Текст книги "Hero"

Автор книги: Leighton Del Mia

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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

3

It takes several long blinks of my heavy lids for a hazy world to come into focus. My eyes adjust gradually to blackness as dense and opaque as my sleep. I’m just horizontal floating numbness, perhaps on a bed, though I feel nothing beneath me.

Materializing in the dark is a silhouette. I can’t tell how close or far it is, or even if it’s moving. My mouth ignores my brain’s command to scream. My limbs only sink further into the mattress when I try to lash out.

There is a terrifying maleness about the shadow as it watches me. Inside, I’m trembling, waiting for him to act or speak. My fingertips and toes tingle. But he simply remains there, and I’m plummeting back into myself, clawing at nothing, slipping away, darkness advancing, and I’m being sucked down, down, down.

* * *

I sigh and hug my pillow closer, satisfied from a deep sleep. The bed is a cotton ball cloud that swallows my heavy limbs. My smile becomes a yawn. My foot glides between the sheets like a knife through butter.

I vault upright as my lids tear open, and I have to fist the comforter to steady myself. My eyes adjust to a lavish room. Dread dispatches through my system, flooding right up to my pores until I’m bloated with it. Until I think I might burst.

On my street corner, somebody took me.

My fingers wrap around the base of my throat. It burned, struggling for breath—I don’t remember screaming, but it’s sore. I press the hollow there until my erratic heartbeat vibrates the pads of my fingers and I almost choke.

I back up against the headboard, drawing the comforter close. The harder I try, the less I’m able to catch the small, fleeting breaths stuttering my chest. My tongue fills my mouth like a fat slug.

My surroundings ooze luxury and highbrow indifference. The room, with its dark-stained cherry wood floors and high ceilings, must be half of my apartment. It’s rich with burgundy velvet, gold silk, and intricate, carved moldings. The massive, four-poster bed I’m in sits beneath a white, gauzy canopy.

My brain struggles to connect the broken pieces of my thoughts. Those unforgiving arms I struggled against in a deserted street—they brought me to a place like this? And how? Was there a car, a second person? I fight the impossible explanation though it crushes me flatter by the second. Kidnapped.

Dread shades into fear. I’m certain my skin will split open, I’m shaking so violently. My hands rush to my body and touch silk. The slinky, red nightgown clashes with the room’s almost-plum interior. A sob hitches in my throat because I’m braless. I feel my body for signs of mishandling, lifting the sanguine fabric and running my fingers over matching lace underwear.

My vision sharpens with tears, and my head swims. Whatever was used to knock me out leaves a misted veil over my memory. Since before I was a teenager, nobody’s ever seen me completely naked. Not Frida, not my foster parents. Now a stranger has.

I swallow back what’s rising in my throat because crying will only slow me down. I need to think clearly.

It takes me a moment to ease out from between the sheets. My limbs move at their own lazy pace, separate from my brain. I should be sore from running for my life last night, but I never even had the chance. I glance at the door. Fear of what’s behind it sends me in the opposite direction to a large bay window. I climb onto the cushion, and my body thrills when the window gives way to my push. I peer over the sill into what appears to be the backyard. It’s a sharp drop without even so much as a ledge to balance on. I assess that I’m on maybe the third or fourth floor. Below, stone paths carve a maze between manicured green grass and trim rosebushes that bloom deep red. The lawn is expansive, like my room, and ends at a wall of large trees that continue until the horizon.

I take a lungful of fresh air and decide that the window is a last resort.

On the bare balls of my feet, I cross the room. My eyes furtively scan as I tiptoe. There’s a small sitting area between the window and a fireplace, one closed door, a set of French double doors, also closed, a desk, and nightstands that flank the bed. Because of its size, it takes me longer than it should to cross any room.

Everything in my chest evaporates when I touch the door handle, my throat painfully dry as I swallow. My blood churns through me as I apply pressure to the knob. It turns, and keeps turning. It doesn’t stop. I can hardly believe when I pull and the door slivers open.

It hits me then that I’m wearing an expensive negligee and sleeping in a heavenly bed in what appears to be a very large home. Could I possibly have jumped to conclusions? I’m still frozen with my fist curled around the knob when a man speaks.

“Are you decent?”

My mouth opens. Sense flees me. I scream.

