Theta Waves Box Set: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3) (Theta Waves Trilogy)

by Thea Atkinson

  "Damn straight you did," Theda said.

  "Tomorrow, then," the redhead said to the john. "On account, I presume?"

  The john licked his lips. "I'll pay cash if I can have her in the morning."

  "That's a great deal of money to get together in a few short hours." The redhead looked at her watch, then gave her attention to Theda. "Looks like you got your approval," she said.

  Two men came into the room from behind her, carrying a limp Salima by the hands and feet. They dropped her down on the cot. Even in the dim light, Theda could see she'd been given godspit; the lubricated look was already slipping over her face. No doubt they had to keep her incapacitated and in ecstasy until the poor girl found herself coming to in some room with a ratty mattress and a man hovering over her with a razor-sharp knife.

  Despite her attempt at self-control, a shudder swam across Theda's shoulders. The girl would've been better off taking her chances with the sidearms. Maybe even with the snake.

  One of the men came toward Theda with his hand in his pocket. She knew what was in there, what he was about to pull out and pass to her. She knew she would have a choice to either take it, and let herself escape these horrors, or pretend to lay it on her tongue and keep her wits about her until Ezekiel could find her.

  If he found her. There was no guarantee that he was even coming back to this place. She should've just stayed put like he'd told her.

  She met the young man's eye as he held out the smear. She grabbed for it with all the abandon and greed of a spitter in desperate need. It wasn't as if she had to dig deep to work at that one. She really did need. She really was desperate. She turned on those still standing beside her.

  "Do you get your jollies from watching us drool?" She demanded.

  The redhead pursed her cherried lips, trying to keep the victorious smile hidden. She nodded to the others and they followed her from the room, only looking back before she closed the door. Theda made sure the redhead saw the smear lie on an outstretched tongue, arms fling back as Theda fell into the chair.

  When the door closed, she yanked the smear from her tongue. She examined it carefully; making sure the seal was still intact. She might not take it now; she had a feeling she might need it later. Keep it like a spy kept a cyanide pill. She couldn't exactly hide it in the bed spread she was wearing, but she could grab the young Morrison's shirt and pull his jeans up over her own ass. Jam the smear into his pocket where it would be nice and safe.

  And to think that a few short hours before, her greatest panic was remembering a vision of a life that had happened hundreds of years earlier. She wasn't sure how she was going to get out, but she was going to keep her wits about her even if it meant giving away the godspit smear so she didn't end up taking it.

  She had to think. She could check the door to see if it was locked, but she'd need to listen for voices first. It wouldn't do to rattle at the doorknob and draw attention to the fact that someone in here wasn't blissed out. She was torn between wanting to grab at the door and rush headlong through the boutique, and trying to calm the racing of her thoughts enough that she could devise a realistic plan of escape. She had to pull in several deep breaths before she even managed to stop the trembling.

  It was obvious they kept everyone under until they were needed, and then spitters probably were allowed to come back to reality only so much before they were handed over to their johns. She knew that a typical street smear offered about 12 hours of euphoria, but she also knew those have no quality control either. Someone with the redhead's resources might have found a way to regulate the hit. The question was whether the hit was stronger or weaker. She fondled the smear in her pocket, wondering what grade it might be, considering using it just before morning and ruining Henry VIII's plans. It was risky: if she didn't find a way out she might very well end up like Salima: awaiting a far worse fate than a quick death. But it might do to buy herself a little more time if she couldn't come up with a viable escape plan.

  So she had two contingency plans: use the smear to buy her time, or use the smear to lose her mind just before the killing blow. Neither of them did anything to stop the bile that burned in her stomach. She needed a better plan.

  She sat on the edge of the Ottoman, chewing her nails for what seemed an eternity when she heard the door unlock. She wasn't sure she had gotten herself back into position in enough time, but she did manage to turn her head in the direction of the door, opening her eyes just enough to make out shapes within. Two men, judging by the voices. The burly handlers from the boutique.

  "That one needs a new smear," one man said.

  "You do it; I hate touching them."

  "Put your gloves on," the first said. "Then you don't have to worry about catching anything."

  "I don't care about catching anything," the second said. "I just don't like the way their mouths feel."

  So she was right; they did keep everyone drugged and on a schedule. That also meant the door would be opened, again and again until it was her turn. That would give her plenty of chances to slip out. She would've smiled if she wasn't so afraid of being caught.

  Once they'd left, Theda moved next to the door. She'd sit there for hours if she had to, but when it opened and they came in to give the next smear to some poor unfortunate soul, she'd slip out while they were busy.

  She imagined herself as Ezekiel would find her, dressed as the lizard King, her hair another ratty mess. She smiled at the thought of his reaction. Lost herself in the fantasy of rescue. She was so lost in it that when the door opened, she wasn't ready for it. The men were in the room before she realized they had closed the door behind them. She thought they were talking about Salima, but from her spot next to the door, she was too vulnerable to stay there and listen, too wide open in case they turned around; she had to take cover.

