by Keri Lake
My gaze shifts toward Remus, who waits for me at the bottom of the stairs, that slick and slimy smile working its way beneath my skin. “At least this one is human,” I say, stepping past her, but I pause at a grip on my arm.
“I’m told his cruelty knows no limits. I’ll pray for you.”
This time, I don’t continue down the stairs on my own, but stumble forward with a hard push from behind. With Madame and Henry at my back, I reach the bottom of the staircase before the man who’s apparently won my freedom.
Behind him, the Champion who fought the creature stands flanked by four men, his head bowed, face still covered by the hard, leather mask that reminds me of a dog muzzle. A chain extends from his throat, like that of an animal, and from this distance, I have a better view of the numerous scars that mar his body. New wounds glisten with blood, and the red, inflamed skin around each gash tells me they’re already infected. He doesn’t bother to look at me as he stands stiff, muscled shoulders back, waiting for his master.
“We meet again, my unsullied beauty.” A clawed, cold hand, too soft to belong to a man, drifts down my cheek, and I can’t bring myself to look up at him. “You’re going to love your new home.”
Bouncing over the uneven terrain, in what looks like a trailer for transporting animals, I sit on a long bench across from the man who fought the creatures earlier. Three armed men separate us, and his wrists and throat are shackled to the wall of the vehicle. I’d hate to think what would happen if we were to get into an accident with him tethered that way.
The more I stare at him, the bigger he seems. Long and lean, his bulging muscles almost look unnatural, with sharp bones that poke through his skin. His hands are rough and as scarred as the rest of him, while he sits slumped against the wall of the truck, staring down toward the bed beneath his feet.
I’m no stranger to grisly-looking scars, having assisted my grandmother, and even my own father had his share of battle wounds, but these are something else. Their haphazard stitching and odd locations tell me they’re the marks of a tortured man. One who’s known incredible pain and suffering.
My Champion.
Only I don’t belong to him. I belong to the man who opted for the vehicle’s front seat, flanked by the safety of two of his men. The same men that safely escorted him from the stadium to his vehicle earlier. He must be someone important, given the entourage, but to me, he’s yet another threat out here.
Another mysterious fate I can’t begin to unravel.
None of the men I travel with seem to have any interest in me, as the guards occupy themselves with a game of cards, while the prisoner stares off in silence.
It’s only through the open back of the truck that I catch a glimpse of the passing landscape, none of which is familiar to me anymore. I’m so far away from home at this point, there isn’t a chance I’d find my way back. Not that I could go back, even if I wanted to. I’ve lost direction and the will to care.
Shifting my attention back toward the man who saved my life, I want to thank him for his bravery, but something tells me such a gesture would be met by his ridicule. He’d probably tell me he wasn’t out to save my life, and that I’m nothing but an annoying tick in his skin that he’d gladly carve out with a knife.
He didn’t choose to fight for me, from the looks of it.
“You stare long enough, he’ll turn you to stone.” One of the guard’s leans in, a man I’m guessing is in his thirties, with age lines but a full head of dark hair. “Makes him edgy.”
“He saved my life.” I steal the opportunity to say it aloud, in hopes the man hears me, but he doesn’t so much as glance over at me.
The guard snorts, tossing a skinny hand of cards onto the bed of the truck. “He doesn’t see it that way.”
“Why is that?”
“He won you on behalf of a man who enslaves him.”
“One that plans to enslave me, too?”
“I suppose that depends.”
“On what?”
“What Remus’s lover has to say about it.”
Frowning harder than before, I try to imagine my place as a virgin prize between a man and his lover. Once again, I’m uncertain of my purpose and future. If God is watching over me, as they say, he sure as hell must be getting a good laugh out of this journey.
At least somebody is.
I nod toward the slave. “What do you call him?”
“Titus. The God of Monsters.”
The man doesn’t so much as twitch at the sound of his name, as if he’s forgotten that it belongs to him. And when the other men break out in laughter over his moniker, I don’t so much as smile.
