The absence of a greeting party felt anticlimactic, not that she was complaining. Where were they? Her racing heart slowed as she stood in the empty room. Several minutes passed. Nervous, she wiped her palms on the legs of her jeans and eyed the circular staircase to her left. Looking back toward the elevator, she noted no call button, not that she would have used it in any case. She spotted a camera imbedded in one corner, safe behind a shield of metal and plastic. Of course Anders would be watching her every move. There were probably camera and microphone pickups everywhere.
With false bravado, she flipped off the camera and turned to the staircase. “Here goes,” she muttered to herself as she began her climb into the unknown. Her footsteps rang unpleasantly on the rusting metal. She slowed her step in an attempt to lessen the impact, but the small room below echoed with her departure. At the top of the stairs stood a metal door with an industrial-style push bar rather than a conventional doorknob. Unable to help herself, she reached out and rested both palms against the door, her clean hands contrasting the spray painted warning there, the only legible message in the entire room.
“Welcome to Hell.”
The door was cool to the touch. She leaned close, putting her ear to the steel as she held her breath. Nothing. Would they know she was there at all until she came across them? Gathering her courage, she pulled back. Nowhere to go but up. She shoved the door open and sauntered through. A piercing klaxon thwarted her bluster. She winced, jumping away from the door and farther into a room that wasn’t much bigger than the one she’d just left. The overhead lights dimmed, pulsing twice before the alarm silenced itself. An intercom clicked on, a neutral male voice stating into the appalling hush, “Joram Darkstone.”
Her eyes widened. The door thumped closed, punctuating the silence and causing her to jump again. Great, a warning system. Her hands shook, but she knew better than to return downstairs. The last thing she needed was to get cornered. It wasn’t like the elevator would be arriving any time soon to collect her—if it did, it would be to deposit another hapless soul for his or her year of natal celebration. She doubted the two muscled goons inside would allow her to return before her “sabbatical” was finished. My choice.
This room appeared to have been some sort of pub, a wooden bar splitting it in half. Dust, overturned tables and broken chairs were scattered everywhere. She saw a door on the far side, half off its hinges. Getting trapped here was no better than downstairs so she went behind the bar and through the broken entry, arming herself with a chair leg as she went. The next room seemed less a danger with wide-open spaces, the area at least five times the size of the pub. It was also already occupied.
To Joram’s right, ragged teenagers bearing weapons similar to her own streamed down a staircase, their shouts echoing off the cracked but tasteful marble floor. Across the room, more emerged from behind a pair of freestanding walls. Their clothes were ripped and torn piecemeal, whether by poverty or artifice she didn’t know. Before she had much opportunity to look for a defensible position she was surrounded.
Terrified, she held her chair leg like a two-handed sword in front of her, her gaze darting among the crowd. There were at least twenty of them, boys and girls, all whooping and yelling as they leered at her. Some of them reached out with their handmade weapons—metal pipes or table legs with sharpened butter knives lashed to the ends—tapping her meager wooden protection. She turned in a circle, trying to keep them all in sight, whirling about as one or another touched her shoulder or buttocks, never catching the perpetrator before someone else on the other side prodded her anew. She noted a slower moving audience strolling down from the stairs but couldn’t spare them any attention. The others did, opening a path for the new arrivals. As the group neared, the vicious teasing pokes eased and the rambunctious crowd quieted in anticipation.
Her immediate attackers were others like herself, teenagers brought here and dumped by Anders. Are they “Them”? Though her assailants were roughly her age, she didn’t recognize most of them. How many people did Anders reign over that he could fill this abandoned area with thirty teenagers she’d never met? She braced herself for the oncoming party, assuming these were the boogeymen of which she’d been warned. But they were teenagers too, and she knew the one leading the way.
A malevolent smile graced the face of an Asian girl as she came to a halt just out of reach of Joram’s chair leg. “What have we here?”
