Anne Brontë Nightwalker

Chapter 46

He picks me up and carries me into the basement. A grimmer bridal chamber I have never imagined. It smells of musk and mold. There is a large four-poster bed carved with branches and leaves and covered in white animal furs. The floor is concrete, overthrown with threadbare kilims and old Turkish carpets. A fireplace sits cold and empty. Two smooth sconces glow an insipid yellow on the wall. Webb shows me a dresser and opens a drawer. "There are clothes here for you. They were Dana's but you can find something to wear. Nothing red, please. A bathroom is in there. When I return, I expect to find you bathed and clothed."

"They'll know I'm gone. They'll look for me."

"Who will? All your friends?" He smiles and I can't help recognizing his beauty. "Dana told me how many you have. It doesn't matter anyway. We're leaving soon."

"They'll suspect you."

"They'll think we had a passionate affair and ran off together. Or I'll tell them there was an illness in the family. Either way, great reward requires great risk. You, my love, are worth it." Webb turns and leaves the room. The door closes and bolts slam shut, then all falls silent.

I sit on the bed. There are no windows in either the bedroom or the bathroom. No A/C vents. The only door is the one Webb exited through and it sounded solid when he closed it. Still I know I must escape. Now's my chance, while Webb is gone dealing with Dana's corpse. I cringe at the thought of her, the need to dispose of her body, but I can't think about that now; there will be time later to grieve.

Sliding from the bed, I crawl to the fireplace and peer inside the chimney. It's sealed shut. Next I move to the door and study it. The handle is an ornate iron affair, the kind you see on a front door, not an interior, with a thick deadbolt that can be opened with a key from either side. A second deadbolt has been installed above it, again accessible from outside. Chills run up my arms and I try to clear my thoughts.

In all my time as a paramedic, I've learned a few things from firefighters. Standing by at house fires while they forced entry may now come in handy. My hand slides over the door and I give it a whack. Solid core. It's inward-swinging, with hinges on my side. With the right tools I could remove the hinges or force the door inward, or go through the lock. But I don't have any tools and I'm too weak to use my bare hands. My despair rises. If I were at my peak strength, I could rip the handle right off or kick through the door with my boots but I'm so ridiculously tired. Webb drained me.

What else will he do?

With a roar of resolve, I clamber to my feet and begin searching the room for something to use. I've got to toughen up. Charlotte and I once ran four miles over steep hills in a torrential rainstorm for the sole purpose of clearing our honor, and we were no warriors. Back then, I had my cursed asthma and Charlotte was as small and nearsighted as a squirrel. If we could fight for honor as mortal girls, I can fight for freedom now.

In the bathroom I search for a razor blade or scissors but there's nothing. The bedroom contains only soft, silky things: pillows, blankets, animal throws. There isn't even a table lamp. Frantically, I throw open drawers and rifle through Dana's belongings: slinky panties and bras, clingy crimson dresses, a pair of fishnet stockings. All her clothing is a different shade of blood. I remember her once saying how she despised pink, "a weak color for weak little girls." Red is powerful, she said. Red is for women. I couldn't obey Webb and dress in another color even if I wanted to.

The thought of him spurs me on. I begin throwing her clothes onto the floor in piles of lace and satin. Nothing but softness and beauty. I want something hard, sharp. In despair, I yank out the dresser drawer and, screaming, hurl it across the room. It hits the wall and explodes into a storm of slivers, reminding me that I'm not your normal girl.

I am a Night Walker.

But the effort has exhausted me. My head swims with dizziness and I rest it upon my knees to keep from passing out. Blood pulses through my wrist with each heartbeat, numbing my fingers. I must be stronger. I've been locked in a dungeon by a sociopath who expects me to be bathed, dressed, and yielding upon his return.

My nightmares have come true.

Slowly I raise my head and realize I am kneeling as if in prayer. I clasp my hands before my face, white fingers steepling toward God. What can I ask that I have not already asked a million times before? God, please save me. I have begged Him for almost two hundred years. All he's given me are silence and death.

The room is ice-cold. Frigid concrete seeps through the carpets, into my knees, up my thighs. My bones ache. My wrist throbs and my head hurts, but worse than all of that is my soul.

My soul is shot to hell.

And all of a sudden I hear a voice, clear and deep as a church bell. Papa!

As iron sharpens iron, so one person sharpens another.

I'm a little girl again sitting upon the hard pew of our cold church, listening to Papa's sermon. But this time is different. This time I hear what Papa's really trying to say for I'm no longer a child. I'm a woman who knows the shadows and the valleys of death. I've been beaten by the hammer of hell and I've survived. This isn't the first dungeon I've been in. Webb's not the first Alpha to hurt me. All that's come before has sharpened and honed my heart.

I am sharp as iron and I must save myself.

There is one last drawer. I inch it open, afraid it will be empty but hoping it's full of whips and chains and handcuffs—potential weapons. I hold my breath. When I slide it out, I see only shadows inside. Pulling it wider, I wait while my eyes adjust to the dark, yawning hole. Emily's right, my night vision has grown pitifully weak. Blackness swirls then fades to navy. Navy! My heart skips and my hand flies inside, landing upon cotton and polyester. Dana's work uniform has been rolled up and shoved inside. I rifle her pants and pockets, feeling for the knife she always carries. Nothing. My hand sweeps the drawer, fingers running over the grainy wood, alighting upon her canvas belt, desperately searching for what I know should be there.

I find it! A leather case. With my good hand, I pull out Dana's Super Tool Leatherman. She bragged it was the most steroidal multi-tool around, bequeathed to her by Firefighter Tom. Pure stainless steel with nineteen components: pliers, cutters, crimpers, snippers, and a dozen other superfluous things a paramedic would never need. But now I bless her love of extravagance and fumble open the tool like a starving man ripping open a can of beans.

I spend entirely too long trying every adjunct on it to get through the lock. Screwdrivers, nail files, knives, pliers, the saw, even the can opener. It's useless and I'm making no progress. Time is running out. A master of speed and efficiency, Webb could return any moment.

What I need is an axe and I'd smash my way through like a berserker. In desperation, I abandon the locks and wield the tool as a hammer, slamming it against the bottom hinge again and again, a deranged Bertha beating at an attic door. Pain rips through my wrist, and I relish it. I deserve it. If I'd been stronger, this wouldn't have happened. Dana wouldn't have fooled me. Webb wouldn't have found me. When I feed, I'm fast as a cheetah shrouded in invisibility. Untouchable.

I want to tell William that I was never offended; I am enraptured. I want to tell him that he's the most beautiful man in all the lives I've ever known, and I love him.

Nevermore will I lock my words away. Nevermore will I allow myself to grow so weak.

In a frenzy I attack the hinge and strike and strike and strike. "Nevermore!" I yell.

The hinge tears off and clatters to the floor.

I freeze for a second, momentarily stunned, then I'm prying the door open from the bottom, squeezing and kicking myself through like a rat. The top hinge is secure and the hard edge of the door scrapes against my ribs and hips as I push myself through.

I'm up and running, stumbling upon the stairs, crawling up them like an injured beast, dragging myself to my feet and breaking through the first window I see, falling onto the soft powdered snow in a bed of glimmering glass, sliding down a hill into the trees, running for the forest like Atalanta.