He pressed the pawn into the warm wax, sealing his mark—cross intersecting circle—and whispered, “I’ll leave this one here for them to find and know.” He turned to her. “Along with you.” He glanced to where he’d left his gift for Ava. Her fellow agent. She was slowly waking.
Wax imagined Ava’s pain when she realized she’d failed to protect her friend and agent. Another failure on her part.
Just like Rachel had failed to protect Ava.
His mouth thinned. She’d been a disappointment, just like Ava.
For a heartbeat, he could almost see her standing there again, pleading for mercy.
Her mother’s voice echoed faintly, ghostlike: You can’t have her.
He shut his eyes and smiled. “But I already do.”
???
Cold crept down through the bone and into the marrow.
Rachel slowly opened her eyes from the darkness that felt heavy and physical.
Her breath came in shallow gasps, each exhale blooming a small cloud in the air. The faint flicker of candlelight burned all around her, revealing glints of wax.
She tried to move. Rope bit into her wrists. Her legs were bound as well.
Think. Don’t panic.
Memory came back in flashes. The collapse of the shaft she’d been on. Through the dust and debris, she’s seen something moving her way. At first Rachel thought they’d been rescued until she felt the sharp prick against her neck.
Before she lost consciousness, she’d seen his face and known this was Wax.
“Good, you’re awake,” a voice said from somewhere close by.
Her heart leapt to her throat. “Who’s there?”
“You don’t remember me?” The tone was calm and conversational. “Ah, so you do remember me. I saved you from the collapse that I set deliberately for this very reason. You will be number three.”
Three.
The word had never been so terrifying.
Three meant complete in Biblical terms. God the Father. The Son. The Holy Spirit.
But this was as far removed from Godly things as the east was from the west.
She’d become part of Wax’s sick games and, in his world, three meant she would be the final victim.
She strained to see him, but the candlelight cast him in silhouette. He moved with unhurried grace, the scrape of boots on stone echoing softly.
Rachel closed her eyes and tried to recall the man who had stood over her before injecting her with something that rendered her unconscious and was responsible for the grogginess that wouldn’t let her think clearly.
Older. Dark hair. Tall. Thin.
“What do you want?” she demanded.
He chuckled under his breath. “To teach. To remind her what she rejected.”
“Her?”
He stopped a few feet away, tilting his head as if studying her. “Ava. Like her mother, she surrounds herself with those who give her a false sense of safety. You,”—he gestured faintly toward her— “you’re one of those people she hides behind. That makes you useful.”
