Page 3 of Revenant (Spirit Realm #2)

RUE

M y session with Dr. Hershamn was very illuminating. I’ve been treating my stay at the asylum as a reprieve from my father, a place to hide from the world.

That has clearly been a huge mistake.

The doctor implied that if I worked with him, he would be able to keep me safe. But it leaves me to wonder…who will keep me safe from him?

And work with him on what?

Though he didn’t outright imply he knew about my abilities, it was pretty damn obvious he suspected something. I didn’t confirm or deny anything, which seemed to please him. I’m too cautious to outright piss off a man who has power over my future. What’s even more ominous is that he seems even more excited that I recognize the status quo from the start.

Apparently, Dr. Hershamn likes to play the carrot or the stick.

I have been approved to move into new living quarters and granted more freedom than being locked away in a padded cell for twenty-three hours a day. While I should be thrilled, I’m not stupid. Being allowed out of my room isn’t freedom, and I refuse to be grateful for basic human decency.

As I am led to a different wing of the hospital, I glance around me with new eyes. This section of the building has been renovated and updated with the latest security, not like a hospital or prison, but more like a vault. I’m suddenly more suspicious of the legitimacy of the hospital and the doctors. One thing is for certain—I can no longer delay working on an escape plan.

For the last few months, I have been throwing myself the biggest pity party on the planet. While mourning the loss of my freedom, I used the time to train with the spirits and enjoy the reprieve from my father.

And, if I’m being truthful, moping about the guys.

I wasn’t anything more than a distraction to them, one of their many flings.

It’s a tough pill to swallow.

We were barely even friends, not even knowing each other for a week, but the loss of them feels worse than any physical wound I’ve suffered over the years. I wasn’t sure how to deal with the hole they left in my life, especially the way we left things.

My mind shies away from what is most likely the truth—that they were relieved to see the last of me. That’s the way most people feel when they meet me. I don’t know why I was expecting things to be different with them.

Fucking hope.

I thought I banished that stupid emotion, but it keeps returning like a damn cockroach. No matter how many times I try to crush it, a tiny kernel remains. Though foolhardy, I can’t rid myself of the insidious idea that the guys genuinely care for me.

I mentally snort and roll my eyes at my own stupidity.

If my time with my father has taught me anything, it’s that people will always want something in exchange for friendship. I don’t know why I thought he was lying…or that the guys were different.

As we head down the hallway, my steps slow when I see the waiting elevator. The sleek metal surface reminds me of a giant maw ready to swallow me whole. When the hand on my arm tightens painfully, I realize that I’m balking.

I glance at the man holding me, his blindingly white scrubs suddenly striking me as sinister. He’s either super anal about his uniform…or he’s not a nurse but a hired thug to keep people like me in line by any means necessary.

He’s older than me, maybe mid-thirties. His spine is straight, his hair short and meticulously groomed, his face harsh as he watches everything around him. From the width of his shoulders and the scars on his hands, I postulate he’s a soldier, but why would the hospital employ military personnel?

Unless I’m correct and the facility is more than what it seems.

As he hauls me toward the elevator, he slaps his hand on a digital screen mounted on the wall. A green light scans his palm, and not a second later, the door seamlessly opens. As much as I want to dig in my heels and fight him, I know it’s not a battle I can win.

Deciding I would rather be conscious and memorize the route to where I’m being led, I remain compliant and dutifully enter the elevator. It’s only when the doors close that a panel in the wall becomes visible. Instead of buttons, he presses his thumb to the screen, then the elevator moves without him even selecting a floor. In fact, there are no numbers at all, like the elevator is only programmed to stop at one location. The metal coffin is so smooth, I can’t even tell if we’re going up or down, and I purse my lips in annoyance.

The steel interior is so new and shiny that I can see our reflection. Never once does the guard look at me or break formation—the perfect robot. Because it wouldn’t do for an underling like him to notice something wrong and do something about it.

I nearly snort at my cynical thoughts, but I’m not wrong either.

My reflection startles me the most.

I expected to appear run-down and haggard—that’s how I feel most days. Instead, my hair is lush, the strands shiny, the curls even wilder. What’s strange is that though my hair is a couple of inches longer, the cotton candy color hasn’t faded in the least.

Even the roots remain a dark pink.

My pale skin has a golden sheen, glowing much like an aura. I tilt my head to the side, wondering if it’s the metal, but no, when I peer at the soldier, he appears normal.

That’s when I notice my teal eyes are brighter than usual, and I wonder if it’s a side effect of working with the spirits over the last couple of months. If this is what I look like to ghosts, no wonder they can see me from the great abyss of death.

I’m like a fucking glow stick.

Before I can examine myself further, the wall behind us slides open in an almost silent whoosh. I whirl, and my eyes widen when it looks like we were transported to a luxurious five-star hotel. The stark difference from the clinical hospital is so glaring that it’s jarring, as if they’re trying to convince me that I’m free and not being locked away in a new prison.

Once again, the soldier tightens his grip on my arms and drags me stumbling from the elevator. I want to glare up at the inconsiderate prick, but I know better than to get mouthy with people like him.

No, as we walk down the plush carpeting and fancy papered walls decorated with pricey artwork, I realize my situation is worse than I first anticipated. Someone put a lot of money into Dr. Hershamn’s work. No one invests this much money in a project without expecting something in return.

I glance back at the elevator, needing the reassurance of a nearby exit…and swallow hard when the doors blend in so well that I don’t see anything but a blank wall.

No sign of an elevator anywhere.

What the fuck?!

Just where in the hell am I?

