Slow Agony (Assassins, #2)(27)

But he worked slow. “You’re okay, doll. You’re fine.” He kept repeating that over and over again, until he got the gag free.

I spit it out, coughing.

He put a hand on my cheek. “Jesus. I should never have left you.”

I didn’t have anything to say.

Griffin got to work on the rope that bound my arms. “I’m sorry, doll. I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” I managed.

My hands were free. I massaged them.

“This is why it all happened. He sent me away to get to you.” Griffin started to pull my shirt closed, but then he saw the blood on my stomach.

Now that I could move, I sat up and looked down at it. I’d been cut with the knife. Because of the serum, I’d healed already, but the dried blood was still left behind. The cuts formed words. Wolfman says hi.

Griffin froze for a second. Then he yanked me to my feet and tugged me up the rest of the steps and into Sloane’s bathroom.

He began washing the message off my stomach. “What did he do to you? What did he do?”

“I... don’t know. I don’t think anything. He said that he wasn’t allowed to play with me until the time was right.” I shivered thinking about it.

He grimaced. “Not allowed?”

“He’s working for Marcel,” I said. “But now that Marcel’s dead—”

“He’s not. He didn’t show up today.” He finished scrubbing my stomach. He pulled at the tatters of my shirt, but they didn’t really cover me.

“Didn’t show up? But why not? He killed Naomi to make sure I gave you the message to be there.”

Griffin took off his own shirt and handed to me. “Put that on.”

I shrugged out of my ruined shirt and put Griffin’s on. I realized that my hands were shaking.

“What do you mean you don’t know what he did?”

“He knocked me out,” I said. “There was this rag with liquid on it. He put it on my face.”

Griffin turned away from me, rubbing his head. “He wouldn’t have done anything if you were passed out. He likes it when people scream.”

I felt sick. “You know who he was?”

“Yeah,” said Griffin.

“Someone else from prison?”

“One of Marcel’s henchmen. At least he used to be.” He punched the wall. “I don’t understand. Why are they doing this to me? I never meant anything to them.”

He’d dented the drywall. “Griffin, maybe you shouldn’t...”

He turned back to me. “I won’t let anything happen to you. I’m not letting you out of my sight again.”

I bit my lip. “I’m fine.” I was, I guess. Well, I was terrified and disgusted, but I hadn’t been hurt.

There was a soft knock on the open bathroom door. “Hey,” said Sloane in a soft voice. She was holding two open mason jars of homebrew. “What happened?”

Griffin shook his head. “I don’t really know. But it’s not good.”

*

“He was watching us,” said Griffin. “He had to be.” We were in the kitchen, around the kitchen table.

“I guess we didn’t lose him in Cumberland like we thought,” said Sloane.

Silas was pacing on the other side of the kitchen island. “So, he set up this whole thing for us to go and meet him so that he could have one of his goons come in and rough up Leigh?”

“I think so,” said Griffin.

“Why?” said Silas. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know,” said Griffin.

“Do they have something against you, Griffin?” asked Sloane. “Did you do something?”

“No,” said Griffin. “All I ever did was whatever the f*ck they wanted. I was a f*cking kid.” He looked into his glass. It was empty of beer, and it had been for a while.

“You want something else to drink?” said Sloane. “I think we’ve got some Sierra Nevada in the fridge. Can you check, Silas?”

Silas opened the refrigerator. “Whatever they wanted? But you were in prison with them, right?”

I cringed. They were digging.

“What did you do for them?” said Sloane. “What is there to do in jail?”

Griffin got up from the table.

I had to say something. “Maybe we should try to figure out—”

“They raped me, okay?” said Griffin. He sat back down. He took a deep breath. “Okay.” He let it out. “That was, um, not as hard to say out loud as I thought.”

Sloane had been taking a drink of her beer. She choked on it.

Silas didn’t move from the refrigerator.

“Marcel liked to collect things,” said Griffin, staring down at the table. “And he had certain people who were... well, hell, we were slaves. I mean, he owned us. And we did whatever he wanted. And if we tried to resist, we were beaten to a bloody pulp.”

No one said anything.

“So,” said Griffin, “it doesn’t make sense. Sure, Marcel liked to mess with my head and to torture me anyway he could, but I wasn’t special, you know. He did that to whoever he could do that to. I was one of many. I don’t know why they would single me out.”