Pieces of Autumn (19 page)

Or maybe this was all a pretty lie, just something to make me feel better in the last few hours of my life. Maybe he really was as vicious as I feared. Maybe he wasn't a man who occasionally wore the mask of a monster. Maybe it was the other way around.

The sound of engine cut off, and my heart threatened to burst out of my chest. I felt the sudden rush of fresh air when the trunk opened, and it would have been a relief, if it hadn't meant I was one step closer to my death.

I was pulled out and carried once again, down, I thought, far down, somewhere with air that was still and stagnant. I couldn't really smell it, but I could feel it on my skin.

Birdy's voice cut through the silence.

"Your precious Tate's not gonna find you here," he said.

But I thought...

He was just fucking with my mind. He'd say anything he thought would get a reaction.

The bag was ripped away, again, and I blinked furiously. The smell hit me before my eyes could adjust. Dank and dusty. Polluted. Vaguely familiar.

Flickering fluorescents glimmered against the tile walls.
 

A subway.

Two men held me back, on either side. It seemed like overkill. Each one of them was twice my size, and ten times as strong. I twisted my neck to get a glimpse of Birdy, grinning and chewing his wad of tobacco a few feet away.

"We going on a trip?" I glared at him with every ounce of the anger and defiance I felt. I didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore, but I refused to bow down to it. I wouldn't go quietly.

He laughed. "Don't worry, we got all kinds of fun planned for you."

Somewhere close by, on another track, I heard the unmistakable squealing of an approaching train. I frowned.

I'd heard rumors of those places, in the heart of big cities, where trains still ran. Evidently, this was one of them. I found myself wondering who was bankrolling it, and why. There had to be some sinister purpose.

There always was.

I let myself wonder. I thought about everything but my reality, everything but the man standing a few feet away, who wanted nothing more than my blood. My heart pounded so hard that it ached, fit to leap from my chest.
 

Maybe he would spare me. Maybe, through his own twisted sense of self-gratification, he'd let me live. Maybe he just wanted to frighten me, to see me suffer even more. I could survive that. I could survive, and break free, and go back...

Back to Tate.

That, I realized, was my only plan. To return to him. I had nowhere else to go.
 

I might not be able to trust him, but I certainly couldn't trust anyone else.

My mind searched desperately for one final reprieve. A sign that he'd spare me, for long enough to make an escape.

He's not like Tate. He would never give you a chance.

I wanted to howl, to keen and gnash my teeth and throw myself at the floor. I wouldn't accept death. I wouldn't. Deep in my mind, I tried to tug on the invisible thread that connected me to my master.

In the back of my mind, something bristled at my voluntary use of the word.
Master
. He wasn't my master. Nobody was. Yet somehow, without me realizing it, he'd taken on that role in the part of my brain that only knew emotions and fears. There was no reasoning with it. No explaining. I thought of Tate, and that part of me purred.
Master
.

It didn't matter now. The connection between us was nothing more than a figment of my imagination, a justification for his behavior. Something to make me feel better. Safer.
 

But I tugged on it, nonetheless. I tugged and I tugged. There was nothing else for me to do.

Birdy was speaking.

"I knew your daddy for a long time, before I killed him. Did you know that?" He spat a long stream of disgusting brown liquid onto the concrete floor. "We did business together. I was small-time, back then. Loaning him a little bit here, a little bit there, just to help him get through the week. Seemed like there was never quite enough. At first, he was paying back just enough to keep me from sniffing around. I got to be a little friendly with him. It's good to have their trust, you know?"

He paused for a moment, smiling at me.
 

"He told me all about that train set you wanted. The big, fancy one in the toy store window. You were just a little tyke at the time, but I thought it was awful cute. Seemed unfair that you couldn't have it, just because your daddy was a broke deadbeat.

"So, I bought it for you."

My stomach twisted. I remembered that Christmas, the best one we'd had in a while. Mom had gently explained to me that it was a hard year for everyone, including Santa, so I shouldn't expect anything big. But then, under the tree, there was the train set. Gleaming and beautiful and perfect.
 

