Chapter 2

Astrid

T he splinters of my new home should be the least of my worries. But those slicing cuts are all I can think about. And how I can even manage to get them all out when I can barely move.

Blank spaces don't bother me. It's what I've known for the last eight years. Forgotten rooms and silence help me navigate the tortuous paths in my mind. In fact, most nights, I like to find a closet in whatever foster home I'm in and tuck away into the corner. Tiny enclosures comfort me in a way. And the quiet.

When Ferona signed away my virginity to a group of strangers under their promise of keeping her alive, as per usual, she had not thought it all through.

First of all, they shot her creepy husband, Tom, despite her begging for his pathetic life. I happened to be quite pleased by this. The man's lecherous eyes rarely vacationed from my figure since I came to them at twelve. His sweaty palms ventured to my thighs under the table at every opportunity when I turned fourteen.

Fortunately, both were such neglectful guardians, I hid in my scant bedroom in the attic without much notice. Solitude and Ferona's monetary motivation to maintain my virginity have been my perfect parental figures. It also helped that I was such a special case that I didn't have to attend regular school with others my same age. The state found me so important as to maintain my level of isolation. Not to mention, I graduated at sixteen.

I had been incubating until I could escape… But a creaky wooden crate was not the way I planned it.

Secondly, the mobsters who showed up did not, in fact, keep up their end of the bargain. The pen was still clutched in Ferona's grip as the bullet went through her head.

Now that was a bit of a shock. A giggle glazed my lips as she slumped on the table when I thought, Bye, Ferona .

However, the worst part of her terrible agreement was that I was na?ve enough to think I'd be carted off in a respectable mafia trunk, one like in the movies. Perhaps a big Cadillac while riding the bumps and waves of the street like I was in a carpeted glass bottle. With a hastily scribbled note of loneliness clutched in my hand.

Nope. Instead, here I squat inside of a literal box. For days.

It stopped being difficult after the first ruts in the road. That pain jarred me enough to let me know they wanted me alive. The men moved me from one van to another twice. Then into some warehouse overnight. Now, everything is just scratchy. A gnawing pit of hunger in my stomach left several hours ago, as did everything in my bowels and bladder.

Yet I still can't bring myself to miss Ferona and her run-down townhouse in Lecherton. No, the only things I miss are food, the ability to stretch out my legs, and a bathroom.

Wyatt will rescue me.

The vehicle I'm currently in makes a screeching halt and I fly into the front of the boards, my face rubbing against the rough surface. More splinters. A sliding sound comes from behind me until my ass hits the hard ground with a thud. At least I still have a head.

I always knew they'd come for me. I didn't know who it would be first, but I understood what Wyatt tried so hard to fight. We were destined to come back here, to the hell that our great-grandparents fought hard to leave. Our dad taught him the ways of Gnarled Pine Hollow, but I would sneak to listen in. It was a history that we were never supposed to repeat to anyone. My heart would seize, fearing my family would be killed if the bad men from some far-away city ever found us.

Then, one day, they did.

"Stay down. Be quiet." Wyatt shoved me into a closet with a hurried kiss on my forehead. My ears got fuzzy from the loud bangs that followed. Did I stay put? I'm not sure… I do remember squeezing my eyes closed for most of it.

In my nightmares, I find myself wandering down the white halls of our house, searching through bloodied bodies to find my brother, only to discover my father's lifeless eyes…

I sobbed for days in my closet until someone found me alone and put me in the foster care system. It could have been worse, and I know that now. Ever since, I've been waiting for the right time to return to Gnarled Pine Hollow so I could find my brother and we could be together again. And despite the horrors of my arrival, some hope sticks to my skin like honey. What if this is my perfect opportunity to see him? It may be my only chance.

Muffled voices echo through the cracks along with some slivers of light. It's daytime now. It's either the third or fourth day. And I stink.

"Yeah, she signed the paper. Tell the master that the stars have arrived," a man's voice instructs.

"Take it around to the back entrance. We don't want it coming through the house." A woman says.

It ? Does she mean me or the crate? Maybe we're one now.

With grunts and groans, some men lift my prison off the ground while I sway through the air. Jagged corners, bumped shoulders, curse words, and two dropped passes later, I'm sliding across a rough floor into a dark place. The cold filters through the cracks like knives cutting into my skin. All I'm wearing are my pajama shorts and an old Veruca Salt T-shirt.

A metal door clangs shut, and I'm left alone.

Good thing I'm used to it.

