Mr. Broad’s nostrils flared in irritation. “Get up, maggot.”
Mr. Thin stepped forward and grabbed Mathew by his shirt collar, his eyes glinting with crazy sadistic joy, evidently enjoying the prospect of delivering pain. The larger soldier lurched forward, the riding crop already fisted in his hand, and swung. Pain exploded in a burst of stars when the soldier brought the leather handle down across the top of Mathew’s head. Images spun in a blurry whirlpool, and bile rose in his esophagus. Mathew gagged.
“Stop it,” a deep voice boomed.
The hand holding Mathew released him, and Mathew crumpled to the ground on his hands and knees, head hanging. The floor spun.
Leather soles shuffled, and a series of Heils followed.
“Your orders were to bring him unharmed.”
Through the ringing in his ears, the voice sounded like the Commandant’s, but that didn’t make sense. Wasn’t the concentration camp all about harming? Mathew shook his head and blinked his eyes. The floor slowly stopped the spin cycle.
“He was unwilling, sir.”
“When I give an order, it is to be followed,” The Commandant said in a dead calm voice. Mathew looked up at the man in the pristine uniform. He peered down at Mathew with steely blue eyes. Wrinkles crested his mouth as he sneered at him. “Corporal?”
“Yes, sir,” said the man behind the desk.
“Go to the mess hall.”
“Sir. Yes, sir.”
More boot clicking and a short gust of wind blew through the lobby as the Corporal left.
“Bring him into the office, if you two idiots think you can handle the task.” The commander performed an about-face and walked through the doorway.
“Yes, sir.” The broader soldier reached down and yanked Mathew to his feet, forcefully. “Go on,” he said, giving Mathew a push.
Dizziness still clinging to his peripheral vision, Mathew shuffled into the office. He stopped just inside the doorway and marveled at how civilized the office seemed. He didn’t know what he’d expected. Some form of torture chamber? Definitely not the warmth of dark paneling and green upholstery, or the pictures hanging on the walls. It was hard for Mathew to imagine the commander as nothing more than a cruel monster, not someone with partially human characteristics, with family and friends who might actually miss him.
The Commandant went behind a elaborate desk, the grain a beautiful, deep reddish-brown, then extended his hand. “Have a seat.”
Mathew glanced at the two soldiers standing behind him; they looked just as perplexed as him. Suspecting some form of retribution, Mathew hesitantly walked closer to the desk. The Commandant stared at him expectantly, which was different than his usual look of detestation. Mathew sat.
The Commandant flipped his head up. “Dismissed.”
Mathew didn’t need to turn around to know the soldiers were uncertain about leaving their commander unattended with a heathen such as himself. After a moment, though, they responded with a boot click and a Heil, then the door snicked closed, leaving Mathew alone with the superior officer.
As soon as the soldiers left, the commander sat across from Mathew. He leaned back in his leather chair and linked his fingers across his chest. “I assume you are wondering why I have commanded your presence.”
Mathew’s head throbbed from the crown of his head, down through his temples, into the back of his jaw, and the blood rushing from the thumping of his heart wasn’t helping. “The question has crossed my mind, sir.” He kept his voice steady, much different than the havoc running amok within his nerves. He gripped the arms of the chair.
“The girl, Aalexis, and her brother, Xaver, have taken an interest in you.”
Wrinkles cut across Mathew’s forehead. Of all the things he’d imagined, his imminent death included, he’d never expected that to come from the Commandant’s mouth. A heaviness sank into the pit of his stomach. “Oh?”
“Do you know why?”
Mathew shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Tell me about Ellyssa,” he continued.
Here we go again. Lips pressing into a tight line, Mathew mentally rolled his eyes.
“Still not going to talk?” said the Commandant.
Face hardening into stone, the officer leaned forward in his chair, the desk, thankfully, separating the two men by a good meter. There was no doubt Mathew was afraid, but they could beat the hell out of him; they could unleash the blue-eyed demon child, but he wasn’t going to talk.
Ever.
