Kill Switch (Devil's Night, #3)

by Penelope Douglas

“Now…” my sister’s new husband whispered in my ear. “Now, you belong to me.”

He made himself the cure, which wouldn’t have been necessary if he hadn’t also created the disease.

“I will come and go as I please, and I expect you to be dressed and ready on the rare occasion we need to play the couple in public. You may not be the happiest wife, Arion, but I’m told this is why God invented Saks and Xanax.”

“What do you care anyway? You have Arion.” “Arion is Mrs. Torrance,” he clarified. “The face of his family, and the one who will raise his children. But you?” He paused, his tone darkening and making chills spread down my arms. “You’re his cherry on top.”

The fountain spills around us as her teeth sink into my hand, but instead of yanking my arm away, the pain of her sharp, little bite fills my veins with warmth and my eyelids flutter. Tingles spread under my skin, and the breath I didn’t realize I’d been holding finally leaves my lungs. It doesn’t feel bad. It doesn’t hurt the way it should. I look at her small face, not resisting her as the pressure deepens, and I’m sure the skin has torn. Yes. I won’t pull away. Not ever.

Life felt like hell, because we expected it to feel like heaven. The quote I read years ago went something like that, but I never understood it. When you’re in the thick all your life, living in ways you eventually figure out no one else is, you learn to sleep well in heat and eat fire. Until one day it’s all you need.

“What do you want?” “To make you smile.” I frowned. To make me… Jesus, fuck. I rolled my eyes. But just like that, I almost gave in. He had a gift for smoothing out my edges and really fucking quick, too. “Haha. I can hear you smiling.” I could hear his amusement. The laughter always present in his voice. “You can hear me smiling, huh?” He was the only one—the only one—who didn’t walk on eggshells around me, and I damn near killed him for it a few times, but now I barely did anything without him. “I told you,” he pointed out. “We’re connected. It’s spiritual and shit.” I let out a little grin he couldn’t see. “I fucking hate you.” Idiot.

Will, Michael, and Kai were my friends, and I’d walk through fire for any one of them. Will was the only one, though, who I was sure would walk through fire for me.

I could get laid in five minutes if I wanted to, but sex for me had little to do with my body. It was right here. With my eyes on her back. With the door I closed and locked behind me. With the fear and the attraction and the danger I felt rolling off her at being alone with me. With the idea that she’d have to look at me every day for the rest of the year until I graduated, knowing what she’d let me do to her today and the panic that she let it happen but also the desire of wanting it to happen again. Sex for me was in the head. Almost entirely.

I was bored. So bored all the time with the brainless twits downstairs who never said ‘no’ and couldn’t satisfy the sordid need inside me to be deviant in everything I did. I didn’t want to fuck. I wanted to get dirty, and I wanted to get her dirty. I didn’t want to be the only one who… I couldn’t finish the thought. My friends—as much as they liked to play at being bad, they were still always clean. Their desires were normal, getting off was physical, and fun was just around the corner. But for me, everything was harder. I couldn’t detach from my brain, and I wasn’t happy unless it was a mindfuck. I didn’t want Miss Jennings to enjoy it. I wanted her to hate that she enjoyed it.

My chest shook, and I balled my fist over and over again. She’s lying. She’s doing what she’s supposed to do. I need her to hurt me, because pain covers up pain, and if I feel one, I won’t feel the other. I need her to push back down what tries to crop back up.

And I kicked the door. I kicked it again and again, growling until it gave way and swung open, hitting the wall behind it. Fuck, yes. And just like that…everything relaxed. My limbs felt exhausted, and I saw my sister, in my room at home right now, fully dressed with her collar up to her neck, crying, and her books spilled onto the floor, because she was innocent, pure, and the sweetest girl I would ever know. Everything she said, I made her say, because we could only feel one pain at a time, and maybe if I could pile on enough dirt, I’d get so buried I wouldn’t be able to think. And sometimes, I could overpower whatever was in my head by making my own victims.

