Ceifador X: The Knight’s Rose Prequel Read online

  This man didn’t sound dangerous, not even the slightest.

  Click.

  My stomach plummeted to the ground.

  “What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asked before turning the last lock.

  My cheeks crimsoned, and I introduce myself. “Bianca.”

  “Beautiful name.”

  I nodded wildly, and I took a step back, preparing for him to open the door. “What’s yours?”

  “Antonio. Why are you locked inside?” he asked again, this time hoping for a straight answer.

  “I’m sick,” I confessed, playing with the drawstring of my baby pink plaid pajama pants which were far too large for me even in the smallest size they came in. “But it’s not contagious,” I reassured.

  “I’m drunk,” he confessed. “And it’s contagious… when you have a bottle.”

  I smiled so hard I thought my face was going to split in two. No wonder his words were a little put together.

  “Are you going to open the door?”

  He let out a long, heavy sigh I wished so badly I could feel against my face.

  “I shouldn’t, should I, Bianca?”

  My heart skipped.

  “Say it again,” I begged.

  “What?” He chuckled uneasily.

  “My name. Say my name again.” It came out bratty.

  Antonio said nothing.

  “Sorry, sorry. I guess that was weird. Sorry.” I cringed at my behavior.

  That's what I got for my little to no people skills. I never thought before I spoke or acted. I took another step back from the door, from the man behind it, feeling like we needed space. Because apparently, the door between us wasn’t enough.

  “No, it wasn’t… Bianca.” He spoke my name like it was made for his lips, leaving my cheeks rosy and red.

  I bit the tip of my tongue and glared at the doorknob.

  Just one more click, I thought.

  “Why are you locked inside?” Antonio asked again.

  I was going to give him the same answer as before until I thought about the question.

  “Because I try to escape.”

  “Escape?”

  I nodded, forgetting he couldn't see me. “I try to leave my room. A lot.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I shouldn’t be caged, but I have to be.”

  Antonio hummed, “Where do you escape?”

  “The library. It’s the blue door, in front of the stairs.”

  “So, if I were to open the door, you would try to run?”

  I let out one single nervous giggle, “I won’t get far.”

  Antonio unleashed a soulful laugh I immediately recorded in my head for one of my bad days when I needed a pick-me-up.

  “So, you would try to escape,” he said while laughing.

  Not if you come inside.

  “Are you going to unlock the door?” I asked again, impatiently.

  “Nothing good comes from anything that’s locked,” he hesitated, contemplating his decision to be here.

  The truth was, he shouldn’t have been here. I should’ve told him to leave, but I was selfish and wanted the faceless man behind the locked door.

  “Dangerous things lie behind locked doors and cages, Bianca,” his tone, dark.

  I heard Antonio take a step back, and I quickly moved forward. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted the last click, the turn of the handle, and the eyes of a man my father claimed to be evil.

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “Our hearts are behind a cage. Does that make them dangerous?”

  If it was possible to hear a smirk, I heard it.

  “Like you wouldn't believe. The heart is the most dangerous part of a human, Bianca.” He took another step back. “Talvez você seja ingênuo e jovem demais para entender.”

  That wasn’t Spanish.

  “What language was that?”

  “Portuguese. I'm Brazilian.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Perhaps you're too naive and too young to understand.”

  His words hit me, hard. I was too much of everything that proved I’d grown up in a cage.

  Too naive and wise.

  Too young and dying.

  Too caged and lost.

  “I’m not dangerous, Antonio. I promise you.”

  Silence never felt as painful as it did in that empty minute.

  Click.

  I held my breath as I stared at the doorknob with a full smile, anticipating it to open.

  Click.

  It never did. Instead, I was trapped again.

  My heart dropped to the floor, and my body became hollow and empty. Antonio never planned on letting me free. A hot, fat tear burned down my cheek as I sniffed. He heard it but never said anything.

  “I’m not dangerous, Antonio,” I pleaded as if my life was on the line.

  “Maybe you’re not, but that doesn’t mean I’m not, Bianca.”

