Reckoning (The Watchers Book 5) (9 page)

He’d have no idea I was in trouble.

They held me on either side. A piece of clothing was pulled over my head—someone’s old sweater by the smell of it—its sleeves wrapped around my neck to secure it.

I spat damp wool from my mouth as I kicked and writhed. I landed a hit—on Josh, from the sound of it—and I felt a flicker of hope. My bond with Carden might’ve been broken, but I’d consumed a lot of him in the past months. I was strong.

In one last-ditch attempt at freedom, I tensed my arms, lifting myself from the ground while held in their grip, and flailed with my knees. One foot connected unevenly, and by Rob’s grunt, I guessed I’d clipped a groin.

“Hold…still.” A hand chopped my back, striking my kidneys dead-on. Damned Josh and his damned med school training.

I bucked again and my feet struck a knee, landing with a sharp crackling snap.

“Fuck this,” Josh growled.

Then, a blunt strike on the back of my skull.

Then blackness.

* * *

THE NOISE WOKE ME.
A tool was slamming rhythmically. Repeatedly.

I tried to open my eyes. Light sliced between my eyelids, and instantly hot tears pooled in my eyes. I squeezed them shut again.

That wasn’t any noise; it was merely the throbbing in my head, as though a mallet struck the top of my skull with each heartbeat.

Instinctively, I flexed my abs to get up and get the hell out of there, but was instantly stopped short by leather straps at my chest and feet.

Instant panic dumped adrenaline into my veins, making me flail and thrash, but it was no good. I was restrained.

Oh crap. The misericordia. Had they taken it?

I flexed my ankle, and the bite of that ancient metal felt like acid on my skin. Momentary relief made me woozy. Miraculously, they hadn’t found it. I was fully clothed and the blade was still on me, tucked safely where Ronan had hidden it.

I could still feel the heat of his fingers tracing along my leg. Would that be the last time he touched me?

Stop.
I had to stop thinking like that.

Ronan couldn’t help me in here. He wasn’t even allowed inside the keep. And then there was Carden, who refused to enter. So it was just me.

Carden and Ronan would both notice I was gone…only they’d think I was on my way to Norway.

A deep wave of despair overwhelmed me, consuming me with sadness and loneliness so acute it twisted the breath from my chest.

Focus.
I needed to focus on my surroundings. Nobody would save me but me.

I knew from my one foray just how vast—and how dangerous—the keep was. There were caverns and areas that were more like caves than actual rooms. There were much nicer parts, too, all wainscoting and velvety wallpaper, giving the feel of turn-of-the-century drawing rooms.

The room I found myself in was neither of these. It was small, square, and windowless with a bare concrete floor and crudely whitewashed walls dimmed from years of disuse. I squinted hard to make more sense of my surroundings, and that’s when I saw the faded blood spatter, faint rust-colored speckles that clung to the paint as though even the walls themselves craved blood.

In the corner was a table, on top of which sat an old-fashioned leather doctor’s case.

I shivered. I wasn’t born yesterday; I happened to know old-fashioned doctors’ cases didn’t bode well.

Then I spotted the bucket. It was wide and low, like something you’d find in a barn. It was full of water and—oh shit—forget doctor bags,
that
was the part of this whole thing that really freaked me out.

I heard voices. Male laughter. I imagined their pleasant chitchat.

Hi, how are you?

Brilliant, just brilliant. In the mood for a spot of torture?

The voices faded and the brisk clack of footsteps tore me from my morbid imaginings. The footsteps got closer. It was one person alone. They’d paused outside my door.

“Crap crap crap,” I whispered, frantically looking around. I jerked my body back and forth, trying to free myself. But I was trapped.

Someone was coming inside.

I knew who liked torture. Who had an obsession with me.

Alcántara. On my first mission, I’d listened as he’d spent the night torturing some kid to death.

I blinked my eyes shut hard. Into my head dumped every esoteric perversion a medieval genius like Hugo de Rosas Alcántara might enjoy. Things like books bound in skin. Probing for the four humors of the human body. Strange alchemies and elixirs.

I held my breath as the door creaked open.

Not Alcántara. Headmaster Fournier.

A chuff of breath escaped me—a moment’s relief—then an even more profound dread swamped me.