  She didn't even dare swallow and had to fight the paralysis as she inched her way to the first chair, so she could duck behind it until they at least moved further down the room enough that she could rush the door and slip out. She couldn't chance them catching her or firing at her from behind. She had no illusions about her value, but she couldn't be sure the redhead would offer a refund.

  She realized, as she hunkered behind the chair, that she was also next to the cot where Salima lay. The men had halted next to it, were talking about her, discussing whether or not her smear had worn off enough to bring her to the London room. Theda couldn't see from her spot behind the chair, but she could hear that they were moving closer to Salima, perhaps lifting her arms as they spoke, judging her awareness by the reaction of her limbs.

  "Just about another hour, I'd say." Said one.

  "Judging by how her pupils are reacting, I'd say maybe less."

  "I guess the Ripper will have his Mary after coffee, eh?"

  Coffee break. About 15 minutes. Theda could linger behind the door for that long, surely. She'd let them leave and then when they came back in to collect Salima, they'd be too busy to notice anyone else slipping out.

  Theda stood behind the door as she did before, staring at the door handle, willing it to twist. The longer she stood there, the more she thought about poor Salima. The girl didn't deserve such a fate. None of these people did. But what could she do? She had no weapon, Ezekiel didn't leave her with the Taser. She would be lucky if she would even get out of this room alive herself.

  She did have one thing, however, that might at least postpone the inevitable for the poor girl. Perhaps, if she was lucky, postpone it long enough that the Ripper would select another victim. It wasn't much, but like meeting her in the hallway, Theda didn't have much to offer her in terms of salvation. She took the steps before she could think about it further. With just the tiniest bit of regret, Theda pulled the smear from the lizard King's pocket and peeled the protective layer away. For one moment, she thought about placing it on her own tongue; it was her last smear after all, one last chance to lose herself, but by her reckoning Anne Boleyn had a few more hours to live than wretched
Mary Kelly. She pinched Salima's mouth open and laid the smear on her tongue. The reaction was subtle, but Theda knew it was complete. She sighed in relief for the wretch.

  She was on her way back to her spot behind the door when it opened again. The henchmen took one look at her and swore out loud. Dammit, she couldn't move her feet. They were rooted to the floor like some humongous potted plant that couldn't even be lifted from its spot. They were on her before she could take two steps toward the door and they had her by the elbows, twisting, kicking, and yelling obscenities back at them. They wrestled her to her chair and one of them held her down while the other went for his pocket.

  "No," she shook her head. "Please don't," if she took that smear, there was no telling how long she'd be out. She didn't want to come to with Henry VIII's face looming above hers.

  "You don't have to do this," she pleaded.

  "You have no idea what you're talking about," said the first man. He had a look of regret on his face, but there was also one of determination. "Open up."

  She recalled the last time a man had forced her to take a godspit smear. It had only been a few short days ago, but it seemed like a lifetime. She said his name aloud even though she tried to keep it to herself, even though the first jailer gave her a queer look when she said it. The comfort Ezekiel's name brought her ears at least let her stick her tongue out, trembling, for the smear.

  When she came to, she expected to see through her bleary vision the portly john she'd met earlier dressed in regal costume, his rotund stomach pressing forward grotesquely.

  What she did see made tears sting her eyes.

  The gentleman hadn't wanted to be Henry VIII after all; he had been interested in being the king's executioner.

  Chapter 16

  She assumed it was the john from the boutique, but she couldn't be entirely sure. A black hood covered his face, with eye holes that let her see each time he blinked. She tried to move, and realized she wasn't lying on a bed comfortably waiting for the euphoria to recede, but was tied to a chair with her hands behind her back. She almost laughed aloud at the irony of her situation. Maybe her last thoughts shouldn't have been of Ezekiel at all, Karma had a way of twisting humor back into a girl's face. He'd saved her last time from exactly the same position, with almost exactly the same kind of man in front of her.

  It took a while for her eyes to adjust to the entire room, for the blurring at the edges of her vision to sharpen. The decorations looked like what she imagined Anne's room in the Tower of London had been like. There was a linen fold paneling, and a four poster bed. Except in the corner, atop a stretch of plastic drop cloth, stood a hewn out block of wood that must have served the other Boleyns as a neck rest as they lost their heads.

  "I don't plan to use that right away," he said.

  "I don't suppose I can convince you to not use it at all," she said.

  She was willing to bet that this particular john fed on fear as much as he fed on the fantasy of killing famous women.

  He chuckled darkly. "For this particular fantasy, I don't exactly require you to stay in character." He backed away to sit on the edge of the bed and stare at her. She squirmed beneath his gaze, knowing that those eyes would be the last human thing she would see. Her eyes trailed off toward the block again. It was filthy, covered in old blood. He'd done this before, plenty of times. He obviously had enough money to pay for this particular fantasy once before if not repeatedly.

  "Did you know that rumor has it that Anne was a witch," she said.

  He said nothing to that, but he did reposition himself on the bed.

  "Henry always accused her of bewitching him."

  "I'm not interested in being Henry," he said.

  "Then what is it you're interested in besides killing me?"

  He shrugged. "I do have a few other proclivities," he said.

  She didn't want to imagine what those were and why he hadn't pulled her to the block yet if that was his intent. He obviously wanted to let the tension build before he swung the blow. She looked around for an ax, and realized there wasn't any.

