Natty shakes her head. “You're making a big mistake.”
“Please don't say that, Nat.”
She sighs and turns to look out the window. A heavy stone of doubt fills my heart. Am I making a mistake? Why do I feel I have to do everything on my own? Maybe if I'd asked for help during my life, I wouldn't be in this mess. But then, I would never have met Brecken. Then again, maybe I would have. Maybe our destinies are woven together in the tapestry of life, and had I lived, somehow, our paths would have crossed.
To my surprise, Jill doesn't pull up in front of the rundown, little white house like I expected, but at a wide, black, iron gate that leads down a winding drive to a red brick mansion in the distance. The gate opens and we drive up to the front of a beautiful Tudor mansion.
The woman in red steps from her car, her four-inch, gleaming red heals clicking on the paving stones. “Take him to the basement,” she commands, sailing into the house, not even bothering to wait.
CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT
~The Auditorium~
Alisa
The men drop Brecken onto a narrow cot in a dingy cell down the hall from a basement auditorium. Lamia waits beside him and stares into his sleeping face with hunger. She smooths his hair back. “Almost time, my lovely. Almost.”
She steps back and walks into the spacious auditorium. On a raised stage sits a king-sized mahogany monstrosity with brocade quilts. It's surrounded by at least a hundred chairs on risers. The seats start to fill with black-robed patrons. Jill finds a seat on the front row while Lamia walks to the raised stage.
Candles burn in every corner of the room, creating shadows that meld with the ghost-like demons that dance on the edge of reality. One after another, more gray men slither up from an iron vent in the floor. They fill the empty spaces, floating, slithering, caressing the unsuspecting audience.
A young teenage girl is brought out of a side-room next to Brecken's, and is laid on the king-size bed. Unlike Brecken, she is awake and straining against the ropes tied around her hands. Her eyes are wide with fear, and her screams are muffled by a silk rag stuffed in her mouth.
An expectant hush fills the room.
Lamia turns to the anticipating crowd. “My children. Tonight you witness the union of night and light, deities and daemons. Tonight, the dead rule and command legions. Tonight... we crush our enemy!”
With raised arms, she spins on her heels and ushers in a man who wears a white robe over black silk clothing. He smiles wide at Lamia as he enters, taking her hand and kissing her fingertips. “Beautiful, as usual,” he murmurs, grazing her cheek with his lips.
I cringe as an overwhelming blanket of evil permeates the auditorium. It winds around me like a hissing cobra tightening its coils. Whoever this man is, he is evil in its purest form.
Lamia turns to the crowd with a flourish. “May I introduce the original member of our Order? Andras, the Marquis of Hell, the Sower of Discord.”
He bows low, his seductive smile never wavering. He watches the crowd, catching the eye of each person, silently commanding their attention.
I move closer to see his face clearer. Natty is still at my side. She holds onto my arm, her hand clasped tightly in mine. “I have a really bad feeling about this,” she whispers. “We shouldn't be here and I don't think I can stay much longer,” she says in a strained voice. “I'm not... a guardian and... something won't let me. I can't... fight it anymore. I'm sorry, Lis. I love you.”
She disappears in a glistening mist. Without her at my side, I feel cold and abandoned. Alone and weak. The room seems more vile and dangerous, but I can't leave Brecken in a place like this. Alone. Unconscious. How could I leave him with Lamia, let alone the Marquis of Hell? But can I do this by myself? I scan the crowd, my gaze stopping at a pair of familiar, dark eyes. Eyes I've known my whole life, Eyes that rescued me from Mr. Roland long ago.
Derek.
He wears the same black robe as the other acolytes, and stares straight ahead, his eyes wide, his mouth in a tight, grim line. The fact that he is here makes everything feel more dire and dreadful. I hurry over to him. “Derek? Derek, can you hear me? Please, hear me,” I beg, patting his cheek, hoping to wake him up to feeling me.
His brow creases and he raises his hand, but lets it fall back to his lap. Hope flickers through me. “You have to leave. You shouldn't be here,” I whisper urgently into his ear. “It's dangerous. Please leave. Just stand up and go.”
