Dark Future (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-eight

T
he draft was what finally forced me inside. The wind had picked up, beating at my shirt and slashing my hair around my face. Searching for a way inside, I walked to the wood door and pounded to be heard above the rising howl. A small metal plate opened, revealing a pair of brown eyes surro grime wood dunded by sagging skin and deep lines.

“Thought you’d stay out there all day. Ready to come in now, are you?” said a voice, muddled with a thick accent.

I nodded, not up to having conversation.

Metal protested as it slid against metal, shrilling its displeasure. Then a large double door opened, squeaking from lack of use. An old woman appeared, black hair shot through with white and cut in short style that framed her smallish head. Her heavy gray robes seemed cumbersome as she struggled to encourage the door open.

She waved me in, and with a grunt indicated that I needed to help with securing the door. After the awkward metal bar was jimmied into place, she turned. Her perceptive eyes assessed me from head to toe. “Eh, you look like you’ve had a hard time of it. Your owner needs to take better care of ye.”

I bristled at the “owner” comment, but let it pass. An overwhelming fatigue gripped me, and the mere thought of enlightening limited views was exhausting.

She beckoned with her hand and shuffled forward. “Follow me. We’ll get you rested up. Feelin’ like new in no time.”

Grateful, I followed her down a shadowy corridor that opened into a common room of sorts. High, vaulted ceilings were accented with airy sky windows that let in the soft afternoon light. Lush, bright-colored rugs and body-sized pillows were thrown on the floor, inviting long afternoons of lounging and hushed intimate conversations. Bright intricate paintings lined the walls, depicting nature and various tasteful nudes. In the center was a circular fountain bubbling fragrant water, scented with jasmine and lavender, among floating flowers.

I breathed a sigh of relief. Women were here. Civilization was here. We
had
crawled out of the swamp and evolved. I choked back my embarrassment as tears sprang to my eyes. I hadn’t known how the gray utilitarian environment had affected me. I needed this oasis, this sanctuary. The rough ride over the last few days had depleted all my energy reserves. ConRad said this was a safe place. I had to believe him, believe I could let my guard down and stop being hunted.

“Nice, yes?” The old woman stopped and turned once she realized I wasn’t following. “The women decided that if they were forced into the Sanctuary by their owners, then they’d sure make ’em foot the bill.” She laughed a deep and cackling sound, her eyes almost lost behind excess folds of skin.

“Your room’s down here. We’re too full up for single ones so you’ll have to share wavea circulith Mistress Ana, but she’s due any day now so you’ll get the room to yourself soon enough. When are you due?”

“Do what?” My mind must’ve slipped. I couldn’t seem to follow a regular conversation.

“Your baby. When are you due to give birth?” Her eyes traveled to my flat belly.

“I’m not pregnant,” I said, surprised at how defensive my voice sounded. Surprised, and some other emotion mixed in that I didn’t want to pinpoint.

She snorted as if not believing me. “Your owner sure paid enough for your entry. Thought for sure you’d be breeding.”

Guilt and shame washed over me at the thought of ConRad having to hand over his own money. I had no idea what ConRad’s financial situation was, but I hated the thought of being a burden.

“My name’s Kris. And yours?” This conversation was too personal not to be at least on a first name basis.

“I’m Mother of the House, but everyone just calls me Mother.”

I grunted an affirmative, but I would
not
be calling this woman “Mother.” I was led down a long corridor and taken to a small airy room with twin beds covered in thick patchwork quilts and a skinned dead animal thrown on the floor as a rug.

Sprawled over one of the two beds that lined the walls was presumably the overdue Mistress Ana. Her hair was pulled up in a messy knot on top of her head. Dark wisps stuck to her flush cheeks, round from pregnancy. One hand rested on an overly extended belly as her other hand whipped a fan furiously in front of her face. Her toes, pointed in my direction, had the look of five pork sausages plumped to near bursting.

