Shackled Serenity

by Leon Logos

  “They haven’t showed themselves yet,” Desmos said dismissively.

  “But one of them was in the basement! The one I saw in the forest!”

  “Wait, what—”

  “WATCH OUT!” she screamed.

  Desmos reacted before she even opened her mouth; a figure snuck up behind him and slammed the back of his head. In an instant, he collapsed onto the ground lifelessly. He was knocked out—just like that. In the blink of an eye, enemies surrounded her; more Aurelian henchmen, and the Venator, who had felled Desmos. She searched all directions for an escape route, but none came into view. She was cornered.

  Serenity gaped down at Desmos, who was unconscious, flat on his chest. Never before had she seen him look so pathetic and defeated. The Venator was undeniably a master of stealth.

  It was temping to make a run for it, but where would she go? There were no openings. This was the end for her; they’d just kill her here. Serenity dropped down to her knees wretchedly. The Venator approached her slowly, halting at her feet. He motioned for her to stand; she obeyed acquiescently, expecting to be put down at any moment. Her eyes were dead, and her heart was lifeless. She had known all along that her life would lead to this—that it would inevitably result in one outcome: death.

  She stared up at the Venator, his face totally concealed under the mask and hood. Behind that mask, two human eyes were scrutinizing her. What they were thinking, and what their intentions were, could never be discovered.

  “Why so dispirited?” an extremely low, but surprisingly euphonious voice asked her; it belonged to the Venator.

  “Just kill me…” she said, crestfallen.

  “You’re not meant to die, not tonight.”

  She hadn’t the faintest idea what he meant by this. But essentially, he had affirmed that he wasn’t going to kill her. Not at the moment, at least. Several of the henchmen were huddled around Desmos, eager to kill him; their knives were brandished, waiting in anticipation for the command.

  “Sir, we should leave promptly,” one of them said. “The other Carlisles will be here soon. We haven’t managed to eliminate even one, but we’ve captured the objective. Too many of our numbers have dwindled.”

  “Affirmative,” the Venator responded. “As for elimination, we’ve got one at our mercy. Dispose of him if you’d like. The first son of Gunther.”

  There was a wave of malicious laughter at this comment. She watched in horror as the henchmen began discussing numerous execution methods, intending to “dispose” of Desmos with style. One suggested disemboweling, another lynching. They got worse by the second.

  “W-wait,” she stammered. “What do you want with me…?”

  “You’re coming with us,” one of the henchmen said.

  “But why? I’m a Carlisle too.”

  More laughter followed this question, but no answer came. She then spun around as voices pervaded the air in the distance. Somebody was calling, yelling out into the forest. She recognized those voices; they belonged to the brothers. The Venator seized her by the scruff of her neck in case she tried to flee. He nodded at his henchman, signaling for them to finish the job. Three horses suddenly galloped into the small clearing they were in, their saddles intact. Moments after, gunshots exploded. They were being fired upon rapidly. All the henchmen took cover, dispersing away from Desmos and out into the darkness. The brothers must’ve gotten ammunition from the toolshed.

  Serenity realized that her chance of rescue was yonder. She began resisting again, struggling against the Venator’s grasp. As expected, he wasn’t fazed. However, it didn’t take long for him to become irked at her squirming. He elbowed her over the head, silencing her for good.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Further darkness. That’s all that welcomed her when she awakened. It was easy to conjecture that she was in the back of a truck, considering the sound of the engine and the frequent jerking as the vehicle drove over rough roads. She didn’t possess the strength even to move a finger. Her hands and feet were neither chained nor bound, and there was no sack or gag over her head or mouth. It was cold, and the fact that it was dark simply supplemented the overall tribulation.

  A splitting headache caused her tremendous discomfort, rendering her immobile and unable to think clearly. Scared and clueless, she propped her knees against her chest, wrapping her arms around them and hugging herself. She knew what had happened to her; the Aurelians had captured her.