He glances toward the door. It's open, but a large man with wide shoulders and a jagged scar across his cheek shuts it behind him after he enters. The lock clicks into place with a decisive thunk.
We're locked inside.
A panicked expression flits across Derek's face, but he stays seated, his hands clasped, white-knuckled in his lap. His breathing increases, his heart races. Placing my hand on his arm, I feel a tumult of emotions boiling beneath the surface. Horror, fear, dread.
His panic infects me and for the first time in ages, I turn to that God I have yet to meet, not sure if he'll even hear me, let alone listen. “Please,” I beg. “Please make this stop. Don't let this happen. Help us get out of here.”
Andras, his shoulder-length black hair falling forward, leans over the girl, who now lies still, paralyzed with fear on the bed. His dark eyes search her face, his long, white fingers stroking her cheek. She writhes beneath him as though his very touch sears her skin. He removes the gag from her mouth and trails a solitary finger along her rosy, trembling lips.
“Please,” she begs when her mouth is free. “I made a mistake. I'm so sorry. I won't tell anyone.”
“That's right, my dear, you won't,” Andras answers in a raspy whisper. “But now you must sleep in the bed you made... so to speak.”
Terrified, she trembles, and knowing there is nothing I can do to help Derek at the moment, I hurry to her side. There might not be a way to stop this event from happening, but I can offer this poor girl some comfort.
I slide over the bed until I'm next to her. “Don't be afraid,” I say, placing my hand over hers.
Andras leans down, his lips parted, and inhales the scent of the girl's neck, then frowns. He turns his head to the side, his brow creased and his eyes squinting. He takes another slow, deep breath, his nostrils flaring. Slowly he pulls back. “I smell cinnamon.”
Andras rises up on one elbow and glares at Lamia. “Have you taken the proper precautions?”
Lamia's chin raises, her eyes narrowing. “Of course. What do you take me for?”
Andras glances down at the struggling girl. “What's your name, darling?” he asks, still stroking her cheek.
“Nichole,” she whispers, her chest rising and falling with each panicked breath.
Andras begins untying the rough rope around her bound wrists.
“Oh, thank you,” Nichole cries with a sob.
Andras smiles down at her lovingly and takes her left hand, pulling it toward the left corner of the headboard, tying it to a red, satin ribbon that is attached there. The girl yanks on her arm, but the heavy, satin cloth holds fast.
Before she can blink, Andras pulls her right arm and does the same on that side. Within seconds, she lies spread-eagle on the huge bed, the captivated audience watching. Horror fills her eyes and immediately she begins to scream.
I want to scream too.
The audience leans forward, their anticipation palpable. They can't be enjoying this.
“Cease your noise!” Andras commands Nichole, his eyes deep pools of merciless blackness.
I am way in over my head. I can't stop what is about to happen unless I have legions of angels at my back. Helplessness presses against me and more than anything, I feel the need to cry. For this girl, for my brother—who I am sure is about to witness something atrocious—and for myself, powerless to stop it.
Nichole ceases her crying and lies with her head turned away, her sobs almost silent in the hushed, candlelit room.
Andras stands and addresses the a
udience. “And now we begin.” Taking a silver box from a small table by the bed, he opens it. The red-velvet interior glows in the warm light, surrounding a gleaming set of silver fangs, deadly sharp.
He pulls the fangs from the box and places them in his mouth, moaning with pleasure as they slide into place. He turns to the crowd, his lips stretching over his shining canines. “And now my children, I shall become one with this offering, her essence, her soul. I claim her for my own. There is no act more powerful, more binding, or more exquisite.”
With a low growl, he swirls back toward the bed, his cape whipping out behind him like silken bat wings. He jumps onto the bed, his knees straddling Nichole's waist, his hands pressing her forearms into the soft mattress.