Six years ago, his little girl and I changed each other, and while I couldn’t change her back, I could certainly give her some new memories of me. Now that… I could do. It was settled, then.

People assumed I behaved strictly on impulse, when actually, it required quite a bit of strategy being this fucked up.

His eyes darted up to mine. “You hung your queen. I didn’t teach you to do that.” Just then there was a knock on the door and my driver moved to open it. Erika Fane entered, and I stood up, fixing my jacket as the driver closed the door behind her. “The queen is the most powerful piece on the board,” I told Mr. Garin, keeping my eyes locked on Rika’s. “Why not use her?”

I heard Rika’s sigh. “You wonder why everyone hates you.” I opened my eyes, shaking my head. “I don’t wonder.”

“I like chess.” I approached her, noticing her hands were still tucked into her pockets. “Knowing and seeing what I want in front of me. Knowing that it won’t come easily. Knowing that it takes patience and a series of carefully constructed maneuvers all plotted into a specific sequence.” I paused, looking down at her. “Knowing that the longer I have to wait and possibly alter my course makes getting what I want so much more enjoyable.”

I loved making her uncomfortable. Mindfucks were sometimes more fun than actual fucking.

“And knowing that the path to success changes based on the game pieces I choose to use,” I continued. “And people are my favorite pieces, Rika.”

I couldn’t read Rika’s expression but I definitely knew part of her enjoyed this. She might hate herself, but that rush of power felt good, didn’t it? There was nothing like playing people. And she was good at it. No one had ever indulged me before. Except Winter. Not one of my friends had the patience or the interest. I liked Rika. Michael had barely tapped into everything she was capable of.

“Don’t hurt her,” Rika said. But I just breathed out another laugh as I ground the butt of the cigarette into the dish. “Coming from the woman who offered up all the info I needed to take her father, her home, and her fortune.” Winter’s father shared the same accountant as Rika’s family. The same disgruntled and anxious accountant who hinted that Winter’s father, Griffin Ashby, might have swindled Rika’s late father on some real estate deals years ago. I’m not quite sure how she got the proof, but she didn’t show up at my door until she had it, knowing it might be exactly what I needed to take down the Ashbys. And in exchange, I’d help her get something she needed, as well. Something I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to give her just yet. I liked her coming around, and I didn’t want it to stop.

“The first day, you’re wondering what’s going on,” I explained. “No one’s saying anything. No one will answer your questions. You can’t see anything but your little plot of cement. And after the first week, you start talking to yourself a little just because there’s nothing to do, and you’re getting really fucking bored.” “You mean lonely?” she jabbed. “Pissed off,” I gritted out, correcting her. “No one is coming to visit. Where’s Banks? She would be there. Why are they keeping me from her?” And then I nod at her. “But you know you can take it. You can take anything they dole out. Will’s fine. Kai’s fine. They’ll be fine.” I kept circling the room, the muscles in my neck suddenly tight as I dragged my hand over the surface of tables and walls, going a little faster now and my fingers digging in as I held her stare. “But a month in, you start to find that your head is heavy,” I said, growing breathless at the memory. “Really fucking heavy, Rika, like you can’t lift it. So you start doing things to snap yourself out of it, like banging it into the wall over and over again.” I brushed past a vase and sent it crashing to the wooden floor, but I didn’t stop. I was in my cell again, circling the eight-by-eight-foot square and going mad. “And your skin feels tight, and the walls are pressing against your lungs, so you can’t breathe, and your brain starts slipping sideways, because the world looks so different now than it used to.” I sucked in a breath and squeezed my eyes shut f...

“Because pain in the body quiets the pain in the head. It feels good, like a kill switch for your brain.

“Acting like that time with her wasn’t the only fucking time I didn’t hate fucking.”