  He left.

  I fell.

  I sat on the soft carpet, my ear pressed to the door as I heard Antonio leave me. I’d felt many pains in my life, but by far, this was the worst of them all. It was in the heart and soul, only two things that still made me whole.

  Chapter Two

  I finished another painting and slid the canvas across the floor behind me. The canvas wooden frame hit another painting I’d finished about ten minutes ago, but I wasn’t done yet. Squeezing half a tube of black paint on my fresh new canvas, I painted it black, like the rest of them.

  It was midnight, and I wasn’t in the mood to paint anything that involved my brain at least. So, I painted my square white canvases black.

  I tossed another painting behind me and set a new canvas on the easel. I squeezed a little bit of paint on the tip of my brush and began to paint a detailed eye like the ones I’d seen in the anatomy book in the library, thinking of Antonio.

  It’s been two weeks since I met Antonio. His voice still lingered in my head, and I abused the memory of his laugh. It’s been two weeks, and my heart still didn’t feel like it once did. It felt like my voice after a cold. Once raspy and deep, and even after it had healed, my voice still didn’t feel like it belonged to me.

  I painted over the unfinished eye then finished another five paintings. I was on the last canvas, the seventeenth painting while sixteen black squares dried behind me.

  Click, click, click.

  “You overslept… again,” I scolded Camila, never turning around. “I already took my pills. If you don’t believe me, check the case.” I pointed backward with my paintbrush toward the bathroom door across my room.

  She said nothing.

  Camila was easier to read than a picture book. She was most likely speechless, shaking her blonde head, all while thinking, ‘All you do is waste, Bianca.’

  She was a bitter woman. Three times divorced, no kids, and only wore a smile and unbuttoned the top of her blouse when Papa came to visit me each morning. She liked him, it was obvious, but she was five years older than Papa, and he claimed he hadn’t been on a date since Mama died. I’m not sure I believed that. It was easy to lie to a girl who lived in a cage.

  “My things, my doing,” I spoke before she could. I stabbed my brush into the canvas, spreading the black. “If I want to throw them across the room and break the frame, watch me. If I want to stab the canvas into an X, just give me a knife. If I want to set them on fire and burn this whole room down, just give me a flame, and I’ll gladly show you. You can even have a nice seat in the middle and enjoy the warmth, Camila.” I smiled.

  It wasn’t the first time I joked about hurting Camila.

  Did I mean it? I wasn’t entirely sure the answer was no.

  Like I said, Camila was a bitter woman. A woman who loved to have any excuse to talk to Papa and make her life easier. By telling Papa what I just said, that meant I wasn’t allowed to go to the library or have my window open for a week or two. That meant Camila didn’t have to watch me in t
he library or make sure I didn’t fall out the window when I stuck half my body outside so I could breathe. She basically didn't have to do her job, allowing her more time with Papa. A win-win in her book.

  I knew a week or two without my library would be horrible, but my words were my freedom. And I wasn't going to bottle them up. Regardless if they were ill-mannered and full of spite, they were unleashed.

  “I can do whatever I want when Papa tries to pay for my happiness. And right now, painting them black. Makes. Me. Happy.” I tightly clenched my teeth with each word as I furiously swiped the brush across the canvas.

  I exhaled deeply and sharply turned around.

  It wasn’t Camila.

  It wasn’t Papa.

  It wasn’t even a nurse.

  It was a man dressed in black wearing a metal skull for a face.

  My eyes widen as I choked my paintbrush in my small fists. I held my breath airtight as if this man's sole purpose was to steal it.

  His mask was the first thing my eyes were fixed on. It was a distressed dark silver mask that resembled a skull. The black hollowed eyes looked permanently angry, the cheekbones were sharp and eager for a victim, and the teeth were long and jagged, covering the whole bottom half of the man’s face. The mask had no jaw, and the man matched it, remaining voiceless. I focused on his neck. It was the only exposed skin he had, but it was painted. Muscles and bones, black and white.

