No Justice for the Damned (Tales from the Tarot)

10. Chapter 10

Chapter ten

“ I want to show you something.”

Hollow’s body is pressed against mine, his front to my back, his arms around my waist, his chin resting on my shoulder as we speed down the streets. Riding on Delilah, the wind and continuous rain rush past, both chilling me and soaking me through. Despite the brutal cold and savage rain, being on Delilah brings me some sense of calm, some sense of normalcy. What isn’t normal is having a passenger, someone clinging to me in such a sensual way.

Because whether or not he means it, everything Hollow does is sensual—deeply, profoundly sensual—and fraught with electric tension. Every touch, every look. I feel like I’m on fire when he touches me. And right now, he’s like a second skin, pressed closer to me than the sopping wet fabric that clings to my back.

When he told me he wanted to show me something, I assumed he’d drive and I’d follow on Delilah. But he’d looked at me expectantly then, a rapturous smile on his face. He’d always intended to sit behind me while I drove, while he guided my path. And now, that’s what we do.

He whispers in the shell of my ear, directing my twists and turns down side streets, his voice a sweet, darkling thing that makes my stomach tighten and my cock twitch with excitement. Despite everything I’ve seen, despite everything that’s happened between us, I want more. I want to know, to learn, to see. I want more time with Hollow. Despite my best judgment.

I recognize the path and know where he’s taking me. Club Orpheus. I’m likely endangering myself by wandering directly into his den of wolves, but for some strange reason, I feel compelled to trust him. To follow where he leads. Because that’s what he’s doing. Even as I drive, he’s the one in control.

We pull up to the curb and I park as he settles back behind me, his groin rubbing against my ass. I doubt it’s accidental.

“Why are we here?” I ask, indicating the club with an inclination of my head.

“I live here,” he replies. “Just above.” He nods toward the second floor of the building and I follow his gaze.

“Sebastian’s old place.”

He shrugs. “He left it to me.”

“Among other things,” I retort but he doesn’t disagree.

“Among other things. But that’s not where we’re going. Not yet at least. You said you wanted to understand. I’d like to help you with that.”

I cock a brow as he dismounts and puts a hand out for me to take. Behind him, just opposite the street is that strange little building shelved between the others like a book between larger volumes, the one that seemed to spring up out of nowhere only a few weeks ago. The glowing red sign is illuminated in the darkening night— The Magic Shop.

I realize then why he’s brought me here. The fact that this building popped up right around the time of Hollow’s arrival is no coincidence. They have something to do with one another.

I take his offered hand and together, our eyes scan the shop. It’s plain, made of red brick. Tall windows along the front do little to expose the interior with their blinds pulled down, but glowing yellow light twinkles from behind. Whatever is inside is a complete mystery. I can feel my heart racing with trepidation and excitement.

Hollow leads me across the street, away from Club Orpheus and toward the glowing red sign. A door painted black and fringed by ancient decorative trim looms imposingly. A sign hanging above says “Open” and Hollow twists the knob to step inside.

The tinkling of a bell greets us, sounding our arrival and immediately I’m thrust into a huge, wide-open space, lit all over by sparkling candles and smelling of dust and worn pages and cracked spines. Books everywhere, shelves line every wall as far as the eye can see, and judging from the exterior, there’s no way this place should be as big as it is, with ceilings that stretch so abnormally high. There are at least two floors with long ladders that scale the floor to the ceiling, allowing access to the many, many books that line every square inch of the space.

“Good evening,” a low voice sounds out. It’s deep yet melodic, like a song as it flutters through the air to greet us. I turn toward it, remaining close on Hollow’s heels, to see a man, slim and tall, standing at a checkout counter near the front of the store. He’s handsome, nondescript, with a face I feel I’ve seen before. There’s a hint of familiarity to it. But his eyes. Those eyes are so dark, almost black. They’re like bottomless pits I could fall headfirst into. He stares at me and smiles, a simple, non-threatening smile as he reaches to tip his hat at me. It’s a black top hat, like one you’d see in a film set in Victorian England. It should be strange, out of place, but here in this setting, on this man, it seems natural .

“O,” Hollow greets him with a wave and a smile.

“Hollow.” The man knows Hollow’s name, there’s an odd familiarity that passes between them. “Plan on introducing me to your friend?” He’s looking at me now, with those deep-black, knowing eyes.

“This is Killian.” Hollow steps closer to make the introduction, opening the way for the strange man to offer me his hand. I wait for him to give me his name as I take it, but he doesn’t. Only smiles at me and shakes my hand.

“Killian. Welcome. Please do let me know if there’s anything in particular you’re looking for.”

Then he drops my hand and turns back to whatever task he’d set upon before we entered. Like a light switch turned off, he’s mechanical in his routine, ignoring us completely now that he’s turned away.

I shiver from that interaction, feeling confused, neither welcomed nor rejected. Neither warmed nor chilled in his presence. I shift my gaze to Hollow who grins at me. “This way.” He takes my hand in his and leads me deeper into the body of the store.

“Who the hell was that?” I whisper once we’re out of earshot.

“The Owner,” Hollow replies, tugging me along through narrow aisles, rows and rows of books and odds and ends. All manner of fascinating and strange knick knacks.

“I gathered that,” I grumble. “You two seemed familiar.”

Hollow shrugs. “As familiar as one can be with him. There’s a bit of a wall there. I’m sure you noticed.”

I nod. “He’s strange.”

“Spooky,” Hollow says, his voice tinged with the sound of his laughter. “But helpful enough. I’ve known him for a while.”

“This shop. I only first saw it a week or so ago. But that’s impossible.” The dust that’s piled on the bookshelves, the seemingly endless rows upon rows of shelving. The clutter and expansive space. Something like this would have had to have been here for years. Decades.

