Chapter 13 Lesser Evil
Lesser Evil
After the old guy—Ignatius—brought her a half-ream of unlined paper and a collection of pens, there was only the sound of sleet hitting the window and her own breathing as well as the small creaks and crackles of an old structure settling on its bones as the weather changed.
The loose sheets were heavy, cream-colored, and obviously expensive; the pens were a fresh package of high-end black gel numbers. She’d have loved them for work, especially if they came in different colors.
Color coding would have helped immensely. Legal research was easier when you could glance at a page and see different concepts highlighted. Liv tried to think of this as a deposition, or a case needing to be built.
If all this bullshit was a kidnapping or some kind of con job, it was so intricate and seamless she couldn’t find a way out. If it was a hallucination, likewise. Was it reality if you couldn’t find a hole in the illusion?
The problem was, there were plenty of cracks in the situation. She just didn’t like what was grinning at her through them—something old, rancid, and terrifying even if it was completely unbelievable.
But she’d seen the monsters, and not while sleeping. No, they appeared in Technicolor-vivid 4K while conscious—or at least during what was passing for awake at the moment.
First things first. Get systematic. She drew a long line down the center of one sheet, but she couldn’t quite figure out what to label either side. Lies and truth? Well, they could be lying to her about a whole lot.
On the other hand, she had never told anyone about the red-branded door in the dream. Not a therapist, not Gramma, not even Mom.
And that was another terrible thing, wasn’t it?
Mom and the closed doors locked from the inside, every window tightly shut as well, with the safety dowels still in place.
Liv remembered measuring and cutting the wooden cylinders when they moved into the tiny house, but it hadn’t done any good.
Unless the fellow came in through the chimney, the detective had said meditatively, scratching at the side of his neck.
Liv, hugging herself so she didn’t break and fly apart, had simply stared at him from the stairs’ landing, uncomprehending. They thought she was in shock, and who wouldn’t be finding their mother’s body in itty-bitty pieces all over the living room?
Don’t think about that, for Christ’s sake.
Mom knew she had nightmares. Ever since you were little, she’d say, and would bring warm milk in one of her crazy-colored, hand-painted mugs. Here, sweetie. It’s all right.
Oh, her mother would sort this right out; if she didn’t, Gramma would.
They were both gone, and it was too goddamn painful to think about so Liv stared at the paper, the pen moving almost of its own accord.
Spirals and hearts were her usual doodles, only now the spirals reminded her of rubbery, bleeding tentacles.
She tried lightning zigzags, but that reminded her of the strange glow outlining the creature and the way Erik moved.
“Oh, hell,” she muttered, and turned the sheet over. Now another blank page confronted her.
The little things were giving her the most trouble—her kidnappers’ utter stillness when they weren’t accomplishing some task or another, unnatural in fidget-prone human beings.
The curved knives, blades shining with their own sickly, pale glow.
The leather cuffs all three of them wore, and knowing what they covered.
The mark on the dark-haired guy’s wrist.
That crimson, twisting glyph and its vivid pulsing, the way it made her stomach churn.
Erik. She wrote the name, then the old guy’s.
Ignatius. Who was the blond, again? He looked a little like Neal.
Maybe it was only the self-satisfaction lurking around the set of his mouth; she was usually much better with names than this.
The attorneys all knew the Stellack girl had a mind like a steel trap.
They’d probably replaced her by now. Would the partners want to investigate a missing paralegal?
Listing things was supposed to help her make some sense of all this. There didn’t seem much logic to be found.
God, she wished Mika was here. Anyone, really, but Mika would have been best; despite appearing flighty as fuck and butterfly-unreliable, she was ferociously organized underneath. Camouflage, she would occasionally laugh. They don’t ask me to do shit if they think I’m a brainless bimbo.
Well, what would her best friend say? You and your lists. Look, what does your gut tell you?
Liv pulled out a fresh piece of paper. Maybe, instead of listing whether or not she believed this shit, she should take a different tack.
First, I want my phone back. She bent over the table like a schoolgirl, ignoring her complaining stomach.
She wanted to eat, sure—but she needed the sliding, squirrelly sensation behind her breastbone to take a hike.
Needed to find some way, any way, to make all of this seem somehow reasonable instead of a horrifying madness she was trapped in.
How would she be able to tell if this was all hallucination?
Even the sleet outside was just as it should be, a fine thin drizzle probably aching to intensify as the afternoon wore on.
She couldn’t see the huge, scrollwork-festooned front gate from this window, but she was still on the third floor.
The trees and winter-sleeping garden below hadn’t changed—or would she be able to tell if they had?
Biting her lip slightly, Liv began to write.
* * *
“It’s not that difficult to understand.” She tried not to scowl at her latte—double coconut, just to see if they had it.
She was definitely sulling up; Gramma Poe would have waved a gnarled finger in her granddaughter’s direction.
“I want my phone back, and my purse. That’ll go a long way towards making me believe you. ”
“The first thing you would do is attempt to contact your friends or family.” The old guy glanced at the blond, who had brought the coffee and a tray of high-end pastries. There was no receipt or paper sleeves to show where he’d bought them; it was par for the course. “That cannot be allowed.”
“So I really am a prisoner.” She dared him to disagree, fixing him with Mom’s Hairdresser Stare.
