It wasn't an answer. "Did I?" She demanded.
"No. Daniel, he... you took the smear. Don't you remember?"
"I do. But I thought... I thought maybe..."
"Maybe they'd rack you anyway?" He sighed. "What would be the point? You couldn't answer his questions in that state."
It made sense; the Beast wanted information about his son's vision, the one she'd given him, the one that set in motion this whole shitty mess she was in. "If it's over, then why am I trussed up? Why can't I see you?"
"The strait jacket was the Beast's idea," he said. "The blindfold, mine."
She wasn't sure which of those statements was the more distressing. She focused on the last one. Blindfold? But she could see light. She rubbed her cheek against his hand, trying to hitch it against the material.
He pulled his hand away. "It's just gauze, Minou."
"Take it off."
A pause, then a curt answer. "No."
"I want to see you. And get me out of this thing."
"It's best you don't." It seemed he was selecting his own best statement to respond to. She heard him shuffling about, where he stood.
"You're not being honest with me." She squirmed on the bed, the panic settling around her again like a piercing scream. "Something's wrong, and you won't tell me." She willed herself to wiggle her toes, worrying they were gone or hurt or worse.
The sound of a chair scraping across the floor, a groan as he must have settled into it or got up from it. This was an entirely different, but equal, bit of torture. Curse the blindfold, she couldn't see enough. "What's wrong?" she demanded. "Where is the Beast?"
"He's not dead," came the curt, sullen answer.
"What do you mean, not dead?" She had to force herself back through her last conscious moments to figure out where she might be. Not Sasha's torture chamber; the sounds didn't echo like they had in there. "Take these damned gauze strips off."
He groaned but at least his fingers began tugging at the bandages. "Close your eyes."
She didn't argue, just squeezed them shut like he ordered, easing them open bit by bit to let the light seep in. She blinked twice, adjusting. He came into focus. She expected him to look like he had when she'd last seen him, swollen, bruised from the beating he'd taken when he'd saved her from the horsemen--his own soldiers, she remembered.
The last she'd seen him he'd stepped behind the Beast, the monstrous knife used to murder poor Eddie resting against the smooth, evil neck.
Now, the Pale Rider's face was still bruised, still swollen, but he was also painted with sprays of blood spatter that had dried to brown flakes on his face, gobs of hardened clots clinging to his clothes. The Beast's blood, it must be; that much blood couldn't be Ezekiel's and leave him standing, breathing, speaking.
Even so, with the misery on his face, the blood across his clothes, the way he clenched his fists against his sides, he was the most beautiful sight she'd ever seen.
"I tried," he murmured. "I wanted to kill him."
"Whose?"
He looked down at himself, spreading his hands, splaying the fingers as though they had the answer.
"Whose blood, Ezekiel?"
He shrugged but still wouldn't look at her. "Everyone's."
"Everyone?" she didn't understand. This wasn't the Ezekiel she knew. This man was sullen, morose. The real Ezekiel was cocky, arrogant, flippant. Her heart began stuttering in her chest even as his rose and fell in a shudder. She wanted to reach out to him but her hands were curled around her ribs, trapped there.
"Whose blood?"
"Daniel's, Michael's, every damn horseman who streamed into the room, every son of a bitch he had waiting outside, who rushed the room to save him."
"Bridget?" Theda thought of the brunet hermaphrodite that Ezekiel knew so well, who had given them a place to stay. The woman he had returned for, despite insisting they weren't lovers.
Ezekiel shook his head. "Bridget." He almost sobbed on the name, but collected himself enough to glare at her, pieces of the old familiar Ezekiel flashing in his eyes as he read the disappointment in her face.
"It's what I do, Theda," he growled. "I was made for murder, so I murdered them, all of them. I spared no one."
"But. With a knife. A Taser..." The whole conversation was spinning out of control, and she couldn't steer it in any direction that seemed clear of obstacles.
"Haven't you heard me? I was made for death. It doesn't matter if my weapon is a knife, a gun, or a wet fucken spaghetti noodle. I kill. I find a way to kill, and I do it."