Getting a better grip on her wooden armament, Joram tried to stop her hands from shaking. The end of the chair leg continued to wobble. She glanced around at the others, her fright finally allowing her to pick out the children she knew. There weren’t many. She’d played on the beach with some and attended classes with others, at least when she’d first arrived at the compound. These days her instructors were private tutors, and she’d spent a good portion of her time gaining Anders’s approval by harassing her peers. Chief among her victims was Christina Yahiro who now studied her with an expression of immense gratification.
Having not received an answer, Christina abruptly spun about, her foot lashing out and connecting with Joram’s weapon.
The chair leg flew from Joram’s hands, stinging splinters digging into her palm. She refused to cry out in pain, drawing upon her years of pugnacious behavior to glare at the girl. Nevertheless her heart stammered with panic as she realized the exact sort of Hell in which she’d been dumped. “What goes around comes around,” was a phrase that made sickening sense. Karma is indeed a bitch, Darkstone, and she’s going to get her due. Any hope she had harbored of surviving this year in one piece struggled against the pressing knowledge that many kids here held a boatload of old debts against her.
Christina’s manner was calm, her voice reasonable despite the sneer curving her upper lip. “You know, when I first got here, it didn’t even occur to me that you’d be dumped here too. I thought your daddy would have exempted you from such unpleasantness.” She waved at their dilapidated surroundings.
Joram hated it when people referred to Anders as her father. The man, though powerful and rich, inspired feelings of terror and revulsion within her. The last thing she wanted was to have people say they were related. “He’s not my daddy.”
“Oh, I’m sorry!” Christina covered her mouth with her fingers in a comic gesture of apology. “I forgot. You’re the poor orphan being raised by an asshole. My mistake.” Some of the others shifted in discomfort at her lack of respect for Anders, their malaise ingrained from birth as they’d watched their parents show deference to the man they revered. Christina ignored their unease. “You’re a regular Little Orphan Annie, aren’t you? Born and bred trash, raised with a silver spoon in your mouth. It must be tough being you. Tell me, can you even take a shit with your head so far up your ass?”
Her fear fading, Joram didn’t allow the anger to overcome her common sense. Christina held the upper hand at the moment, but who knew what could happen in the next few months. Besides, Anders was watching—she knew it even if these people didn’t. If she ever backed down, she’d fail his test. Which was worse? A year of repercussions for her past behavior, consequences she had to admit were richly deserved, or being dumped on the side of a highway like a misbegotten dog for the rest of her life?
Christina’s eyes narrowed at Joram’s lack of response. She spun again, her foot connecting with the side of Joram’s head.
Joram fell to her hands and knees. Stars flickered in her vision as she came to terms with the fact that she had nothing protecting her. On the outside, Anders not only encouraged her behavior but was also a shield against retaliation from those Joram badgered. He may have cameras all over this place, but she knew he’d never rescue her. “You’re my Chosen One. You have no weaknesses!”
“I asked you a question, Annie.”
Joke’s on him, isn’t it? Joram snorted as she forced herself to stand. “My name’s Joram Darkstone, bitch, and you’d better kill me before I kill you.” Her words caused a burble of whispers from their
audience. She didn’t know if it was respect for her bravado or awe at her stupidity. She didn’t think she’d have to wait long to discover which way her tormentor would jump.
Christina stared in shock for a brief moment. She also noted the rustle of voices, her eyes flickering away to gauge the temperament of the crowd. Scowling, she turned her attention back to Joram. “Smart-ass, huh?” She dropped into a fighting stance and, with a flurry of movement Joram couldn’t even begin to catch, knocked Joram back to her hands and knees.
Joram shook her head, tasting blood and not liking the way the floor swam before her. Gritting her teeth, she began to rise only to feel a freight train punch into her stomach as Christina kicked her again. She rolled over, her back to her attacker, clutching her abdomen as she attempted to jump-start her lungs. More blows rained down upon her. She curled up into a ball, trying to protect her head as pain swept through her. The beating happened so fast yet seemed to take forever. She lost track of when she was hauled to her feet, when she was knocked back down, when she tried to crawl away only to be forcibly pulled back into the fray. It wasn’t like she had any experience in fighting like Christina apparently had. When everyone kowtowed to your every intimidation there was little need for formal defensive instruction.
