Music swirled around her, distant and distorted. It sounded as if the melody was playing through an old, battered radio, slightly out of tune, the sound tinny. She glanced down at herself, a gown of delicate pink satin, draped about her, the swathes of soft material reaching the floor, pooling at her feet. Still its beauty and delicacy was marred by her path in life, the soft material, torn and shredded in places. Blood stained her torso, reminding her of the rocks that had pierced her side. Here they had sliced through the soft satin and her skin too. The polished parquet floor was mostly empty, the gold marble and twinkling chandelier unmistakable. The banquet halls of Kingston Academy that had once been filled with laughter and life, lay empty now, cold and forgotten. The wind whistling through cracks in the broken windows, sent a shiver down Charlotte's spine. The smell of smoke lingered in the air, a reminder of how the once magnificent Old School had met its end. The doors hanging on their hinges, swayed in the draught that filled the room, causing the ribboned drapes to flutter nervously. Charlotte kicked the debris at her feet, old chairs scattered where Patrons had once danced, their limbs broken and shattered across the floor.
Panic rose in her chest. She closed her eyes, biting her lip as the harsh, cutting sounds of violins crackled through the air.
"Oh yes, Miss Owens".
The words came upon the wind, broken and distant. She ripped her eyes open, her heart hammering as the hissing 's' sound sent a shiver down her spine, her most terrible memories flooding back to her.
"Nicholls," she breathed, her voice betraying her sudden terror.
He stood before her, as he had a lifetime ago, his mismatched eyes peering at her from behind his oversized glasses. He gripped her wrist, too hard. His skin was like ice - cold, dead.
"I am a collector," he breathed, dragging her closer.
"A collector?" she growled, trying to pull away from him.
"I'm a collector of rare items, very rare," he lisped, unperturbed by her fight, unaffected by her efforts to escape his grip. Instead his hands began to move over her war-stained dress, up her body. His grip tightening around her waist, holding her fast. The stench of death rose from his breath, washing over her, making her head spin.
"Let go of me," Charlotte growled, pushing against his chest. She tried to drop to the ground, but he was too strong - inhumanly strong.
"You are a rare item, are you not Miss Owens?"
"Get away from me!"
He was crushing her, his grip forcing the air from her lungs. She fought to twist away from him, but her strength was waning, his power increasing.
"I own you, Miss Owens," he whispered, bringing his dead, blue lips to her ear. His putrid breath washed over her. Her stomach turned, bile rising in her throat.
Nicholls caught her arm, twisting it and holding it out in one of his grey hands. The scar biting her skin seared an angry red. The F-N Owens was vicious and raised. It was as fresh as the moment it had been cut into her skin.
"You're dead!" Charlotte yelled, though it turned to a desperate whimpering. "Let go of me... you're... dead!"
Nicholls laughed, his mouth still by her ear, his cold lips brushing against her skin. "Oh yes," he breathed. "Oh yes, Miss Owens".
Charlotte jerked awake, her hands shaking. Cold sweat trickled down her back, her breathing shallow, her eyes pooled with tears.
"Charlotte? Are you okay?" Ian moved beside her, a flicker here and there.
YOU ARE READING
Feared
Science Fiction'Play the game, she thought, remembering the only three words that had helped her to survive at Kingston. Only back then she had known the game, she had known what they wanted her to be, what they had wanted her to do - this man was different. She d...
