Page 89 of All Saints Day
For the moment, we are neither hunter nor hunted—simply allowed to be. While I know it won't last long—that more likely than not, we will become lost to each other at the hands of the Windmill, sooner rather than later—still, I clutch desperately to Louise, and this moment of peace.
“You’re too good to me—to allow me this. It’s far more than I deserve,” I sigh against her skin, warmed by the golden light—scented with creamy iris, that juicy green apple tang, and sweet-spicy pink pepper.
Louise cups my face in her golden hands, her eyes soft and sad, but wet with love.
“I can allow you nothing if you don't save yourself. If you don't save us,” she murmurs sorrowfully before pressing her lips to mine.
“I'm sorry, Frank—but there isn't enough time. Whatever happens, I need you to trust me. No matter what you see I need you to promise me you will get the others out… Even if there is no hope for me, I want you to promise that you will take our omega and the rest of our pack and get them far, far away from the Windmill. Do you understand?”
“I-I swear to you, from this moment forward, I am blade, made only for your hand.” I clasp her wrists and turn my face so that my lips press into the palm of her hand.
She brings her face to mine once more—our lips barely grazing one another.
“Lucifer, my Morning Star,” I whisper against her lips as we join together in one last tender kiss.
I awake to the rattling of my chains. Compton, along with two of his minions, has come to fetch me from my dank room, deep in the research facility.
I’d heard rumors about the Alaskan facility since I joined up as a teen, about what was kept here.
It isn't until I’m herded down the corridor with an electric cattle prod—as my handlers do their best to keep me from peering through the tiny viewfinders of bulletproof glass at my soon-to-be-neighbors—that I really begin to understand the extent of what is going on here.
Men, women, and everyone in between. Old and young, those who don’t even resemble humans anymore—the shadowy figures in corners that seem to stretch the limits of what it means to be human.
I am hurried down the corridors, so I can't look too long at any of my compatriots, but I am certain that this place… is where Compton has brought me to die.
As such, I am somewhat unprepared when Compton appears, his face florid with rage and drink.
I nearly gag at the fumes of whiskey on his breath as he pulls his face in close to mine.
“Alright, Frankie, time for you to take your front-row seat to a little show I've prepared just for you.” His speech is just barely slurred, but I can tell from the fluttering of his eyelids and the slow tracking of his eyes that he's well and good into the territory of intoxication, even if his voice and his hands are somewhat steady; the sign of a true functioning alcoholic.
Panic grips me as I reach across the bond to find Louise and the others echoing behind her; all of them bent on a suicide mission into the facility at which I am kept.
The Alaska facility is nothing like the Country Estate—these terrible walls hold sinister weapons, and even more deadly secrets. The entire place is armed to the teeth; guards, alarms, and even automated security defense systems that Louise and the Saints simply lack the manpower and firepower topenetrate.
Such a dangerous fortress, and yet I can feel down the bond that they are staying their course.
Compton has his goons escort me down the hall past the other ‘residents’ of this sad and twisted place toward the empty mess hall—where perhaps once in the past, or some day in the future, the Windmill intends to socialize us monsters with one another; the large open room is reminiscent of a high school cafeteria and auditorium merged with an old school panopticon prison yard.
All around the circular room, automated laser tracking systems lay dormant, waiting for the slightest word from Compton to swing into wakefulness.
The stage has been set with an inversion table and surgery bed—a small table of tools positioned between the two.
As the guards muscle me onto the inversion table, belting me against its cool metal surface, my eyes fall onto the table of tools; forceps, a scalpel, several hooked instruments, along with a selection of filled syringes lay on a bed of pale blue paper.
A cold, creeping fear bubbles up from my stomach as the pieces fall into place.
“I'm sure you already know, pesky mating bonds and all of that,” Compton grouses as he unbuttons his shirt sleeves and rolls them above his elbows. “But that sigma bitch, and her little Saints are already on their way.”
I strain against my bindings, but it's no use.
“Lucky for you, I've saved you a spot right here, where you can watch it all.”
“WhereIcan watch Louise Penny give you one right between the eyes before she waltzes out of here with four of the deadliest men you've ever met? Sure, I'll watch that,” I goad him.
Compton lets out a hysterical laugh before he slugs me in the jaw.
“Sure, you're talking tough now, Frankie, but you know what that is?” Compton beams, his eyes darting to a syringe filled with a sickly yellow liquid on the table below.
