Chapter 25

Chapter Twenty-Five

T ime moves differently when you're waiting for your murderer to hunt you down.

At some point in the night, the music slowed into soft melodies and arms wrapped around bodies tightly to share intimacy through movement as well as sound. I rested my head on Ambrose's shoulder—which was not very comfortable at all considering the metal it was made of.

"Are you thirsty?" he asked after some time, his lips in my hair. The crowd had thinned, students had gone home to fuck, fight, or sleep. It wouldn't be much longer now…

But I was thirsty. Parched even, starved, and exhausted.

"I could do for something," I said, leaned back to take in his sweet face.

"Well, in that case, I think we should be okay to risk a trip to the bar." For the first time all night, he led me away from our safe space, to the little table by the leaded glass windows which shared no secrets to the state of the outside world.

Michael Meyers stood close by, his arms tight to his chest. Ambrose poured our punch and handed me the crystal glass with care.

"Go on, you earned it."

The fruity liquid slid down my throat so nicely and I drank it fast and greedy, demanding a second and third glass before I dared move from the concessions.

"Maybe we ought to find a bathroom," I suggested with a giggle.

Drinks in hand, we made our way toward the door.

The kids who remained, drunk and rowdy, jostled one another about with rough shoves suited more for a mosh pit than an Oakwood Gala. Their shouts carried well over the music, demanding the DJ switch it up to something a bit livelier.

Ambrose walked ahead, one hand behind his back which he used to grip my fingers, guiding us toward the doorway that would take us to the bathrooms and hopefully quiet respite.

One of the boys moshed into me and the force of it sent my heel off balance, crippling my tired legs out from underneath.

"Shit!" he cursed.

I broke the fall with my hands, my drink tumbling to ground, rolling and sending the dark red punch over the tile in a wide blood stain.

Ambrose scrambled to bring me to my feet. "Are you alright?" His hands checked every joint, eventually bringing my reddened palm to his lips. "Is your ankle twisted?"

"I'm fine, I promise." My cheeks burned with embarrassment and I smoothed the satin of my dress back into place.

"I'm so sorry, dude. My fault. Here, let me get you a new drink." The boy was dressed in nothing more than a toga, his sandaled feet slipped through my spilled drink as he rushed for the punch bowl.

"No, it's not necessary—" I tried to explain, but there was no point. He was already pouring a fresh cup .

"Let him, he obviously feels bad." Ambrose brushed a stray piece of hair behind my ear. "I'd have killed him if you were seriously hurt."

"I'm fine." I laughed. "I practically learned to walk in heels."

"That's very true, I imagine your mother to be a regular Mommie Dearest."

"You don't know the half of it."

"Here!" My assailant returned, a smile over his boyish face. "I'm sorry again."

I took my glass, taking a sip out of gratitude and well, pity. "It's no problem. Thank you."

"Happy Halloween!" he called, returning to his friends who each took a turn in giving him hell.

"Can we manage to get out of this room without any more accidents?" Ambrose teased, wrapping his arm around my waist.

"Maybe. But I make no promises." I eyed him from behind my glass as I took another drink.

He chuckled, the sound of it growing fuller and more audible when we finally broke through the doors into the quiet, dim lit hallway. We'd both laughed so much tonight it didn't seem fair for it to end.

"I'm just not made for dancing through the night anymore it seems." He cracked his shoulders with a groan.

"Is your age catching up to you?" My giggle was punctuated only by our steps, which filled the silence of the stone hallway.

"‘Time hath not yet dried this blood of mine,'" he replied with a slap of my ass.

I was growing lightheaded, almost floaty as I cackled, gripping the threshold of the bathroom for balance. "I imagine that's some denial, isn't it, old man?"

"Twice you've called me an old man tonight. Is that what you're thinking when I'm buried inside you, when you're moaning from my cock, and coming all over me?" He had my chin in between his fingers and eyed my lips so salaciously as he spoke.

"No, I am most certainly not," I admitted with a small smirk.

"Good. Now remember that the next time you want to poke fun at this old man. And remember that he has you undone with more skill than all of the fuck boys your age who tread on this campus combined."

I shivered.

"Go on, give yourself a moment and I'll be right here when you're done."

The stupid smile stayed on my face even as I turned away from him and marched into the bathroom. My steps were unsteady, wobbling ankles and all, and the room tilted as I found my way into the stall where I managed to relieve myself of the countless glasses of punch I downed.

As I washed my hands, I tried not to look too closely at myself in the mirror, for the rubies around my throat likened a bit too much like blood and something fuzzy began to tug at the recesses of my mind. It was all becoming too uncomfortable to think about.