“Lord, I hope you brought cooler weather with you. I think I’m gonna pass out from this heat.”

I hadn’t noticed the heat, and in fact, it had been a little chilly outside, but then again, I wasn’t the one who looked like an overfilled water balloon.

“Mistress Ana, let her catch her breath and then get acquainted,” said the Mother of the House, then she turned to me. “You can rest now. Dinner is served at the seventh bell chime down in the dining room past the fountain. If you’d like to wash up, there’s a bathing chamber at the end of the hall.”

I nodded again, my only thoughts—naked, bath, bed, and maybe not necessarily in that order.

D
uring the first few days after ConRad had left, I railed against the separation. Would ConRad be okay? Would he be able to slip past Syon and his men, and finally extract the justice he craved? For days, my worry for ConRad’s life kept me pacing the common area and running up the circular staircase to the lookout tower. I alternated between praying for ConRad’s return and terrified of Syon’s arrival. I couldn’t relax enough to grasp the concept that I was safe. That Syon couldn’t touch me here.

A week went by with no incident, then two, and finally, the Elders came. But not for me. Ana had gone into labor and according to custom only the holy sect of the Elders could attend the birth. The bell in the tower was rung, and I helped carry Ana to the birthing room off the grounds. The dank, airless structure was small, bearing only a stiff straw cot and leather straps attached to the wooden walls.

With a tightening sickness in my stomach, I watched as the other woman tied Ana to the bed. Her face was pale and drawn with worry, but she patted my hand anyway. “Don’t worry, it’s better this way,” she said. “The Elders want to make sure I don’t fight and hurt my baby.”

I nodded past the lump in my throat and swallowed every medical opinion I had. I’d learned from my episode with Zimm. There were times when my knowledge could help a person, and then there were times when it killed.

“It’ll be okay,” I said, promising, despite my concern.

But it wasn’t. Less than forty-eight hours later Ana was back in our room exhausted, drugged, and without a baby. Her daughter had been stillborn, and was already buried in the Sanctuary’s graveyard.

In the following week I saw very little of Ana, since she spent all of her time in the Sanctuary’s small chapel, and I spent all of mine in bed. The shroud of heartbreak Ana wore was impenetrable, and besides, I was worthless. A perpetual exhaustion dogged my steps like a bad habit, making me realize my recovery from prison would be hard won.

There was a lazy quality to my days and as much as I missed ConRad, I couldn’t help but agree that the reprieve had been good for me. In the four weeks I’d been at the Sanctuary the hardened muscles in my neck softened. My jaw stayed unclenched for hours, and my night terrors? Well, they were still there, but less, more like a silent movie than full-colored cinema. I watched now as a spectator, no longer the lead role.

Clr="eight="0emoudless skies had warmed the last few days, and this particular afternoon was sticky. Windows throughout the Sanctuary had been flung open. And a light breeze tickled the fine hairs along my brow as I indulged in the sweet smell of summer as it made its last hurrah. I laid wallowing, guilt-free, in a recently discovered luxury—afternoon naps.

“Kristina. Kristina Davenport, come out now.”

My name swept through stone corridors and painted vaulted ceilings, hitting me like an attack from a tender lover. More painful because of its unexpectedness, more brutal because of my lack of preparedness.

I’d been lured into security and safety, by soft textures, beautiful surrounding, and sweet feminine laughter.

Stupid. Beyond stupid
. I crossed into the land of too dumb to live. I should’ve known better. Should’ve . . . damn it.

“KRIS-TIN-A.”

Only two people had ever called me by my full name. One was my mother, long in the grave. And the other—Syon.

The adrenaline floodgates opened, the toxicity making me queasy. I froze. Stiff. So tight, my spine cracked. My breathing shallowed into harsh pants.