At least Alcántara was a known quantity. I could talk to him, distract him. But Claude Fournier was basically a stranger to me. He was genteel and ancient, and by the indifferent, impatient glint in his eye, I could tell he had no qualms whatsoever about wiping me off the face of this earth.

“Well, well.” He came and stood over me, and the way he scanned me made me feel like a body on the autopsy table: already dead. “Somebody hasn’t appreciated my hospitality.”

Hospitality?
As if.

“And me, looking out for your well-being as I have.” He nodded to a spot below my feet, and I craned my head, spotting a dark puddle. A foot canted out at an unnatural angle. “Take this Trainee, for example. Rob, I think it was. I caught him attempting an indiscretion. I’ll not have such discourtesy.” His eyes met mine again, hard and cold. “From any of you.”

Somewhere in that announcement, he was accusing me of something. I thought about denying whatever it was he was charging, but I knew better than to contradict an ancient. Instead, I lay there silently. Maybe if he said his piece, he’d feel better.

“And you have perhaps been the most ungracious of all.” Fournier walked a circle around me as he spoke. “You spurn the home we’ve given you. And worse, you think to avail yourself of our extensive training, only to turn and use it against us? We who’ve fed you, clothed you?”

Nope, he wasn’t looking like he felt any better.

Total panic made me all sputtery and awkward. “I…I wasn’t spurning. I didn’t mean to spurn, like, at all. I was just…I needed to…”

“To find your mother?” He laughed at what must’ve been the expression of shocked dismay on my face. He knew I had a mother. Would he seek her out to kill her himself? “You silly child. Do you think I am merely some simpering school headmaster? I am more than you’ll ever understand. My reach extends further than your tiny mind could ever comprehend. I know your mother. And naturally Charlotte informed me of your plans. She was quite distressed that you took it upon yourself to murder our Alrik.”

Charlotte.
So she was in with the Directorate? One more slot to be filled in on my mental map of who was allied with whom.

“Do you really believe that you”—his eyes dragged along my body with disgust—“are more valuable than one such as Alrik Dagursson? Your conceit astounds me. I knew you to be arrogant. I knew you were foolish. But I had no idea of the depth of your crude, simpleminded, impulsive ways. I’d enjoy killing you even if you hadn’t just tried to flee the island.”

“Are you—” I was jittery, my breath coming in shallow sips. “Are you going to kill me, then?”

God help me, but I was almost relieved at the prospect. Maybe he’d at least make it quick. No buckets or bags of medieval torture devices.

“Not at first,” he said. “At first, I will make you talk.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“Um. Talk?” Please please please let it not be that bad. I was good under pressure—I could sprinkle enough truths among the lies I’d tell, making my fabrications sound real. I’d protect my friends, of course. Except for Josh—he was getting thrown under the bus. But Fournier still hadn’t asked anything, so I decided to get this show on the road. “What would you like to talk about?” I laughed nervously, and goddammit, why did I have to do stuff like that?

Fournier’s answering smile surprised me—and not in a good way. “We are going to talk about your fears, Acari Drew.” He began to stroke my hair from my face, as gently as a lover.

I was good under pressure, but this was proving to be a lot of pressure right out of the gate. My voice wavered as I said, “Fears?”

“Yes, child. Tell me, what are you afraid of?”

Losing those I loved.

But I didn’t say that. It came too close to the vulnerable heart of me. To the heart of my everything.

I held his gaze, ready to flatter, making myself believe the words I spoke next. “At the moment, what I’m afraid of most is you.” A white lie, but bearing truth enough.

Would he perceive the falsehood and kill me for it? Part of me hoped so. Just now, it was clear there were worse things than dying.

But he laughed.
Laughed.

Fournier chuckled warmly and stroked my hair. His hand slid down to cup my cheek. “I know you jest, young one.”

I froze. “I do?”

He tugged at the leather strap cutting across my chest. “I know that you fear being trapped here.” His hand traced up my body until he was threading his fingers back through my hair, cradling my skull. His eyes dilated, and like a blot of ink spreading, they turned from blue to black. Warmth suffused my brain, but not a pleasant warmth. It was the heat of a limb held too close to a flame, or the unnatural scald of one’s own blood flowing outside the body. “You fear being alone. This is why you pander like a dog to Carden.”

