Lincoln obviously senses my panic, because he takes hold of my wrist and pulls me along with him. Despite the building looking like an abandoned warehouse, the door is controlled by a fingerprint and retina scan system, and I’m not sure if the high-tech security makes me feel better or worse about what I’m going to find inside.
Lincoln walks in first, keeping me behind him. Sensors immediately flood the space with light and I’m filled with surprise,and relief, to find the building is housing nothing but two vehicles. A black motorcycle and a giant black car that looks part SUV and part tank. He closes the door behind us and then releases his grip on me. After he crosses to the other side of the room, he presses a few buttons on a digital panel and the wall directly opposite us begins to slide open.
Again, I contemplate an escape. If I ran now, could I use the deep forest as cover to hide even if I couldn’t outrun him?
I’m still considering that option when he opens the door of the SUV and indicates I should get in. Running right now would be futile. I’m sure he knows these woods much better than I do, so I choose survival and obediently climb into the car. The door locks behind me as soon as he closes it. When he gets into the vehicle, he buckles me in securely. It’s a three-point seat belt—the kind I once saw in a racing car on a TV show for kids. He double-checks I’m securely fastened and I’m struck by how caring that gesture appears, at least on the surface. I’m sure he simply doesn’t want me unclipping the thing and throwing myself out of his moving tank—which I have already considered.
My stomach swirls with nervous anxiety as the wall slides open in front of us, revealing a dirt track into the woods, which he proceeds to drive down for a few minutes, until we eventually pull onto an actual road again. I peer out the window the whole time, staring into the pitch-black night, and trying and failing to pick out any landmarks. I still see nothing but trees for miles and try to count as many as I can as the headlights from the car illuminate them one after the other. I imagine them falling like dominoes behind us as we pass, and it works somewhat to keep my mind from spiraling out of control. I have no idea where we are, and even less of an idea of where we’re going.
It feels like we’ve been driving for hours already. How much longer is this journey going to take? I’m tired and hungry. Not to mention thirsty. And terrified. But lack of sleep and waterare my most pressing concerns. My brain isn’t as sharp when I’m tired. Up ahead I see the first glimpse of the sun’s first morning rays—a faint ribbon of pink on the horizon. It’s no wonder I’m tired when I’ve been awake for almost twenty-four hours now.
When Lincoln speaks, his deep voice startles me, pulling me from lamenting my lack of sleep. “We’ll be there soon. And you can get some sustenance. And some rest.”
I dart out my tongue to wet my dry lips. It feels very wrong to thank someone who has bought you against your will. And also he doesn’t deserve an ounce of gratitude from me. But this is a game, and until I know the rules, I’ll be polite and respectful. “Thank you.”
He doesn’t reply, keeping his eyes fixed firmly on the road ahead. And when the trees grow too thick to see through around us, he turns down another long dirt road.
Ahead, a dilapidated old Gothic mansion looms against the faint light in the sky. It looks less like a home and more like a lonely old ruin. We drive through a set of black iron gates, one of them sagging on its hinges and bearing a tired Danger: Keep Out sign. Beyond is the house itself, two stories of gray stone complete with fearsome-looking gargoyles, half obscured by creeping ivy.
At first glance it appears haunted, or perhaps condemned. All of the windows are dark, some boarded up and others broken. It’s hard to believe that a billionaire who has warehouses full of luxury vehicles lives in such a run-down place.
Or perhaps he doesn’t. Maybe this is simply where he likes to imprison the women he buys. Because every so often, a security light blinks on in the distance and then immediately winks out again. Why have security lights if there’s nothing worth keeping secure?
Lincoln stops the car at the end of the long driveway, outside of the wide double doors that appear to be the main entrance which are now illuminated by the headlights of the SUV.They’re a solid bank of gray metal amidst the crumbling masonry, and carved into the stone beside them is a single word, what I assume to be the house’s name—RooksBlood. It’s clear now that these doors are different from the mansion around them. They’re certainly newer and appear to be made of some kind of steel.
Yes, this is most definitely a prison.
When the headlights of the car switch off, the shadow of the mansion plunges the area into almost darkness. I step out of the car on shaky legs, which I tell myself is from lack of food and not because I’m allowing my fear to show so openly. I was taught better than that. Lincoln beckons me to follow him up the three stone steps that lead to the house and I do so, obediently. There’s no security light here, which strikes me as odd. Why have them scattered around the perimeter of the property and not here where they are needed? The same fingerprint and retina scan system is in place here too, another indication that this place is definitely not what it seems.
