The Truths We Make (House of Poe #1)

22. Bruised Fruit

Bruised Fruit

Friday, Present

F aintly, I can hear my name being called behind me as the door to the room slams shut. I don’t turn back. Instead, I follow the curves of the darkened walls and let the flash of dim lights carry me as fast and as far away from Oliver as these heels will allow.

Numbers and letters and symbols adorn every door I pass, some so obscure I slow long enough to consider opening them. Maybe I’ll walk into another dimension and leave this one behind . My imagination runs with the story I could unfold in a novel if I wanted to. Only this isn’t fiction, and I know behind each oddity all I’ll find is drunken club goers trying to forget the drowning emptiness of their lives, too.

But we made promises. To ourselves. To each other. And those can’t be broken. Not even for Eve.

My senses start coming back to me as I pass another black hole hall, this one with doors labeled by gargoyles and midnight-colored angels splattered in red. Their greedy little faces, desperate for a pound of flesh, set panic into my limbs. I can see them stretching toward me, ready to consume my sorrow.

I need to escape this place, to see the sky in its endlessness, and remember that there’s more to the world than the debauchery this place elicits. I need peace and air and a bedroom, I remember. I need New York and its eccentricities instead of the madness only Boston brings.

I knew getting on that flight was a mistake. That coming back here only held answers to questions I’ve never dared ask. I would hide my head in the sand and let the sea of guilt try to endlessly wash it away for the rest of my life rather than face the truth of this solitude.

Rather than accept I meant nothing to those I gave everything for.

Paxton wanted me here. He crafted everything with such care. He knew the venom that Oliver’s words would infect me with. That his words would infect me with. Knew there would be no cure, that I would live on with my greatest fear recognized. The man I had thought a friend, family even, had thrown me to the wolves. This had nothing to do with murder, but everything to do with pain.

She will never be a Poe . Never was. Never will be. A promise they made together. A promise Oliver, no matter the consequence to anyone, has kept. And a lie they fed me with, baiting me to hope that one day I would be accepted when, in truth, I was always meant to be an outsider. Madeline would be so proud.

The violent stab of those words throbbing through my head causes my lungs to crack and wheeze. I struggle for breath; the panic morphing into what I fear might be a heart attack, my vision swaying and spinning the lights into a tunnel with no end.

She will break before I’d allow it. I thought the worst had happened between Oliver and me the last time I was here, but I was wrong. This felt just as soul crushing. More so, even. Before was about us and the devastation of being star-crossed. But this? This was only about me. About how I would never measure up. Never be good enough, no matter what I did. And it was woven together by someone I loved to make sure I heard it all. Why would Paxton do this to me?

My arm swings out, hoping to catch onto a wall as I slow, needing to find center again before I fall, or worse, pass out. Only it doesn’t. Instead, my fingers grip soft fabric between them. I hold on to it for dear life as my weight gives way into something more solid than my legs. Hands wrap around my biceps, crushing my shoulders into my neck to hold me up and away.

“Easy there, little bird,” the figure says.

My ears prick with familiarity, but all my senses are so thrown off by the panic attack that no singular thought can click into place. Nothing makes sense except my body’s need to escape reality. Another wave of breathlessness and dizziness hits me.

“Whoa! This way,” they say, and I feel myself being tugged under a doorframe.

My proclivity to weariness wails at me to stop, to breathe, to not let this stranger drag me further into the maze, his fingers sinking deeper into my skin. But everything is wrong. And when everything’s wrong, nothing is. How can you seek one string of pain when everything hurts so damn much? So, I let myself be led and focus instead on getting air into my lungs and for the floor to stop spinning.

I flop onto a seat, cool leather seeping through my dress, and before I can do anything more, my head is pushed between my legs.

“Breathe!” the voice demands.

And I obey. I suck it down greedily in loud whistles through my nose. I gasp, sputter, and try again and again until eventually the oxygen goes down easily. I count through my box breaths, one, two, three... Stare at the pointed velvet toe of my heel as it taps along with my progress. See the slight skip of nude, in what is sure to be a run tomorrow, in the toe of my panty hose. The world becomes just me, and everything encased by my inner calves, flexing hello to each other.

“Better, now?”

My back tenses and the hand rubbing circles I hadn’t even noticed on it, stops. Touch by touch, he removes it, but I do not relax. I begin to take notice of where I am without lifting my head to look, panic morphing into something more - survival. There’s a black shag rug on the floor, dusted with glitter. Several other shoes stand at the edge of my vision. Heart-rattling music pumps out of the speakers that must be placed in every corner, the bass pulsing the couch beneath me and into my thighs. At least you’re not in here alone with one strange man.