An elderly man bustles into the room and closes the door behind him. “Dear, please, don’t scream. You’ll alarm the staff.” The man wrings his hands, his face reddening as he waits. “I’m sorry to startle you. Please, do not be afraid.”

I stop abruptly, my chest heaving. The man is hunched forward slightly, his eyes wide with concern. His thinning white hair is parted and combed to the side. He’s dressed in a suit and waistcoat that perfectly fit his small frame. I decide that I can take him.

“Who are you?” I ask.

“Archibald N. Hughes the Third. But you may call me Norman—that’s what the ‘N’ stands for.” He bows with a smile. “I’m the mansion’s butler.”

“Butler?” I repeat. “Where am I?”

“The mansion.” He waves as if I should know by my surroundings, but my eyes are trained on him. My hands attempt modesty, one splayed across the thin layer of silk covering my chest and the other tugging on the hem.

“No, where the hell am I? What city am I in? How did I get here?”

He purses his lips at me. “There’s no need to get hostile. I’m not here to hurt you.”

“You kidnapped me,” I shriek.

“I cannot comment on that,” he says resolutely, clasping his hands in front him. “What I can do is help situate you. This is your bedroom.”

My heart drops into my stomach. Mybedroom? Mine? “You didn’t tell me where I am.”

He hesitates before indicating the door furthest from us. “You have your own private bathroom,” he says and then glides his hand to the next set of doors, “and a closet full of the finest clothing available. As I said, you can call me Norman. I am at your beck and call.”

Spots cloud my vision. I walk backward, feeling behind me until I touch mattress. I lean against the bed’s edge. “I don’t understand,” I say. “I grew up in Fenndale. I live in New Rhone. My name is—” My eyes cut sharply to his. “I want to go home.”

His already mild expression softens. “Oh, dear. Don’t worry. As I said, I’m here to help, not hurt. You have a maid as well. She’s called Rosa. We’ll see to it that you’re comfortable during your stay.”

My cheeks flare with heat. “What stay? Why am I here? Did you bring me here?”

He straightens up as much as his aged back allows. “Now, do I look capable of such a thing? You’re here at the request of the Master of the House.”

“Who?”

“The Master of—”

“And that would be?”

“Sadly, I’m not at liberty to disclose that information. And neither is Rosa, though she doesn’t speak English well anyway.”

My eyes search the room helplessly.

“Are you hungry?” he asks. “You slept quite long.”

“I want to leave.”

“You cannot,” he returns gravely.

“So I’m-I’m what? A prisoner?”

He blinks slowly at me. “You cannot leave this house.”

I inhale up at the ceiling. “Why won’t you answer my questions?” I ask. My legs quiver, and Norman edges closer to me. I slap his forearm when he reaches out, and he withdraws.

“Perhaps you should lie down again. It would be my pleasure to bring you your breakfast in bed.”

He leaves, and somehow I get on the comforter, crossing my legs underneath me. I will myself to think. Norman said I was confined to the house but not the room. I look to the closed door. Last night someone was in this room, standing near the bed, watching. Waiting. It wasn’t Norman. It was a phantom, a shadow. It was a beast.

4

Norman returns to the room, fumbling with the knob and pushing the door open with his back. He spins around to reveal a tray weighed down by food. “Let’s try this again, Cataline,” he says.

“How do you know my name?”

“I wasn’t sure of your preference this morning, so I had Chef Michael make a variety of things. I also don’t know when you’ve last eaten.” He raises an amused eyebrow at me as he nears the bed. “Scrambled eggs, toast, bacon, sausage, pancakes, and a bowl of Shredded Mini-Wheats. The cereal I prepared myself,” he adds with a chuckle. He shows me the tray again and nods. “Well, go on. Sit back.”

I maneuver so my back is against the headboard, but I don’t let him out of my sight.

“Is this like fattening up a pig before you eat it? What is all this?”

“Not at all. Just trying to make you comfortable.”

“Is it drugged?”

“It might be,” he says, “and this might be a gas chamber disguised as a luxurious bedroom. What choice do you have? If we wanted to hurt you, we would.”

My stomach rumbles loudly, and he stifles a smile while placing the offering across my lap.

