Torture (Siren Book 2) (5 page)

She purses her lips, and when she talks again, her tone is firmer. “I'm not gonna go into it anymore than that, if that's what you're waiting for. Mama always said you don't talk about politics, religion, or money.”

I'm not sure I understand the distinction she does. “It's just
work
. Not any of those.”

Her brows twitch together, and she meets my eyes directly. “Oh, Calder, it's all
three
.” Her gaze is steely, telling me I'm on thin ice.

“I've been meaning to ask—obviously
I've
got enemies; successful people always do.” She raises an eyebrow at my cockiness. “What? It's just truth. Anyways, what about you? Are you
sure
you don't know anyone who'd want to hurt you, or your family?”

Milla's stare turns from guarded to stony, but beneath the chill is something else—fear. I'm onto something. I smile at her, as comfortingly as I can. “There's gotta be someone; you can't please
everyone
.”

“It's a leap to get from not being universally liked, and having someone willing to shove you in a rusted room and burn you alive.” She shudders, and for a moment, the smell pushes us back into the room where Alex died. I can see it in her face.

I'm not quite sure where to start again, but before I've decided, she's standing. “Look, I'm not really up for talking right now, okay?”

I should think of some way to persuade her to stay, some subtler probe that'll get a better response. But maybe it's better to wait, to let her do it in her own time. It's not like they can hurt her, here.

Her hips sway as she walks to the center of the room, drops down to the sub-floor, and crawls into the exposed pipe opening barely peeking over the grating. We already know it doesn't go anywhere, but it's an obvious plea for privacy.

So much for
that
. Sometimes she's open, if shy, and sometimes every word seems to set her off.

I don't think I'll ever understand her.

*              *              *

Allen and Denise both glare at me; we've been sleeping within sight-distance of each other, both for safety, and also to try to keep that part of the room a little warmer. So Milla's absence hasn't gone unnoticed.

“Are you sure this is the best time to be flirting?” Denise asks, giving me a stare that's a mix of motherly and cold.

“I wasn't flirting.” I can't admit my reasons to them.

“Sure looked like it from here. It's obvious you're taken with her.”

That
gets a snort out of me. “'Taken with her?' What is this, Regency England? No. It's
really
nothing like that. Just trying to figure out that note.”

“If you say so,” she says, dubiously.

“How is he?” I ask, to change the topic. “How bad is it?”

“Well, I'm no nurse, but it looks pretty shallow. Surface burns only. Nothing too deep.” She smiles, with a little relief in it.

Allen shakes his head. “Still hurts like a motherfucker, though. And it's not just the surface. It feels like my insides are on fire.”

“Ouch.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, thanks again for getting that shit open. I'm toasting you with every damn bite.” I pull my sandwich out of my pocket, and make another go at it. The smoky taste still disgusts me, but starving myself won't do any good.

“I have a bad feeling,” Denise confesses, eyes on her knees.

“Don't we all?” Allen says brusquely; it's obviously a rhetorical question.

“I know the one,” I tell her. “He's waiting for something, toying with us. Reminding us he can kill us whenever he wants. But there's no more doors open, nowhere to go. Even the way back blocked off. It's obvious that he's getting his strength for something. Damned if I know what, though.”

“Or letting us get
our
strength,” Denise says, and shudders.

There's something tickling in my eardrums, but I can't quite place the sound. A metallic echo, but under that, a light, feminine timbre.

Denise sighs. “I worry about her, you know?”

“What?”

“Millie.”

I open my mouth to tell her Milla doesn't like that name, but shut it. Not really my business to interfere. And mentioning it will only convince her
more
that I'm letting that soft spot for Milla get out of control.

Denise continues. “She's got... I don't know. An anger in her. Like my teenage daughter. It's just building, and I worry...” She bites her lip, clearly uncomfortable continuing. “It's probably nothing. Me projecting.”

“Still, humor me. What were you thinking?”

