The House of the Wicked (The snake and the raven #1)

41. Nora

Nora

run, nora, run

I look down as the icy touch of the water gently laps my toes. Familiar, smooth brown stones press against the soles of my feet. Shielding my eyes against the harsh rays of early morning sunshine, I look around, struggling to place where I am. I slowly glance over my shoulder, a wave of clarity washing away my confusion. The lake house stands behind me, a crown of light rising over it like a halo. I wonder what the time is. A faraway part of my consciousness whispers the question I swiftly ignore; I don’t care about the time, because I am here. And here, with the soft warm rays of the sun dancing along my skin, the cold water of the lake lapping at me, here is a place where the whispers of time are meaningless.

The sound of a child laughing drifts on the breeze, dancing toward me like a sprite, the giggle almost musical. I turn again, my eyes darting along the tree line next to the house, desperately searching for the tittering child. Desperately searching for the source of something I haven’t felt in years: joy. There, on the sandy beach, a little girl. Only three or four years old. Like me, her feet dip in the slow eddying water of the lake. Two women sit on the sand behind her.

I move, walking over to them. One woman stands, her dress billowing slightly in the warming breeze. She watches me walk over to them and waves. The second woman, noticing the wave, looks up and smiles.

My knees tremble, instantly turning to jelly. It takes all of my strength not to fall to the sandy bank of the lake and sob.

Mom.

My mother and Dima are at the lake house with the little girl.

The child continues her splashing and giggling. I realize then it is me. I am the little girl.

This is a dream. A memory.

Step by step, I make my way closer to Dima and my mother, joy building with each step. Only, the closer I get, the further they seem. Until suddenly, I am right in front of them. Dima stands, beaming at me. It’s her usual smile. Warm, weary.

“Why are you here, Nora?” My mother asks.

“Go, Nonny,” Dima whispers.

I look between them and they both smile at me.

“Go now, Nonny,” Dima urges quietly.

“Run, now! Run, Nora. Run.” My mother murmurs.

A second later, I’m sitting up in bed. My t-shirt clings to my back, damp with sweat. My breathing is shallow and labored as I stare at the room. It’s still dark. The house is quiet, like a tomb. I glance at the small clock on the bedside table, its hands ticking away as the seconds pass. Almost five AM.

Two days have passes since August, Gracious and Yves dropped life-altering shaped bombs all over my life. Dima, August and I have spent the last fort-eight hours passively avoiding each other. Meals have been tense and silent and, where possible, spent behind the door of this bedroom. August leaves every morning, only returning hours after midnight. Dima and I share small talk that feels shallow and pathetic considering everything I know, everything she’s hidden from me… He said I’m not a prisoner in this house, but I have never felt more trapped than I do right now.

I mean, my mind literally conjured up a dream begging me to run.

Sighing audibly, I untangle my legs from the jumble of sheets locking me in and I get up. On unsteady legs, I stumble out of the bedroom, treading lightly to the bathroom. I feel sick. The dream felt so real, the pain of seeing them again so visceral I expect to see physical signs of it. And hunching over the sink, my eyes land on my reflection in the mirror, and what looks back at me horrifies me. I am changed. It’s hard to look at— I’m hard to look at. When did I become this haunted girl? Who is she? What horrors has she seen? What horrors has she caused? My lip trembles as grief and guilt to battle for the remains of my heart.

The dark smudges hanging beneath my eyes speak of many nights of broken sleep. My skin, usually rich honeyed brown, now pale and sallow. A deep sigh rumbles out of my chest as I splash some cold water on my face, desperate to wash the lingering sorrow of my dream away.

Go now, Nonny.

Like a whisper from my subconscious, Dima’s voice seems to echo through the bathroom. I turn off the tap and wander to the kitchen, then to the living room, th en to the guest bedroom where August has been sleeping.

He’s not here. August’s face flashes in the front of my mind, the sound of his voice from the other night, the way he asked me not to pull away from him, the desperation in his voice. Where is he? I hate myself for caring. I hate him for not being here—with me.

A few nights ago, there had been a moment, less than a second, when I allowed denial to wash over me. A moment when I contemplated ignoring his words, ignoring the truth I begged him for. Now, my heart cracks in two as his words echo in my heart.

Your father.

Your father.

Your father.

My father was the boogeyman Ricky raised me to fear.

My father was the ghost who tried to topple Ricky’s empire.

King killed my father, that’s what Ricky had said. It’s all I heard growing up. But no—King was my father. Which could only mean… I’m not ready to unpack what it means.

Who do you think gets to save his people? Not a new King. No little raven, a fucking Queen.

Bolting those words shut in a box inside my mind, they’re now one more thing I refuse to face. One more truth to run from. I don’t want to process the gravity of August’s declaration, the importance of his words. I don’t want to be a queen or step into my father’s legacy. Queens don’t fuck and fall for their employees. I’m no queen.