Instead of providing answers, my handler leads me to a small bedroom. While the room is an improvement over my last accommodations—it actually has furniture in it this time—there is still something impersonal and clinical about the space.

Though they’re disguised, I don’t miss the three cameras hidden in the room. Spotting them has become second nature when entering a new area, something I do without thinking. The man doesn’t say anything. The instant I step foot into the dorm, the door slams shut behind me with a solid thud.

When I don’t hear the locks click, my unease only increases. Most would think an unlocked room would be a good thing, but my experience has taught me otherwise. A locked room keeps out the crazies. Not only does it announce when someone’s about to enter, but it also allows me time to become presentable.

Whatever Dr. Hershamn wants with me, he’s trying to win me over with small favors. And if I hadn’t been locked away for most of my life, it might have worked. Instead, my new accommodations feel even more like a prison.

In the asylum, I was one of many.

Here, I’m one of the “special ones.”

Most people think being special is a good thing, but it’s a double-edged sword. There is no more hiding in the background. I’ll be expected to perform. My survival will depend on living up to certain expectations, like a trained circus animal.

Don’t perform, and they won’t have any use for you.

I head straight for the windows on the opposite side of the room and rip back the curtains. The view only reinforces the impression of a prison cell. Because instead of outdoor scenery, the vista is of an underground courtyard. There are three different levels, each lined with windows similar to mine. There are two windows on each side, which means eight occupants per level. I’m on the top floor, the view offering me the perfect vantage of the area below.

People of all ages and types mill around the cell block. Some are laughing and talking, but a handful are just staring blankly at a wall, completely unmoving. Upon closer observation, some are in the pink of health, while others look like they should be in a hospital bed.

I try to understand the dynamics, but the system is beyond me.

There are even more cameras, the surveillance system capturing every angle. If that’s not enough, I spot at least five guards monitoring the room. Two of them are dressed as orderlies, two more are dressed as regular people, and one looks like a patient.

How can I tell?

There is an alertness to them that the others lack, something you only acquire by serving in the military. They exude a certain menace that says they won’t hesitate to end you. Sure, a few of the patients are alert as well, but they ooze the air of a trapped animal.

Do I think they are any less dangerous?

Fuck no!

They would kill without hesitation if it meant they could escape this place. Or even spill blood over something as simple as a candy bar.

While each group is dangerous, the soldiers have a slight edge because they work as a team. Though a few of the inmates might work together to escape, they would leave behind their team members without hesitation if the opportunity presented itself.

Our survival instincts are too finely honed after years of abuse. While they might even feel bad, it wouldn’t prevent them from betraying a friend.

Turning away, I survey the room closer.

The space is a good size, maybe fifteen by twenty feet. There are two doors, one that leads to a long gallery bathroom, the second one filled with clothing, all in my size.

That’s not creepy as fuck.

I open every drawer of the small bureau, finding it full of socks, underwear, and bras.

Again, all in my size.

There is nothing special about the clothing. The brands are generic, like they want us all to be considered equal. Although I hate being forced to conform to their silent demand, I’m used to it.

Besides, anything is preferable to the dingy, paper-thin scrubs I’m currently wearing.

At least the clothing here looks new and not worn by other patients who have puked or soiled themselves repeatedly over the years. Grabbing a set of clothing at random, I head toward the bathroom and take advantage of the shower—one that has walls and soap and hot water and not a dozen other girls watching.

It’s a rare luxury.

After twenty minutes of blistering hot water pounding my aching body, I almost feel human again. Not exactly clean—I don’t think anything will ever remove the stench of the asylum from my skin—but I’m more at home in my body.

I quickly dress. It’s only when I’m tucking in my shirt that I detect something hard in the pocket of my pants. Careful to keep my movements disguised, not wanting the cameras to catch me—because, yes, there is a camera in the bathroom—I pull out the item.

If it’s a tracker, I don’t want them to know that I discovered it yet.

Instead, I pull out a small metal ring.

A very familiar ring.

My brain takes a precious few seconds to process what I’m seeing, then my breath hitches in my chest and my legs nearly go out from under me. The ring isn’t just any ring, but one I created specifically for Jaceson and slipped on his finger in what feels like a lifetime ago.

I hastily shove the tiny piece of metal back in my jeans, the weight of it heavy in my pocket. I want nothing more than to take it out and study it closer, but I don’t dare. My heart feels too big for my chest, like it’s pressing on my lungs, and it’s a struggle to find enough air in the room.

I force myself to pick up the brush and run it through my hair, when all I want to do is march out of the room and demand answers. I don’t dare hope that one of the guys left it for me. It’s more likely that Jaceson returned it when I was taken, and Dr. Hershamn is trying to mess with my head.

That would be the logical answer.

Unfortunately, my daft heart insists that it’s the boys.

That they’ve finally come for me.

My eyes sting, and I bite my lip to keep from revealing my churning emotions. While part of me is thrilled at the prospect of seeing them again, another part is terrified. Sure, I desperately want them to break me out, but I don’t want their dumbasses in trouble either. Something tells me the security in this place is airtight. If caught, they won’t be turned over to the police. They’ll disappear from existence.

Anyway, what would a group of teenagers know about infiltrating what I suspect is a government facility?

No, it couldn’t be the boys, and a single tear slips down my cheek.

Unable to peer at myself in the mirror a second longer, I whirl away and march into the bedroom. With nothing to do, it doesn’t take long before I’m ready to climb the walls. Inhaling deeply, I gather up my courage, then stalk toward the door.

The only way I’m going to escape this place is if I gather information, which means I need to leave the room.

The first order of business is to make friends and pray that I don’t get shanked in the process.