Page 5 of Sanctuary (the Affliction Trilogy #2)

Five

M y head pounds like all my thoughts have manifested into hundreds of little soldiers marching back and forth. Without opening my eyes, I raise my hand to where it hurts the most and hiss as my fingertips brush the gigantic, tender bump on the back of my head. The pain replaces the fog in my mind, bringing forth images and sounds—the stream next to the cabin we used as shelter for the night, the unfamiliar voices of men, and sharp pain before my world fell into complete darkness.

I force my eyes open, struggling to see through my blurred vision. My stomach turns as I glance across the room at the neatly-made bed. Sunlight pours in through a single window, shining on two mismatched dressers which stand on either side of a freestanding closet. Everything from the gray bedding to the wooden chairs in the corners are unremarkable. And it’s all unfamiliar.

Sitting up, I notice the two pills and glass of water resting on the nightstand. I forgo the medication, unsure of what it is, and gulp down the water before easing to my feet. I assess the plain white shift that brushes my calves, cringing at the thought of someone undressing me while I was knocked out. A shiver of fear wracks through me. Who knows what happened to me while I was unconscious.

The uneasy feeling building inside of me sets me into motion. I rifle through the room, searching for anything that looks to be mine. When I turn up empty-handed, I open the closet and remove a long wool coat from inside. It hits mid-thigh, giving me a semblance of modesty despite the practically see-through material of the shift. I shove my feet into a pair of worn black flats and hurry to the door. The weathered wood creaks as I open it, sounding like a gong echoing through the hallway. I hold my breath and listen for anything that hints to me not being alone, but no one comes. Stepping out into the dim, dank corridor, I briskly tiptoe across the concrete floor. The passage is strange, lined in smooth river rocks that cover the walls and low, arched ceiling. I can’t help but feel like I’m escaping the dungeon of a castle.

I avoid opening any of the half-dozen doors lining the corridor. They all look just like the one I stepped out of, leading me to believe they are bedrooms. With my all my senses on high alert, I continue down the hallway until I reach the end. I pause and look both ways down the intersecting corridor. One end leads to more doors. The other way has a hint of light along with voices. I gnaw on the inside of my lip as I head toward the light.

A stone archway opens into an ancient kitchen. Cast-iron pots hang over a crackling fire in a hearth and chopped vegetables pile the top of woodblock countertops. The women scattered throughout the room stop in their tracks and all eyes fall on me. I shift under the weight of their stares as I observe their matching modest dresses with aprons in various shades of brown. They look like they’ve stepped out of a history book.

“I see someone has finally graced us with her presence,” says a woman standing beside the wood-burning stove. Unlike everyone else, she wears a dark blue dress and floral apron that isn’t stained by grease and food.

My mouth runs with the first response that goes through my head. “I didn’t know I had an invitation to join. I must have missed that part when I was hit over the head and rendered unconscious.”

The woman smooths back her blonde hair like she is making sure every strand is still secure in her chignon. Her thin red lips from a firm line and her heart-shaped face remain expressionless as she comes closer. “Sarcasm will not be tolerated. Now, come along. We must get you presentable.”

“Unfortunately, sarcasm is my go-to response. So, I’ll just take my clothes, and you can point me in the direction of my cousin and friends. And we will be on our way.”

The women around us gasp at my comeback, placing their hands to their chests or mouths.

“Come!” the woman demands, walking past me. Her tone has me jolting like I’ve been hit by an electric current. It sparks my body into motion, and I fall in line behind her.

We march down the hallway and return to the room I came from. She holds the door open for me before following me inside. I stand stunned as she moves to the wardrobe and pulls out a dress and apron like the others in the kitchen. “I fear we got off to a rocky start. My name is Mrs. Lockhart. I reckon it wasn’t easy waking up after Brandon clunked you over the head the way he did. I made sure he was assigned to mucking the stables for a month for that.”

