The Soul Trapper Page 14

  My mother comes too, but she stops by the entrance, clutching her hands before her mouth, eyes swollen from crying. She looks at me with despair and guilt. Soon, more women follow, some much younger than their male companions.

  “The beast has managed to escape,” Jeremy begins like a master of ceremonies—or sectarian leader, by the way he opens his arms and raises his voice. “But don’t be dismayed! We got Saphira back, and she’ll help us bait him to us.”

  I jump up from my seat. “Like hell I will.”

  “Kieran Slate, a.k.a. the Marquis de Vandenesse, is a killer and a monster.” He tries to cup my face in his hands. I slap them off, but it doesn’t throw him off balance at all.

  “It’s safe for you to speak the truth, Saphira,” he says. “The doors are closed and sealed, we’re among the most trustworthy friends of your father’s. They know all about Kieran Slate and his story, they know he’s an engineered serpent-man, and that he forced you to be with him.”

  “His story, yes. I wonder how much the people here contributed to that story,” I spew angrily, my eyes sweeping over their affected, arrogant, despicable faces. I wonder how many of them split children open with their own hands, and I shudder as the atrocity courses through me.

  “Saphira, the Marquis killed important men from Northville,” Mum intervenes with a step forward. “He has the power to hypnotize people, and this is how he got you on his side, but—”

  “No one got me on their side, mother,” I cut her off. “And I can’t believe you talk about important men as if any one of these monsters’ victims were something less.”

  She shakes her head nervously like someone denying a too painful truth. “The Marquis kills in a horrendous way.”

  “More horrendous than torturing and experimenting on children? Do you have to feel it in your flesh to understand the gravity of that?” Blood floods my veins in a rush. My face must be on fire, and I can’t believe what I just said to my mother. I go mute.

  “This is preposterous,” a man with nasal voice intervenes. “She’s on the beast’s side!”

  “We can’t use her,” another guy cuts in. “She was engaged to the monster.”

  “Against her will,” Mum exclaims. “He wanted to use her in his revenge, and he blackmailed her. He manipulated her mind, look what he turned her into!”

  “Manipulated or not, she’s clearly in love with him,” a woman with huge implants and super pumped lips chimes in. Once again, being good with faces comes in handy—I recognize her from the Night of Venice, when her attitude was very different. She drooled over Kieran and looked daggers at me as he said I was his girlfriend.

  “She’s the devil’s mistress!” An angry old man shakes his cane.

  “And she must have found pleasure in his arms, since she defends him with such force. She’s as rotten as he is.” That was Pretty Lauren with an evil grin. She stands with her arms crossed in a corner.

  Voices rise over each other, and once again I feel like one of Salem’s witches. Jeremy moves around energetically—things clearly aren’t going according to his plan. These people are more interested in exorcizing me than using me as bait, or whatever else. But this is not about me, or these bastards’ inquisition-worthy trial, it’s about Kieran Slate, the man I’ve fallen in love with madly. I look the truth in the face—I’d do anything for him. It’s now or never. I squeeze my eyes shut, pray, and as my eyelids snap open again I make the first move.

  CHAPTER XXV

  WITCH HUNT

  Gunnar Lothar was a sadist, and a murderer. But he was also my father. He paid for my clothes and food for as long as I can remember. Always goal-oriented, words were never wasted on anything “soulful,” but we could have never talked enough about my physical appearance and how that could prove exceptionally useful in coming about a rich husband. Gunnar was all about good business. Despite all this, deep down I may be grieving. What I know for sure, I’m very, very angry.

  I tap into that anger and imagine him before me. I mentally make my surroundings fade into the background and talk to him. I let out my wrath and spit my disdain at him while the inquisition-like gathering yells and accuses me. They point fingers. Mum cries with her face in her hands, while Pretty Lauren grins like Maleficent with arms across her chest. Jeremy runs from one bastard to another to persuade them of something—I imagine he’s still holding on to his plan of using me as bait for Kieran.

  “Saphira, pull yourself together,” Billy the Notary says in a panicked voice. His smoker-grey, narrow face with the thick, round spectacles and the thin mousy nose is close to mine.

