122 Rules (29 page)

As he moved down the short hall toward her sleeping quarters, the air chilled his skin while the thick carpet massaged his toes and nuzzled the soles of his feet.

He stopped just after crossing the precipice. Coral’s beauty, as with all women, lay within. One of the few the gods had seen fit to bless, he had the ability to unleash that beauty, revealing it for the world to gaze upon in wonder. She would show him that which remained elusive and hidden to others.

The softness of her breathing caressed his ear, and he inhaled the wonderful scent of her skin and hair. The lub-dub pulse of her heart beckoned, as poignant as the ping of a radar, and in the total blackness, he knew exactly where she lay.

Tyron loosened the ties of the small silk sack and retrieved a prophylactic. He slipped it on, his body eager and ready. He pulled out a steel blade, pressing its cool, flat surface against his leg. It needed to be as warm as his and Coral’s combined love, for it would serve as the key to the conduit in the dance of their intimacy.

Before they could begin though, he needed to conduct a little business. Only then could he explain the rules to her. Women respected a man that laid down a distinct set of guidelines and used both his superior strength and his wisdom to enforce them in whatever way he deemed fit.

He pressed the warmed blade against her neck, careful not to touch her any more than necessary. When they first connected, it had to be while he established the hierarchy. This would assist in her understanding of her place within it.

“Hello, bitch,” he whispered in her ear.

Coral’s body stiffened, and the black sheen of her eyes shone as they flew open. But she didn’t reply.

“I’ve got some questions for you. If you answer them willingly and truthfully, this will go a lot easier for both of us. If not…” He pressed the knife harder against the soft flesh of her neck. “Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good girl.” He reached over with his free hand and snapped on the small nightstand lamp. She blinked against the sudden brightness, and her gaze settled on his. He trailed the knife down her stomach, stopped at the top of her femoral artery, high on the inside of her exposed thigh, and pressed firmly. New terror grew in her eyes as she accepted his position of control. Tyron placed the small silk sack on the bed next to her. “Please remove the contents,” he instructed.

She hesitated only a second, then with trembling fingers she reached inside and pulled out a two-headed pick, not unlike what a dentist uses to remove plaque, and stared at it.

A pivotal point for him and his lover had been reached. Fear would either cause her to strike at him, or she would give in and accept his leadership. He understood her instinct to fight, saw the sharpening of her gaze. He pressed the knife harder against her leg, stared deep into her soul, and said simply, “Don’t.”

She paused, and he saw her consider trying even though it meant her immediate death. Then the hardness in her expression lessened, and she set the tool on the nightstand. She continued to remove the remaining tools, each more wicked-looking than the previous. Years before, he’d started with a complete taxidermist kit, but carrying such a bundle with him had been burdensome. After hundreds of experiments, he’d honed the set to a half-dozen essentials. She placed the last of the implements on the little table and pulled out four sets of cuffs. He’d modified these himself so the lengths of the chains could be adjusted.

“Now,” he said in his most soothing voice, “please fasten these around your wrists.”

“No. I can’t do that.” She swallowed. “You’ll…you’ll just kill me.”

“That is not an inevitability that has yet been decided.” He moved the knife back to her throat. “The ebb and flow of the evening’s events are based on your cooperation. You do as I say, and there is a very good chance you will see the sun rise in the morning and will once again have the opportunity to ask a customer if they want wheat or white toast with their eggs and bacon.” She needed the lie. Without it, fear would push her into to doing something that could cut their evening short and hinder her transformation.

She placed the last of the implements on the little table and pulled out two sets of cuffs. He’d modified these himself, making the chains long and adjustable.

He held out one end of a restraint. “Please fasten this around your wrist.”

Coral’s hands shook as she attached the cuff. She almost dropped it but managed to click it into place.

Tyron looped the long chain through the headboard, then secured her other wrist with the second cuff. A huge tear rolled down Coral’s cheek as he adjusted the length of steel, stretching her arms and snugging her wrists tight.

He fastened her ankles to the bedframe and resumed his position, placing the tip of the knife, once again, at the base of her throat.

“Thank you for your help. It will make things go much more smoothly. Now, I need a little information. You had two customers, a pair of women, come in during lunch. Where were they going?”

A look of confusion crossed her face. “I have a lot of customers; you need to be more specific.”

Even in her defenseless position, he knew she would resist him. He both expected and longed for it. That nugget of resolve would fade to utter submissiveness as he continued to establish his place as her mentor and owner. In return for her servitude, she would receive the joy and comfort of her new position, but more importantly, the salvation only he could offer her.

“Two women, mid-twenties, one with dark hair and blonde roots and a mole on her lip, the other with short hair. They had a laptop and were looking for directions.”

She didn’t answer right away, and he knew her next words would be a lie. “I don’t know who you mean.”

He shook his head. “I understand the reasoning behind the falseness of your words, but you need to understand the futility and ramifications of defying me.”

The cadence of her lifeblood beat strong and steady just a fraction of an inch below the edge of the razor. He longed for her blazing heat, red as an apple at the peak of season, to pour over his skin. Tyron moved the razor from her jugular and sliced away her t-shirt. The fabric parted as though it had no more substance than cobweb, and he ran the edge of the blade gently along her breasts. He traced the knife down to her ribcage, past her belly, and smoothly slit the cotton of her panties, which also fell away. As he stroked the blade over her exposed flesh, his fingers graced the delicate skin of her chest. Coral’s heart raced like a caged jackrabbit.