Later that night, I remembered Mom and Dad fighting. But I never understood the substance of it.

Now, I knew.

It was done. Birdy had managed to poison every part of my life, even the time before I met him. There was no escaping from his foul influence, no matter what I did. I would die knowing that
he
was really the one who owned me. Not Tate.

"That's a nice story," I told him, forcing myself not to cry. The tears leaked out anyway, and I choked, helplessly.
 

"It's as true as they come," he said. "Cross my heart and hope to die."

He looked around the platform, as if drinking it in.

"Seemed appropriate," he said. "Poetic, even, to end it all here. Considering you like trains so much. And it's got such a nice feeling to it. The train tracks, the damsel in distress. Don't you think?"

Horror washed over me, as I understood exactly what he meant to do.

"No," I heard myself shout. I was struggling again, but the men held me still. "No!"

"Yes, yes, yes," said Birdy, spitting again, and coming towards me. He clasped both hands firmly around my waist, lifting me off the ground, curling both of his arms around my body so that my struggles were in vain. The other men let go of me as he carried me towards the tracks. "This is goodbye, honeybunch. I'm genuinely sorry it had to end like this."

He hurled me over the edge of the platform.

I heard the sickening crunch before I actually
felt
my leg snap, the sudden pressure, the searing pain that rocketed through my body. I cried out, and it echoed through the station, mingling with the sound of Birdy's laughter.

My head was swimming. But I knew enough to keep still. As bad as this was, as much as it hurt, it could have been much worse.

I forced myself to calm down, gritting my teeth, thinking beyond the pain. I kept my body still. But slowly, ever so slowly, I turned my head to see where I'd landed.

The third rail was inches from my face.

Between me and the platform, hundreds of volts of electricity on bare metal. If I could jump over it, getting to safety would be trivial. But with a broken leg, and five armed men waiting for me to die on the platform...

I wouldn't accept this. I
couldn't
.
 

With a groan, I managed to drag myself partially upright, away from the deadly rail. My leg screamed in protest, but I had to look. I had to see how bad it was.

Oh, God. It was twisted at a disgusting angle, jagged bone protruding from my shin. A rush of lightheadedness almost knocked me over, but I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

A huge rat was running across the rail that stood between me and the rest of my life, stopping to stare at me, curiously, his nose twitching. Huge, helpless sobs wracked through my chest.

"Come on, girly-girl," Birdy called out, vicious laughter in his voice. "Why don't you climb back up here?"
 

A chorus of hoots and hollers from his lackeys.
 

"Fuck you!" I spat, even as the tears rolled down my face.
 

It couldn't end like this. Not after everything I'd endured.

My whole life I'd fought against this, refusing to ever lie down and let myself feel helpless. I had always known that someday, Birdy and his men would find me. It would be foolish to think otherwise. But I had told myself I wouldn't go down without a fight.
 

I sold myself to Stoker. I tried to play the role of Tate's obedient slave. But always,
always
, because I knew it would keep me safe. I went in with my eyes open. Never once did I lose myself. Not really.

Right now, I hated the girl who was sitting, helpless, on the subway tracks. I hated her weakness. I hated her stupid broken leg. I hated her crying. I hated that she couldn't stop thinking about the cruel, indifferent man who held her captive.

Would Tate ever wonder what happened to me? Would he care?

Why did
I
care?

Because he's the only other fucking human being you've seen in the last three months, except for...

A distant whine, whistle, a metallic mechanical shriek. I knew it was coming, but my heart stopped for a moment anyway, my stomach lurching.

"You hear that, girly-girl?" Birdy was probably grinning. I wouldn't look up. "You know what that sound means?"

I heard nothing but harsh breathing, and then I realized it was mine.
 

"SPLAT!" Birdy shouted, and the men broke out into cheers and laughter.

