Page 1 of Don't Say A Word

CHAPTER ONE

REQUESTOR

The bar is disgusting. The fluorescent bulbs create a strange buzzing sound that reminds me of flies gathered around death. The wallpaper is torn and mold clings in patches to the ceiling. The people are loud and garish, throwing beer down their throats as though their lives depend on it. Maybe they do. Maybe this is all they can hope to amount to. They repulse me.

But then the lights dim and she steps onto the stage. A spotlight shines and she blinks, holding up her hand to shield her eyes from the glare. She laughs nervously, a sweet sound, one filled with such innocence, and takes a seat on the stool in front of the microphone.

She gives a small wave but doesn’t say her name. I suppose in a town as small as this, everyone already knows it. Her cheeks burn when someone lets out a whoop and she runs her tongue over soft pink lips. Biteable lips.

My blood spikes and hums, lighting a fire in my veins and electrifying my thoughts. I hadn’t taken much notice of her before. Mistakenly, I thought she blended in with the rest of the trash around here. Small town people with small-town minds. But when the music starts and she closes her eyes, the world stills. Beyond the halo of light that surrounds her, nothing else exists.

She is exquisite in her beauty. Dark hair frames a pale face with lips that are full and soft and plump. She wears a pink dress that drapes over her figure, just hinting at her curves, but the neckline is low, dipping between the swells of her breasts and giving me a taste of her perfection.

And then she starts to sing. The halo of light expands, encasing me in its warmth, leaving nothing but our two souls in this world. My heart races. Her voice haunts me, slicing into my soul. Never before have I heard such soulful beauty. From the first note, her voice is flawless. Perfect.

But she knows none of the torment that creates music. From the innocence in her voice, I know she has not felt the affliction of love, has not suffered the misery of pain. If she had, her voice would be beyond perfection. It would be raw, her throat torn open, ragged with passion spilling like blood from an open wound. It would call out, beckoning me to drown in her as though she is a siren from the depths.

And that’s when I know. She will be mine. And I will show her the world she is innocent of.

The humming of my blood grows louder. I want to touch. I want to inhale. I want to taste.

A girl bumps into me, knocking me back to reality and allowing the dirtiness of the world to seep back in. Anger flashes. A vision of grabbing her by the hair and yanking her head down to connect with my knee bursts like lightning through my mind. I would strike with enough force that her body would slump to the ground, leaving the halo of light that surrounds my songbird and me.

But instead I smile, looking over to her with what most people would decipher as warmth.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

It takes practice to control the strain in my voice, hiding the monster within. She smiles and holds up her glass as some sort of answer, stumbling a little and spilling beer onto the already stained carpet.

“You having fun?” she asks.

I deceive her with another smile, adding a wink for extra effect and she raises her glass again, pushing her body against mine in some infantile attempt at seduction. She’s a pretty girl. A way to pass the time, but she’s not the one I want. Not the one that speaks to my soul.

Turning my attention back to my songbird, the imbeciles around me carry on with their feeble lives, unable to hear the purity in her voice. Their laughter grates against my thoughts and I am unable to get lost in her. Their brutish behavior should not be allowed. She doesn’t belong with them.

But sometimes the shadows of this world hide the most beautiful things. They sit in dark corners, their beauty undiscovered and their talents unseen. There are some who would take this beauty and shine a light on it for all the world to see. They would hold them in the glare of the spotlight until their beauty fades and their talents are wasted on those who are incapable of showing appreciation.

My father warned me of those people. The ones who allow beauty to become tarnished. He taught me to value the pretty things of this world and keep them safe. Protect them from the bright and garish lights. Keep them in the shadows so their beauty does not fade.

My father is a collector. He taught me the value of capturing beauty. But he missed something. He was obsessed with the vessel and unable to see that talent and passion and pain combined make something more than beauty. Something that seeps into the blood and feeds the soul.

My father’s collection is lacking. It’s time to start my own.

mia

CHAPTER TWO

MIA

Panic. My body feels it first. The swell of nausea in the pit of my stomach. The sense of dread. The tingling sensation of terror.

And then comes the thud of my heart. It’s rapid, beating against my chest like a caged wild animal. It’s all I can hear. It drowns out my other senses. Nothing but the pulse of my blood and the echo of my heart.

Sweat is next. Cold. Trembling. The kind that prickles over my skin, leaving trails of raised hairs and goosebumps.

Darkness crushes me. It is endless. My eyelids brush against rough material. I am blindfolded and for that I am grateful. Because if not for the movement of my eyelids against the material, I would have thought myself dead. It doesn’t matter that my heart pounds in my chest or that my skin dances with dread, those things can be imagined. They could be my mind playing tricks. But the feel of that material and the tightness of the twist which holds it in place are real.

The floor is cold and hard, smooth like polished concrete. My foot twitches and pain shoots through my leg with the stiffness of the movement.

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