“Good morning, Mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Strineau. He almost seemed kind, compared to his maniacal wife. “I trust you slept well. You have a lot of work to do today, and you’ll need all your strength for tonight.”
“Hush, darling,” Madame Strineau said. “Don’t spoil the surprise.”
Monsieur Strineau moved above me to crank the table back to an upright angle. I saw the entire dank room once again, with its stone walls and barred window on the door. Along with Madame Strineau’s long table of torture instruments. “Ready for breakfast, Helena?” she asked.
She pulled my hair again, yanking my head back as she pushed a spoonful of cornmeal mush at my mouth. I tightened my lips. Whatever they had planned for tonight, I saw no reason to help them prepare me for it.
“Now be a good girl, Helena,” Madame Strineau said, unperturbed. She yanked my head back again. “Rene, if you please?”
“Gladly, my love,” Monsieur Strineau said, pinching my nostrils shut.
I gasped and she shoved the food in, nearly gagging me. I chewed and swallowed it. There was no point in resisting. They would force me to eat, either way. And they were probably right. I would need whatever strength I had.
“That’s better, my dear. You’re learning, aren’t you? Now, open up again for Mama.”
She continued to spoon-feed me like an infant, while Monsieur Strineau stood ready to help. It finally ended, and Monsieur Strineau wiped my mouth with a rag. “Excellent,” he said. “Now let’s go meet your fellow slaves.”
He gathered a clump of hair tightly on top of my head, and I clenched my teeth as I felt the strap release from my left wrist. I struck a wild blow, hoping to connect with Madame Strineau’s jaw. Her husband yanked my head away and I gasped, losing focus as she forced my arm behind my back. She freed my other wrist as Monsieur Strineau pulled me to a seated position. I groaned as tiny lights swam before my eyes again. I tried to twist off the table as my wrists, forearms and biceps were bound securely.
Monsieur Strineau laughed. “You make a lovely marionette, Mademoiselle.”
Madame Strineau continued to tighten the ropes. “We’ll call you the Scarred Dancer.”
I grunted. “And you can be the Crazed Witch.”
My hair was yanked backward and my head slammed back against the cold table. Monsieur Strineau kept hold of my hair, tugging my head to one side as he glowered at me. “You’ll learn to speak properly to your mistress, you filthy mongrel!” He tugged my hair until my neck muscles throbbed. “I see you have a lot to learn. I presume you enjoy breathing?” His other hand closed around my throat and squeezed, closing off my air. I tried to gasp, to wrench my head away, as blood rushed to my temples. I bucked against the table as Madame Strineau grinned, while her husband’s face remained a mask of rage. He wouldn’t let go!
He finally released me. I sucked in all the air I could, hearing the panic in my deep breaths.
“We own you, Helena,” he said. “We can do whatever we like with you. If you disobey, we’ll punish you. If you prove too difficult or fail to amuse us, we’ll discard you. So do as you’re told and we may let you live. The sooner you surrender, the easier your new life will be.”
Madame Strineau touched his shoulder. “Now, now, Rene. Don’t rush. Little Helena still has plenty of fight in her, even more than the others. It will take years to break her.” She stroked my cheek again and I flinched. “Years I look forward to. Now let’s put our precious dolly to work.”
The Strineaus led me down a winding stone stairwell and through another corridor, even further from the asylum’s entrance. We passed by silent rooms, a stark contrast to last night’s screaming. A sulfurous stench filled this end of the asylum, emitting from a large room, its double doors open. I heard muttering and shuffling within, from the guttural voices of several Lycanthru wolves.
“Here we are,” Madame Strineau said, gripping my arm and urging me forward. “Time to make yourself useful.”
Inside, three long tables filled the chamber like a formal dining hall. Except that each seated guest wore a plain tunic like mine, with an iron collar around each man’s neck and waist. They all worked with vials and some sort of foliage and liquor, mixing the materials together, while a handful of wolves watched over them from various corners of the room.
Near the entrance was an empty space at the end of the table, its manacles waiting for the next slave. I pushed back as they tugged me toward it.