At some point she realized the pain remained a dull roar. Her stomach felt bruised and the taste and smell of vomit stained her senses. So much for breakfast. I knew I should have skipped it this morning. She dangled between two people, unable to stand up on her own. Her vision was red on one side due to the blood streaming from a cut. It was just as well because all she could really see was Christina filling her view with an ugly smile. She was saying something, and it was all Joram could do to concentrate on her words, make sense of them.
“I’m not going to kill you just yet, Annie. This is just the first of three hundred sixty-five days for you. I want you to know how it feels to be shit on every waking moment.”
The people supporting Joram released her, and she collapsed to the marble floor. With her one good eye she watched as dirty sneakers, boots and bare feet trooped past her, carrying their owners back the way they had come.
* * *
How long had she been here? A week? Two? Minutes and hours and days all ran together so much that it was difficult for Joram to concentrate, to mark the passage of time. For all she knew it had been a full year and her name would be called for release. A wistful pang almost incited the tears that never seemed to leave her eyes. The rational part of her mind reminded her that it hadn’t been that long since her arrival, that only one name had been called during that interim and that she’d received multiple beatings at the hand of Christina and her goons.
A week or two, no more. Fifty weeks to go.
She huddled beneath the pub’s bar, making her new home-away-from-home in the hollow left where a dish machine had once dwelled. It was the farthest she’d been able to crawl after the first beating and had become a likely enough residence. Though it didn’t afford much protection from Christina, the hole did give Joram the feeling of security, her small cave, her refuge. A leaky pipe trickled water that had eroded the tiles over the years—how old was this place?—giving her a method to counteract dehydration. The rusty water was cold and bitter and better than nothing at all. Hunger was beyond her, no longer gnawing at her belly like an angry monster. That was a relief. In her first dreams, she’d felt the pain of starvation and looked down at her abdomen to see Anders, his mouth full of bloody meat as he ate his fill. Usually Christina stood behind him, hands and face glistening with crimson, a hoary knife and fork gripped in her hands. Cloudy people stood behind her, all sharp teeth and red eyes glowing in the dimness.
True to her word, Christina hadn’t killed her. Instead, she’d had food delivered though Joram couldn’t tell if it was on a schedule or not. The lights never dimmed unless someone’s name was announced over the intercom, so it was difficult to gauge night from day. It didn’t help that the sustenance offered was mostly inedible, usually unidentifiable scorched meat that tasted more of charcoal than protein. In any case, the food was never enough to energize her, to drive away the Beast that was her stomach. Initially Joram had shied away from the offerings, both out of stubbornness and her overactive imagination conjuring up a hundred different origins of the food. Most visions involved four-legged rodents like the rat with which she shared this room. She couldn’t deny that there were two-legged rats here too; had the kids resorted to eating their own?
In between beatings, Christina chatted up a storm. She’d have her sycophants drag Joram out into the big room and verbally taunt her before taking her aggravations out in a more savage manner. Joram listened but didn’t speak, refusing to be drawn into an argument, a final bit of defiance that didn’t require too much of her waning energy. Her lack of response infuriated Christina, resulting in severe punishments. After each altercation, Joram would drag herself back to her hole as the others returned to the upper level.
