by Joshua Ingle
SANCTUARY
Book Three of the Thorn Saga
Joshua Ingle
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Sanctuary
Copyright © 2016 Joshua Ingle
Edited by David Gatewood.
Cover art by Clarissa Yeo.
Cover photography and modeling by Fedor Steer.
Formatting by Polgarus Studio.
ISBN: 978-1-943569-02-1
All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for reasonable quotations for the purpose of reviews, without the author’s written permission.
Contact the author at www.joshuaingle.com, and connect with him at www.facebook.com/joshthestoryteller/.
Table of Contents
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
Acknowledgments
About Joshua Ingle
1
Hovering just above the fountain pool, Thorn raised a hand high, then brought it down forcefully through the water spout. Again, the unthinkable happened: the water moved.
Not much. Only a dozen beads of liquid flicked slightly out of the main jet, but they could have entranced Thorn all night long. He tried a third time, then a fourth, and got the same result each time. The strange world in which he now found himself functioned by an entirely different—and fascinating—set of rules. It’s like my humanity is slowly wearing off, and I can still touch things just a bit, Thorn mused, though he knew that his brief flirtation with being human was long gone, and this new ability stemmed from the Sanctuary. A part of him wished he was still human, and that he hadn’t been so brash as to… No. I had no choice. He tried not to dwell on the events of the past hour.
After his fifth swing, the ten-foot-tall pillars of water started to shrink, and Thorn’s reverie was broken. Perhaps the security guard had turned off the fountain. Each of the many jets gurgled, then collapsed into the shallow pool, leaving Thorn above the center of a churning circle of dark water.
The water’s splashing gave way to sudden quiet, and in the quiet, Thorn could hear a calm, sickly wind twisting through the trees around the condo.
Was it them? Thorn scanned the horizon. He’d learned that wind followed him everywhere in the Sanctuary. Just as Thorn’s ethereal hand could subtly impact physical water, his spirit also agitated air molecules as it drifted around the condo. The others would suffer the same handicap, so Thorn had resolved to keep a close eye on the trees on the horizon for any effect of the wind that might warn him of their coming. Fortunately, they were not here yet. He still had some time to think about how he wanted to die.
Underneath a full moon glowing behind dark clouds, the luxurious, bottom-lit condominium stood tall, a looming monolith weighing on Thorn’s conscience. Lights illuminated only one room on the tenth floor; that, plus the lobby. The rest of the building’s interior remained dark.
A Sanctuary. Thorn had never been inside one of the fabled testing chambers before. This place, and all the ominous legends that surrounded its like, intimidated him nearly as much as the approaching army.
Thorn kicked the pool’s surface, causing only minor ripples, then drifted toward the high-rise. This ability to exert slight influence over the physical world would have drawbacks, Thorn knew. Several times since he arrived here, he’d tried to fly through solid walls—normally a given—and had been unable to. He couldn’t even penetrate glass. Which meant that he could get trapped if he wasn’t careful: imprisoned in a room, lacking the force to open a door but with too much physical presence to float through a wall. It would be a horrible way to spend his last hours. He would much rather face his executioners. The question was whether he wanted to put up a fight.
Thorn had been avoiding the decision since he arrived here in the Sanctuary an hour ago. Nevertheless, much had happened in that hour. He’d found one of the humans, a girl named Crystal, which may have been her stage name. He’d discovered that his powers of suggestion were immense in the Sanctuary. Crystal had bent to Thorn’s will far easier than was normal. At the merest whisper she’d practically entered a trance, and at first he’d thought that killing her would be effortless. One victim slaughtering another, Thorn thought grimly. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it, especially now that he’d tasted for himself what it was like to be human.
He shook the thought from his mind as his spiritual body floated outside a first-floor window and watched the guard make his rounds. Sooner or later the man would open a door and unknowingly let Thorn inside. Hopefully before Marcus and the others arrived to kill them both.
Thorn was still seething that he’d let himself get set up like this. If he’d bit the bullet and confronted Marcus at the beginning, he would be with Amy in Atlanta right now. Instead he was facing dire punishment, and worse. The Judge could not have anticipated Marcus sending an army into the Sanctuary after Thorn.
Where is this Sanctuary anyway? Miami? Thorn had been relieved to learn that the humans here spoke a language he understood, and he thought he detected a Southeastern Florida dialect. What a cruel coincidence that this Sanctuary is so close to Atlanta; it could have been anywhere. Even if this wasn’t Miami, Thorn knew he was certainly on the east coast somewhere, judging by the ocean and islands beyond the condo and the sunset that had passed in the opposite direction. At dawn, the sun would return over the eastern horizon, and the Sanctuary would end. Thorn knew he would likely be dead by then, but the humans… their fates were still up in the air.
As the guard opened a door onto the deck behind the condo, Thorn slipped past him, sending a swift breeze against the man’s face. He flew through the open door to the stairwell and made his way upstairs.
There was no single moment when he’d made his decision, but he’d made it. The weight of all his poor choices had grown too great, and Thorn knew he would fight.
Of course he would fight.
