“Um…you can go.”
“Nice try,” he said.
“You mean…you're staying?” I asked, appalled. “Here?”
“You hard of hearing?” He wasn't just trying to scare me, he was serious. He was really going to stand there and watch me while I showered. Even if the curtain was somewhat opaque, the thought of him being there while I was naked was terrifying. He read the look on my face and snorted. “Don't flatter yourself, darlin. You don't have anything I haven't seen before.”
I started to cry. I couldn't help it. The tears just fell of their own accord.
“Would you rather go without a shower? 'Cause that is the only other option.”
I swallowed hard and nodded, shaking loose the tears clinging to my chin.
“Oh, Jesus fucking Christ.” I peered up through my wet eyelashes. He looked disgusted. “Just give me your goddamn clothes.”
I clutched the hem of my dress. “W-what?”
“Your clothes. The fabric protecting your goddamn feminine modesty.” He nodded toward a towel hanging on the metal rail. “Take them off, wrap yourself in that, and then give them to me. It isn't fucking rocket science.”
Was it a trick? “
“Will you … leave first?”
“You have thirty seconds.” He held up a finger. “Ten if I hear another word.”
It wasn't until the door slammed behind him that I was able to breathe.
I disrobed as fast as I could. The dress was easy, the leggings were harder. I had a hard time rolling them off my thighs with my shaking hands. I had barely gotten the towel wrapped around me when the door burst open. My captor took the soiled clothes, exchanging them for a small square of soap. “Hurry it up,” he said. Then he left, and the room plunged into silence.
The shower was wonderful. I didn't dare stay in there long enough for the water to heat up properly for fear he'd lose patience and barge in, but I'd never appreciated washing more. By the time I finished with my hair alone, I had almost no soap left. The dirt and stale sweat were scrubbed away. I was much cleaner than before. I wrapped myself in the towel again and opened the door. My captor was leaning against the opposite wall with a bundle of clothes under his arm. His posture was watchful but relaxed.
The stance of a predator at rest.
He straightened when he heard the squeak of the door hinges and clicked his tongue at the puddle of water at my feet. “Fucking water everywhere — go on, get dressed.” He dropped the pile of clothes in my arms. They weren't the ones I'd left him with but I recognized some of them: a black shirt I'd worn the last time I went on a date, my third-best pair of Lucky jeans, my underwear —
“Where did you get these?”
“It's time to send your parents another picture.”
“Did you steal these from my room? Did you go back to my house?”
“We need one where you look alive.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Hurry up.”
Chapter Five
Control
His treatment of me became increasingly unfeeling. He seemed disgusted by me. Disgusted and resentful, since he had no qualms about insulting me, tossing off a few casual threats, or even landing a few open-handed blows on my face and body for good measure.
Resisting, fighting back, hadn't worked. I couldn't seize control from him. Not by force.
I should have run when I had the chance, I thought. Back at the house…I should have kicked him in the balls and found a phone to call the police. I should have done something.
But I hadn't — because in the end, I had been too afraid.
Now, it was too late.
“Look at the camera, darlin. Show me that pretty face.”
I hung my head. If he saw the rebellion in my eyes, he'd stomp out what resilience still remained. His flat affect was like a black hole; sucking away all emotions, leaving a void where the fear could take hold. It was tempting to sink into apathy, to lull myself with the thought that I no longer cared what happened. But that was a lie. I knew I wanted to live.
But time had become my enemy. I had both too much and too little. The more I tried not to think about its passing, the more it pressed down upon me, like an insufferable weight. I tried singing songs in my head. Then fairy tales. Then, when I had exhausted my repertoire, scriptures that had been drilled into me from both Sunday school and confessional. I soon stopped, though; they gave me no comfort. This dark, sunless place was out of even God's reach, and each word seemed to be echoed by the devil's own laughter.
His cell phone rang the day after he took the photographs, while he was bringing me water. He set the bottle on the ground, just out of reach, and took the call in another room. Usually these discourses lasted a couple minutes. He was gone for much longer than that.
The water bottle sweated beads of condensation. The need to drink surfaced. I didn't pay attention. For once the dryness in my mouth didn't seem to be caused by thirst. The calls never took this long. Something was wrong.
Over the pounding of my heartbeat, I heard the creak of his footsteps on the stairs. I turned towards the door. He glanced at me, then at the untouched bottle of water, which he nudged towards me with his boot. He wasn't talking — that was bad. He always froze over when he received a piece of news that displeased him. And then he took it out on me.
As he turned to leave, I said in a cracking voice, “Wait.”
The grit beneath his soles crunched as he turned to face me.
“My parents.” I took a sip of water, gagging on the mineral edge. “What about them?”
“We got them.”
Those three words turned my blood to ice. I set the bottle aside, not noticing when it toppled, sending the precious water coursing away from me in shadowy rivulets. “You mean you captured them?”
“No. It's only a matter of time. The phone call came from somewhere near the Canadian border.” He glanced down at me. “I suppose yesterday's photo shoot must have been convincing.”
I flinched. “You're lying.”
