Authors: Keely James
Flee (28 page)
This left things quiet around here, if you could call it that. Neither Joe or Mary or even Dr. Hawkins had said anything to anyone about what was really going on. Dr. Hawkins visited every afternoon, always issuing the parting order to stay in bed and keep resting. He was to be trusted, only asking if we were working with the police. I was glad Thomas had answered that question, carefully skirting the truth so as not to outright lie, but satisfying his concern. I hoped he wouldn't come while I was out of bed. I didn't want to give him reason to put me in the hospital. I had followed his orders for four days and wanted to at least give him the impression that I was continuing to do the same. I needed to be where the planning was. Sitting here trying to heal and doing nothing was filling me with a restlessness that was close to inducing insanity. I needed something to do.
Maybe that was part of why I had sunk into such a deep depression after my parents' deaths. There had been nothing to do, nothing to fix. Just day after day of enduring pain. I wouldn't go down this time without a fight. Mateo needed to be rescued, and I would be involved in that rescue. Somehow, someway I would help them get him back. I couldn't just sit back and let them do all of the work. Never mind that I had no idea what to do. That would come later. I just knew that I needed a task or I would go mad.
I rose shakily and made my way into the kitchen just in time to see Danny pull a plate of leftover spaghetti out of the microwave.
“Tell me what to do. I have to help.”
He opened his mouth to argue, and I held up my hand to stop him.
“I
have
to help,” I repeated. He caught the inflection, his brow furrowing in concentration.
“So, you're ready to go commando? In your designer hat and sheepskin boots?”
“I'm ready to do what it takes to stay sane and rescue Mateo. You didn't see me before I met Mateo. I can't go back to that.”
Danny nodded. He said something quietly under his breath. It sounded like
"I know."
“And the boots are negotiable.” I sat down at the bar, feeling slightly better already. He had taken me seriously. Well, somewhat seriously. He hadn't rejected my offer. I could almost see his mind spinning as he placed the plate and a water glass in front of me.
“Well then, I have a plan. But we have to get it past a lot of people. And you'll have to convince both them and me you're capable of pulling this off. It may be hard and will probably involve a lot of missed school and a lot of explaining and probably lying to Joe and Mary and your friends. Sure you're up for this?”
I didn't care how hard it would be or even if it was dangerous. The hope I had been carefully kindling ignited within me. This was what I lived for now, the purpose I needed to remind me to breathe and heal. Rescue Mateo or die trying. It sounded like a sound bite from a bad movie trailer, but it was my new mantra, and I would pursue it with everything I had in me. I looked up at Danny and slowly nodded. “When do we start?”
Mateo
The dark room stank. Sweat, urine, fear, hope, desperation all combined to make the air almost unbreathable. I adjusted my weight as I leaned against the wall, careful not to jostle the arm I was sure was broken. Throbbing pain caused sweat to bead on my forehead. I wiped it away and tried to focus on the faces around me. The dark room contained twelve other people. Six men, four women, and two big-eyed, exhausted children. A stash house. We sat in the dark, an armed
guide
ensuring our almost-silence and lack of movement. I knew from whispered bits of conversation that we were somewhere in Texas right along the Mexican border.
My twelve temporary roommates were beginning to smile and relax as darkness began to set in outside. This was the last step of their dangerous journey to illegally enter the U.S. Once night fell, they would be hidden in the truck I had arrived in and driven somewhere and released to make their own way in what they hoped to be their new home.
Their
coyoté
made the rounds of the room, handing out water bottles and quietly whispering final instructions. I watched him carefully. He was not to be trusted, interested only in the money these anxious people had paid him, but he played his role well. I also carefully observed the couple with the children, ensuring they were indeed a family fleeing to a new life and not child traffickers. Thankfully, the two little girls looked too much like the man and woman with them to doubt their relationship. I knew I couldn't have sat and witnessed a kidnapping and not tried to stop it, but in my present condition the chances of success would have been slim.
The back door opened, and everyone in the room visibly tensed as my captor entered. His tattoos identified him as Las Lunas, a fact not lost to this room of would-be immigrants. The father to my right quietly shifted to place himself in front of his family as the man advanced toward us. I met my captor's gaze unflinchingly, fighting the hatred that threatened to consume me.
Stay calm and focused. Do not miss any opportunities for escape
. But this man had held Blake hostage, had bruised her face, had endangered her life, and I wanted revenge. This one thought consumed my mind more than any thoughts of rescue and escape.
He stopped in front of me, flicking ash from his cigarette at my face, and spoke in English. “How is the arm?” His laugh was cruel and humorless.
I didn't answer, choosing instead to examine the damage I had done to his face before he had drawn his gun and smashed it into my arm. It wasn't enough to be revenge, just the promise of it.
“You are very fortunate, amigo, that my orders are to not kill you. I'm not even allowed to mark up your face. We must have you looking pretty for your daily pictures.”
He knelt in front of me, taking a drag from his cigarette before snuffing it out on my good arm. I gritted my teeth but did not flinch, determined to show no weakness.
“But this won't always be so. Your usefulness to us will expire, and then you will be left without even a dog to bark at you. I'm looking forward to that day.”
He rose and turned to the
coyoté
, speaking rapidly and still in English to confuse the others. I strained to listen, thankful that fear had caused absolute silence in the room. He then left the room, and the
coyoté
moved to the corner and withdrew his cell phone.