When I don’t answer, she looks over her shoulder and slowly stands straight with a pair of shoes in her hand. I don’t know what to say. This clothing is like something from the past. Not the world before the Affliction, but the one before the four continents formed an alliance. The one where kings and queens ruled, a time when every land was responsible for itself, and hunger and poverty were acceptable. Our world had come so far and was so close to solving some of its greatest problems. Yet, it wasn’t unheard of for people to want to live in the past. Communities had segregated themselves from the rest of society and lived in the ways of the old world. It never crossed my mind that people would still be living that way.

“Where am I?” I ask.

She places the clothes on the bed and says, “The Lodge.”

“And where is the Lodge?”

“The kingdom of Morhaven.”

Closing my eyes, I circle my fingers over my aching temples. I have no clue where I am. Morhaven is a fictional kingdom from the fantasy books that Amara read to me as a child. It had a cult-like following, especially when it was turned into a movie. Clearly, people are still obsessed with it.

“Where are my friends?” I ask, trying a different tactic.

Several wrinkles form on her forehead when she frowns. “I’m not aware of anyone else being brought to the castle with you. You were the only one they assigned to me.”

Blowing out a puff of air, I run my hand over my face. “I’m guessing you aren’t going to let me leave.”

Something akin to sorrow flashes in Mrs. Lockhart’s eyes before she sternly says, “No. You’re safe here. The Afflicted—or the Hunted as we call them—don’t make it past our walls. Nothing makes it in, and nobody gets out unless it is through the one heavily-guarded gate. Although your work here will be grueling at times, you won’t have to fear the Hunted anymore.”

The need to run has my muscles coiling and sweat beading at my nape. This place may not have reason to fear Zs, but I have reason to fear these people. Nothing good can come from what they are forcing me to do. But what choice do I have? I'm unarmed, don't know where I am, and I'm wearing a see-through nightgown. I'm in no position to make a break for it. For now, I have to play along and gather as much information as I can, so I can form a plan to get out of here.

I pick up the dress from the bed and turn to Mrs. Lockhart. “Do you mind if I have some privacy while I get dressed?”

“Not at all. I’ll meet you out in the hallway and escort you to the throne room. King Thomas likes to have personal say over new members of the staff.” She doesn’t give me a chance to ask any more questions. Turning on her heels, she leaves the room, closing the door behind her.

I take my time getting dressed, trying to gather my thoughts before I’m thrown into another situation I can’t navigate. I’ve been awake for less than an hour and I already know this place goes against everything I believe in. Uniforms and forced duties, and a man who needs to approve of the people working for him instead of trusting the word of others. If I thought I had a chance of making it, I’d jump out of a window and hope for the best. But it wouldn’t work in my favor. Places that dictate the lives of others require brute force to keep everyone in line.

After slipping on the dated clothes, I join Mrs. Lockhart outside of the room. We make our way to the kitchen again and continue through into the rest of the house. The Lodge lives up to its name. Smooth river rocks line the interior walls and beams of logs cross the ceiling. We pass a rustic grand staircase with an elaborate iron railing and enter a long corridor. Colorful tapestries are woven into family crests and oil paintings depicting men with rifles and dead animals decorate the walls. Shiny silver suits of arms mounted on wooden blocks line the way to a massive set of double doors. Two men with bronze breastplates stand guard on either side. They nod at Mrs. Lockhart and open the doors for us.

The throne room is nothing like I pictured. Mounted on the walls are the heads of various animals, and a monstrosity of a chandelier made of antlers hangs above. Placed throughout the room are more guards armed with shotguns, and a group of men sits in a loft off to the side. Despite their whispers and stares, it’s the sight upon the dais that sends a chill down my spine.

A man and woman are seated in two large, gilded chairs. The crowns they wear are adorned with blue jewels that complement their matching attire. She pays little attention to me, but the man—the king—his focused gaze burns straight through me.

Mrs. Lockhart walks to the center of the room and falls into a low curtsy over the round emblem fashioned from marble. She keeps her head down as she whispers to me, “You must bow before the king.”

