Chapter 18
“Ready to talk now?” Mr. Trent removes his suit jacket and perches on the edge of his desk.
Pain radiates through my head, so intense my stomach churns.
After tasing me enough to make me pass out, he left the room and I woke up with the handcuffs of course still on my wrists, but with my arms and legs bound to the chair as well.
The sun is setting, sinking lower and lower in the sky, and I haven’t decided if that’s a good or bad thing yet.
The guys will be able to sense where I am and will come rushing to save me.
I can see it play out now. Hasan will crash through the window and go straight for Mr. Trent.
Maybe he’ll rip his head off in the same way he ripped the heads off the vampires.
Or maybe we’ll go all supernatural mafia on him and hold him upside down by his foot off the roof of the building.
Or maybe Mr. Trent is counting on that. He has me tied up, bound from using my powers, and has tased me a few times.
But that’s it. So this whole torturing me for information thing seems a bit tame…
not that I’m complaining. My head still hurts from the car crash, and I’m pretty sure a few ribs are bruised if not cracked.
He’s waiting for me to relinquish control of the runes, to give them to him willingly in exchange for my freedom.
I don’t know if a ritual will actually give him control over the guys.
I’m bound to them through blood, but if there’s a chance he can control them…
no. I can’t think like that. Maybe keeping me in just enough pain to summon the guys is exactly what he wants.
Because he wants to control them.
He wants to use them as his personal bodyguards and servants. Who better to do your supernatural bidding than four gargoyles? They’re strong and fast. They’re perfect soldiers to do his evil bidding.
Part of me doesn’t believe his theory, because I’m in possession of the runes and I don’t control the guys.
Though, it’s not as if I’ve really tried.
We made a fast friendship that turned into something more, something deeper.
I don’t want to control them. We work together as a team.
But if I did control them, if I could command them to do whatever I wanted… yeah. Things could get ugly.
“I don’t have the runes,” I say, squeezing my eyes shut.
Maybe I’m concussed. Being shocked over and over can’t be good for me regardless, and now my vision is getting fuzzy.
“And if I did, I wouldn’t give them to you.
Again, you should have spent some more time stalking me to find out this tie-up-and-torture thing wouldn’t work on me. ”
Mr. Trent starts to roll up the sleeves of his button-up shirt.
He flicks his eyes to me and smiles, looking amused.
“That’s what you think this is?” He finishes rolling up his sleeves and comes over, crouching down in front of me.
“Sweetheart, if I wanted to torture you, you’d be begging me to kill you by now.
I’m simply keeping myself entertained until sunset. ”
Sunset. Shit. He knows.
Which means he’ll be ready for them to come save me. Because when they do, Mr. Trent is going to try and capture them.
Someone knocks on the door and Mr. Trent gets up to answer. I twist in the chair to try and see who it is, but I’m unable to see past Mr. Trent. A minute or two passes before he comes back, with Charles following.
“Get her cleaned up,” Mr. Trent tells him.
“You know I prefer to look at pretty things.” He goes around his desk to the shelves behind it and picks up a ceremonial dagger to use to cut the ropes from my wrists and ankles.
“Now, before you go thinking you can escape,” he starts, flashing the blade in my face.
The last remaining sunlight shines on the sharp metal.
“Without your powers you are helpless. This place is locked down with armed guards at every exit. While I’d like to keep you alive a bit longer, they are on strict orders to shoot anyone who tries to escape. ”
I swallow hard, mind racing. I know I’ll get out of here. For every near-death experience I’ve had, I’ve always known in the back of my mind that I’ll make it out alive. But it’s not just me I’m worried about.
There are other kids here and I have to save them too.
“This way, miss,” Charles says, holding out his hand, motioning to the door. He’s holding a gun in his other hand, with his finger resting against the slide and not on the trigger. At least he knows how to properly hold a gun.
I walk in front of him, leaving the office and stepping into a bright hallway. We’re in the building housing offices, and the whole floor must belong to Mr. Trent.
“Keep going,” Charles says, and we walk until we get to an elevator. He points the gun at me and presses a button. “Get in and keep to the back-right corner. I’d rather not have to use this.” He holds up the gun. “Never was a fan of these things.”