“Hold still, Helena,” Monsieur Strineau ordered. “You’ve caused enough trouble. Now you can make up for it.”
Someone gasped from the middle of the table. I turned to see Madame Serrone among the chained workers, with Monsieur Serrone seated across from her. Both of their faces were badly bruised. She met my eyes, clearly wanting to say something, but we both held our tongues.
A wolf guard stepped forward with a wicked grin to assist the Strineaus in locking me into position. My arms remained tied as I twisted in the seat. Across from me, a lanky man with hollow eyes and a dark beard glanced up. He looked at me twice, then studied me for a moment, probably surprised by my scars and the fact that I was a girl, among so many male prisoners. Then he returned to his work as if I wasn’t there.
Monsieur Strineau yanked my head back. “You’re going to learn how to mix Lycanum for us, wench,” he growled. “And you’ll do it properly or suffer the consequences!”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not doing anything for you.”
Madame Strineau slapped me, while her husband still gripped my hair. Then she slapped me again. It didn’t matter. They would torture me, whether I helped them or not. They didn’t own me unless I let them.
“Is there a problem?” a calm voice asked.
Monsieur Strineau still gripped my hair as Madame Strineau stepped aside. I peered sideways to see Simonet standing near the table. Claudette stood beside him, wearing an iron collar like mine.
“Claudette!” I cried.
Her eyes widened upon seeing me. Then her gaze dropped to the floor.
“Yes, Mademoiselle,” Simonet said, holding the chain that linked to her collar. “You’re not still causing trouble, are you? When you know what harm may come to others if you resist?”
Claudette knit her brows together, wincing a little as he gave the collar a slight tug.
“Let her go,” I said. “She has nothing to do with this.”
“That is not for you to determine, Mademoiselle,” Simonet said. “She has more to do with this than you can imagine. And she makes a useful incentive for unruly young slaves. Don’t you agree?” He tugged the chain again, harder.
“Stop!” I cried. “I’ll mix your Lycanum. Just leave her alone.”
“That is also not for you to decide,” Simonet said. “I trust there will be no further interruptions while I return little Claudette to her quarters.”
“Where?” I demanded. “Where are you taking her?”
“Now you are simply embarrassing yourself, Mademoiselle. You have lost. Accept it.” Simonet nodded to the Strineaus. “Please continue.”
He stepped away as Monsieur Strineau released me and untied my arms. I met Simonet’s eyes as he led Claudette out of the room. Claudette also glanced over her shoulder at me before she disappeared. How could I rescue her now? I couldn’t even save myself.
Monsieur Strineau hissed in my ear. “Now listen carefully to these instructions. If you ruin a single vial, you will be punished. If you ruin two, your punishment will be more severe. Understood?”
“Mix it right or they’ll hurt you worse,” the bearded man muttered from across the table.
“Silence, Marceau!” Monsieur Strineau barked. “No one asked you.”
“Just helping your cause,” Marceau replied dully as he continued his routine.
I clenched my fists, staring at the foliage and alcohol set before me. “Show me what to do.”
“This is wolf's bane,” Monsieur Strineau said, pointing to the pile the golden brown budding bran
ches. “Its proper name is Lycoctonum. It’s a rare plant that typically grows in mountain regions with sufficient moisture, such as DeSarte and La Rue Sauvage. So do not waste a single bud! Grind one into powder for each vial, mix in a teaspoon of each of these three liquors and a half teaspoon of each secondary herb. Then cork the vial and shake it until it all mixes together. You will produce eighty vials a day, at the very least.”
I stared at the materials. Picturing eighty wolves transforming to attack people, by my hand alone.
Madame Strineau put her hands on my shoulders, cooing at my ear. “You’ll be helping us so much, dear. Every single day. Working your fingers to the bone to help us grow stronger.”
My hands trembled. I couldn’t do this. But I couldn’t let them hurt Claudette.
Monsieur Strineau rose. “Now you know what to do. Get to work.”
I swallowed, and reached for the wolf's bane.