“What reason do I have to lie to you?”
Clearly, he was forgetting that he had lied to me already — several times — which was the reason I was currently chained to a pipe.
A horrible wailing pierced the air. It took a moment to realize it was coming from me. My parents were still alive, but it was unlikely I'd ever get to say goodbye. The last exchange I'd had with my mom had been a vicious argument, where I'd told her I hated her. My captor started to shimmer around the edges, blurring behind my tears. I made no move to stop them. My heart was breaking, and the jagged pieces were cutting me all up inside.
“Your tears won't do them any good.”
“Why can't you just leave us alone?” I screamed.
The blurred form shook its head. “You are a stupid girl.”
Yes, I was. Stupid to think he was capable of granting any kind of mercy.
“You're helping to pay off your parents' debt. Their greed is the reason you're here.”
“Don't talk to me about greed, you bastard! You put a price-tag on my parents' lives! And you'd probably sell your own soul to make a cool million, too, you…you fucking hypocrite! At least my parents never killed anyone for money. You think you're so tough, so smart, so right just because you have a gun, but really, you're just a cow — ”
In one stride he closed the distance between us and clamped his hand over my mouth. “Let's get one thing clear here, because your logic appears to have been clouded in the midst of your grief. You are talking about feelings. And feelings make you stupid. Yes, I have a gun. And if you continue to piss me off with your stupid sentimental bullshit, I am going to use that gun on you.”
I spluttered and tried to pull free. He gave me a shake.
“I could care less how you feel about me, darlin. I only have to make sure you remain unscathed long enough for us to find your parents and use you as currency. After that, it doesn't matter what happens to you and all your bleeding-heart sentiments. You'll be a loose
end. Maybe we'll let you live — or maybe, we'll just kill you. Welcome to my world. It's called Reality. Buy some property and settle down, 'cause you're gonna be here for a long fucking time.”
He pulled away, wiping his hand on his pants.
I'd rather be a bleeding heart than have no heart at all.
As if he could read my mind, he added, “Don't think that your so-called status gives you license to sit here and insult me, making threats you don't have the ability to carry out. Like I said, you'll only end up pissing me off and trust me; you don't want that.”
Something snapped then, as if the pain had roused some sleeping beast inside me.
“You're pathetic.”
I'd said it under my breath but he'd heard me, because part of me had wanted him to hear me, and his eyes narrowed. “What was that? You have something you want to share with the rest of the class?” Part of my brain cried out that he was too close — that I was going to make him mad — that he was already mad — and that I shouldn't push my luck, just cash in my chips and stop now. But by then it was too late. Even if I wanted to, I couldn't reclaim my words.
My anger and grief were spiraling out of control and I was caught in the undertow.
“I said you're pathetic, you worm.”
I paused for air.
(Don't say it.)
“You're lower than life.”
Michael:
As any forest ranger will tell you, even the smallest spark is capable of culminating into a raging inferno under the proper circumstances. I had been insulted thousands of times, in a multitude of languages; it came with the job. But this girl was good at pushing my buttons — and there was a spark in her eyes, a little streak of defiance, that suggested she wasn't throwing words around. She was perceptive, selective; she meant them.
And she fucking pissed me off.
I straddled her hips, pinning her down to the basement floor. I waited until she tired herself out enough to calm down, then forced her to look me in the eye. She didn't like that. Too bad. “Take a long, hard look around you. You want to talk about pathetic? You're the one chained to the goddamn pipe.”
I stopped, making sure she was still paying attention. She was.
“If you want that to change, as I imagine you do, I suggest you start cooperating with me and stop fucking fighting me at every goddamn turn. It is your own fault that you're here. Whether you believe that or not doesn't matter. What I want matters. And what I want is information.”
“I'm not going to sell out my parents — and I already told you everything I know!”
She didn't seem to realize the contradiction in her words. Foolish girl.
“I have trouble believing that.” I paused a beat. “You know anything about Greek mythology?” She went absolutely still beneath me. “Of course you have. Ever hear of something called Pandora's box?”
Terror lit up her entire face. She tried to play it off. She was a poor actor. “I took mythology in school.”
“Your daddy was interested in Greek mythology, too. He sent us a little greeting card with a bit of Greek mythology. A greeting card that blew out some expensive and irreplaceable data. You know why, Christina? Because he saw something he didn't like. And if you don't start coming clean with me, I'm going to show you things that you're not gonna like.”
I tightened my grip on her shoulders, which had started to quake.
“It's your choice, darlin. You can talk willingly, or” — I trailed my fingers down her jaw — “I can loosen your tongue a bit for you.”
She headbutted me.
I dodged but her attack had other unexpected effects when her hips smacked up against mine, sending a burst of white-hot electricity pulsing through my bloodstream on collision.
“Cut that out.”
She was beyond listening. She did it again, with more force this time. Had she actually connected with my skull, there would have been pain. Lots of it. I drew in an unsteady breath; it was like taking a hit. She's a fucking kid. She's a hostage and she's a fucking kid.