Instead, I could be trapped here with many.

I fight to stay present, to not be catapulted into chaos again. Bullies I can handle. I’ve had to struggle my way through enough situations to know I can make it through this, too. If Oliver were here, you wouldn’t have to. My heart betrays me with thoughts of him. I can’t help the scoff I let out, knowing I can never rely on a Poe again to save me. I’m not sure I really ever could. Especially not now .

“Man, is she alright?” A voice bellows from the other side of the room. “She can’t be here if she’s sick.”

They’re worried I’m too high or drunk. That I’ll ruin their good time with my misfortune. I slowly lift my head as the man beside me answers.

“She’s fine. Just a bit out of breath. We’ll be out of here in a minute.”

His voice is scratchy, prickling my memories with remembrance. It has the faintest hint of the accent of this city that’s hidden behind prim words. Someone desperate to hide who they are in favor of who they wished they could be. A feeling I know intimately.

I turn to face him, taking in as many details of the room as I can on the way. Two guys, one female. Startled, wide eyed. Two couches. A black door. Dance floor. Disco lights. Bar. Similar to the room I left, although much cheaper and run down.

My stare finally meets the man who pulled me here, and ice hardens my bones as I catch on one blue and one brown eye looking back over the dark fabric of a mask. Issac . The man with violence in his gaze. The family Oliver believed to have motive, opportunity, and wherewithal to kill. His mouth flattens before I can school the shock on my face. He reaches for my arm, but I step away.

“OK. She’s up. Seriously. You guys need to go,” one guy says in a nervous tone.

I search the room for help, for one of the three, to understand what’s going on. To see the fear and step up. But none do. I only see it reflected right back at me, along with the accusatory stare that I have somehow put them here. Cowards.

I have a better chance of getting away if I choose to leave than if I let Issac get his hands on me and drag me out. I have to hope that the maze itself will help me, that I’ll be able to lose him in its halls. With one final look to the others, only one stares back at me. Sympathy fills her gaze, but she makes no moves to interfere.

We both have a sense of self-preservation, it seems.

I nod once, saying I understand without words , then high tail it to the door. I’m desperate to get into the hall enough steps ahead that I’ll be able to run, even if it is aimless, once I’m back in the labyrinth. The doorknob rustles uselessly before finally caving in and clicking open. I get the fifteen steps to the end of the corridor and then, just like Orpheus, I make the mistake of looking back .

Issac doesn’t look like he’d outrun me, but somehow his strides have eclipsed mine in a blink. He isn’t frantic or frustrated that I’ve taken off. He just ropes his thick forearm around my waist and yanks me back to him with an unexpected tug that takes the wind from my lungs with it. Instinct kicks in and I stab my heels into his clunky boots over and over, stomping frantically, before trying to use any available limb to punch him in the groin.

But his boots protect his delicate toes from being severed from his body, and in these heels he’s shorter than me, so I miss him by a mile. It is the first time in the history of humankind a man has been grateful to be shorter than a woman, I’m sure. That leaves me to do the only other thing I can think of. I scream.

“GET AWAY FROM ME!” I put as much energy into my voice to get it to carry past walls and doors and drunken stupors as I can.

“Shhh. Stop. There’s no need to shout,” Issac is saying through my screams as his hand wraps around my lips.

I bite down on a fat little sausage finger as hard as I can the minute it grazes my mouth. I can feel the dirt of unwashed skin between my teeth, and then the delicate rip of tissue. He squeals out in pain as he shakes it away. I continue to scream as I try to wrestle out of his arms, but he’s got a vise grip on me. The harder I try to pull away, the harder it becomes to breathe, until my voice is struggling to carry out my pleas at all.

“Have you used up all your songs, my little bird? Huh?” he gloats, squeezing that much tighter on my stomach in punctuation.

I grunt a cry of frustration. Cold sweat pools in the vertebrae of my back, only dropping the next wrung as I squirm. I’m positive he can feel the wet on the thick drab of his belly. All that bulk and there’s still a soft pudge even the gym can’t beat out of him. The world may label you a Poe yet, if you’re murdered in this nightmarish den of morbid posterity and puzzles.

I can’t help the mad laugh that escapes me, which only makes me laugh harder at the Edgar like insanity I must be presenting. Even in danger, I’m searching for their approval. Tears prick my eyes and fall down my cheeks.

“There, there,” Issac mutters. “I’m not going to hurt you. I just need to talk. No need to be frightened.”