“I’d have thought you’d have stopped saying that word by now,” Hollow says as he turns toward me again and with a sharp yank, pulls me into him. My chest presses against his chest, our bodies closer than they’ve been and for a moment, I wonder if he’s going to kiss me. Or kill me. Perhaps both.

“Here we are,” he says, his voice silken and low. I swivel to see that he’s leading me toward a back room off the center aisle, a large open space seemingly carved out like a hollow cave, no doors to block its interior from view. The lights from within glow faintly purple and gold. As we step inside, I see a vibrant chandelier hanging from the ceiling and a small circular table sitting in the center of the room. A crystal ball sits atop it, held in place by a gold stand. It shimmers in the twinkling lights. I want to roll my eyes at the absurdity of it all, but as I gaze deeper, I see twisting shapes, darkened and strangely humanoid forms looking back out at me. They shift and dance before disappearing entirely, turning into a dark mist before my eyes.

“Spooky,” Hollow says again and when I turn to look at him, I see that same familiar smirk on his lips.

I cross my arms in front of my chest. “You came here to make me look into a crystal ball? Isn’t that a bit on the nose?”

He chuckles. “Indeed. But no, that’s not why we’re here. I wanted to read your Tarot.”

I stiffen. “My Tarot?”

“Mmhmm,” he hums, watching me with such intense heat I feel I could burst into flame under that scrutiny.

“You needed to bring me here to do that?”

“Yes and no. This place is really special to me, you see. It has a special place in my heart. I wanted you to see it.” He moves to the back wall and leans against it, observing me from there while sneaking a hand into the back pocket of his form-fitting jeans. From within, he withdraws a slim deck of cards and begins to shuffle them between his lithe, long fingers. All the while watching me, drinking me in.

“What are you doing?” I shift uncomfortably under his gaze. Not because I don’t like it. Because I do .

“I like looking at you.” His voice is so low, it makes the room seem to vibrate with tension. Once he’s sufficiently finished shuffling the cards, he draws near to me once again, sweeping back a chair and seating himself at the table in the center of the room. Smiling, he gestures for me to sit opposite him. Once I’ve complied, he holds the deck out to me on a flat palm. “Place your intention onto them.”

I narrow my eyes at him. He doesn’t back down or retreat. Just continues to smile at me, the cards beckoning in his steady hand. “My intention?”

“What is Kill missing? What does the universe want him to know?”

Glowering, I reluctantly press my fingers to the deck and will energy, whatever energy I can muster, into the cards. I feel ridiculous but there’s something else there too. A desire to know. To understand. To make sense of all of this madness with which I've been confronted tonight.

He then fans the cards out face down in front of me, holding them out like an offering. “Take the one you most connect with,” he says and I frown.

Connect with the cards. Connect with the cards. Allow the cards to guide you . I feel stupid. But I do as he says. I breathe in deeply, close my eyes and reach out, allowing my fingertips to trail over the fanned deck.

A faint pulsing, nominal, almost unnoticeable. I reach out and grasp it.

My eyes open and scowl at him.

It’s justice. Though I hold it upside down in my hand, it’s unmistakable. The twin scales tattooed on Hollow’s temple are reflected like a mirror. He did this on purpose. “This isn’t magic,” I snap. “I pulled the card you wanted me to pull.”

He blinks, unsmiling for the first time since we entered the shop. “Did you?” Is that actual surprise on his face? “How interesting. And reversed as well.” His golden eyes flicker up to meet mine and he breathes in deeply. “Is there something you feel shame about, Kill? Something you don’t want to admit, even to yourself?”

Flashes of Abe, Abe as a child, Abe with his hand in mine, as I lure him away from his mother. These images consume my thoughts, rising to the surface of my consciousness so I feel I might throw up. “Why did you bring me here?” I snap, rising to my feet and throwing the card face down on table.

Hollow studies me, watching me with wide, playful eyes. Eyes without the hint of apology. “I’ve hit a nerve.”

I shoot toward him, gripping his collar in my fists. I tear him from his seated position and slam him hard against the bookshelf behind us. Pages scatter and books fall to the floor, jarred from the safety of their nooks by the force of my blow. Hollow giggles, the sound of his laughter further igniting my ire, my shame. “Why did you bring me here?” I repeat the demand. “To fuck with my head?”

“On the contrary. I brought you here to open your mind.”

“Open my mind,” I snarl. “By planting the card you wanted me to pull? By dredging up my shame?”

“Is that what it is, then? Shame? You feel shame?”

“Of course I do,” I sputter, shoving him hard again. His head slams against the hard wood and some small trinkets topple from the shelves’ depths, falling to the floor and shattering. “I let him hurt my brother. I contributed to it.”

He cocks a brow. “Contributed?”

“I brought him into this life. I took him away from his family. I saw it.” Angry tears have begun to well in my eyes. My hands haven’t stopped shaking since this horrible night started.

“Not of your own accord. Not because you wanted to harm him. Someone else told you to do it.” Hollow’s voice is low, dangerous. “Don’t think for a second that your actions equate consent. You were a victim, Killian. You still are.”

“Fuck you.” My hands tighten around his throat but he does nothing to loosen my grip, to push me away. He just stands there, allowing it to happen. Staring into my face with a strange mix of brutal honesty and sympathy. I hate him for it.

“They already have. So many times I’ve lost count. But now it's my turn. And if you want it, yours as well.”

I blink, feeling some of my overpowering anger ebb. He wears a mask of sincerity and though I want to trust him, I simply don’t know if I can.

“Who are you?” I finally ask. “How did you know all this? About Father? About me?”

“Now you’re asking the right questions.”

“Excuse me.” We both jump, startled at the interruption. Standing in the arched doorway is the Owner, watching us with those dark black eyes. He looks between us with a polite smile and I shiver when I realize I never detected his approach. “I do hate to ask this but please refrain from slamming one another into my bookcases. Some of these are antiques, you know.”