2
Crystal was almost to the elevator when she realized she was wearing the wrong lipstick. Stupid, stupid, stupid. She was supposed to wear the glossy dark stuff that Brandon liked. So she hurried back to her room, shoved through the heavy oak door, and abruptly tripped over some dirty clothes. She clutched the dresser to steady herself. The heels again! Even after four months she still wasn’t used to wearing the things. Who the hell thought heels were sexy anyway? Tripping every other step was not sexy.
She kicked the clothes aside, into a pile of other garments—mostly costumes, and at least one bedsheet. Her room was a mess. She was a mess. And she really wasn’t good enough for this job. She felt it with every judgmental glance Brandon threw her way and every time she saw footage of her own nude body. They should have chosen another, prettier girl. Or at least a more professional one. She was already half an hour late. Brandon would be pissed.
She’d woken up almost on time this evening—Brandon liked to work nights, so she’d gotten used to sleeping days—but for some reason her clothes had been damp when she awoke. More than damp, actually. Soaked. Crystal had never been prone to night sweats, but maybe it was the pregnancy. She’d had to shower to clean the clammy mess off of herself before prepping for work.
The lipstick wasn’t in the usual cabinet, and it wasn’t in any of the drawers. Crystal had knocked a pile of beauty supplies off the counter earlier, and now they lay littered on the floor around the bidet, so s
he knelt and picked through them. Makeup brushes, foundation, mascara, concealer, blush, glitter, blotting paper. More nail polish than she’d had food half a year ago. But no lipstick. Crap.
Oh well. She was late enough as it was. Brandon wouldn’t get too mad at her for wearing the wrong lipstick, though he’d probably fly into a tantrum over some other random thing. Hopefully he’d let her play a Plain Jane tonight instead of some goth bondage thing. Maybe a schoolgirl. That was easy, and Cole liked the schoolgirl outfit too, or at least the idea of it.
Cole. The one bright spot in all this.
On her way out the door, she stopped a moment to appreciate the bedside photo of her and Cole on his yacht. A spot of wine stained his pants and his smile was lopsided, but she loved that picture. And his strange yet endearing smile. Cole could be distant sometimes, and that bothered her, but he was still a cutie, and a nice guy. The best guy she could hope for, really. Even Crystal’s mom might like him if they ever met. Sometimes at night, when Cole was away, she would take this picture into bed with her and stare at it, into it, imagining the future. Would the baby look enough like its mom? Would Cole be there for her?
He would. She just knew it. He’d been there so far, after all.
But tonight was Brandon’s night. A work night, from sunset to sunrise. And hopefully a work night was all it would be. Crystal paced out into the hallway, her heels clacking against the wood floor. Brandon hadn’t tried anything in more than a week, thankfully. She just had to be careful not to make him angrier than he was likely to be over the lipstick. She tried to reassure herself that she’d have Heather nearby, but still, Brandon was crazy, and Cole listened to Brandon. If it was any other guy, I would have stood up to him. She felt so stupid for obeying Brandon’s every whim. But she did get paid for it.
Well, for the part that was on camera, at least.
Modern, sparse décor adorned Cole’s sterile living space. An array of windows offered a spectacular view of the city below and the dense night sky above. Crystal plodded through the fancy living room, past the chandelier, across the foyer just outside the front door, and to the elevator at the foyer’s far end. Even though she lived here now, Crystal still felt way out of place in this posh environment, full of leather furniture and lights on dimmers and balconies and bidets. She hadn’t believed it when she’d first heard about that last one. Rich people actually paid money for official butt-wiping machines? When she’d put it like that, Cole had cracked up too, but then they’d both had to stifle their laughter when Brandon walked into the room. Poor Cole, living with that guy.
DING. The elevator doors opened just as her phone vibrated. It was Brandon calling, of course.
•
Somehow the fact that this room was designed as a communal lounge for the condo’s millionaires made it even hotter that Heather was getting naked in it, Brandon thought. Her hips gyrated as she pulled the hem of her panties up then let it snap back, teasing the camera. Brandon half hoped one of the condo’s residents would enter right now just so he could see the look on the rich bastard’s face: shock, with a grain of envy hidden beneath it. Hell yeah, this is the good life.
Brandon circled around Heather, framing her thighs, then panning up to get a shot of her buxom breasts and that deliciously suggestive smirk. She flipped long blond locks away from her eyes and licked her lips. God damn, she was sexy! You could see her skin starting to sag in places, but that was okay. She was still young enough to look good in amateur porn.
“Bend over,” he said, and he got a great shot of that too. He could already feel himself getting hard.
When Heather snapped back up, she winked at the camera. “That enough until Crystal gets here?” she asked, polite fatigue tinging her voice as she moved to get down from the table. What the fuck did she think she was doing?
“Nuh-uh. We’re going all the way, sweet cheeks.” He grabbed her bra buckle, undid it with one swift motion, then gestured for her to get topless.
Heather nodded solemnly, but then eased back into her porn star persona and motioned “come hither” with her fingers. Brandon came hither, moving the camera closer, and closer, and closer. He grinned as Heather thrust out her chest, letting her breasts spill out and her bra fall down her arms. Nice. This would edit well.
