Gathering Darkness: A Paranormal Romance Collection Page 30
The toilet lid is opened, and I catch a glimpse of the disgusting stuff in the bowl when I throw my now-useless cigarette into it. God, would it have been that difficult to flush the shit? The sight and stench of it reminds me of a nightmare I had a few times about a dirty bathroom. And this reality might be worse than that nightmare if I don’t hurry up.
I reach for the water tank just as I hear the lock on the door being picked.
Shit. He’s faster than I thought he’d be. He must’ve run down that hall like a maniac.
I frantically lift the heavy tank cover... just as the door lock fails.
“What the hell?” Shkillet says in Russian as he steps inside and sees me standing there with the lid in my hands.
Good. Not what he was expecting. And I capitalize on that by throwing the lid at his head with all my strength.
He’s not fast enough to duck.
As he staggers backward with a grunt, I turn and grab the gun in the plastic zipped bag from the tank. I’d found this weapon in one of my earlier excursions in the Mind Dimension. I’m ripping the bag open when someone’s hands grab my left arm.
It’s Shkillet.
His fingers are like pincers digging into my flesh.
I Split into the Mind Dimension to assess the situation.
The sounds of his panting are gone, and I observe us from my new vantage point.
One of his hands is on my arm, and the other is reaching into his boot for the ceramic knife he’s hiding there. His eyebrow is split open—must be where the lid hit him. The blood running from that wound makes his face look ghoulish.
I examine the bag in my hands. I’ve almost opened it, but I’m not sure if I’ll make it before he gets the knife out and uses it. But I can do something else if I aim right.
I look at my statue-like face that’s paralyzed in fear. I’ll try my best to be calmer when I get back into my head. Calmer and lethal.
Grabbing my hand, I jump out of the Mind Dimension and desperately will my muscles to act. As though in slow motion, my leg kicks backwards, aiming for his shin. My foot connects with something.
“Bitch!” He falls to his knees. I must’ve hurt his leg.
In the time I bought myself with the kick, I get the gun out. Whirling around, I see the knife already in his hand.
He swings, the knife swishing through the air an inch away from my leg.
Instinctively, I jump to the side, then slam the butt of the gun into his face. It connects with his nose with a disgusting crunch.
He looks stunned for a moment, and I do it again, swinging the heavy handle at his jaw this time.
He tries to grab me, so I hit the back of his head.
He crumples—his head landing right in that disgusting toilet.
Serves the fucker right. Now he’ll drown.
I should gloat, but for some inexplicable reason, I get the urge to kick him away, to get his face out of that toilet. Do I actually want to save his life?
I take a closer look at him. His mouth and nose are above the water, so he won’t drown in that muck.
Funny, but for someone who was just thinking of saving him, I feel a pang of disappointment. The practical side of me knows I can’t let him live. So I take the gun safety off and aim the muzzle at the back of my would-be-rapist-and-murderer’s head.
This is it.
Now I just have to pull the trigger.
Is my hand really shaking? What is wrong with me?
This man deserves to die. Maybe not as much as my parents’ killer, but he does deserve it. And if I don’t kill him, he’ll likely come after me. So shooting him is self-defense. Or a pre-emptive strike, if I have to justify my actions.
And apparently I do—because I can’t squeeze that trigger no matter how many reasons I come up with for doing so. Like: he might be too chicken-shit to come after me. Or: this might be his first attempt at murder. And even: he might change his whole life around after this. Yeah, right. I’m now grasping at straws to come up with excuses for myself, when the truth is that Eugene was right.
It’s not easy to kill a person—even a bad person.
“Is someone in there?” someone says from the other side of the door.
Shit.
I rush to the door and open it a sliver.
“Hey there,” I say to the guy at the door, who looks to be one of the bouncers. “I’m just powdering my nose, and I need to change after that. Can you please use the bathroom upstairs?”
