House of Stone

by T. K. Thorne

  “No, I haven’t changed my mind. At least, not about that.” I look up at him. “I need to ask you something.”

  Worry furrows his brow. “What?”

  “When you said your House—I assume your father—pressured you to ‘court’ me—” I clear my throat and lift my gaze above his chest to meet his eyes. “What I want to know is: Did you want to?”

  “What?”

  “Did you want to? I mean, would you have wanted to without being pushed into it or if we weren’t partners—?”

  He hesitates a moment, I assume processing what I’m asking. Then he takes a step toward me and cups my forearms in his hands, hands that could crush the bones there without much effort.

  “I would have wanted to, Rose.” His voice is low, though we are alone.

  I can feel his breath on my forehead, the steel beneath his careful grip. “Is that the real reason you told me you were House of Stone?”

  “What?”

  “You told me who you were in spite of the fact that you were specifically told not to.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You said you did it because of Laurie Stokes, and you didn’t want someone else to die because I was hiding my abilities to see things.”

  “That’s right.”

  “That’s not all of the reason.”

  “You’ve never met a guy you didn’t want to psychoanalyze, have you? So tell me why I told you I was Stone.” He closes the distance between us. Our voices seem far away, like seagulls crying against the roar of waves.

  “Because you wanted me to know. You knew I would fight against the ‘plan,’ and you wanted it to be my choice, an honest choice.”

  “You’re a pretty good psychoanalyst.” He hesitates. “Is it your choice?”

  “I don’t know what I want for the future but, I may die today and that means an entire race of people will disappear off the face of the earth.”

  His thick brows tug down in confusion. “I don’t understand. If you die, that will still happen.”

  “If I live, if I come through this— I know that’s a long shot. I know it’s not logical, but I need to make a decision now.”

  His grip on my arms tightens incrementally, his breath stirring my hair. “Why now?”

  “Because now is when I have the courage to decide.”

  Somehow I’m against his chest, as solid as a rock wall shaken by the thunder of his heartbeat. Or is it mine?

  “I’m not making any promises about tomorrow, Lohan. I’m just asking for this one hour.”

  His fingers rest light as a whisper on my lips. “Stop,” he says. “Stop talking.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  Ihave no idea if that hour with Tracey will bear any fruit, but for a little while, I actually forgot to be afraid. Whatever happens, I don’t regret it. It was hard to leave his arms, even though I knew they were a temporary haven.

  But that is now the past. The present requires me to get out of the car and walk up the pathway and through the front door of my house.

  Weeks ago, when I stalled at walking through Alice’s door back to my job, I was afraid of the unknown. I know what waits for me on the other side of this door, and it calls for courage I don’t have. Fear is front and center, banging away in my chest, but it’s not a panic attack, just your run of the mill, scared-out-of-your-mind terror. That I’m willingly walking into the hands of House of Iron and almost certain death is beyond my rational comprehension.

  It has not been a rational day.

  In the end, I open the car door because Segal is here, willing to march into hell for his little sister. He’s counting on me to get us out of this alive, and the odds are that I can’t. It’s that simple. We will both die. The Houses will die. Kaleshia will die. Or, if they’re “lucky,” their brains might just be wiped clean, as close to dying as you can get and still walk around. And if I live and they don’t, I will suffocate from the guilt.

  It’s dusk. Too early in the year for the crickets, cicadas, and toads to chorus. Too early for the fireflies to swing their fairy lanterns. The two streetlights on the block that aren’t out are on. A man in a tee shirt and sweatpants walking his neatly groomed sheltie passes us on the sidewalk. The normalcy of that makes me want to scream.

  Segal and I are alone. No guns, no communication devices. Angola will check for them. I quench the desire to look up the street to see if Becca is in position. She’s not supposed to move until we’re in the house, but the urge to check is as strong as an itch. Jamal is with her. Hobart is stationed halfway up the other side of the street.

  “You good, Segal?” I ask as we slowly walk up the path to my front door.

