Page 2 of Revenant (Spirit Realm #2)

RUE

U sing a plastic spork, I focus on consuming the food and not throwing up. Because, yeah, while it might look like shit, it tastes even worse. Ugh. I’m unsure if they force the sporks on us to frustrate us or if they enjoy tormenting us more.

I suspect both.

Honestly, I don’t mind.

Though it might be mind-numbingly boring to scoop up a minuscule amount of food at a time, it’s better than staring at blank walls. Without something to occupy my mind, I’m slowly being driven fucking insane. Since cameras cover nearly every inch of this new hospital, I’ve kept my training and communication with the spirits to a minimum.

While they’re not happy, they’re not tormenting me.

Yet.

I think they’re afraid of scaring me off.

The spirits are stuck at the sanatorium, most of them tied to the grounds. With me here, I can give them a voice. Give them peace. Or vengeance.

I totally vote for retribution.

A bell rings, and I dutifully stand with my tray and drop it off in the plastic bin on the counter. Everyone keeps their distance from me like they’re afraid I might curse them or something.

If only that was one of my abilities.

My father would’ve been my first victim.

If I could send the ghosts after him, I would do it in a heartbeat. Unfortunately, my reach is only so far. Even if the ghosts could leave the grounds, they would fade from existence when they ran out of juice, eventually reappearing back at the hospital in a few days.

My plastic tray clatters in the bin when I drop it off, and I reluctantly join the line near the nurse’s station.

Drug time.

I grimace and scratch my scalp. My feet twitch with the need to shove to the head of the line to claim my next fix…or maybe run screaming from the room. I’m not sure which. I fought the nurses at the first hospital, which only gained me bruises and a shot full of sedatives strong enough to knock out a horse for my trouble, not to mention days of being a walking zombie.

Though the drugs are an escape from this hellish existence, the oblivion never lasts. Waking up over and over to this fresh hell is worse each time. My skin crawls at the thought of being so vulnerable again.

To top it off, being drugged effectively steals my ability to speak, leaving me unable to communicate with the ghosts. That doesn’t mean they leave me alone. Unable to ward myself, I shine like a beacon in the dark for them, and they swarm the hospital. The memory of waking up in the asylum for the first time still has me breaking out into a cold sweat.

As I shuffle along the line, I absently scratch at my arm, my skin irritated with all the various drugs they’ve been pumping into me. Maybe I should try harder to escape, but why? Though I’m locked away in my room for twenty-plus hours a day, I’m allowed more freedom here than when I was growing up. I’m fed regularly. The beatings are mild in comparison to my father’s wrath. And even better, my father has limited access to me.

Sure, there are drawbacks, such as no computers, no school, no contact with the outside world, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. Neither people nor the outside world have been particularly kind to me. Besides the few short weeks I spent with my nan, I’m doing better here than when I was growing up under my father’s thumb.

I purposely don’t think about the guys, their absence like a gaping black hole in my soul as it tries to suck away my will to live. No, it’s better this way. Any connection with them was doomed from the start. I should’ve known better than to allow myself to become attached.

That doesn’t mean I don’t miss the assholes.

Their absence burrows deeper each day, leaving a cavernous ache in my chest that never seems to disappear, like I’m unable to fill my lungs with enough air.

“Next!” the nurse behind the counter barks, then visibly flinches when I step forward. Though we’re separated by a thick plastic barrier full of hundreds of scratches from years of abuse, she eyes me warily as she shoves a tiny paper condiment cup through the small slot.

I grab the pills, dump them into my palm, and my eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

Two aspirins.

No drugs.

I’m immediately suspicious and hesitate only briefly before tossing them back. I snatch up the small daisy cup of water from the tray next to the counter, swallow the contents in one gulp, then open my mouth for her to view.

She barely glances at me before looking over my shoulder and shrilly barks, “Next!”

They’ve been weaning me off the drugs for days now, and I’m not sure why.

It can’t mean anything good.

