Page 11 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Louise
I ’ve only just managed to roll up onto my hands and knees, my body already near its limit after my earlier torture session with Frank this morning.
While I have managed to get down some food and my blood sugar has buoyed, my arms and legs have been hyper extended and overdrawn by being hung upside down and chained to the metal St. Andrew’s Cross for hours—my regular regimen of sleep and calorie deprivation between torture sessions have only served to further break me down.
By the time Frank actually sweeps in through the torture chamber door, I’m actually considering giving in—just blurting everything out and succumbing to their demands for a momentary sliver of true relief—and with luck, a painless death once the Windmill no longer has a use for me.
Then I feel a glimmer of hope along the mating bond—Sébastien, Quentin, and Cazimer all resonating in harmony; the memory of hyssop, thyme, and sea-salt caressing my mind, soothing my raw heartstrings.
Dennis!
Whatever crackpot plan they're hatching—they’ve managed to get a hold of our final missing mate.
Though I can’t feel Dennis through the bond yet, I can feel the anticipation of the others, the golden rays of hope that a union with one of the missing pieces of our puzzle will bring us closer to one another, to peace.
Like the cruel flip of a coin, Frank’s face fills my vision as he bends down over me. I struggle to kneel upright on the cold tile floor.
“C’mon, we’re taking a little field trip today.” Frank grins, motioning with a set of cuffs in his hands for me to present my wrists.
“What? You can’t just beat me senseless in the usual spot? Am I starting to bore you, Francis?” I do my best to rally, summoning as much attitude as I can muster.
“I was thinking it was about time I took you somewhere nice,” he seethes, clapping me in the handcuffs.
“Oooh, are we going to D’Orsea?” I tease as he produces a black nylon bag from his back pocket, doing my best to master my fear as he snaps it open and prepares to pull it down over my head.
“I would have tried to make reservations there, but I know you’ve got absolutely nothing to wear,” Frank sneers, pulling the bag down over my head before he shoves me to my feet.
“I thought you said I had a great ass? This dress really plays to my strengths,” I lob back as my dirty hospital johnny flaps open behind me as Frank gives me another shove forward.
“Walk,” he instructs with a cruel laugh.
I swallow my panic as I take one tentative step and then another.
Frank could just be walking me to my cell, or he could be walking me off a cliff. At this point, I’m not sure which would be worse—but my animal fear threatens to crush me as I step softly into the unknown.
“Not so tough when you have to surrender your precious control, hm?” Frank growls in my ear as we make our way slowly away from my cell—the sounds of our footfalls and the click of the safety on his gun echoing in the bubble of quiet that surrounds us.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I give a little jump when Frank bites out the word “stop,” after what feels like an age of silence.
I hear the beep of a keypad and the whirring of a lock mechanism. Then there’s the quiet hiss of a hydraulically assisted door opener, and a puff of air, drier and sweeter than what I’ve been used to in my cell.
“Walk,” Frank instructs again, and I draw up short as I place a bare foot down on an unfamiliar surface.
“C’mon, we don’t have all day, Sweetheart,” he grouses as he shoves me forward again, my feet treading the soft, warm carpet carefully.
I don’t know where Frank has taken me, but something tells me that the improvement of the accommodations isn’t synonymous with safety—despite the instant comfort the change from clammy tile to warm dry carpet brings.
“What, are you going to serve me pheasant under glass before you waterboard me?” I bluster as I totter down the hallway, struggling not to hyperventilate with the building panic.
“Ooh, what a good idea—maybe we can do that next time,” Frank tuts thoughtfully as we continue my blind descent into the bowels of this hellish facility.
A surprised yelp escapes me as I bump gently into a wall.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting you can’t see shit,” Frank teases. “To your right,” he taunts as my handcuffed hands cast over the cool, eggshell texture of the wall.
Vaguely, I register that while I am blindfolded and unable to see my surroundings, Frank has guided me from the holding cells into another, seemingly less secure, area of the facility.
Silently, I curse myself for not counting every pace earlier—but now that I’m keenly aware of my path; I can begin to surreptitiously map my way in my mind’s eye.
Could Frank possibly be doing this on purpose? Or has he simply been counting on my weariness and panic to nullify any potential benefit I might gain from taking some stock of my surroundings?