  “Not good,” he says, a lot of breath in his wavering voice, “but I’m here.”

  Depending on an unraveled computer geek with no training is not my idea of the best plan, but it’s what we have.

  I suck in a breath, trying to keep it inaudible, and knock on the door before I can turn tail. It opens immediately. The person who opens it is not visible, but Angola is.

  “Come in,” he says. “Punctual. I appreciate that.”

  He’s standing to the side of the door, a semiautomatic with an attached silencer in his hand. I wonder if it’s the same one he used on Laurie Stokes or at the pool. He took the time to dive for it before climbing out, not worried about making up an explanation to anyone. All he had to do was get out of the building before the police arrived and things got complicated.

  The man who actually opened my door closes it as we enter. I recognize the sun-bleached hair and dark tan—Lawrence, pilot of Jason’s Iron Fist. He too is holding a gun, and it’s aimed at my stomach. Half of me wants Jason to be here too, just to dissolve the tension of whether he is in on all this.

  I lift my hands. Segal follows my lead.

  The door closes behind us. It has always stuck a little, and Angola has to give it a push to close it. He flips the dead bolt.

  “Where’s Kaleshia?” I ask.

  “First things first,” Angola says. He puts a hand on Segal’s arm. “You will be silent unless spoken to and not move unless I tell you to. Do you understand?”

  “Yes,” Segal says.

  I have no way to know if the rose-stone is protecting him or if I’ve lost him.

  “Stand against the far wall,” Angola directs him.

  Segal walks woodenly to the wall.

  “Search her, Lawrence.” Angola says, nodding at me.

  Lawrence hands him his gun to hold and approaches me with a grin. “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “And I’m looking forward to kicking your teeth out your ass,” I mutter.

  “Hands higher.” He moves behind me.

  I lift my hands.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Earlobes burning, I comply.

  His hands travel slowly over my shoulders and chest, lingering on my breasts. “Just checking for wires,” he says, brushing my nipples. I hold my breath when he slides his fingers around my waist. He takes his time as well on my hips and butt and the inside of my thighs. I try to concentrate on my breathing, reminding myself that anything I do will put Kaleshia and Segal at even more risk.

  “That will do,” Angola says tightly. “Cuff her.” He tosses Lawrence a pair of steel handcuffs.

  I put my hands behind me, not resisting but not helping him further either. If he doesn’t know thumbs up is the best position, he can figure it out on his own. I tighten the muscles of my hands and arms while he fumbles with the cuffs. Theoretically, that will give me a little leeway when I relax. I doubt he will bother to double lock them or that he even knows how.

  “What’s taking so long?” Angola says sharply.

  Lawrence gives the cuffs a cruel squeeze, biting them into the skin. When he is finally finished with me, Lawrence searches Segal, a m
uch quicker process.

  “In the kitchen,” Angola orders. “That way.”

  I grit my teeth. “I know the way.”

  “Follow her,” Angola tells Segal.

  We proceed to the kitchen, which is adjacent to the living room. The smell of cinnamon and coffee wafts to my nose, a mixture that would be comforting under normal circumstances. But this is not a normal circumstance.

  I want to grab Segal and shake him to remind him to follow orders. This is the first test. If he reacts verbally to seeing Kaleshia, we are up a creek without a paddle.

  My story to Segal was that Angola is an accomplished hypnotist and an egomaniac who thinks he can hypnotize anyone quickly, and that it was critical for Segal to act as if he was completely under Angola’s influence. It was a more difficult challenge to convince Segal that he needed to wear a piece of jewelry in his underwear. I was counting on the fact that a man, even a man searching for weapons, normally does not like to go feeling around another man’s privates. Tracey told Segal the pendant had a microphone hidden in it.

  In the kitchen, Kaleshia sits on one of the four wooden chairs, her back to the window where Angel has worn claw-sharpening grooves in the sill. When he sees his little sister, Segal stops dead. His face is momentarily out of Angola’s view, but not mine. His mouth silently forms a word—Cheerios.

