Flicker

Flicker

By Arreyn Grey

Book One in Elise’s Story

Copyright © 2015 Arreyn Grey

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, images, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

First, all my thanks to my loving family, who put up with the magnificent stacks of dishes that piled up so I could have time to write. Thanks also to those wonderful friends who suffered through the early drafts of this book in the hope of helping to create something memorable—in particular Emily and Pete, who worked very hard to tell me exactly what should never see the light of day.

This book exists in spite of my darling son, Tristan, who did absolutely everything in his considerable and very inventive power to distract me from working on it.

Thanks also to Martin, the most awesome stepson I could ever have hoped for, who reminded me that help can be found in the most unexpected places.

My gratitude to my dad, for his inspiration and invaluable assistance with this project, and his unwavering faith that I could publish a book. Thanks also to my mom, for trying really hard not to be scared by my interest in all things goth. For the last time guys, I swear, this isn't an autobiography. If it was, I'd be ruling the world.

I owe the most sincere thank you to my loving partner, Bryan, the first person who really made me believe that I could actually do this. Thank you for your patience, drive, support, inspiration, and motivation. Thank you for putting up with all the mess, moods, and random questions-- I hope it's worth it! Most of all, thank you for gathering up my scattered pieces and putting them back in the right order.

Last, and most, and always, I am grateful to my sister Marlena. I cannot stress enough that, more than anyone else, if it wasn’t for her this book-- and I-- would not be here.

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1
: First Meeting

Chapter 2
: Getting to Know You

Chapter 3
: Without Hesitation

Chapter 4
: Revelations

Chapter 5
: Lost and Found

Chapter 6
: Our Lives Rewritten

Chapter 7
: Consequences

Chapter 8
: New to the Game

Chapter 9
: Circling Closer

Chapter 10
: Power Play

Chapter 11
: Breaking Point

Chapter 12
: Aftermath

1

Prologue

              Trapped.

              Trapped and helpless.

              Hopeless.

              Someone was making tiny, pitiful noises. The dreamer realized that someone was her. Whimpers slid out of her throat between thin, shallow gasps of air. She was breathing too fast, and it wasn't enough. Some distant, rational corner of her mind whispered, “Hyperventilating.” She couldn't stop it, any more than she could stop the pathetic little sounds she hadn't even known she was capable of making.

              It wasn't her fault, the breathing. The hands were making her do it. The hands were everywhere, touching her, holding her. No part of her was safe. Nothing was left alone. There were too many, and they were too strong, and no matter how she struggled she was helpless.

              They leered down at her, their eyes coldly inhuman. She wanted to close her eyes, to pretend they weren't there, but she was too afraid to look away. And she couldn't close her ears to the horrible things they were saying. Their whispers hissed, snakelike, the words twining around her and binding her more than their hands ever had.

              One face didn't belong-- in the circle of men, the young woman's delicate features were out of place. The look of disdain she wore as she looked down at the dreamer didn't fit, either, but it wasn't the first time she'd worn it. She leaned close, and even the violating hands couldn't distract from the way her familiar lips mouthed the word: “Whore.”

1 FIRST MEETING

              Elise opened her eyes, coming into wakefulness like a switch being flipped. For a disorienting moment, she was frightened to find herself in this bland room, with its white walls decorated only by a wallpaper border of black and white damask near the ceiling. The white lace curtains swayed in a slight breeze, the movement making her jump. Her chest heaved with fear, and she fought back the panicked scream building in her chest. This wasn't home-- Elise Whitfield didn't belong in this room.

              And then her nightmare-fogged brain caught up with her racing heart, and she blew out a long sigh. Of course she belonged here. This was her new room-- if it could still be called new after she'd lived here for three years. With no photos taped to her mirror, no posters hanging on the walls, it certainly looked new. But Elise liked it this way, black and white. Everything was clear, with no complications. The only concession to personality was a large framed print of a peaceful forest scene that hung on the wall across from the mirror. As usual, gazing at the photo calmed her, even just a little. Mentally, she sighed.
Zero days without an incident,
she thought resignedly.

              She sat up, peeling her sweat-soaked sheets off in disgust. She wasn't surprised by the nightmare-- they were rare enough these days, but never far enough off that she could go to bed at night sure that she'd sleep soundly. A glance at the calendar hanging over her desk reminded her of another reason why now was apparently a good time for her subconscious to torment her-- it was Monday, September first: counting today, it was only three more days until school started.

              The first day of her senior year, the beginning of the end. Elise stood, meeting her own hazel eyes in the wide mirror over her dresser, and had to bite her lip as a wave of vertigo swept over her. She'd spent most of the summer in contented solitude; of course the prospect of returning to the circus that was high school would cause her anxiety. Still, she supposed it ought to bother her that in other houses in town, other girls her age were getting excited over going to school in a few days. Elise shook her head at herself. There was no point in wasting energy worrying because she didn't feel the way she “ought” to. The dream was behind her, the past was behind her, and before long, this year would be gone, too.

