Break Away (Away, Book 1) (22 page)

I slammed the brakes and screeched my Mini to
a sharp halt. “
What? What is it?
” I said with my heart in my
throat, glancing all around, looking for the blood-curdling girl
I’d seen in my mind.

“You were about to go right through the
gate,” he said, waving his hands to the windshield.

Not the windshield
, I thought as the
thick fog parted, but to an iron gate. And above the chunky spikes
of the iron gate, a tall stone-clad structure that looked more like
a castle rose imperviously against the smoky afternoon sky.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I sighed.

“No, I wasn’t,” he said in a dark tone,
oblivious to my real thoughts. “You almost folded your miniscule
car into a freaking sandwich. Look at the size of that thing!” He
pointed to the jumbo sized bars of the gate.

“I have looked, and I wasn’t talking about
that, and why do you care if my car got twisted around those bars,
huh? Didn’t you hate it in the first place?”

“What part of ‘miniscule’ didn’t you get?
Small car crashes are the worst kind. My legs”—he waved his hands
to them—”would’ve ended up in the middle of all that,” he said, his
finger pointing and circling the place where a collision of
polished black against sturdy iron would’ve happened if I hadn’t
stopped in time.

“You really have a flare for the dramatic.” I
held back a roll of eyes.

“Well, if it wasn’t for my ‘flare for the
dramatic’ your pretty face would’ve ended up needing facial
reconstruction.”

“Pretty face? Since when am I pretty to you?
Have we really stepped into the Twilight Zone?”

He turned to look at me. “I never said you
weren’t pretty.” His deep stare did something inside of me, a
dangerous flip-flop in my stomach I didn’t like. Fortunately, the
feeling was immediately crushed a few seconds later when he said,
“But that doesn’t mean you aren’t a pain in the ass.” He turned his
face away.

Aren’t you a charmer?
I thought,
gritting my teeth. I balled my hands into fists and held back the
call for punching some sense into him. “If I’m a pain in the ass,
then why did you insist on coming with me?”

He ignored my question and pulled open the
door. “I better find out how to get inside.” He slipped out of the
car, not before stretching his legs with a pleased sigh.

The moment the door closed behind him, my
breath caught in my throat. The fog seemed to have thickened again,
enclosing us in an unyielding ring of mist, as if it didn’t like us
being here. Beyond the gate, the mansion or small castle—I couldn’t
choose which words were best—that teetered on the edge of gothic,
looked like an intimidating medieval magician. The fog skirts
floating around its grounds were reminiscent of times where old
spells were cast for protection.

As Ian walked around the car, eyeing the gate
for some type of entrance, fog parted and swirled around his legs,
like blown cigarette smoke. He stopped where a cast iron bell was
hanging, watched it closely and pulled the string underneath the
metal cup back and forth, producing a deep chiming sound.

I rolled down the window and said, “What do
you think you’re doing? Calling people for Mass?”

He glanced at me over his shoulder. “We have
to let him know we’re here. Or do you want to wait here all night
until this fog swallows you whole?”

I winced.

“Yeah. I didn’t think so.”

Surprisingly, the gate chose that moment to
grant us entrance, a deep mechanic hum following the welcoming
movement of the archaic doors.
Is this for real?
I thought
as I watched what looked like a scene out of a horror movie.
Really, is all this fog necessary? The house is creepy enough
already.

Buffy would’ve been proud of me. After
bailing on her before boarding the
Doom buggies
that took
you through Disney’s Haunted Mansion years ago—an eleven-year-old
Buffy had dropped her first F-Bomb at the end of the ride once
she’d spotted me waiting guiltily outside—Mom had threatened to
wash her “dirty” mouth with soap—it seemed karma had finally found
me, with a strange sense of humor. Not only was a gothic-looking
mansion waiting for me to step inside, but a
real
gothic-looking mansion with a crazy man waiting for me inside. This
was the real stuff, not some mechanical ride where everything was
orchestrated to give your heartbeats a wild, fun boost.

