21. Nineteen
Nineteen
Eden
Once again, I find myself in a situation where my head throbs and my arms are bound. It doesn’t get any easier the second time around, apparently.
My vision is fuzzy as I peek my eyes open one at a time. Bright lights slice into my corneas and steal my sight. Voices murmur around me, low and indistinguishable, but the slight echo lets me know that the room I'm in is large.
As opposed to the last time I was held captive, I’m standing. A beam of sorts is pressed to my spine, my arms wrapped around it. The rope is brittle, creating friction burns against my wrists.
Keeping my chin tucked against my chest, I study my bare feet and the concrete floor beneath. Ruddy stains have sunk into the concrete, fading seamlessly into the grayish color of the stone. Spilled paint or spilled blood? I could take a guess.
Testing the ropes that bind me, I twist my hands slowly, not wishing to alert them that I've waken.
The sound of footsteps grow near and I freeze, attempting to appear unconscious.
“You would’ve fooled me, if it weren’t for the way you tremble.”
The words are tiny shards of glass, sinking into my skin. It bears such a resemblance to the way Papa spoke, I’m not sure whether it’s in my head or not. The voice is different, but the way in which he speaks is so familiar to me. Slow, soft, piercing.
“Look at me, child,” the man murmurs. The feel of a soft hand caresses my chin before raising my face to his. Whether it’s stubbornness or fear, I keep my eyes squeezed shut.
“Look at me before I remove your eyelids and you no longer have a choice.” His tone is cajoling, but his grip tightens until my jaw screams in agony.
Relenting, my eyes peel open. The man before me is so ordinary that it takes me by surprise. He’s my height, with white thinning hair, a round belly, and circular eyeglasses perched on a sharp nose.
“There you are,” he smiles. I frown.
A half dozen men stand nearby, watching our interaction. It’s then I realize I’m placed on a podium, raised above the rest and forced into the center of attention. Stares burn holes into my decaying courage.
Stained glass windows line the tops of all four walls, each one depicting a different scene from the Book. Papa had many similar paintings throughout the house. It does little to comfort me.
“I’m Reverend Curran,” he informs me cordially, as if he didn’t threaten to maim me seconds ago. “And you are?”
I attempt to swallow, but my throat feels like sandpaper and it gets caught halfway.
“Don’t be contrary. I asked you a question.”
My teeth grind together, and I move my head left to right.
“No?” He raises a salt and peppered brow.
I shake my head again.
A hum rumbles in the back of his throat before he releases me. Turning on his heel, he stalks toward the other men.
“Do not leave this room until you have her information. Then, you may dispose of her. She reeks of the devil himself.”
Panic sets in. If I could reason with the men, they might let me go. If I could muster up some words…
My lips part, but I only manage to gape like the fish Creed pulled from the water. Open, shut, open, shut.
Two men make their way towards me while the rest plop down into a row of seats, their posture relaxed. It’s so nonchalant, they must have done this before.
Cecil’s confession barrels into my mind and bile rises in my throat.
There are a lot of people that would love to find you. Hunt you.
Taking in rapid breaths through my nose, I wrench my bound arms to no avail. My thrashing is moot, but playing dead isn’t an option anymore.
I have a feeling these men won’t grant me a quick demise.
The smaller man steps forward first, something clutched in his fist. The stained glass paints rainbows throughout the room. Beams flash over his form, bathing him in scarlet. It reminds me so much of the man I murdered yesterday that I still, eyes growing wide.
Is this my punishment?
With the press of his thumb, shining metal shoots out between his fingers and I’m met with the edge of a blade.
“Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” The stranger whispers, skating the knife down the apple of my cheek. It doesn’t pierce the skin, but the tickle causes a shiver to run down my spine.
“We’re gonna play a game, and each unanswered question receives a punishment. How’s that?”
The platinum of his hair reminds me of the snow on Christmas Day and I cling to the memory. If I die, I don’t want my last moments to be blighted by fear.
Dancing in the dining room, candles and the smell of fresh pine, warm liquor and—
“That’s one.” A hand slides into my hair and wrenches my neck.
Despite the pain, not a single sound escapes me.
Closing my eyes, I anticipate the hot sting of a blade against my skin.
Instead, the sound of ripping draws my attention to my sweater.
It falls open, revealing a pale gray bra and the dip of my navel. It’s been sliced down the middle.
Laughter erupts. So does my shame.
