Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128488 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 642(@200wpm)___ 514(@250wpm)___ 428(@300wpm)
Perhaps the fact that he hadn’t worn a mask gave him leeway. They had him on video now.
Regardless, here he was.
The Collector broke the envelope seal, sliding the paper from within. She’d written the poem he’d asked for, and his smile grew as he read it.
Werewolves have fangs
But they also have pelts
I hate your guts
Go fuck yourself
His gaze moved to the rendering next to it, a poorly drawn sketch of a werewolf, saliva dripping from his fangs and looming over a tiny rabbit in a trap. He looked closer and laughed out loud. Ah, yes, that tiny rabbit held a knife in its paw hidden behind its back. It was hoping to skin that hunter. Somehow. Against all odds.
He laughed again. She was divine.
The Collector went through the steps of logging in, his fingers flying over the keys as the screen within a screen blinked to life. There was Noelle, his little rabbit sitting alone in her cage. The boy was in the room upstairs.
The Collector sighed as he took in the scene in that room where rental contracts played out. He could see that he’d been right about the spindly man with the beak nose. He had wanted to beat those boys who’d pushed him into lockers and called him names. But he’d also very much wanted to fuck them. There he was again, having obviously made the trip once more, his head between the boy’s legs as the boy gritted his teeth and covered his own eyes, in essence blindfolding himself, shutting out what was happening to him in the one way he could. He wondered if Evan was picturing Noelle. If such a bet could have been made, the Collector would have made it, and he believed he’d have won. Evan would experience emotional consequences for that later. If there was a later.
The Collector clicked off that screen, zooming in on Noelle and steepling his fingers as he assessed what they already had in their possession. The things the others had sent them had been consumed. The Collector had sent them treasures to keep. To use. And he’d send them something more. Each item had to follow the rules of the organization that wrote them. But he had his own criteria. Each item had to serve a purpose. And speak to them, as though he himself were there.
He pulled the drawing she’d done for him forward again, running a finger over the rabbit, stroking it much the way he’d stroked her. He’d planned it. What he’d say, what he’d leave; and she’d understood. She’d risen to the occasion, just as he’d hoped she would. He was still riding the high, and now that the small amount of liquor he’d consumed was taking effect, he couldn’t help closing his eyes as he replayed the scene in his mind. What had she felt the moment she realized what he’d left for her? Hope? Excitement? Fear? Yes, certainly all those.
Her heart had certainly been beating triple time as she’d surreptitiously slipped the small piece of the graphite from its broken casing. She’d hid her fear behind her hatred. Please don’t notice, she must have prayed. The piece of graphite had to have been small, but if whoever cleaned up the room reconstructed the pencil, they’d surely notice a small piece was missing.
But they hadn’t. She’d have lost something if they did. Something vital. Something that would negate that vow to leave whole. The contestants had rules, too, though they didn’t know what they were. He opened his eyes. And there she was, looking completely intact. He watched her for a moment, recalling how angry she’d been when he’d elicited that moan of pleasure. He understood. He’d been angry once too.
He took in a deep breath. He needed to think. What to send? It might be their last chance before the rules of the game changed. The longer the contestants held out, the longer the devils had to use them and the more money could be made. But eventually, that wouldn’t be enough for them. He sensed their restlessness.
He smiled as the possibility of something specific to send the boy came to him. If he understood how to use it . . . what perfect poetry. Beautiful.
Violent. But beautiful.
The door to the room Noelle was in slid open, and the boy was shoved back through it and returned to his cage, the metal door slamming shut.
“Hey, limp dick,” Noelle yelled at the man in the red shoes. The man hesitated, turning, and the Collector leaned closer to the screen as he watched this interesting turn of events. “Why’d you get this job? Do you know what your position is called? Lackey. Because you obviously lack balls. You must lack money, too, or you’d have one of us up there, wouldn’t you, lacking balls?”