Then I remember Dallas telling me about my first appointment with the infamous doctor in charge, and a chill, much like death’s touch, slithers down my spine. I’ve been in enough hospitals now that I know it’s never a good thing when doctors take an interest. Feeling like I’m being led to the gallows, I drag my feet as I head toward the far door leading into the medical wing of the hospital. As I approach, the door releases an annoying prison screech as the locks disengage. I automatically reach for it and pull it open.

Then I pause when I’m greeted by an empty hallway.

Fuck.

Not good.

Patients aren’t allowed anywhere without supervision. I can only imagine my punishment if I’m caught. A sterile white hallway greets me, the music over the speakers almost soothing, if it wasn’t so annoying. The paintings on the walls are nailed down. The windows have bars over them and chicken wire embedded into the glass. There are three office doors on each side of the hallway before the passageway splits off in opposite directions.

It does not give off a welcoming vibe.

Trap!

I glance up at the camera in the corner. Someone must have unlocked the door for me, but the steady blinking red light offers no further instructions. Taking a deep breath, I step into the hallway. The door seals shut behind me with a heavy clank. I startle, jumping a few inches off the ground, then shiver at the ominous sound. It feels like an omen, and I can’t dismiss the fear that I will never be leaving again.

Just as I step forward, a harried doctor turns the corner. His thin, light brown hair is meticulously groomed, the strands greasy where they sweep over his head. His skin is pale and blotchy, like he’s spent too much time out in the wind. He’s tall and painfully thin, his clothes hanging slack on his narrow frame. His jacket is open and flapping behind him. Though his khakis and shirt are nice, they are slightly askew, like he’s been wrestling with them.

He’s studying a chart and doesn’t see me until he nearly runs me over.

He startles, then peers at me through tiny round glasses and blinks owlishly. “Oh, um…” He clears his throat, fiddling with his glasses before he looks down at his chart. “Are you Tallulah. Rue. Farthington. Killaghan?”

He says each name hesitantly, his brows scrunched in concentration. He peers up at me over his glasses as he asks the question. He appears to be in his early fifties, but he in no way exudes a grandfatherly nature, not unless he’s the kind that makes a child pick his own switch so he can beat them with it.

Though he appears innocuous, his washed-out green eyes are a little too sharp, and I’m instantly on guard. “Yes.”

He smiles, making him appear even younger. I would say much too young to be in charge of a hospital, if not for the ruthless glint in his eyes. No, he’s in charge for a reason. The way his eyes linger on me, studying my every nuance, has my skin crawling with the need to run. It takes everything in me not to flinch and keep my expression blank.

After years of abuse, I can sense danger like a sixth sense.

I’ve played the game of patient and doctor many times over the years. I’ve gotten especially good at it these past few months. If I don’t give the answers he wants, then the good doctor’s congeniality will fade and reveal the monster beneath. The thought of him discovering my secret has me breaking out in a cold sweat, and my chest tightens with dread.

That can never happen.

As I go over everything that has happened since I was admitted to the hospital and what the other doctors from the last three hospitals must have written in my file, the events of the past few nights become unsettlingly clearer.

It was a test.

He must already suspect something.

That’s why he’s been tapering off my drugs.

Not only so he can question me, but because it wouldn’t do to have my abilities hampered.

It’s been nearly three weeks since I saw my father, and I now reckon that’s by design. I don’t have proof, but I suspect the good old doctor orchestrated the beating last night to make me feel vulnerable.

All the easier for him to take advantage of me.

Fucking great.

“Please…” Dr. Hershamn motions toward the office on the left. He scans his badge, then opens the door with an inviting smile that very much reminds me of a shark. “Won’t you join me?”

Mind churning with dread, I keep my eyes wide and innocent, nibbling on my lip like a vapid teenager. “Sure, whatever you say, doc.”

The office is…not what I was expecting.

Instead of being run-down and shabby, like the rest of the hospital, the area is a quintessential psychiatric office. Eggshell white walls. Comfy chairs. Luxurious leather couch. Plush beige carpeting. Real artwork on the walls that must have cost a small fortune. The desk lurks in the back of the room, covered in shadows and neat as a pin, appearing as unassuming as possible.

I don’t buy it for a second.