I glance from The Owner to Hollow, who’s smiling and nodding. “Sorry, O. We got carried away. It was my fault.”

I release Hollow and back away, looking down at the broken items that fell to our feet when I slammed Hollow into the shelves. A glass jar containing some nondescript liquid, wetness now stains the rug on the floor. And what looks to be some sort of small animal skull lies beside it. Gingerly, I bend down to pick it up, but before I can react, the Owner is by my side. He gets to it first.

“No need,” he says. “I’ll handle it.”

I meet his eyes and a chill runs through me. His smile is unsettling, there’s nothing behind it. Almost like inside he’s empty, a ghost wearing a human-shaped skin. I move to withdraw but as I do, he takes my hand and slips something inconspicuously against my palm. I turn my gaze to his face once more but he’s no longer looking at me, his dark eyes only for the ground and the broken skull and shattered glass.

Slowly, discreetly, I put my hand in the ass pocket of my jeans and drop the folded paper within. For later. My heart skips a beat at that thought of what could be written on that note.

“Did you have something you were looking for?” The Owner asks.

“We were just leaving actually.” Hollow slides closer to peer down at me.

“Were we?” I ask.

“Come home with me,” he replies. “I’ll get you a change of clothes. Since the ones you’re wearing are still so wet .”

“We’re not the same size,” I object.

“Luckily I’m bigger. My clothes will overwhelm you but you’ll fit. And my shower is hot.”

I glance at the Owner, who is still bent over the glass, ignoring us. Or pretending to. My ears have gone hot. I nod for no other reason than to escape his earshot.

“Come on then,” he ushers me back toward the body of the shop but before we can exit the room entirely, the Owner’s voice calls out.

“Do come again. And remember, please do let me know if there’s anything you’re looking for.”

I turn back to him, he’s on his feet now, still smiling. Spooky , Hollow had said. He wasn’t wrong. I nod my acquiescence and then Hollow back out into the narrow halls of bookshelves.

I realize that the store goes even deeper and further than I initially thought. Certain sections smell wonderful, aromatic, and others glitter with sparkling stones. I imagine one could spend hours getting lost, wondering at the strangeness and mysticism of it all.

All the while, the Owner’s note burns a hole in my back pocket. I can feel it there despite its thinness. I’m desperately curious.

Gingerly, Hollow slows his stroll so rather than him leading and me following, we walk side by side. And then he slips his hand in mine and my heart skips a beat. The warmth of his palm on mine feels surprisingly good, almost like a comfort in all of the mess in which I’ve found myself.

It’s still a downpour as we reach the front door. He shrugs as if to say, well, at least we’re already wet. And then he thrusts the front door open and we dash into the street, our footsteps splashing in puddles so our partially dried clothing is soaked through once we reach the other side of the street.

Orpheus looms imposingly, the club still alive and booming even at this late hour of the night, but Hollow leads me around the back, down a darkened alley. I likely should feel wary at being led along into the darkness and seclusion, out of the way of any passing eyes. Any other man would cause me no alarm, but Hollow is a different breed. He sets something inside of me squirming and burning at the same time. I don’t like it. But I really, really, really do.

A doorway down the alley leads us into a stairwell, dimly lit with wainscoting lining all the black wallpapered walls. I follow Hollow, holding my breath, cold and wet and yet barely aware of the discomfort for the anticipation singing in my veins.

“Here,” he stops outside a door, dark, rich, mahogany wood, and sticks a key into the lock. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

What used to be Sebastian’s humble abode.

The space within is clean and immaculately kept, a large open living area that resembles Sebastian’s office, very much the same style with its dark wood end tables and velvet couches. The walls are painted a dark, deep green. It’s all very high end and posh, a space that screams wealth and extravagance and privilege. A privilege born of serving Father and trafficking the Drug. And other things.

What I know now will never leave me. It will color every memory, every thought, darkening the reality of what was. Sebastian was never just a drug dealer, a club owner, a disobedient servant. He was so much worse than that. A man who lived in luxury because he sold other humans. Children.

All at Father’s command.

Hollow is looking at me, those golden eyes assessing me as I twitch with discomfort at the thought of being here.

“What?” I snap.

“I’m sure you’d like fresh clothes. A shower. You can stay here as long as you like.”

“Here. With you.”

He nods. “I didn’t imagine you’d want to go back.”

To Father, he doesn’t say. To the parish. To sleeping under the same roof as the man who…

“A shower would be good.” To warm my bones, to wash away the grime and the filth of the night’s revelations.

That sly smirk reappears. “If you’d like company...”

“Alone.”

He chuckles. “Let me show you the bathroom.”

As I follow him down the long hallway, I take in the jewel-toned wallpaper, the gold picture frames emptied of whatever used to be inside them. Almost as though Hollow couldn’t stand the thought of looking at whatever used to adorn Sebastian’s walls and threw all the pictures away. I don’t comment on it.

We reach a doorway at the end of the hall. It’s a warm brown lacquered wood with an immaculate brass handle that Hollow turns easily. Inside, the bathroom is tidy and well-kept. A large standing shower made up of black tile is the centerpiece against the back wall and an immaculate black porcelain vanity and sink gives the room a romantic, expensive look. I step inside as Hollow digs in a hall closet opposite to procure a plush lilac towel. Gently, he hands it to me as he eyes me up and down.

“I’ll leave some clothes out for you.”

I nod and he slips past me to turn the dials on the shower. The faucet shudders to life as warmth filters through the small space. Then, once again, Hollow is pressed close to me, his smile as warm as the steam that moves in the air surrounding us.

“My offer still stands,” he says, looking me up and down, his gaze resting finally on my lips.

My groin tightens at his offer. My body almost craves him. I want to know what it would feel like to have his skin, long stretches of hard muscle and soft flesh, pressed against mine. But not right now. I steady myself.