              In the meantime, the soft golden light of a summer sunrise was shining through her bedroom window, and Elise told herself forcefully that it was a lovely day for a walk.

              After a quick shower to wash off the nightmare sweat that clung to her skin, Elise dressed rapidly, eager to be outside. In deference to the late summer's heat, the shirt she tossed on was light and airy, a thin cotton t-shirt in a washed-out blue the color of the morning sky. Instead of her usual ballet flats or boots, she slipped on sandals whose laces wrapped around her ankles and up her calves. The only thing that she didn't compromise, no matter what the temperature, was her skirts: at least two layers of ankle-length petticoats, covered by a full overskirt that was long enough to hit the floor if she didn't wear heels. Today, the petticoats were light cotton and the overskirt was a pale gray linen, as cool as she could get. Other girls might walk around in tiny shorts in the east coast summer, but no amount of heat would tempt Elise into showing off her legs. She just wasn't comfortable with it anymore.

              But she was happy with the wardrobe that discomfort had shaped, and as she held her skirts daintily out of the way to sweep down the stairs and headed toward the front door of her parents' house, Elise felt her heart lift. Her nightmares, though not forgotten, were pushed firmly to the back of her mind. They could only bother her if she let them.

              On her way out the door, Elise paused to jot a quick note to her parents and sling the messenger bag she carried for school over one shoulder. Now, she headed down the block and practically skipped across the street into the park at the center of town.

              Willowdale was a small town with a lot of history, having been founded somewhere in the late sixteen hundreds. None of the buildings left were that old, but there were still a few authentic Victorian houses peppering the well-to-do streets like the one she and her parents lived on. The town was situated in southern New Jersey-- or as people who'd lived there their whole lives said it, South Jersey, the capital letters audible in their voices. Elise chuckled as she stepped off the path for a pair of sweating joggers. She'd grown up in Pennsylvania, closer to Pittsburgh than to Philadelphia, and New Jersey residents' insistence that their tiny spit of land was actually comprised of two or even three separate states was a source of much amusement to her. If she ever really talked to other students in her school, she would have shared her mirth-- but that wasn't in the cards.

              Elise strode across the dewy grass of the park, past the groups of parents who were setting up chairs to watch their children's Labor Day soccer games. She walked purposefully; she already knew where she was going.

              The Treehouse was a little coffee shop on the corner of Main Street and Park Avenue. It was a comfortable place, run by a young couple who were far more interested in making sure there were vegan options on the menu and tennis balls on the feet of the mismatched chairs than in making sure that all the barristas wore the same apron and gave the same greetings. In her old town, there had been a very nice Starbucks; it was one of the things Elise really didn't miss about the place. In this shop, no one looked at her askance no matter what she was wearing. The staff and regular customers had gotten accustomed enough to her, thanks to her frequent visits over the past few years, that only a handful of people out of the fifteen or so who were in the small shop even gave her a second glance.

              Today, Elise ordered a mug of English breakfast tea instead of coffee to go with her bagel and cream cheese. Balancing plate and steaming mug, she retreated to a small table near the fireplace-- cold at the moment, thankfully-- and pulled a notebook from her bag. Realistically, she had two days until the start of school, and she still had a few questions to finish answering on her summer reading assignment. Rolling her eyes at the busywork that was listing examples of symbolism in
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
, she got to work.

              It was some time later that a cramp in Elise's neck let her know it was time to take a break. Laying down her pen, she stretched her arms up above her head with a groan and looked around. The shop was far emptier now, the morning rush being over-- a glance at the floral-painted clock above the bar showed that it was a little after nine in the morning. In fact, aside from the barrista, who was industriously scrubbing a table near the bar, there were only four other people left in the shop. They all looked vaguely familiar, people Elise had seen there before-- an older man in business casual sat by one of the huge windows, reading a newspaper. A young, hippie-looking couple laughed together over a plate of hummus and pita. A young woman typed with furious speed on a laptop, ignoring the mug that sat cooling at her elbow. Even if Elise didn't interact much with people in town, she took pleasure in being around them, in the brief and superficial ways their lives brushed hers.

              The discordant jangling of mismatched bells drew her attention, and the barrista's, to the door of the shop. A young man walked in, and Elise actually caught her breath. He was tall, over six feet, and he walked with confident bearing that made him seem-- Elise thought for a moment, and realized the word she was looking for was
regal
. He was slender, but his shoulders were broad, and the sleeves of the button-up shirt he wore were rolled up to his elbows, exposing the wiry muscles in his forearms. His inky black hair tumbled in silken strands down over his eyes, shadowing his expression, but as he came further into the room Elise could make out his features.

