Interlude (The Stone Legacy Series Book 2)

by Theresa Dalayne

  She wanted to believe him, but something in her gut told her it wouldn’t be that simple. “Jayden’s dead and…Zanya didn’t even say goodbye. What if—” Her breath caught. “What if I never see her again?”

  ***

  Chills ran over Tara’s body, her clothes soaked in sweat. She peeled open her eyes to blurry vision and a low ache throbbing through her temples.

  The muscles in her shoulders screamed when she tilted her head back to watch tiny rays of light push through rusted bars set high in the rock walls—the only light in the otherwise dark space.

  If she had to guess by the scent of musty earth, and the tree roots pushing through the dirt beneath her feet, she was underground in some sort of dungeon.

  She wrinkled her nose at another scent—metallic, like…copper.

  When she tried to move, a searing wall of pain shot up her legs. Her scream echoed through the lonely space.

  The spike of agony dulled enough for her to wearily look down at the wooden boards squeezing her legs. A rope bound her limbs together, and wooden wedges were between her knees. She quickly deflected her gaze, too terrified to see how bad her injuries really were.

  Memories of the boards, rope, and heavy iron mallet flooded her mind. Worse was the pain as the splints slowly bowed her bones.

  Something textured slithered over her bare feet, the sensation faint against her numb toes. They used to hurt—now she couldn’t decide if the lack of pain was good or bad. With her hands tied behind the back of the chair, she couldn’t lean forward to see what was moving beneath her.

  She examined the stone ceiling. Tiny pools of condensation collected and dripped, creating a symphony of tiny sounds that echoed in the silence.

  Something else brushed against her ankle. This time the rough texture was clear as it scraped against her skin. Peeking over the front of the chair the best she could, she searched the ground.

  “Please don’t let it be a rat,” she whispered.

  Rats would eat anything, and she could very well be on its dinner menu.

  Footsteps carried through the hollow space. The rusted keyhole clicked open, and the heavy iron door shuddered in the stone wall.

  He had returned for another round of torture.

  She shook her head. Blood-soaked hair stuck to her neck and forehead. She shut her eyes, her head throbbing enough to remind her a piece of her scalp had been cut off right after she was taken.

  “Please…” The word croaked out of her tight throat. “Please, just leave me alone.”

  Against her request, hinges screamed with age as the door creaked open.

  Sobs from neighboring cells filled the air.

  All that awaited her was terror and death.

  ***

  Tara gasped and sat up in bed. Her eyes, her head—hell, just about every part of her body hurt one way or another.

  She stumbled to the bathroom and turned on the faucet. A few splashes of cold water over her face didn’t help to slow heart stomping in her chest. Unable to consider going back to sleep, she wearily dragged herself back into her room and into the closet to change.

  She’d woken Peter three times in the past week with her nightmares. So instead of dragging him into her world of unbearable fatigue, she would suffer this night alone.

  Maybe if she had some kind of ability like the others, she’d be strong enough to block out the memories, or at least not allow them to affect her so much. Instead, she’d become a groupie—and a useless one at that. The reality of being worthless tore at her. She had dealt with that emotion enough after she was taken from her mom.

  Those early years were still so vivid in her mind, watching as her mother stumbled through the front door, waking her out of a deep sleep. Most nights Tara changed into her pajamas alone, brushed her own teeth, and tucked herself in. On rare occasions, her mom might be there—sober—and would kiss her goodnight. Usually, Tara would get just a glance and a few mumbles from her mom as she told the new boyfriend to ignore her kid. One night, a man followed her mom into the bedroom, staring at Tara over his shoulder.

  He may have been the first one to touch her, but he wouldn’t be the last.

  Tara’s stomach clenched. She needed some fresh air.

  Out of the hotel and into the city of Moscow, Tara wandered the streets. Bars overflowed with people sipping colorful drinks. Music thumped through the windows. Neon signs flashed over tavern doors. The aroma of alcohol and tobacco mixed with the aroma of street food made her mouth water.

