The Lamia Hunt

Chapter Twenty-One: Unsafe

23:01 20/12/1998

The first thing Lucy realised after opening her eyes was that she had no idea where she was. That was the first suggestion that it wasn't a dream; in dreams, she never questioned where she was, just accepted it.
And besides, this wasn't the kind of place she usually found in dreams. The room was dark and low-ceilinged, the curtains drawn and the furniture old and dirty. She was curled in the middle of the floor, her satchel at her side. At least she hadn't lost that.
She picked it up, shivering as she realised that it was far lighter than it should have been. As she opened it, the reason became obvious: her knife wasn't there.
No, she thought. It had to be there. She'd brought it with her, so it had to be there. Unless someone had taken it. But that wasn't fair; the knife was hers, had been given to her as a birthday present. If she didn't have it, then somebody must have stolen it, and stealing was wrong. People who stole things deserved to be punished.
Especially if they stole things that belonged to her.
The door crashed open, and Lucy dropped the satchel. The sound it made as it hit the floor was drowned out by the voice of the man who entered the room at that point.
"Are you looking for something?" he asked, staring at her.
Lucy gulped. She should probably say something to him, about the knife and how she wanted it back, but there was something about him that she didn't at all like. 
He looked vaguely familiar, and she could almost swear she'd seen him before, although she couldn't tell where. He didn't look very old, maybe still in high school, and his dark hair was long, and tied in a plait. He was dressed in white, clean and striking in the darkness, but it didn't make him seem lighter in the slightest. Everything about him seemed untrustworthy, and yet she couldn't see a single thing about him that did. There had to be something, though.
No, she was being silly. There couldn't be anything wrong.
Trying to prevent her voice from quavering, she replied,
"I'm - I'd like to go home, please."
His eyes widened, and he stepped back a little.
"What do you mean, 'home'?" he asked, stopping at each word.
Lucy shrugged.
"I want to go home. I know my address; it's-"
"No, that's not what I meant." He paused, and, glancing sideways at her, continued, "Can you tell me what your name is?"
"Lucy. Well, it's Lucille really, but I don't like that name because-"
"Alright," he said, as if he didn't need to hear what she was saying. Lucy was used to people doing that. "Now tell me, Lucy," he continued. "What do you know about the Praedatori Lamiarum?"
"The what?"
He paused for a moment, letting out a low chuckle.
"Very good," he said. "Very believable." He fell silent, and glared into her eyes, before hissing, "It's not going to work."
Lucy shook her head, moving until she was sitting on her knees.
"What's not going to work? Is it the Pride-a-whatsit? Is it broken?"
He began to pace around her, keeping a distance away from where she was sitting, not once removing his eyes from her.
Lucy's gaze followed him, nervously. She did not trust him at all.
"Fine," he said, his voice growing sickly sweet all of a sudden. "Let me put it this way: do you know where you got your knife from?"
Her knife! So someone had taken it!
"Do you have it?" she asked. "Can I have it back? Please; it was a birthday present."
He rolled his eyes.
"Yes, alright; just tell me who-"
"You shouldn't have taken it, you know. It's mine. Teddy gave it to me-"
"Teddy?"
Lucy didn't like the way he said that, the way his eyes gleamed and the sound hung on his lips long after he'd said it, as if he was wondering how he could make her tell him more, like a wolf in a fairy tale waiting to gobble her up.
She said nothing in response, and he began to edge closer to her, his movements slow and deliberate. "Tell me," he said. "Who is Teddy?"
She shook her head, and in that moment, he struck. 
Before Lucy could blink, there he was, within millimetres of her, close enough for her to smell the flowery sweetness of his cold breath as he whispered, "Tell me. I know you know. And believe me...." He grasped her face with one hand, his fingers digging into her cheeks. "You'll feel much better if you tell me."
She glared into his eyes, not daring to look away, and he glared back, his gaze sharp and frosty. He said nothing, but reached up behind her head with his other hand, gripping the roots of her hair and twisting them in a circle. 
Lucy winced. He raised his eyebrows. "Don't make me continue. Tell me who Teddy is."
She shook her head, gritting her teeth together to keep herself from crying out. For she knew she would cry out, if she had the chance. She hated herself for it, but she knew that she would, and if she cried out, then he would know that she was scared. He would know that he had power over her, that he could push her until she broke. So long as he didn't know how close he was, she was safe.
Well, that was the theory. 
The Lamia grinned at her, and rolled his eyes. "You're stubborn, you know. It was quite entertaining at first, but I've got to say that it grows tiring awfully fast. But no matter; I'll just have to be a little more..." He stood up, still holding her by the hair, and laughed. "Forceful." He took a step forwards, and Lucy felt her the back of her scalp begin to rip. She shrieked, and he took another step, and another. Her knees scraped against the concrete floor, and she felt the skin on them tear. Again, she screamed, this time louder.
The Lamia sighed exasperatedly, hauling her onto her feet. He tilted her head backwards with one hand, leaning over her face. She felt his other arm snake around her back, squeezing her with sharp nails. "Now," he said, his voice once more sickly sweet. "Are you going to tell me, or do I need to persuade you some more?"
She shivered, unable to speak. He continued, "Well? Are you going to tell me?" He dug his fingers deeper into the fabric of her dress, and Lucy felt the tips of his nails pierce her skin. She cried out, and he laughed, still tightening his grip. "Tell me," he whispered. "And I'll let you go." 
She didn't respond, and so he pulled her head backwards, until she heard her neck crack, this time raising his voice. "Tell me!" 
Lucy tried to raise her head, but it was impossible; he wasn't pulling at her any more, but she seemed to lack the strength to hold her head up. Her neck was doubled over, her eyes watching the wall behind her, spasms of pain shooting down her spine.
He grabbed her hair again, and lifted her head so that they could look each other in the eye. "Still won't talk, eh? Because there's more, if you want it. If you don't tell me, don't think you'll get away with it. A broken neck will be the least of your worries once I'm through with you."
He extricated the hand from her hair, and ran it down the back of her neck, to just above the collar of her nightie. "Are you going to tell me?" 
She gulped, saying nothing.
"Oh," he said, his grip around her waist tightening. "Lost for words, are you?" Their eyes were locked, his now gleaming crimson in the darkness. "Well, maybe your tongue needs loosening." Saying this, he pressed his face against hers, forcing open her lips and licking the inside of her mouth.
Lucy recoiled, flailing at him with both arms. She now had energy, and though it was not enough to break free from him, it was enough to stall him, if only for a moment.
He drew away from her, frowning.
"Are you still going to be silent now?"
She glared at him.
"Give it back." She didn't know why she said it. It wasn't going to do anything, and he was just going to hurt her more for saying it. She would have regretted it, but regret seemed wasted now.
He frowned. 
"So you can talk. I was beginning to think that you'd forgotten how." There was a sarcastic twang to his voice that made him both more and less frightening. 
Lucy continued to glare at him.
"Give me back my knife."
His grin widened, and he brought his hand up so that it was supporting her head. He seemed less urgent now, his touch more relaxed, but she still didn't trust him. In fact, she trusted him less now, if that was even possible.
"You know," he said. "I'm beginning to like you, Lucy."
She gulped, and he laughed again. It was a more natural laugh, one that didn't seem scary. And that made it all the more so. If Lucy had believed such things, she would have thought that he'd been possessed by a demon, and it had just left his body, but she didn't. He was still a monster, and this was just a façade, meant to trick her into feeling safe.
It wasn't going to work.
Or, at least, that was what she told herself.