“Get the hell off me,” she was shouting. “Get off of me, you filthy son of a — ”
I slapped her, barely registering the squeal of pain. “Cut it out,” I repeated, “Before you make me do something we'll both regret.”
“Go to hell!” Her head knocked against mine. There was a brief, explosive pain as sudden and shocking as if I had been zapped by lightning, and I heard a growl in my throat. Okay, I was officially pissed. That fucking hurt. I turned to glare at her.
Her eyes had narrowed to blue slits. There was a flush in her dark skin, noticeable even in the half-light. I was suddenly painfully aware of her warmth, of the smell of my soap in her hair. For the first time, I noticed the girl cleaned up rather nicely. Too nicely for my peace of mind.
In fact…she was striking.
I leaned in closer, letting my hands fall on either side of her, caging her between my arms. How hadn't I noticed before? God, her lips. Her eyes widened, the pupils huge in the darkness. I let my gaze fall to her mouth. “I warned you,” I said, very softly.
The IMA frowned on using hostages for what it called “recreational purposes” — something that, to this day, remains one of the best euphemisms for fucking that I've ever heard. Whatever you called it, it was unprofessional and distorted the relationship between captor and captive. This rule wouldn't have been a problem for me, except that it had been several months since I'd been this close to a woman and all that friction had gotten me hard.
Her expression changed, all the anger and hostility drained as if I'd yanked out an emotional plug, leaving only fear. Oh, part of her knew what I was thinking, in that uncanny way women have, and she didn't like it. At all. For the first time in her miserable little mind, I represented an imminent threat, not a distant one.
Well. She had asked for it.
Christina:
There are doors that shouldn't be opened. My father had opened one of these doors. Now, in spite of his warnings, I had gone and done the same.
I tried to slap him. He blocked the attack, pinned my arm down, and bit me. Hard. My head spun as the coppery taste of my own blood filled my mouth. While I was reeling from that he slipped off his shirt and began working on the buttons of mine. Nobody had ever hit me or hurt me in any other way — at least, not before him — and in previous conflicts, I'd been able to talk my way out. I had lived a sheltered life, free from violence.
That just made this more horrific. “What are you doing?”
“What do you think?” He ran his free hand through my hair, yanking it back from my face. I stilled when his lips touched my neck and the rough stubble around his mouth scraped at my skin. Terror replaced the blood flowing in my body. I wondered if he could feel my racing pulse. If he enjoyed my terror.
“Okay,” I choked. “Okay, you win. I'll tell you anything…anything you want to know.”
He lifted his head, and his nose brushed mine. “That's a load of bullshit, darlin.”
“Please. Please. D-don't rape me. Please.”
“I warned you.” His hands were rough. “But now you have me all excited.”
I curled my fingers into claws, aiming at the holes in his mask. He whipped his head to the side, so my nails raked against his cheek instead of gouging his eyes. An expression of mild surprise flickered across his face before he reverted to an emotion I was far more familiar with:
Anger.
I shivered at the raw hatred I saw there. The way he looked at me — as if he would happily kill me at that moment — was so terrifying that it took me a moment to realize why I could so his emotions so clearly. His mask had come off in my hand. With a startled scream I threw it aside as if it were skin I held in my fingers, not fabric. The mask fell to the stone floor without a sound as I looked upon my captor's face for the first time.
I had childishly convinced myself that the reason he hid his face was because he was either old or ugly, that his exterior matched his cruel interior. It
had been foolish thinking — like I said, the thoughts of a child — but I was still surprised at being proved wrong.
He was startlingly young, with strong patrician features. His face was so warped with anger, it was impossible to discern his age. Twenties? Thirties? I stared at him in mute fascination, unable to take my eyes away even though I knew that the longer I stared, the more I incriminated myself. He was so…normal-looking. Nothing about him betrayed his stunning lack of regard for the human race. Not outwardly.
“That was a very stupid thing to do.” He groped for me and squeezed hard. That broke the spell pretty quickly. I winced and looked away. “Now you'll never be able to leave this place alive.”
“What? But — ”
“Shut up.” His breathing was so labored, he could barely speak. He took a moment to compose himself. “Do you want your parents to die?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Then do yourself a favor” — his callused hand slid down my stomach; I hated my stomach. I hated him — “and stop gambling with their lives. Understand?”
“Yes.” My voice sounded small.
“I want to hear you say it.”
“I…I understand,” I sobbed.
“Good. Now shut up.”
His mouth crashed down on mine, as if my sobs were something he could devour, and I realized he was right: I hadn't had any idea what he was capable of. I was beginning to find out. He fumbled with his belt. I heard the jangle of the buckle and closed my eyes.
I didn't want to watch anymore.
Please, God. Make it be over quickly.
His phone rang.
I held my breath.
Oh please, oh please, oh, please, please, please.
My captor swore. His weight lifted from me. He got to his feet in a fluid motion and left the room to answer his phone. I could hear his voice growing louder, instead of softer, as he climbed up the basement stairs — bad news. Just like him.
Cloak and Dagger (The IMA Book 1) Page 6