“Just get the clothes, will you?”

He shrugs and moves toward the door. I follow him, shutting it behind him as he slips out.

Then, I stand alone in the dark, haunted place and feel the gravity of everything fall over me. I don’t want to think about any of it right now. All I want is a warm shower, fresh, dry clothes. And a moment of solitude. However brief and fleeting it might be.

I begin to undress, peeling off first my boots and then my jacket and then my jeans. I slip my form-fitting t-shirt over my head and stand naked, staring at myself in the gold, beveled mirror atop the sink. The makeup I applied hours earlier has begun to run, washed away by the rain. The bruises Eli left, all evidence of what he did under Father’s orders, are gone, taken away by Hollow’s hands, his gently burning flame. Gingerly, I run a hand over my bare skin, feeling no pain. All thanks to Hollow.

He took away my wounds but gave me fresh ones in the form of memories. Horrible, awful memories that are more painful than any broken bones, any split skin could ever be. I’m angry. At him. At Father. At myself for never being able to glean the truth.

I step into the hot spray and choke out a groan of pleasure. The water is hot, almost scorchingly so, but I imagine it cleanses me as it washes over me and seeps into my tired bones, my hair, my skin. It washes away the chill, but still the pervasive feeling of dread, of horrible recollection, hangs over me like a fog. Likely, it won’t dissipate. Ever. I can’t imagine how I’ll ever feel normal again.

I stand in the shower for several long moments, until I’m completely soaked through. I soap my skin and my hair, using the bottles Hollow’s left for me. And then, once I finally feel clean, I turn off the water, and shivering, reach for the towel he left me. As I open the shower curtain, I realize clothing has indeed been sat out for me, though I never heard Hollow enter or leave. There’s a slim black t-shirt and gray sweatpants that cinch at the ankles. No underwear. That, he did on purpose, assuredly.

Once I’ve dried off and dressed, I wrap my hair into a wet bun on the top of my head. I don’t typically like to let it air dry but I don’t want to ask Hollow for a blow dryer so putting it up will have to do. Then, I let myself out.

Hollow is nowhere to be found.

My curiosity gets the better of me while he’s not in sight. I have a moment to myself, a moment to explore, to see if I can ascertain any of his secrets, anything that might tell me more about who he is, what he wants.

I wander down the hallway, deeper into the apartment, pressing my ear to closed doors to see if I can detect any movement from the other side. Everything is quiet. Almost like he’s simply abandoned me within these walls. But I very much doubt that. He wouldn’t leave me alone here. Among his secrets.

To do so would be very unwise. Very dangerous.

“What are you looking for?”

I whirl around and see him standing there, looking at me with a smile on his face. He’s shirtless though dry now, wearing a pair of simple black sweatpants, similar to the ones I’m wearing. His bright pink hair is tied in a tail behind his head, revealing the sharp lines of his undercut. But something gives me pause.

At first, I think it’s a tattoo. Over his right pectoral. But on closer inspection, I see it’s a scar. Or several scars, crudely carved into his skin. A word. One singular word. Kill.

“Admiring my scar?” he asks, glancing down at the jagged pink lines over his chest. “I told you, didn’t I? When we first met? I have your name carved into my heart.”

“I didn’t think you meant it literally,” I stammer.

“Indeed. Not the prettiest work, that’s for sure.”

“How…” For some reason, I feel nervous to ask the question that’s on my mind. “How did you get it?”

“It was a gift. From a patron.”

I swallow, watching his fingers as they trace the scar. “A patron?”

“My master. My captor. The man who bought me from Father.”

I stall, my heart pounding in my chest. Bought me from Father. So he was…

“That’s right. I told you that you and Abe weren’t the only ones.”

“He sold you?”

Hollow nods, his smile having disappeared from his face. “Unlike you and Abe, I was given away, auctioned off. Sold to the highest bidder. My pain was the price that was paid. Because my pain, just like all the others’, bought Father his youth, his power. His potency.”

“I don’t understand.”

Hollow moves closer to me, gazing down at me, the air between us vibrating with tension. “I first met Father when I was eleven. I was housed at an orphanage just outside New Mason City. Never knew my parents. He came to visit one day, and even though I was awkward and gangly and less charming than some of the other children, he took a liking to me. Back then, I would have given anything to be seen by someone like that. Someone handsome and intelligent and powerful. He exuded charisma. And I wanted so badly to please him. To make him like me.”

My heart hurts at his words. Because they ring true to me. So true. I can imagine him, little Hollow, with his dirty face and his unkempt hair and his long, lanky limbs. I can imagine him being so alone and so lonely and so desperate for attention. For love. His experience shines in his eyes like a beacon. I can imagine a boy like that meeting Father and how hard his heart would have beaten. How desperately he would have wanted to please a man like that.

“Father told the mother of the orphanage that he was looking for a boy to take in, one who would serve the Church, live under his roof until such a time that an adoption could be permanently arranged. And she, of course, agreed. They were hardly making ends meet as it was and one less mouth to feed, to them, seemed like a dream come true. And Father being a priest, they never doubted his sincerity or earnestness.

“We all vied for his attention that day. He joined us when we played in the yard. He read a story to us straight out of the Bible. Jonah and the whale, if I remember correctly. But at the end of the day, it was me he called over to him.”

He gazes at the ceiling as if remembering. “He asked me my name, commented on how unusual it was. It’s the name my mother gave me, the only thing I know about her. And he told me that it was beautiful. Just like me. No one had ever called me that before. And it shook something loose inside of me. When he asked me if I wanted to come home to the Church with him, I didn’t hesitate. I would have followed him anywhere.”

I cringe, knowing then what comes next. I don’t want to hear it. I’m afraid of what hearing it will do to me.

