Caring for Cailin (Blade & Arrow World #4)

Prologue

CAILIN

Though it’s what I desperately hoped for, I’m still not sure I believe it.

Everything around me says it’s true. That, after four months of captivity, of waking up every morning not knowing if it would be my last, this nightmare might be finally be over.

Gruesome to the end, there’s blood everywhere. Darkening the clothes of the people I’ve come to call friends. Smeared across the worn wooden stage. Puddled on the floor beneath it.

And the sounds. Angry voices. Moans of pain. Rasping, labored breaths that make me fear death is imminent.

My gaze keeps bouncing around the basement that’s been my unwilling home for the last several months. Or at least, I think it’s been that long. Time is funny when your free will is taken away from you. Sometimes it’s unbearably slow, and others, it’s a merciful blur.

There were days when I even wished I could put an end to all of it. When I wished I’d get the role of doomed heroine in one of Dario’s sadistic plays.

No. That’s not true. Even at my lowest of lows, I still hoped.

No. That’s not true. Even at my lowest of lows, I still hoped.

For a return to my old life.

To see my friends again.

To look up at a blue sky instead of a pattern of crossbeams beneath a dingy ceiling.

I dreamed of the cavalry coming in to rescue us. Swarms of officers in police blue, their weapons trained on the man who took me.

Dario.

The man I both fear and hate.

Don’t hate, my dad used to tell me when I was little. You can dislike someone. But hate… that’s not a nice thing to say. It’s not something you want to feel.

Back then, he was right.

Back then, I didn’t know how terrible people could be.

When I showed up for the casting call all those months ago, Dario seemed like many of the other casting directors I’d met.

He was a little rumpled in a careless, creative way, with his silver hair tousled and his tie slightly askew.

He had a piercing gaze, like he was trying to look inside me.

And he’d trail off mid-conversation to scribble something in the spiral notebook in front of him.

Did he stare at me a little too long, particularly at my breasts and legs? Yes. But, as an aspiring actor, I’d grown to expect that.

Did my stomach flutter with nerves? Yes. But it was a role I wanted badly—one of the leads in a series pilot—so I didn’t think much of that, either.

And I definitely never thought anything of taking the glass of water he offered. Not until later, when I woke up in a locked room in Dario’s basement.

At first, I couldn’t believe it.

I’d watched plenty of true crime docuseries and law procedurals—research, I considered it, and not because I liked them—so it’s not like I didn’t know that true evil existed. But naively, I always thought it happened to other people. I never, ever dreamt it could happen to me.

But in a blink of an eye—no, more aptly, a few sips of drugged water—I became one of them.

Except maybe what I’m seeing is actually true, and I’ll soon be free again.

“My leg!” Dario screams, jerking my attention to him. Conditioned by the sound of his voice to expect the worst, my heart jumps to my throat, and I let out a tiny, frightened yip.

A second later, I clap my hand over my mouth. Cringing back against the wall, I try to make myself as small as possible, hoping against hope he won’t notice me.

But he can’t do anything to you, a voice silently reminds me. He’s tied up. There are armed men all around him. Armed men who sure seem like they’re here to help you.

Well, the voice amends, they came for Noelle. But they don’t seem like men who’d leave you behind, either.

My gaze flickers to the woman responsible for our rescue. Noelle. The most recent captive added to Dario’s stable of captive actors, and hopefully, the last.

She’s standing beside a tall, blonde man who’s looking at her like she’s his entire world.

He can’t stop touching her—stroking her face, kissing her hair, and hugging her as if he can’t bear to let her go.

His expression is tortured, as if her being here is somehow his fault instead of the man tied up and bleeding on the floor nearby.

My heart tugs at their poignant reunion.

On the heels of that, there’s a pinch of jealousy.

No one came for me, I can’t help thinking. Four months I’ve been missing, and nothing. Noelle’s here for less than a day, and her boyfriend—fiance? husband?—comes rushing in to save her.

Stop it, I can almost hear my dad say. He still talks to me sometimes, even though he’s been gone close to twenty years now. Jealousy isn’t a good quality to have. And really, you should be thankful. If this man didn’t love her so much, he wouldn’t have come. And what would that mean for you?

He’s right.

Before all of this, I wouldn’t have been jealous of all.

I was too focused on my career to think about a relationship.

A boyfriend would want time I didn’t have to give.

He might have gotten upset if I had to kiss another man for a role.

