Sick Fux - Page 21

I heard a rustle as someone else moved from another corner. I was surrounded. “A little Dapper Dan if his clothes are anything to go by. Slacks, shirt and vest. All black. Suave for someone so young . . . impressive.”

I squinted into the darkness. A single dull lamp sat on the back wall, but whoever was in here with me was shrouded by the darkness. Then I saw a flash of white to my left. Someone stood. I held my ground, my hands grinding into fists, ready to fight.

“Look at this, Henry. The little Dapper Dan is ready to take me on.”

“Good. He’ll need that kind of strength in this place,” a rougher voice said from my right.

Two footsteps sounded on the stone floor, and a man came into the light. A man with long blond hair down his back. He was dressed in black pants and a white shirt—both were filthy. He looked young. Maybe in his twenties. He put a hand on his chest and bowed dramatically. “The name’s Chapel.” He straightened, then smiled. He was handsome, with an accent I hadn’t heard before. He sounded rich, like he had money . . . sophisticated. “Welcome to the Water Tower. The keeper of all things dark. Like the trophy chest of the most fucked-up collector of the underworld.” He smiled wider. “I, as they might say, am a ripper of sorts.” My brow creased as I tried to understand what he meant. “Too much for you to comprehend?” He nodded. “You’re young. You may not have come across stories of men like myself yet.” He came even closer. “I have a, shall we say, unhealthy obsession with women of the night, and like to cut them open in the most delicious of ways.”

I swallowed, but never let my eyes leave his. He laughed and fixed the gold cufflinks on his shirt. “Lawyer by trade. Something of a young hotshot, you might say. Ivy League–educated, years before my peers. But alas, I’ve been here two years now.” Chapel looked into the far corner and flicked his head. He rolled his eyes when whoever was there didn’t move. “Henry, we have a guest. Introductions must be made. That is proper etiquette.” Chapel shook his head at me. “Yankees, you see. No manners, unlike my southern self.”

There was silence from the darkened corner, and then someone moved. A tall, well-built, brown-haired man stepped into the light. His hair was long too, but his was brown. He had the lightest brown eyes I’d ever seen. They looked almost golden. He looked about Chapel’s age. Maybe a bit younger? But a lot older than me. “This is Henry,” Chapel explained. Henry glared at me but said nothing. He only pushed his hair back from his face. “Now, Henry here is a doctor.” Chapel tapped his head. “Of the mind. A psychologist.” He laughed. “Quite ironic, no?”

I was wondering what Henry was in this place for when Chapel added, “Henry here has never done anything wrong. He is an innocent.” Suddenly, Henry’s eyes closed, his teeth clenched, and a strained sound ripped from his throat. His long hair fell back over his face. His shoulders rolled forward, the muscles in his neck and shoulders bulging at the movement. The change in his frame made him look huge. Bigger and more intimidating than before.

When Henry’s eyes reopened, he glared at me again. But this time he was different. His eyes were narrowed and tense. His nostrils flared and his hands rolled into fists.

“But this is Hyde,” Chapel said. “He is . . . not so innocent. Let’s just say he likes to watch people die . . . under his expert hand.”

“I like to watch that too,” I said.

Chapel smiled a surprised smile. “Splendid!” He winked.

“Though not as much as I like to kill them myself,” I added. Hyde stood straighter, a flicker of a smirk pulling on his mouth.

“Henry and Hyde are two different people living in the same body,” Chapel explained. “One always fighting for dominance over the other. A multiple personality disorder is the scientific diagnosis. Henry is a professional. A straightlaced man. Quiet. Reserved. Hyde . . . is quite the opposite.”

“What is this place?” I asked, looking around me. I didn’t care what these men were. I just needed to get out. I had to get back to my Dolly.

“Where those who want us gone have sent us.” Chapel tipped his head to one side. “But you are so young that you have piqued my curiosity. How old are you, Dapper Dan?”

“Twelve,” I replied. Chapel’s eyebrows rose. He looked down at my hands and smiled.

“Blood on your hands? Literally? Young Dapper Dan . . .” He tutted, then laughed.

“They hurt Dolly. They touched her. Touched her like they fucking touched me. Her eyes . . .” I felt my hands shake. “They made her cry. Her papa. Her uncles . . . they made her bleed . . .” I stopped when I felt like I would explode with rage.

Tags: Tillie Cole Erotic
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