  She swallowed down the saliva pooled under her tongue and stared longingly at the food cart. Why wouldn’t she be hungry after not eating for a day…or two? She couldn’t remember exactly how long it had been since she had a proper meal.

  A stop at a street cart landed her with a stuffed baked potato wrapped in tinfoil. She found a step to sit on, and began picking at the food with a plastic fork.

  Her stomach rolled as she scooped up a cheesy bite. Ketchup glazed the top of the loaded spud, and it looked like carnage. Her hunger pains vanished, replaced with the sudden urge to vomit. “Damn it.”

  A stray dog sniffed around the sidewalk—the perfect scapegoat for her unwanted meal. With a wagging tail and pinned back ears, it inched toward her. She stood and held out her dinner. “Are you hungry?” The spotted hound sniffed the air, its nose leading it closer. After a moment of hesitation, it grabbed Tara’s offering and wolfed it down in a few quick bites. She smiled lightly, balling the wrapper in her hands. “At least you got to eat something.” Her mind swirled into a haze, and she clung to the railing for support. The buildings spun like a carousel from hell.

  She’d have to force herself to eat soon. Her body couldn’t take much more neglect.

  “You shouldn’t feed strays.”

  Tara jumped and spun to see a man sitting on the step above her. The heavy door behind him was tagged with graffiti. She hadn’t heard it open—or maybe she just hadn’t noticed with the tornado in her head.

  “How long have you been sitting there?”

  She peered into his face, his eyes hidden behind dark rings of black makeup, like he’d gone way overboard on eyeliner.

  He shrugged. “Not long.”

  Tara cringed. This dude was bad news. Bad vibes. Bad everything. Whether she was uneasy because she couldn’t see him clearly in the dark, or because the guy looked like some emo-goth hybrid, or because he’d completely snuck up on her, she wasn’t sure. One thing was for sure. She wouldn’t stick around to find out why he was talking to her.

  She stood and walked away from the steps, her head down and her sneakers moving at a rhythmic pace over the sidewalk. When she glanced over her shoulder, he was gone. She slowed her pace to a stop, searching the empty step. “What the hell?”

  She turned around and sucked in a sharp breath. He stood in front of her—the same guy who had been sitting behind her a second ago.

  The cherry of his cigarette cast a subtle red light over his face. “What are you doing out here alone?”

  Tara took a cautious backward step. “Just going for a walk.”

  “Couldn’t sleep?”

  He could be a murderer or rapist. He could be the damn BTK killer for all she knew, and he was staring right at her. Maybe going for a stroll in the middle of the night wasn’t the best idea after all.

  People paraded the streets, most of them drunk and belligerent.

  He tilted his head to the side.

  Tara pointed over her shoulder with her thumb, taking more backward steps. “I’m just going to…go.” When he didn’t reply, she turned and walked briskly in the opposite direction.

  After a few minutes, she spotted the hotel doors ahead. The fact she was about to wake Peter made her feel like the world’s worst girlfriend, but after her run-in with creepy Goth guy, she didn’t want to be alone. She walked inside and headed up the elevator to their floor.

  After a gentle knock, Peter’s door creaked open and sleepy blue eyes blinked out at her. “What’s
wrong?” His voice was raspy, deepening her guilt.

  Tara shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep. Went for a walk.”

  He opened the door all the way. With no shirt, his low riding shorts showcased his lean, chiseled torso. Tara bit her lip.

  “Come on in.” She moved into his room, and he closed the door behind her. She did her best to ignore the frown pulling at the corners of his mouth. “What do you mean you went for a walk? It’s almost four in the morning.”

  “Yeah. I know.” She peeled off her coat and draped it over his messy bed before she sat.

  He rested beside her. “Another memory?”

  She hung her head, giving no reply. There was nothing to say, really. Telling him about it would only make him worry more.

  “You promised me you’d tell Renato if this got worse.” His tone turned from concerned to upset. He rested his hand on her leg. “Tara—”

  “Just…” She sighed and reached out, finding bare skin, muscle, and warmth. She spread her fingers over his chest.

