The Haunted - Jessica Verday [125]
“What do you think?” He stopped for a moment to straighten the lapels of his jacket. “Do I make a good dead guy, or what?”
My stomach was still roiling, but I couldn’t tell if it was from shock, or fear.
“Aren’t you going to give me a big kiss?” he said, advancing again. My knees started shaking, and I ground my nails into my palm to try to focus on something else. “Come on, Abbey.” His voice turned hard. “I set all this up for you. The least you can do is show your appreciation. Do you have any idea how much it costs to get this many roses delivered?” I dug my nails in so hard that I felt my palm start to get sticky. And still my terror was mounting.
Vincent finally reached me and ran a cold palm down my face. “Feel that? Why would you want to be with him, anyway? Necrophilia, Abbey.” He shook his head. “It’s not a pretty thing.” I tried to hold still, to not let him see my fear, but I couldn’t tell if I was succeeding. He watched me closely, then suddenly smiled.
“Now,” he said, bending low into a grand bow. “Would you consider this our first date? Or our third? Technically, we had that little outing in the cemetery and our meeting in the alleyway behind your uncle’s store, so I think… Yes, this is our third.”
“We haven’t been on any dates, asshole,” I said quietly.
He looked affronted. “What do you call this?” And spread his arms wide. “I brought you flowers, we have mood lighting, I’m all dressed up, and we’re quite alone. That, my dear, is a date.”
I snorted.
Vincent’s face turned hard, and he leaned down closer to me. “Am I not pale enough for you? Not cold enough?” He yanked my wrist and held it against his chest. “This is the problem, yes? My heartbeat? Sorry, darling. I’m not dead enough for you.” Something about the way he said “dead” struck a cold spot inside of me. I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer. Vincent was going to kill me.
Then his gaze shifted. “What’s this?”
He caught sight of my perfume cabinet, my lovely brand-new perfume cabinet that Mom and Dad had worked so hard on, and pulled my hand. Forcing me to follow him as he moved toward it.
I dug in my heels, but he was too strong. My arm felt like it was being pulled from its sock-et.
“Leave it… ,” I managed, “alone.”
He cocked his head at me. “What was that? You have to speak up.” The pain in my arm increased, and red-hot pokers shot under my skin. I whimpered, then clamped my mouth shut.
Vincent ran one hand over the outside of the cabinet, then opened one of the drawers and grabbed a handful of glass bottles. “Speak up,” he said. Opening his fingers wide, he released the bottles, and they went crashing to the floor.
The smells, and glass, went everywhere. A cloud of scent enveloped me, and I coughed once, trying not to gag.
Vincent opened another drawer.
“Stop… it,” I pleaded. “Just… stop it.”
But he grabbed a second handful and this time threw them gleefully to the floor. Tiny splinters of glass bounced and shimmered. Puddles of liquid started seeping into the wood.
“That’s a wonderful noise!” he said. “A symphony of sound!” I had a split second of comprehension, a clear, perfect understanding of what he was going to do, but still I couldn’t stop it.
Vincent gripped my curio cabinet with both hands, lifted it up, and threw it against the wall, an angelic smile on his face.
“Noooooooo!” I screamed.
Pieces of wood cracked and splintered. What was left of my perfume stock still inside the cabinet drawers exploded, and the sound… was heartbreaking.
I dropped to my knees, heedless of the glass that now covered the floor. My fingers clenched into fists, and the fury that filled me was pure, unadulterated rage. Then, suddenly, I heard another noise.
It was my name, coming from Caspian as he charged through the open door and threw himself at Vincent.