Her Dangerous Revenge

CHAPTER 85

The next half hour plunged Calla's world into chaos.

She couldn't exactly recall how she'd ended up in Cooper's

Mustang. She remembered the bite of cold air, and the even colder

light of the stars wheeling overhead.

She remembered the rumble of Vincent's voice vibrating through

her chest.

She remembered lying in the passenger seat, curled up in Cooper's lap, who held her with the caution of one holding a particularly

pissed off rattlesnake.

She remembered darkness.

And then—lights.

And voices. Voices in the car. Filled with static and white noise.

Voices in her head.

* * * * *

" Who shot her? Did you say—"

"Let me see that leg."

"Slow down ."

Inhale.

"Can someone tell me what the hell happened here?"

Exhale.

"We need to get a drip going, sir. She's losing a lot of—"

"Blood, yes. Go now. Wait. Where the f**k is Richards? For

Christ's sake . Call him!"

"What about the detective? Michaels, sir."

Silence.

* * * * *

And in that silence, there was a door.

Calla blinked. She recognized the brassy knob almost immediately.

Smooth. Polished. Worn down from the constant twisting and

turning of small fingers.

Untouched for weeks. Months.

I'm home.

The smell of honeysuckle filled the air. Her mother's favorite

candle, burning somewhere in the house, filling the halls and the

empty room.

Calla stared at the door. She felt strangely... warm. And light as a

feather. She could feel the tips of her fingers and the air in her

lungs, but she couldn't seem to feel the weight of her bones or the

mass of her heart. It was as if some god had reached deep inside

of her and ripped out her innards, discarding them in a steaming

pile on the floor.

I'm dreaming, she realized. She reached out to brush her fingers

against the doorknob. This is a dream. I'm home, but not home.

And then, a second thought: I'm still alive.

"What's behind that door?"

Calla flinched. The voice did not belong to her mother.

She turned. Rachel stood to her left, hovering over her shoulder.

Dark shadows hung beneath her eyes, which had dimmed

considerably in death. But they shone now with a sort of morbid

curiosity. As if she knew nothing good could lay on the other side

of the door.

She wanted to find out what it was, anyway.

"You never told me," Rachel elaborated. "What's in there?"

"An empty room," Calla murmured. In the background, somewhere

off in the kitchen, a woman began to cry.

"Why's it empty?" Rachel whispered.

Cold air brushed Calla's cheek, drifting from the c***k beneath the

door. She shivered.

"It..." Her fingertips brushed the smooth metal of the doorknob. She

was surprised to find them trembling. "It was..."

Her head pulsed. Dark spots danced across her vision.

Panicking now—she couldn't go back into that darkness—Calla

turned the doorknob and burst into the room.

On the other side, she found a very different room than the one

she'd been anticipating. Where the twin bed should have been, an

upholstered armchair now sat. And where the toy dinosaurs had

once stood vigil—stacked along the dresser like a colorful parade—

there were only empty picture frames. Shattered glass sparkled on the floor, replacing the blue rug Calla had spent countless nights

rolling around on, giggling.

Panting, she did a full three-sixty, spinning in circles. This wasn't

her house.

This wasn't the empty room.

Cold air filled the space. Slithering across her shoulders, her

collarbone—

Calla stiffened. Her breath came out in little puffs.

The icy air hardened, solidifying into iron fists that clamped around

her throat.

* * * * *

She'll sting you one day.

She gasped as she bolted upright, her eyes squeezed shut. Warm

air filled her lungs. And for a moment, she felt relief.

One feather is of no use to me.

She opened her eyes. Tall pine trees loomed over her, blocking out

the sky.

Kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token.

The disembodied voice sounded...familiar.

Perhaps like the voice of an old friend. An old, dead friend.

I'm Death, it whispered again. The trees stood motionless. Not a

single breath of wind brushed their branches. And I make all equal.

The voice in her head—it had to be in her head, as it could be

coming from nowhere else—became louder, more insistent. Until it wasn't a voice in her head at all. The next words were clear as a

bell, and deep. The bass tenor of a man.

"My love for her is so great, that if all the leaves on the trees were

tongues, they would not be able to express it."

Something rustled off to her left. She twisted. Her head swam from

the swift movement and she winced.

A low chuckle. She recognized it as the voice from before. "Easy,

there."

Cory sat with his back against one of the ancient trees, looking at

ease despite the horrendous gash in his throat. It didn't seem to

bother him in the slightest. He watched her with warm, loving eyes.

His death had not softened her heart. She hissed.

He sighed. It sounded weary. Sad. "I was afraid of that."

"You should be afraid of me," she snapped, attempting to stand.

The movement caused her too much pain and she swore, falling

back to her knees.

He smirked at her. "It's not that serious."

The expression on his face, paired with those words, sent her back

to a different time and a much different place. She stood beside

him in a crowded hallway, her shoulder braced against a locker as

he tried to reassure her, downplaying the death of their beloved classmate.

His words had seemed playful at the time. But of course, he'd been

hinting at something much more sinister. Why worry about a killer

—when the killer is you ?

She blinked. The old pine trees came back into focus. His blue

eyes assessed her, as if waiting for another mild fainting spell.

"I never cared much for Faithful John," Cory mused from his spot

against the tree, lost in the tangled web of his thoughts. He barely

seemed to notice her. "An old fool. That's what he seemed. But I

think he had the right idea, after all."

Faithful John. Calla realized what Cory had been referencing

before. His words took on new meaning in the dark forest, the

boughs shrouded in mist. The last fairytale. The last page.

She'd read and reread those pages enough times to memorize the

words there. A different line stood out to her now. It burned her

tongue to speak it: "I will risk my life to win her."

"Like I said," Cory whispered. "The guy had the right idea."

"So that's it, then." she asked, bitter once more. "All of it. All of

this. You did it for me?"

"For you. For us," he confirmed, morose.

Rachel. Why Rachel.

She didn't need to speak the words, not in this strange place. He

seemed to hear her just fine.

His eyes were wide. Beseeching. "Calla."

I didn't kill—

She didn't want to hear the words. Ignoring the pain—and when

had it become so cold again?—she stood and lunged for him once

more, extending her hands in front of her, fingers hooked into

deadly claws—

* * * * *

"Calla!"

She thrashed, her fingers digging into warm skin.

Calla panted, blinking up at a familiar face. Her fingers were

tangled in his shirt, her other hand digging into his wrist, which

held her down with gentle force.

She sank back into a set of hard pillows, her head spinning.

"Vincent."

Her death grip on his t-shirt softened. Disoriented, she glanced

around the room, fearing what she would see. A misty forest? A

long forgotten room?

But her surroundings were unfamiliar. The room itself was bright;

warm sunlight slanted through a set of dusty blinds to her left. A

painting of the sea, meant to inspire calm, hung on the opposite

wall. But the door, peppered with neon flyers, disrupted the

atmosphere, jarring her. In the upper right hand corner of the

room, an ancient TV played reruns of Jeopardy, set to the lowest

possible volume.

She analyzed the neon flyers. Bold letters screamed back at her.

ALL EMPLOYEES MUST WASH THEIR HANDS.