5. Which Brings Us To Now
Which Brings Us To Now
Isla
It's so goddamn cold here.
Even through the walls, the cold seeps in like a bad omen.
The journey was worse. Even wrapped in the stupid fur coat Eamon forced me to wear, I was freezing the whole way.
Well, maybe if you wore actual clothes, you wouldn't be so cold.
Asshole. Just because he doesn't feel anything doesn't mean the rest of us can be so resistant to extreme temperatures like this.
The first thing he did was take my phone and give me the coat—right out of the depths of my closet like he knew exactly where I had stashed it. While it was back there partially because I knew I wouldn't need it, the truth is I couldn't stand looking at it. Every time I did, I saw the mischievous way he looked at me when he gave it to me like there was a joke I wasn't in on.
Now I get the punchline. A visit. Eamon knew damn well that he was going to kidnap me, playing fucking games with me long before he put his plan into action.
As soon as we docked on the island, he returned my phone, along with my wallet with my new Alaska ID, andall my cards emptied. When I asked him about the cash left in there, he smirked at me, raised his arms to show the emptiness all around us, and laughed, "Feel free to try and bribe your way back."
Trudging through the snow in the ridiculous boots he shoved onto my feet back in St. Paul, the wind had whipped around us, the cold humidity slapping me in the face and making my teeth chatter. Aside from the roaring wind, there was no sound at all and nothing to see either. The white of snow, then the gray of the sky and ocean, were the only sights around us as far as the eye could see. Like the entire world had been leeched of its color. Even our coats and boots blended into the drab scenery around us.
The only color left in the world was the soft green of Eamon's eyes as he taunted me, not bothering to drag me through the snow, knowing full well I would go with him no matter what now.
Every step closer to our mystery destination brought me nearer to madness, fear and fury waging war in my head. I couldn't even bring myself to be embarrassed that I puked all over us both. Blame it on the alcohol or the anxiety, I don't fucking care. The flight attendants all assured me that they'd seen worse. We get lots of nervous flyers , they told me, letting me use the bathroom to clean up the best I could before we landed.
Even when we finally reached the entrance of Eamon's bunker, I couldn't find it in myself to be amazed by the feat. The entrance was nothing more than a tiny steel door painted white to blend into the surroundings.
Looking down into the opening made me sick with fear. The old ladder disappeared into nothing but blackness below, like a yawning monster waiting to swallow me up.
"If you're going to puke again, please do it before we go inside," Eamon had said, and my anger blocked out any other emotion I might be feeling. With another sneer I couldn't help but throw his way, I climbed into the darkness, closing my eyes against it so I could pretend it wasn't so suffocating.
As I descend, the ladder shakes from the weight of Eamon starting the climb, followed shortly by the final clang of the door shutting me in and keeping me prisoner in this frigid hell.
Somehow, it felt even colder inside than it was outside. When my foot finally hit solid ground, I stepped back, away from the ladder, still not daring to open my eyes.
The floor near me shakes with the force of Eamon jumping, landing next to me with more force than necessary. His steps immediately resume, and I frantically reach for him in the dark before he laughs. "Just use your fucking flashlight."
Every thought in my head revolves around strangling him. And I might if I thought it would get me anywhere, but it won't. So, instead, I grab my phone and use the little light to shine on the world around me. Even here, it's nothing but gray. Concrete and brick, no lights at all. Does he just live like this? Constantly in the dark? Am I going to be stuck living like a mole person for the rest of my life?
"For fuck's sake, Isla, calm down. We're almost there."
Fuck you, asshole.
A snicker escapes him as if he could actually hear my thoughts, and if I had anything to throw at him besides my only light source, I absolutely 100% would.
As we walk, even our steps have no echo in this silence. The cold around us eats every bit of excess noise in a way that makes pressure on my chest grow, the walls around us stifling me already. And we're not even all the way inside yet.
The walkway comes to a dead end, and my heart starts pounding.
He's going to kill me and leave me here where no one will ever find my body. He lied. He told them he was doing this to keep me safe, but he's just going to drain me dry to make sure the Sanctum can't get to me. I can't believe this is how I'm going to die, without even the sky to keep me company in my last moments.
He lifts his phone, leaning it against the wall, and after a click and a grinding sound, warm light assaults my senses. My hands shoot up instinctively to cover my eyes. His steps resume as he steps through the crack created in the wall, and I tiptoe in behind him. As the wall closes behind us, my eyes finally stop burning and adjust to the sight around us.
Oh.
"Not what you expected?" he asks, not looking at me as he places his coat on a rack just inside the entrance.
Unable to speak, I shake my head.