He wouldn’t have liked me having to be away for months at a time if the opportunity arose.

But now…

I don’t want to think about acting again. Not after being forced to perform in Dario’s screwed up plays where your role meant the difference between life and death.

I don’t want to travel anymore. I just want to go home.

And I can’t deny wishing I had someone like Noelle’s boyfriend to comfort me. To be my port in the storm of chaos around me. To pull me into his arms and promise that everything’s going to be okay.

“Shut up,” one of the other rescuers growls at Dario. The man is huge—at least a foot taller than me, and has bulging muscles everywhere—and as he shoots a murderous glare at Dario, my captor’s face pales with fear. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

The tall man is one of the men who arrived with Noelle’s boyfriend, along with three others. They’re not police, but they have all have an intimidating presence, and the way they talk to each other makes me think they might be part of some sort of team.

While the tall man holds Dario at gunpoint, the others are tending to the victims. Not Dario, but my fellow actors, Hector and Paul, who both look to be in dire shape.

A dark-haired man is holding a wad of folded gauze to Hector’s chest, trying to stem the flow of blood from where Dario shot him.

Another man kneels by his side while he attempts to start an IV on Hector.

Not far from them, a silver-haired man tries to steady the knife sticking out of Paul’s stomach.

A small moan works its way up my throat at the sight of so much violence. Hot tears trickle down my cheeks. As I’m watching the scene in front of me unfold, Dario turns his head, and his gaze locks onto mine.

“Cailin,” he hisses. His voice lowers in that threatening way that always makes me feel like throwing up. “Get over here and help me. Now.”

“Don’t talk to her!” snaps the man holding a gun on him. “What did I say about being quiet?”

Then the man looks at me. His fierce expression gentles. “Are you okay?” he asks. “Are you hurt? Do you need help?”

I open my mouth to speak, but for some reason, nothing comes out.

Glancing at the man with Noelle, he calls out, “Webb. Check on her—” He angles his chin at me. “She might be injured.”

Noelle’s boyfriend—Webb, apparently—says something quietly to her and starts to release her, presumably to come check on me.

The despairing look on Noelle’s face makes my voice start working again. “No,” I croak. “I’m okay. I’m not hurt. It’s fine.”

Fine might be a bit of an exaggeration. But I’m not hurt, and that’s the most important part. I don’t need their help, not like Hector and Paul do.

“When are the police getting here?” the silver-haired man calls over.

As he lifts his head, I get a better glimpse at his face.

In contradiction to the color of his hair, his features appear younger.

Not in his late twenties, like me, but not in his sixties, like Dario, either.

If I had to guess, with his faintly-lined features and eyes wise with experience, I’d put him somewhere in his forties.

“They should be getting here any minute,” one of the other men replies. He pauses. “At least, I damn well hope so.”

Almost to emphasize his point, Hector coughs, spraying blood from his mouth.

“Shit,” Webb grits out. “We need the paramedics now.”

“Maybe I should have flown them to the hospital,” the silver-haired man comments with a frown. “This is taking too long.”

“We can keep them stabilized here,” Webb replies. “On a helo, without proper equipment—”

“Police! Weapons down. Hands up where we can see them!”

Before anyone can respond, a good dozen blue-clad men come swarming into the basement, all of them with weapons drawn and ready to fire.

“Weapons down!” one of the police officers shouts. “Now!”

Noelle screeches, and Webb shoves her behind his back.

The blonde man guarding Dario carefully sets his gun by his feet.

The silver-haired man turns to look at the officer and says grimly, “If I don’t keep him from moving, the knife will shift. There’s a good change he’ll bleed out. So I’m keeping my hands right here until a paramedic comes to take over.”

Something about the calm way he addresses them makes me feel better. Like as long as he’s in control, everything else will be, too.

Like as long as he’s here, Dario can’t hurt me again.

A few seconds pass in a silent standoff. Then the officer backs down. “Fine,” he replies. “If you’re tending to the wounded, keep on what you’re doing. But no sudden moves. And everyone else”—his gaze sweeps the room—“hands in the air. No arguments.”

No one argues.

With the exception of the men providing first aid, everyone else’s hands go up.

Then the police rush to the stage, and the real chaos begins.

First, the police converge on Dario, who immediately starts to kick up a stink about trespassers and private property and how he was unfairly targeted.