Then, between one second and the next, I became motion. Bare feet sliding on cool uneven stone. My hands slapping on stone steps as I half ran, half crawled up the circular staircase. My body slamming against the unyielding walls as I rushed up to the second floor tower. Finally there, I pushed my face against the brown, cool, distorted glass.

ConRad. ConRad. ConRad. Please God, not ConRad.

From the second floor, I could see the meadow below where wildflowers dotted the muted green rolling hills with spots of color. Where the horses tied in the distance chewed lazily on the grass. Where the sun shone high and bright in a blue sky and the Elders, anonymous in brown robes and cowering in their shadowed hoods, encircling a form humbled in defeat.

The man inside the circle had been brought to his knees, in more ways than one. His hands were tied behind his back, his head low and heavy with submission. The sun kissed this one more freely. Rivulets of sweat streamed down his shirtless body, his glistening skin exposed and raw.

I knew 000 exposeeven before his head, with painful effort, lifted. I knew before I saw the ice blue of his eyes, dulled to an imitation of the ones I loved. I knew because I’d kissed every scar, every jagged cut, that this was my ConRad.

Dried blood caked the one side of his face, crusting a swollen eye shut. Spidery fingers of red wrapped around his neck and mixed with the mud sprayed across his chest.

Information streamed high speed into my brain, but my mind slowed, unable to categorize the images. ConRad—on knees, beaten and tied. ConRad—eyes fixed straight ahead. ConRad—defeated.

The Elders all had weapons. Some of them carried guns, others wooden clubs. All concealed their faces, all except one.

The bareheaded Elder positioned himself in the front of the others, self-assured in his power, unconcerned with repercussions. His face—
God, his face
—was carved on the inside of my scorched eyelids. All I had to do was close them to see the etched lines and folds of skin sagging under his chin. See the gray hair that had thinned, leaving a small pink circle, evidence of the sun, and his lips thin and abnormally red against his pasty face.

This man owned a part of me, and my body responded to his call. Muscles tightened and quivered, ice-sweat wetted my ribs. I sank, following the floor-length window to my knees. I watched the robe snap around his feet as he paced behind the broken man before him.

Memories mingled with reality. I remembered how he moved before me as I hung from the ceiling, naked, withering on a metal hook. The scent of his stale breath. The leer that spoke of the thin demarcation between his hatred and his obsession. The face that held the same pleasure when executing a caress as with the sting of a whip. Eyes that had me screaming before a hand was ever laid upon me.

“Kristina Davenport, you need to come out.” His tone held a song-like quality, as if this was all just a childhood game of hide-and-seek. I almost expected him to finish with “come out, come out, wherever you are.”

Acid sloughed off layers of my stomach lining. My fear turned to a sick and twisted thing. I’d come from a place of no more guessing, no doubt—all the blank spaces were filled. I knew what torture was, and I’d rather die than go back. I’d meant every word when extracting my promise from ConRad. But would I have enough strength to keep my promise to him—my promise to not leave the Sanctuary? To stay here and watch him die?

I slammed myself back against the wall, away from the window—away from the image I was drowning in. I couldn’t breathe, couldn’t get on top of it.

“You see, Kristina. We know you’re here. Where else would you be?” His clear voice penetrated the stone and dirt of the walls.

My gaze darted all around, trying to block his words yet hanging on every one.

“KRIS-TIN-A.”

My ears singed at his audible fondle, as if he knew me, had every right. But my body didn’t lie, even if my mind recoiled from the truth. He and I were intimate, as only a torturer could know his tortured. He’d seen me beg. Seen me willing to rip out my soul for a reprieve—seen the core of me, parts of me even I hadn’t know existed. And I hated him for it.

“It’s all very simple. All you have to do is come out. Your life for his. No strings attached.”

The world swam. My vision was reduced to snapshots: the uneven window ledge, a diagonal crack in the brick, Ana’s head shaking, and her lips forming words I couldn’t hear over the rushing static in my ears.

I closed my eyes. What abominable sin did I commit to deserve this life?