46
The room turns silent aside from glasses clanking and the loose rustling of fabric.
Everyone gazes at me as though I'm a God.
Their expressions are unknown with their masks.
If I were to guess, I'd bet they're stunned.
I'm the closest thing in this room to their deity.
I'm a fucking Grimshaw. I scan the room looking for the girls.
Zain brushes past me. He stills when he locates the TVs plastered to the walls offering a glimpse of their dark, salacious side.
Woman being raped, beaten, branded and cut.
All types of sinister shit. He's not surprised or fazed, but I still should have warned him.
A fleeting moment of worry flickers over his face so quickly I almost miss it.
Vesper or Clara are not being broadcasted. Thank fuck.
The crowd is heavy making it impossible to cross the main room off the list. Something tells me they've hidden them away like a stolen treasure in the depths of their hell. Leaving Zain in the dust, I steel through the onlookers.
“Where is she?” I shout, commanding everyone's full attention. Heads snap to me. No one utters a word. I spin, circling the room. “She belongs to me.”
The distant echo of footsteps approaching has me spinning in my boots.
The mass of people part, Mortensen emerging from the sea of masked faces.
I cock my head, daring him to challenge me.
He chugs forward leisurely sipping on a glass of scotch without a care in the world.
He doesn't look surprised; he knew we'd come. His crystalline eyes fall on me.
“Such a shame. I gave you every opportunity,” he clucks, swirling his liquor around his glass.
My eyes narrow. Zain struggles to stay composed behind me.
He would love nothing more than to cut him into tiny pieces.
I raise my arm signaling him to hold back even though it's not him I'm worried about, it's me.
“She belongs to me,” I grit my teeth. My fists clench at my sides.
He approaches me. “No. She is your weakness. You've always been simple-minded. I had hoped when you took initiative and claimed her in the Void that you had finally come to reason. Even accepting your birthright.”
His irises burn with a malignant intensity.
He circles me like a hawk zeroing in. The onlookers stay silent, gawking.
I refuse to be seen as weak. I hold my composure, praying for a strong-willed state of mind just this once to avoid losing control.
“Unfortunately, she warped your psyche with her devious devilish ways. Her kind are dirty and impure, Kieran.”
His eyes fall to Zain. He dissects him like he's a pebble in his shoe.
My lip curls in a sneer. “Where is she?”
I growl, stepping closer into his bubble.
His smirk fades knowing I'm not backing down, though it quickly returns with a cocky neck roll.
“Well well, look who's finally giving a shit,” he sloshes his drink as he widens his arms, the liquor commandeering his senses.
“You want them?” He exchanges glances with Zain and me. He spins on his heels expecting us to blindly follow. The room stays silent.
I know he's baiting me, but I'm past the point of thinking clearly.
My entire body thrums in anticipation and trepidation.
I see tunnel vision. Reminders of my childhood he stole from me to shape me into his puppet flash through my brain.
Zain wordlessly falls in step beside me.
He's fuming. He glances my way, warning me with a single stare.
He wants me to keep my head on straight and bide my time. Not sure how much longer I can.
The crowd dissipates into nothing and before we know it we're encased in a deep crimson red-hued corridor.
I know these areas. This is where the sharpest evil lies ready to cut you like a knife.
Mortensen's loafers stop at the end of the passageway in front of a marked heavy wooden door.
A red X is painted along the outside in what appears to be blood.
My insides boil. My mind spirits with possibilities.
Clara is the only thing rooted in my mind.
If it’s her blood marking this doorway, Mortensen would have boasted.
I wonder if he found my marking on her sweet, pale skin.
If so, it didn't protect her the way I imagined.
I know whatever is on the other side of this door will make me snap, so I remain stoic.
This is another one of his ultimate tests.
One I can't lose. Mortensen pushes it open.
His eyes are full of savage hatred—directed toward me no doubt.
His one and only son. The one he couldn't control.
With shaking hands, I grasp the brass doorknob opening it the rest of the way. The door creaks open. All the air is pulled from my lungs.
The room is encased in umbral shadows. I step inside the threshold.
The itch beneath my skin feels like a worm embedding in my epidermis.
Anyone else would be shaking in their boots.
Not me. Zain's footsteps echo behind me.
The smell of sweat and sex instantly register.
Not sure if it's from the main area of Void or something more fucked up. Probably the latter.
