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But I’m not.
It’s not that I know these men don’t mean me harm. I know Absolon means me harm. He’s warned me plenty of times. I’ve felt his harm bleed from my throat to his finger and down through his lips.
But I don’t think this is what it looks like.
What it feels like is a different story.
I’ve seen The Exorcist.
This is what they do to someone who might become uncontrollable.
I’m changing.
Into what?
How can I be changing into anything except the shadow of the person I once was?
“Good morning, Lenore,” Absolon says in a clipped voice, hands behind his back as he walks over to the side of the bed, staring at me like a doctor would a patient. “And how are we feeling today?”
I stare at him, trying to ignore the rising anger that’s making my blood seethe. How the hell does he think I feel? Not only do I have no idea how I got from the basement to here, this strange room, but he let me know how much my parents don’t want to find me. Worse than that, they’re covering for my disappearance, like they had something to do with it.
“Wolf, I’d like some time alone with her,” he says, keeping his eyes on me. Fuck, is he reading my mind again? Or was that something I dreamed?
“Of course, sir,” Wolf says, heading for the door. “I’ll be just outside.” It shuts behind him.
The room itself is large but old, wallpapered walls the color of faded indigo, dark wood furniture, a window with blackout shades pulled down. The only lights are from an antique lamp on the bedside table and from a candelabra flickering on the fireplace mantle, which gives everything an extra eerie appearance, and that’s saying a lot since it already feels like the mansion from Dark Shadows.
Absolon sits on the edge of the bed, twisting his body in an elegant way to face me. He takes his finger and runs it over my arm until I’m shaking from his touch, unable to control the shivers. Whether it’s from revulsion, anger, or something else, I don’t know.
“Tell me about your tattoos,” he says, letting his fingernails trace the ink of Poe’s words, his cold seeping into me, making my skin prickle.
“Tell me what’s happening to me,” I say. “Then we can talk.”
His fingers pause and he smirks at me. “Full of surprises. I really thought you’d be more devastated than you are.”
“Who says I’m not devastated?” I say point blank.
He clamps his mouth shut, watching me closely for a moment, then shrugs lightly with one shoulder. “You’re taking things in stride. So far.”
“You said I’m becoming you,” I tell him. “What am I becoming? What are these stages? What’s happening to me?”
He frowns. “So you know something is happening? Do you feel it?”
I shut my eyes, unable to take his penetrating eyes right now.
Because I do feel it.
I feel like I’m becoming something else, and I don’t know what it is, but it’s something linked to the deepest parts of me, that dark well that I know exists, the one I’m afraid to drink from.
But at the same time, how can I not be changing?
I was kidnapped.
I’ve been held captive in a stranger’s house.
My parents are pretending like it never happened.
And I’m feeling things, hearing things, seeing things, dreaming things that defy explanation.
