Judging by the slight flinch at the words, and the way his gaze refused to hold mine for a long minute, I realized I was right in that assumption.
When he looked back, he was purely his father, any bit of me I usually found there was gone.
"Then we have to get her back into the light."
SEVEN
Ferryn
I couldn't get to her.
Uselessness was a chain around my throat, just as sure and unforgiving as the shackle around my ankle, eating away at the flesh with a constant burning pain.
I couldn't get to her, gently wipe away some of the blood, lift her into a less painful-looking position, rub her back, do something, anything to try to show her some comfort, some softness, some love in this pain-filled, hard, heartless place.
But I couldn't get to her.
And the hours stretched long and silent save for Mary groaning on the other side of the room, dry heaving, going through her own misery that I suddenly wished I could ease as well.
Both of them were in hell, and, unfathomably, all I had to complain about were some bruises, a wiggling tooth, and the constant, gnawing hunger in my stomach.
They hadn't fed us.
They would, of course, or else I'd be trapped in a basement with corpses instead of women, so the food would come eventually, taking the twisting pain away enough to be able to focus fully again.
I'd never been a girl on a diet, one denying herself food to fit a certain aesthetic. Partly because that rail-thin look simply wasn't in Vogue anymore. Curvier bodies that said you didn't deprive yourself a donut now and again were what people wanted to see, wanted to embrace. And since I fit that skinnier old-school version of beauty, I let myself stuff my face, hoping that I would eventually get some curves like normal girls my age.
You'll get there, my mother had assured me, to which I had stubbornly reminded her that I got my period three years before, that I should have developed already. I was a bit of a late bloomer too, she'd insisted. I might not have a rack the likes of Aunt Lo, but I think I rounded out alright. At eighteen or so. Give it time. Don't be in such a rush to grow up.
The adults said that a lot about growing up. As if society gave us a choice, as if anyone was allowed to be a kid past the age of twelve. Girls especially.
The second we stepped foot through the doors of middle school, we had to leave girlish things behind, had to get rid of beloved toys and replace them with makeup, hair straighteners, tweezers, razors.
All they want is a pretty face and an empty head, I had grumbled at lunch one day to Iggy who wasn't allowed to wear makeup, so found herself somewhat of an outcast in that sense too. And spread legs, a boy at the table behind me added, further confirming my thoughts.
Twelve, going on thirteen, and the only thing in anyone's minds was a hyper-sexualized outlook on life. As though all there was of interest was how our bodies worked.
Heck, Iggy and I were probably the last virgins in our grade.
A huge part of that was by choice, but also because boys looked at her with her insanely strict background differently, and, well, no one looked at me because of who my father was.
Suddenly, I wished I had taken the plunge, had let Conor who had been my first kiss go further like he had wanted to. Maybe I hadn't been in love with him, or even liked him all that much, but at least that would have been a better memory of a first time than this would.
Even with thoughts of impending rape on my mind, my stomach grumbled harder still, loud enough that I was sure it echoed off the empty walls.
"Chris," I called, voice low and coaxing, unable to take the blank stare a moment longer, even if maybe that was a selfish thing to think. "Come back," I added, though, again, maybe that was a cruel demand.
What would she come back to?
A body brutalized again, hurt in untold ways... again.
Reminded of what had happened to her... again.
Maybe the kinder thing was to let her stay there. At the beach, at Christmas, wherever she was that allowed her to escape this reality where terrible things happened without her consent, where there was no potential even for the smallest sliver of happiness.
Sometime later, long enough that my body gave into sleep again, which I decided to accept meant another day had passed, there was the clomp, the click, slide, click, the stomp of boots on the stairs.
It was the same one, the one who had taken Chris, who had my still-red and angry-looking claw marks down his face.
He paused at the foot of the stairs as my heart started to hammer, as my stomach twisted in something that wasn't hunger for a change.
This could be my time, my mind told me, making a cold wash over my skin. And I was feeling a little disoriented with my hunger, knowing full-well that would slow me down, would make any attempts at fighting likely weak and laughable.
But his eyes simply raked over me with what I could only call a promise before his feet carried him away from me, toward Mary who had lost even the ability to groan a few hours before.
"Come on," he said, hauling her up by her armpits, her body too weak to move on its own. "Let's see how many cocks you can suck for your dose today."
The awful thing was, I knew Mary was - in a way that was more messed up than I could even express - a willing participant. She would go along with whatever they demanded of her if it meant they would stick a needle in her arm, take away the pain in her body.
Sometime while he was gone, Chris finally shifted, pulling her body to curl up on her side, her face away from me.
She said nothing, made no noise, so I had no idea if she was still gone, or if she was back and processing pain and the events that had transpired.
Unsure of my part to play, I stayed silent, hating myself for it, but knowing I would only hate myself more if I somehow made it worse for her.
In this situation, I guess we should all be left to deal with it in whatever way kept us the most sane.
