One of Many (14 page)

I’m cold—weak—I can’t find the strength to swim to the surface. Kiev’s face flashes in my mind and somehow I find it in me to push off the bottom of the metal. I pop through the surface, panting for air.

I’m alone.

All but one candle has been extinguished. I fall as I climb out of the tub, landing hard on the concrete floor. I might be hurt. I can’t tell. I’m too frozen.

I stay on the floor, shivering, curled into a ball for several minutes before I’m able to crawl toward the candle. Grit sticks to my wet skin. Water comes off of me in rivulets, making a trail from the tub to the candle, mapping the torture on the cold concrete floor.

I hold my hands over the candle, soaking in every bit of warmth I can. I go to pick it up only to set it down. I’m trembling, my jerky movements spill the wax and kill my only source of light.

Painstakingly slowly, I make my way to the stairs. The door at the top is closed, and I don’t have to twist the knob to know.

I’m locked in.

Kiev

My mouth opens, and whatever I've eaten in the last twelve hours evacuates in a stream of hot spray.

Done this gig before.
Many times.

I crack open an eyelid and survey my dismal surroundings. Halfway off the mattress, I take stock of my injury with an exploratory hand, and I slap my other palm to the floor, narrowly missing the puke pile.

Head.

Nice tight tap of the bat
. I remember the bat.
I remember all about the bat.

The room is dim, but my eyes canvas the murky light seeping from underneath the door.

My gaze hits a body-shaped lump on the floor.

Audrey!

Adrenaline shoots through me, but experience has taught me not to move quickly. I crawl toward the feminine outline. I reach out, touching hair.

Wetness.

Blood.

Something doesn't feel right.
The texture of the hair.
My head throbbing and my heart pounding, I gently turn her over.

She moans.
Anna.

My pulse skyrockets. What the fuck is
this
?

Where the fuck is Audrey?

*

I laboriously crawl to the tool of our torture, fighting dizziness and a slick roil in my gut.

The bat rests near Anna's still body, and I pick it up, feeling its heft. It is stained with old blood.

Fresh blood.

Audrey's?

I propel myself on hands
and knees to the bathroom, where I push the door open with a fingertip. I hit the edge of the vanity tile.  I cut my hand on the edge where I broke it off last week and snatch my hand away.

Fuck.
I have to self-bandage and get the fuck outta here. Get to Audrey. Weston will fucking kill her.
If he hasn't already
. My mind finishes the gruesome possibility.

He must have come in on us—seen her naked. I clench my eyes shut.

He'll hurt her.

My eyes fly open.
Basement.
Gooseflesh pours over my skin like water, beading my flesh in a million tiny bumps. The basement brings back memories, memories I work hard to forget. I’ve been in that basement a time or two, and it never ended well.

Fuck, not Audrey too.

Hard to think.

I pour water over the wound. Pink swirls around the drain. I wash it out until it's clear, and the blood makes its way to the septic system.

I drink water. Breathe deeply. I can't charge out there. I have to employ a little stealth, or Audrey won't stand a chance if I'm taken out of commission. And Weston is nothing but a sneaky fuck.

Gotta figure out Anna.

Actually, Weston's got to figure her out. But I can't let her die.

I walk over to my cell and hit nine, one, one. Get Langley involved. Weston's gone overboard. Beat Anna unconscious.

She moans softly and thrashes on the floor. My guts turn as I walk over there and sink to my knees. “Anna?” I call out softly.

Her eyes flash open, and she opens her mouth to scream, clearly disoriented.

I cover her mouth as 9-1-1 answers, “9-1-1—state the nature of your emergency.”

I open my mouth.

My dad has whacked me with a bat, beaten one of his illegal wives, and taken Audrey.
“We're hurt. Come quick.” I thumb swipe, ending the call.

The cell instantly rings again. I silence it.

Anna and I stare at each other. “If I take my hand off your mouth, you gonna scream? Because I guarantee you, Weston will come back and try to kick both our asses again.”

My eyebrows hike.

She nods.

I lift my palm, and Anna takes a shaky inhale. “He's never been that bad.”

I snort. “Yeah he has. You came at the tail end of his rampages. Those first three wives? They could tell you some tales.” My eyes narrow, my hands dangling off my knees. “I need to know where Audrey is.”

My head pounds where Weston hit me. I grit my teeth against the pain.
Later.
I'll deal with my shit later. Audrey first.

She casts her eyes away like a line after a fish.

“Anna?” I ask, trying for neutral and missing it by a mile.

“He was hurting her,” she gasps, slapping her hand over her mouth, tears leaking out and falling on the floor as she visualizes whatever memory fills her mind. Her eyes. Each tear that dampens the polished floor is dark. Dark with sadness. Dark with pain.

Dark with knowledge.

“What do you mean
hurting her
?” My voice is low, my hands convulsing into fists.

“Raping. Father Weston was raping Audrey.”

I sit on my ass, stunned.

I know he's capable. Hell, I'd watched him pound his wives in a way that was too rough for a woman to accept. They'd begged for gentleness and got used harder for their request. His cock is a flesh sword, meant only to wound, never to heal.

Audrey's had sex only twice. With me.

I stand. Look down at Anna with disgust. Disgust that she'd stay with him. Disgust that I hadn't taken Audrey out as soon as Weston laid a hand on her. Disgust that I can't do anything for her. Audrey's my priority, and I realize with intense unease, she always was.

“Do you think he'd do the cleansing ritual?”

Anna nods vigorously, her tears scattering like chunks of a broken heart. “Yes.” Her voice is breathy, uncertain.

Sirens wail in the distance.

“Fucking turn his ass in, Anna. He can't beat women, steal from people. Do the shit he did to me.” My thumb lands on my chest. It’s a stupid time for me to stand up for myself, but here I am
.
Standing up.

