The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)

“You’re not leaving this house.”

Aurick crosses his arms over his chest with a wounded look, a frown that only flickers across his eyes.

“One, there’s a storm coming. Two, it is frowned upon for a woman to walk around alone. And three, the evenings are the only time of day I get to enjoy your company,” he explains.

“I’ll only be gone an hour or two,” I offer.

“What do you have to do?” he asks, face falling from a heavy sigh.

I consider telling him I am following up on a lead with Dessin… But something deep inside of me is waving a red flag. “Today is my father’s birthday.” At least I’m not lying. “I’d like to visit him before the night ends.”

His brow softens, and he cocks his head back slightly, focusing on me with wide eyes. He nods once, slow with a sigh of remorse. “Would you like me to go with you?”

“No,” I utter. “That’s nice of you to offer, but this is a visit I need to do by myself.”

He nods again and hugs me. The warmth of his hug reminds me how badly I miss the comfort my father used to share. In his moments of lucidness, he’d hold me when I’d cry after being locked in the basement for weeks. He’d snap out of the cruel trance, pull me from the murky pit of the house, and hold me tight.

“I’ll be here when you get back.”

~

This pocket of land is stowed away, once holding the path of a paved road, with a secured gated entrance and perimeter. Once, there were fantastical towers, barracks alongside an open field, and a dazzling wide river that coursed through grounds. There were armed men on posts, occasionally known to disguise themselves among the trees.

At least, that’s what I read in one of Aurick’s books in his study.

Now, the once skyscraping iron gates are melted to the ground, blasted through from chemical warfare within the first ten years of settlement. Trees, bushes, and weeds have conquered the open fields, grown through the barracks, and swallowed the paved roads. Headquarters lie beyond the barracks and past the once open field, a stone and pebbled tower—reigning as tall as a mountain as it kisses the underside of the clouds. All part of a strike of war from our southern rival country, Vexamen. War since settlement, sixty years ago.

My buggy leaves me at the entrance, promising me two hours to explore before returning. I gape up at the monumental architecture, shielding my eyes from the hot glow of the setting sun beaming alongside the tower. The wind had intensified before I left Aurick’s estate, beating against the windows of the buggy like a possessed whip. Now, it whirled through my hair and the silk, stormy-gray evening dress I changed into, blasting it around like a loose flag.

If I get tetanus here, I’ll beat him.

I walk right in, stepping over the double walnut entry doors, which are punctured and flattened at the threshold. Aside from the piles of ash and chandelier-sized holes in the ceiling and walls, this place doesn’t look so different from the inside of the asylum. Without the overtone of potpourri, there is even that same draft of murky lake water with the heavy difference of charcoal and soot.

To my left are spiraled stairs that look like they go on forever. Sadly, my legs aren’t equipped for all of this action—Dessin should have figured that out by now.

My heart batters slightly in my chest as I ascend, hoping there aren’t too many floors. He said the top one and the last room. I could be hiking up these stairs for leagues, fainting before I finally reach the end.

I count as I pass each floor, wondering what Dessin’s life was like before he admitted himself to the asylum. How did he come to know about the last floor in this tower? Where did he live? What were his passions? What did he care about?

My legs burn with the constant uphill battle to reach my destination, passing floor number six, my arms now sticky from sweat. I tug my gray gloves off my hands, fiddling with them to exert my frustration. How many more?

Seven.

I smile to myself, leaning up against the wall for support, swallowing to assist my now drier-than-dirt throat. The heavy winds whistle through the holes and gashes in the hallway.

I look to the end—the last door, wooden, cracked open, and a gentle breeze nudging it wider. I wish Dessin was here with me. He could tell me what really happened here. Even though details were left out, I know he’d have some way of knowing.

Not to mention his company—it would have been nice.

I step over chunks of debris and stone cascaded over the dark wood floors. Setting my sights and tunnel vision for that door, jittering with new energy to find what clue he’s left for me. How will I know what it is? What if this is a wild-goose chase? It feels like something he would do. Toy with my emotions by getting me to spill my buried memories in exchange for false leads and useless hours spent following them.

I push open the door, greeted by a rush of cold wind carrying the smell of rain.

A miniature library. Its shiny wooden interior, red carpet, sconces, and a scotch decanter with two crystal glasses on the corner of the desk. The makings of a savant’s study, much like Aurick’s, minus the old papers crumpled about and littering the floor.

Where do I start? There is no sign pointing me in the right direction, no illuminatingly peculiar object lying around for me to immediately see. Does he expect me to dig through all of this? The cabinets, the drawers?

