Monarch

36. Elena

36

ELENA

I wake trapped in a tight, tiny space.

There’s so little room that when I inhale, my ribs have to spread sideways.

It’s completely dark, and I can’t move. My arms and legs are so compressed that at first I think I’ve been encased in cement. And I start to scream.

A window slides open in front of my face.

The window is tiny, more of a slot just wide enough for me to peer through. It’s positioned directly over my eyes. As if it were custom-made for me.

When it slides open, light blasts my face, or so it seems. Really, it’s only a small amount of light, painful after the extreme darkness.

When my eyes adjust, they look directly into Lorne’s. I keep screaming. He slides the window shut.

I shriek until my throat is raw and I’m sweating in the tight, humid, space. I lose my breath, and my head whirls.

When I falter, Lorne slides the window open once more. Air rushes in, cool and delicious.

“I wouldn’t use up your air supply so soon,” he says. “I had to soundproof these walls, so they’re pretty airtight. You should conserve for when I have to close you off.”

I shriek at him again, wild things, horrific things, the most rage-filled profanities I can muster in my native tongue. And then I’m crying and begging and pleading, and then sobbing with no voice at all, because no matter what Lorne threatens, I can’t stop. I can’t help myself; I’ve lost control. I can’t bear to be trapped.

I’m stuck so tight I can’t even beat my fists against the wall, can’t squirm or fight.

All I can do is scream until my voice gives out.

And Lorne leaves the window open.

Because this time, he wants to hear me.

When I’m tired out, my throat so raw and swollen it can barely manage a husky squeak, Lorne steps in front of the window once more.

He was gone a long time. I don’t know where he was. But I think I know where I am.

Without Lorne standing in the way, I could see all the way to the front door. I could see the oil paintings on the walls, the iron chandelier, the twin suits of armor standing at attention. I could look at the front entryway but from the back wall. I assume Lorne was standing just out of sight, enjoying my shrieks echoing off the walls. Until they turned to rasps and whimpers.

I remember this room, the first space we entered when Lorne brought me to his castle. He switched on the flashlight on his phone, and as the beam swung around, I saw a small tarp- wrapped niche, too small to be a closet. And I thought it must be somewhere to put a vase or a statue.

I think I’m inside that niche.

But it’s not a niche anymore. It’s completely closed in.

And I’m trapped inside with only a tiny window to look out. Like an iron maiden built right into the wall.

And when Lorne steps in front of that window again, I can’t move away. I’m stuck there, eye-to-eye with him, loathing him with every fiber of my being.

“Comfortable?” he says.

I would give anything to be able to spit in his face.

“Let me out,” I rasp.

“So you can run back to Atlas?” Lorne smiles. The smile that I’m now one hundred percent certain is his only genuine smile—the one that’s completely dead in the eyes. “I don’t think so.”

It’s a good thing I can’t spit on Lorne, because I need my remaining saliva. My mouth is parched, and my temples throb.

“Where’s Ivy?” I croak.

Lorne’s eyes narrow. “What’s the deal with you two? Why do you care about that little freak?”

Rage chills my chest. “Don’t call her that.”

“She’s not even your kid.” Lorne looks mystified. “I can’t stand her. I almost got rid of her right after Linda, but I knew she could be useful. And she was, getting you to trust me.”

Sweat slides down my body, tickling, irritating. I can’t wipe it away, can’t move an inch.

Lorne is right. I did find it disarming, all his talk about his daughter.

But it was also the first thing I noticed when the cracks started to show…that he didn’t really give a shit about her. That he couldn’t even pretend.

“Bad actors need props.” My voice is almost too croaky to understand, but Lorne flushes.

“Fooled you easily enough.”

“Well,” I rasp. “I was pretty desperate.”

“Not as desperate as you’re going to be.” Lorne slides the window shut.

He leaves me in the hot and airless wall.

And I realize I really should have asked for some water.

I doze in a kind of delirium. At one point, I think I hear muffled voices and see pinpricks of red and blue light. I try shouting again, but my throat is so hoarse all that comes out is a mummified rasp.

