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Moaning, she cupped her middle as she snapped in half. “Ahhh.”
“What is it?” I hugged her close, trying to take some of her weight. “Cramps?”
Biting her bottom lip, she nodded. “Fucking bastard…owww…”
Sweat broke out over her forehead.
True terror filled me.
I had no idea what this game entailed, but she could barely stand up, let alone do anything else. Glancing at the camera, I whisper-hissed, “May…”
The older woman looked at us from her position stirring the big pot. “Yeah?”
“Is there a cellar down here? Could you hide Peter and Rachel? Just until tonight?”
She wrinkled her nose with sorrow. “Victor will do a head count. He always does. There’s no getting out of it. Just…eat up. And…good luck.”
“Come on.” Rachel wiped at the sweat on her temples and stood upright. “I’m okay. It’s passed.” With her chin tipped like a queen, she guided me through the bustle and out the back door.
Just like a typical working castle, this forgery fortress was no different.
Cobblestones led left and right toward outbuildings, no doubt housing potatoes, mushrooms, and other produce requiring dark, cool places. A red brick larder with a huge slab of beef hung in the shadows, and bushels of leafy greens waited by the wall to be washed and prepared for dinner.
“Come on.” Rachel guided me down the little laneways until we popped out into a small field where a hen house sat with its blue shingled roof and a busy flock of hens going about their morning.
Around another bend and my feet slammed to a stop.
A few sheds dotted about. Handyman sheds complete with tools, ladders leaning against dusty bricks, and a wheelbarrow full of gardening implements.
Amongst the litter of life—the everyday drudgery by those unseen who kept the flowers pruned and gutters clean—hovered every jewel in this godforsaken place.
They seemed out of place.
Terribly vulnerable.
I didn’t know what I was expecting but…this?
I blinked at the long row of identically painted slaves.
What on earth—
Rachel blanched. “Well…this isn’t good.”
Swallowing hard, I went to agree, but Peter looked up from where he slouched against the wall of a muddy handyman shed. Wearing a pair of tanned boxer-briefs and nothing else, he threw up his arms and limp-ran toward us. “Rachie! Ily! Where have you two been? I’ve missed you so, so much!”
Rachel and I both stumbled as he crashed into us.
His skin felt damp and feverish, his pulse pounding visibly in his neck.
For a second, I couldn’t see much wrong with him.
For a heartbeat, I hoped whatever Victor had done for three days wasn’t that bad after all.
But then, I noticed.
And almost threw up on the grass.
“Oh God…Peter. No…”
He giggled and held up his palms.
His burned and awfully charred palms.
No bandages, no creams, nothing to protect his raw, red-black, oozing flesh. “Oh, these? Nah, it’s fine, jaanu. Don’t feel it. In fact, the smell reminds me of barbecue. See? Smell it. Makes me hungry.” He shoved his hand under my nose, smearing my upper lip with whatever fluid his body produced, doing its best to heal.
“Peter, you need to snap out of it. Okay?” Rachel yanked his hand away and marched him back to the others. “Where are your slippers? Citra gave you a pair of her handmade slippers this morning, remember? You need to wear them.”
“Nah.” Peter shook his head, stumbling drunkenly as he waved at all the other jewels. “Not allowed.” Every single one wore underwear matching their skin colour, making it seem like they wore nothing at all.
The fact that they actually wore underwear ought to be the most shocking part, if it wasn’t for the giant bullseye painted right on their chests.
No…not just their chests.
Peter spun in place and tipped his head back to the sun, revealing his back.
Beneath the lashings from the night of the treasure hunt, a bright red dot marked the centre of his spine with ever-expanding circles in black and white.
Sick.
Twisted.
Evil.
I struggled to breathe as Rachel grabbed the basket from my slack hand and shoved a muesli bar into Peter’s burned one. “Here. Eat this. Maybe it will sober you up a bit.”
“Oh, yum! Thanks, Rach.” He tore into it. “Better than eating myself, I suppose, seeing as I smell so fucking tasty!” Kicking up his left leg, he showed me his sole. “Tempted to gnaw on this if I’m honest.”
My knees gave out.
I staggered to the side before I caught myself. “Fuck, Peter.”
I couldn’t tell if I wanted to burst into manic, morbid giggles or die of a broken, battered heart.
If I thought his hands were bad, his feet were atrocious. His heels were cracked with blackened flesh. His toes raw with burns. His arches even had a strip of skin hanging off, looking like overdone bacon.
I-I’m going to throw up.
“Ah, it’s okay. Don’t worry.” He swooped into me and cupped my cheeks with his treacle and blood-sticky hands. “I’m fine. More than fine. I don’t feel a thing. Couldn’t walk before, but wow, those are some potent pills Rose gave me. And besides…” His eyes dropped to my mouth. “It was worth it. Should’ve done it years ago.”
