The Story of Son(5)

Wake up, Claire! What the hell was she doing? Sympathizing with the guy who had a death grip on her?

Baring her teeth, she went for his thumb, ready to bite her way free and then knee him where he’d feel it most. She didn’t get a chance to. With a gentle surge, she was turned onto her stomach and her arms held carefully at the small of her back. She wrenched her head to the side so she could breathe and tried to buck free.

The man didn’t hurt her. He didn’t touch her inappropriately. He just held her loosely as she struggled, and when she finally exhausted herself, he let go immediately. While panting, she heard the chains being dragged into the darkness over to the left.

When her lungs stopped pumping wildly, she grunted, “You can’t keep me here.”

Silence. Not even breathing.

“You have to let me go.”

Where the hell was she? Shit . . . that dream of Fletcher had been real. So she must be somewhere on the Leeds estate.

“People will be looking for me.”

This was a lie. It was a holiday weekend and most of her firm’s lawyers were taking work to their summer homes, so there was no one to miss her if she didn’t come into the office as she’d planned to. And if folks tried to reach her and got voice mail, they’d probably assume she’d finally gotten a life and was taking some time off for Labor Day.

“Where are you?” she demanded, her voice echoing. When there was no response she wondered if she hadn’t been left alone.

She reached out for the candle and used the weak glow to look around. The wall behind the carved wooden head-board was made of the same pale gray stone as the front of the Leeds mansion, so that confirmed where she was. The bed she was on was draped in deep blue velvet and sat high off the floor. She was wearing a white robe and her underwear.

That was all she could ascertain.

Slipping off the edge of the mattress, her legs wobbled and she fell as her knees gave out. Wax spilled on her hand, burning her skin, and the stone floor bruised her ankle. She caught her breath and dragged herself up by the bed’s duvet.

Her head was bad, aching and scrambled. Her stomach felt like it was filled with latex paint and thumbtacks. And panic made both of those happy problems worse.

She stuck her hand out and shuffled forward, keeping the candle as far in front of her as she could. When she made contact with something, she shrieked and jumped back—until she realized what the irregular, vertical pattern was.

Books. Leather-bound books.

She put the candle forward again and moved to the left, patting with her palm. More books. More . . . books. Books everywhere, organized by author. She was in the Dickens section, and going by the gold inlays on the spines, the damn things looked like first editions.

There was no dust on them, as if they were cleaned regularly. Or read.

Some countless yards later, she ran across a door. Angling the candle up and down, she tried to find a knob or handle, but there was nothing to mark the old wood except black iron hinges. To the right of it on the ground there was something the size of a bread box, but she couldn’t guess what it was.

She straightened and pounded on the door.

“Miss Leeds! Fletcher!” She kept up the hollering for a while and threw in a good long scream, hoping to alarm someone. Nobody came.

Fear gave way to anger and she welcomed the aggression.

Scared but pissed off, she kept feeling her way around. Books. Just books. Floor to however high the ceiling was. Books, books, books . . .

Claire stopped and was suddenly relieved. “This is a dream. All this is just a dream.”

She took a deep breath—

“In a manner of speaking, yes.” The deep, resonant male voice sent her wheeling around, her back slapping against the stacks.

Show no fear, she thought. When you face off with your enemy, you show no fear.

“Let me out of this f*cking room. Right now.”

“In three days’ time.”

“Excuse me?”

“You will be here with me for three days. And then Mother will set you free.”

“Mother . . . ?” This was Miss Leeds’s son?

Claire shook her head, pieces of the conversation she’d had with the woman skipping through her mind, landing on nothing rational.

“This is unlawful restraint—”

“And after three days, you will remember nothing. Neither where you went nor your time here. Nor me. Nothing will linger of the experience.”

God . . . his voice was hypnotic. So sad. So smooth and low—

Chains dragged across the floor, the sound getting louder, reminding her that she needed to fear him. “Don’t come near me.”

“I’m sorry. I cannot wait.”

She raced back for the door and beat against the wood, her jerky, frantic movements splashing wax everywhere. When the candle’s flame went out, she dropped the silver holder and as it clattered away, she banged both fists against the solid panels.

The chains grew closer; he zeroed in on her. Terrified to the point of madness, Claire clawed at the door, her fingernails leaving long trails.

Two hands covered hers, stopping them. Oh, God, he was right on her. Right behind her.

“Let me go!” she yelled.

“I will not harm you,” he said quietly, gently. “I will not hurt you. . . .” He kept speaking to her, word after word after word until she fell into a kind of trance.