Page 28 of All Saints Day
“Alright, Rook,” I do my best to keep my voice steady. “I don’t know what I can tell you that you don’t already know,” I begin carefully.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that—Dollface.” Rook grins back at me in a way that showcases the sharp edge of his canines. “You’re holding out on us, and the Windmill needs some of those pesky details you’ve been hush-hush about.” He gets right up in my space, his hips squared against mine—my chin pinched between his thumb and forefinger as he turns my face up toward his.
“Maybe you didn’t hear me correctly,” I purr sweetly, battingmy lashes at him. “I don’t know what I can tell that you don’t already know.” I allow my body to press against his, even though I’m skirting the edge of panic. I don’t know what thisRookis like, and I don’t particularly want to find out, but this might be my best and only chance of making some kind of breakthrough. “You know Frank. You know how he hides things.”
Rook’s wicked grin stretches nearly ear to ear at my words.
“Ah, Frankie boy knows more than he’s telling, hm?” he taunts, his face drawing close enough to mine that I can feel his breath on my skin—our lips nearly touching.
“He’s the one you should be asking.” My heart pounds as Rook’s grip tightens on my chin.
“It’s too bad for you that Frank is such a goddamn coward,” he growls. “You’ll pay the price for his silence—unless you give me what I want.”
“And what is it that you want?” I manage to gasp out as Rook slowly guides me toward the wall—his body pinning me to the lush, dark green wallpaper—our lips about to touch.
“I think it would be easier for me to list all the things I don’t want than to try telling you all the things I desire,” Rook purrs dangerously, his hand moving from my chin to drape across my throat.
My heart pounds—the gentle ghost of his fingers across my neck drawing my panic to the surface.
“What do you think I can tell you that I haven’t already?” I swallow—painfully aware of my throat bobbing beneath Rook’s palm.
“We know that you factor into the cure; we just don’t know how. Evidence suggests that your parents were successful in developing a treatment—possibly a preventative vaccine as well,” Rook’s voice rasps as he eyes me eagerly, waiting to spring like a trap.
“I can’t tell you any more than you already know,” I repeat, knowing that I am treading on dangerous ground. I’ve held out on calling Frank out on his selective release of information to theWindmill in the hopes that he might secretly be on my side—just playing the bad guy for the benefit of his employers, the Windmill, until we can escape.
With this latest revelation—the arrival of Rook on the scene—I don’t know what to think anymore. I just know that I want to survive this round of interrogation, and the outlook is already not good.
“Louise, tch-tch-ch,” Rook clicks his tongue disapprovingly, his grip slowly closing around my throat—not enough to completely deprive me of oxygen, but enough to make it clear that I’m only breathing because he allows it. “This will go a lot easier if we’re just open and honest with one another.”
I have a choice; give in, give Rook a bone to carry back to his masters in order to spare myself his wrath—or double down of my refusal by spitting in his eye; literally or figuratively—though Frank at least seemed to like the spitting a bit too much to go the literal route.
Since I wasn’t aware of Frank and his existing system—I’m blind to how many alters he might have, which ones I might have seen versus which one’s might still be lurking beneath the surface; who the host is—if that changes based on surroundings and needs.
My experience with individuals suffering from dissociative identity disorder has been almost entirely academic. In school, I read countless case studies, then later when I first joined the BSU—I had several interview reviews of Sandra Cohn—the family annihilator who suffered from DID, but still took responsibility for her part in the murders of her entire family.
Until Frank, I hadn’t met any systems in person—at least, not to my knowledge. Even so, I knew from textbooks and case notes and everything in between that aggravating a fronting alter is never a good idea. Bringing up specific things that might be triggering for either the fronting alter—the ‘personality’ currently in charge—or for the host was likely an unwise decision.
Unfortunately, my time was running out, and I had to choosebetween giving in and giving Rook hell; and there wasn’t any way I was going to spill for the Windmill now, not after I’d come this far. I’d keep my secrets, or I would die trying.
“Fine, if we’re being open and honest with one another—why don’t you get Frank back out here. You’re obviously the loose cannon he has to bring out when he can’t put on his big-boy pants,” I grit out, doing my best to rise off the wall under Rook’s grip. “I don’t have time for some alter who doesn’t know what the fuck is going on minute-to-minute,” I snip out with the last of my fake bravery.
Rook’s eyes widen, a manic smile cracking, splitting his face in two.
“Oooh, you’ve got a filthy little mouth. That little pussy Frankie always liked tough talk—but I walk the walk,” he giggles unnervingly before closing his grip over my throat—my airway momentarily blocked as he slams me once against the wall. The back of my head ricochets before Rook lets go, allowing me to tumble to the floor on my hands and knees.
I have only a few seconds to grasp at my throat, unblocked but still afire with pain. My vision crowds with dark stars after hitting my head before Rook grabs a fistful of my hair—yanking me to my feet by my auburn tresses.
“You don’t want to talk to me? Let’s see if we can’t loosen that tongue a bit,” Rook growls as he drags me toward the tank of water at the far end of the room. My panic threatens to spill over as we reach the bottom of the tiled steps.
“What makes you think I’d tell you anything I wouldn’t tell Frank?” I try to keep up a brave face but tears stream down my cheeks and my whole body shakes with terror as Rook uncoils the heavy rope from the brass cleat on the wall, a large metal hook looped through the opposite end of the rope descending from the ceiling as the metal pulley squeals overhead.
“Because with that pussy, Frank wouldn’t have wanted you to drown in this here tank.” Rook beams, catching the large metal hook with his free hand—the other still fisted in my hair. “And I don’t give a flying fuck,” he spits, threading the hook beneath the joined chain of my handcuffs.
As strong as I’d tried to be until this point, I couldn’t take back the tiny, petrified, “no!” that escapes my lips as Rook lets go of my hair—both hands on the rope as he hoists me into the air, my body swaying over the rippling tank below.
“Oh yes, Dollface—you are going to have a nice swim unless you want to start talking about what kind of nasty business your parents got up to for the department of reproduction,” he sing-songs, moving to the wall where a pair of weighted shackles hang.
“You wouldn’t have to do this if you could just get Frank to talk to you,” I spit desperately, lashing out any way I can in a vain attempt at saving myself.