Sometime later, Mary came back down, this time able to carry herself, the drugs making impossible things possible again. Her cheeks were tear-stained, eyes red, and lips swollen, but she willingly walked over to her spot, offered her leg for her shackle, and accepted her imprisonment.
I mean, I guess they had to, we all did in a way.
And maybe she had been here long enough, had life beat her down so much, that fighting felt useless.
I could understand that, at a certain level, knew that human beings could only take so much before they cracked - or broke apart entirely.
But I hoped that wouldn't be my fate. I hoped that no matter what happened to me, I would never lose my fight, my will to get through this, get away from this.
Maybe I would fail.
Maybe the hunger, the pain, the fear would get to me. Maybe I would escape in my brain. Maybe I would take the drugs when they were offered.
You never really knew what you were capable of until a situation was set in front of you.
Sure, I had every intention of using each skill I had to violently protest when someone came for me, but maybe I wouldn't. Maybe I would freeze. Maybe I would - God forbid - beg, give them exactly what they wanted.
My eyes were slow-blinking closed, begging for sleep. When I heard footsteps above us.
Chris had been taken.
Mary had been taken.
I was all there was left.
My stomach pitched, every inch of my skin seeming to prickle simultaneously, every hair going up while a shiver racked my body.
Click.
Slide.
Click.
Fear was a slimy, slithering thing, snaking up my spine, curling around my throat, cutting off my air.
He was coming for me.
I knew it like I knew that whatever followed would be a scar etched permanently on my psyche.
My eyes only seemed capable of taking in legs, jean-clad legs moving toward me across the floor. There was a slit in the thigh, frayed with wear and washing. And I somehow knew - though
, really, it was impossible to tell - that this cut hadn't come like that. Distressed, or whatever the term was. This cut was from something. With men like these, maybe a knife.
Oh, God.
A Knife.
No.
I couldn't let my mind race off toward possibilities, there would be endless paths of them; I would never find my way back.
The jean-clad legs slowed before me, bringing my gaze down to the boots. Not the one that came to take Chris and Mary. These were older, rougher, splattered with what looked like paint and grease. And bigger.
A hand came into view as he stooped, dropping a paper plate down on the ground in front of me.
Too shocked to think better of it, my head shot up, finding someone I hadn't seen before, middle-aged, dark-haired, but hollow-eyed as the rest.
"Eat," he rumbled at me while dropping a bottle of water before moving toward Chris to drop a plate, then finally, Mary.
With that and nothing else, he moved back up the stairs at an annoyingly carefree pace.
Click, slide, click.
My body seemed unable to come back down from the surge of fear - and the accompanying adrenaline - making me feel shaky and cold all over.
"Eat," a voice demanded, making my head shoot up, finding Chris sitting up, cringing slightly as her body shifted to reach for the plate. "You don't know the next time they'll give us food," she added, gaze lowered.
That seemed like fair advice since a couple of days had clearly passed already, and this was the first food I had seen.
As much as I wanted to engage Chris, wanted to try to keep her here with me, my stomach let out another growl, dragging my gaze down to the plate, noticing for the first time a pile of scrambled eggs and a single piece of toast cut in half, spread with butter soggying the bread.
I reached for it like the half-starving girl I was, digging in with a claw hand since there were no utensils available.
There was a moment of crippling fear that the food was laced with something that would make me like Mary, barely able to find her mouth as she ate, but once I started, there was no stopping it as the hunger overtook me. I barely even registered that all of it was stone cold and overcooked, so intent on having a stomach with something in it.
I wiped my hand down the thigh of my dress, wishing for more, even though my stomach felt full to bursting already.
Leaning back into the wall, I sucked in a deep breath, almost a little upset with how much relief I felt right at that moment. There shouldn't have been any relief. I was shackled like property in a basement of a house full of men who violently beat and raped women, would set their eyes on me eventually.
How could a simple full stomach make a slow contentedness creep over me like it would at home in bed after a great night out with friends, or taking down one of my instructors who had proven impossible up to that point.
It was amazing what your body could find comfort in.
"You'll get used to it," Chris said, again initiating conversation, pulling me out of a pre-sleep daze.
"Used to what?"
"The spans between meals," she told me, slowly making her way through hers still, somehow bypassing the urge to hoover it like I had. "Your stomach will shrink, and it will hurt less."
"How often do they feed us?" I asked, almost not wanting to know the answer, but wanting to keep Chris talking, even if it was simply about the awfulness I had to look forward to.
"It depends. Every two or three days."
Every two or three days.
I wasn't sure I could ever get used to the grumbling of my stomach.
I hoped I wouldn't have to.
"Are you from the area?" I asked.
"I don't even know where we are," she admitted. And, well, neither did I actually. But unless I was passed out for longer than I realized in that trunk, I was pretty sure we were still in Jersey. "My mom and I lived in Farehold before she died. Then I was placed in a foster home in Hadlet."