I sniff the orange juice, swirling it in its glass. I look at him over the rim and set it back down. My eyes shift to the door and quickly back to him. On the tray is a vase with a single rosebud. “Is that from the garden?” I ask.

“Try to enjoy your breakfast.”

I shovel a spoonful of cereal in my mouth and chew, glad he at least picked my favorite kind.

“There you are,” Norman says. “I’ll let you eat.”

“No,” I cry. Milk dribbles from the corners of my mouth, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand. “Stay. Answer my questions.”

“I’m afraid I’ve told you everything. There isn’t much more information I can provide, aside from a tour of the house. Eat your breakfast, and I’ll be back to check on you soon.”

“Did you take off my clothes?”

His face mars with a grimace, but he schools it. “Heavens, no. Rosa dressed you in that. The sleeping gown was chosen by the Master of the House.”

“Why does he care what I wear to bed?”

“I can assure you that I would never violate you in such a manner,” Norman says as though he didn’t hear me. He looks about to speak when a telephone’s earsplitting ring sounds from the hallway. He straightens up and darts away, taking only enough time to lock the door behind him. I stare after him until salty tears streak my cheeks, pooling at the corners of my lips.

When I escape, there’s no knowing how long I’ll be without food, so I eat everything. I survey the empty tray, my eyes resting on the silverware. I pick up the butter knife and run it along the fattest part of my palm. It leaves a wrinkle. I toss it in favor of the fork.

I leave the rest on the bed and slowly, carefully, walk to the door. Hoping the click of the lock was my imagination, I grip the knob. It’s a cold, brass mass in my fist, like the hardened knot of a heart. I wrench it forcefully, trying to push through the resistance. I twist it until my hand stings from the metal’s burn.

With a sigh, I turn back for the bed but find myself heading to the fireplace instead. I lean in and inspect wood that’s clearly never been used. There’s a knock at the door, and without thinking, I stick the fork in my mouth and use both hands to pull a log free. Somebody raps twice more, the handle jiggles, and I panic. I balance the fork between to fingers and rush toward the door as it opens.

“Cataline?”

I raise the log when Norman enters, but in the doorway behind him looms a brute—as big a man as I’ve ever seen. He glances over my head and rolls his eyes.

The lines in Norman’s forehead deepen as he sighs. “Cataline, listen to me. There is no escaping this situation. Best that you don’t resist, or you’ll make things harder on everyone. The Master of the House—”

“Is that him?” I whisper, staring at the tattoos peeking from his shirt’s collar. His neck is red in a way that I think it might be all the time.

“No. That’s head of security, Carter. The Master is kind but impatient. Order and control are important to him. Anything outside that displeases him.”

My arms quake from the weight of the log. I’m unusually weak with fatiguing muscles and wobbly legs. My breakfast rises up the back of my throat. I lower the log in front of me.

“You can go, Carter,” Norman says. “I trust Cataline.”

Carter shrugs, staring back at me. “Can’t. I’m supposed to make sure this one doesn’t pull anything.”

Norman turns his head over his shoulder. “I said you’re dismissed.”

“No can do. Boss’s orders.”

Norman huffs and returns his attention to me. “I assure you, none of us intend on harming you; we want only to make you comfortable. But as you will see on the tour, there is no escape. The exits are sealed and security is top of the line. The house is under lockdown. My advice to you is if you’re told to do something, do it.”

His words anger me, tiny, hot needles piercing at the hope in my heart.

Norman looks back at Carter. “I suppose you’ll be joining—”

The log hits him squarely in the chest when I heave it, thudding on the floor. He stumbles back as I blow past him into Carter’s grasp. I stab the fork into his shoulder, and he releases me instantly with a guttural noise.

His angry curses echo until I’m halfway down the hall, heading for a staircase. I take the stairs two at a time, almost face planting before I reach the ground level. I race across the foyer to the front door, but it’s locked. My entire body fights with the handle until I hear hurried footsteps on the stairs.

I sprint for the nearest door in the hallway. It won’t budge either, but it’s less solid. I pull on the handle like I hate it, like it’s my worst enemy, and throw my shoulder into the door over and over until it finally pops open. In the room I spot a phone on a desk and a window. I close the door behind me. The lock is busted, so I wedge a chair under the handle like I’ve seen in movies.