When the door opens, we are bathed in a soft amber light. Peering inside feels like looking back in time. The vast floor opens up in front of us, squares of black and white marble, which seem to stretch on endlessly before swooping around the sides of a grand staircase. Flickering lamps line the enormous hallway, illuminating at least six doors on either side. Where do they all lead to? I rein in my awe and don’t gasp upon seeing the historic suit of armor, complete with broadsword, standing guard at one of the doorways. Perhaps there are more rooms, and more timeless guards at their entry, but I cannot see much beyond the staircase. The grand opulence of the interior doesn’t meet the expectations set by the decaying exterior at all, and when I step onto the tiled floor, there’s a faint hum underfoot, a vibration that is in disaccord with the antique decor.
Tentatively, I take a few more steps into the hallway, evaluating as much of my surroundings as possible without makingit appear obvious I’m looking for a way out. Thick bloodred velvet drapes line the leaded windows, and from the inside it seems like the boards are simply for show, because I don’t see any cracks or breaks. They are made of solid panes of glass surrounded by solid walls of stone and wood paneling. Nothing inside the building seems to be crumbling at all.
“You appear surprised.” Lincoln’s voice again, deep and gruff.
“The outside doesn’t quite match the inside,” I reply politely.
“Appearances can be deceptive.”
“People see only what they choose to see, or what Mr. Knight wants them to see, isn’t that right, sir?” A different voice now, one with a French accent.
I spin in the direction of the sound to see a man approaching from the hallway. He’s wearing faded jeans and a navy shirt open at the collar, and I don’t know why his informal attire offers me a modicum of comfort. Out of years of habit, I take a quick appraisal. He’s a little shorter than Lincoln, maybe six feet. Late fifties. A thick crop of tawny brown hair, peppered with gray. A full goatee and mustache. A kind face, but something is different about him. It’s only when he draws closer that I notice something unusual about his eyes. He doesn’t appear to have any eyeballs behind his almost-closed lids. Is that a trick of the light, or my overtired brain, or is he blind?
“Pierre, would you show our guest to her room and provide her with some sustenance?” Lincoln asks.
Pierre smiles and nods in Lincoln’s direction. He is blind. “Of course, sir,” he says.
Sir? Is he the butler or some other kind of house servant?
Lincoln turns to me, his dark eyes raking over me intently. “Before you leave, Miss DeMotta, there are some things you should know. Do not spend energy looking for an escape because there is none. Exterior doors are accessible only by me,except for the kitchen which leads to the garden. The garden is walled and unscalable. Cameras will record your every move and alert me should you even try. If you noticed the retina scan and are considering gouging out one of my eyes to get out of here, they are biometrically enhanced and only work on living tissue with a blood flow.”
Gouge out his eyes? Is that what he did to poor Pierre? And cameras will alert him if I try to scale the walls? My gaze darts to the corners of the hallway, checking for cameras that I don’t find. And if the doors can only be controlled by him, is Pierre a prisoner here too? I bite my tongue and don’t ask any of those questions, even though they tumble around my head. I’ll discover the answers by myself. I wouldn’t trust either of these men to be honest with me anyway.
“You’ll find clothes and toiletries in your room. The kitchen is well stocked. If a door is locked, then it is not for your use. Aside from the rooms at the very end of the east wing of the house, both upstairs and downstairs, which belong to Pierre, you may roam the rest of the house freely and use any of the facilities as you wish. Now eat, drink, and rest.” I have no idea which is the east wing and which is the west, but I don’t tell him that. His tone is so cold and detached; he’s less brute and more robot now.
Without another word, he walks down the hallway, disappearing from sight.
“Would you like to follow me, mademoiselle?” Pierre’s voice is soft and gentle. Kindly even. Perhaps it’s his French accent that makes him sound much more human and approachable than his employer, or maybe it’s his overall aura. Even his footsteps are soft as he heads toward the staircase, and I fall into step behind him. He’s clearly very familiar with this house and moves through it with ease despite his lack of sight. I have a billion more questions whizzing around my head, but they can wait—fornow anyway. My body is telling me that my tiredness and hunger are much more pressing matters.
