Page 32 of Hysteria Rises (Dark Falls Hollow #1)

TWENTY-THREE

DELILAH

My gaze darts everywhere the moment Kiefer opens the door into the main part of this dingy basement I’ve been sequestered in.

This is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to look at much of anything down here.

True, I’ve been hauled through this area multiple times, but it was always while I was either drugged and delirious, unconscious, or mentally unable to focus.

Fear does terrible things to a person, and I’ve been living in a constant state of what the fuck is happening.

Even so, shock still barrels into me as I slow my visual exploration and realize how many people have been down here with me this entire time.

The woman I encountered without the tongue is not the only one.

We immediately come upon two who are head down, doing various tasks.

The woman who wrote me that note then ate it is in the small kitchen area washing dishes.

She’s wearing a shapeless gray gown, and her hair is pulled into a tight knot at the back of her head.

Another similarly dressed woman sits at a long table with an overflowing basket of assorted garments.

Items to be mended, maybe? She’s currently threading a needle, though there’s an old sewing machine set up at the table as well.

A moment later, yet another woman enters the room with several small children.

She has one on either side of her, holding onto her drab-colored skirt, and a third little boy trails in their wake.

Suddenly, all three women seem to spot us at once. They immediately stop what they’re doing and fall to their knees. With bowed heads, they—those who can, anyway—murmur in unison, “I follow. I honor. I nourish. I kneel.”

What in the hell?

Kiefer clears his throat, and they all stand again.

The ones who had been sewing and washing dishes immediately return to what they were doing, but the third finds Kiefer’s eyes.

They linger on him for several seconds before flicking toward me.

She promptly drags her gaze away as she ushers the children over to the table.

They climb onto booster seats, chattering their toddler-speak.

This must be either their dinner or a late afternoon snack.

The woman slides small plates of fruit, cheese, and bread in front of them.

These children might be anywhere between two and five. I have no idea.

Their heads bow, and they quickly mumble something that sounds a lot like, “For the nourishment of our bodies,” only they stumble over the word nourishment.

My brows furrow, deep in thought. They’ve obviously been taught to say that.

My stomach rumbles uncomfortably as they begin to shovel food into their little mouths.

I don’t remember when I last ate anything.

Chewing on my lip, I peek into the room they just exited.

Several more slightly older boys remain hunched over a table, like they’re doing schoolwork of some sort.

There’s certainly no school around here for them to attend, so this must be crazy town’s version of homeschooling.

I hadn’t realized that I’d come to a full stop while gawking until Kiefer nudges me forcefully forward.

With a big hand collaring the back of my neck, he steers me over to the table.

The woman near the sewing machine briefly glances up before returning her focus to the item of clothing in her hand.

“Sixteen,” Kiefer says sharply. “You’ll be responsible for teaching Twenty-three how to be a productive member of our community.

Is that understood?” She gives a curt nod, then immediately goes back to her task.

“Eight,” he barks, and I jump in place like a skittish animal at the bite in his tone.

“Make sure she’s in her room immediately after dinner.

Hayze will be down to lock the door.” My brows crash together.

Sounds like I’ll be locked in a room. Again. But did I really expect otherwise?

The woman at the sink—Eight—shifts slightly, only barely looking over her shoulder.

I draw in a breath, daring to meet Kiefer’s cold eyes for a split second when he turns toward me.

He raises a brow, shooting me a mocking grin.

“Do as they tell you, or there will be consequences.” He watches me for a second, then gestures to the chair beside Sixteen.

When I don’t move, he growls, “Don’t wait for me to pull out your chair for you. That’s not happening. Sit down.”

I swallow, clenching my jaw tightly shut, but do as he says.

Once I’m seated, he places a hand on the table, bending at the waist until his face is directly in mine.

My attention centers on the scar on his cheek again.

I exhale slowly, though the temptation to say something is rapidly clawing its way up my throat.

“Remember everything we discussed. I’d hate to have to punish you all over again.” A revolting, condescending smirk works its way onto his face.

Oh, I fucking remember, and the fact that he feels the need to remind me now almost makes me laugh.

This asshole. He’d love to see me hurt, would love to use me to prove a point again.

In fact, there’s no doubt in my mind that he’d make sure to be the one teaching me a lesson if there’s ever a next time—and he’d be nothing shy of brutal about it.

“I’m glad we understand each other, Twenty-three.”

My empty stomach turns unhappily. Being assigned a number is beyond degrading, but I need to mentally process the harsh truth I’ve been avoiding.

I’m no longer a person. To them, I’m nothing more than a number. I’m just Twenty-three.

The girl formerly known as Delilah fought so fucking hard to leave her shit life behind but it’s all been for nothing. She’s trapped here, never to be seen again. She’ll be lost until she can get the fuck out of this place.

Anxiety over the situation rises until I can hardly breathe for all the questions rushing at me. One after another, they pile up in my head until I’m ready to burst without a way to get the answers. Uncertainty makes my head dizzy and my chest tight.

If all these women have numbers, how do they decide who gets which? Is it random? Or am I simply the last in a series of twenty-three women? So far, I’ve encountered Eight, Sixteen, and one other. My eyes flick to her and zero in on her arm.

Sure e-fucking-nough, as she reaches over to coax one of the little boys to eat his food, the sleeve of her gown rides up and exposes the tattoo on the inside of her forearm to my view.

There’s no reading the number at this distance, but a sick feeling washes over me. If there have been twenty-three of us, where are the rest?

I shudder involuntarily at the idea that I’m one of so many.

Did the other women escape? If so, how? Because after what Kiefer did to me, playing with my emotions like I was his toy—I sincerely doubt that these men would ever willingly let one of their women go.