The window is either locked or stuck beyond my strength. I pick up the phone and dial 911 while dragging another chair with me to the window. I yank the receiver from my ear and glance at it because there’s no sound on the line, not even a dial tone. I throw it at the desk, and the whole phone flies off the edge, scattering papers everywhere.

A folder hits my feet, and I crouch down. “Riviera Cartel” is scrawled across it. I pick up the newspaper article next to it. Black marker circles Carlos Riviera’s name and down the page, more names and details.

My heart stops. My fingers crunch the newspaper in a fist. Why hadn’t I thought of it already? The Cartel was recently accused of kidnapping young girls. Belated nausea washes over me. I swallow down the urge to vomit and pick up the chair. My hands shake violently, but I slam it into the window. It thuds dully. I do it again and again until a wooden leg breaks off.

I turn in time to see the chair under the door handle skid across the floor when Carter bursts in. I dive under the desk, huddling there and grabbing the leg as he snatches my ankles. He pulls. My grip tightens. The desk is so sturdy, it doesn’t move even an inch. I only let go when I’m sure my shoulder joints are about to pop out of their sockets.

* * *

I wake up squeezing my eyes shut. My knees, shoulders, and elbows pulse like they have been for hours. My right ankle is heavy and cold. It’s a moment before I remember where I am, squinting into a room streaked sepia by the setting sun. I’ve slept through the first day of sunshine in over a week, and I decide if I’m still here tomorrow, I’ll make use of my windowsill.

After my attempted escape, Carter carried me up the stairs by my waist. There’s a sharp throb in my heel when I remember kicking his shin repeatedly. He locked a cuff around my ankle while Norman held my wrists, assuring me it was temporary. A chain attached to the metal cuff was secured to the other end of the bed. They forced half a sleeping pill down my throat. All I could wonder was why they had such things readily available.

The chain was cumbersome, but it was also long. I paced, relentlessly searching the room and my memory for clues. I passed my hands across every surface, even snaking them behind the headboard and pushing furniture aside. I don’t know what I hoped to find. A crack. A hole. A mistake. There was only smooth disappointment beneath my fingertips.

I opened the doors to a large, walk-in closet to find bars filled with hangers of clothing. I fingered dozens of different fabrics, checking the sizes of garment after garment. Everything was my size. Every piece was beautiful, things I’d choose if ever given the chance to buy designer clothing. Overwhelmed, I stepped out and closed the doors after me.

My thoughts became foggy. Maybe my call had gone through, and the police had heard the whole struggle. I kept thinking I heard sirens. Eventually I closed my puffy eyes and gave in to the drug.

In bed, I turn onto my side, wincing from where Carter threw me on the ground earlier. This is one of those news stories that start with an ending. Because who would take another person with the intention of ever letting them go? But if it’s money they want—revenge, or to send a message—then there must be some mistake. I live my life quietly. I’m not worth anything to anyone.

The question overwhelms my mind—why?

It’s only in the tranquility of the late afternoon and the wearing off of the sleeping pill that my sense recalibrates.

I can still feel the smudged clues on my fingertips from that newspaper. Frida’s voice is close enough to the surface that I can recall her exact tone when she said the words Riviera Cartel.

“At lunch I thought the tattoo on his forearm looked familiar—a small rose.”

Tall. Broad. Threatening. Our taco lunch. I was justified in the uneasiness he inspired. He knew I walked through downtown to get home.

“Hey, guess what? You were right about Guy Fowler.”

Our eyes met in the restaurant, and I blushed under his flattery. I practically threw myself at him despite the warning in my gut. I thought he was interested. I thought he liked me. He stared at me like he wanted me. And now he has me.

5

When there’s a knock at the door, I sit up. It takes ages to cross the room for all my hesitating. The chain scrapes the wood floor behind me. My bottom lip is almost bloody. I brace myself when I ask, “Who is it?”

“It’s Norman, dear.”

I exhale to ease my racing heart, but my relief is tinged with frustration. Norman won’t give me the answers I want. Or, worse, he can’t.

“Have you had enough time alone?” he asks when I crack open the door.

I blink at the sinister-sounding question.

“Come downstairs for dinner.” He looks at my feet. “Or I can bring it up here. Your choice.”