The warmth turned cool. Then cold. Icy fingers probed my brain.

He grew still. “Ah,” he said in the barest whisper. “But you are not bonded.”

I hardened my features, not letting anything show.

Pulling his hand away, he sucked in a breath, assessing this new knowledge. “I see there is something I’ve misunderstood. Something I’ve missed. Perhaps I am being too subtle,” he said. “Perhaps I should begin at the beginning. Addressing fears of a more physical nature.”

He moved out of my line of sight and began rustling around.

I craned my neck to see what he might be doing. “Ph-physical?”

“Yes, for example”—in an abrupt movement, he grabbed the lip of the bucket and, with very un-Fournierlike brutishness, he dragged it toward me with an ear-splitting scrape—“I know you fear water.”

He dipped a pitcher in the bucket and splashed my face. “You fear drowning,” he said, sounding almost bored. “Choking.” He angled his elbow, pouring the water in a heavier stream. “Sinking. The feel of water in your eyes, your ears.”

I tried to be brave, really I did. I tried to hold still, to show him I wouldn’t be cowed. I tried, but the water kept coming, until my most primal instincts took over, and my heels tried to hammer the table. It was no good; I was bound too securely. There was no budging. No escaping.

Ronan had taught me to swim, but only I could cure my fear. Overcoming my panic at the rush of water in my nose and mouth was something even he couldn’t teach.

He pulled my head up. “Brave girl. Would you like me to stop? Shall you tell me how you convinced Tom to ferry you off the island?”

“Tom had nothing—”

The water came again, an icy deluge slapping my face.

I couldn’t be brave any more. Something in me cracked, and I managed to turn away and suck in a quick breath.

He stopped pouring for a moment, and I thought I’d explode from the sheer joy of sucking air into my lungs. I coughed. Caught my breath.

“Is it someone other than the Draug Keeper?”

“Nobody is helping—”

“And still you lie.” He dipped the pitcher again then grabbed my jaw and wrenched up my chin. “I know you’ve practiced holding your breath. How long can you hold it whilst enduring the sensation of water flowing into your nostrils?” He poured and poured without stopping, until I began to sputter and choke, but his hand held me tightly. “You fear drowning. And it is in such visceral fears, such physical terrors, that we uncover one’s more, shall we say, metaphysical secrets. Tell me, Annelise, are you ready to share your secrets?”

Finally, he shoved my chin away, wrenching my neck sideways.

I coughed until my chest ached, and then I vomited until my throat burned, spewing water, and, finally, foam. Ropes of spittle hung from my lips.

It’d been a fatal mistake to think I could outwit him. I was barely following his words—I was too busy staying alive. My mind raced. I needed to come up with something because there was no way I was giving up someone as innocent as Tom the Draug Keeper.

“Would you like me to stop? Have you aught to say? You say nobody has helped you, but surely there is one who is your ally.”

He scrutinized me as my brutal hacking slowly dissipated into dry-heaves. When I finally finished, I blinked the tears from my eyes and met his gaze. I donned vampire-worthy good manners like armor. “In this, I have acted alone, Master Fournier. The arrogance and disrespect are solely my own. But I am ready to repent. I will tell you whatever you like.”

Fake it till you make it
, and in that instant of fakery, I felt a fresh burst of courage. Of rebellion. I didn’t have much, but I did have my dignity. I refused to be broken. And I was going to buy myself some time.

He made a little
hmph
sound, then after a pause, pulled a pristine handkerchief from his breast pocket, acting the refined Fournier once more, and dabbed at my lips. “Then enough of this vulgarity. Let us be honest with each other. What role does Tracer Ronan play in your drama?”

It wasn’t the question I’d expected. My breath hitched, setting off a fresh round of coughing.

I’d thought he’d ask about my escape, what I knew of my mother, and then there was Carden’s mysterious cause that I kept getting hints of…but Ronan? That was one place I dared not let my mind wander. Carden was a vampire who had no trouble watching his own back. But not Ronan. I needed to keep him out of this, no matter what. I could do that one thing for him. Aside from my mother, he was the one person in this whole mess I wanted protected above all others.

Fournier had my chin between his fingers again, holding me like a vise, staring deep into my eyes. His pupils expanded, contracted, as he searched for something.