“But we didn’t ever go to the Church,” Hollow continues, his eyes darkening. Shadows fall over his face like phantoms and for a moment, my stomach cramps in something like fear. He looks almost monstrous . “He gave me a drink on the way, piled into the back of his cab. I was pressed against his lap. His fingers traced my skin. He touched me. I’d never been touched like that.”

“Stop.”

But he doesn’t. “He gave me alcohol. I’d never tasted anything so awful. But he insisted it was what grown-ups drank. That they drank it in church all the time. That it was something special. And he drank some too. So I drank and kept drinking, and then I lost consciousness.”

For that, I’m thankful. I don’t think I can handle hearing any more of what happened to him in that cab. What happened to him at Father’s hands.

“When I woke up, I was in a cell. Not unlike the ones I showed you this evening. There were other children there. All procured from different areas. None so near that our whereabouts would be questioned. But then again, why would anyone go looking for orphans no one wanted?”

His words sound so bitter, so cold. He’s different now than what I’ve seen of him. Darker, angrier. Absolutely terrifying. His rage is a potent, swirling aura of a thing. It’s like a dark cloud that subsumes and surrounds us. Threatens to consume us both completely.

“Do you know what happened then?” he asks, his voice low, barely more than a whisper. I can’t stop looking at that word, my name, carved into his chest.

“I can guess,” I hiss. I don’t want him to continue.

He draws nearer so I’m backed against the wall of the hallway, my breath coming fast. “Can you?”

“You were auctioned off to someone who hurt you.”

His smile turns to a snarl, a mad glint in his golden eyes. “Hurt me, yes,” he purrs. “Raped me and tortured me and did all manner of gruesome, awful things to me. The smallest among them being carving my chest in a fit of drug-induced rage. Kill, he sliced into my skin. Kill, because he was drunken and enraged, and thought everyone in the world was after him. Kill, because that’s what he wanted to do to me, what he wanted me to do for him . And imagine my surprise when I met a pretty boy with the name that’s been my shame, my pain, my constant reminder of that abuse, for as long as I can remember?”

“So, what happened to him?” I ask. “The man who did that to you?”

“Why, I did what he asked. I killed him, of course. Just like I killed Sebastian. Just like I killed every man who played a part in my torment. The men who kept me imprisoned and barely fed me, the ones who pissed on me through the bars. The one who tied me down during the auction and shoved his cock in my mouth while I was too drugged up and delusional to fight back. And do you know how I did it?”

“You’re going to tell me.” I can’t help the bite in my tone.

His shining white teeth shimmer, his canines looking more monstrous than human. He leans in and whispers in my ear. “Do you want me to?”

And then, that electric current rushes through me again and I’m knocked once again to my knees. I gasp, the wind stolen from my lungs with the force of that overwhelming power.

“One night, after my master had fallen asleep following a particularly nasty beating, I peered out the window, to contemplate throwing myself off the balcony just to end the pain. And I saw something I’d never seen before. A store across the street from our apartment building. One called The Magic Shop .”

From where I fell to the floor, I glance up at him. He’s looking down at me with a dangerous twinkle in his eyes.

“ The Magic Shop ?” I question. “Like the one you took me to today?”

“The very same. You see, it hadn’t been there when the beating began. Nor the week prior when my master had allowed me the briefest of moments outside like a dog to be walked on a leash. I used to stare and stare out that window and dream that someday I’d be able to get out of those four walls, out of that damned city. Even if it meant death. But this time, I saw something that changed my whole life. My whole perspective.

“I snuck out. Even though I knew I’d be punished for it. Even though I knew he likely had eyes on me. I didn’t care. Because something called to me. Something in that shop called to me.”

“So what, the Owner taught you magic?”

“Not even. I taught myself. I didn’t have any money so I meant to steal several books. But the Owner caught me. I thought he would hurt me, throw me out, call the police. But instead, he let me keep them. Those books changed my life.”

“Books?” I gape at him.

“Oh, indeed. Books and a great deal of determination. And, I suppose, natural talent.”

“You still have these books?”

He nods.

“So, anyone can learn?”

Again, he nods.

“Including me?”

This makes him laugh out loud. “Do you want to learn, Kill? Want me to be your teacher?”

“How long did it take you to learn?”

“Oh, years. Years and years and years. And many trials and failures. But I’ve gotten well ahead of myself. That night, after I got back from the shop, my master was waiting for me. He was, of course, furious that I’d left the house without his permission. He grabbed my books. Meant to throw them in the fire. And I grabbed a knife, the same one he’d used on me that very evening, and stabbed him in the neck. Over and over and over again. I killed him then and there. And that was my first real taste of revenge and how good it felt to take control over your own destiny.

“From that point, I had the choice to either stay and be found out by my master’s friends, the ones with whom he’d frequently shared my body. Or I could make a run for it. Take my chances on the streets. You can imagine which path I chose.”

I can imagine. I like to think I would have done the same. But then again, it seems I hardly know myself at all.

“I ran away. Lived on my own for years. I sold my body for food, for money, for shelter. All the while, researching, reading. Learning. And The Magic Shop always seemed to show up whenever I needed it most. I’d spend some of my days there, practicing through my failures. And the Owner never interfered. I think he wanted me to learn on my own, to become who I was destined to become. Whether I failed or succeeded, he merely watched.”

“And what was it that you succeeded at? What were you able to do?”

He grins. “Whatever I want.”

“How?”

“It’s a way of targeting the energy through determination and will. And I think, hatred. A special kind of hatred born out of years of hopelessness and despair. The deepest kind of despair you can imagine. And this.” He holds out his hand to me and a ring glimmers there. Not unlike the one Father always wears. Only where Father’s is a brilliant white silver, Hollow’s is yellow gold. Like a sunburst. Like the flame of a candle, warm and bright.

“A ring?”

“A token. A way of feeding that hatred. It’s the hatred that fuels my power. And the token that keeps the hatred from consuming my soul. But its power to block fades after a time. Eventually, it becomes nothing more than a sheet of cellophane. And one has to find other ways of feeding that hatred. Which, I think is why Father started doing what he does.”