Once I pulled into the driveway and saw the
mansion up close, the brave Dafne that’d been gathering her wits to
face whatever this trip threw at her disappeared. I swallowed the
hard lump of fright in my throat. At least there weren’t eerie
gargoyles perched on the sides of the house.

I turned off the engine and pushed every
remnant of brave Dafne forward, willing my feet to follow the path
that led to the tall wooden doorway. I’d come all the way down here
for a purpose, and I was going to make sure that purpose saw the
day of light, no matter what.

“Isn’t this little fella an evil-looking
thing?” Ian said, eyeing the door knocker with a half smile.

The
little fella
was evil-looking
alright. Pointed cheekbones and ears, piercing stilted eyes,
eyebrows and mustache that spread like flames, deep menacing
frown—the old man holding the metal ring through his mouth looked
like something out of Dante’s Inferno.

I looked at it expectantly.

Ian shook his head, grasping the silent
message of my stare. “And you wanted to come without me?” He pulled
the metal ring and knocked it twice against the door. “If you can’t
even touch an old door knocker, how are you expecting to talk to a
crazy old man?”

I glared at him. “I
will
talk to
him.”

A sudden crack in the door made me jump,
pushing me to Ian’s side.

He chuckled. “Really?” he said, looking down
at the hand clutching his arm.

I jerked it back with a resentful glance at
him and, without hesitation, strode through the now open door and
past the small butler who was holding it open.

They say you can know someone’s personality
and soul just by looking at his possessions. I prayed to God this
wasn’t true because if it was, if it held the slightest speck of
truth, then we were royally screwed. Everything in this place
screamed darkness all over. From the medieval lamp hovering over us
with the ominous threat of its downward spikes, to the deadly
centaur with needle-like teeth and to the carnivorous Minotaurus
swallowing the naked woman’s head, Camus’ soul looked to be the
most pitch black soul I’d ever seen.

Dark hallways lined with dim ornate lanterns
made way for places my soul begged not to know. Towering vaulted
ceilings promised hidden shady secrets one’s ears recoiled at. And
the living room, with its flaring fireplace, spoke of inner
passions and musings one’s untarnished mind couldn’t even
process.

Before sitting down in the dark chair that
was waiting for me, I eyed its backrest with distrust. Two pointed
wings that belonged to a horned creature spread in an ominous,
welcoming embrace. For a second, the image of that creature waking
up from its slumber once I leaned against it flashed into my mind.
I closed my eyes and shook that image away.
Keep yourself
together, Dafne. It's just a chair. A frightening,
out-of-your-nightmare chair, but just a chair.

I turned and took my place on it with a shaky
sigh. I slid my hands across the armrests, feeling the smooth wood
under my palms, until reaching the snake heads at the end. I pulled
up my hands in lightening speed.
Better not to touch
anything.

I looked across from me. Ian was sitting in a
similar chair, with a smug smile lifting one corner of his lips. He
patted its threatening snake heads as if they were cute little
puppies and said, “A bit jumpy, are we?”

“I already told you,” I said, lifting my chin
while straightening my back so it wouldn't touch those scary wings,
“I'm not scared. This place is…interesting.”

“Interesting?” He arched his eyebrows. “As in
deadly interesting?”

“As in cool interesting,” I amended, with a
slight grit of teeth.

“Imagine,” he started and ignored my words,
“What Comus is like if he lives in a place like this.” He said,
looking around the dim-lighted living room.

My eyes immediately found the coffee table
between us. The dark growling dragon holding up the thick sheet of
glass underneath confirmation enough of what we were about to deal
with. I gulped.

“I bet he's a really nice man,” I said, not
believing what I'd just blurted out.

He snorted. “Yeah, and fish can fly.”

“What is up with you?” I said with accusation
in my voice. “Are you trying to make me nervous? Teach me a lesson
or something?”

“Teach you a lesson? You? Is such thing
possible?”

“Oh, don't start on me, please.” I cocked my
head, wearily. “Not the right time. Not the right place.
Besides…I'm not in the mood.”

He cracked a dry, short laugh. “What, waiting
for
Casper
, the friendly ghost to show up?”

I turned my head and paid no heed to his
words.