              His face was strong, from his sharp cheekbones down to his firm, dimpled chin. His nose was a thin blade that cut straight from level brows down to a curved mouth that managed to be simultaneously commanding and sensuous.

              The newcomer ignored the rest of the cafe, walking straight to the counter where the barrista was standing, mouth slightly open and eyes just a little glazed. Elise could sympathize-- this man was imposing enough with his attention elsewhere; Elise wasn't entirely sure what she'd do if his focus was entirely on her.

              From across the room, Elise heard the murmur of his low voice, but couldn't make out the words. Whatever he said broke the barrista out of her daze, and she scurried to get his drink. He leaned casually against the counter, waiting patiently for her to fill his order. Looking at the creases in his gray slacks and the back of his striped shirt, Elise could tell he'd spent a while sitting, probably in a car. She sighed slightly, watching the barrista come back with a cardboard travel cup. Whoever he was, he wasn't staying here, that was for sure.

              And then he turned away from the bar, cup in hand, and looked straight at her. Elise froze, pinned by his piercing gaze, her heart thundering in her ears. For the span of a breath, she had the impression of something vast, something magnificent filling the room, reaching across the space between them, flaring over the other people there--

              Elise gasped, realizing that she was sitting there staring at him. She jerked back, heat flaring in her cheeks, as it occurred to her that she must have looked like such a shallow, wanton girl, just gazing at him with her mouth hanging open. Shaking her head fiercely, she bent her head to look at the notebook, and refused to lift it again until after she heard the bells jangle on the door.

              Pressing a hand to her burning cheek, she sighed heavily. After that embarrassment, it was for the best that she wasn't ever going to see that guy again. This was what she got for looking around at other people and being nosy. The best thing she could do was just keep her head down and hope that as she ignored other people, they'd ignore her. Putting this out of her head as well as she could, Elise focused on her work.

              The packed halls of Willowdale High School, home of the Ravens, were filled to overflowing with excited teenagers, all jostling to get to their last classes of the first day back. Lockers slammed as girls squealed and boys guffawed, and teachers tried in vain to shuffle students along. Elise reflected as she fought her way through the shoving, shouting, giggling mass of her peers that the population probably just seemed more swollen because everyone was so exuberant. Once she would have embraced the high that the first day of a new school year brought with it, would have joined in the excitement-- but that was three years ago.

              Now, she flinched back as a rowdy influx of boys bounced out of a classroom and into the crowd directly in front of her. Tensely wary of rubbing shoulders with her peers, she turned aside, clutching her small pile of textbooks and sliding between the group and the water fountains jutting out from the wall, heading for the stairs down to the second floor and her final class of the day.
My last first day
, she mused as she waited for an opening in the overflowing stairwell. It occurred to her that she probably ought to feel more nostalgic. There were parts of high school that she would certainly miss. Then she heard the raucous laughter of boys close behind her, and was reminded as they jostled her that there were other parts of high school she couldn't wait to get away from.

              Lifting her skirts in one hand and clutching her books to her chest with the other, Elise made her way gingerly through the crush of people until she could duck into the dramatic contrast of her calm, quiet eighth period Latin class.

              And froze. There, seated calmly in a desk near the center of the room, was the black-haired young man she'd seen in the coffee shop.

              He was just sitting there, innocent as a spring breeze as he gazed vaguely at the chalk board, but Elise was so shocked that for a full breath, she stood motionless in the doorway. He was too old to be in high school! At least, she'd thought he was... but seeing him now, relaxing in the desk in a t-shirt and jeans, he was so completely at ease that Elise supposed she must have been wrong.

              "Elysia!" The sound of her Latin name made Elise jump. Serena, one of her classmates, was standing with a small group of other girls, waving to her cheerfully. Smiling blandly in return, Elise made her way somewhat shakily to the seat she'd claimed two years ago, in her first year in the class, and set her books down at the desk. This put the boy a row to her left and two desks back, almost close enough to touch, but Elise was nothing if not stubborn, and refused to move just to stay away from him.

              Did she want to stay away from him? She wasn't really sure. Certainly, the look he'd given her in the coffee shop a few days ago had been far more intimate than she was comfortable with. But she couldn't deny that, assuming she'd never see him again, she'd let herself fantasize about him just a tiny bit over the past two days. And now here he was in the flesh-- was that really a bad thing? Yes, definitely... but a tiny voice inside her, one she brutally squashed, whispered,
maybe not.

              Elise glanced back tentatively-- and he was looking at her. She jumped like she'd been scalded and faced the front of the room again, pretending to be vitally interested in the chatter from her acquaintances in the class. She supposed that at least it was a good thing that at least meeting his eyes had been the same as meeting anyone else's-- there was no strange, magnificent sensation this time.
Yes, that's a good thing
, she told herself brutally, refusing to look around again until the teacher, Magistra Allison West, called the class to attention. "Salvete, discipuli," Magistra called grandly.