The Ghost Files 3 (17 page)

But what if something crawls out after me?

Right now, I don’t care. I pull the covers up, snuggle into the massive quilts and comforters Mary piled on earlier, and try to stop shaking. The cold has settled in so deep, every muscle, bone, and nerve in my body hurts. It feels like someone injected acid into them. Despite that, I close my eyes and am lost to sleep within minutes.

***

The bite of the cold metal against my skin wakes me. I blink, but feel a little fuzzy. I can smell antiseptic and my first thought is that I’m back in the hospital, but that can’t be right. I try to push up, but fall, my face coming to rest against the cold metal surface I’m lying face down on. Where am I?

Music plays softly in the background. I recognize it at once. It’s one of my favorite songs,
“Eyes on Fire” by Blue Foundation. The song is hypnotic and seductive all at once. I used to sit for hours listening to that song and draw. Some of my darkest works were born out of the lyrics to that song. Despite the fact the song brings out my darker side, I love it.

Everyone has some darkness within, but few admit to its existence, much less let it out. Mine comes out in my art. Sometimes I think that’s the only reason I haven’t really hurt someone. I live with a deep
, dark anger that burns inside. I usually keep it under lockdown, but when I draw, I give it expression, release. Therapist number six fostered the idea and it’s one of the few techniques I’ve held onto.

Listening to the seduction of the music, I feel my eyes getting heavy again, but I fight the urge to just relax and sleep. I need to figure out where I am.
Have one of the girls gotten past my barrier? Am I in one of their memories? Or have I been sucked into The Between and this is my own personal hell?

It smells. My entire nose has a spasm as the smell of old blood and urine assaults me. So not in a good place right now.
Got to get up
, I tell myself firmly and roll. I fall hard, my head bounces off the cold concrete floor. I am so gonna end up with a brain tumor at this rate. Ignoring the ache in my skull, I blink my eyes, trying to clear them. All I see are black spots, though. I guess I hit my head harder than I thought this time.

My body refuses to work when I order it to move; I’m too weak. What happened? I’m sluggish. Did someone drug me? It felt like the time I woke up in the hospital after the haunted house in New Orleans. They’d given me pain meds and I’d felt just like I do now
—helpless and fuzzy, lying on my back, unable to even turn my head.

Not good.

The door opens and a pair of shiny Louis Vuitton’s come into my field of vision. They stop as soon as they come into the room and someone sighs.

“Where did she go?” I hear a definite note of irritation in the all too familiar voice.

Great. How did I end up with Silas? Caleb swore he demon-proofed the house!

Wait.

I’d been lying on a metal table.

Wait…I’d been lying on a
metal
table, and suddenly remember where I’d seen one before—in Silas’s art studio. The table held one of his victims, one of those he’d drain of blood for his paintings. He
does
have an obsessive need to use my blood. My eyes widen. Did he do that to me?

Silas comes round t
he table and asks, “What are you doing on the floor?”

Not waiting for my answer, he picks me up and carries me out of the room and down a hall. The room he enters is a bedroom done in pale blues, browns, and creams. Yellow throw pillows are on the bed. The room is done in colors I love, colors I would have picked for myself. How does he know so much about me?
Why
does he know so much, for that matter? What does he want with me?

He lays me gently down on the bed and then examines my head. Another sigh. A burning heat lances my scalp and I flinch, but then the pain goes away and my vision clears.
All
the pain is gone. For the first time in days, I don’t have a migraine drilling away at me. I sigh in sheer relief.

“Better?” he asks, a soft smile plays with his lips.

I nod warily and ask, “Where am I?”

“My home, of course,” he says and fetches me a glass of cold orange juice from the pitcher on the tray beside the bed. “Here
, sip this. It will help.”

I drink and the nasty fuzz in my mouth disintegrates. What is it about orange juice that revives a sewer mouth?

“How did I get here?” I ask suspiciously.

“You’re dreaming, Mattie,” he tells me. “You let those boys
demon-proof the house. This was the only outlet left we could use to communicate.”

The censure in his voice makes me squirm just a bit. Why do I feel guilty all of a sudden? He’s a demon and he has no right
to just pop in whenever he wants!

“Why am I here?” I ask, ignoring his put out expression.

He sighs and rolls me over, pulling my shirt up.

“HEY!” I shout, trying to get away.

“Be still, child!” he barks. “I am not going to harm you, I just need to check my work. If you smudged it, I will flay the skin from your bones.”

His work. I still as his fingers run over my lower back. The flesh is tender and sore. It feels like it did when Eli put a tattoo there to help me control the floodgate of ghosts in New Orleans trying to hammer away at me.

“Did you give me a tattoo?” I ask, vexed.

“I saw the one the Malone boy came up with and it was worthless. Seeing as I can’t watch you every minute of the day, I did the ink job myself with a
demonic sigil that I know works. The ghosts will never again make you live through the way they died. You will still see it, but not as the ghost themselves. You’ll not be made to suffer through that again.”

He pulls my shirt down and lets me roll back over. Silas confuses me.

“Why?” I ask him bluntly. “Why do you care?”

“A simple ‘thank you’ will suffice,” he says, ignoring me this time.

“Thank you,” I say, seething. “Now why did you do it?”

“It’s simple
, really. You belong to me, Emma Rose, and I
always
protect what’s mine.”

“I don’t
belong
to
anyone
, let alone a demon.”

Silas chuckles and settles on the foot of the bed, pulling his legs beneath him. It makes him look younger, almost boyish. His black eyes are alight with amusement.

