Touching Smoke (29 page)

“Well, you might as well sit down,” he said shortly. “No point standing there like mindless pigeons.” I scowled at the comparison, but followed Isaiah’s lead and sat in the same chair as the day before. Garrison sighed, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers under his nose. “I just want to come right out and tell you both just how disappointed I am in you for yesterday’s behavior. It was simply appalling!” he sat back, crossing one leg over the other as he observed us flatly. “David, the guard you attacked, he’s fine, and in case you were wondering, he lost a lot of blood and his face is badly scarred, but he’ll survive.” I hated that I actually felt relieved to hear it. I genuinely didn’t want to hurt anyone, certainly not kill anyone, even if
he
had started it. Garrison continued. “Would either of you like to explain what happened?”

I didn’t and I made that clear by turning my head away, preferring the view of smooth, stone walls to answering. Isaiah must have been thinking the same thing, because he remained tightlipped as well.

Garrison sighed. “I see. Well,” he rose to his feet, running a hand down his front, a habit I was beginning to notice he did a lot, “it’s clear that you are both adamant to be as miserable as possible despite all my best efforts to make you comfortable. So, let me just make one thing perfectly clear,” he straightened, peering down the length of his long nose at us.
“This
could have all been very different, had you only cooperated!”

 Isaiah and I only had enough time to exchange glances, confusion wrapping around us like a thick blanket, when we were grabbed from behind. Neither of us had heard the guards move or more guards enter the terrace, but there was suddenly a small army around us, grabbing us, forcing us to our feet, sending our chairs screeching and crashing to the ground and tearing us apart to stand on opposite ends of the table. I noticed, faintly, that there were more guards holding me than Isaiah. This fact was both terrifying and baffling. All I could think was it was because of what happened yesterday morning. They were extra cautious with the monster that could tear off faces with her bare hands.

“What are you doing, Garrison?” Isaiah snarled, thrashing against the trio holding him back.

There were four pairs of hands bruising my upper arms and my wrists, twisting my hands behind my back while another arm banded like steel across my shoulders. I tried to fight them off, wrenching my body every which way, but their grips only became more biting, cruel. They’d been warned not to give me an inch. The arm around my shoulders slipped up to loop around my throat in a chokehold. I gagged and sputtered as a rock-hard forearm pressed into my windpipe.

“Get off her!” I could distantly hear Isaiah bellowing a short distance away, the men holding him grunting and having a harder time keeping him under control, unlike the group holding me, which was no doubt like restraining a small child. “You son of a bitch!” Isaiah spat at Garrison. “I swear to God…”

One of the men kicked the back of Isaiah’s knees, sending him slamming down onto his kneecaps without any bracing from his hands. He cried out, momentarily stilling, his head falling forward, his hair forming a curtain around his pained expression. I felt rather than heard the growl tear free of my esophagus.

As calm as the breeze weaving through the roses, Garrison stalked towards him, hands clasped neatly at his back. He stared down at Isaiah with an air of self-importance, maybe a pinch of loathing, though I couldn’t imagine why. “I’m working on a theory,” he said. Then he moved away, turning to me, his eyes narrowed, cold, calculating. “That isn’t enough,” he said to the guards holding me. “Ducard!”

Ducard turned out to be a giant, no less than nine feet tall with arms the size of tree trunks and hands the size of baseball mitts. He ambled forward, beady eyes squinting, and the ground beneath our feet rumbled. When he reached me, he stopped; I shrank away, coming up against the guy behind me.

“Take her,” Garrison said, jerking a chin in my direction.

“Get away from her!” Isaiah roared, struggling to get to his feet.

“Restrain him!” Garrison bellowed, sparing Isaiah only a fleeting glance over his shoulder. Just as quickly, his attention returned to me. I was his main focus. I trembled with the ice flowing through my veins.