  “Take her to the lunatic asylum, that’s where she belongs,” the angry old man with the cane urges. Men and women agree with him in a surge of voices.

  I may have gone too far. Gunnar’s “ghost” pulled me in. Now I can’t stop anymore. Turns out I am grieving, terribly so. I feel betrayed, furious, and I’m acting as if possessed, squirming and screaming and cursing.

  Mum howls in pain, and my heart breaks for her, but I can’t stop. It must look like I’ve lost control over myself and, honestly, I think I really have. People grab and drag me out in the rain, once again displaying me like a witch deserving of the stake on the road to the lunatic asylum. I realize it, but can’t bring myself to fight it. I can’t stop “talking” to Gunnar Lothar.

  The Elite is out in the street, while the “plebs” peek from behind their curtains, scared and practically bullied to stay inside their homes. Little do they know that the old houses are no protection. Our town is now cut off from the rest of the world, the wasteland around it crawling with cops manoeuvred by a bitter and ambitious Inspector, mercenaries hired by the elite, and Ivan Basarab’s black monks—mysterious creatures that I suspect are beyond human.

  They’re many, and they are dangerous to Kieran and his few loyal men. We’re all doomed, every last one of us. As I realize this, the last drop of energy leaves me, and I give in to the arms that feel like cuffs around mine. My feet soon no longer touch the ground, I’m being carried like an offering of heathen sacrifice.

  The spiked black gates to the lunatic asylum open to receive me as my carriers’ feet make their way through the mud, the heavy rain battering my face and body that’s still covered only with the soaked corset and the torn fishnet stockings.

  The asylum doors close behind us. Calls instigating to my being locked up in here resonate against the walls, mixing with the cries of agony from electroshocked patients. The ceiling— greenish in the sickly lighting—spins around as they rotate me and put me back on my feet, only to drag me further into the depths of this prison that I may never leave again except maybe in a plastic bag. But, to my surprise, not everybody who’s accompanied me here is a foe.

  Jeanie and Billy the Notary run alongside the group, desperate to get me out of these people’s hands. Pretty Lauren is right behind Jeanie, but all she wants is to take full delight in what she witnesses happening to me. Jeremy is close by with a bad frown and a mad look in his eyes, and soon Ronald Lord Barkley, head of the lunatic asylum, greets us. We don’t stop, he simply joins the group as they take me to what must be my cell, but as we advance the screams turn louder, as if someone’s being tortured. The voice seems familiar, and as we draw closer my heart beats in my throat.

  We pass by an open door that reveals part of a sorry tiled room with a woman lying on the metal table like cattle for slaughter. With devices at her head, she screams under electroshocks. I recognize her and my steps freeze. She seems to feel my presence, and her bloodshot eyes dart to the side like a killer puppet’s in a horror movie.

  An emaciated and desolate version of Virgin Vivienne fixes me for a second before she starts screaming again. Only that this time it’s not voltage that drives her—the doctors are busy looking at us as well, they’re not operating the devices. I understand immediately—Ivan Basarab is among us, and Vivienne just recognized him.

  “Her mother had to leave the asylum,” Ronald Lord Barkley croak
s in my ear. “In a body bag.”

  The doctor gives the signal, and Vivienne arches again on the metal table as electroshock courses through her and the news of her mother’s death through me. She screams, and I do as well, unable to move my eyes from her skeletal frame that twists, her restrained fists so tight that they turn white.

  Someone shoves me forward and drags me deeper into the asylum, past doors with grated viewers. Female voices fill the corridors from the cells, the screams of doomed minds abandoned to their insanity, or whatever it is that got them locked in here, like rich ex-husbands in no mood for money fights.

  I’m pushed inside a small room with dirty, cushioned walls that serve to ensure I don’t kill myself by banging my head against them, no doubt. There’s a small grated window high above. There’s no chance for me to ever reach it, let alone make it through back to freedom. It’s Jeremy Simmons who closes the door with a vindictive scowl, while Ronald Lord Barkley’s long gaunt face looms behind him.