The bouncer mumbles something derogatory about women but starts walking away. Taking no chances, I Split again and Read a second of the bouncer’s mind. He’s going upstairs—that’s the good news. The bad news is that he’s mentally cursing a specific woman, me, and not, say, women in general, or one of the few other possible women who visit this place, like Vera—Victor’s fucktoy from the nearby VIP room.
I guess this makes my decision for me. I can’t shoot Shkillet now. The bouncer will know that I was the one who killed him, even if I run as soon as I fire the shot. I’m not keen to find out how Victor would react to my murdering someone in his place.
I could, though, hold Shkillet’s head under the water until he drowns. That way, no one would come running right away, and I could get away. Plus, the bouncer wouldn’t necessarily think I’d done it—I’m sure he’s seen more than one drunk in Shkillet’s position.
The big question is whether I can actually do it... since I wasn’t able to pull the trigger.
Damn it. I hate that Eugene is right, and today isn’t going to be the day I finally prove my worth to myself.
I stuff the gun into my purse and walk through the place, paranoid all the way to the exit that someone’s going to notice the size of my purse. Luckily, no one stops me. It makes sense, since the time to distrust someone is when he or she is on the way in, not out. Plus, what male bouncer is going to be staring at my purse instead of my cleavage?
Still, I’m only able to breathe normally when I get into my car and put the gun into the glove compartment. Even though I don’t need it, I didn’t want to leave it for Shkillet in case he regains consciousness and decides to come after me. I might not be a cold-blooded killer, but that doesn’t make me stupid.
The drive back home happens in a post-adrenaline-rush haze, for which I’m thankful. I don’t want to think about what just happened. I just want to get home and unwind.
When I arrive at the apartment I share with Eugene, I take my high heels off and tiptoe into my room, stepping over all the junk in the living room. Not for the first time, I promise myself to tidy up, but obviously, not tonight. Closing my bedroom door, I’m super-grateful that I didn’t wake my brother. My earlier plan for a dozen showers forgotten, I get into bed and pass out.
My sleep is interrupted by a recurring nightmare—a skeleton trying to strangle me.
CHAPTER 4
“Mira, is that you?”
My brother has this annoying habit of talking to me when my mouth is full or when, like now, I’m under a cascade of blissfully warm water, trying to relax.
“No, Eugene, it’s some fucking stranger using our shower!” I slam the sliding door for emphasis.
“Thanks for saying the F word—now I know it’s you!” He bangs on the bathroom door. “Come to the kitchen when you’re done.”
I wish I’d slept instead of tossing and turning all night. Still, the little sleep that I had should keep me going, and this shower is doing wonders.
I put on jeans and a T-shirt and head to the kitchen. My curiosity is piqued because I smell food—an oddity because I don’t think anyone is here besides Eugene. Which would mean that, whatever dish the smell is coming from, he would’ve had to cook it.
“Happy birthday to you,” my brother sings when I enter. “Happy birthday to you—”
“Eugene, please stop. My ears are going to wilt.” I use humor to cover up the fact that I completely forgot about my birthday. With everything that’s happened, it was the last thing on my mind.
“Is that what those brownish ovals are?” I give him a questioning look. “And isn’t it supposed to be a candle for each year, not pancakes?”
“Aha!” He winks and brings his hands out from behind his back. He’s holding a cupcake with a lit candle. The strawberry vanilla cupcake from the local Italian bakery that I like. It’s a miracle he didn’t burn his clothes standing like that.
“Thank you.” I take the pastry and place it on the table. “And thanks for wearing a clean lab coat on this special occasion.”
“You’re welcome.” He’s acting like he didn’t hear my ribbing about the lab coat. “Make a wish.”
A wish. All of a sudden, I feel an ache in my chest. None of my wishes are happy. None are normal. A normal girl would wish to meet a nice guy, someone who’s fun and good-looking. But not me. I wish I could find my parents’ killers and the person who sent them, and then find the will and fortitude to kill them.
“Is something the matter?” Eugene asks.