“You’re suggesting that Father is…like you?”

“Oh, I’m not suggesting. It’s the truth. Your Father is as dark a necromancer as they come. His soul is seven shades of black. And no amount of torturing little boys will ever erase that stain.”

I swallow, my head spinning. “Necromancer?”

“Death magic. Black magic. In antiquity, it was thought to be a way to commune with the dead to invoke fantastical practices. Miracles, even.”

“Is that what you are, then? A necromancer?”

He nods, drawing nearer. “Does that frighten you?”

“I have no idea,” I answer honestly. “I don’t know what to believe. What’s real and what isn’t.”

“I’m very real, sweet Kill. And so is everything I’ve told you and shown you. But you do know that, don’t you?”

I shiver. Somehow I do know. And though I wish it wasn’t true, I can see it clear as day. The very fabric of my reality has been torn apart in my fingers, destroyed in front of me. And now, I’m uncertain if I want to laugh or cry. “I still don’t understand.”

“The dead live in my token, Killian. And in Father’s. Every life he takes, every soul he tortures fills that ring and is bound to it. They live inside it and they fuel his power, twisted and churning in a sea of misery for eternity. He has parts of my soul there as well. And, I’d imagine yours. And sweet Abraham’s as well.”

“What does that mean?” I snarl, immediately filled with fire at the mention of my brother’s name.

“So long as Father lives and so long as he keeps practicing his dark magic, you and your brother will never be free of him. I’ll never be free of him. And little boys will keep dying, being tortured to death, to keep his power flowing.”

“I’ve never seen him practice magic. Not once.”

“Haven’t you?” He cocks a brow. “You’ve never seen him bend others to his will, enrapture them, get them to do whatever he wanted simply at his modest request? Or perhaps you’ve forgotten that his handsome face hasn’t aged a day in all the time you’ve met him? Police officers looking the other way when men die? When children disappear? And all those black spots in your memory. I’m sure you just had childhood amnesia, hmm?”

“I don’t—”

“Magic doesn’t always have to be so very outward, Kill. It’s often subtle. Persuasion. Influence. Unfailing loyalty. Love. But trust me. If he wanted to, he could bring this entire city to the ground with the wrath of his power. I’ve never felt power like his. Not once.”

I’m suddenly chilled to the bone. “So what do you intend to do? Surely you can’t plan on killing someone with that much power.”

“Power he has, yes. But also terrible weaknesses. He’s strongest in the Church. It’s where he has the most control. His base of operations if you will. So I intend to lure him out.”

“Father never leaves the Church,” I whisper, my voice catching.

“Oh, you’ve noticed that, have you?”

It all makes sense now. “If he leaves the Church, his power lessens?”

“And the souls he’s imprisoned are absolutely dying to get their claws in him.”

“So if we get him to leave the Church…”

“It’s not quite that simple, but it’s a start.”

“Tell me,” I start. “Tell me your plan.”

His smile returns. A sardonic, sarcastic thing that both placates and condescends. “I’m not so sure I can trust you yet.”

I huff in indignation. “What do you mean?”

“You’re soft, Kill. You love him still.”

My hands ball into fists at my sides. “You think I love the man who sold me? Who forced me to kidnap Abe? Who…” Who surely did countless other horrific things, things I can’t even comprehend, can’t begin to imagine as they still haven’t resurfaced in my mind.

“I do,” Hollow replies, not unkindly. “I don’t think you can help it. Part of you still doesn’t believe. I think you love him just as you love your brother. I think you’d lay down your life for them both. And open your legs just as easily.”

Liquid hot rage shoots through me, down my spine and through all my appendages. “What the fuck did you say?”

“I think you heard me just fine.”

“You’re trying to goad me.”

“Goad you!” He laughs out loud. “No, no. I only want to know the true contents of your character. What would happen if I gave you the completeness of my plan in all its glorious details, only to see you run home to spill my secrets as you ride Father’s lap? Then again, maybe it would all be a ploy to get on Abraham’s good side once again. I could see you doing just that. You’re so hungry for his cock. It’s rather detestable, to want to fuck one’s own brother, isn’t it?”

“I don’t want to fuck my brother,” I spit, cheeks flushing with heat.

“No? But you looked so absolutely ravenous the last time you saw him.”

“The last time I saw him?”

“So jealous of that handsome priest. He did look well-fucked, didn’t he?”

Fury fuels my movements as I reach out and shove him hard into the wall behind us. He laughs again as his back hits the drywall, and an empty picture frame falls off the wall. “Shut up,” I hiss.

“So sensitive. It’s alright. I rather like the look of him too. Abraham is an exceptional beauty. Do you think he’d be open to a threesome? Me, him, and the pretty priest?”

I slam my fist into his face, knocking his head back. A deep, guttural laugh burbles from his pink lips as blood pools from his nose. He wipes it with his arm so it smears over his skin. He licks his lips, a portion of that blood sliding along his tongue. “You want to play, then?”

Hollow lunges at me, eyes wide with playful delight. He’s enjoying this.

I dart away, twisting out of his reach, but not quite far enough. Hollow grabs me by the knot on my head and yanks hard, pulling me to him so my back slams against his chest. He breathes into my ear, his breath heavy on my skin and whispers, “I want it all, Kill. I want you to go hard. Take out all that anger. All that frustration on me. Hurt me. I want to feel it.”

I slam my head back and it collides with his chin. I hear his teeth clack as he bites his lip. Whirling out of his reach again, I thrust forward with a leg and kick him in the groin so he tumbles backward out of the hallway and into the immaculate living room. Giggling, he crashes hard into an end table and upends the contents on top—a delicate golden lamp and matching clock. They break as they collide with the floor. But Hollow doesn’t care.

