15. A Well-Travelled Path
15
A Well-Travelled Path
Antoinette
“Wake up, baby girl.”
A rough whisper pulls me from sleep, an oddly familiar echo in my brain as I squeeze my eyes shut. Shaking my head, I press my palms against my face, those roughly whispered words taking hold, squeezing, stabbing.
Slowly, I lower my hands, pressing them into my middle as I work to control my breathing. The ache in my head sharpens, and those words, for a moment, a fading memory, suddenly reverberate like thunder.
I open my eyes to the darkness, squinting as a familiar unfamiliarity washes over me.
I’ve been here before, but I have never been here.
I am me, but I am no one.
I am here, but I am gone.
My lip curls, and my skin crawls, a sudden itchiness in my brain exacerbated by a slow inhalation through my nose that peaks my awareness.
I’m not alone.
A wisp of fear whips through me.
Fear of what I know and fear of what I do not.
Fear of who I was and who I am now.
And beneath this fear is that deep pool of cold detachment I yearn for. I slide down, watching with my mind’s eye as I slowly sink, sink, sink beneath its comforting surface.
I count the seconds, holding my breath, waiting.
“Are you okay, Lila?”
I don’t answer. I remain settled in that calming dark pool, that sliver of space and time where nothing else exists. Where I am safe.
A warm hand presses against my shoulder, the mattress moving subtly as the heat of a body moves closer. I turn my head slightly toward the movement, and then the voice speaks again, “What’s wrong?”
I immediately shake my head and then laugh lightly, my voice an alien intrusion amidst the cold. “Nothing.”
He moves again, this time away from me, and with a click, I’m suddenly blinking away the light. I squint at first and then cover my eyes with my hands, muttering, “What the hell?”
He chuckles quietly, and I feel him moving closer before settling near me as I continue to hide behind my hands. “When did you get back?”
“Not too long ago. You were sleeping so peacefully I didn’t want to wake you.”
Lowering my hands from my face, I slowly lean toward him, managing a small smile. “Well, that’s appreciated.”
His hand strokes over my bare shoulder, and I meet his gaze steadily. “I heard you’ve made some new friends.”
I nod, my smile broadening. “Several, actually. It’s been a nice surprise.”
“Anyone I might know?”
“Well, since you said you’ve never lived in the area before, I would think not.”
“Anyone you’ve met before?”
I laugh and shake my head. “Since you yourself have told me I have never lived around here, that would really be something, wouldn’t it?”
He’s watching me intently. I take a deep, cleansing breath, expelling it slowly, uncertain what to say next.
Then he saves me the trouble by asking, “When did you remember?”
I press my lips together, taking a moment to swallow the suddenly painful lump in my throat, knowing how I respond in this moment will set into motion an uncertain game of dominoes. Finally, I whisper, “Just now, only a few moments ago, it occurred to me that I am not where I belong.”
He moves slightly closer, and I’m confused that I don’t flinch or have the uncontrollable urge to move away. Then he says quietly, “I won’t hurt you.”
A hollow laugh falls from my lips. “But you already have.”
“I saved you.” His words are firm as if he truly believes this initial savior moment absolves him of his many crimes since that moment.
“Saving someone only to then turn around and force them into a reality that is not their own doesn’t make you a hero.”
A glimmer of shame dances across his features, but just as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. Then, his lip curls, and he makes a sound of disgust in his throat. “So, you’re saying better death than this reality?”
“I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I guess that depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“Depends on what happens next.”
“Nothing’s going to happen.”
“You can’t truly believe that,” I reply incredulously. “They’re going to come for me.”
He shakes his head and scoffs, “No, they won’t. If they were going to, they would have already.”
“What are you talking about?”
“They’ve known you’ve been alive for ages. And then, even after I waved you under their noses, still, they did nothing.”
A chill falls over me. I see the truth in his eyes, but I also know just because he believes it, doesn’t mean it’s gospel. “But Dari—“
“Turned his back on you,” he interrupts. “He looked right at you and then right through you. Then he turned his back on you and walked away.”
I ignore the stabbing pain in my guts as I watch him watching me, taking note of the smugness in his expression. “Are you going to let me go?”
“Not a chance.”
“So, I’m a prisoner?”
“Only if you choose to be.”
I frown, and humor dances in his eyes as I ponder his words’ implications. Regardless of what has happened, evil people never truly grasp the duplicitousness of their own actions. There is no accountability or responsibility for the terrible things they’ve done. He truly believes he saved me. He doesn’t see that he has kept me a prisoner, a dark secret hidden from my own reality.
And then he asks, “Are you going to try to escape?”
I raise my brows at him and then sigh. “What would be the point?”
He smiles, his hand reaching out and touching my shoulder lightly. “Good girl.”
This time, pushing down my urge to flinch and curl my lip in disgust is actual work. I’ve never really wanted to be a good girl.
I glance at him briefly and then close my eyes, folding my arms up over my chest, as I take on the most serene pose I can come up with.
For me, mania is a silent companion. It twists inside of me, poking holes in the cool, calm, and collected mask that I wear so well. The deeply offended part of me wants to lash out. To beat him to death with my fists before he even realizes what is upon him.
His hand touches my shoulder again, and I roll to face him more fully. His hand strokes along my collarbone, and I grasp it with my own, pressing his palm against my chest. I open my eyes to find him staring at me, and I smile. “What are you looking at?”
He returns my smile, and when I tug his hand, he slides closer, his other arm tucking up under his head like a pillow. “I’m looking at you, Mrs. Petrova.”
I roll my eyes, my smile turning teasing. “Come on, now, we know that’s not my name.” I close the distance between us, slowly sneaking my arm beneath his where it’s placed under his head. I’m slightly surprised that he still seems relaxed, but I keep my expression soft and my tone playful. “No point in playing games now.”
