Chapter Thirteen

Diana

I BARELY HEAR Thomas' knock; I'm too busy singing inside my mind, trying to calm myself as cabin fever still itches at the edge of my sanity.

I hate this. And yet … despite what he's done to me, this is the safest I have ever been since Dad died.

The irony.

When I hear Thomas' boots stop at my bedside, I look up at him and do a double take. If this was one of my beloved books, I'd say he had an evil twin.

I've never seen him in anything less formal than black trousers and a lightweight, usually white, button-down shirt, with his hair tied back, away from his face.

This man, with beautiful, wild blond curls let loose, in black jeans, motorcycle boots, shirt, and leather jacket, is a stranger. There is blood in his hair and a tent in his pants.

Blood.

I should be terrified.

All I am is curious. Especially since he just stares at me, not speaking.

"You're wearing all black."

He blinks, as if surprised at my words. "Yes, I am."

"Is ... there a reason?" That's only part of my question. I want to know why he's in black, why his whole demeanor has changed, and especially why there is blood in his curls.

He nods and pulls something from his pocket, holding it out to me.

I take it, eyes widening. It's Rick's driver's license, and it is covered in barely dried blood.

"Yes," Thomas answers, his voice a deep rasp. "I only wear black when I need to hide the bloodstains." His intense green eyes stare down at me and it's like I can read his mind.

He hasn't looked at me sexually at all since he brought me down here, even when he got hard after tormenting me. Not even when he came on me. Now, it's different. A part of me wants to cry, knowing the one thing that set him apart from everyone else I ever had to deal with, is now gone.

But he surprises me again as he turns away, walking to the door. As he opens it, he says, "Get some sleep. Sister Lisa will be in tomorrow to see you."

I can barely sleep. My mind keeps whirling, wondering what the fuck happened. Does this ID mean he killed my bastard landlord? What will happen to the building now? The Thompsons can't afford to move.

Eventually I drift off, only to be woken when my door opens.

The beautiful woman I used to see walking with Thomas when I was on the streets enters, followed by another woman, a bit older, with red hair. The woman I recall seeing has a brown paper shopping bag, while the other has a recyclable takeout tray that smells good.

"Good morning, did we wake you?" the pretty woman chirps. Her smile gives me the creeps. It's plastic, as if her real expression would show not happiness, but some sort of malice.

"I, um, yes it's okay," I mumble, rubbing sleep from my eyes. "Can … may I use the bathroom?"

"Of course." The woman with the red hair gestures to the bathroom and I rush in there.

No one has been to see me since Thomas brought me here. I know these two must be with this fucked up church too, but why are they here? I pee and brush my hair, wondering why I feel nothing except mild curiosity.

Maybe because it's unlikely you're going to be raped?

I sigh at my subconscious, but she's right.

Exiting back into the main room of the basement, I see another man walk down the stairs, this one with a thick, dark beard, also wearing mostly white. In fact, only Thomas usually wears dark trousers it seems. Every time I saw any of them in public, the darkest color they wore was beige. Is there a reason, or is he a rebel?

The new man places a small end table with an empty cabinet beneath it next to my bed. He nods to the two women, calling the redhead, "Mother." He doesn't look at me. Is he not supposed to? Because I belong to Thomas? Or because I'm some Godforsaken heathen?

"I don't believe we have formally met," the one called "Mother" says, holding a hand out to me. "My name is Catherine, I am Father Oliver's wife. Once you're indoctrinated into the church completely, you may call me Mother. For now, Catherine will do." She looks me up and down with an approving smile. "You're beautiful; God and Thomas made an excellent choice."

"It would've been nice if I got a choice," I say before I can stop myself.

The pretty woman with the long brown hair and blue eyes glares at me. "The Divine Plan is beyond our wants and needs. I see Thomas still needs to work hard on you. You don't even deserve any of this."

"Sister Lisa," Catherine scolds quietly. She continues to me, "Brother Thomas asked Lisa and I to bring you something to eat from outside, as a celebration of sorts, that one of the men forcing you to sin is out of the picture."

She hands me the takeout tray; it's from a local café I always wanted to try but could never afford.

"And these." Lisa places the bag on the floor at my feet, as if I am not worthy of handing it to directly.

"May I look inside?" I ask, more interested in the bag than the food.

"Yes, but if what Lisa and I saw in your apartment is anything to go by, please ensure your food doesn't go cold as you sort through these." Catherine's smile is sweet.

I peek in the bag and want to sob.

Books. Brand new books!

Some of them I had in my apartment, some I never read before.

Books!

Thomas told them to bring me books?