It's almost… cozy. Almost. A couple of deep brown leather couches sit before a flat wall painted the same white as the door outside. Something hangs from the ceiling, like a camera pointed at the wall.
"Projector," Eamon answers my question before I can ask it. "Much easier to transport than a TV."
While it's not warm by any means inside, it's thankfully no longer cold enough to need this monster of a coat, so I ease it off, hanging it beside Eamons as I take a couple more steps inside. A coffee table sits between the couches, covered in books and empty beer bottles.
If I keep my eyes away from the flat gray of the walls and floor, it almost looks like a normal house—one full of rugs and throw pillows to counter the lack of color and tons of lighting on the ceiling and in the form of lamps to illuminate the whole place with warmth.
To one side, there's an entryway to a kitchen; the other holds a dark hallway.
He travels to the kitchen, and I follow without any thought attached. It's not like I have a choice; what else could I do?
The deep, warm wood and concrete countertops contrast so starkly, and the black hardware and lighting create what can only be described as a man cave. Everything in this place screams masculine, from the sparse decorations to the scent. Let me rephrase: Everything screams Eamon. This whole place smells like whatever cologne he wears, with a hit of the aged whiskey in the decanter on the counter and the coffee pot sitting in the corner.
Ignoring me completely, he grabs a beer from the fridge, sits on the island, and uses the counter's edge to snap the top off. With a long, slow pull from the drink, he sighs and runs a hand down his face.
Finally, his eyes meet mine where I stand, as far from him as I can without losing sight of him.
He's waiting for me to say something, do something, but I can be a stubborn ass, too, so I raise my chin and stare down my nose at him.
His eyes sparkle with mischief and malice, and I get the feeling he could quite literally do this all day, but I'm crawling out of my skin with his gaze glued to mine like this.
"Bathroom?" I grit, just to say something and escape from the full heat of his attention.
"Down the hall, first door on your left."
I've turned and walked away before he can finish the sentence, the stomp of my boots too heavy in this quiet space. Almost comically so.
The door he directed me to is cracked open slightly, and I ease my way in, blindly reaching for a light switch. Once I find it, I all but slam the door behind me, praying for a minute of solitude. I can't bring myself to look in the mirror, knowing what I'll find.
Instead, I sink to the floor with my head in my hands, letting the tears that have been begging to appear rain down my cheeks and jaw.
There's no telling how long I remain unmoving, sobbing into my knees at the callous way I've been stolen away from my life, my home. Just because Eamon thinks I'm in danger.
That's such fucking bullshit. Does Eamon kidnap every single person who might be threatened by the Sanctulillies or whatever?
A soft knock jars me from my thoughts. "Isla, you can't stay in there forever. Stop sulking, come on."
"I'm not sulking," I sniffle.
"Yes, you are."
"I'm not. "
A huff of laughter floats through the wood between us, "Then what are you doing?"
There's no good answer, so I ignore him, burying my head further as if I could burrow into myself and disappear.
Irritation fills his voice as he tries again, "If you're going to sit around feeling sorry for yourself, you can at least do it in the privacy of your room."
I clumsily rise to my feet as I wipe the moisture from my face, my legs numb from the awkward position on the floor. When I open the door, he stands before me, and I don't meet his eyes, not willing to let him see how defeated I feel right now.
He walks further down the hall, the lights coming to life as he sets off the motion sensors. Turning left, he continues, and I follow slowly behind, every ounce of energy drained from me due to the harsh traveling, the lack of sleep, and the comedown of adrenaline from the showdown back home.
Not to mention the killer hangover I'm nursing, but that's nothing new and nothing I can't handle. A pounding headache is par for the course these days.
He swings a door open, holding his arm out in a gesture that would be charming if it wasn't him doing it. His posture is like a prince in a fairy tale, showing off the massive library to the princess he's trying to woo.
But this is no fairy tale, and he's no prince, just a fucking prick.
I slide past him and take in what's to be my prison for the foreseeable future.
The only word I can think of to describe it is clinical—like a hospital or a jail cell. There's a steel bed with white sheets and a tall steel dresser, and not a touch of warmth in this room.
The whole place is so fucking depressing I find myself wishing Alastor and his people had gotten ahold of me instead. If I'm to be in an underground cell either way, at least I could stand a chance fighting against Al. Not this big wall of muscle and monster.
A notebook lands on my bed with a quiet thud, drawing my attention.
"Make a list of what you need."
"What about all my stuff? You said it was coming," my voice threatens to break, but thankfully, Eamon ignores it, remaining at my door instead of coming inside.