He grins up at me as blood trickles down his lip and pools at his chin. His teeth are stained red. I stalk toward him and he latches onto my leg, bringing me down to the floor. There, we grapple, him attempting to pin me to the hard wood that did nothing to cushion my fall. Elbows and knees smack as we jockey for position. Ultimately, however, I win. Perhaps he lets me win. But I don’t care. I want to hurt him. To fuck him. To make him bleed. To make him scream, either in ecstasy or agony. Maybe both. I want to destroy him and I want for him to destroy me back.

I end up on top of him, hips situated over his, groins pressed together. He’s panting and bleeding still from his split lip, his smile ever present as I pin his arms above his head.

And then, because I can’t help myself, because I’m weak and flustered and angry and hot, I surge down and envelop his lips with mine. I bite down hard to taste his blood, and it gushes into my mouth. He lets out a breathy little moan as I release his hands and continue to suck, desperately, hungrily, filling my mouth with his blood. He grasps my ass then, fingers digging in, grinding our groins together. I’m hard. He’s hard. The friction feels amazing, but it’s not enough.

I put a hand on his neck and squeeze, pushing down and shoving him back to the ground hard. He lets out a breath, his hands roving up my body. Though I know I have daggers in my eyes, he grabs hold of the wrist that grips his neck and wraps his fingers around it so both his hand and my hand clasp his jugular, squeezing to restrict his airflow.

I’m distracted watching him, and he launches forward before I can react to switch our positions, swinging a leg over me and slamming me hard to my back on the floor. I gasp as I look up at him, momentarily stunned. But instead of pinning me, taking advantage of me, he merely watches with languid, hungry eyes. “You’re beautiful,” he purrs.

Again, I launch myself at him, this time sitting up to wrap both hands around the back of his neck to pull him into a heated kiss. It’s passionate and hungry and desperate and I am so thoroughly consumed by it, I barely register him sitting back on his knees, lifting me into his arms and rising with me pressed tight against his chest.

He backs us up against the living room wall as I wrap both legs around his middle, my ass fully supported by his strong arms. And once there, he continues to consume me, to drink in my lips, to taste my tongue while grinding against me in a steady, seductive rhythm that has me gasping and panting against him.

“I hate you,” I grit out between the smacking of our lips.

“I’ll take it,” he replies. “I’ll take anything you’re willing to give.”

He lifts me again from the wall, walking us steadily and with an almost inhuman grace, down the darkened hallway and toward what I assume is his bedroom. My eyes work to adjust to the change in light as he dumps me unceremoniously on a large four poster bed. I glance around to take in black and gold wallpaper, a beautiful and ornate golden chandelier that hangs just above the sheer canopy.

He leans down over me, one arm on either side of me, boxing me in. One leg slips between mine, his knee pressing against my cock. I groan and wrap my arms around him, digging my nails into the flesh of his naked back. He smiles before nuzzling into the crook of my neck, alternating kisses and nips against my skin.

I shuffle him off and tug at my shirt, ripping it over my head and baring my chest to the chilly air. Hollow groans and runs his hands over my pectorals, brushing a thumb over the bar in my right nipple. “Fuck,” he huffs. “So fucking sexy.” He bends lower to lave his tongue over the peaked nubs, playing with my piercing as he sucks and nibbles, so both nipples are wet and peaked, aching for more touch.

“So sensitive,” he purrs for the second time tonight. I grasp his neck and pull him in for another kiss, this one just as achingly desperate as the last.

After everything that’s happened tonight, I need to lose myself in him. In the electricity of his touch, the way he caresses my body like it’s a beautiful, delicate thing. His fingers scale my naked chest, the dips of my hips, slipping gingerly beneath the elastic of my borrowed sweatpants. “Nothing you don’t want,” he whispers in my ear and I almost laugh aloud.

“Since when do you care about that?”

He pulls back then, his smile gone, and locks his eyes on mine. He’s suddenly serious and the look on his face makes me feel cold. “I care.”

“You touched me without my consent earlier,” I say, remembering the way that hand felt caressing my cock through my pants. Wishing it was touching me now.

“I did,” he agrees, his brow furrowing. “That was wrong of me.”

“And yet…”

“And yet. I wanted to touch you. So I touched you. Did you hate it?”

I grind my teeth, the need growing hot and tense between us. I grip his ass with hands that are more like claws. Desperate, grasping. Digging in. “Does that matter?” I whisper.

“It matters. I hated the things that were done to me. I was shaped by them. I suspect you were as well.”

“I don’t want to talk about that right now.” I nip at his neck, sucking on the skin and biting down so hard he huffs out a sound almost like a gasp. He ruts down, his cock and mine rubbing together, aching and swollen with need.

“What do you want?” he murmurs, his voice like a low hum.

“You know,” I growl. Stubborn.

“I want you to say it.” His fingers skim my waistband, toying with me. They dip inside but not enough to touch, just enough to tease. To bring me to the cliff of desperation.

“Damn you,” I curse him. “Fuck me, damn you!”

He giggles at that admission, at finally getting what he wants. And then, he grips the elastic of my sweatpants and drags them down my hips, baring me completely. “Such a good decision,” he purrs.

“What,” I snap.

“Not giving you underwear.”

I make to retort but he grips my shaft and steals my breath and my thoughts all at once. I gasp as he begins to stroke me, slowly, gathering my own pre-spend with his thumb to slick his way. “So wet already,” he murmurs as he tugs me, sticking two fingers into his mouth and wetting them before bringing them between my legs.

Gently, patiently, he circles my opening, tapping at the spongy ring but never fully dipping inside. I’m panting, clawing at his back. I’m sure it’s a bloody, welted mess. I can feel wetness beneath my fingertips, but he never complains.

“Just do it,” I growl, but Hollow merely smiles.

“Patience, sweetheart. Let me take care of you.”

