Page 19 of All Saints Day
Louise
I’ve only just managed to roll up onto my hands and knees, my body already near its limit after my earlier torture session with Frank this morning.
While I have managed to get down some food and my blood sugar has buoyed, my arms and legs have been hyper extended and overdrawn by being hung upside down and chained to the metal St. Andrew’s Cross for hours—my regular regimen of sleep and calorie deprivation between torture sessions have only served to further break me down.
By the time Frank actually sweeps in through the torture chamber door, I’m actually considering giving in—just blurting everything out and succumbing to their demands for a momentary sliver of true relief—and with luck, a painless death once the Windmill no longer has a use for me.
Then I feel a glimmer of hope along the mating bond—Sébastien, Quentin, and Cazimer all resonating in harmony; the memory of hyssop, thyme, and sea-salt caressing my mind, soothing my raw heartstrings.
Dennis!
Whatever crackpot plan they're hatching—they’ve managed to get a hold of our final missing mate. Though I can’t feel Dennis through the bond yet, I can feel the anticipation of the others, the golden rays of hope that a union with one of the missing pieces of our puzzle will bring us closer to one another, to peace.
Like the cruel flip of a coin, Frank’s face fills my vision as he bends down over me. I struggle to kneel upright on the cold tile floor.
“C’mon, we’re taking a little field trip today.” Frank grins, motioning with a set of cuffs in his hands for me to present my wrists.
“What? You can’t just beat me senseless in the usual spot? Am I starting to bore you, Francis?” I do my best to rally, summoning as much attitude as I can muster.
“I was thinking it was about time I took you somewhere nice,” he seethes, clapping me in the handcuffs.
“Oooh, are we going to D’Orsea?” I tease as he produces a black nylon bag from his back pocket, doing my best to master my fear as he snaps it open and prepares to pull it down over my head.
“I would have tried to make reservations there, but I know you’ve got absolutely nothing to wear,” Frank sneers, pulling the bag down over my head before he shoves me to my feet.
“I thought you said I had a great ass? This dress really plays to my strengths,” I lob back as my dirty hospital johnny flaps open behind me as Frank gives me another shove forward.
“Walk,” he instructs with a cruel laugh.
I swallow my panic as I take one tentative step and then another.
Frank could just be walking me to my cell, or he could be walking me off a cliff. At this point, I’m not sure which would be worse—but my animal fear threatens to crush me as I step softly into the unknown.
“Not so tough when you have to surrender your precious control, hm?” Frank growls in my ear as we make our way slowly away from my cell—the sounds of our footfalls and the click of the safety on his gun echoing in the bubble of quiet that surrounds us.
My heartbeat thunders in my ears, and I give a little jumpwhen Frank bites out the word “stop,” after what feels like an age of silence.
I hear the beep of a keypad and the whirring of a lock mechanism. Then there’s the quiet hiss of a hydraulically assisted door opener, and a puff of air, drier and sweeter than what I’ve been used to in my cell.
“Walk,” Frank instructs again, and I draw up short as I place a bare foot down on an unfamiliar surface.
“C’mon, we don’t have all day, Sweetheart,” he grouses as he shoves me forward again, my feet treading the soft, warm carpet carefully.
I don’t know where Frank has taken me, but something tells me that the improvement of the accommodations isn’t synonymous with safety—despite the instant comfort the change from clammy tile to warm dry carpet brings.
“What, are you going to serve me pheasant under glass before you waterboard me?” I bluster as I totter down the hallway, struggling not to hyperventilate with the building panic.
“Ooh, what a good idea—maybe we can do that next time,” Frank tuts thoughtfully as we continue my blind descent into the bowels of this hellish facility.
A surprised yelp escapes me as I bump gently into a wall.
“Sorry, I keep forgetting you can’t see shit,” Frank teases. “To your right,” he taunts as my handcuffed hands cast over the cool, eggshell texture of the wall.
Vaguely, I register that while I am blindfolded and unable to see my surroundings, Frank has guided me from the holding cells into another, seemingly less secure, area of the facility.
Silently, I curse myself for not counting every pace earlier—but now that I’m keenly aware of my path; I can begin to surreptitiously map my way in my mind’s eye.
Could Frank possibly be doing this on purpose? Or has he simply been counting on my weariness and panic to nullify any potential benefit I might gain from taking some stock of my surroundings?