I stumbled into the hallway, into Ambrose's arms where I found his mouth and let him drink from me. He said something, his words tender and sweet and his touch light, but I was floating more now than before.

Maybe I was tired.

"I know, it's late," he said, leading me up a set of stairs.

Where were we going? I couldn't focus.

"There's a quiet little office up here, I was hoping we might be able to steal a few minutes together before the sun rises."

I blinked and the space around me blurred together in a mirage of colors. Ambrose's stark, silver suit stayed bright against the mixed palate, and I tried to concentrate on him, to keep myself rooted in reality .

He had his arm wrapped around my waist, had my body pressed against the hard metal of his costume.

"I love you, Vivian," he said as he took my other hand and rocked me back and forth, almost as if we were floating on the ocean. His voice came from everywhere all at once, echoing around me in a chamber of sound. "Thank you for showing me just how fun life can be tonight. I don't think I've allowed myself such pleasure since...forever."

I wanted to tell him I loved him, to relish the heavy haze of infatuation but my limbs felt like lead and my mouth refused to make the words. Music came from somewhere underneath; its vibration climbed my feet into my legs. He was laughing, and joyous and beautiful he tore our masks off.

"Vivian?" Ambrose's voice rose in alarm, bouncing off the walls and my eardrums.

I didn't feel well at all.

"Vivian? What's wrong, hey, look at me!" His iron eyes tore away to a sound, to where it seemed to boom and a serpent of black coursed into the room with rhythmic drumming.

"No! What the hell are you doing? Get the fuck out of here!" Ambrose shouted, but the black tore him away and the ceiling came to my vision in a sickening tilt. "Get off of her! How dare you! I'll fucking kill you all! Vivian!"

What? Where are you? Ambrose?

I lost him, lost it all to the hood of black.

"Come on now, little dove. Come on," a gruff, familiar voice coaxed. "Open your eyes for me. "

I tried to swallow but my tongue felt too big—dry and thick in my mouth. I might have gagged.

"There she is, oh, is she not just lovely."

I peeled my lids open, allowing my vision to adjust as the ominous mass of black came into focus.

Nails tore at the fabric of the couch beneath me and I regretted having opened my eyes at all.

"Oh no, settle down, we don't want you getting hurt too soon, do we?" Dr. Wilder purred in his White Dove cloak. He smirked, eyes wide with pleasure.

He won.

It was written all over his face; he was utterly exalted.

He won.

"Where's Ambrose?" I croaked, righting myself slowly on the chaise he'd laid me. The room, upon a quick glance, was an office—rich antique furniture, a crystal chandler flickered above with candles. And there were no windows, only walls of stone and shelving of thick leather spines.

"My son is currently indisposed and I'm afraid he will miss out on our little rendezvous this morning, but you…oh, you sweet, sweet dove will not." He chuckled as he wagged his wrinkled finger in my face. "You have proven to be much more trouble than I anticipated. Why, in three hundred years we have never once missed a Halloween midnight! And here we are, late by more hours than I'd care to admit because of you. Oh, but I would be lying if I said I hadn't enjoyed our game."

"Fuck you!" I spat in his face, relishing the way his lip curled in disgust, and how he wiped my saliva from his eye with the bell sleeve.

"And here I thought you might now behave. How ignorant of me. I won't make that mistake again." Dr. Wilder shoved my chest into the couch, digging his knee in my back as he hooked my arms around and fastened my wrists together. I screamed, thrashing against him to little avail, the pain he ignited shot fireworks down my spine. "All games must come to an end, mustn't they, darling dove?"

"My name is Vivian! I'm not a dove!" I made to kick him with me heel, but he'd already stood, jerking me to my feet by my wrists and sending lightning bolts of agony through my shoulders. "Get off me!"

"My son chose the most auspicious costume for you, didn't he? It's almost poetic." Dr. Wilder pressed himself against my ass, his warm breath tickled my cheek as he spoke. "These wings. These rubies…" He traced the feathers down to my choker and between my breasts and I convulsed from the repulsion.

"Don't you touch me." I jerked against his hold and yet he continued to trail the rubies down my breasts and my stomach until he came to the slit of my bare thigh. "Don't!"

"You have tempted my son…and now you tempt me…you are most worthy of our Dark Lord, my dear." He gripped my hip roughly, bringing my ass back to his rigid erection beneath his cloak.

And the tears poured forth unrestrained.

"Please, just kill me…" It was a strangled whisper, one from behind tightly shut eyes and a broken heart. I would do anything to merely be murdered and nothing more.

Dr. Wilder laughed, shoving me forward and through his office door.

"Oh, I won't be the one killing you, little dove. That honor belongs to Initiate Beaufort."