  A chill shot down my spine when he stepped over a black square and stopped. I moved back in fear, almost tripping over my bare feet until the wall behind me caught my fall. My chest heaved, and my beating heart was stuck in my throat.

  He stepped over another black square, and I blinked once, taking a mental picture.

  Sixteen square black holes in the ground and a man dressed in black wearing a metal skull for a face, stepping over them. He wore glossy shoes, fitted pants, a glossy belt with a matte buckle, a button-down, and finally, leather gloves.

  He took another step, six squares away, and my body temperature rose with fear and lust. I knew it wasn’t the correct response, but I loved the new feeling. It felt like I was burning and drowning without feeling the pain, enjoying the deadly beauty that surrounded me. I was in the middle of chaos but remained untouchable, shielded, and safe.

  He took another step, and my mind wandered at his being, his darkness, in my white room. My room had never been that dark.

  When he came closer, I noticed his hair. Dark gray on the sides, but dark brown at the top, peppered with silver. Before the man dressed in black came too close, I stuck out my paintbrush and jabbed it in his torso, spreading black paint on his tie.

  The man was taller than Papa, and a giant amongst me, standing a foot above.

  I inhaled deeply. Sweat, cigarettes, alcohol, and a touch of cologne. I filled my lungs with him again, focusing on the scent of his bad habits which almost felt therapeutic.

  He pushed himself into my brush while simultaneously pulling out two objects. One from his back pocket, the other from his front. One a switchblade and the other a metal lighter. Both black. Both matte. Both engraved.

  “Which one do you want, gorgeous.” His voice had my heart in a chokehold.

  “An-Antonio?” I stammered, dropping my mighty weapon.

  He flicked the lighter open and sparked a flame, then switched the blade open and brought it close to my cheek. The flat cold edge of the blade rested on my warm skin, coating my body with a thick layer of goosebumps. My lower stomach trembled, and without control, I whimpered.

  Ten seconds passed, I counted, and I never looked away from his hollowed eyes covered in black mesh. I was petrified, but not. As menacing as Antonio looked and as grimaced as he spoke, I felt safe.

  “You’re dying, Bianca. Pick one and have fun.”

  The words were painful, both for him to say and for me to be reminded of.

  Most of the time, I forgot what I looked like. I covered my eyes when I walked past the mirror in the bathroom and the only time I opened them was when I had to put on my wig. It killed Papa to see me as I was, a walking and living corpse. Ghastly pale, skin and bones, and no hair.

  Swallowing my innocence, I dropped my head down to my thin feet, feeling foolish and naive that I had forgotten I looked like a dying girl in the presence of someone who lived. Although dressed like modern-day Death, Antonio was a man I’d worshiped from head to toe.

  “I have leukemia.” I gave him the answer before he even asked.

  It was the first and last time we ever talked about my cancer. We both neglected reality, more specifically, the end of my existence.

  He swallowed his lighter in his leather fist and placed his forefinger knuckle under my chin ever so gently.

  “Look at me,” he commanded calmly.

  I didn't want to move, but I did. Antonio took control of my body with just his voice and soft touch. My glossy eyes linked with his hallowed ones, but I felt hot tears plummet down my cheeks.

  “Tell me which one you want, gorgeous.” He offered me his hands again while I took his compliment with a giggle. I rubbed my tears away and picked the weapon that first caught my dangerous eyes.

  The switchblade.

  “Perfect choice.” He shoved the lighter back in his front pocket. “But promise me you won’t stab Camila. She’s a horny bitch who tries to fuck anything that resembles a cock, but I doubt it’s worth her life.”

  My face twisted with confusion.

  “I-I don’t understand that sentence. Bitch means female dog, I know that. Cock means rooster, but I’m not sure how that applies. But, ummm, horny and fuck? Like horny as in horns and fuck as in—” I went quiet. I’ve never heard or read that word.

  Antonio became stiff. “How-how old are you, Bianca?”

  “Seventeen,” I lied, dropping my head.