  “Do you want to sleep here tonight?”

  She bit her lip. “Umm…”

  He stood and walked to his suitcase pushed against the far wall. He dug out a cotton shirt and rested it on the bed beside her.

  She picked it up. The material was warm and soft between her cold fingers. She glanced at him, offering the best smile she could. “You’ll eventually get sick of me wearing your clothes.”

  He winked. “I highly doubt that.”

  Staying the night seemed unfair, but the offer was too tempting to turn down. Plus, all of her pajamas were dirty. She’d been going through them faster than she could wash them. Somehow, sweat soaked pajamas weren’t quite as appealing to sleep in.

  She locked herself in the bathroom and pulled his T-shirt over her thinning frame. The seam ended just below her thighs. She came out to find Peter re-making the bed. He pulled down a corner of the sheets for her to climb in. “I’m gonna sleep on the floor.”

  With all of the trouble he’d gone through, she couldn’t say no. “Are you sure? I can sleep on the floor.”

  He huffed with a grin. “Not happening. But I am stealing one of these.” He threw a feather pillow on a thin blanket he’d spread over the carpet.

  She slipped under the cool, dry linens. He kissed her forehead, and then lay down on the floor beside her. With her cheek cradled on the pillow, she inhaled the scent of freshly fallen rain.

  For long moments she fought the deep exhaustion settled in her bones. It taunted and beckoned to her. She clung to her pillow, her eyes closing without her permission. When her mind wandered into that quiet space, she sucked in a shallow breath and opened her eyes again, now burning for rest.

  Peter pushed up on his elbows, his face half hidden in the shadows. “You can’t keep going on like this.”

  A tear ran down her cheek and dampened the pillowcase. “I know.”

  Chapter Three

  Tara sighed and pushed her spoon around the steaming bowl of oatmeal topped with pecans, raisins, and a splash of brown sugar. It smelled so good. Her stomach tightened and slithered. If she could just eat a few bites…

  She loaded the spoon and brought it to her lips. The aroma rose and teased her senses, but when the oatmeal touched her tongue, the back of her throat tightened, and she nearly gagged.

  She noticed Renato watching her, and quickly dropped the spoon back in her bowl.

  “You look like shit,” Hawa said.

  Peter huffed. “So typical for you to say something like that.”

  Hawa shrugged and spooned another bite into her mouth while grinning.

  Tara glared. Maybe Hawa thought she was stupid, or naive. She certainly wasn’t blind. Anyone could see how Hawa masked her feelings for Peter with her “I don’t give a shit about anything” attitude. It was getting old. Fast. After a week of not sleeping, Tara wasn’t in the mood to put up with any of Hawa’s crap.

  Renato cleared his throat and sipped his coffee. “You are looking a bit tired. Is everything all right?”

  “I’m fine, just…stressed. Worried, about Zanya.” She tucked a curl behind her ear. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure they’re well.”

  “Or dead.” Hawa finished the last bite of her oatmeal and dropped the spoon in her bowl. It clattered against the ceramic before settling on the edge.

  Tara’s fingers tightened around the corner of the table. “What the hell is your problem?”

  Hawa’s eyebrow arched. “Oh, so she has a voice.”

  “Why are you so damn bitter? If it’s because of Peter, you need to just get over it. You aren’t going to win him back, especially with the whole ‘bad ass’ act. You think you’re fooling everyone, but you’re not. Get a grip, and move on.”

  Everyone sat silent as Tara pushed out of her chair. Hawa glared with rigid shoulders. Tara waited to see if the little brat had anything else to add. She wanted Hawa to say something, hoped she would, so Tara could vent more of her frustration.

  Tara glanced at Renato and found his expression drenched in disappointment. Even Peter picked at his oatmeal without even look at her.

  Her cheeks swelled with heat.

  She left the table and barged into the hall, down to the lobby, and out the front doors. With her fists clenched, she stalked down the sidewalk. “Who the hell does she think she is, anyway?”