He ran the blade down the contours of her body. Hip to pubis. Pubis to thigh. Thigh to calf. Steel on steel, he circled her ankle just above where the restraint chaffed her skin. Moving lower, he noticed a blemish, a thick callus, most likely caused from long days of waitressing in cheap shoes, on the sole of her foot.

He
tsked
. “No. This won’t do. Not at all.”

“I…”

Tyron slid the blade through her skin.

A scream, piercing as a shard of glass, tore from her. She tried to pull away, but Tyron had left very little play in her bindings.

Careful not to mar the muscle, bone, and tendon under the surface, he worked slowly, making his way around the circumference of the bottom of her foot. Once completed, he set the knife on the nightstand next to his other tools and, starting at her heel, peeled away the epidermis, pulling it—and her blemish—free. He examined the raw flesh beneath, sighing. He still had a lot of work to do. It took so much effort to clean up God’s mistakes.

When Coral had removed the handcuffs, she’d stopped emptying the silk bag, but treasures and necessities still waited in its depths. Tyron retrieved a clear container of thumbtacks. He removed one and used it to attach Coral’s imperfection to the wall. Together they would create a mural unlike those by any other artist in history.

When Coral’s voice finally cracked and rang hoarse, he, and the other inside him, smiled. Tyron would not disappoint. He never did.

“Nashville.” She said through her sobbing. “They are going to Nashville through St. Louis. That’s all I know, I swear.”

“Good girl. Did you see the car they were driving?”

“No. No. It was during the lunch rush, and I was too busy to pay attention. I promise I don’t know anything else.”

“Thank you
.
” He smiled. “Now, shall we begin?”

* * *

In Greek mythology, the living passed through Erebus at the moment of death. After making his first kill, Tyron had changed his last name to that of the primordial deity, who in many texts personified a darkness so deep no light could escape it. But he knew this to be false. The god that had granted and honored him with his considerable talents used his hands like gloves to transform that which was flawed to that which was free of defects. Working together in harmonized perfection, they could unleash a soul’s splendor and true sanctity.

As the night turned to a phantom, the dawn replacing the specter’s gray substance with its orange light, he and Coral worked diligently to release her true inner beauty. As her final transformation commenced, she begged him to release her from this world. Together they had removed all of her flaws, attaching each blemish to the wall as a testament to her rise above all other women.

This undeserving vessel that had contained a lifetime of human imperfections had finally been made worthy of housing the gift of him. As he bestowed this present upon her, the other moved from his body to hers. As they made their climactic connection with her, Tyron released her tether to this world. She cried out in exaltation as the other possessed her, filling the vacancy left behind as the hot red of her essence flowed over Tyron’s skin, the mattress, the floor. He too gave of himself, helping the other propel her spirit on its journey from this world to the glories of the one beyond.

In that moment, Tyron longed to leave with them. They, the three of them, could travel the path as one, their souls mingling as they sought enlightenment and peace.

But his time for such a journey had not yet arrived. His work on Earth was not yet complete. So he would trudge on, the ever-faithful servant doing his duty to bring perfection to an imperfect world until finally beckoned into the afterlife to receive his hard-earned reward.

* * *

As Erebus stood under the hot spray of the shower—hollow and empty after the quick departure of the other—rinsing off the last of Coral’s transformation, his thoughts turned to the bitch and the mongrel she traveled with. The night’s events, though sacred and worthy of his time, had taken longer than he’d expected. He would have to move quickly to catch up to them.

He would, though. Of that he felt certain.

37

After their change in plans, Angel seemed to have let up on the accelerator, though just a little. She’d kept the little car cruising down the road at 90-plus as they made their way through the Kansas flats. Monica found a wallet of CDs under her seat. Lisa’d had eclectic taste in music, and as the miles slid past, Monica fed one disk after another into the car’s stereo. No matter what she tried, though, she kept returning to the same French rock band, listening to their CD time and again.

“What do you think they’re singing about?” Monica asked. She propped her bare feet up on the car’s dashboard, cotton between her toes, while she painted her nails with a cheap polish picked up at the last truck stop.

Angel looked over at her as the car sailed along the highway. “Well, they’re French. Probably pimps and whores.”

“Really? Pimps and whores? Is that big over there?”

“Of course. It’s totally different in European countries. Naked beaches, nude news, common showers. We’re so scared of seeing each other without clothes on here. I don’t even know what the big deal is. Tell me, who wouldn’t want to see
us
naked?”

“Right? We’re totally hot.”

“Did you know,” Professor Angel continued, “they don’t even have walls between the toilet stalls, and everyone shares the bathrooms? No men’s and no women’s.”

“What? I’ve never heard that before. How do you know all of this?”

“Girl Scouts.”

Monica laughed. “What? I was in Girl Scouts with you. I don’t remember earning a European Whores merit badge. I think I would have remembered that.”

“Well, while you brainiac types are making up new kinds of math and shit, those of us with less-than-perfect SAT scores are learning ‘practical’ knowledge.”

“What ‘practical’ knowledge?” Monica asked laughing again. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve heard of the Red Light District, right?”

Monica nodded. “Yes, but…”

“Well, where do you think it is? Europe. Pimping and whoring is not only legal over there, it’s a studied profession. A respectable occupation.” Angel pivoted her head between the road and her friend. “Why, if you were born in France instead of The Cove, you might have aspired to be full-time slut instead of a lawyer.”

Monica’s eyes widened. “What? No! You’re making that shit up. They don’t have slut school… Do they?”

Either Angel had developed one hell of a poker face or she believed everything she’d said. “Prove me wrong.”