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I have no fucking clue what he’s talking about.
“Who are they?”
He stares at me in silence. I can’t tell if it’s a trick of the light or what, but I swear his pupils are turning red.
“And so, what do you want?” I add, managing to look away from the blood.
He brings his finger toward him, rotating it, watching the red trickle down the back of his pale hand. He studies it like he’s staring at a rare painting in a museum, trying to gauge the artist’s meaning.
Then he slowly extends his long tongue and licks the blood off, his eyes locked on mine as he does so, pupils turning the blue to black.
Prey.
You’re his prey.
“You’re a fucking psychopath,” I cry out, my whole body instinctively flinching, straining against the ropes.
Another abbreviated smile. “So they all say.”
Then his eyes flutter closed and he breathes in deeply through his nose, his muscles stiffening.
I watch him, my heart tripping with fear, the rest of me succumbing to torrid fascination. If he wanted me to be afraid, well, I am afraid. Because I don’t think I’m coming out of this alive. And yet the mystery of why he wants me, of what he’s going to do with me next, has me curious as a cat. A cat with only one life.
He swallows, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck, and then he opens his eyes, staring at me even deeper than he was before. My nerves go on high alert again, that feeling of being watched, stalked, seconds before the pounce.
“You’ve tasted my blood,” he says softly. “I’ve tasted yours. I suppose we’re even for now.”
“What is your sick fascination with blood?” I nearly spit the words.
His forehead creases, mouth making an elegant O in surprise, remnants of my blood sitting on his soft lips. “Oh, Lenore,” he says imploringly. “Surely you’ve figured it all out by now.” He licks his lips. “I heard you’re a smart girl. Very smart. Have to say I’ve been a bit disappointed by you in that department. Not even any guesses?”
I do have guesses, but they’re batshit crazy and I’m not about to egg this man on or give him ideas.
“There is so much you don’t say,” he comments after a moment. “Has your brain always been like that?”
I press my lips together, refusing to speak.
“That’s fine if you don’t want to talk,” he goes on. “I’m used to being the one doing all the talking. Most of the time, people can only stare at me, their brains being reduced to a lump of grey matter. You, on the other hand, aren’t like that. And I know why.”
Don’t ask him why, don’t ask him why.
“You don’t have to ask,” he goes on, leaning back in his chair. “I’ll tell you. Why am I so interested in your parents? Because they aren’t actually your parents. They stole you when you were two years old. You remember it, don’t you? You remember them taking you. You remember your original mother, your father.”
My mouth parts, his words colliding in my brain with mini explosions. “No,” I tell him, my breath catching. “No. That’s insane. That’s not…my parents are my parents.”
“You were born on Orcas Island, in Washington State. The middle of nowhere. Beautiful place, right on the ocean, surrounded by trees.”
I swallow, shaking my head, but the lies are hitting me like the truth because I’m remembering my dreams. “You’re a liar,” I whisper.
He bites his lip for a moment. “Am I? I can still feel your blood inside me, singing your truth. There were rumors about you, from the moment you were born. Rumors, but no one really knew, no one had the evidence. I knew though. I felt you across time. You’re a myth to everyone but me.”
My eyes pinch shut. I don’t want to listen to this. I don’t want to even indulge this madman in his weird fantasy. He doesn’t know me, doesn’t know where I came from. I was born in San Francisco to my parents, that’s it, that’s it…
“I knew your real parents,” he says, his voice going quiet and soft, enough so that I have to look at him. There’s something gentle about his expression, apologetic, even. It’s unnerving after all of this. “Alice and Hakan Virtanen. I knew that they wanted you so badly. A child was all that Alice could talk about. I lost touch with them before you were born. We had our…differences. I wish we could have worked through them, because sometimes I think I could have stopped what happened.” He looks away, eyes grappling with something heavy. “Then again, I’m used to causing death, not stopping it.”
He brings his gaze back to mine and exhales sharply, straightening up. “Twenty-one years ago, when there was talk that Alice and Hakan had a child, I was happy for them. Then the three of them were killed. Burned alive in their house. Murdered. By Elaine and Jim Warwick.”