  "Her executioner used a sword," she said, remembering her history.

  He crossed his arms over his fat chest. "Indeed," he said. "But that's where the history lesson ends," he said.

  She realized then that although the real Anne had gone to her death almost meekly and accepting, that her execution had been swift and meted out with some modicum of justice and, warped as it was, that this man in front of her had no such intention. He wanted her to be terrified. He wanted to chase her. He wanted to run her.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth was so dry there was nothing to move. Even the muscles in her body had begun to ache: withdrawal, she supposed. She didn't usually suffer it so quickly after a smear, but ever since she had taken the three at once that Ezekiel had given her, it was all she could think about, all her body craved.

  He must have noticed her trembling.

  "I see you're finally starting to understand," he said. "Are you ready for me to untie you?"

  She nodded meekly and he got up from the bed, trudging in his thick boots over to her chair. He went behind her and she felt the ropes coming loose.

  "I know a few things about fear," she said.

  "Me too," he said, coming round to face her. "I know that the adrenaline that's pumping through your body right now is making you shake." He looked down at her without blinking for a long moment. Probably savoring it.

  "I know more than that," she said. "I have a particular skill in that area as well."

  That had his attention. He knelt in front of her. "And what would a tiny girl like you know about causing fear?"

  "You couldn't have picked a better victim," she said. "This Anne Boleyn in front of you is also a witch."

  He lay back on his heels, chortling. "You spitters do say the funniest things."

  "I can prove it. I can take you on a ride scarier than any haunted house you've ever been in."

  "Child's play," he said.

  "I can take you on a ride more fearful than any adrenaline rush you got from killing these poor girls. From killing me."

  "If that was true, I might let you live a little longer."

  "It's simple then," she said. "All you have to do is cut your finger. Put it in my mouth."

  She looked at him. And waited.

  "That doesn't sound very terrifying."

  "Trust me, it can be. And if it isn't, what have you lost?"

  She couldn't see his face, but he did seem to be considering. He stared off over her shoulder where the block lay in the corner.

  "You deliver, and you gain yourself a few hours." He stood, looking down at her. "In the end I'll get what I paid for. Understand?"

  She nodded. "A few hours extra seems a fair enough deal."

  "You won't find the sword, you know."

  "I'm sure you have it well hidden," she said, nodding at the bed. "You might want to sit down."

  He chortled. "That good is it?"

  "That good and better."

  He undid the clasp from her neck, and maneuvered the links so that one of them shifted out. This he jammed into his finger and, looking at it for long moment, he watched as the blood burbled to the surface. Then, without ceremony or delay, he shoved it into her mouth. His fingers tasted like onions and tequila. She would have gagged if she wasn't already falling down into the vision.

  Chapter 17

  At first she stared out ahead of her, aware that there were people beside her and behind her. Something of great importance was about to happen, but it took a few moments before she registered the sight and processed it into something cohesive. It was the faces that she examined first, sleek grubby faces, some of them clean and fresh. The women wore hats and jewelry and gowns that met the ground where they stood. The man had on doublets if they were well dressed, homespun cotton breeches if they were poor. A crowd of them, waiting with anxious expressions, some of them twisting rosaries through their fingers.

 
; She was aware of sunlight and warmth on her face. Aware that an errant breeze lifted her skirts. She looked down to see she was covered from waist to toe in gray. Damask, her mind whispered and then noticed beneath that a kirtle of crimson as dark as blood. Someone was praying beside her. She knew it even as she noticed the block in front of her, the pile of straw and the wicker basket next to it. She knew she was about to be beheaded by the man she loved, bore children for, both living and dead. It was the dead ones that pained her the most. The ones that twisted her dreams in the night. She would be with them soon. Able to hold them like a mother should.

  Even as she prepared herself for the blade, to stoop to the block and stretch her neck out, the scene evaporated and she was left kneeling in filthy straw in the gloom of some room that stank of urine and feces and wet stone. The sound of metal on metal caught her ear and she twisted her head to the left. Her jailer, come to bring her to the questioning chamber again.

  "Please, sir, I'm innocent," she said.

  "That's not for me to judge," he said gruffly.

  She couldn't help the sob that escaped her throat. But she found her feet and stumbled backwards, grasping for the stone wall behind her. He wouldn't take her. Not again. She'd dash her head against the very stones that housed her if he tried to take her again.

  Despite her struggles, another guard barreled into the cell and grabbed her beneath the armpits. They yanked her forcefully forward, and she stumbled, her bare feet catching on the stones and knocking over the slop bucket. They brought her to the same wooden door she'd been forced through the day before. Oak, she thought, recognizing the grain, and realizing even as she considered such an inane thing, that it was the regular everyday sights that bound her to reality now. Everything was surreal, almost like walking through a nightmare. She had expected this morning to wake and find herself in her own bedroom, her children scampering around the kitchen table, begging for her to get up and make them some porridge. For a moment, her ears even deceived her when she opened her eyes. She could hear the tinkle of their laughter, but it turned out it was only the rattling of her chains as she moved.