  “Tara.” She continued walking, even after hearing Peter call her name. “Tara, wait up!” The pounding of his sneakers grew louder until they slowed, and he fell into pace beside her. “What was that all about?”

  She couldn’t bear to look at him. “What? Was I too hard on her?”

  He grabbed her hand and pulled her to a stop. She finally met his gaze. “You know I don’t think of her like that anymore.”

  “Then why don’t you tell her to just get over you?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck with his free hand. “I mean, I guess I just assumed she would, after enough time passed. I might not like her like that, but I don’t want to hurt her feelings either.”

  Tara jerked her hand away from his. “Well, she obviously hasn’t gotten the clue, and since you’re too nice to tell her to back off, I had to.”

  “You’re not acting like yourself. These memories are really wearing you down. You need to talk to Renato.”

  “I’m sure you would just love for me to be the walking freak show. Someone you need to take care of.” She spun and continued down the sidewalk, Peter on her heels. “I’m nobody’s charity case. Ever since I was a kid, people have felt sorry for me. That’s not my life anymore, and I’m trying not to relive it every single day, thanks.”

  “You’re not a charity case, Tara. You never have been.”

  “Then stop treating me like it!”

  “I’m treating you like someone I care about. Your body can’t take much more of this. I can sense it when I touch you. Your energy is weakening.”

  She snorted. “I’ve only been awake for like, oh, a week straight. I haven’t been able to eat because everything makes me want to puke. I’m light headed, exhausted, and—”

  “Tara.” He took her hand and pulled her to a stop again, this time with a gentle caress. His tenderness slowed her boiling rage. “I love you, and I just want you to be happy and healthy.”

  His fingers worked through her curls. He pressed his warm lips to her forehead and lingered there. The scent of fresh rain flowed around them, this time with a hint of sweet wildflowers.

  She leaned into him, her heart aching. “I just want to be myself again.”

  “Come on.” He began to lead her back to the hotel. “I’ll go with you to talk to him.”

  She dug her heels into the pavement. Apparently he wasn’t getting the point. She didn’t want to be too pushy, but he needed to understand. “I told you, I’m not going.”

  “You need help, Tara.”

  She crossed her arms. “If I tell him…he won’t say it, but…” S
he hung her head. “He won’t want me around anymore if he thinks I’m messed up.”

  “How could you say that? Renato cares about you.”

  “He doesn’t even know me.” She bit the inside of her cheek. “Not really. And I’m not like you guys. I’m just dead weight.”

  He cupped her face in his hands. “That is not true.”

  Tears stung her eyes. He didn’t deserve this crap. She pulled away from him. “I’m going for a walk. Alone.”

  ***

  Tara sat on the patio of a quaint diner beneath strokes of orange and red in the twilight sky, sipping a club soda. Although bitter, the carbonation curbed her appetite, and she needed something—anything—to make her stomach stop the rotation of growling, aching, and then nausea.

  She’d been watching the locals all afternoon. It was fascinating to see how people acted outside of some sterile institution like her orphanage. Aside from the locals, tons of tourists passed through the streets, offering plenty of variety.

  A black sedan sat idle on the opposite side of the street. The driver—a man with a dark goatee and wearing a black ushanka—tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to a beat.

  He appeared to be a native Russian, the kind who was born and raised in the country and would never leave. She must have been staring too long because the driver noticed her. For a split second, they locked eyes. She quickly averted her gaze to the ceramic ashtray in the center of her table.

  Maybe he hadn’t realized she was watching him, specifically. If she focused somewhere else long enough, he might forget and go back to tapping his fingers to his music.

  Her muscles jammed up when her peripheral vision caught him stepping out of the car. She’d been sitting there most of the afternoon, and nobody had noticed her until now. She shifted in her chair as he approached.

  Her eyes slowly scaled his body when he came to a stop in front of her table, looking like some kind of military commander in a heavy wool jacket over a pair of jeans tucked into combat boots, and a wool hat lined with fur.

  “May I sit?” A heavy Russian accent thickened his words. Tara swallowed and nodded. It went against her better judgment, but she didn’t have it in her to say no.