Denise sighs, and straightens her shoulders. “Carrie, she... I don't know... she never talked to me. When she was thirteen, everything hit her like a ton of bricks. Screaming rages, shutting down in humiliation when we were in the same room... I'd always promised I was gonna be a better mother than mine was, but
Lord
that child tested me.
You
remember being that young, everything a fight, a boundary to be set, or one that's been transgressed. Nothing to do but battle it out, and mop up the blood and hurt feelings when you're done.”

I nod, beginning to believe that she was right, and this
is
more about her own projection.

“When Carrie was fifteen, just a year ago, she tried to kill herself. Cut her wrists, but thank
god
it was shallow.” She crosses herself, tears in her eyes. “Best answer we ever got from her about what happened was that she hadn't wanted to play
our
game, live in
our
world. She'd wanted to make the game her own. By removing herself from it.”

My eyes widen, as where she's going with it sinks in. “You think Milla would—”

She snorts. “She's not exactly
snoring
, is she?” So
that
's what the sound is.
Fuck
, I
did
push her too hard. “She's got that same kind of anger. And she's empathetic. Doesn't miss a thing about anyone.”

I don't quite know what to say to that.

Allen covers the quiet. “Your kid okay?”

“Seems to be. The subject hasn't come up again. It seems to have been a bad break. And the meds have helped. But we watch her, and I worry—”

He sighs. “Don't we all.”

“What about you?” I need
some
noise to cover the sounds of Milla crying, at least if I want to leave her the privacy to keep it to herself.

He shakes his head. “I'd rather not go into it.”

I shrug. “Okay.”

Denise tightens her lips, and I pat her shoulder. She glances toward the pipe again, echoing my own reaction. “You wanna go see if she's okay?” Her voice hardly reaches my ears, it's so thin and whispery.

Relief spreads through me, at not having to justify it. “Yeah. I'll go do that.”

She squeezes my hand, and turns back to Allen. By the time their low voices resume filling the empty space, I'm already finding Milla's path down to the subfloor.

There's not room to stand straight, but there's not standing water either. The pipe she's in is about the size of a coffin, and for a moment I wonder how she can stomach it.

I knock on the side of the pipe, to let her know I'm there, but she doesn't say anything, or react. So I sit next to the opening of the pipe, and take her hand. I stroke her fingers, and try to will some of my own fortitude into her.

This time I'm smart enough not to ask what I'm comforting her from.

Chapter Six

Milla

Crying’s mortifying. Especially in such close confines. Knowing everyone here knows, that none of them will be able to meet my eye... but it doesn't matter, anyways. And I can't help it. Calder's questions, his smug look... it leaves
no
doubt in my mind that he knows
exactly
who I am, and
exactly
what happened to my family. And is needling me for it.

Evil fucker.

I can't shove him away, not without risking his anger. And if he's angry... if he exposes me to them, lets them know that not only do I have a reason to kill them, but the skills to do it...

Fuck, how I wish I'd slid the knife out of my pocket when he approached, dragged it across his wrist when he reached for me. Blood for blood. None of these mind-games, him baiting me, and me playing along, letting him kiss me, me kissing back, and us pretending
either
of us is a human, capable of bonding.

Fuck
.

At least he doesn't attempt to talk. Just squeezes my hand, and stares at the back of my head. It's the reason I won't look up, won't take my face out of my arms.

Fuck Calder Roane.

I should be trying to sleep—the others are plainly settling in for the night. Which makes my outburst all the more noticeable. But the pain wells in me, too deep to be purged, even if I cried myself into a desiccated mummy.

The memories are strong enough, even, to chase away the burned stench. I want to seize Allen by the hair, press my face into his burned skin, and inhale, just to cling to it a moment longer. Better that than the bitter tang of gunsmoke and blood.

It's late enough that I should be in bed, but Dad's preoccupation has kept Mom busy, and no one's outright ordered it. So it's a rare privilege, watching the after-midnight programming.

Mara
is already in bed, sleeping soundly. We have to keep the TV on low, to avoid waking her. Every time someone laughs too loudly on the TV, my head twists back toward our bedroom door, reassuring myself that her shadow's not moving against the pastel floral wallpaper. If she gets up, she's gonna make enough noise to remind them I'm supposed to be in bed, too.