"But not the Beast," she said. As horrible as it was to hear that Bridget and Eddie were gone, that Ezekiel had murdered any number of people, she couldn't help feeling despondent that the one man he should have killed had escaped his hand.
"No. Not him."
It was her turn to turn away.
"I wanted to."
She said nothing.
He touched her shoulder, tentative, with the fingers squeezing. "It's ok to feel the anger, Minou; it might even be for the best."
She wished the gauze was back on her eyes; it might sop up the sting of frustration that leaked onto her cheeks. He sighed loudly, as though something was finished, some chore done and he was tired.
"At least you're safe. He promised me that."
That made her twist back to face him, and she knew by the look that stole his face that he wasn't expecting the fury on hers. "He promised? You mean the Beast who wanted to rack me? The man who made you cut Eddie's throat? The one who had Bridget strip down in front of me and show me her humiliation? He promised you?"
He gulped. "Yes."
"You're a fool." She rattled about in the jacket, sick of waiting patiently for release, thinking if she didn't get out now she would holler bloody murder and never stop. She knew his idea of safety. She'd lived through it, just barely, too many times.
"You think this is safe? Why am I like this? How is this safe?"
"It's safe because it was in the bargain. It's safe because he would have done worse than rack you even despite the godspit. It's safe because, of all the people in the room, I wouldn't kill you even when he ordered it. I wouldn't. Kill. You." He lost his breath on the words, his eyes gone bright, a bit of madness glinting out beneath his charcoal lashes like the bottoms of soda bottles and she had to work at staying calm.
"Undo me."
"I can't." He took a step backwards, his cowboy boots thunking against the tiles.
"You can. He isn't your master, Ezekiel. He's not here. I am. I'm here. Undo me."
He shook his head, pushing back his chair, laughing darkly. "They let me stay until you were awake."
"Until?" She remembered that he'd said her anger might be for the best. Anxiety scraped down her spine. "What do you mean?"
He backed away as though he was guilty of some terrible crime that even New Earth couldn't forgive him for. But, there was no crime unforgiveable in New Earth, but one. Only religion mongering. "What did you do, Ezekiel?"
He shook his head, the sureness, the arrogance, the cockiness gone. Replaced by shame, an expression she recognized well. But from what?
"What is it, what did you do?"
He was at the door, his hand on the knob, twisting. "You'll be OK." He sent her a burning look that she would have interpreted as homesickness if she'd seen it on a child's face. She thought now was the time to say something comforting, something to reassure him that she trusted him. Only one word came to mind.
"No," she said, and it was enough to make him pause. "Where am I, Ezekiel? Where did you bring me?" She wasn't sure where would be safe anymore; she just hoped it wasn't the spitters'den, not any of them. She didn't think she could live through one more moment in Sasha's care.
"Somewhere safe." His gaze lingered on her a moment too long. She saw the way he swallowed, the thoughts that left their fearful footprints across his face before he slipped out the door.
She tried to lift her hand to halt him, and it was then she k
new. The strait jacket. The strange, hard bed. His regret.
He'd brought her to the sanatorium. And he was leaving her there.
Chapter 2
She was already screaming her throat hoarse when a spritely white haired RN rushed the room and to her bedside. Blanche, her name tag read. Blanche couldn't smell more like cigarette smoke if she was one big stick of tobacco--which she looked like in her white uniform and tan colored sensible shoes. Her wiry frame did nothing to rid Theda of the image.
"Fuck who, dear?" The voice was as bright as the glint in the woman's black eyes.
"Don't call me dear; Deer have antlers and eat grass." Theda struggled against the jacket, finally realizing she was lying on a gurney of sorts, like in an Emergency room. That didn't bode well at all.
"They also bounce straight into oncoming cars." Blanche straightened the sheets around her even as Theda tried to kick them back off. "I'd have to say that certainly seems to fit, based on your profile."
"Fuck you," Theda growled, fighting against the restraints. "Take this stupid thing off me."