I take a few more steps inside, letting myself wander around, waiting for that sign, that pointing finger, to a location I can investigate. But everything here is ordinary, unremarkable, at least not to the standards that would help me identify a clue from Dessin. I suppose I could start with the desk drawers. Peeking behind the desk, I glance over at the bookshelves—a carving into the wood catches my eyes like a spark from a lighthouse.

It’s the shape of a tree, with the letters S.W.A.

S.

W.

A.

It’s as if the red seas have parted, and those letters glow. Those are my initials.

Skylenna Winter Ambrose.

But, no, it isn’t possible. Dessin couldn’t have left the asylum, come all the way here in the time I’ve met him, knowing I’d play his game, knowing I’d come here and browse this room in this abandoned tower. He couldn’t have planned this. And even if he somehow could have, I never shared my middle name with anyone at the asylum. In fact, Scarlett was the only other person who knew it, other than my father. And now, it’s just me.

I lightly touch the carving, careful not to miss a detail, afraid it’ll disappear, wash away under my caress. How could you know so much, Dessin? The tree’s carving is deeper than the letters, the line darker. I push down on the trunk of the tree, and it gives no resistance, falling into the backboard of the shelf. There’s a double click, and the underside of the shelf splits, dropping down on top of the books below like a swinging attic door.

I catch a thick leather string, and a piece of paper tumbles from the opening. My hand feels around in search of anything else. Empty.

A shuddering creak comes from outside the door. I shove the piece of paper and string into the pocket of my dress. My eyes dart around, searching for the cause of the sound and my heart jumps into my throat, flutters there for a moment, like a butterfly trapped in a net. A lanky, dirty man lurks in the doorway, staring at me. He is built like a naked tree in winter, with knobby joints and weather-worn skin. He smooths the sides of his wizened sandy hair as his chest moves rapidly, only breathing through his cracked lips.

“You don’t look like the average tenant here,” he says with a childish lisp. His clothes are old and torn up. Different dirty shades of white and gray. Sweat stains and an unkempt beard.

Of course, Dessin. Of course, there would be wild men here.

I back into the bookshelves. Should I be nervous? He might be friendly. As if sensing my uncertainty, he takes a step forward into the room and shuts the door.

I swallow and straighten up. My first response is to think of what Dessin would do. He’d show no fear. That much is without question.

“I was just leaving,” I say, attempting to sound uninterested and confident.

The filthy man chuckles, licking his gums, never dropping his milky gaze from mine. “Are you here all by yourself, miss?”

My spine, pin straight. “I’m exploring.” Say someone is here with you. Tell them they are only a mere two floors below. Say something!

“I like to explore.” His chapped lips stretch over his stained teeth. “Abandoned towers, abandoned homes…” Silence. He takes two steps toward me. “…Abandoned women.” He closes the space between us. His breath is foul and smells like he’s been chewing on a dead body.

“Someone is waiting outside for me,” I finally whisper, knowing that in no way am I nearly as intimidating as Dessin, and I won’t be able to talk myself out of this one. It’s clear he hasn’t seen a woman in quite a long time.

“Oh.” His voice reaches a higher tune as he glances over my shoulder, out through the barred window. I squeeze my eyes shut. “I suppose they went on a walk.” He half smiles, eyes wandering the length of my body. “How long do you think they’ll be gone?” The back of his hand caresses the length of my hair, spinning in waves along the sides of my breast to my waist. “Perhaps an hour?”

“Please. I have money. I have lots of money,” I beg. A moment of dread passes over me, like putting your hand over a hot stove that you didn’t know was on. I remember Scarlett sobbing as she told me the horrors of all men. Their hunger and desire, like rabid animals, taking what they want. The effect your separateness has on them. How it grows into something scary that will hurt your insides. How your body is broken down and raw with a sting that stays with you forever.

The muscles in my thighs start to tremble.

“I can never go back to that city, little doll. Money serves me no purpose.” He spits in my face. “However, your sinless body is priceless to me.” He kisses my neck, and my motor functions turn to stone. I can’t breathe. I can’t fight.

The man grabs my shoulders and slams me to the floor, rattling the glass on the desk, forcing his knees between my legs. I let out the loudest scream I can build in my chest and gut, the same cry that came from my lips when Scarlett died. The same scream that released from my bloody body as my father was about to swing the club into my face. The panic, flashing images of Scarlett shaking and screaming, her stories, the terror she felt as a child when those grown men touched her.

And like Scarlett, there is no one here that can help me, but I scream as loudly as my lungs will allow anyway. He puts his hand over my mouth and pants in laughter. “There is no one around here for miles!”

“Please don’t do this!” I scream, my words muffled under his sweaty palm, tasting of rust.