The lights flip on behind me, basking the room in a sterile white glow.
A glass viewing window runs along the length of the far wall.
Aside from that, the only other things in the room are two metal chairs facing the glass.
On the other side of the barrier is Vesper, naked, her body displayed as an offering.
Her arms are strapped to a bar running along the ceiling.
Her body dangles listlessly while her hair is strung over her face in long curtains shrouding her eyes.
Before I can utter a word about Clara, Zain roars out behind me at the gruesome sight before us. I snap my neck around just in time to see him barrel toward Mortensen with frenzied mania. His levelheadedness has turned to psychosis and derangement.
He clocks Mortensen in the jaw and reaches for his switchblade in his jeans.
He flicks it open. Blood spills from Mortensen's chin, splattering against his vest.
I trust Zain not to go too far, he knows we could lose ‘em both without his cooperation.
A raucous howl leaves Mortensen's throat.
Zain staggers backward, heaving like a wild man.
His shaky hands grip the blade. He reigns in his temper, barely.
I don't dare intervene. He's out for blood and I can't blame him.
“If you touch her, I will end you,” he hisses.
His eyes have turned to a deadly black, tunneling a sinister mania.
He's on the verge of a full-on systemic collapse.
I should have known this would throw me in the throes of an episode.
Only Vesper can bring him out of this shit, I'm a piss poor replacement.
Plus, I'm not in the right head space, either. I still have no idea where Clara is.
“Zain, man, we're going to get her,” I remind him. I don't know shit about comforting someone. That's as good as it's going to get.
Mortensen presses his fingers along his busted lip as he stumbles backward against the doorframe.
A menacing deranged look fills his eyes, his perfectly coiffed hair is a stringy fringed mess.
Zain backs himself against the corner wall, falling to his knees.
I sink down next to him, trying not to lose my own head.
I still have no clue where Clara is, and I need some Goddamn answers. Now.
“Push 'em down, man. Block out the voices. You're in control.”
His muted eyes fall to mine. He fists his dark hair, muttering unintelligible nonsense.
I've never seen him look so collapsed and broken.
He would fall deeper in his dark thoughts if he lost Vesper.
It's clear how much she means to him. It's all he's ever had.
The closest thing to family, aside from me.
I swallow my anger, forcing myself to be numb to the feelings pulsing through my system threatening to overload.
I rise to my feet and plod over to the glass wall separating us from Vesper.
My eyes fall to the room again. My hands press against the cool glass.
I scan the room. Clara still isn't there.
I look harder as if she'll just materialize in front of me.
I'm deep in my head again. Some strange shit bottoms out in the pit of my stomach.
I refuse to look at Mortensen. The fucker can suck my dick. He will give me answers.
“Where is she?” my hot breath fogs up the glass.
“Come with me, my son,” Mortensen replies in a ragged breath, ignoring my question.
“Nah, I’m not going to be your puppet,” I sneer.
I can practically hear his displeasure. I smirk, keeping my eyes trained in front of me.
“You are my son. A Grimshaw. You are what I say you are.”
His words cut deep. Against my better judgement, I turn to him.
I'm on him in two seconds. My hand wraps around his neck.
“I may be your flesh and blood, but I am nothing like you.
You're a worthless piece of trash. I'd rather fucking die than give you the satisfaction of taking on your legacy.
I'll never give you a fucking heir," I force him to stumble backward, flip him off, and restrain myself from pummeling him.
His chin tips up in a triumphant grin. Why, I don’t fucking know, but he thinks he's won.
Fat chance. My hands shake. My sense of control is hanging by a
thread.
“You are exactly like me in every way. I shaped you. You've done worse shit than I ever have.”
His words stop me in my tracks. My feet propel me forward and I fist his collar this time. My heated gaze catalogs every cocky emotion on his face looking for a hint of deception. I find none.
I release him violently and rear back until my back slams into the glass, rattling it.
Zain looks to me as if I've got the answers to Mortensen's insanity.
Zain stands slowly, shifting forward on his feet to join me.
Neither of us know what the fuck is happening or what the hell Mortensen is on about.
Just as I'm ready to question him, he flicks on a light switch illuminating the back side of the room Vesper is in.
Vesper remains unmoved, her body dangles listlessly still, but my eyes skate past her, and that's when I spot Clara.