I blink my eyes, because I'm sure I am seeing things. For a split second, dark, leathery wings spread out behind him, and glossy, ebony feathers coat his raven-like head. When I blink again, he is back to his normal self, the Sower of Discord. But the shift happens again when he sinks his teeth into the hollow of Nichole's neck. His arms slither beneath her, pulling her closer, as he drinks with bloody lips.
Nichole arches, her eyes rolling back, but no sound comes from her dying lips.
I search the room frantically, hoping someone will stand up and fight for this poor girl's life. I even look deep into my brother's eyes, but he sits frozen, dismayed at the sight before him. His hands grip the chair's armrest, his eyes filled with terrified, unspilled tears.
Step by step, I back off the stage, never taking my eyes from the horror before me. Andras moves over the girl until she lays completely still, her blue eyes staring from an ashen face. Finally, he raises himself from the bed, a thin stream of crimson trailing down his chin. He roars in triumph, the muscles in his neck taut and stretched to a grotesque limit.
“What happened?” a small voice says beside me.
My eyes shoot back to the bed to find the source of that high, frail voice. Nichole, a mere wisp, a copy of the body that lies dead, looks up at me expectantly.
“What's happening to me?” she asks, looking right at me, her spirit flickering and dim.
Andras turns. “To whom do you speak, child? There's no one here but you and me.” He holds out a hand, looking right at Nichole's tortured soul. “Come.”
I look from Nichole to Andras. He can't see me, but he can see her. She steps forward, unsure, and reaches out to Andras, as though she can't refuse even if she wants to. I watch, completely in shock. Where is her family? Where is the light? Isn't she supposed to walk toward the light?
As soon as she takes his hand, his mouth opens wide—to an inhuman degree—his silver, gleaming teeth appearing even more deadly in this demonic orifice. Her clothes, which are mere rags instead of gleaming robes, whip about in an invisible storm. Her hair flaps wildly about her face as her eyes dart toward mine. She reaches for me, but before I can grasp her hand, her spirit spirals with tornado swiftness into Andras's dark maw.
He inhales slowly, his chest expanding, his head thrown back in ecstasy, his arms out wide. “It is done!”
CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE
~Trapped~
Alisa
A collective sigh fills the room.
Jill leans forward in her seat with anticipation, her eyes filled with excitement. I search the auditorium and find the same expression on nearly every person there. But my brother doesn't wear it. He recoils in his chair, repulsed. I make a flash appearance beside him and grab his hand, willing him to erase his open-book reaction. If there is one thing I know, it's that he can't reveal himself without consequences.
“Relax, Derek. Soften your face. Close your eyes. Take a deep breath,” I whisper in his ear. “Don't let them know your true feelings.”
Immediately he complies, taking a deep breath.
The guy next to him turns and shoots Derek a smile. “Have you ever seen anything like that?” He seems manic, intoxicated, desperate for his turn.
It sickens me.
“Just hang on until we can get you out of here,” I whisper, smoothing the stress lines along Derek's brow.
Lamia and Andras stand at the front of the room, smiling and triumphant. They move through the audience with steady, confident steps, shaking hands and receiving congratulations.
When they reach Derek, he takes Andras' hand with a blank stare.
“Smile,” I say.
Andras hesitates, and then murmurs, “Yes, indeed. Smile. You mustn't show your true feelings.”
Derek's eyes slowly rise to meet Andras' deep, black holes, which stare down at him.
“Who's your friend?” Andras asks without releasing Derek's hand.
“Uh,” Derek starts. “My friend? I don't know what you mean.” Derek glances at the kid beside him. “I don't know him.”
Andras' eyes narrow and his lips pull back into a snarl. Derek's eyes dart back and forth, then meet Lamia's who has just come over.
Andras turns to her. “This acolyte has a tag-along,” he says, a snarl in his voice. “The same spirit who was on the bed with Nichole. I can smell her still,” he hisses.
“Really?” Lamia's eyebrows rise to a high, thin line. “Now that's interesting. I haven't sensed it.”
Derek pulls back on his hand, which is locked in Andras' grip. “Honestly, I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't bring anyone. I haven't told anyone about these meetings.” He glances back and forth between them.