The woman tsked her way about the gurney, tucking edges in here and there. "After you used such foul language on me?" Blanche's over-bright grin reminded Theda of a beaten down and aging actress who'd gotten all her parts purely by way of the casting couch. She wondered if the woman was even a nurse at all. She was trying entirely too hard.
"You can't keep me here."
Blanche clucked as she pushed the edges of the sheets beneath the gurney, pulling the material even tighter against Theda's chest. She tried to inflate her lungs, hoping to gain some slack later.
"You have to let me go."
"Do I?"
Theda couldn't answer that; no doubt the Beast was far from done with her, even if he did promise Ezekiel some sort of safety. Safety against what? Death, torture, or just against the onslaught of a thousand hellish minions. Safety was relative, she'd discovered, and she'd do best to work at getting her own interpretation achieved.
She took another direction. "Ever wonder what kind of life you lived before, Blanche?"
"I already know, dear. It was miserable." Blanche pinched Theda's cheek.
Theda ignored the annoying endearment. "No, I mean before. Way before. In another lifetime."
The woman's drawn-on eyebrows lifted. "Indeed? You can do that?"
Theda tried to nod beneath the palm that cupped her ear. "I have a gift."
Blanche smiled. This time it looked genuine enough that Theda pressed on, encouraged.
"All you have to do is prick your finger." Theda had a flash of image as she explained: of Blanche out cold on the floor, leaving her tied into the jacket, and she tacked on a qualifier as a contingency against that real possibility. "But you have to undo me first."
"Oh, hun. You would do such a thing for an old woman?"
"Of course I would."
Blanche seemed to hesitate. "Will it hurt?" Her black eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.
"No more than a splinter, and just for a second." The image of the woman passed out persisted. "But you'd have to undo my hands first."
"Will I... will I cry afterward. I hate crying."
Theda smiled. At least she hoped it was a smile. Her lips stuck to the fronts of her teeth so she wasn't sure. "I hate crying too, Blanche. Believe me, I would warn you if I thought it would make you cry." She mentally crossed her fingers, thinking the old bat wouldn't have a chance to shed so much as a single tear; she'd likely be out cold.
"So?" she pressed. "Interested?"
"Let me get a needle, dear." Blanche flashed her an indulgent pout.
"My arms--"
"Of course. But first the needle." Blanche turned and stepped toward a long counter filled with vials and stainless troughs and bottles of this and that. She would no doubt grab a sterilized instrument and for that Theda was grateful. She tested the amount of slack she'd gained while the woman fiddled about, searching.
The woman was back before Theda could wriggle more slack into the sheet. She opened her mouth to remind Blanche of the restraints when the woman's finger popped into her mouth and swished around inside. The goo on it tasted bitter, and involuntarily, Theda grimaced, trying to flood her mouth with water to wash the vile taste down. She hadn't mentioned how her gift worked, had she? And that goo certainly wasn't blood. Theda sputtered around the digit, catching Blanche's eye, accusing.
The sprite grinned at her. "You think I don't know who you are?" She pushed the finger deep against the back of Theda's throat, making her gag. "Religion monger." She extracted her finger and examined it closely. "Did you know you can gel most liquids? Gelatin is one of the world's greatest inventions."
"Cow feet," Theda said, fearing the bitterness would never dissolve.
"What's that, religion monger?"
"Cow's feet. Gelatin comes from cow's hooves; it's not an invention."
Blanche laughed. "Yes, well, you keep thinking about cow feet and pig skin and boiled bones." The bright eyes pierced into Theda's.
"You're not going to undo me, are you?"
"Hell, no." Blanche put her hand to her mouth as though she'd caught herself saying something naughty. "I guess I shouldn't use that word here. At least not in front of you."
Theda sighed, working her tongue into her palette, to wash away the residual taste. "I don't give a sweet fuck what you say."
"I imagine not," Blanche said, pulling up a chair and sitting down with ankles crossed primly. She was almost pious looking as she sat, her flinty eyes roaming the gurney in quiet assessment. Just what she was assessing was beyond Theda, but it was obvious she wasn't going to let her loose and it was getting hot in here. So damn hot.
"Did you turn up the heat?"