He laughs heartily and nods. “My apologies, Ms. Moreau.”
Anger twists in me, shooting through my guts as mania ricochets inside of me. And suddenly, I understand exactly what the Chameleon meant by the ultimate revenge being the soulless betrayal of the person you feel you can trust the most.
This thought is what has me sliding closer.
What has me pressing my breasts against his chest.
What has me pressing my lips against his, licking at them, demanding reciprocity.
He hesitates for only a moment, then my arm slides fully beneath his so my hand is touching the back of his head, and I raise myself slightly on my elbow, my top leg bent with my foot flat on the mattress, as I half crawl over him as if I’m going push him onto his back and straddle him. I move slowly, languidly, my eyes burning with the fury of a thousand deaths as I drag my lips across his cheek, my heart pounding in my chest furiously, adrenaline roaring through me.
I press my lips against his ear, my chuckle dark and throaty. “My fucking name,” I pause, waiting for one second, then two, wanting to make sure he’s listening before adding angrily, “is Hughes.”
He immediately tenses, but it’s too late.
I launch myself behind him, my leg wrapping around his middle, my chest pressed against his back, my arms locking around his neck.
And I fucking squeeze.
He attempts to thrash, but I’ve got him locked, and all he manages is a few twitches, like a fish left to die on a river bank. I squeeze harder, torn between wanting him dead now and having fun making him dead later.
After a thirty count, I release him, wasting no time before rolling off the bed, yanking open the drawer on the bedside table and rummaging around for the sedatives I know he keeps there.
I grab a handful of prefilled syringes, a couple of zip ties, and a switchblade, turning back toward him just as he starts to stir, groaning softly. Scurrying back onto the bed, I uncap a syringe between my teeth, my hand coming down just as he rolls over, his furious eyes meeting mine the same time as his arm swings over, knocking me backward.
I land hard on my back, sliding onto the floor in a heap, and I roll backward, coming to my feet in one motion as he lurches in my direction somewhat haphazardly.
I click the switch on the knife, slashing out as he meets me, cutting along that line where his neck meets his shoulder. He flinches, jerking away at the last second, but I jump after him, stabbing viciously into the side of his neck.
He yelps in pain, his eyes wild as he grabs onto me, twisting and pushing me back. My calves connect with the mattress, then my knees, and I sit, the momentum of his body knocking me flat, and my arms flail, ripping the knife from his neck.
He comes down on top of me, blood splattering along my face and neck. I grab his front with my free hand, stabbing him in the side as I brace my feet on the floor, using my tenuous leverage to force him off the side of the bed.
I come to my feet in one motion, immediately reaching for the weapon he keeps under his pillow, the cool metal comforting in my grip. Turning, I find him crawling toward the bedside table. I lunge for him, the butt of the gun coming down on his face.
He collapses, and I curse, noting the silent alarm button on the side of the table is red, indicating he managed to hit the button in the few seconds I had my back turned. He rolls onto his back, his hand clutching his neck, and I don’t waste time trying to restrain him. I bring my foot up, bringing my heel down on his face with a crack.
He goes limp just as the door shoves open, and I whirl around, gun drawn, squeezing off rounds until the doorway is empty. Slowly walking toward the door, I listen intently for footsteps or any type of commotion. It’s all clear, so I drag the bodies out into the hallway, then shut the door and turn back to Dmitri. I pick up the zip ties and syringes from where they fell to the floor during our scuffle, first securing him and then shooting him up with enough sedative until I know he won’t give me any more trouble, but I’m also not sure he won’t die.
I stare down at him for a moment, wishing I could just kill him and leave him to rot, but knowing he’s our only possible link to who’s behind all the madness we’ve been dealing with for the past few years.
I rush to the closet, smiling gleefully at the fancy extra-large trunk that hadn’t been put into storage yet. There’s not a chance in hell I can carry him out of the room and down the stairs to the garage, so this is my best chance.
Wheeling it out into the bedroom, I flip it onto its side, flipping it open, and then I use all the leverage I can muster to laboriously lift him over the edge, folding him up into a human pretzel until he’s squished inside. I wedge some shirts around his wounds in the hope he won’t die die. Laughing again, I close the lid on him, securing the latches and straps, hefting it back onto the wheels, and heading toward the doorway.
A commotion down the hallway draws my attention, so I rush back to his bedside table, open the drawer, and pull out the spare gun, silencer, and magazines stored there. I know I’m on borrowed time, that more people will be coming from the smaller residence he keeps a few miles away, so it’s now or never.
Preparing the weapon, I hurry back to the doorway, pressing my back against the wall just as the rushing footfalls slow, then inch forward. The toe of a shiny black shoe appears first, and I roll my eyes, annoyed by how long this is taking. I reach out, grasping onto his shirt and yanking him into the room, a bullet entering the back of his head before his body hits the floor.
Shouting ensues, and I wait just inside the door for another man to appear, this time grabbing onto him and shoving him back into the hallway as I take up behind him. He shouts for his people not to shoot, but no one is listening, and soon, I’m stuck trying to hold him up while keeping my aim true.
I drag more bodies out of the way, tossing a couple over the railing to the floor in the main entryway and another directly down the staircase. Then, thankful for how easily the fancy trunk wheels down the carpeted hallway, I sneak toward the back service elevator.
The place is eerily quiet, but I don’t waste any time worrying about that, instead hurrying for an exit.
By the time I roll the trunk into the garage, I’m sweating. The initial buzz of adrenaline wears off as I open the back door to the car, eyeing the space and then the size of the trunk. I finally manage to wedge the trunk into the back after moving the front seat forward as far as it would go.
Then, I fall into the driver’s seat, starting the engine as the garage door rises. I buckle my seatbelt and then slowly exit the garage and drive away.