Page 42 of Love to Defy You (The Dark Love #2)

Alek

Time is suspended in the pitch-black darkness of my cell.

There’s no difference between day and night to mark the passage of time, and the hours blur together in an endless black hole.

I’m losing my grip on reality, and a part of me wonders if I’ve died and gone to hell.

Perhaps my skull will join the others at the Altar of the Dead, fated to spend eternity surveying the other poor souls the Order brings through here.

The only way I can tell the difference between sleep and consciousness is when I meet Willow in my dreams. It’s the only time I can see a thing, except when the door opens to deliver food.

I don’t know if they’re bringing me two or three meals a day because there’s no way to mark the passage of time, but in either case, I’ve had fourteen meals total. That’s a lot of food for a two-night stay.

The same guy delivers my meal every time—Paul, I believe his name is.

Enzo introduced him as the Vice President at the Feast of Apollo, but Paul was too busy getting sucked off by a prostitute, so I haven’t spoken much to him.

He doesn’t stay long when he drops off my meals, but these brief exposures to light and sound are what’s keeping me from going blind—or completely off the deep end into psychosis.

The skin on my right forearm is hot to the touch and raised around the area of the tattoo.

I can’t examine it in the dark, but I wouldn’t be surprised if it were infected given the filthy conditions.

The only bath I’ve had down here was the bucket of ice water dumped on my head during the Trial of Hubris, and who knows how much time has passed since?

But the pain is getting worse, and I already tried using my other hand to masturbate. It just isn’t as effective without the pain in my dominant arm. Without any other way to entertain myself, I’m going mad.

Eat slop. Jerk off. Sleep. Over and over and over.

The door to my cell opens, and I sit up on the bench, naked and shivering. The light from the torches streams in, and I have to shield my eyes from the onslaught.

Paul’s silhouette appears in the doorway. He doesn’t say a word as he sets the bowl of inedible paste on the floor, along with a wooden cup filled with water.

“Wait.” My voice is hoarse from lack of use. “Where’s Mikhail? I need to talk to him.”

“I already told you no.” Paul turns around and retreats into the corridor.

“What about Enzo?” I call after him. “Are you his errand boy? Is that why you’re the one stuck babysitting me?”

Paul slams the door shut, plunging me back into hell.

“Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow,

Creeps in this petty pace from day to day,

To the last syllable of recorded time;

And all our yesterdays have lighted fools

The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!

Life’s but a walking shadow, a poor player,

That struts and frets his hour upon the stage,

And then is heard no more. It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

Signifying nothing.”

I recite Shakespeare and poetry from memory while staring into the darkness. This particular performance of Macbeth is quite good, if I do say so myself, although the true tragedy is the lack of an audience.

The door opens.

“Ah, ‘Enter a Messenger,’” I say, waving my hand in the air with a dramatic flourish. “’Thou com’st to use thy tongue: thy story quickly.’”

Paul pauses in the doorway with a handkerchief clasped over his mouth. “The fuck are you going on about, Kurochkin?” His voice is muffled behind the cloth, which must be to ward off my stench.

I sit up. “ Nein, nein, nein, your line is, ‘Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw—’”

“Whatever. I come bearing gifts.” Paul drops my weekend bag onto the floor. “You’re free to go.”

I blink against the light assaulting my eyes. “What?”

He gestures impatiently through the door. “If you want me to show you the way out of the tunnels, you better hurry up. I’m not waiting.” Paul exits the cell, leaving the door wide open.

I remain seated on the bench, staring at the familiar bag on the floor.

I’m free to go? Just like that, without any pomp and circumstance or ritual sacrifice?

My bones protest when I stand up, and every muscle in my body aches from sleeping on cold, hard stone. I hobble over to my bag and pull out the first pair of pants and T-shirt I find, which caress my chafed skin like fine Egyptian cotton.

“Get a move on, Kurochkin.” Paul’s muffled voice echoes down the corridor.

I slip on my shoes, and when I lift my bag off the floor, it’s much heavier than I remember in my weak grip.

It’s a struggle to sling it over my shoulder, but I manage, and I turn toward the door.

The dim, flickering torchlight is as bright and blinding as the sun, and I raise my arm to shield my eyes from the onslaught.

I inch my way forward toward the exit, but I keep my arm up and stare at the floor to find my way.