Before the uniformed man had a chance to further grill Mathew, a knock sounded. The Commandant settled back.
“Enter.”
The door swung inward, and the corporal entered with a tray laden with two plates under silver lids, a bowl and a woven basket covered with a red cloth napkin. From his arm, a bottle of wine hung chilling in a container.
The scrumptious aroma of roasted potatoes and meat assaulted Mathew’s nose. His stomach clenched, painfully, and his mouth started to salivate in expectations that would never be met.
“Set the table and go.”
“Yes, sir.” The Corporal carried the tray to a mahogany table and set the tray to the side. He placed one plate in front of a chair, followed by silverware, two stemmed glasses, the bowl and basket. Finished, he turned around, his gaze shifting uneasily from the commander to Mathew; confusion dipped his brow. “Will that be everything, sir?” he said, clearly unwilling to leave.
The Commandant didn’t even bother looking at him. “I said, go.”
Without another word, the corporal left, but not before giving one more uncertain look toward Mathew. As soon as the door closed, the Commandant stood.
“Come,” he said with a wave of his hand as he came out from behind the desk. He continued to the table and took a seat in a green chair trimmed in mahogany.
With the aroma still wafting up his nose, befuddling any coherent thoughts of anything other than food, Mathew slid off the chair onto jellylike legs. His stomach tightened again, and he cringed until the pain abated. Slowly, he walked toward the table, each step cramping the muscles in his midsection, and stood next to the table, unclear as to what the Commandant expected.
“Sit,” the commander said, unfurling a napkin across his lap.
Wondering if food was the new torture, worse than feeling the lick of the riding crop, Mathew sat. The commander picked up his fork and knife and proceeded to cut a triangle section of the roast. Reddish-brown juice puddled under the cut of meat and ran into the melted butter dabbed between potatoes and green beans.
Mathew swallowed, hard.
“Aren’t you hungry?” the Commandant asked, lifting the fork to his mouth and placing the bite inside. The commander flipped back the cloth covering the basket and pulled free lightly browned yeast rolls. With his knife, he sliced one of the rolls in half. “Eat,” he commanded as he buttered the warm bread. “But I’d take it slow. The food is richer than what you’re accustomed to.”
Unable to shake the feeling that this was some sort of trick, which would end up with new bloody welts over his tender flesh, Mathew hesitantly reached for the utensils. He stabbed the meat with his fork and cut off a piece. The meat was tender, the knife slicing through it like butter. He brought up the fork, his mouth watering like a fountain, and warily glanced at the Commandant.
Surprisingly, the officer smiled at him. Not one that actually reached his eyes; Mathew still saw the hatred swimming within the depths, but a smile nevertheless.
The commander put a forkful of potatoes in his mouth. Mathew watched his jaws work as he chewed.
“It’s delicious,” the Commandant stated. “Eat.”
Mathew slid the fork between his lips, and flavor exploded in his mouth. The roast actually melted in his mouth. Melted in a succulent array of flavors. After the first bite, it was over. He couldn’t stop loading his fork with roast, then green beans, then potatoes. He stopped shoveling the food long enough to butter a roll, then that too joined the rotation.
“Wine?” the Commandant asked, filling the glass full.
Mathew nodded, taking the glass in his hand, and washing the food down with the slightly sweet liquid. He continued eating, ignoring the commander. The way he looked at the situation, if there was a trick involved, he would die with a full, happy stomach.
After a while, Mathew struggled to tear his eyes away from the diminishing food and looked up at the Commandant. The man was leaning back in his chair, swirling the wine around in his glass, watching Mathew with interest.
Feeling one level above a Neanderthal, but only because he wasn’t ripping into the food with his bare hands, Mathew straightened in his chair and regarded his host with suspicion. This type of treatment was unheard of, and he wondered what the “good” commander’s angle was.
“Good?”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “Um. Thank you?” He wiped off his mouth with a napkin. In his frenzy, he barely remembered dislodging his utensils from the cloth.