He rips my dress down the middle, exposing my white brassiere. He moans. “Keep begging.” The aggressive, disgruntled man pins my arms down and pushes his mouth against mine.

“No!” I screech against his lips. Shaking my head back and forth.

An abrupt boom vibrates the walls, rattling the window, and the door has flown open. It slams against the adjacent wall, and something crashes to the floor from the impact.

I gasp, unable to see the cause.

The wild man shifts to the side, twisting his head and torso to see what started the disruption.

Dessin is blocking the doorway. Brooding like cold death.

His eyes are in a blood rage, piercing through my attacker’s skull. I try to squirm out from under him, but he holds on tighter, his legs forcing mine to widen for his hips.

“Out! We’re busy!” my attacker shouts at Dessin. But he doesn’t know Dessin. He doesn’t know that his mind knows no limit. He doesn’t know that Dessin is not a forgiving man.

There’s a change in the air around us, like the darkening before a storm. I whimper and scream under the man’s grip, and Dessin’s eyes flash to mine, honing a darkness I have yet to see. He charges, pulling the man’s arms behind his back and slamming him into the wall by the window adjacent to the bookshelves. I hear a loud unnatural snap, and I pull myself off the ground to watch the disaster spin out into an apocalypse.

The man’s arms hang off his body like they are made of jelly. “Get off of me!” the man pleads with his face mashed in the cement wall.

Dessin smirks and whispers in his ear, “Keep begging.” His voice is raspy and deep. Dessin bangs the man’s head into the wall several times until there is blood spilling from his nose and mouth, smearing against the wood interior. The man drops to his knees, crying hysterically. Dessin turns around and looks at me, eyes examining my frame, trying not to look too much at my dress, that is torn open.

He begins walking over to me.

“I didn’t know she was your whore!” The man spits blood.

Dessin stops dead in his tracks. Eyes locked with mine, chaos exploding behind his hard gaze. Deep down, I know what is about to happen. I know that I’m about to witness a measure of what people at the asylum fear from Dessin. And that knowledge has suspended the air in my lungs. I do not wish good things for this man after what he was about to do to me. But I do not wish him dead. Although, part of me can’t help but debate that. He could have been one of the men who hurt Scarlett. I could never know this for sure.

Dessin’s brown eyes turn a shade of hickory in the light of the dimming sunset, narrowing on mine as he turns around slowly to lock his focus on his prey. The man looks up at him through involuntary tears, obviously regretting his decision to speak again.

Dessin grabs hold of the man’s head and twists quickly and effortlessly. A wet, thick snap, like lightning striking a tree—it drills into my memory without warning. I’ll never forget the way the life emptied from his eyes, like removing a cork from a bathtub.

He drops the man’s body to the floor, and it all happens in slow motion in my mind. Spots in my vision, legs locked tightly, my back pressed into the door.

And Dessin stares at the body lying on the ground, disfigured and drenched in blood. My instinct to collapse to my knees is drowned out by his calm stance. I can tell there must be something going on in his mind that will hurt him for a long time.

I rush to his side to grip his left arm, blood rushing back into my legs and restarting the wires in my brain. “Hey,” I whisper. He yanks his arm away from me. I grab on again and turn him to face me. “Look at me,” I demand.

He drops his eyes down to me from the significant height difference, breathing heavy, chin raised. I gaze back at him, trying to figure out if I am the one he is mad at. It takes me a moment to wrap my mind around the fact that he saved me. He must have followed me to make sure I would be safe. Seeing the anger that engulfed him when he saw what that vile man was about to do to me… Is he starting to care for me?

“I’m okay,” I whisper. Dessin jolts his glare back down at the broken body taking up space on the ground. The muscles in his jaw flex twice; he doesn’t blink. His expression is unreadable, but I have a hunch that he wants to damage this corpse more than he has already done.

“Dessin, let’s go.” I tug his arm once, but he remains stationary, impossible to move. I’ve never seen so much hatred in someone’s eyes.

I take another route. “What was your mother’s name?” The question bursts impulsively from my mouth.

This catches him by surprise. He is still stuck in a rage, but at least now he is distracted. “My what?” he pants.

“Your mother. What was her name?”

He stares at me for a moment, partially lost in a memory, partly confused with the change in the direction of the situation. “Why do you—”

“Just tell me,” I insist.

“Sophia,” he finally says in a daze.

I nod, feeling a triumphant sense of relief that he is semi–calming down. “My father’s name was Jack.” I slide my hand up his arm. “Let’s go home, okay?” Home. The phrase feels natural to say to him, but hearing the words come out of my mouth, they sound harsh, considering I am talking about the asylum. That isn’t a home, not even close. Yet, he follows me out the door without saying another word.