I narrow my eyes and try to get a read on him. Working for Mr. Trent makes him just as bad. Sitting back and doing nothing while others do bad things is doing a bad thing.
“How many others are there?” I ask, carefully adjusting the cuffs on my wrists so they stop digging into my skin.
“Others?”
“Other witches. How many others has Mr. Trent kidnapped?”
“Kidnapped is a strong word,” Charles says, and I roll my eyes.
“Kidnapped…manipulated…whatever. How many others?”
Charles’s eyebrows go up. “Trying to determine your odds of escaping?”
“Something like that.”
He chuckles. “You’re outnumbered, I’ll leave it at that.”
Son of a bitch. There are more than Rachel and the boy. “How are you okay with everything he does? Don’t you have any sort of heart?”
Charles polishes the gun with the sleeve of his black suit jacket. “I did. And then witches killed my sister.”
The elevator stops at the top floor and Charles points the gun at me again. “Get out and walk straight through the foyer.”
I do as I’m told, looking around the swanky penthouse as I walk.
Everything is stark and modern, with random artifacts displayed on pedestals, protected from human contact with thick glass.
This place looks more like a museum than a house, and it’s just as cold as one.
There’s nothing homey or welcoming about it, which fits Mr. Trent perfectly.
“The second door on the left.” Charles stops and points to it. “Go in and get yourself cleaned up. You have three minutes.”
I step into the bathroom, and the door shuts behind me as soon as I do.
Right away, I comb everything over. I need to get these cuffs off, but I don’t know how.
There’s not even a keyhole to try and pick.
The bathroom is empty and looks like something that should be attached to a hospital room, not a fancy top-floor apartment.
There’s a toilet and a small sink with no mirror above it.
The single showerhead is on the wall next to the toilet, and the drain is in the middle of the floor.
There’s not even a shower curtain or a toilet paper holder.
I turn on the sink to warm up the water and drop down to my knees, trying to look behind the sink for any sort of plumbing I could rip apart and use as a weapon.
But I can’t, because the entire thing is encased in white plastic.
I’ve been inside psych wards more than once to question people involved in a case.
And this is exactly what this bathroom reminds me of.
There’s absolutely nothing in here that could be easily removed or ripped off.
No shower curtain because they pose a risk for self harmers.
No toilet paper holder that could be taken apart and used to cut oneself with.
No mirror because glass breaks easily. There’s only the necessities.
I wash as much blood as I can off my face, watching the red water run down the drain.
Carefully, I reach up and feel my head, checking for more wounds.
My fingers run over what feels like broken glass embedded in my hairline, and it hurts so much it causes me to whimper in pain.
I bring my head down to the sink and run warm water over it, hoping it will help flush some of the glass out.
It doesn’t.
After using the bathroom, I go back to the door and push it open. Charles is there holding a towel. He hands it to me and I blot up my face. Fresh blood runs down my forehead.
“Hold the towel over your wounds,” Charles tells me. “Mr. Trent likes a clean house.”
Gently holding the towel against my forehead, I follow him down another hall and into a corner room. Like the bathroom, this room is pretty much empty except for a small bed in the corner. Large floor-to-ceiling windows take up the wall farthest from me, offering a breathtaking view of the city.
Rachel sits on the foot of the bed, hands on her knees as she stares out at the city below.
“Ms. Bisset needs tending,” Charles says, and Rachel slowly turns around and nods. “Have a seat, Ms. Bisset.” Charles pushes me forward and steps back. Rachel stands, and my gaze goes to her wrists. She’s wearing handcuffs.
Her powers are bound too.
I sit on the edge of the bed and lower the towel. Rachel hardly reacts to the sight of blood. She turns, waiting for Charles to take off her handcuffs. She rubs her wrists once they’re off, leading me to believe she wears them all the time when she’s not out doing Trent’s bidding.
Charles puts an old-fashioned looking doctor’s bag on the bed. Without a word, she opens it and pulls out gauze and tweezers and starts picking glass out of my head. I close my eyes and grit my teeth until she’s finished. She puts a bandage over my cuts, gently smoothing it out.
“Thanks,” I tell her, and she looks surprised, as if no one shows her kindness anymore. “I’ll get you out of here,” I whisper. “And the others. How many are there.”
Her eyes widen a bit and she looks at Charles, too afraid to speak.