“Come on. Bring out that fiery glow in you.
You can do it,” he added, as if he was daring me.

I crossed my arms and glared at him. “Stop
it, Ian.”

“Where is that fearless girl, huh? Did she
run away?”

A red-hot spark ignited within me. “I
said
stop it.”

“And here I thought you were one of the most
confident persons I knew. I guess a Chihuahua has more right to
that title than you do.”

Okay. That was it. I was
not
going to
be compared to a shaky, overanxious pea of a dog. I released my
arms from their tangle and slapped the armrests. “You
self-righteous, arrogant mongrel, I'm
not
a Chihuahua!”

“I never said you were,” he said, aiming his
stare down to my hands. He looked up, found me glowering at him and
waved his eyes down to my hands again, as if trying to tell me
something.

After a deep glaring session, I finally
looked down, expecting to find my hands had spurted extra fingers,
and saw…nothing. I snapped my head up. “Are you mocking me? What is
there to see?”

He laid his stare on my hands once more,
without a word.

“
What?
” I dropped my gaze for a second
time. And right then, I realized what he was telling me with his
eyes. My hands were on top of the snake heads, clutching them. If
in possession of the strength of a superhero, I would've crushed
those things into splintery dust. I didn't feel afraid or
apprehensive anymore. I had my confidence back.

And Ian was the main reason behind that.

“Now you're ready,” he said, with a smile
full of warmth and encouragement.

Even if he'd done it in a quite unorthodox
way, the results had paid. The sinister surroundings weren't
engulfing me any longer. Like Ian had said, I was ready to talk to
Comus, no matter what type of man he was.

I looked at him, with a clogged Thank You in
my throat that never saw its way out, because Comus chose that
moment to make his entrance.

I
blinked, because I
was expecting a crazy, modern version of Leatherface; expecting it
so much that I had to double check if my mind wasn't tricking me
with fake images. But a man was indeed standing several feet away,
watching us with an expectant, excited look on his face.

He took a few steps toward us and clapped his
hands together in what I would've pictured a kid doing while
looking at his Christmas presents. Eagerness wasn't exactly the
word. Frantic wasn't either.

“Isn't this wonderful?” Comus said,
ping-ponging his eyes between Ian and me, as if he didn't know
where to look first. “Visitors! Hah!” He half-laughed and
half-squealed.

I jumped a little.

“My dear she-fledgling, do not be scared,” he
told me with regret in his eyes. “An old man like me does not know
how to handle excitement well.”

She-fledgling?
I turned to look at
Ian. He shrugged and made a looping motion on his temple, with an
I-told-you-so stare.

I went back to watch the man. He wasn't
exactly old, maybe around his mid-forties. Shoulder-length brown
hair sort of stood up like a halo of thin wires around his long
oval face, as if he'd been recently electrocuted and hadn't
bothered taming his hair down. Big dark eyes were rounded with glee
and anticipation. And surprisingly enough, he had flawless,
wrinkle-free skin that didn't seem to have seen the light of day
too much.

But the most striking part of him had to be
his clothes. Definitely funky. Weird funky. He was wearing a
rose-print shirt under a sort of coat, a frock coat I think it was
called. It was made of black velvet, with purple cuffs, collar and
front lapels, which sported a string of gold colored buttons on
each side. His black and white vertically striped pants wrapped his
legs loosely, making them look even thinner, and the cherry to top
it all, his shoes. Purple fuzzy slippers with a happy face on
them.

Comus would've been Buffy's own fashion
nightmare.

He rose his left foot up, until it reached my
face. “Yes, yes. They are cottony heavens,” he said, flipping his
foot side to side, as if putting his slipper on display for my
appraisal. “Can you imagine having to put up with so much weight
every day? They deserve this. You deserve this,” he told his
upraised foot, as if he was talking to a baby.

My God, what have I gotten myself
into?
The man might've not been a sinister menace but he was
clearly someone a shrink would've loved to study.

“Sir,” a sudden flat tone of voice said.
Comus pulled back his slipper-clad feet and whirled around to face
the short butler that'd opened the entrance door to us. “Do any of
your guests wish for a beverage?”