"It is coming. But it takes longer to ship stuff than it does people. " His tone reminds me of someone trying to tame a zoo animal, and instead of calming me, it makes me feel more feral. "Everything in your apartment will be here within the next few weeks."
I fight the blush from rising in my cheeks when I realize what all that means: the embarrassing collection of toys I've amassed over the years and the fact that someone has to pack them up to bring them here. "Everything?"
" Everything, " his taunting cadence makes it perfectly clear that he knows exactly what I'm talking about.
Shame threatens to swallow me whole, so I shake it off and move on to my next concern, the easier one to face. "What about my job? I can't be out of work for the next two weeks."
He leans against the doorjamb, and I realize just how tall he made the ceilings. He's at least six and a half feet, and even still, the ceiling is far above his head.
He rubs his palm on the back of his head before running his hand through his hair, and I get the feeling he's not even sure how to keep a prisoner, "Your computer is the first thing on my list to retrieve once you're settled. What else do you need for work?"
"My files."
"And where are they?" he pulls out his phone and begins to tap.
"The filing cabinet right next to my computer. Oh, and everything on or in my desk."
With a heavy sigh, he nods. "They'll be here tomorrow. You hungry?"
"No."
A corner of his lips pulls up before the grin disappears again. "You're not a prisoner here, Isla. You're not confined to just this tiny room. You have full access to the livingarea,the kitchen. You can watch whatever trash TV you want. Hell, if it'll help, I'll even go get you some fucking furniture and paintings and shit. You just gotta ask."
"Oh, please. Give me a fuck—"
"I fucking warned you," he interrupts me, his carefully crafted calm disappearing into rage and frustration. "I told you and the Vegas trio of idiots exactly what would happen if they kept gambling with your life. Do you think I want you here? You think what I need is another fucking responsibility?"
Humiliation, hot and sticky, makes me fall silent as he scolds me yet again. Do you think I want you here? Something about that sentence makes my throat ache, the fear of being unwanted one I'll never shake, even when it's someone I want nothing to do with saying it. But I keep my chin up and my arms folded. Being stuck here might make me sad, but I'll never let this motherfucker be the reason I'm visibly upset.
With his big finger, he points at the notebook, "Write your fucking list. Start with food." When I don't answer or move, he reaches in and closes the door, trapping me alone in this sterile, cold chamber.
Instead of listening to his demands, I throw the stupid notebook across the room, letting it land uselessly on the floor. The bed, as uncomfortable and inhospitable as it looks, is the only place I have to relax. He said I'm not a prisoner, but that doesn't mean I have any interest in exploring.
Phone in hand, I consider reaching out to Bel. Not to tell her what's happened, but to ensure she made it home safely. I don't even want to know what she would do if she found out where I am or why. It's not the first time I've kept something from her for her own sake. If Eamon thinks I lack self-preservation, he would lose his damn mind watching Bel spiral out of concern for me.
But if I text her now, no matter what I say, she'll know something is wrong.
My phone bounces on the floor, all but useless right now. I drag the surprisingly soft blanket up to climb underneath it, wrapping it so tightly I don't have to see the reality unfolding around me. No more tears escape, having left all of them on the bathroom floor already, but I stare into nothing in the cocoon around me, willing myself to sleep.
Whether it's two minutes or six hours, I'm not sure, but eventually, sleep takes me, dragging me into a nightmare that's no worse than my reality. A dream full of haunting red eyes, blood dripping from his teeth, and somehow he's not the worst monster there. Running after us is my grandfather, crazed and wild, screaming about the abomination I've become, how it's not too late; I can still fulfill my purpose and avoid burning.
The monster beside me in my nightmare doesn't terrify me nearly as much as the prospect of what my family might do to me if they catch me now. What manner of cleansing rituals they'll need to perform since I've been with demons. The things they did to me when they found out I was no longer pure still haunt me, and I'm sure that was little more than child's play now that I know what kind of cult they've devoted themselves to.
When I finally wake, heart pounding, I know he's been here. I search the room for proof to either confirm or assuage my sureness. And there it is. My phone's been plugged in, and a familiar bag is lying beside it. My laptop. Next to that, there's a takeout container.
The gesture of picking up my computer and my favorite breakfast and coffee shop should mean something, but all it does is piss me off more. Eamon can come and go as he pleases, literally hundreds of miles away without a second thought, and I'm stuck here completely alone.
A sick combination of stubbornness and sorrow keeps me from touching the coffee or the food. I can't take it, can't let this kindness soften me to the fact that this asshole literally kidnapped me. I'm not about to get Stockholm syndrome over a fucking latte.
I'm not.
But I'm also not stupid enough to let good coffee go to waste.