The idea of mummies makes me go cold, even with sweat still drenching my clothes. A mummy might be exactly what I turn into if Lorne’s plan is to leave me inside this wall. I’ll die of thirst or starvation or suffocation, and a hot, dry hole is exactly the right condition for me to slowly wither and dry until I’m old leather and bones, wrapped in the shroud of my Halloween costume.

A horrible fate, trapped in Lorne’s monstrous castle forever.

But maybe that isn’t so bad.

I might wish that was the worst that happened to me.…

Depending on what Lorne does when he takes me out of the wall.

I drift in and out in the dark. Wondering where Atlas is. Wondering if he’s still at the Reaper’s Revenge, looking for me.

If he’s looking for me at all.

In the dark, crushed between the walls, barely breathing, head spinning, I begin to lose hope. I float back and forth between this night and one years before when I lay in a similar position, crushed and barely breathing…knowing that nobody was coming for me.

I wanted a family again. Not a borrowed one like Mina’s, who let me sleep at their house and eat at their table but never treated me like a daughter.

I wanted a family of my own. A home of my own.

I thought that could be Lorne, Ivy, this castle…

And now I’ll lie interred inside it forever. Sealed up alive inside its walls.

Maybe I deserve it.

I tried to escape my fate.

But too often when you flee your fate…you’re only running toward it.

I think of the bookshop, the place that used to be my sanctuary and became my ticking time bomb.

I think of that night, too.

The night I never think about if I can help it.

The night Boyka stayed late.

The night I committed a terrible sin. The terrible sin, according to most religions.

I couldn’t believe how easily it happened. You’d think it would be this long, drawn-out thing, but no…it was a matter of moments.

Boyka had always been a pest, you see. He was the manager of the shop when I first started working there, but very soon he turned the running of it over to me. I did all the work, every scrap of it, but he was manager in name and got more pay. For my side of the deal, he was supposed to let me run the shop how I liked, order my favorite books, not question my discounts, and mostly stay away.

But that night he didn’t stay away. And he was being especially…pesky.

You know how men can be. Slapping, grabbing, touching. He pretended it was a joke, but this wasn’t the first time he’d tried that sort of thing. It was just the first time he’d done it so aggressively, so late at night.

I thought he left, finally. And I went down to the basement where the book elevator was. I’d been waiting all night to bring up the stock. I didn’t want to go down while Boyka was still there.

I didn’t like going in the book elevator anyway; I’d been putting it off. I already didn’t like small spaces.

And then, a hairy arm around my throat, his hot, sweating mass flattening me against the tight, metal walls…

I swung my arm back, hit him in the head. Only, I was holding the mallet I’d been using to unpack the crates.

It looked like a small cut, just above his right eyebrow. Until it started bleeding. He toppled over, blocking the door.

He lay there on the elevator floor, looking at me, long after he was dead.

And it took much longer than that to escape the little metal box.

But none of that was the worst part.

The worst part was the months that followed. Where I still ran the bookshop, never going down to the basement, sealing the door, stacking deliveries to the roof of the staff room, and never, ever using the book elevator…that’s what fucked me up.

Plus, the desperate need to get my broke ass out of Lviv before I was arrested for murder.

I already knew the bookshop had been sold. The clock was ticking down. And then…Lorne came along.

You can see why he feels like a punishment.

And why I might feel like I deserve it, on some level.

I think of Mina, wondering how many times she’ll call my phone before she finally gives up forever—fifty? A hundred?

I wonder where Ivy is, if she even knows I’m here…god, I hope she’s okay.

And most of all, I think of Atlas.

I don’t know how long I’ve been in here. Time is losing meaning in the tiny, airless space inside the wall. Maybe it’s been hours. Maybe it’s been days. Maybe he never existed at all.

But I don’t think so.

No. I think…I did a bad thing. And maybe Lorne was my punishment.

But Atlas was my heaven. And I was there for a while, tasting it…what it felt to be safe and happy and cherished.

That heaven felt just as real as Lorne’s hell.

When the air gets low, when my head spins, when my mind wants to break apart, when it would be easiest to drift away, that’s what I cling to:

He’ll come for me.

The window slides open, startling me awake. Lorne’s bloodshot blue eyes stare in at me.