Finally.

“I'm going to hunt for Audrey.”

Anna sits up. The left side of her face is swelling. A perfect circle of a bruise is forming on the highest point of her cheekbone.

Bastard.

“Then what will you do, Kiev?”

“I'll fucking kill him.”

*

Ginny is the first person I pass on the way down the curving staircase. Her expression is smug.

I don't pull any punches. “Bitch. You helped him, didn't you?”

Her smile widens.

The whoop of sirens falls silent outside the house. The smile vanishes off Ginny’s face.

Good.

I fly down the stairs, moving with purpose to the door leading to the basement. The house is old, and most homes in the Midwest have full basements to escape the frost line.

I let my hand fall on top of the thick, old-fashioned wood molding that heads the top of the doorway. My fingertips brush cold metal, and I grab the skeleton key, inserting it into the keyhole. I flick the secondary cross member latch aside, noting the padlock is absent, and walk through the door, then shut it behind me.

“Audrey,” I call in a low, intense voice.

Nothing. 

My heart begins to thunder.

I tramp down the stairs in only my jeans and stocking feet. I should have led the search of the property with the cops.

Audrey—gotta find Audrey.
Dread crawls up my nape.

I whip my hand up to where I know the string from the bulb is. I yank the cold, balled chain, and the bulb bursts to life, washing the room in a sick yellow glow.

The chain swings, flinging a shadow in the shape of a whipping snake over Audrey's still body.

I run to her side, then slide to my knees. The impact against the concrete floor is hard, jarring my kneecaps. But nothing matters.

I halt my gaze on the blood that has dried on the inside of Audrey's thighs.

Wetness falls all over her.

Where the fuck is that coming from? My hands shake as I try to assess the worst of what Weston did to her. That I didn't protect her from.

Audrey gasps as if rising to the surface of water. Her eyes snap open, and her teeth begin to chatter. “Kiev?” she asks as if I'm a dream.

I nod. More drops of water fall. Splattering her breasts, stomach—lower.

“You're cr-crying.” She wraps her arms around herself for warmth.

That's the water.
I can cry for her but not myself.

I scan her body. Bruises and abrasions are everywhere. “I'm so sorry, Audrey.”

She covers her breasts, her vagina. Shame is written on every line of her face. “He raped me, Kiev. Hurt me.”

My chin dips as my tears fall like rain on her body. I'm helpless to stop the flow.

Suddenly my hands are on her arms, and I’m pulling her cold, naked, bloody body against me. Audrey feels tiny as she folds into me like a part of me that's always been missing.

I stroke her back in slow circles.

She sobs, and I hold her. My tears keep coming like a burst dam. Our sadness mixes together. I let that part of me go that I've been protecting forever.

“Audrey.”

She tips her chin back, her bottom lip trembling. Her face is free of abrasions, though I can feel a lump near her temple.

She waits.

I whisper the most tender part of me away. Didn't know I had it in me to give.

Audrey did. She believed in me when I couldn't believe in shit.

So I say them, just three words.

Her small hands encircle my neck and she answers me, “I love you too, Kiev.”

I stand with her in my arms, moving to the shelving where wool blankets are stored for the catastrophe Weston keeps threatening will happen.

Dust collects on them.

There's no disaster coming. The shit down here is for show. For new members to get sucked into his perverted fold.

I jerk a square of charcoal-gray material off the shelf. A stack of five blankets dump to the dirty concrete.

Fuck it.

I wrap Little Bride in the slightly scratchy blanket I grabbed.

“Thank you.” Her teeth still click together. She's cold to the bone.

I wonder if either of us will ever be warm again.

“What'd he do, Audrey?”
Besides raping you.
“Was it the tub?”

She nods. “Did he—?” Audrey doesn't finish.

At least he didn't tear me up with his dick.

I nod, my face tight to keep from fucking bawling again. Hell yeah, I'd been in that tub. It was a favorite after the beatings. Way to make the wounds sing for mercy.

Of course, there is no mercy in the House of Weston.

We listen to footsteps stomping around above our heads.

Audrey jerks her face up in clear fear.

I sit down on the floor, running a thumb along her face. “Called the cops. They'll be arresting his dumb ass.”

We listen to the tread of boots. Low voices thrum above our heads. I estimate that goes on for a half hour.

Then a door closes.

Silence.

“Anytime.”

But no one comes.

After about ten minutes, a slice of light pierces the gloom, revealing dust motes we're breathing in.

A bag is chucked to the base of the steep basement steps.

“Hey!” I yell, carefully setting Audrey down.

“No! Kiev, don't leave me!” Her eyes are bulging blue, frightened—horror-filled.

I hesitate. “Gotta see what's in that bag.”

I squeeze her hand, and she gloms
onto me as I walk to the bag. I open it.

Food.

I glance up at the top of the stairs.

Weston's silhouette fills the door. He grins. Slams the door shut.

I charge up the stairs, taking them three at a time. Without hesitating, I hit the door with my shoulder.

Pain radiates through my shoulder and back. The padlock rattles in its housing. The door doesn't give. It was made at a time when craftsmanship was superior. Unfortunately, it works well as a temporary jail.

Or a permanent one.

My forehead dumps against the solid wood of the door. I jump back when Weston's voice permeates the barrier of heart pine.

“The cops came. Langley again. But there's nothing to see. You and Audrey are down here.”

I clench my fists. “He has to be suspicious, you coward.”

“No.” Satisfaction colors his reply. “In fact, I had him search all the rooms. That's what cooperation will get you, son. A lesson I was never able to teach you. A failing of mine.”
He sounds almost wistful with that last phrase.

That's
a failing—the beatings that haunt me? My mother who's been absent for twenty years? And he's worried about not giving me enough time with his sick brand of discipline?