Prologue
Everything makes sense now.
Why I’m here.
Why it had to be me and no one else.
I’m okay with it; as okay as I can be, anyway. I don’t want anyone else to have to go through what I am enduring, so I’ll gladly take everything he has to offer and praise him the way he tells me to.
Things are easier when I just comply with what he wants. He doesn’t do me harm that way, and I even get food when I’m good.
I shake my head as I bring my dirty, bruised knees up to my chest and hug them close. He says when it’s over I’ll be canonized and that I’m doing this for the greater good, but I’m convinced he doesn’t know what good is. It’s so misconstrued that I sometimes wonder if he can tell the difference between reality and fantasy.
But it’s okay.
I’m okay.
I’m used to the way things are and I’ll make sure that, no matter what happens, he’ll be happy. And in turn, I’ll still be of use. Not that I really do much but stand and kneel when he tells me to. He says it helps him with what he needs to achieve and I don’t question him. I just do as I’m told, and you would too if you could see his eyes go dark and cold when we enter his special rooms.
I’ve never been afraid of much before him, and I can honestly say that after being here for the years he’s chosen to keep me, the only thing that scares me is telling him no.
That brings the worst kind of repercussion, and the weight of having disappointed him. Solitude and darkness for seven days and seven nights until he’s had time to cleanse himself of my negativity. That’s how he explains it: a cleansing.
Being alone was something I used to love and look forward to; now it’s something that terrorizes me more than anything he could ever say when he puts on his displays.
I think I’m on day six of darkness now. I can’t remember because everything just blends together after a while; time, tears, blood. Each time I’m dumped into this fucking hole, I come closer to losing the will to live. But I come out stronger each time. I don’t want to disappoint him, and if I just lay down and died, it would be the biggest disservice in his eyes.
Besides, I haven’t come this far, survived this much, just to fucking fall down dead. I don’t have it in me to quit, and I have to make him proud.
The gate at the top of the makeshift dungeon opens and, shortly after, a shaky ladder made of r
ugged rope drops in. It must be the seventh day if I’m being presented with this gesture of freedom.
But I know that this is a treason punishable by death unless Pater has given permission for any of us to be removed from the oubliette.
Pater.
That is not his name but rather a title that he requires we address him by. He’s earned it, he says, for putting up with us, for choosing to care for us in his own special way, and for all the years he spent studying his rituals.
I know his real name because he’s whispered it into my ear during nights of unwanted lust and pain. I’ve survived as long as I have because I know that pleasure for him is not just physical; seducing his thoughts is the only way to stay alive, and even on nights when I wished that Hell would open and swallow me whole, I refused to leave the boys behind. I’ve stepped into their pain more than once to save them from things they shouldn’t understand at such young ages, things they should never have to experience unless it’s something they want, and he sees me as a prize for doing so.
I fear the day he gets bored with me though, because then there will be nothing left I can do to keep them as safe as I can. It’s why I try my best to please him, to keep him happy any way I can, because nights spent down in the oubliette leaves them free to be tortured and fucked against their will.
With the strength I’ve managed to hold onto, I get up from the dirty, cold rocky ground, and walk over to the ladder. It’s only being anchored by the strength of whomever is holding it, and I pray that it’s the older of the two. He’s the only one who can bear the strain of someone bigger than him, and if he doesn’t hold on, the ladder will fall and send me back down toward a sure death.
If it were just me in this situation, then fine; let the ladder fall, let me die, but goddammit. I have to keep them safe and I have to get the fuck out of here to do that. I have to watch my mouth, I have to not speak back to Pater, and I have to do as he wishes at all times. If I don’t, I’ll know that the next time I’m in the oubliette, the others will suffer terribly, and it will be on my soul.
I refuse to die a failure. I refuse to allow them such a fate alone when I know that my part in this is simple and I just have to learn to accept it.
When he took me from my previous life, he told me he’d chosen me to be his wife; he’d even preformed some kind of ceremony to solidify this in his own mind, because I know that nothing we do here will be seen as such in the eyes of the law or anything above or below.
A hand firmly grips mine as I reach the top, shaking me from the thoughts of what I know I must do, but have so much trouble abiding by. In a matter of seconds, I’m looking into the solemn, brown eyes of Vaughn. He’s lost a lot of the light and luster he had when he first arrived here and I can understand why, but beneath the solemnness I can see a sense a urgency, and I know that my early freedom was not orchestrated by Pater, but rather out of necessity.
With a final grunt, he pulls me over the top and begins to roll up the ladder as I start the long sprint back toward the house. I won’t wait for Vaughn; I can’t. If I do, Pater will know I was helped out of my prison and that will put Vaughn in danger. Instead, I’ll just tell him I clawed my way out when he asks. I’ve been known to make it halfway to the top before breaking my nails as I slide all the way back down again.
He’s seen me do it with his own eyes the first time he lowered me into this sensory deprived hell. But Pater is a complicated man and likes to see things as they are presented in the moment.
He’ll believe me.
He has to believe me.
Because if he doesn’t, we all die.
Chapter One
What I stumble upon when I enter Pater’s home as I’m trying to frantically control my breathing is not what I expected from the urgency in Vaughn’s eyes. The waiting room is empty, the living room just as hollow, and there are no trails of blood or anything hinting toward punishment on his dusty wooden floors.