“Alright—let’s keep it moving, Penny,” he grumbles, giving me another jab between the shoulder blades before giving one of my exposed ass cheeks a stinging swat.
Under my breath, I count steps, looming near the wall—my fingers tentatively slipping along the surface of the wall until Frank barks another set of instructions.
“Take another right, keep going—hands off the wall.”
I do as I’m told, turning a hard 90 degrees, pulling my wrists into my chest as I step cautiously down yet another blind hallway.
Ten paces from the last turn, another thirty paces and Frank’s voice rings out in the quiet of the hall once more.
“Stop!”
I come to a halt, the jangling of keys ringing in my ears as Frank fiddles with a lock, then the pop and click of a latch.
There’s a warm, dry smell like dust in the sunlight—like an attic—but just beneath, the chemical tang of heavy-duty cleaning supplies and antiseptics breathes new life into my panic.
Frozen, I stand in the relative safety of the carpeted hallway until Frank loses his patience—dragging me over the cold metal threshold and onto warm, smooth wooden boards; the door slamming behind us.
“On your knees,” Frank commands, circling behind me.
“Frank,” I hiccup—struggling to swallow down a breath as one of his boots snaps out, the blade of his foot striking the backs of my knees, forcing me down to the hardwood with a painful thud, my hands brace in front of me to keep me from toppling forward onto my face.
“We’ve had plenty of time for small talk, Lou. Today we’re gonna be getting right down to talking turkey, or things are going to start to get ugly,” he sighs.
In a burst of light, Frank whips the black bag off of my head, and I can see the horror of my surroundings.
Until this point, I had incorrectly assumed that I had been held below ground. However, if my little blindfolded sojourn had told me anything—it was that I hadn’t gone up any stairs or taken any elevators between transport from my cell to the main torture room, to this place.
I faced a wall made almost entirely of glass window panes that faced out over a landscape of unspoiled lush greenery.
My heart sank as I took in the stretch from the window to the horizon; completely unspoiled by the hand of humankind.
Not a single power line, ribbon of highway, rooftop, or even a dirt path—from the pane of glass to where the sun hung golden in the blue sky.
I can tell by how the ground drops away beyond the glass window panes that we’re at least one floor up from the ground, the spacious room minimally furnished with a collection of rope-laden pulleys and winches.
Just at the edge of my vision, a set of leather belts and metal chains dangle alongside a narrow wrought iron cage that stands amid the dancing motes of dust on the sunbeams that drench the space.
Just to the right of the wall of windows sit a pair of wingback chairs—a small circular table with a black and white marble chess set sits as if the room were not but a posh library, but when my eyes dart to the opposite end of the room—a massive glass tank borne aloft atop a pedestal of brass fittings and colorful tiles warps the reflection of the room with the distortion of hundreds of gallons of water.
My blood turns to ice as I take in the narrow steps to the small, tiled decking around the top rim of the glass tank, a large brass cleat wound with rope leading conspicuously up a line threaded through a pulley attached to the high vaulted ceiling, the rope dangling a large brass hook at the end of a thick rope over the surface of the water.
I spin around to face Frank—a glossy lacquered inversion table to his side, a surgeon’s table laid with all manner of horrifying tools just beyond.
“N-no!” I blurt out involuntarily as my eyes fall on the cruel shine of a scalpel’s blade, the teeth of a bone saw, turning desperately away from Frank and the horrors of the surgery table—the wall of glass taunting me with freedom; so close, yet so far away.
Even if I had the balls to rush the bank of windows, to hurl myself into space—once I hit the ground, assuming I could run for it—where would I go? I have no idea where I am, and from the looks of it—this location is very remote. I would be all but guaranteed to be caught by the Windmill.
“Listen, Sweetheart,” Frank begins with an exasperated sigh. “Susan already told you about the sweet deal the Windmill wants to cut you, right?” he croons in my ear as his hands find my waist, his hips grinding against mine as he slithers in behind me—already half hard.
I hate the way my body responds to his—fated mates, our flesh ever longing for the touch of the other above all else.
“She wants to turn me into glorified breeding stock,” I shudder, doing my best to shut Frank out as his fingers ghost over the bare skin on my arms, creeping up my shoulders toward the nape of my neck.
“Didn’t she tell you?” Frank breathes my scent in, his fingers creeping up into my hair at the base of my skull.