“Wait!” Marceau shouted, sprawling across the table to seize my wrist. “You’ve forgotten to tell her something, haven’t you?” he snarled.
His hand was rough on my wrist. I stared down, noticing clearly that he wore leather gloves. All the workers did.
Madame Strineau backhanded him and he nearly fell off his seat. The waist collar held him in place, but made him grimace as he struggled to sit upright again.
“You’ll never learn your place, will you, Marceau?” she sneered. Then chuckled. “Though you are right. We did forget, didn’t we, Rene? Here, Helena.” She stepped to a nearby table and returned with a pair of leather gloves, dropping them in front of me. “Put these on. We forgot to tell you, wolf's bane is quite poisonous. A touch won’t kill you, but we don’t want you paralyzed at your work table and falling behind.” She laughed. “Rene, I have other preparations to make. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed him passionately, gripping the back of his neck, then strode out.
“Get started,” Monsieur Strineau ordered, wiping his mouth with a look of fondness.
I slid on the gloves and started crushing the wolf's bane. I imagined wearing my own gloves, flicking out the blade I needed to silence Monsieur Strineau once and for all.
I ground the bud until I had crushed it all. Then I selected a vial.
“Grind it more,” Marceau muttered quietly from across the table, not looking up or stopping his own work.
I stared at the wolf's bane powder. I had crushed it all. “It’s ground enough,” I said in a low tone.
“Make it into fine powder,” Marceau persisted, still staring down. “Now is not the time to fight. Do it right or they’ll hurt the child.”
I seethed, wanting to free my hands for a few mere minutes. Just long enough to strangle Monsieur Strineau.
Instead, I ground the powder further with my thumb and forefinger.
“Better,” Marceau muttered.
Monsieur Strineau strode behind Marceau, hands folded behind his back. “What do you think of your hero, Marceau?”
“I don’t know what that means, Monsieur,” he said. “What do you think of your hero?”
“She’s sitting right in front of you, Marceau,” Monsieur Strineau persisted. “That’s the Red Rider.”
Marceau paused, then looked up to stare at me again. He seemed transfixed.
“We had a lot of trouble capturing her,” Monsieur Strineau continued. “But now she’s ours. You expected her to come and rescue all of you some day. But now she’s a slave, just like you.” He moved down the table, stopping beside Monsieur Serrone. “And here’s one of the fools who chose to help her.”
He backhanded the side of Monsieur Serrone’s head, knocking him sideways in his seat.
“Stop!” I cried, rising.
A wolf behind me shoved me back down.
“What’s wrong, Mademoiselle?” Monsieur Strineau mocked. “You don’t think I’m respecting my elders enough?” He struck Monsieur Serrone again, and again. And again.
“Leave him alone!” I cried.
Monsieur Strineau laughed, then continued strolling past the prisoners.
“You’re the Rider they all talk about?” Marceau asked, incredulous. He looked me up and down. “I thought you’d be bigger. Like seven feet tall. And a man.”
“I’m not,” I said flatly.
“I see that. Where’s your red cloak?”
“They took it,” I said. “Along with all my weapons.”
“Weapons?” Marceau sneered. “I’ve seen these things attack. Nothing stops them.”
“Silver does. It’s poison to them.”
Monsieur Strineau strode up to us suddenly, as if he had heard my whispering. “You’re slowing down, Helena! Back to work!”
He turned on his heel as I picked up a bottle of whiskey and the teaspoon.
“We’ve heard of that,” muttered a broad-shouldered man with a blond moustache, sitting beside Marceau.
“Helena, this is Anton Dureau,” Marceau introduced.
“Pleasure,” Monsieur Dureau answered.
“Likewise,” I answered.
Monsieur Dureau lowered his head to his chin. “The wolves seemed terrified, years ago, when someone killed one of them with a silver ax.”
I swallowed. “That was – Francois. A friend of mine. He saved me from the wolf that killed my Grand’Mere.”
Marceau observed the wolves standing guard at each corner of the room. “To spare you for this. He didn’t do you any favors.”