The firm hand of the guard behind me grips my shoulder and pushes me to the ground before I have a chance to do it on my own. I bow my head only to hide my annoyance and hold my posture, following the lead of the woman beside me.

“You may rise, Mrs. Lockhart” the king says. “I see you have added a new member to your staff.”

She gets to her feet and nods at me when I glance up at her. “I do, Your Majesty. I wish to train her to serve during meals if it suits you.”

The king’s piercing blue eyes rake over me. He exudes authority, but I don’t balk under the weight of his scrutiny. I match his energy, examining his bulky frame and the gray and brown beard that cover his face. My first impression is that this is a man who landed his throne through pure fear and uncompassionate ruling. It’s not surprising, considering what I’ve seen of his kingdom so far.

“Come forward, young lady,” he demands, his voice booming throughout the room.

I do as he commands, stopping only when the tips of my toes hit the lowest step of the dais.

“What is your name?” he asks.

“Quinn,” I say, not bothering to address him with the same respect that Mrs. Lockhart showed.

“And where are you from?”

I don’t owe this man details about my life, so I answer with the most generic response. “Stern.”

Thomas moves forward on his throne, making it impossible for me to look away. “Do not test me, girl. Consider this your final warning. If you so much as bat an eyelash wrong, I will not hesitate to punish you. Forget what you are used to outside of these walls. You are now in Morhaven and under my rule. Remember my words and how I have shown you mercy today despite your disrespect toward me. Do you understand, Quinn ?”

Fear zips through me, and I lock eyes on the queen. She may wear a crown, but she doesn’t look much older than me. It feels safe to turn to my peer for direction. She barely meets my gaze under her long lashes. Her red lips pull into a thin line as she gives the faintest nod.

I swallow the bile creeping up my throat and reply, “Yes, Your Majesty.”

“That’s much better.” He flicks his wrist like he is swatting away a fly and turns his attention to those sitting in the gallery. “Moving on, today is about celebrating. My son has at last chosen a bride.” Thomas gestures to a man standing beside him.

The silver crown on the prince’s head is molded to look like leaves circling his tousled dirty blond hair. He's dressed in a white linen shirt with crisscrossed laces in the front and billowing sleeves, knee-high riding boots, and pants I can only describe as black leggings. He looks like he walked out of the pages of a fairytale, except he doesn’t. The sinister stare he gives me radiates pure evil.

A gentle hand wraps around my upper arm, and Mrs. Lockhart leads me out of the throne room after we bow again. The trek back to the kitchen is silent and laced with thick tension. We pass the staff and into the back hallway where she abruptly stops when we are out of sight.

“Whatever you were trying to pull in the throne room, never do it again. You’re to never look the king in the eyes, it's disrespectful. You were too bold, and he and the prince have no tolerance for that kind of behavior. The next time you pull a stunt like that, it will lead to a painful and public punishment. I don’t want to see you hurt, Quinn.”

“What do you want me to do? I don’t want to be here, and I refuse to bow to that man,” I say, my worry getting the better of me and notching up my voice to a hysterical tone.

“You don’t have a choice, so I suggest that you follow the rules and make the best of this.”

I scoff as my body shakes with anger. “Make the best of this? How am I supposed to do that when my family is out there looking for me? Who would choose to be here? Did you choose it?”

A hint of exhaustion washes over her features. It’s then that I understand that meeting the requirements of this place has taken a toll on her. “Making the best of this” is exactly what she is trying to do. With a sigh, she says, “I go where my husband tells me to go. There is no other choice for me.”

Considering how I came to be part of this bizarre society, her answer isn’t surprising. This isn't the first time I've come across a community that enslaves women, and I'm sure it won't be the last. What is happening isn’t right, and I don’t think Mrs. Lockhart thinks it is either. She has been stripped of a choice and had no other option but to conform. For now, it’s what I must do as well.

“I’m sorry you were forced into this position,” I say.

She nods, not bothering to mask her sorrow. “I’m sorry for you as well.”

“I’ll try to behave, but I won’t fully conform, not when it comes to the things I believe.”