In spite of the fact that he doesn’t spare me a single look, I can’t help but stare at him, my mind rewinding to the moment when he tore away the head of the mutation. Inhuman, the way he made it look so easy.
My eyes are drawn to the muscles in his arms, hard even at rest, and the map of veins in his forearms and hands. Hands, I’d wager, could crush the skulls of the men beside me. I’ve never seen a man so impenetrable and virile, like a living, breathing stone sculpture.
It’s an hour before we reach our destination, and as the trailer rolls to a stop, a wave of anxiety rolls through me. The guards shoot to their feet, unshackling the prisoner first, and unconcerned about me as they guide the beast of a man from the back of the truck. My gaze takes in the enormity of him, as he passes, ducking his head to keep from hitting the top of the trailer.
I can’t help but wonder how a man so strong, so intimidating, can be kept a slave. It isn’t until they’ve cleared him from the truck that I follow after them, greeted by the reason the guards weren’t concerned for my escape.
Across the yard ahead of me, the earth disappears beneath the wide expanse of open sky and surrounding water.
A cliff with no barrier.
Remus reaches out his good hand for me, one I hesitate to touch at first, but the distraction of this place steals my attention once more.
I step down from the back of the vehicle, keeping my gaze ahead, and once my feet hit the ground, I slide my hand from his grasp. Chickens and goats wander about, and I notice a long, boxed garden teaming with greenery at the opposite side of the grounds.
Twisting around shows a barbed fence across the length of the open yard behind me, one that lines the perimeter of what I estimate to be a prison at one time, if the guard towers and barred windows are anything to go by. There is no escape unless one were to leap over the edge of the cliff, and as my feet draw me closer, the wind whipping at my face, I realize it’d take more than faith to survive such a jump.
“Welcome to my humble abode.” Though I know nothing of this man, his voice is like a blade across my spine, an ominous sound like thunder before lightning, and I close my eyes, praying for the strength to endure whatever hell this is. “Come with me. I want to show you around your new home.”
With a deep breath, I trail his steps into the building, where the prison lobby seems to have been slightly modified into what almost looks like an enormous sitting room, with couches and lamps, coffee tables and potted plants set about the room.
Two dogs perk up, muscled beasts that remind me of the canine version of the prisoner who fought on my behalf. They trot over to the blond, who gives them an assuring pet on the head, before they sniff my legs and invasively shove their noses between my thighs.
Sliding my hand to block them, I jump back on a gasp, and Remus chuckles beside me.
“Uncouth mongrels. Forgive them. For they know not what they do.”
With their retreat, my muscles sag with relief, but it quickly evaporates with another look around the place. A suffocating cloud of misery hangs on the air, and at the visual of the man shackled in chains, something tells me these walls have seen their share of suffering.
If my father could speak to me now, I’m certain he’d tell me I’ve fallen into the hands of the devil himself.
Chapter 11
“What do you thin
k?” Standing off to the side, Remus bites his nails, his eyes alight with some unseen fascination.
My room is one of the old prison cells, but slightly more decorated than I imagine they once were when they were actually used to house criminals. A plush, purple blanket draped over the small cot propped in the corner. A lamp with a pale purple shade, set on a small nightstand. A toilet with nothing more than a privacy curtain. Purple, of course. And a dirty, matted, purple rug in the middle of the floor.
“Agatha said you’d like purple. She said all girls like purple, so I made sure everything was purple for you.” Shuffling past me, he makes his way to the nightstand and opens the drawer, fetching out a flashlight. With a strange sort of giggle, he gives a few hard shakes and flicks it on and off. On and off. “I found this for you. You just shake it and it turns on.”
I’m familiar with these flashlights, as it’s all we use in Szolen. My mother told me that, when she was a child, flashlights used batteries, and though some batteries still exist, they’re rarely usable these days.
“In case you have to pee at night. Or hide from the monsters.”