"Feeling a bit warm?"
Theda nodded, her throat feeling two times its size. "I'm sweating."
"That happens sometimes."
"What's that mean: sometimes?"
Blanche reached out and tested Theda's forehead. "Clammy too."
"Clammy?" That was the least of her worries; she'd give anything to feel clammy, especially when the heat was making her so damn nauseous.
Deft fingers moved to Theda's throat. "Pulse quickening." She stared down at her wristwatch, mouthing the beats, then for some strange reason, the woman placed her palm on Theda's ear and twisted so that she was facing the other way, her cheek pressed flat against the gurney. That was the last straw; there was no way she'd lay here and take this shit. She yelled as loudly as she could, thrashing as best she could beneath the sheet.
"You're just helping it along, dear."
"Fuck you," Theda said, working her shoulders more fiercely in response.
The vomit came in a stream that tore her stomach tissues to shreds, with Blanche's firm hold on her preventing her from curling into a fetal relief, and somehow that was worse: throwing up restrained. It hurt more. It made the puke trickle down her neck and seep up her nostrils.
"There," Blanche said from behind her when she was done. "Couldn't have you choke on all that."
"You knew?" The heaves still racked Theda's torso, but she managed to get out the accusation.
"Of course I knew. What did you think was on my finger?"
It only took Theda a minute to work it out. "Ipecac," she murmured.
A dark chuckle moved over Theda's shoulder along with the stink of rank cigarette smoke. "Gag on your visions, religion monger. You think the general brought you here to be coddled?" she snorted derisively. "He brought you to your justice. And oh how sweet it will be."
There was a rustle of movement and then the door clicked closed, leaving Theda alone, soiled by her own vomit.
She had a rush of absolute sullen misery then that made her face screw up into a good old fashioned ugly cry. She thought of Ezekiel, imagined his hands on her fevered skin, stroking away the pain and misery, telling her he could be her addiction, making her believe it could be true. She thought of his summer green eyes, the curls that twisted b
ehind his ear. She breathed deeply, pretending the aromas were of his cologne, his musk, the smell of him soaped up after a shower.
And she vowed to escape this doomed, perverse notion of a haven. She'd get out of here for his sake, seek him out, hunt him down, and slit his pale throat.
Chapter 3
She took to hollering again and shouted random obscenities until her throat hurt, even put odd curses together for her own amusement, until she realized they were probably desensitized to such tricks. Nobody was going to come until they were damn well good and ready. She gave up and decided to try to sleep, thinking she'd need her strength to slit all the throats she planned to.
But she couldn't sleep; the withdrawals were too ferocious. It felt like hours before anyone came to check on her, and by the time someone did, the vomit had dried to a sour, cakey mess that crinkled against her throat every time she swallowed. She was shivering by the time that someone made his way into the room. He watched her teeth chatter together dispassionately.
"It's nowhere near cold in here." He plucked a pair of gloves from the counter on his way in.
"No fuck, Sherlock," she told him, trying to ignore the cramping in her leg muscles.
"Then stop that shaking. I don't believe it."
"Believe what? That I'm cold. Perish the thought; it's hot as Lucifer's clap-ridden balls in here, thanks to Mrs. Bitch."
He squinted at her. "This is the temperature of the whole complex. It's remotely controlled and set for the most comfort. Even the old storage closets out in the pedway are the same temperature." He sounded like he'd rattled off the information one too many times.
"Then you folks need to clean the shit out of your bloodstream." A particularly diabolical cramp seized hold of her belly, making her groan out loud. All she could do was hug herself all the tighter in the sleeves.
"Listen," he said. "You mungs don't deserve such a wealth of comfort, so stop faking. I see right through it and I wouldn't care if you were cold."
"I'm coming down, you idiot." Each word was like chewing on glass. The lights made her squint; she decided it might have been smarter to leave the gauze on, but then it might have felt scratchy. She wasn't sure which she would prefer. "I'm drying out."
Theta Waves Box Set: The Complete Trilogy (Books 1-3) (Theta Waves Trilogy) Page 20
