Page 22 of All Saints Day
The shot of pain through my spine sends my adrenaline into near-blackout overdrive; his grip like a hard collar, forcing my head back, my gaze turned up to regard him.
“A pleasure to meet you at last, Louise Penny—I’m Rook.”
Chapter 9
Frank
It was a mistake to drink so much, should have put a bullet in my head and just been done with it.
Now Louise may pay for my cowardice—for my pride.
I lead her down the hallway from the main interrogation chamber to the rooms that the Windmill has set aside for prestige interrogations—for the most luxuriant of tortures.
If I can break through to her during this session, if I can somehow manage to get her to exchange bites—then she’ll be able to see it all; everything I can’t say, all the truths I could tell her that could possibly set her free…There’s a possibility of escape from the east wing of headquarters, unlike the cold white tiled rooms of the west wing—an impenetrable fortress of fear and pain.
Michael is hot on my heels as we make our way through the heavy metal doorway that separates the rabbit warren of west wing corridors from the central halls and more luxurious east wing.
“Why are you taking her to his room?” he spits angrily as Louise stumbles blindly forward down the hallway. I give him a look but stay silent—Louise can still hear me after all. “You know Rook has lots of fond memories of that place—it’s like you’re trying to call him out!” Michael snaps, flailing his arms wildly as if it will change my mind or redirect my course.
I look away from him—watching Louise as my stomach turns over, sour and full of booze. Michael is probably right, but I don’tknow what else to do. I can feel my grip on reality slipping—Rook pushing his way to the fore.
Louise’s fingers reach gingerly for the wall at her side to guide her.
“Take another right, keep going—hands off the wall,” I bark, and Louise jumps slightly, her biology forcing her to comply.
“If we take the hood off of her—if we tell her everything we can as fast as possible; it could be the best chance we have to get her to bite us, to make her see!” Michael pleads, one hand braced in the closed door frame just ahead of Louise and I—just short of blocking our entrance.
“Stop!” I snap—at Michael just as much as Louise. He falls silent, and she falls still.
For a split second I contemplate taking Michael’s advice—but I’ve already begun to lose control; my hands moving on their own as I produce a key from the large brass ring hanging from my belt and unlock the door.
Things start kicking off sideways—time slowing and warping, everything appearing as if through a thick pane of petrified amber sap.
I start seeing myself in viewfinder photo tableaus—removing the hood from Louise’s head, repeating the same threats I’ve repeated for months, hating myself, wondering why I couldn’t have just slipped beneath the surface of my bathwater and blissfully out of existence.
For the briefest of moments—I return to myself; Louise’s body braced against mine, my face buried in her hair.
“They’ll give you to me.” The words are out of my mouth before I can take them back.
I feel her breath hitch.
“All you need to do is say that you’ll be mine,” I have to hold back my tears as my lips press to her earlobe just above Sébastien’s bonding bite—his sweet neroli, ginger, and oud scent spreading over my tongue as I nibble her flesh gently.
Louise shudders beneath my touch, her ownperfume mingling with the ghost of Sébastien’s scent as her body responds to mine—fated mates.
If I can get her to lower her defenses—to glance at the bond like she did that day in the hot tub at the cabin—I might just be able to allow a bite.
The cameras and microphones are still on us though, and I can’t stray from my script or we’ll be locked down—scores of Windmill agents on us in an instant. So, I do what I can, playing my part.
“They’ll put you under for the trip to the estate Lowry mentioned, and by the time you wake, all of this could be like a bad dream you’ve left behind,” I whisper against Louise’s ear, tears streaming down her face.
She turns her face to me, those cinnamon eyes fluttering open through her silent sobs.
“What did they do to you to make you like this?” Her words are like hot oil—my slipping sanity, a struck match hovering above; ready to set the blaze.
Again I am caught in the rapid cycling of viewfinder scenery; watching the black glossy wood of Michael’s casket lowering into the damp earth from a pair of binoculars—I’m holding Mike’s lifeless, blood-soaked body in my arms, sobbing.
No, no, no. I can’t see this. I don’t want to see any of this. Close the door, lock everything behind it. Never open it again.