“I can respect that. Now, let’s get you trained in dinner preparations.”

I spend the afternoon in the dining room, working to dress the enormous rustic table. Everything has a specific way of being laid out. I fold the napkins into flowers that rest on the salad plates that are held by the dinner plates. Two kinds of forks are placed to the left, two types of knives and a spoon to the right. Above the plates is another smaller fork and spoon, and a wine glass next to them. Never in my entire life have I seen so many pieces of silverware.

By the time I finish setting the table, staff members with long, brass candle lighters come in to light the chandelier and tall candelabras around the room. Everything is illuminated with a buttery glow. Mrs. Lockhart returns and walks me back to the kitchen. It’s bustling with activity. Cooks rush between the oven and stove top while servers swiftly prepare platters of fresh meat, cheese, and fruits. A crystal pitcher filled with water is thrust into my hands.

“Your duty tonight will be to make sure every water glass remains filled. Never reach over a dinner guest and always lift their glass from the table. Do you understand?” Mrs. Lockhart says.

“Yes, ma’am,” I reply.

When the time comes, I’m directed to enter the dining room to begin my job. It’s easy enough, moving from one occupied seat to the next.

Every single person in the room gives off an air of entitlement. They address each other with titles like Lord and Lady while flouncing around in formal dresses and well-fitting suits. Almost everyone under the age of thirty sits with their parents, giving off the vibe of bought privilege. It’s wild that people still concern themselves with status symbols that have no relevance outside of these walls. Then again, I’m certain they don’t think about all the atrocities happening throughout the rest of Stern.

An older man with gray hair and a receding hairline lifts his hand and snaps before pointing at his empty glass of water. I hurry forward, quietly cursing myself at how easily I responded to the degrading act.

The doors at the far side of the dining room crash open, hitting the wall behind them. King Thomas stomps in with his wife and son trailing behind him. Chair legs screech along the floor as everyone scurries to their feet. They lower their heads, and I take a giant step back from the table and follow suit. I’m in no rush to have another encounter with the king.

The royal family takes their places at the head of the table and Thomas gestures for everyone to sit. He takes inventory of his dinner guests. Only the men momentarily meet his gaze, giving a slight nod, and the women focus on their empty plates. He studies the empty chair beside his son.

“Holden, where is your future bride?” he asks through clenched teeth.

The prince looks around the room as if he misplaced something. He lifts a shoulder in a shrug just as Mrs. Lockhart steps away from the wall and bows.

“Pardon me for speaking out of turn, Your Majesty. It would appear that the lady is not feeling well, and therefore not up for tonight’s events,” she says.

Thomas laughs, sending a chain reaction of fake cackles echoing throughout the room. When he calms, his loyal subjects do the same, listening as he says, “What kind of woman does not enjoy a party thrown partially in her honor? She should be here for her engagement dinner whether she feels up to it or not.”

“You are correct, sire. I find it difficult to explain her error when she has locked herself in her room and refuses to open the door,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Holden sits forward in his chair and locks a cruel gaze on Mrs. Lockhart. “Do you not have a key to every room in this house? Unlock the door and tell my future wife that she can come down by her own free will, or I will have her forcefully brought to dinner. But she will attend.”

“As you wish, Your Highness,” Mrs. Lockhart says, racing out of the double doors.

The king orders for dinner to be served, setting me and the others back into motion. I catch bits of the conversation around the table, mostly Holden talking about all his many “amazing qualities.” He’s just as bad as his father, and I feel sorry for the girl who has to marry him. It makes me grateful that I’ve been assigned to setting tables and pouring water. I’d rather clean a thousand toilets than deal with him.

“There’s my lovely bride,” Holden says, bringing all discussions to a halt. A strained smile splits his face, sending a chill through me.

I follow his gaze with a morbid need to see who will have to endure this man for the rest of her life. My knees buckle under me, and the pitcher slips from my hand. Water splashes up my leg as millions of tiny crystal slivers scatter across the floor. I’m shocked, unable to move or care about anything but her .

