“What about you?” I ask, wondering when I started to worry about Valdemar Montresor.
“I’m not the concern here. You are. Now do as I say.”
I push my forehead into his chest as he cups the back of my head with his hand, holding me in place as the riot wages out.
My sense of sight gone, fear should be overwhelming me. I should be shaking, nausea eating away at me from being in a locked room with angry criminals at large, the threat of impending tear gas looming in the air. But I feel none of these things as I’m held by Valdemar, the smell of him thick and heavy, the security of his arms around me, the pressure of his body against mine. It’s exactly like it is in my dreams, yet this is real.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I’m notsure how long I’ve been locked in Valdemar’s embrace, but like an injection of poison, fear floods me as he’s pulled away.
“Evangeline,” he says amidst raspy breaths. It sounds odd, him using my real name, but I don’t have time to decide whether I like it or not.
“Take my hand, miss,” a new voice says.
Letting Valdemar’s T-shirt drop from my eyes, I try to get a look at the guard who spoke, but my vision is diluted.
“You can remove the shirt. We’re going to place a visor over your head.” There’s a hand on my shoulder, bony and sharp with fingers like hooks, and I almost shrug it off.
Disorientation is setting in now that I’m bereft of Valdemar’s safety net. I need my senses back if I’m to stay calm. Taking his T-shirt from my face, I blink against the smog.
It isn’t like a foggy day. Amontillado has its fair share of mist that rolls in off the lake and hangs around all day like an uninvited guest, but this hazy drape is different. Even on those misty days, you can always see what’s directly in front of you, the fog always a few metres in the distance. This cloud of vapor is right in front of my face, tangling itself in my hair and caressingmy skin with its artificial movement. In the seconds my eyes have been exposed, they burn, water springing from the corners as if to douse the fire they believe is raging.
Rough hands arrive, strapping an elasticated band over the top of my head and securing it as a clear plastic visor is pulled down over my face.
I’m plunged into an unnerving enclosure that protects my face from the tear gas.
Blinking furiously, my eyes begin to adjust, the burn subsiding to a sting, my watery tears washing away the last of the toxin.
Although the scene isn’t clear, the room having been wrapped in a thick blanket of grey, I can make out the shapes of people, including the guard beside me who’s wearing a matching visor and newly acquired body armour.
“Okay, miss, I’m going to lead you to the exit, and then we’ll get one of our medics to check you over before you leave.”
There’s no sympathy in the guard’s voice—he’s used to dealing with criminals, not the public—but I take his hand.
As he pulls me up, he moves to my right, and from behind the clarity of the visor, I can just make out the shape of Valdemar being manhandled by two guards.
“Make sure she’s okay.” His words travel through the obscurity, his usual smooth, deep voice replaced by a wheezing gasp.
“We will,” the guard says briskly, “but I’m not doing anything until you get moving, Montresor. You need to see the doctor.”
“I don’t need to see anyone,” Valdemar fires back.
“You can barely see and breathe. Now do as you’re told and get moving,” the guard barks.
Their shapes begin to move to the rear of the room as I’m led to the door on the other side.
A new feeling taps at my insides, one I never thought I would feel for the likes of Valdemar Montresor, but the guard’s words have lodged in my chest, and no matter how hard I try to push them down, they won’t budge.
“You can barely see and breathe.”
Being a reporter, I know what tear gas is designed to do. While I’d been sheltered from the gas by Valdemar’s T-shirt and his body, he’d left himself open to it, letting it attack his eyes, burn his throat, and invade his nasal passages.
“Will he be okay?” I ask.
The guard doesn’t even turn, let alone answer as he leads me through the exit and out into the corridor, the gas lifting like magic. Following the other visitors who have all had visors placed over their heads, I pull mine off, needing to return to the elements and not hide behind a piece of Perspex.
“There might be a wait for the medic. We only have two on site, so one will deal with the inmates while the other sees to you guys,” the guard says.