I grit my teeth. “Don’t speak anything against Francois. He’s one of the best men I ever knew.”
“Sorry,” he said.
I measured out the herbs, adding them to the mixture. “You see that elderly couple in the center of the table?” I asked.
“They were brought in the other day,” Dureau said quietly. “Having a rough time.”
“The Lycanthru seem especially upset with them,” Marceau added.
“Those are the Serrones,” I said. “They’ve been learning about the wolves for years and helping people escape them. People like you.”
He stared coldly at me. “In case you haven’t noticed, it didn’t work.”
“It did the first time. The Serrones were speaking about you the other night,” I said. “From when you stayed with them, thirty years ago.”
Marceau blinked at me, then at Dureau. Then he briefly regarded the Serrones while setting a vial into the box on the table. “And here we are together again, after all this time. What a lovely reunion.” He returned his attention to mixing the Lycanum.
“I saw you last night,” I said. “Being tortured in one of the rooms I passed.”
“Well, they’re not especially fond of me, either.”
Dureau chuckled. “In truth, he’s their favorite.”
I stared at them as we all continued to mix the Lycanum. “There must be a way out of here.”
“You see that man at the opposite end of the table?” Marceau asked.
I turned to see the prisoner he was staring at, an elder man with a thick white beard. He worked methodically, patiently, as if his soul had been stripped from him. How many years had they kept that man here? How much of his life had these beasts stolen?
“That’s the way out of here,” Marceau said. “In another twenty years, he’ll be a hundred. He’ll escape then, or soon after.”
I frowned at Marceau, glancing back at the elderly man. There was something strangely peaceful about him. He seemed to have given up any hope of escape, but not his sense of dignity. The way he put together the Lycanum elements, carefully measuring each part, making it perfect. Yet he did it without the sense of heaviness that I felt. The sense of defeat. He treated it as an assigned task to be completed, nothing more. As though he had more important matters to attend to, whenever he was given the chance.
There was something different about the way he carried himself, even here in captivity.
He knew something.
“Who is he?” I asked.
Marceau continued to steal glimpse
s, sometimes outright staring at the man. “His name’s Marc Creonin,” Marceau said. “Been here longer than any of us. Doesn’t say much. Doesn’t cause much trouble.” Marceau sighed, studying Creonin with a hollow expression. “I keep wondering how long he’ll last. How long any of us can last. Every time I see him, I wonder if I’m seeing myself, twenty or thirty years from now.”
“You don’t know how old he is?”
“As I said, he doesn’t say much. To anyone. But I see how old he feels.”
“How old we all feel,” muttered Dureau.
I found myself staring at Creonin, too. Wondering if I was seeing my own fate. Old and abandoned, lost and forgotten by Pierre and Father Vestille and everyone I ever knew. Was this where I would suffer for the rest of my life?
“There must be some other way out of here,” I said, shaking a vial hard to mix its elements.
“It’s your first day,” Marceau said. “Maybe you should start slower. Make some friends, try to fit in?”
Dureau chuckled.
“I never fit in,” I said.
Marceau shook his head. “I believe that.”
“You’ve been here a long time,” I prodded. “You must have learned something to help you escape.”
“I have escaped,” he said.
“Several times,” Dureau added. “Just not from the building itself. We were always captured and beaten, or worse, before we could make it outside. Marceau, more often than me.”
“How?” I asked.
Marceau shook a vial vigorously. “See these vials? They don’t count them. They’re too busy flaunting their control over us to pay close attention.”
“We’ve snuck vials back to our cells, under our armpits, or in the back of our mouths,” Dureau said.
“What for?” I asked.
Marceau glanced from side to side, while still facing me. “A couple pieces of stone from a crumbling wall and we can make a spark.”
Dureau chimed in. “We spread some Lycanum on iron bars or in the locks of our cell doors, apply that tiny flame to it, and it burns right through.”
I held up the vial, studying it. “The Lycanum burns?”
“Through iron, and other things,” Marceau said.
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