But I’m spurred on by the need to see Willow, to feel her in my arms so she can pull me back to reality. I’m only hanging on by a loose thread.

When I emerge, I’m hit with the foulest stench I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing.

There was a faint odor in my cell, which worsened and grew stronger as my time in here progressed, but now that I’m in the hall, I understand Paul’s need for a handkerchief.

Keeping my eyes shielded, I use my other hand to pull up my shirt over my nose, but it doesn’t help much.

The stench is difficult to describe other than it’s bitter while also sickly sweet. It’s a smell I’ve never encountered, and yet my fight-or-flight instinct knows exactly what it is.

There is a rotting corpse somewhere close.

“What the fuck?” I ask between gags. “Is that Rasmussen’s body?”

“No.” Without elaborating, Paul grabs the torch off the wall and walks down the row of cells toward the tunnels. I’ve been confined to the last cell in the row, but as we make our way forward, every single door I pass is open, revealing empty cell after empty cell.

I slow my pace to check each room. “Where is everyone?”

“Not here.” Paul doesn’t look at me over his shoulder. He forges ahead, carrying the torch to light the way while keeping his handkerchief pressed to his face.

I doubt I’ll get much else out of him. All I had was spare time to come up with a dozen questions while trapped in my cell, but it seems futile to expect answers from Paul.

It’s a struggle to keep up with his pace on my stiff legs. However, when I reach the archway that leads into the tunnel, I stop short. The cell at the end of the row is still closed, unlike the others, and the stench is so strong that I’m on the verge of vomiting.

I pinch my nose through my shirt, but when I breathe through my mouth, I taste death. “Who’s in there?”

“Don’t bother.” Paul’s tone is brimming with disgust.

I gag again. “Why haven’t you dealt with this?”

“Disposing of the bodies is not my job.” Paul scoffs. “Everyone’s on spring holiday while I’ve been stuck here babysitting you. They can deal with it when they get back. I’ve done more than enough.” He pauses to gag. “Come on.”

But dread churns in my gut, and I’m unexplainably drawn to the closed door. I wrap my fingers around the cold iron handle and pause. My curiosity is at war with my gut, along with the dread warning me that I don’t want to see what’s behind this door.

In the end, curiosity wins out. I have to know.

I yank the door open, and then I freeze. A belt is tied to an iron grate in the ceiling, which covers a small ventilation opening.

And hanging from the ceiling, with the belt looped around his neck, is Henri Rooman.

I lurch forward to unbuckle the belt as quickly as I can, but it’s far, far too late. His naked body is bloated from decomposition, and his skin is discolored with shades of green and reddish-brown. Dark, putrid fluid leaks from every orifice on his body.

I’ll never be able to scrub this grotesque image from my brain for as long as I live.

I manage to free him, and his cold, limp body falls onto my shoulder. He’s long past rigor mortis and melts almost like liquid wax to the floor.

“Jesus, Kurochkin, what the fuck are you doing?” Paul’s voice is deafening as it echoes around the silent cell.

I drag Henri by the arms to the bench, where I lay him down on his back. His glasses are off, giving me a clear view of his closed eyes, which will never open again. My gaze settles on the lyre tattoo on his forearm.

Henri and I were never close, but a part of me felt somewhat responsible for his well-being. I took pity on him because deep down, I knew he wouldn’t make it to the end of the trials.

But I never imagined he would be the architect of his own demise, and actually, I rather admire him for it. Henri Rooman went out on his own terms before the Order could slit his throat—even if it was the Order who inflicted the trauma that drove him to it.

Leaving him hanging and naked doesn’t sit well with me. He deserves more dignity than that.

I yank my shirt off over my head and drape it across his waist, shielding his manhood from view. There isn’t much else I can do, but it’s better than doing nothing at all.

As Shakespeare so eloquently put it, “Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once.”

Henri Rooman was the latter.

I place my hand on his shoulder and whisper, “Godspeed.”

When Paul and I emerge from the cellar door, night has fallen, but the lampposts lining the sidewalks of the Weltner quadrangle blind me, and I shield my eyes with my hand.

I suck in the fresh air. It will be a miracle if there isn’t mold growing in my lungs after being stuck in that cold, damp cell.

“See you, Kurochkin.” Paul gives me a lazy wave before walking off in the opposite direction.