Turning, I walk slowly toward Dima’s bedroom. The door’s shut. Odd, it’s usually open, so she can get in and out easily in the wheelchair .

Run, Nora. Run.

The echo of my mother's words plays in an endless loop in my mind. But I don’t run. I walk purposefully toward Dima’s door. And then I stop.

Ice snakes down my spine as a strange gurgling sound comes from inside. I can’t move. My hand grips the door handle, but my body’s frozen as I try to latch onto that sound, to make sense of it.

“Dima?” I whisper her name, slowly turning the handle. My lungs burn as the breath trapped in my throat struggles to get free. The door inches open, the dark room slowly appears before me. The gurgling sound intensifies as I step into the murky shadows.

I should scream.

I know I should scream.

Every logical part of my brain roars at me to scream, but I’m mute, frozen, terrified as I watch the hulking mass of a man straddling Dima’s chest.

He’s covered in blood. Her blood.

My eyes can’t adjust, or maybe they just refuse to process what I’m seeing. The man rips the knife from the side of her neck, blood spraying the room almost theatrically. The warm splash of it lands on my cheek as I watch in silence as her throat tears open. It’s unnatural. The gaping wound is so wide, blood leaks out of it like a steady flow of a river. I can’t pull my eyes away. I can’t move. A cacophonous sound escapes me, and the man, previously lost to his blood lust, turns to face me.

My feet move without my consent, taking one measured step forward.

“Bassey?” I say his name quietly, a lethal kind of quiet. A kind of quiet that tells me the Nora I know is no longer in control. “Bassey,” I say his name again as I step closer to the bed.

“I tried to kill that little bitch Yves and missed my chance, but I got her. I wanted to do this silently, to catch you in bed, princess.” He leers at me.

I snap. In a second, I go from horrified and heartbroken to murderous. I launch myself at him. The force of my body knocks him off Dima as we both crash against the floor. I’m on top of him. My fingers land on his face, seeking out his eyes as he struggles against my unexpected attack.

“What have you done?” I scream the question. “You killed her, you fucking monster!” I scream again. I feel the soft dips of eye sockets beneath my fingertips and push my fingers forward; two in each socket, I push and push.

He killed Dima.

He killed Dima.

He killed Dima.

The thought reverberates in my mind as I dig my fingers into his face. I’ll rip his eyes out. It comes as a passing thought; one that I barely register.

But I don’t rip them out. I don’t get the chance. The second I feel like I might actually be close, his knee lands in my stomach, kicking me off him. I slip in Dima’s blood, coating the surface of the floor. I can't look. I can't see what I know he's done. My eyes find Dima against my will, and my heart shatters. Blood still pumps from her neck as her limbs twitch. Helplessly, I stare at her eyes, wide with horror as blood pools around her. Her dead eyes watch me, forever paralyzed in fear. The only mother I’ve ever known lies dead, inches away from me. I choke on the tears threatening to overwhelm me. And then I move.

Sliding over the floor, I try to scurry away from Bassey, but he grabs my ankle. A fist like a boulder lands somewhere in the center of my face and I scream. I scream li ke I’ve never screamed before. It hurts. Burns. The muscles along my cheekbones feel like pulp. Bassey rears back, his fist landing against the soft column of my throat. Air punches out of my lungs violently. I fall to my side and cough, hacking, deep coughs.

I try to drag air into my lungs.

“I don’t know what to do first,” he says. “Kill you or fuck you.” He laughs then, like this sickening conundrum has an easy solution he only just realized. “Why not do both, princess? Why not,” he pauses. I gag as I feel the stubby press of his fingers as they move, dragging my pajama bottoms down. “Why not fuck you while I kill you slowly?” My legs are bare. All that separates my worst nightmare from my reality is the thin fabric of my underwear. I kick out. He may rape me. He may kill me. But none of those events will come easily. I will fight until I have nothing left.

The ball of my foot lands somewhere to the left of his face and he grunts. I scream in triumph as I twist out of his hold.

“I’ll kill you, you vile fucking bastard,” I yell between hacking breaths, scrambling to jump up from the floor.

I only make it to the foot of the bed, my feet slipping in the blood pooling and dripping from the covers and Dima’s body.

Spinning, I reach for the lamp, the only weapon in sight. Ripping it out of the wall socket, I turn to face Bassey, brandishing the lamp in front of me.

“You know I could just shoot you, right?”

“You like mess. You like knives. You won’t shoot me because you want me to fight you.” I spit the words at him.

“Come on then, princess.” He lifts the knife still coated in Dima’s blood, calling me forward. Reality splinters, my mind disassociating from this moment as violence clouds every corner of my being. Or maybe it’s not realit y splintering, maybe it’s reality pulling back together, I’m not sure. But as I charge forward, fully intending to bludgeon Bassey to death with the lamp, I hear the rumble of August’s Ducati pulling into the garage upstairs.