“We all belong to someone, Emma Rose. Even
I
belong to someone, but not for much longer.” For a moment, his eyes become feral; the fear in them becomes a living creature. Who could make a demon
that
terrified? “Despite what you believe, you
do
belong to people. Take the boy, for example…”

“Which boy?” I ask cautiously. Eli had made some vague references earlier that came to mind now. He said we needed to talk and I wonder if
this
is what we need to talk about.

Silas gives me a shrewd glance. “He hasn’t spoken to you as yet?” He laughs at my glare. “I thought not. It
is
something you should speak about soon, my darling girl. At least with him around, I don’t need to worry so much about you doing idiotic things and having no one to rescue you.”

“I don’t need anyone to rescue me,” I tell him, my voice a little haughty. “I’ve never needed anyone.”

“That is quite true, my darling girl, but also the saddest thing I’ve heard in a very long time.”

I glare at him. I don’t want his pity. I hate it when people pity me and I’m in no mood to suffer his.

“Sometimes we all need to be rescued,” he muses and then shakes his head. “Now, we must discuss the demon-proofing…”

“It’s not coming down,” I interrupt him.

“Why not?” he counters, sounding petulant.

“Because I don’t want you popping in whenever. It’s annoying.”

He frowns. “What if I teach you how to heal? Will you allow me to visit then?”

My heart thumps a bit. He can show me how to heal? I could help Mary…

“It’s very easy,” he coaxes. “I’ll show you how to heal yourself and everyone you care about. In exchange, you’ll remove the demon-proofing so I can visit.”

He wants to make another deal, and for the first time since meeting Silas, I’m tempted. Mary suffered horribly from the Olson incident
, as we now call our captivity. She’d been mutilated to a degree that no amount of plastic surgery could repair the worst of. She’d have the scars until she died. She deserves so much better. So…I can help her
if
I make a deal with Silas.

I can see Dan and Eli both literally shaking their heads no. Deals with demons never turn out well. Allowing Silas unfettered access to my house is out of the question. It compromises the safety of Mary and Mrs. C.

“No,” I tell him, my voice firm. “I won’t remove the demon-proofing so you can just show up whenever you want to.”

He gives me a sour look. “Most would have jumped at that chance.”

“I’m not most people.”

“That you are not, my darling girl. That you are not.” He stands up and wanders over to the window. “It’s what I’m counting on.”

What does he mean by that? “What do you want from me, Silas?”

He turns to me, eyes speculative. “For you to serve your purpose, of course.”

“My purpose?”

“How is your art coming along?” he asks instead of answering. I almost growl in frustration. “Have you practiced what I showed you?”

“No,” I say softly. In all honesty, I’m too freaked out to try it. My blood can bring images to life.

He gives me a patented Officer Dan look. My eyebrows shoot up. It’s a long-suffering look like you’d give a two year old who refuses to listen.

“Emma, you must develop your gifts in order to be useful to me.” Malice practically drips from his voice. His look turns to one of cold, hard intent.

“My name is Mattie,” I bark, trying to stop the shiver at the
venom in the words he’d just spoken. Sometimes I forget Silas is a demon capable of very bad things, but when he looks at me like that, it all comes roaring back. Normally, the ‘fight or flight’ instinct tends to kick in about now, but at the moment, I feel oddly relaxed.

“Why you cling to that distasteful name is beyond reasoning,” he says and walks back over to the bed. “Emma Rose
is
your name and what I shall call you because it suits me to call
what’s mine
anything I so desire.”

I sit up myself. “I will not say this again, Silas, I don’t belong to anyone but myself.”

“And I will not repeat myself again, either.” He reaches out and strokes my hair. “You are mine to do with as I see fit, child. If I choose to keep you here, I will. If I decide to strap you down to my table and flay every speck of skin from your body until you learn proper obedience,
I will
. Your life is mine to do with as I please, Emma Rose. You would do well to remember that.”

The simple, brutal honesty in his voice terrifies me. I have no doubt he
would
flay me alive if it came down to it. He’s a monster, a true monster who enjoys doing evil things. I’m alone here with him, with no idea how to wake up.

“Are you hungry?” he asks, leaving me staring wide-eyed at him. “I made you some grilled cheese sandwiches with the pickles and mayonnaise on the inside just like you like them.”

I can sense the dangerous mood he’s in. Something I’ve done or said has set him off and if I say the wrong thing, God only knows what he might do. I’ve got to learn to control my smart mouth in these situations. It’s never a good idea to piss off an angry demon.

My stomach growls and he laughs. “Leave it to your bottomless pit to answer for you.” He leaves the room and returns moments later with a steaming plate of gooey deliciousness. The smell is heavenly. An ice cold can of Coca-Cola accompanies the feast. “Eat, child.”

I look down at my food and decide to trust it. I mean, it’s a dream, right? The moment the cheese hits my tongue, my taste buds explode in a chorus of flavors. Grilled cheeses are my absolute favorite comfort food ever. Silas does know me really, really well. Maybe if I start a semi-normal conversation with him, he might open up a bit without even realizing it.

“The music you were playing earlier…”

“Did you like it?” he asks before I can finish my sentence. “‘Eyes on Fire’. It’s my favorite song to create to. I play it whenever I paint, or in your case, do body art.”

The yummy deliciousness in
my mouth turns to sandpaper. The song I love to listen to when I create my own art is the exact same one
he
uses? I’ve been thinking just how much alike Silas and I are and this is another nail in my coffin. It can’t be just a coincidence…can it?

“Are you al
l right?” he asks, concerned.

I nod and guzzle down half my pop. This can’t be more than a coincidence. It can’t be.