  Where she was being taken was also a mystery. Back to their hideout? Their residence? Neither one appealed to her, making her skin crawl. Her mind was engineered by Gunther to contain a grievous aversion to anything “Aurelian,” despite not knowing the reasoning behind this resentment.

  She was unaware of the others’ fate. To her recollection, the Aurelians did not get a chance to finish off Desmos. The others had made it on time to attack. But by the looks of it, the Aurelians had escaped with her.

  So this would be farewell. For the longest time, she had always dreamt of leaving her family permanently. Now, somebody had given her this opportunity, taking her away from them (most likely forever). But what awaited her, she could not surmise. And whether her new destination would be beneficial or detrimental to her wellbeing was also unknown—though, it had to be bad. The Aurelians hated her.

  A dismal aura permeated the back of the truck, shrouding her like a cloak enfolded upon a king. She was too distraught to weep and too dispirited to conceive an escape plan. It was inevitable that this truck would stop at its destination, and she’d be dragged out of it. Her powerless, incompetent self was incapable of resistance. There was shame in conceding that she truly was a paragon of incapacity and impuissance. She was supposed to turn out like the others; they were all raised and trained by the same man, yet she ended up as the antithesis of the family. To this day, it was unclear who to blame. Gunther, who perhaps failed in her fostering? Or herself, simply impeded by her disposition to passiveness.

  After a period of pensive contemplation, slumber overwhelmed her, and she then fell asleep. Her eyelids drooped, and her mind went blank, prompting her to give in to sleep in taciturn acquiescence.

  “Give it here!” she bellowed.

  The three boys taunted and mocked her, laughing obnoxiously. Behind them were the other schoolchildren, watching her in amusement. The local playground was always copiously packed with the romping children in the community. They came here daily to play and hang out. These three boys were some of her sixth-grade classmates. Serenity reached up onto her tip-toes, grasping for a butterfly knife that belonged to her but was not currently in her possession. However, the tallest of the three boys held it up high in the air, out of her reach; he was two years older than her, at thirteen. His cheeks were conspicuously freckled, and his ginger hair resembled fire, especially as it glinted under the blazing sun.

  “Little kids shouldn’t be playing with knives,” the ginger boy sneered. “But you’re just as little as I am!” she countered.

  This statement struck a nerve in the ginger boy. He shoved her hard, knocking her off of her feet. Serenity recovered from the fall quickly, brushing grass off her knees. She didn’t want to fight; it was three-on-one, and she didn’t want to look more like a freak.

  “Whose little now?!” he spat.

  “SERENITY,” barked a voice.

  A prickle of fear circulated throughout her body. She spun around, diffidently waiting for Desmos to approach her. “What’re you doing here? Father says it’s time to leave!”

  “H-he’s got my knife,” she mumbled.

  Desmos inspected the three boys and evaluated the scene. The butterfly knife in the ginger boy’s hand caught his attention. Instead of assisting her with this predicament or defending her, he did the contrary.

  “Then take it back. What are you waiting for?” the fourteen-year-old leader said sternly.

  “Because I can’t,” her voice faded.

  She bowed her head ashamed, too frightened to look Desmos in the eye.
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  “You’re pathetic,” Desmos exhaled sourly. “Lucky we have to go…”

  Without warning, without a single word, Desmos punched the ginger boy in the jaw. The butterfly knife dropped to the ground as the boy staggered backward. But Desmos wasn’t finished with him; grabbing his collar, he pulled him forward and then kneed him in the face.

  By the end of it, the ginger boy’s face was gushing with blood, his nose broken. The other two boys ran out of fear as the other kids watched in horror. She was equally as horrified; this wasn’t she wanted. The boy may have been a bully, but he didn’t deserve to be beaten like this.

  “Pick up your damn knife, and let’s go,” said Desmos, walking away.

  “You didn’t need to do that,” she said startled.

  Desmos stopped in his tracks, turning his head to face her.

  “You’re right,” he said coldly. “I didn’t. But drill this into your head; don’t expect any help from anyone you’re unwilling to help in the first place. In other words, if you somehow manage to be of some use one day—maybe somebody might return the favor. Other than that, expect nobody to give a shit about you. You’re worthless.”

