Page 103 of Love to Defy You
The door opens.
“Ah, ‘Enter a Messenger,’” I say, waving my hand in the air with a dramatic flourish. “’Thou com’st to use thy tongue: thy story quickly.’”
Paul pauses in the doorway with a handkerchief clasped over his mouth. “The fuck are you going on about, Kurochkin?” His voice is muffled behind the cloth, which must be to ward off my stench.
I sit up. “Nein, nein, nein,your line is, ‘Gracious my lord, I should report that which I say I saw—’”
“Whatever. I come bearing gifts.” Paul drops my weekend bag onto the floor. “You’re free to go.”
I blink against the light assaulting my eyes. “What?”
He gestures impatiently through the door. “If you want me to show you the way out of the tunnels, you better hurry up. I’m not waiting.” Paul exits the cell, leaving the door wide open.
I remain seated on the bench, staring at the familiar bag on the floor.
I’m free to go? Just like that, without any pomp and circumstance or ritual sacrifice?
My bones protest when I stand up, and every muscle in my body aches from sleeping on cold, hard stone. I hobble over to my bag and pull out the first pair of pants and T-shirt I find, which caress my chafed skin like fine Egyptian cotton.
“Get a move on, Kurochkin.” Paul’s muffled voice echoes down the corridor.
I slip on my shoes, and when I lift my bag off the floor, it’s much heavier than I remember in my weak grip. It’s a struggle to sling it over my shoulder, but I manage, and I turn toward the door. The dim, flickering torchlight is as bright and blinding as the sun, and I raise my arm to shield my eyes from the onslaught. I inch my way forward toward the exit, but I keep my arm up and stare at the floor to find my way. But I’m spurred on by the need to see Willow, to feel her in my arms so she can pull me back to reality. I’m only hanging on by a loose thread.
When I emerge, I’m hit with the foulest stench I’ve ever had the displeasure of experiencing. There was a faint odor in my cell, which worsened and grew stronger as my time in here progressed, but now that I’m in the hall, I understand Paul’s need for a handkerchief. Keeping my eyes shielded, I use my other hand to pull up my shirt over my nose, but it doesn’t help much.
The stench is difficult to describe other than it’s bitter while also sickly sweet. It’s a smell I’ve never encountered, and yet my fight-or-flight instinct knows exactly what it is.
There is a rotting corpse somewhere close.
“What the fuck?” I ask between gags. “Is that Rasmussen’s body?”
“No.” Without elaborating, Paul grabs the torch off the wall and walks down the row of cells toward the tunnels. I’ve been confined to the last cell in the row, but as we make our way forward, every single door I pass is open, revealing empty cell after empty cell.
I slow my pace to check each room. “Where is everyone?”
“Not here.” Paul doesn’t look at me over his shoulder. He forges ahead, carrying the torch to light the way while keeping his handkerchief pressed to his face.
I doubt I’ll get much else out of him. All I had was spare time to come up with a dozen questions while trapped in my cell, but it seems futile to expect answers from Paul.
It’s a struggle to keep up with his pace on my stiff legs. However, when I reach the archway that leads into the tunnel, I stop short. The cell at the end of the row is still closed, unlike the others, and the stench is so strong that I’m on the verge of vomiting.
I pinch my nose through my shirt, but when I breathe through my mouth, I taste death. “Who’s in there?”
“Don’t bother.” Paul’s tone is brimming with disgust.
I gag again. “Why haven’t you dealt with this?”
“Disposing of the bodies is not my job.” Paul scoffs. “Everyone’s on spring holiday while I’ve been stuck here babysitting you. They can deal with it when they get back. I’ve done more than enough.” He pauses to gag. “Come on.”
But dread churns in my gut, and I’m unexplainably drawn to the closed door. I wrap my fingers around the cold iron handle and pause. My curiosity is at war with my gut, along with the dread warning me that I don’t want to see what’s behind this door.
In the end, curiosity wins out. I have to know.
I yank the door open, and then I freeze. A belt is tied to an iron grate in the ceiling, which covers a small ventilation opening.
And hanging from the ceiling, with the belt looped around his neck, is Henri Rooman.
I lurch forward to unbuckle the belt as quickly as I can, but it’s far, far too late. His naked body is bloated from decomposition, and his skin is discolored with shades of green and reddish-brown. Dark, putrid fluid leaks from every orifice on his body.