Wildly lunging forward, I swing the lamp, screaming as it connects with the side of his face. But that sole victory is the only one I’m destined to enjoy.

He swipes at the blood dripping from his brow line and moves toward me, faster than anyone of his size should be able to move. A strangled cry escapes me as he tackles me to the floor. Thick, blood-stained fingers close around my throat. He squeezes. I can’t breathe. Struggling, I try to force his hulking weight off me. I try. Try and fail.

August’s footsteps are like distant thunder in the far reaches of the house as he makes his way inside. Tears spring to life in the corner of my eyes as I think about what he’ll find when he comes in here, me dead and raped on the floor of his grandmother’s bedroom, and Dima—God.

I cry for him; I cry for the trauma he’ll likely never recover from as Bassey’s hands tighten. My vision blurs and for a moment it’s like I’m in the pool, the calm darkness bringing me closer to my parents. I’ll see them soon, if heaven is a thing to believe in. If I even make it in.

My eyes flutter closed, moving with a will of their own as oxygen slowly eddies from my body, never to be replaced.

And then, all at once, the weight of Bassey’s body and hands disappear. Still, I can’t breathe, like he’s crushed my windpipe. My eyes fly open and I see August, his mouth moving, but I can’t hear a single word. Rough, broken coughs shudder from my throat as I try to replenish the vital oxygen Bassey’s robbed me of. August pulls a knife from God knows where. Has he seen Dima? I can’t tell. His back is facing the bed as he lunges toward Bassey.

Horror twists across my face as his knife sinks into Bassey’s side, a second before Bassey’s own knife-clad hand plunges into August’s shoulder. He roars in pain. That, I hear. I hear it all. I hear the sickening crunch of bones as Bassey’s fist lands in the center of August’s face over and over again. The knife slips from August’s hand. He looks over at me on the floor.

“Run, Nora!” he bellows, the anger in his voice bouncing off the walls of the room. For a second, I’m frozen, unable to tear my eyes away from the gore of the scene before me.

But then, I move.

My feet slip on the blood pooling across the bedroom floor, but I move.

Bolting for the living room on bare and bloody feet, I reach the front door and tug. Locked. But a set of sliding glass doors sits just to the left of it, opening to a small balcony that’s less than six feet off the ground. I can jump it. Sounds of struggle from Dima’s bedroom reach me as I pull the tablecloth off the dining room table and wrap it around my fist.

Racing to the glass doors, I take a deep breath before hurling my clenched fist against the glass.

Spectacularly… nothing fucking happens.

I try again with the same result. Frustration and fear surge inside me as I rip the tablecloth off my fist and decide on brute destruction instead.

Picking up the chair sitting next to the door, I step back. And then, with the full but meager force at my disposal, I fling it against the glass.

Glass and wood splinter loudly, crashing to the floor around me, out onto the balcony, and down t o the ground below. Wasting no time, I pick up the chair and set it back at the table; why, I have no idea. Glass crunches beneath the soles of my feet as I step out onto the balcony. Peering over the ledge, I look down just as an agonized groan of pain rents the air. With my hands gripping the railing, I hoist myself up and then over. Once I’m balanced on the other side of the railing, I take a deep breath and jump.

Fuck, this is terrifying.

Is there a right way to fall? I can’t stop the thought from forming. I blink, the ground racing up to meet me. Landing with a thud on a patchy, glass-filled piece of grass. One huge shard’s embedded in the palm of my hand, pulling it out slowly. My eyes drift up as Bassey’s form appears on the other side of the broken panel. Oh God, August… I can’t stick around to find out if he’s still breathing. I know I have to move. Immediately.

My legs are watery and unstable as they carry me to the sidewalk. The road’s steep, and we’re close to the top of it. But there, at the bottom of the street, I see a staircase similar to the one August and I took to meet Elijah’s mother. I sprint to it. My stomach sinks like an anvil. I know if I chance a look over my shoulder, I’d see Bassey giving chase.

“I'll find you, princess,” he roars behind me.

I push forward, my legs pumping, carrying me faster than they ever have before. I reach the staircase.

Down, down, down I run. Each step shoots a fresh jolt of terror through me. I have nowhere to hide, nowhere to go, no one to take me in. I’m running toward the unknown.

I clear the second set of stairs and randomly veer left, down a narrow alley. I don’t stop running until another set of stairs appears; I take them, racing down and down and down again.

I pa ss houses, stores, and a playground; I don’t stop for any of them.

My feet slam into another walkway as the stairs end. It’s early morning now.

I need to slow down. I need to stop and find help.

The sun’s completely risen, and I’m completely fucked.

Lost, alone, covered in blood, no money, and not a friend in the world.