“And maybe she couldn’t have stopped me being convicted, but she could’ve told them the truth. She could’ve stood up and said something. She could’ve opened her fucking mouth and talked,” I growled, my throat tight and burning. “But she stayed quiet, and you went into solitary for three years, and your friends fended for themselves while your mind slowly slipped off its axis and you’d rip out your own hair because animals do insane things when they’re caged for too long.” I panted, trying to lower my voice. “Three years,” I said, seething. “Three. Years. Rika.” I paused, evening out my voice and calming my breathing back to normal. “So, yeah,” I said, mocking her. “You bet your ass I’m gonna hurt her.”

“And Will?” I walked for the couch, tossing her a look. “He has an alcohol problem,” she told me. But I just smiled to myself. “For men, it’s not a problem.” Every man I knew or grew up with drank. You held your liquor and you got shit done. Women were the lightweights, which is why I never let Banks drink. “And he has a drug problem,” Rika continued. I leaned back on the couch, tucking an arm behind my head and staring at her. And she was telling me this because…?

She paused a moment, as if waiting for me to say something or still holding out hope maybe, but then finally turned around and headed her ass for the door. But something caught her eye, and she stopped, lifting up a small black box off the sofa table and inspecting the contents. My heart thudded a beat, recognizing what she was holding. I clenched my teeth so hard my jaw ached, and then I was up, dropping my cigarette into the ashtray and charging toward her. Ripping the box out of her hands, I slammed it close, hearing the contents jingle inside as I tossed it on the sofa again, and then grabbed her collar, backing her up into the wall.

“I look like her.” I heard Rika say. “Don’t I? That’s why you’ve always hated me.” I hesitated. Like her. Like Winter. Blonde hair, blue eyes, same age, same wild purity… Like the innocence of a tornado or a raging hurricane. “I hate all of you,” I mumbled. I don’t even blink saying the words. I hate all of you. Hate all of who? Their little group I was once a part of? Women? People, in general? Who knew, and she didn’t ask. But part of me wanted her to understand. Jesus Christ.

“Erika?” I saw her stop out of the corner of my eye as I walked for the cabinet and pulled out one of the two handguns I had stored there. I ejected the magazine from the Glock and checked the chamber to make sure a bullet wasn’t loaded and then held the gun and clip out for her to take. Her eyebrows shot up. “It’s untraceable,” I said. I wasn’t allowed to own firearms, being a felon and all, but oh well.

she just shook her head. “That’s how I know you’re not half as dangerous as you pretend to be,” she said. “You only ever threaten.” I tapped the cigarette into the ashtray, my mood turning solemn as the smoke streamed into the air. “Sometimes,” I nearly whisper. “And sometimes I mean exactly what I say.” I looked up at her. “So trust me when I say you’ll never escape me. None of you will.”

Fuck you. This won’t go how you think it will go. You won’t change me. I’ll change you.

I’d always had tunnel vision when it came to things I wanted, and it was always one thing at a time. I couldn’t concentrate otherwise. The choices I made probably wouldn’t ensure me a long life, but it was like I’d always known that, and I’d accepted it. I would die young. I had never thought about working, and the idea of walking into one of Gabriel Torrance’s offices every day made me want to puke. Maybe I was lazy. Selfish. Self-absorbed. Or maybe my head just wasn’t built for a long life of no consequence. It was “hard and fast” on everything, and I didn’t have the discipline for anything other than a one-track mind.

I changed my clothes, pulling on jeans, a T-shirt, and black hoodie, and then walked over and picked up the black wooden box Rika had held and noticed there was something stuck under the lid, preventing it from closing all the way. I opened it, nudging the razor blade back inside and hesitating as I surveyed the rest of the items. An assortment of desserts that had been constant and reliable during a time when I was a kid, and they were the only things I could trust. A paperclip, sewing needle, push pin, pocket knife, scissors, tiger tooth, small animal antler, and a bird skull for the sharp nostril edges. Most of them were sterilized, having not been used in a long time, but my gaze dropped to the lighter, and I absently rubbed my thumb over my index finger, feeling the raised skin from the old burn.

