Guilty Pleasures - Laurell K. Hamilton [95]
There was even a haunted house; it was almost funny. Sort of redundant, if you ask me. The whole freaking place was a house of horrors.
Winter had paused before the little door leading into the back areas. He was frowning at me, massive arms almost crossed over equally massive chest. The arms didn’t quite fold right, too much muscle for that, but he was trying.
He opened the door. I went inside. The tall, bald man who had been with Nikolaos that first time was standing against the wall, at attention. His handsome, narrow face, the eyes very prominent because there was no hair, nothing much else to stare at, looked at me the way elementary school teachers look at troublemaking children. You must be punished, young lady. But what had I done wrong?
The man’s voice was deep, faintly British, cultured, but human. “Search her for weapons before we go down.”
Winter nodded. Why talk when gestures will do? His big hands lifted my jacket and took the gun. He shoved one shoulder so that I spun around. He found the second gun, too. Had I really thought they’d let me keep the weapons? Yes, I guess I had. Stupid me.
“Check her arms for knives.”
Damn.
Winter gripped my jacket sleeves like he meant to tear them. “Wait, please. I’ll just take the jacket off. You can search it, too, if you like.”
Winter took the knives on my arms. The bald-headed man searched the yellow windbreaker for concealed weapons. He didn’t find any. Winter patted my legs down, but not well. He missed the knife at my ankle. I had one weapon, and they didn’t know it. Bully for me.
DOWN the long stairs and into the empty throne room. Maybe it showed on my face because the man said, “The master waits for us, with your friend.”
The man led the way as he had down the stairs. Winter brought up the rear. Perhaps they thought I would make a break for it. Right. Where would I go?
They stopped at the dungeon. How had I known they would? The bald-headed man knocked on the door twice, not too hard, not too soft.
There was silence; then bright, high laughter drifted from inside. My skin crawled with the sound. I did not want to see Nikolaos again. I did not want to be in a cell again. I wanted to go home.
The door opened. Valentine made a hand-sweeping motion. “Come in, come in.” He was wearing a silver mask this time. A strand of his auburn hair was stuck to the forehead of the mask, sticky with blood.
My heart thudded into my throat. Phillip, are you alive? It was all I could do not to yell out.
Valentine stepped against the door as if waiting for me to pass. I glanced at the nameless bald man. His face was unreadable. He motioned me ahead of him. What could I do? I went.
What I saw stopped me at the top of the steps. I couldn’t go farther. I couldn’t. Aubrey stood against the far wall, grinning at me. His hair was still golden; his face, bestial. Nikolaos stood in a dress of flowing white that made her skin look like chalk, her hair cotton-white. She was sprinkled with blood, like someone had taken a red ink pen and splattered her.
Her grey-blue eyes stared up at me. She laughed again, rich and pure and wicked. I had no other word for it. Wicked. She caressed a white, blood-spattered hand against Phillip’s bare chest. She rolled her fingertip over his nipple, and laughed.
He was chained to the wall at wrist and ankle. His long, brown hair had fallen forward, hiding one eye. His muscular body was covered in bites. Blood rained down his tan skin in thin crimson lines. He stared up at me from that one brown eye, the other hidden in his hair. Despair. He knew he had been brought here to die, like this, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it. But there was something I could do. There had to be. God, please let there be!
The man touched my shoulder, and I jumped. The vampires laughed. The man did not. I walked down the steps to stand a few feet in front of Phillip. He wouldn’t look