“No,” I lie, smoothing out my frown. “It’s silly.”
“You wish they were here to say happy birthday?” he says softly, switching to Russian.
I nod. It seems pointless to put it into words. As pointless as wishing.
We share a silence during which I stab the first of my eighteen pancakes with my fork and take a bite.
A bite that I have to stop myself from spitting out.
“Eugene...” I try to swallow the soggy, half-cooked lump in my mouth. “These are awful.”
Oh crap. As soon as I see the hurt look on his face, I realize I could’ve been more tactful. But seriously, these are the worst-tasting pancakes I’ve ever had.
“Sorry.” He demonstratively puts a pancake into his own mouth and chews it. “I did what the algorithm said.” His expression doesn’t change; if he can taste the problem, he’s not showing it.
“They’re called recipes, not algorithms.” I move the plate toward him. “And I’m sure it called for butter and salt, things that make food yummy—stuff that’s clearly missing from these pancake-esque thingies.”
“Potato, potahto... Recipes are algorithms.” He spears another pancake onto his fork. “And salt and butter are bad for you anyway.”
“A lot of good stuff is bad for you.” I reach for the cupcake he bought for me and place it on my plate. “And it’s funny you brought up potatoes. Did you put that in these pancakes? Because there’s this aftertaste—”
“I’m not an idiot, Mira,” he says. “If I made potato pancakes, I would call them draniki. Do you remember how—”
He doesn’t have to finish that question. Of course I remember Mom’s draniki. A cross between pancakes and hash browns, they were the most delicious things ever—and a part of my childhood I’ll never have again.
I interrupt him by demonstratively blowing out the candle and taking a bite of my cupcake, making that yumminess-signifying, “Mmmmmmm,” as I do so.
Eugene smiles at first, but then his face goes dark, an expression so intense and unnatural for him that it frightens me. And considering he’s looking over my shoulder, I’m really hoping it’s not a huge-ass spider.
“What’s that?” He points in that same direction.
“What’s what?” Oh shit. Maybe it’s one of those giant cockroaches that thrive in this building’s garbage disposal system. Or their competitors, the rats.
“That.” He stands up and peers at me. “The black-and-blue claw mark on your arm.”
I look at my left bicep. Fuck. It seems that Shkillet left a bruise when he grabbed me yesterday.
“It’s nothing.” I tug my sleeve down—not that it does much good. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s not nothing.” An even darker look crosses his face. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“Do you really want me to answer that?” I take a bite of my cupcake and regret it immediately. I know where this is going, and the delicious cupcake begins to taste like cardboard.
“I heard you come in late last night.” He sits back down slowly. “You were doing that again. You were consorting with those monsters.”
“Calm down.” I brush the cupcake crumbs from my fingers.
“How the hell am I supposed to calm down?” He plants his palms on the table, about to shove himself upright again—until I grab his arm. I can feel the tension in him as he yells, “You’re coming home with fucking bruises, and you’re telling me not to worry about it? It’s my job to protect you, and you’re on your way to getting yourself killed!”
“Lower your voice, please,” I say through clenched teeth. “It’s not your fucking job to protect me.”
“How can you be so dumb—”
I’ve had enough. Grabbing the plate from the table, I hurl it toward the stove.
Eugene watches it shatter with utter shock, even though this isn’t the first tantrum he’s seen me throw in his lifetime. More like the hundredth in the past two years alone.
“Mira, I—” he begins.
“Shut up.” I rise to my feet.
“Wait, Mirochka. Seriously, I’m sorry—”
I don’t hear the rest because I storm into my bedroom and slam the door shut behind me. Then I crank up some music and begin throwing clothes into a bag: something casual, a gym outfit, and, on a whim, a nice dress I bought months ago after a spree of poker wins. I also throw in some shoes. I want to make sure I have what I need so I won’t have to come back here today—because if I do, I’ll have to deal with Eugene’s sulking.
“I’m not mad,” I say when I open the door again. “I just need to get out of the apartment.”