If Christina’s boasts and brags could be believed, there were almost seventy teenagers here, wherever “here” was. Joram had only seen around thirty, Christina’s little army. Anders apparently had multiple compounds all over the world—news to Joram—and every child was shipped to this primary facility and admitted to this infernal hole at thirteen. Considering Joram only recognized about six of the kids in Christina’s bunch, the theory made sense. There weren’t that many children her age at the Jamaican compound to account for the numbers. She knew of at least a handful of others that should have been here but she hadn’t yet seen. Did Christina rule over all of them with an iron fist, or were there tiny enclaves somewhere beyond Joram’s prison? Christina might have the desire to reign supreme over this little kingdom, but there had to be kids who wanted nothing to do with her. Besides, not everyone would have served Christina’s needs, not everyone could be on their best behavior with her at all times. There would be many more children held in this room for her pleasure if she had total control. Joram would simply be another of the masses.
The biggest revelation was that there were no other people here, no blood-crazed “Them” overseeing their charges with wild eyes and gory whips. The children were “Them” and always had been. They were the boogeyman used to terrify new arrivals, though no one knew how that rumor had come about. What was the purpose of dumping all fresh-faced teenagers into this hellhole? Why did those loving parents bow and scrape when Anders demanded their children? If Joram survived this, she’d ask him why he perpetuated the myth, why this barbaric practice existed.
If.
Footsteps crunched through the debris in the main room, nearing her domain. She didn’t know which was worse, the sudden desire to cry or the faint moan she couldn’t hold back as she realized it was time for another round. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to gain some control, using the pain in her bruised ribs as a focal point. She hugged herself and sat up, waiting for the inevitable. She heard only one set of steps, though. Maybe it was feeding time. If it were time for a beating, there’d be a good deal more noise as Christina’s followers whooped and called out in excitement in the main room.
A girl appeared in the doorway, her blond hair pulled back in a ragged ponytail, wisps of bangs falling down to her cheeks. Her hair was so pale that her eyebrows and eyelashes looked nonexistent. She wore a pair of cutoff jeans and a baggy gray T-shirt knotted on one side. Her sky-blue eyes darted around until she saw Joram’s dirty feet sticking out from beneath the bar. She glanced back over her shoulder, chewing her full bottom lip before slipping into the pub.
Not a beating then. Joram relaxed but only slightly. There was always the chance that this was another kid who thought she could retaliate against Joram for all the perceived wrongs of which Anders seemed responsible. If Joram wasn’t so hurt and exhausted, she’d have found it humorous exactly how much she had in common with her enemies. They all hated and feared Anders, right up to and including their parents.
The girl s
quatted just out of reach, peering into the shadows of Joram’s haven. She held out a bundle of cloth. “Here.” Again she peeked behind her, as if worried someone had followed her. When Joram didn’t immediately take the item, she scooted closer, shoving it into Joram’s hesitant hands. “Here, take it!”
Joram did, studying the girl’s half-panicked expression. “What is it?” she asked, her voice croaking from disuse.
Her visitor shook her head, putting her finger over her lips. “Hush.” Uncertainty flickered across her even features before being replaced by the firm chin of resolve. “It’s a gift. Use it well.” She scampered out of the room.
Staring after her, Joram waited long minutes. No one else came and no noise indicated anyone waited in the big room beyond. Not a beating. Not food. Joram looked down at the lightweight bundle in her hand. She pushed aside the flap of cloth, her eyes widening.
With shaking hands, she held up a battered steak knife.
* * *
Joram’s next assault came and went, the knife safely tucked away in a crack between the warping panels of wood that walled her haven. She didn’t know if her benefactor had set her up, giving Christina an opportunity to “find” the weapon and penalize Joram. Not that any punishment would be worse than their usual confrontations, but there was always the chance Christina had other disciplinary problems among her lackeys that could use the reminder. Christina didn’t appear to be overly concerned, however, falling into the same pattern she always did when dealing with Joram—verbally taunting her, becoming angry at her lack of response and kicking her to the ground to pummel her with fists and feet until the entertainment factor had dissipated. If Joram wasn’t in so much pain, she might have found the chronic mistreatment tedious. The developing habit of abuse had its high points. Though Joram couldn’t pinpoint exactly when Christina’s ire and boredom would drive her to “play” with her new toy, Joram at least knew the exact sequence of events.
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