Page 48 of Decimation

The belief that we were free shatters so completely it steals my breath, leaving something bitterly cold and hollow in its place.

“Leandra!” my mother screams, pulling me close as the men close in.

I clutch her arm, my fingers digging into her sleeve, my body trembling. But my fear has manifested into something furious now, and I will not be taken quietly. I will not go back so easily.

I thrash, kick, and bite while my mother fights beside me with the strength of a woman who has hidden her child from monsters for all these years.

Her nails rake across a masked face. I tear my arm free and swing wild, trying to reach her but hands grab me, yanking me away. I scream her name until my throat rips but they are too strong. Too many.

My mother’s cries echo in my ears as they drag us apart, her voice desperate, pleading. “Leandra! Leandra!”

I keep fighting, kicking at the ground, twisting in their grip, a wounded animal all fury and terror. A sharp blow to the back of my head sends me sprawling. Pain explodes behind my eyes, and the world spins.

I am vaguely aware of being lifted, of being carried, of my mother’s sobs fading into the dark between the trees.

My last thought before darkness claims me is of her face, etched with all the fear of every near-escape we ever survived and the hollow knowledge that this time, we did not.

The rough fabric of the sack grates against my cheeks, my eyelashes scraping against it with every frantic blink. I can’t see, but I can hear the low thrum of an engine, feel the vibration of tyres on smooth tarmac. I can smell the stale scent of my own fear, the coppery tang of blood from a split lip, and the musky odour of the men who took us.

We’ve been travelling for days. I’ve been transported like this in vehicles, on a plane, and before that I know we were at that house. That place where they keep women, where they use them, where they hurt them and call it genetics, call it bloodlines or some such bullshit.

My arms are wrenched behind my back, bound so tightly that the rope bites into my wrists in a constant, burning reminder of my helplessness. The gag is a foul-tasting cloth, shoved so deep it threatens to trigger my gag reflex, a dry heave that only brings more pain.

Next to me I hear my mother’s muffled sobs, a desperate, rhythmic keening that is the only anchor I have in this darkness.

I’ve lost all sense of time. The journey was a disorienting nightmare of motion and silence, punctuated by rough hands forcing sips of water in through a straw.

I knew, with a cold certainty that settled in my bones, where we were going. Who was waiting for us.

The vehicle slows, then stops. The engine cuts off, and the sudden silence is more terrifying than the noise. Doors open. Warm, dry air washes over me.

Rough hands haul me out. My knees buckle, my legs numb from confinement and I crumple onto a hard, polished floor. They drag me, my feet scraping, my shoulders screaming in their sockets.

My mother’s cries intensify, a wordless plea that is cut short by a sharp sound; a slap, maybe, or a shove.

We are forced to our knees as a voice cuts through the muffled chaos. “Leave us.”

The footsteps of our captors recede, a door clicks shut and the silence that follows is absolute, broken only by my own thundering heart and my mother’s ragged, gag-muffled breathing beside me.

This is it. This is the end of the road my foolish hope built.

Hands grip the top of the sack. With a brutal yank, the world explodes into blinding, painful light.

I blink, as my eyes water, struggling to focus. The light is from a single, monstrous crystal chandelier hanging from a vaulted ceiling. I’m kneeling in the centre of a vast, opulent room. Everything is marble, black, and polished gold. Sterile. Expensive. A museum of cold taste and standing before us, flanked by two hulking men in dark suits, is our Grand Master, Konstantine.

His shoulder length brown black hair is swept back, his suit is impeccable, and his face is a mask of chilling, amused contempt. His brown eyes sweep over us, and a slow, cruel smile plays on his lips.

My mother, on her knees beside me lets out a fresh wave of sobs against her gag, while her body trembles so violently I can feel the vibrations through the floor.

“Look at you,” Konstantine says, his voice a low, venomous purr that echoes in the cavernous room. “The traitor and her whelp. Crawling back after you thought you could just disappear. After what your family did.”

My mother shakes her head violently, a denial trapped behind the fabric in her mouth. Her eyes are wide, pleading pools of terror.

He takes a step, then another, coming to a stop in front of my mother. She shrinks back, trying to make herself small and insignificant, the way she did when my father had his blood up, only this time it’s no use.

“Please,” the word is a distorted, wet mumble through her gag. “Konstantine, I beg you…”

He backhands her so fast I don’t even see the movement. Just the crack of his gold ring against her dark cheekbone, the snap of her head to the side. She cries out, collapsing onto her side, a fresh trickle of blood marring her smooth skin.