Desperately, I started dragging myself forward. Agony jolted through my leg with every movement, but I had to do something. I couldn't just sit here and die.

A moment later, I turned to look. I had to.
 

I had to face it.

The headlights were coming. Closer, and closer. Ever closer.

A rush of nausea took over, and I realized I couldn't do it. I couldn't watch the train bear down on me, no matter how brave I'd prided myself on being.

I turned away.

And that's when I saw him.

Running down the center of the tracks, every footfall sending gravel scattering across the rails, mice and pigeons making panicked sounds and fleeing from him in every direction.

The headlights illuminated his face. As if there was any doubt who it could be.

My heart pumped traitorously fast, and I didn't dare look back at the train. I slumped forward, wanting to shout his name but afraid to let Birdy and his men know that someone was coming.

Tate
.

There was a horrible, grinding shriek as the train began to slow. This wasn't a planned stop. Birdy knew that, which is why they'd brought me here. But the conductor must have seen one of us. Tate, most likely. The train wouldn't stop in time, not even close, but maybe it bought us another few moments.

Us. He came for me.
 

Very suddenly, he was skidding to a stop just a few feet away. He grabbed me so violently that it knocked the breath from my lungs, throwing me to safety before jumping up after. My leg was on fire and I wanted to scream, couldn't scream, couldn't breathe, and then shots rang out and I finally screamed and kept screaming. My ears were ringing and I heard nothing, nothing at all, but I saw the dark spray of arterial blood and bodies falling all around me. I saw Birdy running, fleeing up the steps and Tate running after him and firing and firing and missing and shouting something I couldn't hear. I cried out after him not to leave me, please, not to leave me alone here.
 

But he couldn't hear anything.

I lay there, shaking and crying, staring at the empty train. No passengers to stare at me, faces pressed against the window, wondering what the hell happened. Birdy must have arranged that too.
 

When Tate came back, his face was grim. I knew Birdy had gotten away. I knew, without having to shout the question over the ringing in my ears. He knelt down beside me, swiftly, pulling off his tie and wrapping it tightly around my leg, just above the break. I allowed myself another brief glance before my head started to swim again.

So much blood.

He slipped his arms under me, mouthing something I thought I understood:
This will hurt
.

Then, he lifted me up.

He was right. The pain in my leg was jagged and sharp, increasing with every step he took. As he carried me up the stairs, I screamed and cried until my throat was raw. By the time we reached the huge black car idling on the sidewalk, I could almost hear myself again.

Tate placed me in the back seat as gently as he could, laying my injured leg out on the seat. In the driver's seat, Joshua twisted around, hands still on the steering wheel. I couldn't spare the energy to wonder why the fuck
he
was there.

"Jesus," he said, tightly, glancing at me.

Tate handed me a bottle of water and two small pills. I swallowed them without hesitation.

Then, I said the only thing that came into my mind. My voice sounded faint and far away.

"Am I going to die?"

Tate looked at me. "Not today," he said.

And I believed him.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Broken Things

The pain in my leg had faded to a heavy throb at the edge of my consciousness. When Tate pulled me out of the car, I realized I was smiling at him.

"What did you give me?" I wondered aloud.

He almost looked amused. "Codeine," he said. "Have you never taken painkillers before?"

I blinked a few times, noticing the warm feeling in the center of my chest. "No," I said. "Saw what they did to people. Didn't want any part of it."

Joshua was opening a door on the side of Tate's house, leading us into a room that I'd never been to. There was another vicious stab of pain when he set me down on a cot in the middle, and then it ebbed.
 

It was like a very small, makeshift doctor's office. Instead of sterile gauze, there were plastic bags full of bandages. Rotgut instead of rubbing alcohol - I recognized the label from one of the many illegal distilleries that ran in the outskirts of the city. There was an antique stethoscope hanging on the wall, and absolutely nothing in the way of modern conveniences. Unless you counted the small, stainless-steel sink and the unmarked dispenser sitting next to it.