, and the kind of hopelessness that clings to your skin long after you’ve left. The one here in Saratoga isn’t any different, except this place, a large warehouse with a sunken ceiling and dirt floor, looks like it could fall apart at any moment. It’s fucking depressing.
As we walk through the crowd, I see some of the people who usually attend in Manhattan when we’re in town, which means Stan has had this planned for some time. No doubt after the Michael incident.
“Pitch, are you fighting tonight?” a guy calls out from the crowd. I ignore him, but Reb nods her head as I move her farther toward the back where they’ve set up a small area for the fighters.
She’s already dressed in spandex shorts and a sports bra, all her tattoos on display, so she doesn’tneed to change, but I need to wrap her hands. I learned early on that killing multiple people without the wraps doesn't work well for the thin skin on the knuckles, and I’ll make sure hers are wrapped the correct way.
Vince is standing next to some of the other guys when we reach the group but I ignore the sneer and his shitty attitude. Some day I’m going to cut his fucking throat and watch him bleed out at my feet. The thought makes me feel a little better about what we’re walking into tonight. Except for the fact that Reb is going to have to fight two different people to the death. If I could step in for her, I’d do so gladly. Fucking Stan.
Speaking of the fucking asshole, I turn in a circle, trying to see if he’s graced us with his presence or if he’s still hiding like a fucking coward. With Vince here, reporting everything back to him, I can see why he’d skip tonight.