For a moment, I’m scared the police will believe him, until Noelle snaps, “You kidnapped all of us. Forced us to act in your messed up plays.” Scowling, she explains to one of the cops, “He killed the actors when they died in the play. Killed them. And he shot Hector and Paul because they wouldn’t do what he said.

He’s no innocent victim. He’s a monster. ”

I couldn’t have said it better myself.

It takes another minute or so of conferencing amongst themselves for the police to call the paramedics in. As they converge on Hector and Paul, Webb’s friends step back to let them take over.

I’m not sure how much time passes after that.

It’s long enough for the police to get statements from everyone.

Long enough for me to actually believe that Dario’s going to jail.

Long enough for me to think I’m actually going to get to go home.

Although, do I still have a home? Or did my roommates assume I took off and move a new person into my bedroom? Did they sell all my belongings to pay the late rent? Will I get back to L.A. to find myself homeless and jobless, and my bank account empty after months of automatic payments?

Now sitting in one of the seats facing the stage—ironic considering Dario was the only one who ever sat there—I hunch into myself as the weight of my new reality settles over me.

I may be free, but where do I go from here?

I don’t have family to stay with. My friends are really more like acquaintances.

And I’m supposed to go back to L.A., a city I don’t really like, to pursue a career I can’t imagine doing anymore.

I swallow hard against the lump swelling in my throat. Pressure builds behind my eyes. As I wrap my arms around myself, I belatedly realize I’m rocking slightly.

“Hey.” The silver-haired man lowers himself onto the chair to my left, his expression dark with concern as he regards me. “You okay?”

As his gaze meet mine, a weird jolt runs through me.

He has the most incredible eyes; pale green with flecks of silver scattered through them.

Fine lines crease the corners, deepening as he flashes me a quick, reassuring smile.

A dimple pops in his right cheek, incongruous to his stern features.

He runs a hand through his hair, which upon closer inspection I realize is more salt-and-pepper than pure silver.

“I’m Memphis,” he continues. “I flew these guys here.” He jerks his chin towards Webb, who’s sitting several seats away with Noelle cuddled on his lap. “We used to serve together.”

Curiosity has me asking, “You flew here? How?”

“In an AgustaWestland AW 609,” he replies. “One of the fastest personal aircraft on the market.”

“You flew it?”

His lips tip up again. “I did.” Casting a quick look around the basement, he continues more quietly, “I used to be a Night Stalker. Still love flying, and I’ve got a few aircraft myself. So when Webb asked for help finding Noelle, I was glad to help.”

I try to imagine Memphis sitting in a pilot’s seat, and I find it fits him. He has a confidence I’d want a pilot to have, and a steadiness that would assure me I’m going to arrive at my destination safely.

“Thanks for coming,” I tell him. “I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get out—” Emotion swells, and my voice catches.

His hand briefly rests on my arm. “You’re going home. That’s a promise.”

Tears threaten. My nose prickles. “I… I’m not sure if I have a home anymore.”

Memphis frowns. “We’ll help you—”

“You don’t even know me,” I blurt. “You came here for Noelle. Not me. You don’t owe me anything.”

He stares at me for a moment before speaking. “We came for Noelle. But that doesn’t mean we’re turning our backs on you.”

Feeling small and scared and uncertain, I admit something I haven’t said to anyone else.

“I feel so stupid. Going to that casting by myself. Not telling anyone about it. I didn’t want more competition.

My roommates, they’re actors, too. Or at least, they were my roommates.

Now… I’m not sure. They probably sold my things.

Found a new roommate. And I know it’s stupid, worrying about that when Hector and Paul could be dying—”

“It’s not stupid.” Memphis holds my gaze. “You’ve been through a lot. More than any person should have to. And—” He stops. “Cailin, right?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“Cailin,” he repeats. “We’ll help you. I’ll help you. You’re not alone in this. Okay?”

There’s just something in his expression that makes me want to trust him. “Do you promise?”

“I promise,” he replies. “I have a lot of faults, but being a liar isn’t one of them. Whatever you need, I’ll help you.”

I want to thank him. But instead, I burst into tears.

“Ah, Cailin,” he murmurs, looking flustered for once. “Don’t cry.”

“I’m sorry,” I sob.

Memphis stares at me for another moment, indecision clear in his eyes. Then he leans over and pulls me gently into his arms. “It’s okay,” he croons. His hand smooths down my hair. “Maybe not right now. But it will be.”