A pale-yellow dress hangs from River’s slender frame, and her spiral curls are pulled to the top of her head. I can tell she’s been crying by her swollen eyes. I’ve always hated seeing her upset, but it’s the angry red cut on her cheek that has me raging on the inside. What brutalities did Thomas’s men commit to drag her here?

We lock eyes for a mere second. It’s enough time for her to give a slight tilt of her head to communicate that she is okay, and I mimic the gesture.

The king’s deep voice breaks through my racing thoughts. “Lady River, come join us for your engagement feast.”

“Get into the kitchen,” Mrs. Lockhart hisses.

I shake out of my stupor and scramble to clean up the shards of glass, ignoring her demand. I couldn’t care less about the mess I’ve made. I just need to stay with my cousin. Before I can hit my knees, Mrs. Lockhart grabs my arm and yanks me upright.

“Keep your wits about you, girl. If you make more of a scene than you already have, the king will demand I send you to work the fields,” she says, keeping her voice low so only I can hear her.

I fumble over my feet as she leads me into the kitchen. When the door swings closed behind us, I snatch my arm out of her grasp. “I thought you said none of my friends were here! River is my?—”

“I didn’t know that anyone else was brought in with you. I was unaware of Lady River until after we spoke, and even then, I wasn’t sure where she came from. After her meeting with the king and prince, she locked herself in her room and refused to talk to anyone.”

“Do you blame her? This place is?—”

“Keep your voice down.” Mrs. Lockhart scans the kitchen, pausing on the two younger servants in the corner washing dishes. “The best thing you can do for Lady River is keep a low profile. Acting out will not help her cause. She is already struggling to adapt to the idea of marrying Prince Holden. If it’s found out that you can be used to keep her in line, he will not hesitate to do it. And you will do her no good if you’re hurt or worse.”

I bite down on my lips, trapping any other words I want to say. And fuck, I have a lot to say about all of this. I gather my rattled nerves and refocus myself. She has a point. I won’t do River any good if I make a bigger scene. “Okay. What should I do?”

“You can’t return to the dining room tonight. Take Kara’s place drying the dishes, and I will keep an eye on your friend.”

I release a frustrated sigh and go to the sink. Kara tosses me the drying cloth, and her dark curls bounce as she skips out of the kitchen with Mrs. Lockhart.

“Don’t worry. I dropped an entire platter of salted meats on the king’s boots. I don’t know if I will ever work my way out of dish duty again,” says the girl beside me.

“Not meat on his boots,” I flatly say.

She shakes her head, her fine brown hair fluttering around her round jaw. “Queen Abby clearly found my blunder entertaining because a bottle of whiskey was in my room that night with a note from her. She likes to drink in her private parlor at night. At least that’s what I’ve heard. I’m Violet, by the way.”

“Quinn,” I say, shaking her wet hand. “Abby looks a little young to be Holden’s mom.”

“Oh please. Prince Holden is four years older than her. She is King Thomas’ fourth wife. His mother died before the Affliction. Wives two and three were put to death for treason. But some think it’s because they didn’t produce another heir for the king. Rumor has it that he doesn’t like the idea of not having a backup plan if something were to happen to Prince Holden.”

“Gross,” I mutter under my breath. I can’t dwell on the thought for too long. It kills me to think of River being forced to produce a child to carry on the king’s line.

“So, how did you end up here?” I ask.

Violet shrugs and pulls on the apron strings digging into her thick waist. “The king’s guard found me in town just after the virus outbreak. They told me I’d be safe. I lost my parents two months before, so I had no reason to stay. I didn’t know that I would end up a servant, but it’s better than fighting the Hunted every day.”

I look at Violet and take in the dark circles under her eyes and the worry lines etched into her young face. For the first time since I arrived here, it hits me just how desperate some of these people are. They truly believe this is better than surviving the Affliction. It breaks my heart that this is the alternative Violet and others have settled for. I would rather face Zs than tolerate the monsters within these walls.