"You're gonna have to forgive me but … I thought places like this didn't like women to be well-read," I say.

Lisa rolls her eyes. "What good are we to God if only half of us have any knowledge of His world? Besides, I don't think Narnia books are going to radicalize you."

"Tell him thank you for me, please." Whatever brought on the show of kindness, I am smart enough to know I need to be as grateful as I'd be were he to release me.

"You can tell him yourself, later," Catherine says. "Now, please eat. Sort your books in the cabinet as you'd like. It's solid, I doubt you can lift it, but note that if you try to use anything as a weapon, it will be taken away."

My eyes widen. "I'd never use a book as a weapon. I don't want to damage one."

Lisa laughs at that. "Yeah, lob one at Thomas' hard head, it will definitely get damaged."

They leave me, and I want to immediately start organizing my books, but if they return, or if my jailer does, and sees I haven't eaten, I don't want to deal with any sort of punishment.

I open the container and poke at the food, things I read about in books but never had the chance to try my whole life. A celebration that someone who made me sin is gone.

So Thomas killed my evil landlord. I should be terrified of that, of him. All I feel is gratitude. But now I worry about the building, everyone living there. What will happen to them? What if the next owner is worse?

There is nothing I can do about it now. So I do the one thing I can, the one thing that I loved to do since I was a child: I read.

But first I organize the ten books I was given by author name in the small cabinet, and then sit down on the floor, back against the bed, and open up The Hobbit .

I don't know how long I read for. The passage of time is meaningless in reality, while my mind is elsewhere, living a whole other life through these characters. I am not trapped, stuck, chained in a basement with a religious cultist who beats me to "save" me. I am an adventurer, a burglar, fighting a fire-breathing dragon protecting its stolen hoard. I am a gentle friend, a brave soul who ventured far from home to help someone else retrieve what they lost.

When I read, I am home.

When the door to my dungeon opens, I jump and realize my ass hurts.

It has to have been hours.

Thomas looks over at me from the doorway, looking more like his normal self in a white shirt and jeans — not black this time — with his hair tied back. But there is something with his expression…

He's smiling. And not the polite smile he gave when I met him on the street, or the cunning one I often see. This is a sweet smile you'd give a friend … or a girlfriend.

How could someone who kidnaps, tortures, degrades, and murders look so … cute?

"I see you are enjoying your reward," he says.

"Thank you, I am," I reply.

"Mother Catherine said you have some questions about last night," he continues, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Sit by me, put the book down."

I do as he asks, placing the book on the metal tray where the takeout container, now empty, sits.

"I was wondering … what happens to the building my landlord owns now?"

Thomas cocks his head, as if pondering my question. He does that a lot, as if the things I say or ask don't align with what he expects of me, and yet for these things I am never punished.

"I own that building. And all his other assets were sold to good owners and the money donated to charitable causes," he replies.

"Will you … will you take others like you took me?" The thought of Mrs. Thompson or little Whitney being held here makes me want to vomit.

"You are the only one I want, my little dove." His eyes are hard at the suggestion he'd take anyone else. Obsession shines in them. "I will never replace the gift God sent to me." He places his hand in my hair, gently tugging, as if showing possession.

I wasn't sent to you, I think. You took me!

I nod. "Um … thank you. You made sure a lot of people were safe."

He nods, removing his hand from my hair.

"Have you … ever worried about yourself? Since you arrived here, while you asked me what I was going to do with you, all you have spoken of are others," Thomas says.

I turn away. "I did once. A bit. But usually others. After my father passed, I worried for my mother. Then I did worry for myself after she died as well."

"How old were you?"

Why do I get the feeling he already knows the answer?

"Twelve with Dad. Fifteen with Mom."

"And you have been on the streets since then?" he presses.

My body shakes involuntarily and I shake my head. "Please … please don't ask me about that. If you never ever honor another request of mine, please honor this one."

"Diana. I cannot finish my work with you without knowing what you have been through. And I will do whatever I must to ensure you are fully honest with me." He stands up and plucks the book from the table.

Going to the new cabinet-slash-end table, he puts the book inside and fastens a lock on the doors, placing the key on a chain around his throat, where it hangs next to his silver cross and the key to my ankle chain.

"That is for the attitude you took this morning. I will decide when you may have the cabinet unlocked," he tells me. "And for your reticence, I will return later in the afternoon." With that, he leaves, removing the trash from breakfast as he goes.

The lock clicks, but in my mind I still hear the click of the cabinet lock, and the other lock. On my bedroom door. And once more, I have no means of escape, even fictional.

Lying on my side, I close my eyes and let the tears overtake me.