Clearing my throat, I force a smile, the strange intricacies of the man’s personality slowly unraveling for me to see. “This, um … prison cell …. Will I be locked inside?”
“No. Well, only if you disobey. But I suspect a lady of your fine upbringing won’t be so inclined to break the rules here. Agatha assured me you wouldn’t be any trouble.”
“Who’s Agatha again?”
“My bride. To be. We’ve not, uh … tied the knot, or anything.”
“I see. And, um … how will I serve … you and Agatha?”
“By bearing a child. A daughter, preferably.”
In spite of the attempt to school my face, a harsh swallow betrays my calm, and the urge to gag tugs at the back of my throat. To hell with that. And what will he do to me when he finds I can’t bear his child? Throw me off that cliff?
“But let’s not discuss business right now. I want to get you settled and comfortable.” Eyes wide with an unnerving stare, he slides the thin strap of my dress between his mangled fingers. He trails his touch down my arm, where he lets his thumb draw a line along the edge of my breast, and my skin crawls at the sensation. “Your skin is so perfect. Unmarked. Stunning.”
“Thank you.” The sound of my voice seems to draw his eyes back to mine, and I swear his pupils look like slits.
“Get settled. In the meantime, I’ll have some food prepared.”
I’ve kept an open mind up until now, certain that each place was a better alternative to Mother Chilson, or the perils I’d face out on the Deadlands. I’m not so sure here. A niggling feeling tells me I need to be cautious with this man, and to have an escape plan.
An unbidden memory of my father sitting on the porch beside me, telling his stories, surfaces in my mind. Know the lay of the land and its weak spots, he always said, as if he somehow knew I’d be at the mercy of this world. “Would it be alright to explore my home?” I ask.
Remus’s brows wing up. “Of course! It’s your home, and I assure, you are quite safe to roam freely.”
With as demure a smile as I can muster, I nod. “Thank you.”
“Yes. Yes, enjoy yourself.” He steps aside for me, and I lower my gaze as I pass. “And Thalia … Agatha and I … we’re very happy you’re here.”
Scratching the back of my neck, I offer one more nod and keep on out of the prison block and back down to the lobby. At the sight of guards gathered at the front door, I back myself toward a door behind me that wasn’t included in my brief tour with Remus.
The dark stairwell beyond advises me to turn back around, but my feet carry me forward, down, down, into what must be the lowest level of the prison. When I reach the bottom, a dim light flickers over another door. Always a door. Beside it is a stool, and an ashtray filled with cigarettes paints a picture of a guard standing by.
Opening the door leads to a long corridor with one flickering bulb. At each side of the hallway are more doors, white steel ones with small windows, and it’s only because of the whispers that carry through those tiny windows that I feel compelled to peek inside.
Rising up on my tiptoes, I peer through glass to find a dark void on the other side.
The door thumps at the same time as a mutilated face steps into view.
On a gasp, I stumble backward, my view widening on the thrashing Rager snapping his teeth at me. Heart pounding in my chest, I exhale a held breath and close my eyes to settle my rattled nerves.
Jesus.
As the growls die down, the whispers grow louder, and I move to the next door in search of them. Rising up as before, I recoil on reflex, anticipating another Rager. At the stillness on the other side, I peer inside to find a massive figure slumped against the wall. Only the light directly behind me gives enough illumination to see it’s Titus on the other side. His wounds still glisten with blood from the earlier battle, and he doesn’t bother to acknowledge me staring in at him.
This is where they keep him locked up like an animal. A sad and lonely beast of a man, who happens to be the reason I’m breathing, chained to a dirty stone wall. My heart aches at the sight of him.
The whispers keep on, drawing my feet toward the next door.
“Hey!” The sound of a commanding voice turns my spine to ice, and I twist to find a guard standing in the doorway, one hand on the weapon at his hip. “You shouldn’t be down here.”
“I’m sorry. I just …. I was just …” Abandoning my curiosity, I shuffle toward him, and he steps aside, allowing me to pass.