He tries to calm me down. To quiet the hoarse whine I’m taking on between the screams and laughter .

“ I am no bird; and no net ensnares me! I’m not scared, you putz! I’m angry. And resigned. And honestly, I thought my end would be so much better than… you ,” I spit the words.

Of course, I’m terrified, in truth. I don’t want to die. Not here. Not like this. If I’m being honest with only myself, not anytime soon. I have a heart that’s drowning and a curiosity that has peaked, and I cannot move on from this world with either tied round my neck. And I would be damned if I became a ghost because of this man.

But I can’t tell him those things. I can’t snivel and grovel and hope. For all he knows, I’m a member of the Poe family, and some things are easier to kill than the liquid steel they have injected into my veins since I was a child. Poe or not, I would not fear tragedy. Even the greatest stories eventually ended. And I would embrace mine with ferocity.

“You’re a fiery little bitch, aren’t ya? Might not be so tough when put under actual pressure, though.” He squeezes his arms so tight I think a bone might snap before releasing again. “I was trying to find Oliver. But my gut says you’re just as good. Better even. The weakest link, since that slimy little shit hasn’t given us anything,” he spits Oliver’s name, and his disgust sends gooseflesh down into my hands. “Now, I have a question for you. Answer me, and I’ll let you go free to fly away.”

“And if I don’t, I’m assuming that’s when the real pressure begins, right?” I snort the slight hiccup of air I must suck in to do so, ruining its effect almost entirely.

He swivels me around to face him, slackening so his embrace is less like a lover and more as if we’re playing a child’s game of red rover, hand clasped bruisingly around my wrist and making the bones shift under skin. I fear the sound they’ll make if I try to break away.

“Nah. Don’t and I just snap a bone until you do. If you make it through that, then we’ll talk about next steps, OK?” The mask ruffles as if he’s smiling.

I want to call his bluff, the swirling in my gut making me irrational and wild. A wingless bird begging for flight. Then I hear the small whispers of Oliver, words he’s never said, but that rattle in my brain, anyway. Be careful. He’s killed before, he can do it again. Then, poetic as ever, Edgar jumps in, a voice I’ve never heard and yet know with every fragment of my soul. Words have no power to impress the mind without the exquisite horror of their reality.

These deep cashmere reminders echoing through my skull keep me silent and nodding along to Issac’s request .

“Good girl. Now, tell me, where is the contract?” he leans in as he asks, sickly sweet cigar breath threaded with grape hitting my cheeks, inflicting acid into my throat.

My mouth slackens and the flush rises through my collarbone. Whatever I expected him to say, it wasn’t that. I’m dumbfounded, surprise making me stupid and weak.

“The contract?” I ask, confused.

The crack of his knuckles on my jaw throws my head back so hard tears immediately stream down my face. My nose turning on like a faucet from the pain. I cannot even fully comprehend he’s hit me before I’m righted again, staring into his contrasting gaze, only it is now spun into a single murky color with my dizziness.

“ That felt good. You can continue not to answer, makes no difference to me. It might to your little boyfriend though if you come back bruised and beaten.”

He gloats his courage like salt in a wound. He wants me to know that there is no one who can save me. No one, not even a Poe, that can stop this injustice. And while I can recognize his intent, the only words of his that stick are if you come back. Right now, I feel no guarantees for my future.

“I am going to need an answer. Where. Is. It? Paxton had to have left it somewhere and since you were the one he was in love with, you must know.” He’s snide when he says love as if he’s never believed in the word. As if Paxton, just like him, could never be capable of it.

I don’t argue with his implied emotions. Don’t try to convince him of the man Paxton was, and that he was built to withstand the shattering of his heart without flinching. That even in the face of the impossible, he loved fiercely, like every Poe before him. Even with the painful sting of his betrayal, I know it wasn’t in the absence of love but driven by it. Even if that love wasn’t mine.

Instead, I try to think around the spots I’m seeing and the disassociation my mind is skirting into, to remember anything I can about the mention of any contract they might want. Moments with Emily spring forth, of players and games, but none are helpful. None of it is what Issac wants.

My mind spins.

Issac ticks his chin back and forth, shoulder to shoulder, until it cracks. He’s posturing, showing me he’s ready to do what he must. And I ready myself to accept it as my mouth hinges open to speak, knowing he won’t be happy with the only thing I can say .

“I don’t know. No one has told me about a contract, including Paxton. If you want the will…” I sigh, resigned, trying to give him anything he might want.

He grimaces as if he’s the one in pain and, like any good sadist, he’s enjoying it.