  I was too small and too naive to pass for anything but my real age. Not to mention, my long sleeve pink shirt with the word, ‘ANGEL,’ written across my flat chest wasn’t helping my case.

  “Is that true?” he asked sternly.

  Antonio’s whole demeanor was calm, yet the kind of calm that was frightening when he became serious. It’s when I saw the darkness attached to him. There was something about him that felt like he was the one that belonged in a locked room. Not me. Or maybe both of us.

  “How old are you, Bianca?” His voice thickened as did his accent. Goosebumps flew across my body from his strict tone. Slowly, I raised my head and owned my truth.

  “Fourteen.”

  He paused, then finally said, “You’re very young…”

  Never had such a truthful comment caused me so much physical pain. It stabbed every inch of my body, leaving me wounded and helpless. “My birthday’s in a month. I’ll be turning fifteen on the thirteenth,” I blurted out, hoping it might change the way Antonio saw me.

  It didn’t.

  Antonio softly chuckled. “Mine too. Lucky number treze.”

  I moved closer to him, staring at the top of his messy styled hair. It was deceiving. He sounded and looked young, but his hair argued with his age.

  I addressed his follicle when I asked, “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-eight going on twenty-nine.”

  I nodded, not really sure how to respond. Antonio was older, much older, but I found that more attractive for some odd reason.

  “Why do you have gray hair? Not even Papa has gray hair.”

  “Premature gray hair is promised to those with the Castillo blood. I got my first gray hair when I turned fourteen and should be all gray by now, but I’m a late bloomer. Like minha Mamãe,” he said as he ran his hand through his hair.

  “I got my first gray hair last week,” I joked.

  It’s how I coped.

  Antonio burst into laughter. His laugh sent jolts of electricity to my heart until he stopped, slapping his hand over his metal skull.

  “Oh, foda-se. I didn’t-I didn’t mean to laugh. I’m sorry.” Antonio’s voice was full of regret.
“I didn’t mean to laugh at you, linda.”

  I shrugged. “Not many people understand dark humor, let alone like it.”

  Antonio let out a puff of laughter.

  “Those who are friends with Death are people who should be feared.” He bent down, our eyes on the same level and only inches away. His breathing became slow and calculated. “You’re someone I have to fear, Bianca Di Vaio.”

  With blushed cheeks, I laughed. The idea of a little girl like me making a grown man fear me was preposterous. But the humor didn’t last. My face fell instantly, and I dropped my switchblade.

  “You’re-you’re bleeding,” I choked.

  I never seen anyone else’s blood. I’d seen mine a hundred times, but to see someone else’s. Hurt.

  Antonio touched his chin. The blood seeped from under his mask and down his painted neck. He chuckled at the blood on his glove and wiped it off his shirt.

  “Don’t worry, it’s normal.”

  “Normal?”

  “I get nosebleeds when I drink too much.” He bounced one shoulder. “Oops.”

  “We can take off your mask, and I can clean you up.” I swallowed, hoping he’d let me.

  Antonio crossed his arms and stared at me until his head lazily rolled to the dollhouse. He completely ignored me, the blood glazing his neck and hitting the top of his black collar.

  “I think you’re younger than fourteen.”

  “What? No, I’m not,” I snapped, no longer feeling sorry for Antonio.

  “Then why do you have a dollhouse, bebê?”

  Baby. That’s what he called me.

  “Papa gave it to me so I can see the rest of the house. It’s an exact replica,” I pointed out, crossing my arms and raising my nose in the air.

  Antonio laughed. Walking to the dollhouse, he took a seat on the carpet in front of it like I did.

  “Like hell it fucking is. The basement’s all wrong.” He pointed his fingers in the basement, moving around the furniture.

  “How would you know?” My eyes narrowed as I made it to his sculpted back only a few feet away.

  “I live there with minha tio—my uncle.”

  Antonio went up the dollhouse, rearranging the furniture in each room. He found his way up to my room and picked up the dollhouse inside the dollhouse. He held it gently in his palm, hypnotized.