The Commandant stood, leaving the majority of his dinner on the plate. “Please continue,” he said. “I’m not very hungry. Of course, I get to eat like this all the time.” Humor dancing on his face, he tipped the glass up and took a long swallow.
Mathew shrugged and tore a roll in half. “No disrespect, sir, but why don’t you tell me what all this is about?” he said, before popping the bread into his mouth.
The commander took another sip, then brought the glass down. “I already told you. I want to know about Ellyssa. You did know her?” he asked, the question more of a statement.
And now comes the torture. At least his stomach was full.
Tired of playing whatever game the Commandant was playing, Mathew leaned back, his full belly distending over the top of the thin pyjama bottoms. He felt a little nauseous and hoped the food would stay down, especially when the licks of the crop cut across his skin. He stared at the commander with locked lips.
The commander inhaled deeply. “You misunderstand me. I’m not asking for her or anyone’s location. I’m not asking you to betray your kind.” He said your kind like the Renegades were not of his species. “I just want to know about her. I want to know why she’s so important.”
“Why don’t you ask the little girl?”
Surprisingly, the Commandant didn’t fly into a fit of rage, like the last time he’d tried to pry information from Mathew.
“It’s not that simple. Maybe you need to think about it.” He went to the door and pulled it open. “Corporal.”
“Sir,” the corporal’s voice floated in from the adjoining room.
“Summon the guards. The prisoner needs to be returned to the barracks.” He closed the door and looked back at Mathew. “You can wait in the Corporal’s office.”
“Yes, sir,” Mathew said, standing.
As Mathew reached for the doorknob, the Commandant plopped into his leather desk chair, wine glass still in hand.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”
The voice was so low, Mathew was unsure he’d heard the words right. Mostly, because it made no sense. “Sir?” he asked, peering from around the door.
“Get out,” the Commandant said.
The last thing Mathew saw was the commander of the camp swiveling his chair around to stare out into the compound. Large snowflakes danced outside the window.
16
As soon as Trista had bounded into the kitchen to greet Dyllon, the captain pulled Trista in close and kissed her fully on the lips. After they’d parted, with a grin spread across his face, he’d informed them he had news.
Ellyssa thought Trista was going to explode. For the last hour, while they waited for the males to return, Trista had tried to sway Dyllon with fluttery eyelids and pleas, but he’d refused to talk. He’d just smile and squeeze her hand. Finally, with a pouty lower lip, Trista gave up, but not before she told Ellyssa she’d better not peek. If she wasn’t in the loop, then no one was in the loop.
Since Trista had mentioned the peeking, Dyllon had watched Ellyssa from the corner of his eye. The expression on his face was hard to read—was it suspicion? Ellyssa wondered if Dyllon was aware of her capabilities. His past with the detective would have put him in a position of some knowledge.
Her curiosity piqued, Ellyssa had found it hard to contain herself and not glean the information from the captain. No one would be the wiser, and her nerves would be settled. Instead, though, she honored Trista’s request, and passed the time watching Sarah’s expertise with wielding a spatula, like an artist with a brush, while icing a chocolate cake. The older woman was the epitome of a mothering soul, at least what Ellyssa imagined one to be. She was going to miss Sarah when they left.
And they would have to leave, even without knowing their destination. Dyllon and Trista had already had plans before this reunion.
The thought saddened Ellyssa. She wished they could stay in the little home with the yellow sunflowers and the knickknacks, but she knew the time was drawing near when they would have to depart. As Tim said yesterday, he had to protect Sarah and himself. His job had been transporting, not harboring. The longer the reunited group stayed, the more dangerous it became for Tim and Sarah.
“Ellyssa?”
Dyllon’s voice pulled Ellyssa’s attention away from the spatula gliding across the top of the cake. She faced him.
“May I have a word with you?”
Trista’s eyes narrowed. “Why? Are you going to tell her?”
He chuckled. “And what, be subjected to your wrath?”
Lifting her chin, Trista folded her arms across her chest. “Don’t you forget it, either.”