“Your boyfriend’s here.”

I try screaming again, hoping that Atlas will hear me, but all that comes out is a croak.

Lorne just laughs. “He’s not inside, idiot. He’s outside the gate. Want to see?”

Lorne touches the security monitor next to the door. A black-and-white image of Atlas appears on its screen, distorted somewhat by the heavy rain. Even so, I can tell he’s standing right outside the gates.

“Atlas! Atlas! Atlas!”

It’s like a nightmare—no matter how hard I try to scream, barely any sound comes out of my swollen throat. Lorne barely glances back at me.

“Looking for something, Atlas?” he says into the intercom.

Atlas’ head jerks up. He’s not looking toward the intercom—he’s gazing toward the house.

In a low, calm voice, he says, “Open the gate, Lorne. I just want to talk.”

“I don’t think so. I already spoke to the police you sent up here.” Lorne laughs nastily. “You make it too easy, Atlas. I loved showing them the new place.”

“This doesn’t have to turn ugly,” Atlas says. “We can keep it civilized.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that.” Lorne smiles serenely, safe behind his iron gates and his stone walls. “There’s not going to be any ugliness. In fact, this will be remarkably clean.” He leans forward, hissing into the microphone, “You’ll never find her. No one will.”

Atlas stands there in the rain, a dark figure looking steadily toward the house as if he knows that if he could only x-ray the walls, he’d find me inside. But after a moment, without saying another word to Lorne, he turns and walks away.

I stare at the video screen, unbelieving.

Is he actually leaving?

The screen remains blank. No movement but the wind and rain, no figure by the gate.

Lorne snorts, turning his back on the video monitor, returning to the wall so he can sneer right into my face. “I told you, Elena. He just wanted to fuck you.”

“He loves me,” I whisper in my ruined voice. “He’ll come for me.”

“It doesn’t matter if he does,” Lorne’s demented smile stretches wider. “I have twenty hiding places in this castle deeper and darker than this. Pits in the ground, cupboards in the walls, torture chambers in the attic…I’ve spent years planning, Elena, and months building. I can’t wait to show you what I’ve prepared for you. Racks to stretch those lovely limbs, tools to mark your skin, irons to brand you, sensory deprivation chambers to blind and silence you until you won’t even remember the sight of sun or the smell of grass, only my voice in your ears and my hands on your body…”

He lists my future tortures in a calm, almost beatific tone. As if he’s describing a religious experience.

“The cops were already here earlier tonight, and they walked past you five times. You can scream yourself raw right in the same room, and all they’ll hear is the wind in the chimney. I can hide you places in this house that Atlas wouldn’t find you for a thousand years, no matter how long he search?—”

An enormous crash echoes from the upper floor. It sounds like something very large and metallic was pushed over, maybe a suit of armor like the ones by the door.

“What is she—” Lorne’s head snaps up, listening. He smirks at me. “Stay right here.”

As he turns, the smirk falls away, leaving a cold and fixed intention that makes me extremely afraid for Ivy.

“ Run, Ivy!” I shriek, but it’s even more useless than before.

Lorne sweeps out of view in the direction of the stairs.

“ Ivy! He’s coming, Ivy!” I thrash and fight inside the wall, barely able to move, scraping my skin raw against the wood and stone. There’s a tug on my ring finger, and then sudden lightness as Lone’s ring pulls free and tumbles down the gap in the wall.

And suddenly, there she is, Ivy, right in front of me, wide-eyed, filthy faced, frantic. She’s scrabbling at the wall, trying to do something, something I can’t see. O Bozhe, she’s trying to free me.

“Never mind that, Ivy! Get out of the house; run down to the road!” I’m praying that Atlas hasn’t actually left, that somehow she could find him. I’m terrified of what Lorne might do to her now that he no longer needs her as bait.

But Ivy won’t leave the wall, won’t leave me.

“You’ve got to get out of here; he’s coming back!”

Too late—Lorne thunders down the stairs. Ivy sprints off like a white rabbit.

And then, on the security monitor, I see something that makes my heart soar:

Atlas scaled the wall and is striding toward the house, carrying an enormous axe.