Unfortunately, it didn’t seem to make a dent. “It’s better for your loved ones to grieve you than for them to come to the attention of the unclean. These protocols are in place for your protection, Miss Stellack, and for the protection of those you care for.”
“Isn’t that convenient.” On the surface, it was a reasonable enough policy. If she thought about this like a lunatic version of the Witness Protection Program, would it get any easier to handle? “Isn’t that just peachy. So the threat of these imaginary things is supposed to keep me isolated and—”
“You are under no obligation to believe me.” Ignatius folded his dry, callused hands.
He didn’t even glance at her list of demands, though the blond was peering over the top of his own blank white paper cup at them.
“In any case, your cell phone and your purse have both been incinerated. There is nothing left of either.”
Well, great, you son of a bitch, thanks. They weren’t giving her a lot to go on. She opened her mouth to protest again—for all the good she suspected it would do—but he beat her to the punch, so to speak.
“Much of the rest, we will be more than happy to provide.” How did he know, if he wasn’t even looking?
But Ignatius continued, briskly. “For example, footwear—since you will not be leaving the temple just yet, it seemed unnecessary. You have not listed your preference, simply shoes. How many pairs, and of what type?”
Temple. Okay, old-fashioned, but so’s he. “So I get shoes, that’s great.” She couldn’t help herself, the sarcasm just slipped out. “You burned my phone?”
“And your clothes, and your purse,” the blond piped up, regarding her steadily.
Where was Erik? She liked him better than either of these assholes, but then again, they could be manipulating her into considering him a refuge.
Sleep-deprived, hungry, and walloped with unfamiliarities, she was probably vulnerable.
Probably? No, Liv felt extra super-duper vulnerable. She looked away, at the painfully clean fireplace; it stood to reason they didn’t want to give her a match or two, not to mention firewood. Sleet rustled, sweeping the walls. It would have been nice to have a fire and a good book or two.
“Great.” The word trembled. That’s just great, Liv. Show them you’re scared.
“I know it seems harsh, at this point.” Ignatius wore a very faint smile, like a senior partner watching a junior attorney dig a hole during a deposition. “But the rules are there for good reasons, lirai. Your safety is our primary goal; then, and only then, your comfort.”
“Order of operations,” she muttered, and set the stupid latte down. She didn’t even like coconut. There were two pains au chocolat on the tray, and they looked good—but how could she trust the food?
“It’s very natural for you to be doubting any evidence we could provide.
” The old guy was utterly imperturbable.
“Even that of your own senses. You are attempting to force this situation to obey the rules of the daytime world. It will not, and you’ll have a great deal of difficulty for some while yet. ”
The daytime world. “Shoes and some decent shampoo.” She glanced at her list, just now noticing how jagged and uneven her penmanship was. Her hands just wouldn’t stop shaking. “And a laptop, because—”
He shook his iron-grey head, a precise little motion not daring to ruffle even a single hair. “You will use it to attempt contact. We cannot risk your safety, or a civilian’s.”
Civilian. What a telling little word—it was the way cops talked. You were on one side of the line or the other, with no straddling or, God forbid, time-sharing. “You aren’t acting like the good guys here, you know.”
“Who told you we were?” The blond obviously thought she was a rude little bitch; she longed to return the favor with interest. “All we are is the lesser evil, ma’am.”
“What’s your name again?” So I know what to call you when I stick a pin in a voodoo doll.
Of course, if monsters, mad gods, and superhuman monster hunters were real, it might even work. Maybe she could add voodoo doll to the list?
“Jake, ma’am.” He even gave her a cheeky little wink, very sure of himself. “Short for Jacob, but so long as it’s not late for dinner—”
You get more irritating the more I hear you talk, kid. “So you’re not the good guys. At least you admit it.”
“We could discuss the nature of good quite philosophically, if you were so inclined.” Ignatius gave the blond a quelling glance, a brief odd bluish light folding over his eyes before fleeing, returning them to human darkness.
“But Jacob is quite correct. We are indeed a much lesser evil, Miss Stellack. And though we might be sorry for it, the fact gives us a latitude of action necessary for defending what we must from him and other creatures.”
Latitude of action is a pretty fancy way of saying you’re well aware said actions are inexcusable, young man. Doing her famous Granny Goose impression wasn’t going to get her anywhere, though. And she was starving.
If they’d drugged the pastries, she’d find out. The plates were whisper-thin porcelain, a few decorated with tiny hand-painted forget-me-nots. Neither of them made a move while she took a pain au chocolat and glanced nervously at the door to the hall.
It was open. The dark-haired guy was probably right outside. They’d arranged the whole “almost get eaten by monsters” event to drive home the point that escape was, if not impossible, then going to be very difficult.
And now she knew what was waiting outside.
Despite being mass-produced, the pastry was still tasty as all get out. The blond watched her while she chewed, maybe trying to be encouraging. And, impossibly, as soon as she swallowed the first dose of simple carbs and oven-fried butter, everything suddenly seemed much more manageable.
“Keep talking,” she said, grimly. “Go down the list, and tell me what you will do. Then I’ll write an updated version.”
Ignatius studied her for a few moments, and his thin lips curved the slightest fraction. He absolutely reminded her of an old criminal prosecutor, aware of every human foible and just waiting for roadkill to ruffle his feathers over.
“Yes, lirai,” he said, as if it was a formal response, and used a single fingertip to bring her list closer to his slice of the table. “We will do what we can.”