My face started to warm as we walked, and I wasn’t sure if it was my nerves or what. “Are people staring at me?” I asked her. “They’re staring at us.” “Why?” I heard her inhale. “I think… they’re confused. We kind of look alike.” “Do we?” I replied. “Are you hot?” If she was hot, then I was hot. But she just laughed.

“And yes, to answer your question. My brain still works, just not my eyes. When I try to picture things I’ve never seen before, though, like you or the inside of this school, it gets more complicated. Sometimes I map it out in my head, and I can create an impression. Other times it’s just like a color or a feeling or a sound that helps me identify it.” Then I went through some of the pictures in my head, reflecting on how I drew things in my mind. “Sometimes,” I continued, “it’s a memory. Like when I think about trees or I’m in the forest around my house, I always picture the last trees I saw. No matter where I am. Every tree looks like the trees in that garden maze with the fountain. Tall hedges, dark green…” I trailed off, the memories of that day flooding me again. “A fountain…” “Garden maze?” she questioned. “Not the one at Damon Torrance’s house…” My face fell, and I almost stumbled. Damon.

My stomach dipped. No, no, no… I couldn’t help it. I followed the line of the beads, feeling his stomach tighten under my fingertips, and his breathing quicken. Reaching the crucifix I hoped wasn’t there, I pinched it between my fingers, my nerves firing hot under my skin as I instantly recognized the carefully crafted definition of the fingers attached to the cross. Oh, my God. I let the rosary go like it burned my fingers. But he grabbed my hand, pressing it back on the beads and his skin. “Oh, why stop when you were doing so well?” he taunted. “Damon,” I murmured, trying to pull my hand away. “Mmm,” he affirmed. “Missed you, kid.” I tore my hand free, clenching my jaw. Jesus. In my head, I still saw him how I last saw him. A kid, not much bigger than me, with a lanky body and a shaky voice. But everything had changed. His hand in mine was bigger than I remember, his voice was deeper, he was taller, and he had a voice now. He wasn’t eleven anymore. Why did I feel like I was just now realizing that?

After a few seconds, he cleared his throat. “I was Winter’s first kiss, ladies,” he told everyone, despite that we had another guy at our table. “I was eleven. She was eight.”

“Do you remember what I look like?” he asked. “I’m bigger now.” I turned toward him, knowing my eyes wouldn’t meet his. “I remember everything. And I don’t hurt as easily anymore.” “Oh, I’m counting on it.” The edge back in his voice spread chills up my arms, and every inch of my skin felt electrified. I could feel his eyes on my face, watching me, and there was a mixture of dread and anger inside me, but also anticipation. Excitement. While he hurt me years ago, and there was no doubt he was now ten times the asshole I knew back then, a small part of me liked that he didn’t tread softly around me. He didn’t coddle me. He didn’t ignore me. He didn’t act nervous, scared of me, or treat me like I was fragile. Maybe he thought I was an easier target, or maybe he didn’t scare as easily as some. Whatever it was, part of me kind of liked it. And part of me wondered how he would respond if he found out I didn’t scare so easily, either. It was obvious from the others that no one liked to deal with him. He was used to having things his way.

Yeah, no doubt. I knew about the order Damon got to stay away from me this morning before school started, but I hadn’t entertained the possibility he’d actually disobey it. Was he stupid? Or maybe he just thought he was that untouchable. He came right over here and sat down, knowing that at least half the eyes in the cafeteria would be on him and witnesses to what he was doing. And he did it anyway. Maybe he was overly confident, purposely reckless, or…uncontrollable. Uncontrollable. That was

I gave a half-smile, a little pleased with myself. Also a little aggravated that Arion and I were at war at all, but like Damon, I kind of appreciated the normalcy of it. Arion didn’t put on airs to protect my feelings. She just treated me like I was stupid, as if learning how to live all over again six years ago didn’t make me tough and quickly adaptable to change and new challenges with a hard heart ready to fight for all the things they told me I couldn’t have and couldn’t do. Maybe that’s why Damon treated me like I wasn’t made of glass. Maybe he knew. I thought back to the boy in the fountain, bloody with a silent tear streaming down his face, because something—or many things—happened to him that he didn’t want to talk about, and now he was nearly a man who would never cry again and only made other people bleed. I hated him, and I would never forgive him, but maybe we had that one thing in common. We had to change to survive.