“Please, take a seat.” He absently waves his hand to the comfy sitting area while he heads toward his desk like he’s not worried about being attacked. I don’t doubt for a second he’s aware of my every breath.

Playing the part of a sulky teen, I march toward the couch and flop down onto the surface with a heavy sigh, throwing my arm over my head and drumming the fingers of my other hand against my stomach as I stare up at the ceiling. My careless sprawl is an act. I purposefully keep one leg on the floor in case I need to move fast.

It doesn’t take more than a minute for Hershamn to stride across the room and claim the seat opposite me. He crosses his legs, sets a blank notebook across his knee, then fiddles with a pen. “Miss…”

I barely hold back a grimace as he waits for me to supply him with my name. While I don’t want to talk to him, much less be in the same room as him, I must play my part.

Besides, it’s not like all that information isn’t already in the file.

“Rue is fine,” I say in a huff, rolling my eyes.

“Rue. Very good,” he murmurs distractedly, nodding his head. “How is your stay in our facilities so far?”

It takes all my control for my eyebrows not to shoot up in surprise, the mixture of smug bastard and proud asshole heavy in his tone. I doubt it’s intentional, it’s like he can’t help himself.

Keeping my tone light, I crinkle my nose like an obnoxious teen. “Better than the last three, but still a cage.”

“Hmmm…” I’m not sure if he’s pleased or annoyed. “Maybe, if this session goes well, we can work on granting you more freedom.”

My heart leaps, but I don’t mistake his offer for anything but a way to ensnare me in whatever game he’s playing. I turn my head toward him, my eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Daddy dearest won’t take kindly if you show me any favors.”

The corner of his lips curl into a smug smile, like I fell perfectly into his trap. He leans back into his chair, a touch of humor lingering around him…almost overshadowing the gleam of avarice sharpening his green eyes. “But your father is not here, is he?”

It almost sounds like an offer of protection.

If I were a normal teen, I would probably leap at the chance to escape my father. But if my sperm donor taught me anything, it was to never trust anyone.

Especially doctors.

I push up from the couch, not once looking away from the doctor. To discover his goal, I need to lure him in carefully. If he even suspects I’m playing him, my stay at his hospital will take a drastic turn.

With a careful concoction of meds, my mental well-being will slowly crumble. I’ll become an unstable psychopath with violent tendencies, very much like my mother. I’ll become a sad statistic—someone lost in the system with no hope of rehabilitation.

After some time, my death will be reported. Greatly exaggerated, of course. I’ll be moved to different accommodations—a dungeon-like basement from which I will never emerge until I’ve been studied and eventually dissected.

How do I know?

A single ghost passes through the wall behind the good doctor, a young girl no more than fifteen. She is dressed in a nightgown so threadbare that it’s nothing more than rags. Her body is so emaciated, she couldn’t be more than seventy pounds soaking wet, nothing more than skin and bones, and I would be very surprised if she could even hold herself up when she was alive.

Her skin is gray from being locked away from the sun, discolored like mold had been growing on her in a few spots. Her black hair is thin and limp, hanging off her scalp in clumps, the strands dripping with water that pools around her feet.

The slight golden glow around her disturbs me the most.

She’s special like me.

Gifted.

Her blue eyes are a milky white, purposefully blinded so she would be vulnerable, forced to see nothing but her visions. The white orbs are haunted by memories that will no doubt become my future.

Her mouth is stitched shut with thick sutures. A Y-incision is brutally carved across her chest and slashed down her torso, the edges of her skin pulled together cruelly with black sutures that stand out starkly against her delicate skin. The edges of her flesh are tinged an angry red, which means her dissection happened while she was still alive.

Nearly every inch of her body is marred with scars. Two-inch thin lines cover her from head to toe, done with such precision, it could only be achieved with a scalpel and the skill of a medical professional. No two lines touch or intersect. Either her abilities are triggered by stress or pain…or the sadistic bastard did it just for the fun of terrorizing her.

Dr. Hershamn has obviously been hunting for people like me.

For how long or why, I have no idea.

One thing is abundantly clear—he has no intention of ever letting me go.

Fuck if I didn’t jump out of the pan, skip the fire completely, and land in my own personal hell.