“Don’t go, Mirochka—”
“Thank you for the birthday wishes.” I sling the bag over my shoulder. “I mean it. It was nice.”
“You’re welcome.” He pinches the bridge of his nose. Eugene knows me well enough to know there’s no salvaging this situation right now.
Still, I feel like the biggest asshole as I leave the house.
***
Yoga class helps a little. A pretty boy checking out my yoga-pants-clad butt helps a little more. After the gym, I head to my favorite sushi place. That and hot sake make me feel almost like a normal person.
Almost like my birthday is worth celebrating.
Determined to enjoy feeling normal for as long as possible, I take a lengthy walk on the Brighton Beach boardwalk. I try to stay focused on the nice weather, but my thoughts eventually turn to my investigation, as they always do these days.
They said my parents’ death was a mob-on-mob hit. Eugene Read the detectives investigating the case, and learned that the police had cut short the investigation as soon as they learned of the Russian mob’s involvement. But my dad was never in the Russian mob. He was a scientist, like Eugene. It didn’t make any sense until Eugene told me something else that he saw in the mind of the detectives: signs of Pushing.
Pushers are the other side of the coin among people who can enter the Mind Dimension. They’re like us—except they control people’s minds, instead of reading them. And they hate us just as much as we hate them. It’s not a huge surprise those evil fuckers are involved in this somehow, especially given Dad’s research into our abilities.
As soon as I learned all this, I knew I had to take the investigation into my own hands. My brother honors our parents’ memory by focusing on Dad’s research, but I do it differently. I do it by trying to hunt down their murderers, and if it drives my brother crazy, so be it. I’m not a little girl anymore. In fact, as of today, I’m officially an adult—though I haven’t felt like a child for a long time.
Determined to get back into my earlier birthday-enjoyment groove, I go to the movies. The one I choose is a romantic comedy, and I enjoy it immensely for the fiction that it is. Those writers make these things so light and fluffy, it’s like a fairy tale. In real life—at least
in my real life—people are self-destructive, violent liars who will cheat and steal if they can get away with it. Outside of the mob, they put on a façade of civility, but as a Reader, I know what hides behind their polite smiles. In the mob, they don’t even try to hide it. The criminals are more honest, in a way. Then again, the depravity of some of the things I Read in Victor’s club and other similar places is mind-boggling. I sometimes can’t sleep for weeks after getting one of those ‘snuff Reads’—
I shake my head. Man, I need to get back some positivity.
To do that, I grab some ice cream before leaving the movie theater. Nothing is more positive than ice cream.
Afterwards, I decide against getting dinner. Instead, I go into the theater bathroom to change into my killer dress, and while I’m at it, I put on some makeup and a pair of high heels. It’s time to have some fun and go clubbing. Why the hell not? It’s my fucking birthday.
***
“Are you Russian?” is what I think the guy tries to say to me over the pounding music of the dance club.
“Da,” I yell, nodding to the beat.
“Can I buy you a drink?” he says in Russian. Or I assume that’s what he says because I catch the Russian word for drink over the noise, and he also puts his hand to his mouth in that universal drinking gesture. Not to mention, he points at the bar.
I look the guy over. Tall, broad-shouldered, he looks like the kind of guy I would’ve liked if I’d remained normal. Since I’m trying to be normal tonight, I let him buy me a Grey Goose with Red Bull, my party-all-night drink.
I love these Russian-owned clubs, even if sometimes the owners are in the mob. The vodka selection is always topnotch, the DJs are great at mixing the tracks, the music they mix is more to my taste, and the bartenders never ask for ID. I have a fake one, of course, but I prefer not to be asked. What’s more, here they never give you that I-know-that-ID-is-fake-but-hey-now-I’m-off-the-hook-little-girl look.
As I sip my drink, the guy introduces himself and gives me some compliments, but I only hear bits and pieces. Finally, I have to lean in and yell into his ear, “I can barely hear you!”