The music filled the room, my unconventional number of Nostalghia’s “Plastic Heart” choreographed by me and soon-to-be performed at nowhere for no one.

I groaned as the cool water stung my cut. It was always the smallest things that hurt the most. Forming a little circle of claws, I dug my nails lightly into the skin surrounding the pain to deflect it a little. A trick my dad taught me when I was about six. The sharp ache eased a little, and I stayed like that for a moment, enjoying the slight reprieve.

It finally dawned on me that no one was actually on my side. “I hate you,” I said to my mother, letting it go with my chin trembling. “I would rather live in the gutter than have him in our lives!” I gestured to where I’d heard my sister chatting. “I know why she’d do this, but you’re supposed to protect me,” I told my mom. “He raped me!” “He didn’t rape you,” my sister snapped back, pushing out of her chair. “We all saw the video. The whole world saw the video! You wanted him. You were in love with him.” I shook my head. “Not him.” I had never been in love with him. Not with Damon. That damn video.

All they saw in that video was me willingly kissing him. Touching him. Holding him. In their eyes, I’d wanted it, and he was ‘the man’. But they didn’t know what was really going on in that video. They didn’t know what he’d done to me to get what he wanted from me.

I loved wintertime, though. And not because of my name. It was just a festive period, and happy things made me happy.

“You gave your dog a Russian name,” Damon mused. “I gave him a dancer’s name.” Mikhail Baryshnikov. I couldn’t help the fact that most of the revered ballet dancers were Russian. It had nothing to do with it being a fucking nod to Damon’s heritage.

He just stood there. Was this what he wanted to see? Me degraded? Me scared? He loved me scared. It got him excited. I actually thought I liked it, too, once. And as the seconds passed, and he held me there as my heart thumped in my chest, it was like we were teenagers again for a moment. When I liked the games he played with me. Before I realized I was the toy. The terror and the dread. But the exhilaration and the safety I felt in his arms. How I’d never hated anyone as much as I hated him, but how I loved what I felt with him more than I loved anything I felt with anyone else, either. I was so stupid.

I jerked away from his hands. “It hardly matters. You already ruined my life. Long ago.” “In the treehouse when you were eight,” he finished my thought for me. “I remember that party. It’s funny, though. That’s all you do remember, isn’t it?” “What are you talking about?” “The fountain,” he pointed out. “Do you remember what happened in the fountain before we went to the treehouse that day?” The fountain? I searched my brain through my confusion, not coming up with anything that stood out as out of the ordinary. I was eight, so I couldn’t remember every detail after all this time. Just that he was hurt, and I’d tried to help. The events after the fountain were what mattered. “Nothing happened,” I told him. I wasn’t letting him take what happened that day and turn it around on me. I was nice to him. Nothing I did or said deserved what happened after. Neither did anything I did or said years later in high school deserve what else he took from me. Part of me was still curious about what he was getting at, though, and I thought he might elaborate, but he didn’t. He left me in the dark.

He sighed. “I’m out of my own control, Winter,” he said, not explaining any further. “There are no choices. We are who we are, and we do what we do. It’s nature. Like game pieces, I will play my part, because I can’t resist. I can’t be what I’m not.”

Yeah, there was an accident when we were kids, and Ashby had clearly poisoned his daughter over the years to warp her memory of exactly how that all went down, but I hadn’t meant to hurt her. It was a fucking fluke, and kids have accidents.