Possessive, abusive fucks is what they are.

While I’ve been off in my head, Kiefer has shifted his attention toward the woman who is currently getting the three small boys situated.

Nervous energy surges through me as I cautiously watch the interplay among these people and make a promise to myself that I will learn as much as I can so that if I’m ever able, I will get myself the fuck outta here.

“Good job, Jett. That’s my boy.” Surprise registers as Kiefer reaches out, scrubbing a hand through the boy’s hair with his gaze pinned on his mini replica.

I study them carefully, noting that the child also looks like Malakai.

Brothers? Half brothers? My gaze flicks to the woman, who might be around twenty-five or so.

I can’t help but wonder if she’s the mother of one or more of these children.

As the mean bastard strolls away, my head fills to overflowing with even more questions, but there is no one I can ask for answers. The woman gives the children a quiet smile, then gestures that they should finish up.

As she stands, our eyes briefly connect. I’m struck by how pretty hers are. But then, her expression morphs, her lips turning downward and her brow pinching before giving a sharp jerk of her head and looking away.

I let out a ragged sigh. No help to be had from that corner, that’s for fucking sure. My gaze shifts to Sixteen, and I simply watch her nimble fingers work the needle as she fixes holes in socks.

A few minutes later, the younger children are still dawdling over their food when a few older kids enter the room, serve themselves a bowl of something from a big pot, and line up on a bench on the far side of the table.

Once they’re all seated, but before anyone picks up a spoon, they swiftly mumble, “For the nourishment of our bodies.”

I blink, not sure what to make of this ritual.

It’s not too different from giving thanks before consuming food, but it still feels …

off. Or maybe it’s simply that everything about this place is fucking weird.

In particular, I can’t stop puzzling over the fact that every single child in this place is male.

There’s not a female in sight that is under the age of …

well, nineteen. Me. I covertly study the boys from under my lashes and find it mildly disconcerting that they’re watching me like I’ve been put here for their amusement.

A shuffling sound from the direction of a long hallway across the room catches my attention, but no one else seems bothered enough to look.

It’s yet another woman approaching … and she’s moving awfully slowly.

Her dark hair is braided, and because her dress is loose, kinda like a sack, it’s not until she turns to the side that I realize why she’s walking funny.

My eyes bug out. She’s pregnant, her complexion bordering on green. She looks miserable.

As I digest this information, all sorts of thoughts begin to whip around in my head. Is that woman married to one of these men—or with one willingly at the very least? How does this bizarre society work? They’ve clearly built it up over the course of many years. Does anyone even know they’re here?

I’ve never been more thankful that my mother forced me to get an IUD, no matter that her reasoning was ridiculous and flawed.

Thoughts of what goes on in this place with these women, not to mention what previous ones might have gone through before they got away is just one more reason I’ll lie awake at night.

After a while, the pregnant one and the other who was helping the little ones earlier take the children to a single room. I assume it’s bedtime, and though I can’t see much from where I am, from the sound of it, there must be bunks for all of them.

Once they’re settled, the women serve themselves from a pot on the stovetop, so I follow suit.

I’ve never felt more alone in a group of people.

There’s none of the familiar camaraderie I would expect from women who live in close quarters.

They don’t really even give each other any attention at all.

But maybe that has more to do with the rules set forth by the Collective—whoever the fuck they are.

I finish serving myself and find a place at the table. I’m inches from listening to the rumbling of my stomach and picking up my spoon when all at once, they quietly murmur, “For the nourishment of our bodies.”

And then … they freeze in place, staring at me like I’ve committed a horrible sin.

Beside me, Sixteen slaps her hand on the table, then peers at me, giving me an urgent look.

I stare right back, then drag in a ragged breath. Here we fucking go. All four women wear pinched expressions until I finally parrot what they’ve said. “For the nourishment of our bodies.”

The second I do, they dig in, eating as quickly as they possibly can. I’m no stranger to this sort of mentality. In fact, when I stayed at the home, it was eat fast or risk having your food taken away. I force one spoonful of a hearty stew after another into my mouth.

I can’t quite place what meat it is that I’m eating. It doesn’t matter. The second it passes my lips, I hungrily devour everything in the bowl, letting it fill all the long-empty spaces in my stomach.

And just like that, dinner is over. I follow Eight’s lead and help with the dishes.

She washes while I dry and peek at her out of the corner of my eye.

She doesn’t make any mention of that day when she came to tell me to be quiet.

There’s no acknowledgment of me at all, except when we complete our task.

She crooks a finger and motions with her hand that I should come with her, and she takes me down a hallway lined with doors and opens the first one on the left.

When it swings inward, I gawk, completely surprised because there’s a bed. And holy shit … a pillow. Granted, it’s flat and has definitely seen better days, but it’s more than I was expecting.

Haltingly, I enter the room, then when I turn toward Eight, she raises a brow at me and points in a determined fashion at a book at the foot of the bed.

Frowning, I inwardly shrug, figuring I’ll check it out after she’s gone, but she jabs her pointer finger at it again, widening her eyes.

She definitely wants me to read the leather-bound tome sooner rather than later.

Jutting her chin at it—for good measure, I guess—she turns on her heel.

“Wait!” I whisper-shout. Maybe she’ll answer a question. I should at least try. “Can you tell me—”

But before I can even finish asking where the hell we are, she vigorously shakes her head. A second later, she puts her tongueless chasm on full display for me, once again.

Caught off guard, I suck in a startled breath and stumble backward, then watch with wild eyes as she slams the door, shutting me inside the dark room by myself.