“Put your fucking fingers inside of me before I change my mind.”

He does as I ask then, one finger prodding me open, dipping inside me and being enveloped by my greedy body. He goes in, all the way to the knuckle, his long finger bending slightly to make contact with the coiled ball of nerves that ignites a potent fire in my guts.

I cry out as he prods it over and over again without mercy, all the while jerking my cock, toying with my slit, spreading my pre-cum all down my shaft.

I realize then that he’s still half dressed, his sweatpants hiding little of his arousal but still posing an annoying barrier between his skin and mine. I yank them down, baring his ass, so the pants pool at his bent knees. My mouth waters as I take in his thick, veined shaft, the tight, purple tip leaking, straining for touch. So cruelly neglected. So fucking hot.

My thoughts are interrupted as Hollow retreats, pulling out of me and off of me so I whine in discontent. “What the fuck?” I demand.

“Impatient, aren’t you? But needs must. I want to fuck you the right way.”

He leans over my prone form to dig into the top drawer of his bedside nightstand. A condom. Lube. Uncorking the cap, he drizzles the lube in both palms, rubbing them together and spreading the slippery fluid to his content. Then, he bends back down and continues his ministrations, this time two fingers filling my ass. They scissor inside me, slippery with lube, stretching me in a smooth circular movement that has my teeth on edge with restraint. His thumb begins to widen me further, all three fingers working in unison to draw out my pleasure, to ready my body to accept him. A pitiful whimper escapes my lips. I hate the sound but Hollow drinks it in, cooing softly as he leans in to whisper, “So pretty, Kill. Sweet Kill. Do it again.”

A particularly rough thrust has me repeating the noise despite myself and Hollow groans into my ear. “Fuck. I need to be inside of you.”

“Yes. Now.”

“Not yet.” Another finger. He’s working me now in desperation, getting sloppy.

“I can take it. Fuck me.”

The fingers withdraw and I feel wide open, gaping and exposed. I ache in a way I’ve never ached before, in a way that’s completely new. It’s a full body ache, one that consumes every part of me. All I can do is watch as Hollow rips open the condom packet with his teeth, slides it on his cock, slicks himself with more lube and then grips my hips to pull my ass toward him. And slides home.

I feel full, so full, stretched and complete in the way he seems to almost live inside me. Our hips bounce together as he begins to thrust, tentative at first and then gaining in speed and momentum. Each thrust hits just right, releasing electric currents through my body, not unlike the electricity Hollow created from thin air only moments ago in the living room. Only this has nothing to do with magic. Or at least, I don’t think it does.

Hollow hovers over me, stroking my cock in time with the tempo he’s set. With his other hand, he takes mine and places it on his throat.

“Squeeze,” he says, voice rough. “Choke me.”

His eyes flash with something dangerous, something feral and I do as he asks, taking his neck in both of my hands, and squeezing.

“Harder,” he grits out, fucking me faster, gripping my hip to get a better angle. “Like you mean it.” He smiles then and I know it’s what he wants.

I tighten my grip so I can sense he’s barely able to breathe. I want to limit his airflow even more. I want to cut it off completely. So I do. As he slams into me over and over again, I squeeze his neck so tight, his face starts to purple. And still he fucks me and grips my cock and sends my world spinning and shattering at the same time.

The way he looks at me. The way it feels to hold such power over him, to choke him out, to determine whether he breathes or doesn’t, sets me on fire. I feel so close, so close to the edge. My orgasm is cresting, looming over me. And from the pathetic, airless blubbering Hollow is emitting, I know he’s close behind.

One final hard thrust, timed with a nail driving into my slit sends me over, and I shoot all across Hollow’s chest. I feel him cum inside me moments later, his fingers digging welts into my hips where they grip so tightly I know I’ll bruise. I release my grip on his neck and he gasps, shaking and panting, a shiver running through him as he collapses over me, wrapping his arms around me despite the sticky wetness that puddles between us. “Fuck,” he breathes out. “Fuck that was…”

He nuzzles into the crook of my neck, pliant and warm as a snuggling kitten now that he’s been thoroughly fucked.

“Sticky,” I pout, pushing him off me.

He chuckles and nods. “I’ll get us something to clean up.” And before he sits up, he bends down to kiss my temple. The gentleness of that one simple action stuns me. I can’t do anything but blink and stare at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice as he resituates his sweatpants around his waist and trots off to the adjoining bathroom.

I won’t allow myself to regret what we’ve just done. It was my choice to make and I made it. I don’t regret making it. I don’t regret the feel of him. It was exactly what I wanted, what I needed. Even if, after this moment passes, we end up enemies again, I won’t regret what we shared. The intensity of it. The truth we both found in each other.

Hollow returns with a washcloth, wet but not soaking, the same smile on his handsome face. The bed dips as he sits down beside me and begins to wipe at the semen that’s beginning to dry on my stomach. “I can do it!” I snatch the cloth from his hands and he laughs.

“So very independent.”

“Don’t patronize me,” I growl.

“It really is adorable.”

I glower at him, but without any real heat. He watches me as I clean myself thoroughly and then throw the soiled cloth back at him.

“You can stay here, you know,” he says and I still. Reality washes over me again. I can’t go home.

Swallowing, I nod. “Thank you.”

“You can sleep in here with me.” He pats the bed and grins. “Only prerequisite is that you refrain from putting any clothes back on.”

I grumble and roll my eyes, bending down to pick up my discarded sweatpants.

“So mean,” he whines as he snuggles in, pulling the covers up around his chin.

I sigh. There’s no use in pretending I don’t want to lie beside him, that I don’t find some strange comfort in his presence. Reluctantly, I do the same, wrapping the covers around myself and absorbing his heat every place our bodies touch.

Eventually, I allow sleep to consume me, but not before faintly detecting a warm body wrapping itself around me and pulling me closer to its chest.