I follow his gaze. If I told him I knew the truth about the Cartel, would it help or hurt? In my situation, knowledge is power. I decide to keep it to myself. “I don’t want to stay in here anymore,” I say.

“Very good. Then I’ll take that off.” He rubs his chest. “Please don’t try anything. Carter is eager to keep you locked up, and I fear the Master of the House won’t hear my argument against it.”

“You don’t want me locked up?”

“I don’t think it’s necessary. I believe your reaction was out of character. Wasn’t it?”

I glance down.

“Why don’t you change into something more appropriate, and we’ll get you fed.”

The way he says appropriate turns the silkiness of my gown grimy. “Change into what?” I ask.

“You have a closet full of clothing. Surely you can find something in there?”

I look over my shoulder at the closed doors and then back at him. “That’s for me?”

“Of course it’s for you, Cataline. I already told you so.”

“Why?” I ask through a painfully dry throat. “Why me?”

His expression is sympathetic. “I’ll send Carter up with the key to the shackle. When you’re ready, I’ll be at the base of the staircase. Take your time.”

I close the door, set my forehead against it, and inhale. I take time to look through the closet’s contents. There’s something for every occasion, from soft t-shirts and jeans to cocktail dresses and ball gowns. There are shoes, handbags, even fine jewelry. I pull open the top drawer of the built-in dresser. Delicate, lacy underwear is carefully sorted and separated into neat piles. Each piece, no matter the coverage, is sexy and sheer. The following drawer holds matching bras, stockings, and knee-high socks. Tears surface when I reach the bottom compartment. Intricate, stiff lingerie feels sturdy and structured in my hands. Black, red, and white variants of lace, satin, and gauze. All of it would fit me; even the bras are the correct cup size. I can’t fathom, won’t fathom . . . I squeeze the garment in my fists until the corset stays bite into my palms.

Frida and I assumed we were immune to the city’s seamy side because we were poor and quiet. My stomach turns when I realize the only valuable thing someone like me has to give. Guy knew all along I was ripe for the picking.

I unclench my hands and finger the fine lace with the delicacy it deserves. I might’ve liked to wear this for someone like Calvin one day, though there’s a good chance he’d not even notice me in it.

I chase the thought away and throw the garment on the floor. I slam the drawer shut, praying I’ll never have to open it again.

* * *

I choose an outfit and wait until Carter knocks. He comes in and goes straight for my ankle without looking at me. The cuff unlocks with a loud click, and he stands.

“This is my job,” he says.

“What?”

“You didn’t have to stab me with a fucking fork. I got a family, you know. There’s no escaping, not unless the Master of the House says so. So just chill out.”

“What does he want with me?” I ask, unintentionally glancing toward the closet.

He shrugs. “Like I said, I’m just doing my job. Easier for me if we lock you in a room all day and feed you pills, but they say it’s okay for you to wander around. Fine, but that can be taken away. You know? I got no problem doing what I have to do. Norman’s an old man. You hurt him, and I might be forced to hurt you back.”

I turn my face away, and he leaves. He doesn’t take the cuff and chain with him. I change into a chunky sweater, hiding my hands in the sleeves. Jeans cling like a second skin. I expect resistance when I pull on the bedroom door, but it opens. In the empty hallway, I venture the opposite direction of the stairs. Socks, purposely chosen, mute my steps. Even in the unlit corridor, I can see the house is magnificent. I gently try the handle of each door I pass with no results.

Defeated, I trudge back the way I came. Down two flights of curving staircase, I take each step slowly, as though I’m descending into hell. Norman is there as I reach the final bend, and when I hit the bottom, he holds his hand out to me. I automatically place mine in his, jerking it back just as quickly.

“When the Master of the House is in, dinner attire is required. But when it’s just us,” Norman says with a friendly wink, “this will do.”

His attempt at comfort is lost on me. All I hear is someone I don’t know telling me what to do. He ignores my scowl and leads me through a gold-lighted foyer into a high-ceilinged dining room.

Calling attention to the center of the room is a sturdy table with fat, carved legs. It’s long and imposing, with a high-backed chair at each end and ten in between, five on each side. The red runner down the middle is edged with gold trim. I feel insignificant when I sit in the oversized end chair that Norman directs me to. As soon as I hit the cushion, a considerably rotund man is setting a dish in front of me.