  Joy lights the child’s too-thin, too-pale face at the sight of her brother, but she doesn’t speak. Angola has probably ordered her to be still and silent.

  Relief cascades over me. Angola has not permanently wiped her mind . . . yet. If Tracey is right, he plans to kill her, wipe Segal’s mind, and, oh yeah, kill me. I am the main target.

  Angola puts a hand on Segal’s shoulder and orders, “Sit in a chair, and be quiet.” He turns to me. “You too.”

  Segal sits between Angola and Kaleshia. I choose the chair on Angola’s other side where I can see Segal’s face, the window, and down the hallway to the back door.

  As soon as I sit, terror descends. Chair. Handcuffs. Theophalus. A cattle prod. I’m glad I went to the bathroom before we left Alice’s because my body might betray me as a coward. Reflexively, I draw in the living-green, taking comfort in the warm rush.

  But it doesn’t prevent beads of sweat from moistening my hairline. My breath is jagged and shallow. I can’t give in to the terror. I can’t. The little girl sitting at this table needs me to think. I bite the inside of my lip, hard enough to taste blood, forcing my mind out of past terrors to the here and now, which is terrifying enough.

  “Lawrence,” Angola says, “check the back and then cover the front. You see any police or movement of any kind, let me know.”

  Is there is a third goon at the back? If so, Tracey is supposed to take him out quietly. Becca will signal as soon as he has and the back is cleared. But I don’t know how long Angola wants to gloat or how long the rose-stone will protect Segal, if it is working at all. If I scream, Tracey will come in, but I’m not letting him barge in to certain death or put the hostages at risk and both of those look likely to happen.

  “Who knows you’re here?” Angola asks me.

  I shrug and try to make my voice normal. “You said to come alone. We came alone.”

  “That is not what I asked.” His cheek twitches. He is House of Iron. I don’t think he’s accustomed to not getting direct responses.

  Stall him.

  Tasting blood, I choke out a question. “Why should I answer your questions when you won’t answer mine?”

  His mouth curls in a tepid smile. “You continue to surprise me, Rose.”

  His attention is a physical pressure, not the magic-induced attraction of Jason’s presence, but a connection that runs deep, a subtle accelerator on my already thudding heartbeat. I have no idea what it is or why I feel it, but I realize it has always been there in my subconscious, unacknowledged.

  He takes a step closer. “What do you want to know?” His tone is light, almost playful.

  His eyes are not playful. He is going to kill me.

  Shouldn’t he be distancing himself from me, making it easier to pull the trigger? Instead, I feel as if he is devouring me in some way and, despite my terror, or maybe because of it and the impending intimacy of death, something inside me is . . . responding.

  “Who is behind this and why?” I ask, playing the outside game we are engaged in.

  He snorts. “I think you know why.”

  “Then who do you work for?”

  “The man who saved me.”

  Time. I need time.

  Behind my back, I’m working my fingers under my untucked tee shirt. One key fits all cuffs. I wore a handcuff key on a necklace after I heard about a patrol officer handcuffing his rookie to the steering wheel as a practical joke. But the one time I truly needed it—during the Ordeal when I was cuffed to an iron chair deep underground—I couldn’t get to it. I’ve rectified that by taping a key to the interior edge of both the front and back of my underpants. I wear briefs, and the waistband is not actually on my waist, but sits below it, not a place of interest for a weapons search or a pervert’s fingers, and the thickness of the band hides it. Brilliant, if I do say so.

  But if I drop that key, or they notice my movements, I’m in big trouble and not so smart. Working the key loose from the tape and into the lock is going to be extra tough since Lawrence gave the cuffs that sadistic squeeze. They’re pressing on the nerves. My hands are already starting to tingle. Twisting them to try and get to the key is going to make it worse. I have to move fast, but fast is the enemy in this tricky maneuver.