A bead of water drops rapidly, clinking off a pipe. In the distance, a whistling wind rustles between stones. Mildew coats my nostrils until it's difficult to inhale deeply. It's okay, though; it'll be good training for my goals.

The Actun Tunichil Muknal cave probably smells just like this. And once I get to Belize, that's exactly where I'll journey first. To see the Crystal Maiden. I navigate the path there every night before I sleep. It pushes the white hallway out of my thoughts.

My ears perk at a sound. If I listen closely, I hear high-pitched crying. No. More like…moaning broken up by screams. I can't tell if it's someone experiencing pleasure or pain.

"Hello?" I call out. "Hello!"

Nothing answers besides my voice echoing back to me.

As if giving a last-ditch effort to sustain my body, my pulse pounds faster. The last time I drank anything was yesterday, I think. Why would they bring me here to die? Wouldn't they want to keep me alive after all the trouble from the trip?

Letting a shallow inhale expand my chest, I settle back on the wall and imagine rappelling down into the black hole while trying to remember every bit of information about the Mayan ruins from my National Geographic collection. Then, I sleep.

In the distance, a clicking sound bounces off the walls and wakes me from my nap. The volume increases until it feels as though the sound surrounds me from all sides. Tap, tap, tap…rhythmic.

Footsteps.

A groaning door swings open, the creaks jolting me up to as much of a sitting position as I can reach in my modest-sized wooden apartment. Through the air, a heavy sigh makes my ears tingle, and the curtain of mildew parts with the fragrance of roses.

"They didn't even leave a crowbar. Just a second." The woman's voice sounds irritated. Her clacking heels fade, then return along with a smaller shuffle. Another person.

With a great wrenching screech, the top of my crate rips off. I'm disappointed that there's not some enormous light, as I'd imagine when being abducted by aliens. In fact, it's still dark in this…stone cell. Oh, it's a literal cell, I discover as I kneel on my weakened legs. Metal bars form the front of my room, which is only lit by one small candle on the wall.

"Stand up, Astrid Lynx, daughter of Barrington." It comes out of her like a regal announcement, and part of me worries she knows my middle name. Even Ferona and Tom didn't. At least, not that I know of.

Pushing on the edge of the wood, I help myself up as my muscles quiver violently. I hadn't vomited at all during the trip, but everything else came out. The feces and urine had stained my underwear and shorts until I took them off and shredded them for wipes. Now, I'm left in a scrap of fabric.

Relief washes over me. There's a toilet in the corner. And a sink. Thick iron chains pin a small cot to the far wall.

Well, I have certainly moved up in the world.

The Amazonian woman standing before me looks shockingly out of place in a dirty dungeon. She must be six feet tall, but her French twist of blonde hair makes her height even higher. Her long limbs dangle delicately all the way down to her painted fingertips. Every bit of makeup appears perfectly applied, not that she would need any. She looks like a 90s supermodel. Maybe she was one. She could be in her thirties. Forties? I'm not sure.

A long red velvet gown covers her slim figure. The Mandarin collar of it dips so low, her cleavage is an accessory of its own. Some fragile looking woman about my age cowers behind her in a see-through white shift dress. Both wear collars, but the tall lady's is jeweled, while the other's is metal.

"I'm Dilan, your master's head mistress. Chloe, help her out of the crate."

A small woman with flowy pink hair shuffles over and pries the side down as Dilan holds an elegant arm toward me. I place my hand in hers, and she nods at the edge of the box as if warning me not to trip.

"Thank you, Chloe. Return to your duties and take the crowbar with you." Dilan's narrow hip pops out, and she puts one palm on the other as she speaks. Like she's about to showcase some letters in a game show. I'm tall, but she towers above me not just in height, but also in presence. She's almost as terrifying as my prison. "Please, have a seat."

She waves her hand like I've seen those women on TV do and I wobble to the cot and fall onto it. The blanket coating it is also scratchy. But hopefully it doesn't have splinters like my box.

"Welcome to House Strauss. Here are the rules. You won't speak unless requested to. If you address the master, it will be with ‘sir' or ‘master' only. If he chooses to meet with you, never look him in the eye unless he commands it. You'll go through the same training as all the slaves here. He won't make an exception for his wife ."

She swallows as she says the word, like it's a bitter tasting pill. I feel the same.

I imagine he's quite old. Fat. With a large white beard and pouched gut. I don't know about sex stuff, but I suppose I can close my eyes and hope it doesn't hurt too bad. Just the thought of it makes my stomach twist with nausea.