Darkness gives way to light as I hustle up the staircase toward the door at the top, and as I push through, the sight of Remus waiting there nearly sends me tumbling back down. I clutch my chest to catch my breath.
“There you are! Come on, Thalia. I’d like you to join Agatha and I for dinner.”
It takes a woman to recognize the distaste sketched in the subtle facial expressions of the blonde sitting across from me. Agatha shares the same bright blue eyes as the man at the head of the table, but where his carry a vacancy to them, hers are shrewd and perceptive.
A bowl of soup, which looks to be mostly water, a few chunks of meat, and potatoes, is set before me, and I glance up toward the serving woman, who smiles warmly, resting her hand on my back as she places a spoon into the bowl. Silvery hair and wrinkles puts her somewhere in her late sixties, maybe seventies, and her almond-shaped eyes remind me of the gypsies with native blood back at home.
“Thalia, this is Lisbeth. She and her sister, Aiyana, do all the cooking and washing.” The cordiality in Remus’s tone is unnatural and unfitting, like a sharply pointed square trying fit inside the smooth curves of a circle.
Offering a friendly smile, I nod. “Hello, Lisbeth.”
Lips sealed, she nods back.
“She can’t talk. Her tongue was cut out,” Remus adds with the nonchalance of a true psychopath, as he feeds a spoonful of soup into his mouth with his clawed fingers.
After another light pat on my back, Lisbeth hobbles toward a tray of bowls set off to the side, retrieving one and placing it in front of Agatha.
Gaze on me, Agatha leans in just enough to drink the soup from her spoon, before setting it down into the bowl with the kind of dainty grace that contrasts her lover’s obnoxious slurps. “Remus tells me that you were born in Szolen.” The innocent curiosity in her voice betrays a knowing look in her eyes, telling me I need to be careful with this one and choose my words wisely.
“I was.”
“You’re a Daughter. The chosen pure.” She spits the words like they’re a bitter taste on her tongue.
“I didn’t actually get that far. I knocked the priest out before he had the chance to ordain me.” It’s not something I’m entirely proud of, but the unamused look on her face tells me she’s not impressed, anyway.
“Thalia is quite the little vixen, however chaste.” Remus leans back in his chair, eyes on me a
s he licks the remains of the slurped soup from his lips. “My favorite moment was when she spat in Madame Beaumont’s face after the games.”
Agatha rolls her eyes. “How bold.” Gaze dipping, she tips her head. “What a pretty necklace.”
I suddenly wish my neckline wasn’t exposed, given the longing in her eyes. “It belonged to my grandmother.”
“I’ve always wanted pearls. Hard to come by out here.”
“Thalia … perhaps you wouldn’t mind allowing Agatha to borrow your necklace this evening?”
“It’s … a family heirloom. It means--” I don’t bother to finish, guessing that anything meaningful to me makes it twice as coveted. “I don’t actually think it’s a real pearl.”
“Still. It’s pretty. I want it.”
“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you. I’m not giving you my necklace.”
Lips curved to a fake smile, Remus tips his head. “Seems petty to guard something you suspect is worthless.”
“It’s worth isn’t measured in its authenticity.”
“Perhaps it’s a measure of your freedom, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re certainly entitled to keep the necklace.” He waves his hand in the air, as if dismissing my refusal as nothing but impudence. “Just as we’re entitled to lock you in your cell. Your choice.”
Bastard.
“Fine. She can borrow it.” Unhooking the clasp, I remove the necklace from my neck and reach across the table to deposit it next to her.
With a bright, undoubtedly feigned smile, Agatha lifts it from the table and fastens it around her neck. “As if it was made for my skin tone. Don’t you agree, Remus?”
“Absolutely. I like it better on you.”
The guard I ran into down in the lower level steps into the room and crosses to stand behind Remus, who remains sort of sprawled in his chair, his eyes still drinking me in from across the table as they rove me up and down. “Sir, my apologies for interrupting.”