  My fingers find the slender key on the inner edge of my panties in the small of my back and start prying the tape. I’m counting on the key sticking to the tape until I can get it into position.

  “The man who saved you,” I repeat. “Saved you how?”

  He ignores the question.

  Slowly. If you fumble the key, it’s all over.

  Lawrence returns from the hallway that leads to the back door, and I freeze. My hands are covered by the tee shirt. Will he check them?

  Without a second look at me, he passes through the kitchen into the living room, and I release the breath I was holding.

  A moment later, in the window behind Angola, a car’s headlights flash on and then off. Becca’s signal. Tracey has cleared the back door.

  Unworried about me or Segal, Angola sets his gun on the table and picks up the to-go coffee cup, taking a sip, his gaze locked on mine. Despite the other people in the house, we are alone.

  Segal doesn’t move. Is he with me or in Angola’s power? Following a “suggestion” enforced by Iron magic doesn’t strip you of your personality. Just because Segal mouthed “Cheerios” to Kaleshia doesn’t mean he is not in Angola’s thrall. He was told to be silent and not move unless told to, and he has obeyed that. I can’t depend on him.

  I keep my gaze on Angola. He said someone saved him. He’s got to mean when he was in Iraq.

  “Didn’t the Marines come to get you when ISIS took you prisoner?” I ask.

  I’ve obviously hit a button. This time the question seems to distract him, momentarily breaking that dark river coursing between us.

  “No Marines came.” Sarcasm slices the words. “Semper Fi. I was there two weeks. In the day, they tortured me for information. At night, they tortured me for fun.”

  I’ve peeled the handcuff key from the tape, pinching it between thumb and forefinger. I’ve practiced this, but it doesn’t always work. In fact, most of the time I drop the key, something I failed to tell Tracey when I sold this stupid plan. I know by feel where the lock hole is supposed to be, but hitting it just right takes repetition and luck. My sweat-damp fingers aren’t functioning well. Damn Lawrence. The tingling is moving into numbness. I’m losing feeling. If I don’t get these cuffs off soon, having a key will be useless.

 
“You are not a stranger to torture,” Angola says, and I hear a strand of respect in his voice.

  I meet his gaze. A mistake. I may drown in the storm in those dark eyes.

  “You have guts in this world of cowards. I don’t like having to kill you.”

  I make my mouth move. “Then why do it?”

  “Because he saved me—not my buddies, not the Marine Corp. He did. My House. He walked in and took me out.”

  “‘He’ is Samson Blackwell, isn’t it?”

  “I owe him everything for that.”

  “Even your conscience?”

  “I have no conscience. It’s a made-up word for a made-up society.” He moves closer. We are locked together again, carried by the same current.

  “I think you understand that,” he says.

  His acknowledgement of the undertow between us has given it strength, and I realize I do understand. I understand the darkness in him because it’s my darkness too. I’ve known it all my life. I’ve just not been able to name it. I knew it when I saw the blood on my sister’s blanket. I tasted it when the tall man threw a lit match into our bedroom window. Even as a five-year-old, I knew I would kill.

  Doesn’t every police officer have to come to this place—a place where you’re ready to pull the trigger, to take a life? Maybe that is why friendship outside those in law enforcement or the military is difficult. We know we’re different. We know inside, we are darkness. We wield death. It is recognition that thrums between Angola and me. At our cores, we are the same. Angola is a killer. His military training honed that in him, the torture released it. I am not who I thought I was. Being a police officer, helping people, is what I do to fight that darkness, to keep it at bay.

  I have killed. I will again.

  Slowly, Angola moves his hand toward the table, turning his head and his gaze from me.

  I swallow, forcing back my distaste for what I am and what I am willing to do. I may be a killer too, but right now, Angola is the one with the gun. With my failure to get the handcuff key into the lock, panic builds. It’s hard to breathe. Dizziness assaults me. All the progress I have made dissolves in an instant. I suck living-green.