Wyatt will come for me.

With a few clicks of her heels, she showcases my generous studio. "In this cabinet are your essentials. You'll get a warm bath and three meals daily. And you'll be escorted to the garden once a day. This is only if you choose to obey, however. Life is a privilege here."

Hearing that, I decide I'll cooperate for prison food and yard time. My stomach growls in agreement.

With a long finger, she points at the mattress next to me. "That is your current uniform. You'll change out of these, um, clothes you brought with you."

Glancing to my side, I spot a red shift dress like the one the other girl wore. It seems cold. And I would also be very exposed.

"Any questions?"

At least the lady seems genuine. Enough that I dare ask a few. "When will I meet my future husband?"

"When he chooses to honor you with his presence. I would behave as well as you can so he'll want to meet with you." Her shoulders ease their tension as she lowers her voice into a warmer tone. "I would do what you can to please him."

She means like with the gross stuff… My face must make an involuntary curdle because her neck tightens again into a swan-like posture. "When will I need to, um, do that? Or marry him? Like, officially?"

"The master won't touch you until you're eighteen. His own rule. I believe your wedding is scheduled for the day before your birthday." She says it almost with a sneer, like a human trafficker isn't that bad if he's waiting until I'm a legal adult.

Some level of anxiety rises within me, thinking about being trapped here. If I'm his wife and if I please him, will I be able to stay in a nicer room? Maybe I don't want to, if that's what it will entail. "That's a week away."

Nodding, she appears bored, while I quietly flip out that there's only seven days for Wyatt to find me. Surely, he knows I'm already here. I won't give up hope. I can't or I'll lose it.

"Anything else?"

Shaking my head, I wonder how to tell her goodbye. Is she like my new mother? Like Ferona?

"Get yourself cleaned up. We'll have dinner served shortly." She spins to leave, and a raised brand on her shoulder catches the candlelight. It looks like a bull's head. My body jerks as she slams the iron door closed with a clang. Keeping a steady gaze on my face, she slots a solid metal key into the lock. Dramatically, she turns it, then stalks away down the hall with a click of her heels.

Fortunately, the darkness provides me some privacy, so I can wash myself in solitude. Though I am concerned cameras hide in the corners. When I check the halls, I don't see any.

Hot and cold water flow steadily from the taps when I twist them. Shoving my head under the spigot, I slurp it up like a camel. I think I'm doing pretty good if I can stay here until my brother finds me.

Dilan was right. Every personal item I could need is in the cabinet, including some soft towels, but I wonder where the bath is. Nothing can be used as a weapon, though I do test them out. The toothbrush is made of flimsy rubber and the mirror above the pedestal sink isn't breakable. It's coated with some type of plastic.

After I put on my shift dress, I shiver a bit and wrap the starched blanket around my neck, then fold up my dirty clothes. Maybe the bull thinks he'll get to me by starving my attention, but he doesn't know I was neglected after my parents were killed. Also homeschooled.

My imagination is my best friend.

I smell the food before I hear anything. It's amazing how my nose knows exactly what's approaching. Beef and bread. Fresh baked, too. When a voluptuous woman with black hair and high-arched brows appears with a tray, I sit up, ready to snatch it from between the bars. My head spins from hunger and I grip the bedding to keep steady.

"Get back," she snaps at me, but I don't even have the strength to walk toward her.

Steadying it on one arm, she holds the silver service, then unlocks the gate and steps inside. Her dress is also white, and her collar is the same type of metal as Chloe's. She sets the food on a small wooden table and drags it toward me. Despite the rules Dilan laid out, I wonder if I should speak and ask her name.

Testing the waters, I say, "Hi."

The woman's dark brown eyes glare at me. "Here's your food. Eat, Mrs. Strauss." Standing over my tray, she hocks her throat and drizzles a long string of spit into the bowl. Her tongue clips it off as a nasty smile settles on her lips.

I don't even care. All the aromas fill my nostrils until my stomach growls and cramps with urgency. Sliding behind the table on my cot, I snatch the silver spoon, try to toss out her saliva, then dig into the stew and side loaf of crusty sourdough laid before me. Next to the plate sits a large, covered tumbler of ice water with a straw. A real feast for a sex slave. No knives, though. Oh well. I need to get my strength up.

Moaning, I take my first bite and savor it, but jump when the black-haired woman shuts the cell door.

It seems I won't be making many friends around here.

No matter.

Wyatt will be here soon, I'm sure of it.