“Take him to a cell,” Lamia commands, her arms folded over her chest, her ice-blue eyes, hard and unforgiving.
“Wait! I haven't done anything!” Derek screams as two neanderthals grasp him by the arms and drag him out of the auditorium.
They throw him in a room identical to Brecken's and shut the door with a loud bang. The lock turns from the outside. I stay by his side.
Derek stares at the door, then turns and thrusts his hands through his hair, his breath hissing out. “Oh, no. No, no, no.” He paces the floor, sweating like he's run a marathon, his eyes rolling like a dying animal's.
“Oh, Derek. I'm so sorry. I'll get you out of here if I can,” I say, trying to send a message of calm, although it flies far from the mark. He continues to panic. He can't hear me. Natty was right. I need help. Even if it means humbling myself and admitting I broke the rules, I'll do it to make things right.
Closing my eyes, I take in the silence, the quiet of this haunted death chamber. I hate leaving Derek and Brecken here, but I have to. I have to go straight to Raphael. I know he'll help.
I picture his face and his office, willing myself to appear there.
I open my eyes.
I'm still in the vampire's death den.
Please no.
I try again with the same results. With a sinking heart and an awful dread, I realize I'm trapped. Hurrying out of Derek's cell and over to a back door that surely leads to freedom, I run my hand over the handle, but of course, I can't turn it, and it isn't even locked. Without thinking, I bang on the door in frustration. My hand doesn't slip through like it should have. It stops at an invisible barrier, like the one at the bridge to Elysium.
Leaning my head against the solid wood, I ponder my situation. I'm trapped, like always... on the wrong side, making stupid choices. Just like my brother.
But this time it isn't about me. I've come to save Brecken. He is my whole reason for being here. With a blink of my eyes, I appear inside his cell. At least I'm not trapped from moving between rooms.
Brecken still lies on the stained, bare, sheetless cot, but he has woken up. Kind of. His arm lies over his eyes and he moans softly, as though having a bad dream.
“Brecken, can you hear me?”
He turns toward the sound of my voice, squinting. “I feel like I'm gonna puke.”
I kneel at his side so our faces are only inches apart. “I'm here.”
“Where am I?”
Placing my hand on his cheek, I say, “You're in the basement of some really fancy house. A mansion. Some real
ly bad stuff is going on here.”
He rolls away from me and faces the wall, holding his stomach. “I don't feel good. Let me sleep.”
“Brecken, no. You need to get up. We need to get out of here. We can leave right now if you do. There's no one in the hall. All you have to do is open a door.” I put all the urgency I can into my pleading, hoping he'll pull out of his drug-induced stupor.
With a long sigh, he rolls over to face me. His bloodshot eyes find mine, and he blinks slowly. “Why can't I sleep for a little while?”
“Because you'll miss all the fun,” a voice says from the door.
I whirl around to face Andras in all his demon glory.
“So we meet again,” he says, stepping into the darkened room, his eyes darting from corner to corner.
“Do I know you?” Brecken asks, gazing sloppily at Andras.
“You used to,” Andras answers. “Who were you speaking to?”
“My guardian,” Brecken says, turning over again. “This is a terrible mattress,” he mumbles into its bumpy filthiness.
“Ah, yes. But you won't be here long, so don't worry.” Andras steps forward and lays his hand on Brecken's arm. “I've waited a long time to see you again, Undoer. A very long time.”
At the strange title, Brecken sits up, a frown on his face. He stares at Andras and shakes his head. “Who are you?”
“Ah, you don't remember?”
“Should I?” Brecken rubs his eyes and peers at Andras. “Dude, I've never seen you before in my life.”
“We're old friends,” Andras answers with a lazy smile.
“I don't remember your face,” Brecken says, sitting up straighter, his expression still confused.
Andras takes a step back and cocks his head. “Really? That surprises me.”
I'm frozen by the door, observing the exchange. It's like watching an old black and white movie where I expect Vincent Price to step into the scene, and I can't shake the feeling I've missed something.
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