“What does she value more,” he begins, glancing at the others. His lips are curled into a hideous grin, the twinkle in his eye anything but friendly. “Modesty or beauty?”
In a flash, the sharp tip is held to my cheek, piercing just below my eye. Ever so slowly, he draws a line down toward my jawline, flirting with the idea of flaying me.
He hums, cocking his head to the side. He slides his palm to the side of my face, catching blood with his thumb and wiping, painting streaks across my face. I don’t blink, I don’t quiver. I stare past him and study the room.
Concrete floors, a dozen rows of pews. Sconces, too, though they’re not lit. The windows allow plenty of light. I’m sure it was once beautiful.
Now, it’s a tomb.
“Modesty it is.”
The blood in my veins turns to ice, and I attempt to even my breathing. The cool metal of the blade slides along my breastbone until it nestles between my flesh and the thin cotton of my bra.
What would Papa say?
What would Creed say?
What would—
“Enough,” A stern voice interjects, causing the man in front of me to pause.
The voice is familiar, but I don’t dare look. My mind is playing tricks on me. Lowering my gaze back to the ground, I study my toes and wonder where my shoes might be.
“Curran gave me orders,” my assailant shouts over his shoulder, his nasally voice echoing back at us
“I’m sure. Go fetch him.”
God, that voice.
“Don’t ruin my fun, Bastien.”
My head snaps up. I know that name. Craning my neck, I could weep when I see who staved off my humiliation. Cecil’s eyes meet mine briefly, but flicker away within a heartbeat.
I’m relieved to see him, but another part of me is all too aware that he’s talking to these men with authority.
“Now,” Cecil demands, leaving no room for argument. It reminds me so much of the way that he speaks to Creed, and my brain does somersaults deciphering what this might mean.
Scoffing, the man before me stomps away and I’m left standing at the head of the room, all eyes on me. Cecil stands in the very back, tossing his chin to get my attention.
“Calm,” he signs quickly, crossing his arms across his chest as soon as he relays the message. I don’t dare try to respond, but I hold his stare.
The door swinging back open has all heads turning. The Reverend returns, eyebrows raised in intrigue and lips forming a soft smile, but the glint in his eyes gives him away. He’s not happy.
“There you are! We missed you this morning, you know.” He walks right up to Cecil and claps him on the shoulder. Hard. Cecil doesn’t so much as flinch.
“Got an early start, figured I would catch up eventually. You know I work best alone.” The tension crackles through the room like electricity. I wouldn’t be surprised if my hair was standing on end.
“So you do,” the old man responds. Taking a step back, he faces me and I avert my gaze. “Why is it that you stopped Percy from questioning our guest?”
I may be across the room, but I can see Cecil roll his eyes.
“Stripping her is hardly what I would call questioning.”
“Yes, well, Percy certainly has… unique methods. They have a reputation for being effective.” Curran says through a chuckle.
“Now, I’d prefer not to repeat myself, as I’m sure you know.
” He inclines his head towards me and motions with his arm, as if telling Cecil to carry on.
Outwardly, he appears perfectly patient, but my gut warns me that the unassuming man has an incredibly short fuse, and if it were to blow, I would suffer the greatest.
Cecil clears his throat and strolls toward me, his steps sure and lips lifted in a taunting grin.
The reassuring gaze he gave me moments ago has been replaced by something unrecognizable.
I’m not sure which of us he’s fooling: Curran, or me.
Keeping my eyes trained on him as he shortens the distance between us, I tuck my lips into my mouth to hide the way they tremble.
“What if our little friend here is much more valuable to us alive than dead?” Cecil asks, the smile on his mouth giving his voice a playful lilt. The juxtaposition of his tone to his words only confuses me further.
If this piques Curran’s interest, it’s an infinitesimal amount. “Get on with it,” he replies drolly.
Cecil has reached the steps of the platform, but he doesn’t bother to look at me.
“I believe she could be something of a… tool for us,” he declares, his booming voice gaining the attention of every man in the room. Some have eyes on Cecil, wide with intrigue. The others look nervously between him and Curran, like they’re anticipating a brawl.
“You’ve trusted me to serve you as your Reaper, sir, but surely you remember where that name originated?”
“Of course I do. My great grandfather chose that name to make a mockery of the very creatures he hunted.”
“And when was the last Reaper sighting recorded?” Cecil asks casually, picking at a piece of lint on his shirt.