All four pairs of hands restraining me, even the arm cutting off my oxygen, dropped away and for that split second, my flight or fight reflexes kicked in. My feet turned to the door, while the rest of me turned to Isaiah, my mind already determined to save him. But that fragmented indecision was all Ducard needed to grab me, spin me around and thrust me back against his chest, knocking the wind out of me. His arms threaded around me from behind like individual straps, crisscrossing all the way down my torso. Iron shackles clamped down around my legs, thigh to ankle. Completely unable to even breath without cracking a rib. A weak whimper escaped me, coming out wheezy as I fought to draw splintered shards of air into my lungs. The effort only earned further restriction from my jailer until I was sputtering, blinking back blotches of light flashing in front of my eyes. My head rolled forward. My vision blurred, and for a second, I blamed lack of oxygen for what I saw — rows of arms, thirteen pairs in all, slashing down my body, mummifying me. Ducard was a human centipede and I was squished right up flat against him, not that that was my biggest concern at that moment.

“You’re hurting her!” Isaiah’s voice pounded in my ears, pleading, hoarse, pain-ridden.

 “Don’t let go!” Garrison told Ducard.

“Yes sir,” Ducard grumbled.

Face aglow with satisfaction; Garrison drew away, tapping a finger to his bottom lip, all the appearances of a painter taking a step back to observe his masterpiece. The glint in his eye said loudly that this was exactly how he saw himself, as an artist.

“What do you want?” I croaked, lips tingling lips dangerously.

Garrison ignored me, turning narrowed eyes towards one of the guards standing by the open, and still shattered, terrace doors. “Now.”

Inclining his head, the man stepped forward. He wasn’t as imposing as Ducard. He wasn’t as slight or athletic as David. He was fairly average, someone’s older brother in high school, barely old enough to drink. He came to a stop in front of Isaiah, face a careful blank slate, but I knew, even before he drew his arm back, what he was going to do, and I was fighting when the crack of flesh against flesh split the air.

“No! Please, stop!” My pleading was ignored. Another crunch filled the air, followed by Isaiah’s grunt. Blood spattered from his nose and I knew it was broken as the crimson river splashed down his front, soaking his crisp, white shirt. “Please! Stop!” I sobbed.

“Don’t stop!” Garrison commanded, although he didn’t have to; the guy looked nowhere near ready to call it quits. He hit Isaiah repeatedly, spraying blood across the polished floor.

“Why are you doing this?” I screamed, fighting Ducard, wiggling like an inchworm and making about as much progress breaking free as a mouse in a trap. “Why are you doing this? Stop! Please! I’ll do whatever you want, just stop hurting him!”

“You know what I want!” Garrison hissed, green eyes never once shifting away from me, not even to watch his handiwork. I was his main focus, and I had no idea why.

I shook my head, rocking it violently from side to side, sending tendrils swinging. “I don’t! Please, I don’t! Tell me! I’ll do it. Whatever it is, I’ll do it!”

“No!” Isaiah slurred before a fist caught him in the mouth.

Garrison said nothing. He rocked back on his heels, waiting patiently for something to happen while the sickening sound of pounding meat reverberated through the balmy air. My wild sobs, my screams of profanity, of pleading, mangled with Isaiah’s low groans, his ragged breathing, the guy’s panting and the roar of the ocean.

“How much longer will you let him suffer?” Garrison asked, having to yell over my wails.

“I don’t know what you want!”

“Yes you do!” he roared, taking a threatening step forward.

“I don’t! I don’t!”

“Maybe she just needs a little more… persuading.” Maia clipped forward on her teetering heels, a frighteningly long dagger gripped in her hands. The sun scraped the razor-sharp blade, sparking fire.

My breath caught. My heart plummeted. My world tilted. “No! No, please…”

Her long fingers fisted in Isaiah’s hair, yanking his head back, exposing his jugular. She slanted a sadistic smirk over her shoulder at me. “I bet I could make our pretty little monkey dance.”

It was bad enough seeing Isaiah’s face, a battered maze of raw meat and rivers of deep gashes, but when the blade kissed his throat, … I lost the little restraint still gripping me to sanity. The world shuddered, plunging into a vat of crimson.

Her!
The demon pacing in me snarled.
Her! Her! Her! Her! I want her blood!

Yes! I wanted to scream. Hers! It had to be hers. I wanted it spilling through my fingers. I wanted to watch the life fade from her eyes. I trembled with the blood lust, no longer struggling beneath the crushing hold.