"We were practically neighbors," I told her. Farehold was where the mall was, where Iggy, Heather, and I would walk for hours, buying cheap accessories, browsing the shelves at the bookstore, touring the food court. Hadlet was where the movie theater was, literally five minutes from Navesink Bank. "I live in Navesink Bank. Look," I said, voice going serious. "Do you know who The Henchmen are?" I asked.
"The bikers?"
"Yeah. What do you know about them?"
"That they're dangerous."
Fair enough.
"My father is the president," I told her, watching as her head jerked over, eyes always so empty suddenly working wildly.
"You're serious?"
"Yes. My dad is the president. My uncles are vice president and road captain. My aunt runs Hailstorm. They are looking for me right now. And they are going to find me. Find us."
It occurred to me then what a poor choice I had been for abduction.
Mary seemed alone in the world.
Chris had been in a foster family, and while I was sure they would have reported it, and the cops had done some looking, there was no one to spur the search on.
It was easy for the world not to miss women without loved ones.
My heart, what little was left of it anyway, ached at that realization, that so many women went missing, never to be heard from again, with next to no one looking for them, missing them, demanding answers.
But that didn't mean they were hopeless.
At least not for these two women.
There was hope.
Because my loved ones would move hell and earth to get me back, would never stop, would bash heads and blow things up and run themselves ragged searching every corner of this world to bring me back.
And take them back with me, get them help, show them love.
I knew this.
If I couldn't find my own way out, they would find me.
I just had to hold it together, keep my wits about me, refuse to lose my mind in this hellhole until then.
"I don't think we are somewhere that we can be found."
Those were the last words she would speak to me that night.
The next day, claw-face came back to take Mary again.
The next, Chris.
I couldn't get through to her after, not even what felt like a lifetime later when paint-shoes came back with plates filled with rice and beans, wanting to get her out of her mind enough to nourish her body.
I woke up sometime later, finding she had cleared her plate while I slept, then sank back inside herself.
Mary was full-on detoxing again, heaving into the toilet on and off for hours until there was nothing left in her system.
Stomach full, my mind wandered.
Not to the beach or Christmas like Chris suggested, not escaping the situation.
Just taking stock of it.
My face felt oily, my hands coming back shiny when I touched it. My hair, already prone to grease even after just half a day, felt limp and heavy. My hands inspected the injuries to my face and head, still feeling an ache, but nothing to write home about. My stomach, somewhat flat to begin with, felt almost concave already, my ribs protruding, objecting to the lack of pasta and baked good binges. For, I didn't even know. Four days? Five? I was having a hard time keeping track. I couldn't imagine what another five, ten, twenty, sixty days could do to me.
I hoped to hell it wouldn't be that long, that - like I had said to Chris - my loved ones would come for me, for us. Or, short of that, I would find a way to get us free.
I'll admit, my fire was barely a flicker as time went on, as the constant, nagging fear became my only real friend in this place, as the hours stretched long with nothing but my swirling thoughts to keep me company. And the thoughts only got more and more negative by the hour, until it banked down my resolve.
Just a couple days.
This was what just a couple days of captivity - and a bit of hunger - could do to me. Me with my certainty, my bloodthirst.
Click, slide, click.
A familiar stomp.
I didn't have to look up to know who it was.
Claw-face.
Though, unfortunately, the claw marks had scabbed over already, would likely peel off in just a few days, leaving no proof of my raging fire in its wake.
I watched as he paused at the edge of the stairs, as he often did, like he thought he was building the anticipation, the fear.
And, damnit, he'd be right.
But the air didn't start getting caught in my throat until he got to the middle of the room... and didn't turn to either side.
No.
He kept coming forward.
Forward toward me.
Oh, God.
No.
While a part of me knew it would come eventually, that I wasn't trapped down here because they enjoyed feeding an extra mouth, finding that they never came for me the other times had given me a small sliver of false security.
My stomach knotted, twisting tighter as his feet kept coming toward me, as my time got cut shorter and shorter.
My hopelessness was a noose around my throat. And as I watched him kneel down in front of me, it was like someone had kicked the chair out from under my feet.
And I was dangling.
Strangling.
Flailing.
Except, wait, I realized as a hand seized my ankle, sinking a key into a lock, the weight lifting, making me realize for the first time just how heavy it had been, hanging, rubbing, biting into my skin, ripping it off in places.
With the chain off, I wasn't quite so helpless.
"Up," he demanded, hand seizing my upper arm much like the man from the first night had, but curling in tighter, purposely inflicting pain even though I wasn't struggling.
Yet.
I would go along with it until I was closer to an escape.
As I was half-dragged forward, I felt a stab of guilt at my potential freedom.
But, I assured myself, even if I did get away, if I escaped, if I could put this place behind me, I would come back. I would find a phone, call my dad and Lo, and get them back here in force, have them take down the bad guys, free Chris and Mary, get them help.
The Fall of V (The Henchmen MC Book 13) Page 8