61. Fifty Eight
Fifty Eight
Cecil
Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.
My vision swims. The only thing I’m able to fully grasp is the dull sound of steady drips. That, and the distant wails that tumble beneath the door across from me. An unsteadiness surrounds me. There’s not a doubt in my mind that they're carried over from Eden’s screams of terror.
It’s the worst kind of torture I could endure.
The room is small, resembling a tomb from medieval times.
This part of the Sanctuary, the Underground, is very seldom visited by its members.
Reserved only for the execution of some of the particularly Damned—those labeled as direct disciples of the devil—it’s said to be cursed.
The levels of Darkness were beyond what any amount of prayer could keep out, so it crept into walls, fusing itself with the infrastructure of the building.
It’s no wonder they brought us down here. It’s astoundingly hellish, for a house of God.
I was awoken some time ago with a toss of frigid water.
Mumbled words were spoken, but I was too delirious to make sense of it.
Not that I wanted to hear whatever bullshit they had to say, anyway.
The pain radiating throughout my body took precedence, and I did a mental evaluation of my injuries.
I remember hitting the ground, and with the throb in my shoulder, I’d say it’s dislocated.
That, and my face has taken quite a bit of damage.
Prying my right eye open is arduous, a tell tale sign of a shiner.
Binds have been replaced with manacles, the metal biting into my wrists much tighter than what’s necessary.
Other injuries are sure to be discovered once I’m free, but right now, I’m grateful to be coherent. Well, sort of.
Consciousness floats in and out of grasp, like an elusive firefly. At first, I was willing to succumb to exhaustion. It wasn’t until I first heard the shrieking, unmistakably Eden, that I was able to lift my limp head and really listen.
Without any light, there’s no sense of time. If someone told me I’d been out for days, I’d believe them, but I don’t feel dehydrated. It must not have been too long ago that I was brought here. Which means Eden hasn’t been here too long, either.
As horrible as it is, if she’s screaming, she’s alive. It offers me little in the way of comfort, but if I want to get us out of here alive, I have to hold tight to whatever hope I can muster.
Wriggling my wrists behind me, I cringe at the lack of circulation in my arms. Glancing down, I can’t make out my feet, so I shuffle them along the ground. They’re bound, too, but not with metal. If I were to guess, I’d say rope, which is much easier to free myself of.
The distant screaming stops abruptly, and I freeze. The second’s stretch on, and I begin to count.
1…
2…
3…
I reach thirty two seconds before Eden’s shrieking resumes, and I’m able to release a breath of relief. It’s fucked to find solace in her agony. It only adds to my torment.
There has to be a way out of this room. If I can take down one man, I’ll have a weapon.
I have to free my hands.
Pain licks at my nerves, sharp and blinding.
Eyes squeezed shut, white hot flashes paint the back of my lids.
Every cell of my body is on high alert, begging my hands to still as I attempt to wrench it from the manacle.
It takes a great deal of mental gymnastics to convince my brain that the hurt is necessary.
Warmth flows down my fingers and the iron slips.
The blood serves as a lubricant, aiding my push and pull.
A low grinding sounds in the room, and I’m only halfway aware that it’s coming from metal against bone.
I hesitate, slumping down in my seat as I catch my breath, head heavy on my shoulders.
It’s halfway now, and if I keep pushing, I’ll have a free hand. A chance.
And I can find Eden.
“Come on,” I rasp. “Do it. Fucking do it.”
Baring my teeth, I brace my feet flat on the floor and bite down, molar to molar. One more quick tug, and I’ll be free.
One more.
I don’t realize I’m screaming until my throat begins burning from the force.
Whipping my hand in front of me, hot liquid coats my lap.
My hand is mangled, I don’t need vision to know it, and I cradle it to my chest. Lurching to the side as much as I can, mucus and stomach acid splatter onto the ground beside me.
Second by agonizing second passes that I sit that way, head hanging. The wakefulness I fought so hard for slips through my fist.
When blinding light splashes into my face, I assume I’ve passed out and begun to dream. Or maybe I’ve died. There’s supposedly a white light, right?
The sound of my name tosses me to the far side of consciousness, and I straighten my spine.