I looked to the right and made eye contact with the young father. He seemed startled, an anxious expression on his face.
“Did you understand that?” I asked softly in Spanish.
“Some of it,” he returned. “There is a problem?”
“So it would seem. You need to be very careful. The place they are dropping you is not safe.” I glanced at the big frightened eyes of his two little girls. “You're sure it's worth it?”
He nodded, determination mixed with desperation on his face. “I cannot support my family. My girls are hungry.”
I nodded. “Be the first ones out of the truck. From what I heard, there is a storage unit behind the building they are taking you to. Find it quickly and hide in it. Do not trust your
coyoté
. When it is safe to move, you should head northeast.”
“Gracias.”
He paused, then pulled a shirt from his bag and ripped it. With as little movement as possible so as not to attract attention, he tied it around my neck, cradling my injured arm in the makeshift sling.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
He ran a hand through his dirty hair before speaking again. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
“If you make it, call this number.” I repeated Hector's cell phone number for him until he could recite it perfectly. “Tell him Cuernavaca.”
“You have my word.”
The door opened again, and my captor moved toward me, this time grabbing my broken arm and yanking me to my feet. I fought to not lose consciousness as waves of nausea and pain washed over me.
“Time to go. The beautiful landscape of Mexico beckons. A good place to be born, no? And I'm also thinking a good place to die. Let's not keep it waiting.”
Keely James
is an iced tea-totaling chocoholic with a serious addiction to reading. She hates to work out (but does it anyway), loves watching her kids play sports (or really, do anything) and enjoys spending chunks of time in the beautiful Texas sunshine writing. She is hopeful that someone someday will invent a self-cleaning house. In the meantime, don't judge her. She is blessed to live in Austin with her husband, five children, and overweight dog.
Chapter One
I have been summoned to the unseelie king's throne room.
As I walk toward the massive wooden doors, I look ahead to take in the white marble that covers every surface of the room. The veins of pure gold running through the marble are the only color on the floor, ceiling, and walls. There are no paintings, statues, or any other sort of decoration, leaving the room cold and dreary. This is because the king wishes for there to be nothing that could take the attention away from himself. He insists on being the center of attention, which is why he also demands that his throne room, where he spends most of his time, be as well.
This immense room is located exactly in the center of the unseelie castle. In the center of this room, King Foxglove presides over his people from a large dais made entirely of marble, like the walls and floor. In the entryway is a narrow black carpet that stretches to the base of his dais, where it meets the four marble steps leading up to his lone throne. The king's Throne of Thorns is the only decoration, if one would even call it that, that he permits within this room. The throne is made entirely of black oak and, as its name suggests, is covered completely with thorns. The thorns cover every inch of the thick oak branches that weave in and out of each other, forming a sturdy and deadly chair that only the king himself is able to sit upon. If any other fae dare try, the chair will come alive and slice them into ribbons.
King Foxglove now sits comfortably on that throne as he watches the scene before him. Damien is standing at the base of the dais with the halfling I retrieved earlier in the day. I knew the Halfling was going to be difficult, but I had not expected that he would need to be brought before the king. A tiny voice in the back of my head tells me I should look away because what is happening is wrong, but I know that it would be seen as a sign of weakness and that is something I cannot afford. So instead I listen and watch.
"Why have you brought this halfling before me?" When the king speaks, I see the Halfling shrink back just a fraction as if he had not been expecting the menace in the king's voice.
"This
halflingâ
" Damien's voice is as equally frightening, "âdoes not wish to cooperate with the commands I have given him. I am seeking your approval to teach him how we do things here at the unseelie court."
A glint sparks in the king's eyes as he sits straighter in his throne. "We cannot have that now, can we?" He lets out an evil laugh that sends goose bumps up my arms. Thankfully they are covered, so no one can see. "Permission granted, but carry out his punishment here so that I may witness it."
"As you wish, My King." Damien gives a slight bow of his head and turns to the halfling beside him. Now that I see his profile, I also see the eager look in Damien's eyes. The halfling notices it as well and his body shakes with fear. I do not blame him. Damien has the ability to bring a man to his knees with a mere look. He has the pale skin that is common among the fae, but his features are more defined and sharper than most. His cheekbones, chin, nose, and ears, are all pointed and his black eyes are so cruel and scary that they are difficult to look into. His jet-black hair reaches past his shoulders but is always pulled back and tied with a thin strip of leather at the nape of his neck. Although he is lean like all fae, he is all muscle and his height is not matched by many. Standing at almost seven feet tall, he is the epitome of what the unseelie court stands for: power, strength, and the ability to evoke fear into all.
The halfling does not give up, though. He tries to regain control of his body and opens his mouth to say something, but does not get the chance. Knowing what is coming, I choose that moment to blink my eyes more slowly than usual so that I do not have to witness what Damien does to him, but that does not prevent me from hearing the screams or stop my imagination from running wild with images.
I have been taught by Damien, my mentor and guardian, that an unseelie fae shows no mercy and that pain and torture are the only way to prove our dominance over others. We are to be cruel and unforgiving, our creed being
kill or be killed
. This way of thinking is what I have been trained to do since I can remember, yet there is a small voice in the back of my head that tells me this is wrong. It is an instinct that I have to fight constantly.
