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Chapter Thirteen
Grinning, gibbering insanity claws and rakes at him with the poisoned nails and glistening fangs of his murderous, long-dead ancestors. Fiends of hatred snarl and bite, their savage jaws drawing the blood that surges behind his eyes in tides of dark crimson.
The sour wine of age-old evil has hardened his heart to stone. He is at home only in this night of fathomless blackness. Pleasure exists only in that perfect instant when he paints the cobbles red with his hideous signature. When another girl, another damaged rose, withers and dies.
With the tongue of madness he has come to love, his master speaks. “It is her turn now. It is time to write ‘the end’ at the bottom of the page.”
* * *
A soft croaking noise from across the room roused me from my shock. My eyes began to adjust to the gloom somewhat. The only sources of light were a narrow rectangular strip under the door and a similar, wider strip at one side, at roughly the height of the low ceiling. A coal chute, perhaps? Motes of dust danced in the narrow beam of light. Testing my limbs cautiously, I found my legs shaky but uninjured, and I stood up. My left wrist was on fire and every movement sent shards of pain shooting through to my shoulder. I cradled it against my chest and, with my other hand outstretched in case of obstacles, moved toward the sound of Eleanor’s muted cries.
I was able to make out her shape in one corner of the cellar. She was lying on an old mattress that had been placed on the floor. It felt stiff with dirt when my hand encountered it, and a foul odour of mingled mould and stale sweat rose from its surface. Eleanor’s hands and feet were tied tightly with twine, her eyes were wide pools of terror in the pale oval of her face and she was gagged. Even in the dim light, I could see the deep bruise that marred her left cheek and blackened the skin under one eye.
“Hush, Eleanor dearest. I’m here now.” I sat down on the floor beside her. Her pitiful cries made sharp tears of hopelessness sting the back of my eyelids. I blinked them away. “I’ve hurt my arm, so I’ll be clumsy. But let me get that gag off first.” I’d underestimated not only how awkward I would be, but also how much pain it would cause me to attempt any movement of my injured arm. Breathing hard with the effort, I managed to undo the strip of cloth that had been tied at the nape of Eleanor’s neck and gently remove the handkerchief that had been stuffed into her mouth. She drew great noisy gusts of air deep into her lungs with a horrible rasping sound, while I ineffectually patted her back with my good hand.
It took me much longer to untie her hands. The twine was so tight it had cut into her wrists and every fumbled effort of mine to untie the knots only succeeded in hurting her. In between my frustrated muttering and Eleanor’s occasional yelps of pain, she told me what had happened.
“Oh, Dita,” her voice was strained from crying. “I wanted to go away with Sandor so much. From the minute I saw him, I just knew he was the answer to my prayers. And he said he felt the same.” I decided there was nothing to be gained from telling her the truth about Sandor at that time. She would find out soon enough, assuming we managed to escape from this cellar prison. “He told me that he was an impostor, he wasn’t really a baron. I didn’t care. I loved him. I even told him about Tristan, and he said we would send for him to be with us. But, of course, we knew my parents would never approve, so we had to steal away in the middle of the night. And it was such an exciting adventure, Dita!” She sounded even more childlike than usual. “We arranged to meet by the little pergola at two in the morning. I was a few minutes late and surprised to find he wasn’t already there. I waited and waited, and then I heard a footstep. I turned to greet him—I was laughing because I wanted to tease him for being late and say it was supposed to be the lady’s prerogative. But it wasn’t him.”
“It was Eddie,” I supplied for her, and she began to cry weakly.
“It was. But he didn’t look like himself. He looked—oh, Dita, I don’t know how to explain it!—he looked like an animal of some sort. A ferocious, snarling creature. But he was smiling as well, as though he done something that gave him great pleasure. It was horrible! And when he spoke he was so calm. He said ‘I can’t allow you to do this, Eleanor’ as though he was caring for me. But, Dita, when he held out his hands toward me, they were bright red with blood!” The tears flowed faster now. “I tried to run, but he caught hold of me. He—” her voice trembled “—he hurt me, Dita. I remember seeing his fist come toward my face and then nothing until I woke up in here. I’ve counted two nights since that one. Eddie has come in now and then to bring me food and water. The pain in my head is so bad sometimes it makes me sick. I kept thinking ‘Sandor will come,’ but he can’t, can he? Oh, Dita, please tell me I’m wrong! Tell me it was not Sandor’s blood on Eddie’s hands!”