He looked aghast for a moment. “Never.” Then a grin sliced across Dyllon’s face, reaching his blue-green eyes, as he brought her hand to his mouth and brushed his lips against her palm. “It’ll just be for a moment.” He stood. “Please?” His question was directed at Ellyssa.
Both of the women looked at her—Trista with a look of reverie as her finger circled the part of her palm where Dyllon had kissed, and Sarah with a chocolate-frosting-covered spatula.
Shrugging, Ellyssa said, “Okay.”
“In the living room?”
Her curiosity crested; she stood. “Sure.”
With a quick glance at Sarah and Trista, Ellyssa followed the captain into the adjoining room. He closed the doors behind them, blocking the questioning looks of Ellyssa’s two friends.
“Please sit down,” Dyllon said, extending his arm toward the couch.
Ellyssa passed him and took a seat. She turned and looked at him.
Seemingly very nervous and definitely uncomfortable, Dyllon didn’t move away from the door, as if he thought being close to an exit would prove useful. A hint of a smile curled Ellyssa’s lips.
For a few moments, Dyllon didn’t say anything. He rocked back on his heels, his hands shifting from folding across his chest to disappearing behind his back. His eyes would linger on her, then he’d quickly avert them as if he suddenly realized he was staring.
The whole thing was becoming a little irritating. If Dyllon didn’t say something soon, Ellyssa was going to end the ordeal by grabbing what she wanted from his mind. Finally, Dyllon’s hands fell to his sides, and he went to the couch and took a seat next to her, his knees pointing toward hers.
The Captain took a deep breath, then blurted, “What did you do to me last night?”
Completely taken by surprise, Ellyssa blinked. “What?”
“You did something to me,” he accused.
“No…” She shook her head, her forehead creasing. “What are you talking about?”
“It’s obvious you’re the one the detective was searching for. You look just like that Micah. The resemblances are uncanny.” He glanced down at his hands. “He was uncanny. The way he could…see things. He was the one who found the Renegades’ stash.” His eyes lifted and met hers. “I know you have abilities, too. All of you do. Angela told me.”
“I didn’t do anything
to you.”
He frowned. “But you do have abilities?”
“Yes.”
Rubbing his hand over his chin, he stood. “What can you do?”
Ellyssa thought about not telling him. Technically, he was still employed by the Warrensburg police department. Maybe it was best they kept the information secret until…well, she didn’t know. Until he proved himself? But, then again, she’d read his mind, seen his devotion to Trista, his horror at the slaughter in the cavern, his desire to change. Plus, after the captain told whatever news he had, she could keep a monitor on him without breaking her promise to Trista.
Ellyssa’s decision made, she replied, “I can read minds.”
For about a second, Dyllon’s expression was one of perfect surprise—jaw dropped, eyes wide, astonishment paling his skin. Then he snapped his mouth closed and nodded. “That makes sense,” he said, rubbing his chin in thought. “Perfect sense. That’s why Trista said no peeking.”
“Yes.”
Dyllon sat back down on the couch and faced her. “That’s it?”
Suspicious, Ellyssa asked, “Why?”
“Last night, when you touched my cheek and said, calm, it was like I couldn’t help but to become calm. My mind was racing one moment, the next…things didn’t seem so bad.”
Ellyssa laughed, hard. The sound resonated deep in her chest and burst forth. Dyllon watched her, his face pinking, then he smiled and joined her. She could only imagine Trista’s and Sarah’s wonder at what was so funny and why they weren’t included, which made her laugh harder.
After a minute, Ellyssa took in a deep breath and brought the giggling fit under control. “No,” she shook her head, “I can’t do anything as extraordinary as influence emotions. Just an average, boring mind reader.” A snigger escaped from between her lips. She pressed them together.
“I guess the thought is ridiculous. It’s just…I don’t know.” He looped his fingers together and let them hang between his legs. “It seemed like I had no control.”
“You were under a lot of stress. I mean, you were dangling from Rein’s hand.” Ellyssa flinched at the same time he did at the reminder. “Sorry about that.”
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