“You’re my muse, baby,” Brandon said. He framed up a profile shot. “My Erato. My Venus de Milo, only with arms. And titty implants.” He snickered and grabbed her left breast.
“You like that, huh?” Heather did her best to sound provocative, unconvincingly. Well, that’s why she’s acting in porn instead of real movies. Why’s she in such a bitchy mood tonight?
“Hey guys. Sorry I’m late.” Crystal set her purse down next to the camera case. She wore a casual turquoise minidress that hid the slight bulge of her belly well. Ugh. She was starting to look fat in the videos, and pregnant porn was such a specific fetish. Sales would slump soon if Cole didn’t replace her. Brandon should have brought it up a week ago, but given Cole’s baffling affection for the girl—it was Cole’s baby, after all—Brandon dreaded the conversation.
Thankfully, despite appearances, Cole was as much a playboy as Brandon at heart. He might think he’s in love now, but he’ll never tolerate a kid. Brandon had never felt threatened by the child because he knew Cole would either get it aborted or break up with Crystal when the time came. Still, Cole always avoided the subject when Brandon broached it, and that made Brandon nervous.
Heather continued her show, but Brandon’s gaze remained on Crystal, behind Heather and just off camera, primping her ugly brown hair. What does Cole see in her? She’s just another girl. Needy, weak, dumb. But skanky enough for the job. Brandon had tasted that fruit himself before Cole declared Crystal off-limits to him… and a few times since then (though those were not entirely consensual). She was a sweet enough snack, but he’d tasted her kind before, and would have fired and forgotten her by now if not for Cole’s romantic streak.
The camera’s card was almost full, so Brandon stopped recording to offload the footage. “Cut,” he said, and a disgruntled scowl immediately replaced Heather’s sultry smile. She covered up and walked over to Crystal.
“Black lipstick,” Brandon said. “I told you to wear black lipstick, Crystal.”
She nodded meekly. “Couldn’t find it. Sorry.” She spoke barely above a whisper. Brandon could tell she was intimidated by Heather, who was taller, fuller, and more comfortable in her own skin. Crystal could jabber on and on around Cole, but got all quiet like this when she taped scenes with Heather and Brandon. She lacked a professional attitude. Despite the playful enmity between Brandon and Heather, he had to give it to her: for the most part, Heather was a pro. Which became uncomfortably obvious with Crystal around. Why couldn’t Cole just dump her and move on?
•
To Crystal, Brandon seemed way older than twenty-eight. He always dressed well—at the moment he wore a white collared shirt and black satin vest—and he often used words and references she didn’t understand. His movements were graceful and refined. Early wrinkles creased his forehead, and a slight red tint from heavy drinking flushed his face, but despite these imperfections he was handsome and muscular, and could be charismatic—if you were a stranger. Most people she’d seen around him took him for a friendly self-made millionaire, unaware that he was actually a giant mooch.
She checked herself one last time before her scene. Through the mirror, she could see Brandon in the far corner of the ornate lounge, clicking away at his laptop.
She first met Cole and Brandon at a nightclub; her last boyfriend had just broken up with her and she and her friend Sofie were out cruising. Thank God she’d wound up with Cole instead of Brandon that night. Brandon had seemed okay at first: pampered Sofie, taken her shopping, whispered dreamy lies about how much he cared for her. And then he’d gotten her naked for his videos. “Amateur,” indeed. Not only had Sofie fallen for it, but after a few weeks Brandon kicked her out, leaving her with addiction
s to all kinds of hard stuff he’d given her. Heartbroken, she kept asking Crystal to reconnect the two of them, but Crystal insisted on rehab instead. Crystal would be glad to pay for it now that she was making a meager living, but Sofie declined her offer.
Crystal’s mom feared that Cole was playing Crystal the same way, but Crystal knew better. Her mom had never met Cole. Cole was different.
“You okay?” Heather stood next to the studio light behind Crystal. Had she noticed how stressed she was?
Crystal tried to perk up. “I’m good.”
Heather nodded knowingly. Crystal knew she hated these sessions with Brandon too, but hey, it was a paycheck. Heather was much more experienced than Crystal, but they’d bonded nonetheless, and these days Crystal thought of her as a friend—a co-conspirator to face Brandon with. She shuddered at the memories of making videos with him alone. He intimidated her like crazy.
“This is some hot shit,” Brandon said as he turned from his seat by the laptop. “Hits on the website are gonna go through the roof. You girls are gonna be celebrities. Better than that cam girl shit you were doing before, Heather, right?” Heather rolled her eyes at him. “Back up on the table, girls.”
Brandon grinned greedily at his camera’s LCD screen as the girls climbed onto the table. Was he making them do lesbian stuff tonight? Three weeks into this new job, Cole had forbidden Brandon from having sex with Crystal himself, which Crystal had been super relieved to hear (although the command hadn’t worked off-screen). So now lesbian and solo videos were Brandon’s only options with Crystal, except for some occasional weird hardcore stuff involving costumes and machines. Crystal could tolerate the lesbian stuff, since at least it meant she wasn’t alone with him.