I laugh under my breath at a bad joke, but the laugh turns to a hitch and a cry, as the front door slams open, the handle hanging loose and broken from the force of it.

My dad lunges to his feet, diving for the little safe secured to the wall, and my mom darts for the phone, as two men walk in as though they own the place. I glare at them in confusion; I don't know who they are, or why they're here, but I'm not stupid. I've seen enough action movies to recognize a gun when I see it.

“Put it down,” one of them says, gesturing both at the gun now in my dad's hand, and the phone in my mom's. My mom cries quietly, lowering the phone, and my dad follows. I don't know what to do, whether I should stand near them, or just focus on the TV. I can't look at my dad's gray face.

“You've been speaking out a little too loudly—that means we have to silence you in a way that'll be louder yet.” The strange men back them into their living room, past the girls' bedroom door, and set about trashing the place, smashing the TV and tearing the pictures off the walls. “You keep your mouth shut, y'hear?”

My eyes widen as soft footsteps patter on the hall tiling, and a little voice pipes up, “Daddy?”

The strangers spin and one of them pulls the trigger automatically. The noise deafens me, but not so much as its cause; I know what gunshots sound like, too. This is worse, though. Louder. Infinitely louder.

Something hits Mara's tiny body, knocking her back against the wall by the front door, red blossoming across her stomach.  The gunshots must startle them as much as us; the other jumps and fires once more, without looking. But it sinks into him first, who they hit. He pales—“shit, let's get out of here. Point made.”

Still trying to preserve his macho bravado, the other adds, “Don't make us come back.”

They run past her, swearing even as the front door shuts behind them. And then there's nothing but Mara collapsing to the floor, blood pouring freely from her stomach and chest. The wall between her doorway and the front door's splattered in blood, and there's holes in it. Mom's gonna have a fit.

Mara's breath comes in choked wheezes, blood on her lips. She's not even crying, which is odd—she still spends absurd amounts of time crying. Every so often, she might try—the noises certainly change—but there's nothing that sounds like her in it. The sound's unnatural, like no sickness I've ever seen, and I've had pneumonia! The noise numbs me, an alien gasp echoing through the bones of the house, one that makes it seem alive, and threatening. Why isn't she crying?

Mom and Dad rush to Mara try to staunch the bleeding, dial 911. Mom pulls me away from her, phone in one hand and my hand in the other, but not before I get a
damn
good look.

It's nothing like a skinned knee; no, Mara's midsection looks like raw hamburger. And her throat...

My mom's screaming at the operator, but her voice can't drown out the alien's rasp.

My dad roars in pain, a challenge to an enemy that won't fight him man to man.

And the noise that finally drowns out those wet gurgles is my own screams, keening and shrill.

The noises swell and recede into hushed sobs, the strange wheezing no longer audible. My mom collapses to her knees, the phone falling from clumsy fingers. She loses her hold on me, and I push into Dad, to try to ask Mara why she's not crying.

He clutches at me, tries to pull me back, but I pour through his fingers, more fluid than child. My hand plants on Mara's chest, and comes back wet and red. His arms wrap around me firmly, forcing me away, as I shriek.

I black out to their sobs and screams.

I don't want to remember it. I don't want to remember the sheet draped over Mara, while they took statements. I don't want to remember the look on my dad's face when he met my mom's eyes, then turned to look at me, right before he said he had
no clue
who those men were, or why they were there.

I don't want to remember the fear in their voices as they told me to
never tell anyone
what the men said.

All I want to remember is the rage, when I learned the truth. That George Roane sent two men previously convicted of manslaughter to
our home
, to scare my dad into not reminding people of how things used to be, and could be again. And that my parents had no choice but to give in to the bastard, knowing they could be there to kill
me
, next. I would have chewed my own limb off to find a different option, for how that rage coursed through me.

But somewhere along the line, when the rage and helplessness gave way to exhaustion, I realized the
true
solution. To silence my dad, they had to kill Mara. They'd have had to kill me next. Then my mom. Only when no one was left, could he truly be free to speak. And so he never did. He never could.

I have no one. And they'll hear me roar, with no way to silence me.

They're all gonna pay for their crimes, if I have to write the check in my own blood.