“Wrong answer,” he says as he pulls hard on my wrist, causing it to pop and I shriek at the shock of it.

“EVANGELINE!”

The scream of my name is close and panicked. My hand is released. Issac chucks me under the chin as he whispers next time through the throbbing that’s taken over my ears. It stings the bruise that I’m sure is already blossoming. My brain demands I move, but my body screams at me in pain. I’m unsure which to give in to until the air around me floods into the vacuum that Issac’s body has left as he books it down the hall, turning back only to wave. Agony bowls through me, replacing my name with the noun itself.

I stare at the open hallway Issac has run down and step backward to create as much distance between where he might be and where I am now, stumbling into something. Hands catch onto my shoulders, causing a loud cry to escape me.

“Eve! It’s me! Are you ok?” Tyler asks as he withdraws his hands, unsure of where I’m hurt.

I’m shaking, the adrenaline running down at the instance of my nerves. But I take a deep breath, focusing on the fact that Tyler is here, instead of despairing in the echoing cavern Oliver’s vacancy has left. My subconscious brain cannot worry for him and with fear riding at the front of my features, I cannot control looking beyond what I have in front of me for him. Tyler would be a fool not to notice. Thankfully, his concern has always been for the better of me.

“He ran after the guy. But he’ll be here soon. He didn’t leave you, Eve,” the last few words slip from him as soft petals being plucked from a rose.

I don’t deserve the gentleness. He doesn’t deserve the hurt. But here we are, pulling and breaking from our nature toward each other, anyway.

“Rose! I found her. She’s over here!” Tyler calls.

Rose. I had forgotten about her. She jogs around the corner to meet us, stopping in front of me. She’s panting and worried, studying Tyler’s face before turning to me. Her soft grey eyes look into mine, dark freckles I hadn’t noticed dusting underneath them, and I can’t help but wish neither of them were here to witness this, even though I am so grateful they are.

“Eve,” she asks, tearing me from the distraction of my emotional pain from the very real physical one that’s currently happening. “Who was that? What happened to you?”

I can’t take the vulnerability Rose is pushing on me, so I focus instead on Tyler. He’s eyeing my chin that I’m sure is a pinched blueberry by now, which somehow, I’ve tilted perfectly into the light. His hand is left dangling in the air, far enough away not to touch me, but close enough that I know he wants to. I want to gather into him and cry. To tell him everything that I know. To feel like this isn’t happening and my world can be safe again. Or at the very least, not at the attention of a murderer.

But Tyler’s arms aren’t mine to sacrifice my pain and fall into.

I look at Rose again. Not anymore . I suck down the hazy labyrinth air. Fold every word and action of the last hour into tiny letters to be opened only by their addressed reader and pretend.

“I… Rose… I don’t know what’s happening.” And it’s true. I don’t. “Can you get me out of here, please?” I plead.

I meld the worry I feel into the words. Beg her for grace. To listen, if only just once. And without fault, she does.

“Oh yeah, of course. Let’s get you somewhere safe,” she says soothingly. Tyler steps in, pushing Rose back a step to get next to me.

“Can you walk? I don’t want to touch you to help until I know what’s hurt,” he says, looking me over.

“I can walk. It’s my arm and my wrist. My face, too.”

I try to gesture to the side of the cheek Issac hit but wince when my right wrist demands not to be moved. I can already feel the thickness of it, the swelling making it impossible to flex. Tyler’s mouth grinds down and I imagine his teeth sound like crunching gravel. Thankfully, he doesn’t dawdle. Doesn’t demand answers like Paxton would or wait to coax the truth from my lips like Oliver. Tyler just follows my lead, nudging me in the direction I want to go. My heart pushes the sludge of gratitude through the thick concrete wall fear has left.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

I say it repeatedly to them both, unsure if it’s out loud or just in my head. I’m saying thank you for this, but also thank you for everything that came before. My nerves are live wires without an outlet, sparking emotions that have no direction or filter. I’m going mad from the sorrow and worry and angst.

We only get out of the labyrinth and to the top of the stairs before my world shifts again. There, walking up toward me, the wild of Oliver’s curls piled on top of his head. Both hands are in his pockets, eyes downcast, watching the party still going on below as if he’s looking for someone, until something brings his attention to me.

For a fraction of a second, the safe warm bubble of Oliver wraps around me. The sounds of the club, of Tyler and Rose, of the throbbing my blood is doing, stop. We lock onto one another and if my face didn’t hurt so damn bad, I’d smile. I think he wants to, too. Until the reminder of the night floats in between us, dousing water on any fire that used to glow.

“Tell me what happened.”