The transition from the cold, violent roar of the river to the absolute, ringing silence of the mansion was more jarring than the fall itself.
Deon woke with a sharp, ragged gasp, his lungs burning with the phantom weight of water. His first instinct was to reach for his throat, but his arms were heavy, pinned down by a profound sense of exhaustion. He expected the smell of river silt and wet asphalt. Instead, his nostrils were met with the sharp, clinical scent of alcohol, expensive linen, and a faint, musky perfume.
He opened his eyes and blinked against a light that was far too bright. He wasn't outside and he wasn't dead either. He was lying on a soft, bouncy bed with a pillow as soft as marshmallow and smells like expensive fabric conditioner that makes him want to go back to sleep. The bed was a masterpiece of Victorian elegance, draped in cream-colored silk that looked as though it had never been touched by a single speck of dust.
Deon tried to roll onto his stomach, but a sudden, violent jerk at his left leg sent a bolt of agony up his calf. A sharp clink echoed through the vast space—a cold, industrial sound that had no business being in a room this beautiful.
He twisted his head, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against the soft mattress. Around his ankle was a thick, padded steel cuff. It was modern, surgical in its precision, and attached to a heavy, silver-linked chain. The chain snaked across the bedsheet down to the floor so polished he could see the distorted reflection of his own pale, bruised face staring back at him. The wood beneath the bed was a rich, deep cherry, shimmering with a mirror-like finish that suggested hours of meticulous labor. The chain is probably tied around the base of a massive, four-poster bed.
"Oh, you're finally awake! You're cold and heartless, fainting on me right after you woke up," a voice sang out. It was light, airy, and utterly devoid of the gravity the situation demanded.
He remembered. He woke up already an hour earlier but this woman's presence and crazy gaze sent him unconscious. The fear and anxiousness creeped on his system making him fell back to the bed.
Deon's gaze snapped toward the window. The room was immense, flanked by towering arched windows with pristine white frames. The glass was so clean it looked nonexistent, revealing a view of a manicured garden that seemed to stretch into an endless, foggy horizon.
Leaning against one of the window frames was the woman from the bridge named Avina. She looked different now, stripped of the darkness of the night. She wore a pair of faded, heavily ripped blue jeans that hung low on her hips and an oversized white t-shirt that swallowed her slight frame. Her feet were clad in scuffed, high-top sneakers, the laces trailing haphazardly on the floor. Her hair was a wild, unbrushed nest, contrasting sharply with the terrifyingly orderly room around her.
"Where am I?" Deon managed to croak. His throat felt like it had been lined with broken glass.
"The Blackwood Estate," she said, pushing off the wall with a casual, cat-like grace. She didn't walk so much as bounce, her sneakers squeaking softly on the waxed wood. "But I just call it 'The Gallery.' It's where I keep all my favorite things. And right now, Deon, you're the centerpiece."
"You... you pushed me," he whispered, the memory of the bridge rushing back. The wind, the height, and the terrifying realization that he wanted to live just a second before she had shoved him. "I told you I didn't want to do it. Why did you push me?"
She stopped a few feet away from him, crouching down so their eyes were level. Her eyes were a piercing, electric blue, wide with a kind of frantic curiosity. "Because you were being indecisive, Deon. And I hate indecision. It's so messy. One minute you want to die, the next you want to live... It's exhausting! I just decided for you. Besides," she added, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "if I hadn't pushed you, I wouldn't have been able to save you. And saving people is the best part. It makes them mine."
"I'm not yours," Deon hissed, trying to scramble backward. The chain snapped taut, hissing against the cherry wood.
Avina's face darkened for a split second, a flash of something ancient and predatory flickering behind her eyes. Then, as quickly as it appeared, it was gone, replaced by a wide, toothy grin. She reached out and patted his cheek. Her hand was warm, which somehow made it more unsettling than if it had been cold.
"Everything in this house is mine," she said softly. She stood up and gestured to the room. "Look around, Deon. Is there a single smudge on the glass? A single grain of dust on the mantle? No. I take care of what I own. I keep it perfect. I will keep it forever."
The room was indeed perfect. To his right stood a marble fireplace, its surface white and gleaming as bone. On the mantle sat a row of porcelain figurines, all facing the same direction, their painted eyes staring blankly into the center of the room. There was no clutter. No books, no discarded clothes, no signs of life other than the two of them. It was a museum of emptiness, a place where time seemed to have been frozen by sheer force of will.
"I don't want to be here," Deon said, his voice trembling. "Please. I have a life. I have... I have things I need to do."
"You had a life you were ready to throw off a bridge," she countered, skipping over to the bed and flopping onto the silk duvet. She bounced slightly, the springs making no sound at all. "That life is over. The police are probably dragging the river for you right now. They'll find your shoe, or maybe a piece of your coat, and they'll tell everyone you're gone. You should be happy! You got exactly what you wanted. You're dead to the world."
She leaned over the edge of the bed, her messy hair hanging down like a curtain. "But here? Here, you're alive. You're my new project. My new toy. I've never had one that tried to jump before. Usually, I have to find them in other ways. But you... you were a gift from the river."
Deon looked at the chain, then at the door at the far end of the room—a heavy slab of white-painted oak with a brass handle that shone like gold. He estimated the distance. Twelve feet. Maybe fourteen. The chain was long, but not long enough to reach the exit.
"What do you want from me?" he asked, his heart sinking into a cold, dark place.
"I want you to be perfect," she said, her voice filled with a terrifyingly genuine sincerity. "I want you to sit in this beautiful room, and eat the beautiful food I make, and tell me beautiful stories. And if you try to make a mess... if you try to break my things, or yourself..."
She reached into the pocket of her oversized shirt and pulled out a small, silver folding knife. She didn't open it. She just traced the casing with her thumb, her eyes fixed on his ankle.
"Then I'll have to fix you. And my version of 'fixing' involves a lot less wax and a lot more stitches."
She stood up, the playful energy returning as she headed toward the door. "I'm going to make tea. Earl Grey. It's very elegant, don't you think? Stay put, Deon. Not that you have a choice."
She slipped out the door, the click of the lock sounding like a final prayer. Deon was left alone in the golden afternoon light, the silence of the mansion pressing in on his eardrums. He looked down at the floorboards, searching for any sign of those who had been here before him.
But there were no tally marks, there were no scratches. The floor was perfectly, terrifyingly clean.
In this house, even the evidence of your own suffering was something Avina refused to tolerate.