One Week Later
Old memories tether me to the darkness.
They set their hooks in my soul and pull me in a thousand directions at once.
I’m vaguely aware of the real world somewhere far in the distance. I can hear voices. Feel the light pressure of gentle hands on my body. And the pain, of course. So much goddamn pain, searing through every inch of me.
But I’m not there. Not really.
I’m too lost in this torture. Consumed by it. Torn to pieces by hook after hook after hook of memories I thought were long since gone.
Budimir’s face. Sneering at me. Taunting me.
My father’s grizzled brow. Arched in a disappointed downwards V.
Cillian’s blue eyes. Fading away into the darkness. That ever-present glow extinguished.
Last of all, there’s Esme. That molten gold spark in her irises that only flashes when she’s fiery with emotion. The tumble of her dark hair. Her scent, her skin, her laughter, her moan…
I force my eyes open.
The overhead light stabs in like an ice pick, but I refuse to close them again.
I’ve had enough of the darkness. It’s my turn to fight back.
There’s a burning pain in my side, but I ignore it and sit up slowly. When I manage to get mostly upright, I take stock of my surroundings.
I’m lying on a dining room table in a house that’s been decorated with a few too many floral patterns. Pinks and blues and greens in various pastel shades.
There’s a grumpy-looking cat staring at me from a chair in the corner of the room. But no people. No Esme, no Budimir. Just me.
I’m not waiting around to see who this house belongs to, or figure out how I got here. If Budimir’s behind this—more of his fucked-up torture—then I want to escape while the route out is unguarded.
I look to my side and notice that the table faces a set of sliding doors that open out into a pristine garden. Looks as good as any other direction.
I inch off the table. The moment I land on my feet, pain rips through my body like an earthquake.
I almost collapse. I have to grip the edge of the table to stop from crumpling down in a heap. It takes a long minute of breathing and steeling myself against the pain yet to come.
But when I’m good enough to move, I wince and start to limp towards the sliding doors.
Where is Esme?
Where is Cillian?
Are they…?
I can’t bring myself to say it. Can’t even think it, actually. The thought is too much.
“You’re up.”
I whip around—hissing in pain when I realize what a mistake that sudden motion was—and find myself faced with a tall, willowy woman in a long grey kaftan. She has a mess of curly hair that frames her thin face.
And she’s looking at me as though she knows exactly who I am.
“Who are you?” I growl.
“Aracelia,” she replies coolly. “My name is Aracelia. And you’re Artem. Esme told me.”