  Serenity awakened; again in the back of the dark moving truck. However, the truck wasn’t moving currently. It was stationary, and there wasn’t a sound coming from outside.

  She recalled what she had dreamt about. It boggled her why the memory came back to her now, and why this one in particular resurfaced. She had forgotten about it completely. There were plenty of other unforgettable memories etched into her head that eclipsed the inconsequential ones.

  It was hard to believe that just two weeks ago, she was in Sequim, attending school as a normal kid. Associating herself with Tony, and letting him inveigle her, was a catalyst to all of this: Amara’s passing, the escape from the country, the week living with Patrick and Helena, and ultimately her capture. No matter how thoroughly and scrupulously she pondered, the culpability always landed on her. Everything was her fault—partially, at least.

  She continued to shiver convulsively, keeping her eyes closed. The minutes dragged on, gradually transitioning into hours. She lost track of time quickly, not straining to infer how long it had been since awakening.

  It wasn’t until another hour when someone finally showed themselves. She flinched as the doors of the truck were unlocked and opened, producing a raucous grating sound. Light streamed into the vicinity for the first time in hours, but a blinding light at that. She covered her eyes, squinting as a lens flare overwhelmed her gaze. Figures were pointing flashlights at her. She estimated at least four of them.

  A person clambered into the truck and approached her. He grabbed her by her sweater violently and pulled her to her feet. Serenity held onto him for assistance as he virtually dragged her away. It was cold inside the truck but even colder outside in the night. She observed her surroundings; four important-looking men in suits were escorting her through some gates. They weren’t wearing masks, and she wasn’t being chained. She looked away from them and shifted her gaze forward.

  Her jaw almost dropped: she was being led into the property of a mammoth estate, the size of a palace. Her first thought was that it was beautiful and did not appear hostile to her at all. There was a garden with rainbows of flowers, trimmed hedges, and freshly-cut grass. The garden also contained an enormous fountain with a sculpture in the center. The decadent house itself was both lengthy and towering, with at least fifty windows. The entire estate was heavily guarded; there were guards at every corner, all over the roof, even in the bushes. The cobblestone path she was walking on stretched for at least a quarter of a mile.

  The architecture of the house was unconventionally intricate; it was both contemporary and Victorian-looking, too exquisite to describe accurately. Each window was incandescently illuminated, the lights on.

  Whoever owned this property had to be a billionaire. Black Escalades drove past them frequently, circling the property thoroughly. The security truly was preeminently fortified. In fact, it looked more guarded than the White House. Serenity looked around at the men escorting her; they paid her no mind, their heads facing forward. As they stopped by the large set of double doors into the house, she assumed it was safe to ask questions.

  “Where am I?” she asked, her voice low.

  There was no response. One of the men knocked on the doors, then stepped back, placing his hands behind his back patiently. His posture was sophisticated, erect, and professional.

  “Where am I?” she repeated, much louder.

  “Quiet!” snapped one of the men. “Speak only when spoken to!”

  Serenity flinched at the abrupt response, obeying automatically. They waited silently for another minute or so before the double doors were opened, revealing a tall, slender man in a fancy tailcoat. He looked to be in his thirties and was clearly not a servant or butler; on the contrary, he appeared to be an individual of high status, judging by his extravagant attire and magisterial air of authority. The man wore a pleased smile.

  “We’ve been expecting you,” he said, his voice mellow and English. “Please, before you step in, wipe your feet on the doormat below you. We don’t want to inconvenience the maids any further.”

  Serenity did so, only after noticing the other men doing it. The man stepped out of the way, gesturing them inside. She looked around as they entered a grand high-ceilinged entrance hall. The floor was sparkling marble, and the décor was flawlessly decorated. Six statues (of aristocratic-looking men), three on each side of the room, sat magnificently. There were enormous landscape and surrealist paintings pinned on the walls, copiously and evenly hung up. The entrance hall resembled an art gallery due to the ornamentation. At the end of the hall was another set of double doors, but there were also doors on both the right and left sides of the room. She followed the tailcoat man as instructed, her escorts marching behind her closely and watchfully.