“Normally Norman will deliver your food,” he says, shoving his hand between us, “but I’ve been waiting all day to meet you. I’m Chef Michael.”

I can almost feel the dark bags sagging under my eyes when I stare blankly at him.

He straightens up and clears his throat. “It’s not often that we have guests.” He laughs in a quick burst, touches his strawberry-blond hair, and shrugs at Norman. “Not often at all, actually. I’ve made this especially for your arrival. Asian-style quail on a bed of wild rice.”

His tone is irritatingly proud, so I say, “I’m a vegetarian.”

Norman looks down his nose at me. “No, you are not.”

I frown, incensed that he’s called my bluff. I look up at the chef with pleading, watery eyes. “I’m being held hostage,” I tell him. “Please. You have to help me.”

He visibly tenses, but his gaze shifts from mine. “Can I get you anything else, Ms. Ford?”

I just shake my head.

Whatever they gave me turned me ravenous. I clear my plate quickly, along with the warm chocolate soufflé delivered immediately after. The only sound in the room is the echo of my fork clinking against the plate. I’m satisfied, but I eat until the last bite and set my silverware down. I wonder why Guy isn’t here for dinner and when he’ll finally show up. Crude ideas of what our meeting will be like come easily because of an afternoon spent agonizing.

My gaze flits around grand surroundings, noting the long, skinny windows that frame freedom like a painting. Where would I go? Where am I? Am I even near New Rhone anymore? When I look over my shoulder, my eyes land on Norman in the doorway. “I’m ready for the tour,” I say.

His reply comes with a clasp of his hands. “Delightful.”

Carter appears from the kitchen as if he’d been waiting there. My fists shove into the shallow pockets of my jeans as I follow Norman and Carter follows me.

“If a room is unlocked, you are free to enjoy,” Norman explains cheerfully. He takes me around the ground floor, and I count doors and windows. None of the closed doors are included on the tour. There’s a chapel specially installed for the staff at Norman’s request. When he tells me to use it anytime I want, I can’t tell if it’s an invitation or a suggestion. Carter is our silent shadow and makes neither invitations nor suggestions.

Norman seems excited to show me the second floor, which has a game room, home cinema, gym, and another smaller, more intimate dining room. His smile vanishes when I don’t react. But then his eyes light up. “I saved the best for last,” he says.

He leads me down the marble stairs, back to the ground floor. On the way, I think how if I weren’t forced to stay here, I’d have died and gone to heaven. But I don’t realize how true that is until we reach my first slice of happiness in twenty-four hours: the most impressive library I’ve ever seen. Endless books line the walls of a room that somehow manages to be both overwhelming and cozy.

My lips part, inching open until I’m gaping. My head tilts to take in the sheer quantity of books surrounding me. I trace my finger over leather binding, embossed titles, glossy authors. Everything from Atlas Shrugged to Interview with the Vampire to The Velveteen Rabbit. My hearts skips and swells as I recognize stories I’ve read, ones I want to read, and even more thrilling, so many I’ve never heard of.

Norman’s voice disrupts my literary worship. “Perhaps it’s time to rest again. You’ve had a trying day.”

I sigh. “And still no answers.”

“I can’t promise you will ever get your answers; that’s up to the Master of the House. For now, dear, that will have to be answer enough.”

I swallow down the curse I’m tempted to hurl at him. Despite his involvement in keeping me here, I’m not so sure he has any more choice in the matter than I do. So far he’s been kind to me, and though I’m distrustful, it doesn’t seem that taking my anger out on him gets me anywhere. I decide to reserve that for Guy Fowler.

Even having slept much of the day, Norman is right that I’m exhausted. Sleep sounds welcoming. Carter fades into the shadows after a warning look, but Norman follows me up the steps to the third floor.

“Cataline,” he says when we reach the landing.

I turn and face him.

“There’s nothing much to see on your floor. It’s mostly guest bedrooms and storage. However . . .” He points up stairs that fade into darkness, where not a light that I can see shines. “Do not go to the fourth floor.”

“Why not?”

He inhales deeply. “That floor is meant only for the Master of the House, and when necessary, staff. He is very particular about his space.”

I shrug my shoulders with defeat. “Whatever. Goodnight.”

With that, I leave Norman and his sudden grimness at the mouth of floor four.