  I curl on the floor, exhausted from the emotional drain and the consequences of long-term rainfall on my virtually naked body. Every bit of my flesh hurts as if I’ve been beaten with rods, I’m cold and my eyes sting. I shiver like a chicken plucked of its feathers, yet manage to fall asleep. I keep waking up from the cold, though. Eventually a sensation of warmth, and then growing heat takes over me, making me claw my corset and try to rip it off until I’m so finished that I give in gratefully to complete and comfortable blackness. I’m strangely disappointed when it turns out it’s not definitive.

  I’m sprawled on the floor as the door opens with a loud, sharp metallic sound. I can only see the lower part of it as if through fog, legs in white pants and white shoes coming at me. White arms grab me and drag me out of the room. My nape hurts, I can’t hold up my head and I feel mighty humiliated as my hair hangs like rags around my face as they take me God knows where.

  It’s a “treatment room,” a special one. It’s small and it has a lot of pipes. Before a clear idea can form in my mind a jet of water hits me and hurtles me to the wall, and once I’m pinned there its pressure decreases enough for me to feel its temperature—cold as ice.

  I scream and gasp, my heart threatening to stop from the stinging liquid that makes me stiffen. I’m fully awake and afraid for my life. I’ve gotten myself in really deep shit.

  But then the loud whoosh of water stops abruptly and, as my screams die down, I hear a female voice—deep, maybe belonging to a middle-aged lady—rising at the male nurses who’ve just put me through hell.

  “Are you mad? You’re killing her!”

  My vision is blurred, but I recognize Lord Barkley’s secretary, the “witch” who helped me get inside the pub incognito to meet Kieran. She’s beyond her best years, but very attractive with her intelligent dark eyes and round, white face. The red lipstick makes a good contrast to her white skin, black and elegant black blouse, and it must be the main detail that gives her the overall image of a harpy. She’s a sturdy version of Morticia Adams with full breasts.

  “Lord Barkley said—” one of the men begins, but the witch interrupts as she tries to help me up. I’m so frozen I don’t even feel her touch.

  “I’m sure he didn’t say put her in hypothermia. This woman should have gotten a warm blanket and a hot tea as soon as she was brought in, not be kept wet and technically naked all night.”

  “It’s only been a few hours.”

  The woman turns her face to the speaker. “Are you stupid, or are you just pretending?”

  The man looks down. “I’m sorry, Miss Danes.”

  “Give me your jacket.” She stretches her arm. The man hesitates. “Come on now!”

  He takes off his white uniform jacket and hands it to the woman. I’ve practically trickled along the tiled wall to the floor, and I’m looking up at her as she covers me and strokes the wet hairs off my forehead.

  “I’m Yvette Danes, Saphira, and I’m here to help you.”

  A nasal female voice intervenes. “Not on my watch.”

  Both Yvette and I look in the direction of the voice. Pretty Lauren leans on the doorframe in jeans and a red leather jacket, her skinny arms folded across her chest, her hair falling in fiery locks to her shoulders. She grins, and I feel like a stray dog at her mercy, looking at her from the level of her feet.

  “Grab your hoses, boys,” she says.

  “Wait, you can’t do this!” Yvette gets up and steps in. But the men have already followed Lauren’s command as if spoken by Lord Barkley himself.

  “Yes, I can, lady,” Lauren retorts. “Lord Barkley is, say, indisposed, and I’m his Deputy.”

  “But this is outrageous! You’re a tart with no studies or experience in the field!” Yvette bursts. Lauren grins her wicked grin.

  “We tarts have our methods. Now get out of the way unless you want to join little Miss Lothar in a refreshing bath.”

  It’s clear that Lauren is in a position of power. The nurses obey her as the higher in command. I’m completely in her hands, and already half-dead. I close my eyes as the jets of water hit me so hard they seem to break my bones.