  Inexplicably, most of the tension and disconcertment she was initially feeling inside had vanished; this place in no way evoked fear inside her, but rather curiosity. She had expected to be taken to a dilapidated shack and beaten to death, not an aesthetically-pleasing mansion. However, apprehension and wariness still were plentiful.

  The tailcoat man led them through the second set of double doors, which led to a courtyard outside. A giant fountain stood in the center of the courtyard, with a Hellenistic sculpture. The courtyard was enclosed by outdoor arched hallways, leading to different parts of the estate. But the tailcoat man guided them straight ahead towards the main house. The doors this time were already wide open, ushering them inside into another entrance hall with a lavish, gold-trimmed double staircase. This estate was looking more and more palatial and sumptuous by the minute, cementing the belief that the owners of the property were extremely wealthy.

  In between the stairs was yet another set of grand double doors. The tailcoat man knocked tenderly on the door three times. Serenity looked behind her, shocked to realize that the men in suits were longer behind her. She had been too focused on following the tailcoat man to notice when and where they had disappeared. While they were waiting, she was finally addressed.

  “My name is Dorian,” he said, bowing his head cordially. “I expect you to reciprocate the formality, even though I know well enough who you are.”

  “Serenity,” she said, bowing her head languidly.

  “Hmmm…” Dorian said, scrutinizing her eyes with his green irises. “Do you not take pride in your surname? Or are you hiding it out of fear?”

  “Why am I here? What is this place?” she asked tentatively.

  “Patience is a virtue,” said Dorian didactically, wagging a skeletal finger at her.

  He turned back towards the door, arms dangling at his sides. In other words, she wasn’t getting a straightforward answer—not yet.

  The doors swung open. Dorian led the way inside. They walked into a spacious high-ceilinged hall, likewise to the entrance hall at the front of the estate, exc
ept a bit smaller. Eight armed guards stood threateningly by the door, glowering at her as she walked. They halted by a large round table. Dorian told her to sit, taking a seat himself. Across from Serenity was another man of opulent appearance; he wore six diamond rings, a pendant around his neck, and a dark blue overcoat. His light-colored hair was neatly combed backward, and he had an enigmatic but gracious smile. What perplexed her was his age; the man looked middle-aged and wise, yet young. Youthful and winsome, his skin clear and unblemished.

  “Shall we commence?” Dorian asked.

  “No, let’s wait for some of the others,” said the man patiently. “So, this is the girl…is that you—what did he call you again—Serenity?”

  “Welcome to the Aurelian residence,” the man said delightfully.

  She blinked. Of course. Why hadn’t it occurred to her? But what threw her off was how rich they were. There had been rumors and hints throughout her lifetime, denoting the Aurelians’ wealth. But this exceeded her expectations astoundingly.

  “Um…” she began, unsure where to start. “Do you own this place…?”

  “It’s grand, isn’t it?” the man nodded.

  “A-all of it?”

  He nodded once more.

  “Are you going to kill me?” she asked, itching for the answer.

  Both Dorian and the other man howled in rapturous laughter.

  “If we wanted you dead, you’d be dead already,” Dorian chuckled. “Surely, you possess the common sense to make that conjecture?”

  “Then, why am I here? Please, just tell me!”

  “You’re demanding why you’ve been taken where you belong,” said the man. “Very ironic. You’re in for a rude awakening. Many revelations regarding your past will be uncovered today.”

  “Alistair, you said we’d wait,” said Dorian.

  “Not much longer. And here they come,” said Alistair.

  The doors were let open once again. She turned around in her seat, looking back. Four people had entered the room. There were three females and one boy. Some of them looked young, around her age. She watched as the oldest-looking female, and the only male, led the way, trooping to the table. Alistair, the man with the pendant, motioned for them to take a seat. They all did so, filling up the eight-seat round table. Each of the new arrivals stared at her curiously, surveying her thoroughly.