“I
am
going to kill you!” The barely controlled promise spilled from my lips, but the low, demonic voice was alien to my ears. 

Unnaturally pleased about something, Maia curled her lips back in an arrogant smirk. “There she is.”

Garrison clapped his hands, startling me. “Good job, Maia! Well done!” He moved towards me, confident that I was thoroughly restrained, and maybe I was. It didn’t matter because I knew what I would do the second I was released and eventually I would be. He stopped in front of me, glee shining on his face. His fingers were cold and scaly like a lizard’s when he grabbed my jaw, twisting my headfirst right then left. “Fascinating!” He breathed, searching my face like a man holding the biggest lump of gold in his hands. “Take her down.”

“No…!” The wind swallowed Isaiah’s garbled protest.

The eight or so pairs of arms circling my legs, unwound, slithering back like snakes. I would have been seriously grossed out, but I was more focused on bidding my time, waiting… waiting… for the perfect opportunity to strike. So, when the last arm dropped away, I sprung, using my weight and Ducard’s support to heft myself just high enough to kick. I didn’t have a specific spot in mind, but when my foot caught Garrison straight between the legs, well, it was a pleasant bonus. Unfortunately for me, my victorious pleasure at watching the man blanch and drop to his knees, cupping himself, was short lived. With a snarl, Maia dove at me, a wild-eyed beauty with a frighteningly sharp blade in her hand. I tried to kick again, but she dodged it without breaking stride and slammed her dagger-wielding hand, knuckles first, into my jaw. My head snapped back. Copper flooded my mouth and dribbled down my chin.

“Bitch!” the beauty shrieked, drawing her arm back for another hit.

“No!” coughing and wheezing, Garrison struggled to his feet, shaking away the hands fumbling to assist him. “I need her unharmed… for now!” The last part was said with a cold sneer in my direction. His lizard-skinned fingers grabbed my face, hard, bruising. I cried out despite my attempts not to. He jerked me forward so our faces were inches apart. “Nothing I’m about to do to you will be pleasant. I promise.”

I was taken to a room with shocking white walls and a slab of steel gleaming beneath blinding lights. My dress was forcibly removed, torn from my body by Maia and replaced by a thin, paper gown of white. Then, I was strapped to the table and left to roast beneath the lights.

Minutes passed. Maybe it was only seconds, but they lasted for ages. By the time the door opened and someone entered, I was sure I had light burn.

“Comfortable?” Maia approached the table to leer down into my face.

I squinted at her, eyes watering. “Don’t you own anything besides spandex?” I wondered out loud.

She smiled cat-like. “No need to put on a brave face, pretty monkey. There’s no one here to see it.”

I turned my head away, mostly because the position pressed my shoulder blades into the table, making them ache. But lying flat had me facing the light again, and I wasn’t about to ask her to turn them down. I compromised. I closed my eyes, which was probably really stupid considering she could be there to torture me. But then again, I wasn’t sure I wanted to see whatever she was going to do either.

I peeped out of one eye. “Where’s Isaiah?” I asked at long last when it became apparent she was just going to stand there and watch me.

She blinked her doe-like eyes in feigned surprise. “Oh! How silly of me. Of course you want to see him I’m sure.”

Wary suspicion had me watching closely as she clipped to the wall by my feet. She pressed a small section in the corner and panel slid open, revealing a series of buttons. Her fingers moved agilely, keying in a sequence with her blood-red fingernails. A second later, something beeped and the entire wall shifted and rose like curtains at a theater. Behind it was a massive screen — cinema massive. On the screen was Isaiah. For a moment, I expected him to be hurt, dying, being tortured, or any number of horrendous things. Instead, he was in a similar room, his body painted with the blood from his injuries. He was the only color in the otherwise white room. Most of his injuries had begun to heal and I started to take that as a good sign when I noticed the oddity of the walls around him. They weren’t very far apart; I’d seen closets bigger. There was just enough room for a single person to stand upright, which was what Isaiah was doing, but his body must have sustained a lot of injuries because he kept swaying. Every so often, he’d tilt too close to one of the walls, but he’d jerk and catch himself. For a moment, I didn’t understand why. Then I saw them.