  Pretty Lauren laughs as the jets of water hit me, then stop, then hit me again. Through the blur I see Yvette grabbing her arm, and Lauren shaking herself from the woman’s grasp. But Yvette becomes more aggressive as her hands claw Lauren’s fiery locks, so Lauren is left with no option but yelling at the men to drop the hoses and get Yvette off her.

  Just like Jeremy, Lauren seems possessed with hatred. As the male nurses take Yvette away, leaving me sprawled on the tiled floor in a pool of icy water, Lauren tries to get up, eyes red and boring into mine. She skids, falls flat, then crawls on all fours to me and grabs my drenched hair.

  I shriek as I realize she’ll disfigure me. She smashes my face into the floor, and now I’m darn thankful for the water that allows my hands to glide under my face quickly enough to protect me. Lauren tries to slam my head into the ground over and over again, screaming and throwing her entire weight on my back. I don’t know how much longer I can keep her from reaching her goal, but at least I’m frozen and can’t feel the pain.

  The last time Lauren lifts my head and prepares to crash it into the ground I give up completely. There’s no point in fighting it, I’m bound to lose.

  “Why, Lauren?” My voice comes out bruised and weak.

  I don’t actually expect her to answer, yet to my surprise she pauses. She bends down to my ear.

  “Finally, she asks. Well, I might ask you the same thing, Saphira. Why?”

  “I don’t understand.” Talking is difficult, but I know it’s imperative that I exploit the moment.

  “I begged you to stay, why didn’t you?”

  “What are you talking about, Lauren?”

  “You were like a sister to me. I clung to you, but you left me there for that bastard to fondle with me on the highest notes.”

  The first flash hits me. The Opera House, fifteen years ago. Norman and Sylvie Dean had just adopted Billy—now the Notary—from Romania. The boy had the face of a grey mouse but the voice of an angel, so they put him in the choir. This was his premiere, and we were in a private loge. Lauren and I were ten. With her parents away on vacation, she was staying with us. I remember thick man fingers trickling up Lauren’s legs that tried to keep tight together in their white knitted stockings. Her green eyes widened, searching mine in a silent but desperate call for help. That was the last day she looked at me with the eyes of a friend. All the years afterwards she only pretended and, if I’m honest, I always knew it.

  “Lauren, please,” I breathe.

  “Please, yes, that’s what I said that night when he sent you to fetch opera glasses from downstairs. Please, don’t go.”

  ‘Please, don’t go, Saph,’ little Lauren’s voice rings in my memory. My eyes darted between her wide scared gaze and Gunnar’s commanding frown. Back then testosterone still ran thick through his veins, even though he wasn’t exactly young anymore. Brown hair a
nd stern features, he had a way of driving fear into my bones. ‘Go, Saphira.’ With a heavy heart, I did what he said. I repressed the memory, and nothing stirred it since.

  Lauren tries to push my head towards the floor again, but I hold up my face with newfound strength. She must understand. “I was afraid of him, Lauren! I was a only a child, too.”

  “Bullshit! You grew up under his roof, and you survived it. You must’ve known he was a devil and how to deal with him, but you didn’t want to help me.”

  “I swear I had no idea what a monster he was! I found out only a few months ago, from the Marquis.”

  “You’re lying!” She throws her entire weight on my head, and this time it goes down, thudding against my hands that I keep together under my forehead to damp down the blow. There’s red in the water under my face, so I must be bleeding from Lauren’s scratches, but I’m numb from the cold and don’t feel any pain.

  “Forgive me, Lauren, forgive me,” I manage weakly. She gets off me, turns me around, and slaps me hard across the face with every word that leaves her mouth.

  “Let. Me. Tell. You. Bitch. He defiled me with his fingers at the Opera, and then every night while I stayed at your place he took me in his study.”

  I want to say she should’ve told me, but blood gurgles in my mouth. She takes my face between her hands and brings her angry green eyes inches from mine.

  “I was a little girl, looking more like a boy actually. I even had short hair, if you remember. For a while I thought that’s what turned him on as he bent me over his desk, and told me he’d cut me down there if I ever told anyone. I’m sure you already imagine how powerful such a threat can be on a young mind. You seem to still be under that threat yourself.”