“Oh Jesus, what did you do?” Hands flitter over my face, and my head lolls. The press of a shaky palm to my cheek rights the angle of my neck.
“Sylvie?” I croak, squinting against the light.
The hands at my face disappear. There’s movement at my ankles, the binds loosening and tightening as someone attempts to untie them.
“Yes,” she replies, hurried and hushed. “It’s us.”
Confusion notches my brows together. “Us?”
Then the light lowers, the person holding it no longer obscured by the high powered beam.
My brother, wide eyed and firm jawed, looks back at me. And I lose it.
I tug at my still bound hand, the effort futile in my weakened state. My mangled wrist flops uselessly as I attempt to sign one handed.
“You’re going to hurt yourself—”
“Get him out! Now, Sylvie, please,” I croak.
Wails drone down like a siren and silence ensues; a stark reminder of what else is at stake. “Take him, then come back for me. We’ll get Eden.”
Sylvie doesn't respond, her focus on my ankles. The light beam spins as it’s placed face up, shining at the ceiling and casting the room in just enough light to see one another. Glancing behind the two of them, I see two more of our own waiting outside.
Blood coats nearly everyone, other than Creed.
“There’s not enough time,” my brother tells me, his face hard.
“Then get her first!” I spit, looking incredulously at the woman at my feet. Tears twinkle over her eyes.
“I can’t,” she whispers. “We can’t get close enough.”
The harsh slap of reality hurts almost worse than the breaking of the bones in my hand.
The screaming. The constant, blood curdling wails that have rumbled throughout the catacombs. Her Gift, used against her as a prison. And how they’re able to do that? I have some ideas, but they’re too horrific to voice.
“There has to be a way—” I begin, panic biting my words.
“There is,” Creed signs. He looks down at me, an expression in place that I don’t recognize. My brother, my little brother, is utterly stoic. Like a seasoned soldier, there isn’t a hint of fear on his face.
“No,” I sign with bloody fingers.
“It’s the only way,” Sylvie mutters, eyes flooding with anguish.
In the hall, pitying glances peek through.
“Please,” I choke, unsure of who I’m speaking to. My brother, Sylvie, the world, myself. Anything or anyone who might listen and grant me this one wish. “It’s too dangerous.”
“They’re going to kill her,” Creed signs vehemently, stepping closer. My eyes rove over his figure, searching for injury. The relief of not finding any is difficult to reach when he insists on putting himself in danger.
“Please,” I repeat. “I’ll go with you.”
Creed’s eyes follow my lips, and then his own curve into a weak smile. “You’ve done enough. It’s my turn.”
This isn’t a battle that I can win. Between the blood loss and what has to be a severe concussion, I would be a liability, and to wait would be risking Eden’s life.
I’m terrified.
For the first time in twenty one years, our fate belongs to Creed.
My body sinks into the chair, my injured hand dropping onto my thigh. Sylvie is quick to rip the hem of her shirt and wrap the torn strip around my wrist.
“How many have you taken out?” I ask.
Sylvie’s sigh is laced with frustration.
“Not many—hardly anyone’s down here. Probably too afraid of Eden.
” Her golden eyes flick up to mine, and she presses her lips together into a tight line.
Whatever she sees, it knits her brow and makes her look away quickly.
“Feels like another trap. They knew we would come for her. And once we have her…”
She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t have to. As soon as we go to her, they’ll swarm us. The catacombs are a massive spider web; they’re waiting for their moment to strike.
I try to speak, but exhaustion has me restarting my sentence three times before I can form the words coherently.
“There’s an exit,” I slur. “On the southern end of the catacombs. It empties into a field. There’s not much for coverage, but it’s better than backtracking.
That’s where Creed can take her and we’ll meet them there. ”
Sylvie looks unsure, but she relays the information to Creed. He nods as she explains, and then gives a firm, “Okay.”
He approaches the doorway and my heart withers.
Pausing, Creed looks over his shoulder. Something flickers in his eyes, a crack in his facade, and I see through him. The valor is born out of desperation. It’s a bitter reminder of how sheltered he’s been. And to think I did it to protect him.
Hindsight is a funny thing.
“Me and you,” he signs.
“Me and you.” My words are no more than a choke.
It isn’t until he vanishes into the darkness that I hang my head and cry.