Anew: Book Two: Hunted (31 page)

Somehow, I nod. I even manage to speak, although it feels
like someone else is talking. The real me is screaming in rage and fear.

“Yeah, fine. You’re sure about the location?”

“Absolutely, the old main branch of the library.”

The neo-classical masterpiece that looks like an ancient
Greek temple has been a landmark in mid-town Manhattan since the early
twentieth century. Guarded by stone lions, it used to be open to the public.
Nowadays, it’s strictly a preserve of the elite. A-list charities hold their
board meetings there, planning the galas that take place in the cavernous
former reading rooms where generations of scholars worked to banish ignorance.

But even with all the changes, the library still guards its
secrets. Beneath the building and stretching out under the adjacent nine-acre
park are two underground levels that used to hold millions of books, all long
since digitized. That space, too, was repurposed.

I haven’t set foot beneath the library since the day when I
was sixteen years old and decided that any fate was better than being the man
my father wanted me to be. Now Amelia’s trapped there. But not for long. I’ll
do anything to save her from my worst nightmare. Even if that means unleashing
the darkest demons inside me.

Amelia

T
he men who took me
from in front of the hotel don’t speak during the short drive. I’m in the back
seat, trapped between two of them with the third behind the wheel. Their
presence makes any attempt to struggle useless. They ignore my demands to be
released, staring stoically ahead as though I’m not even there.

Small details stand out in high relief--the smell of the
leather seats, the faint whiff of gasoline that is so rare in the city, the
citrus-spice scent of the soap one of my captors uses. All of it swirls through
my mind, clashing with the panic that threatens to consume me.

Everything that has happened from the moment Ian announced
that we were going to Carnival through my own unbridled behavior to the instant
when he cried out for Susannah overwhelms me. I’m numb, hardly able to move,
much less think.

A smothering sense of unreality settles over me. I can’t
believe this is happening. The men were waiting for me but how? Someone--it has
to be Davos--must have known where I was. That’s disturbing enough but how
could he have anticipated that I would bolt from the hotel so impulsively, with
no thought for my own safety?

My stomach drops when I realize that we’re turning onto a
ramp that leads below the street. On the surface, I still have some hope of
escape but once we’re out of sight--

Instinctively, I lunge for the door handle. The two men
scarcely react. One simply puts a hand on my wrist and squeezes hard. The pain
that shoots up my arm is so intense that I’m afraid he means to break the
bones. I freeze, which seems to satisfy him. After a moment, he nods and lets
go. A sense of dread closes in around me. Too vividly, I remember what Ian
believes is Davos’ intent--to use me to discover how the customized imprinting
was done. I can imagine all too vividly what that would require. Anything, even
death, would be better than losing the very essence of myself.

We descend down the ramp, first one level, then another until
finally the vehicles stops in a parking garage. Several cars are nearby but I
don’t see any other people. One of the men gets out, reaches into the back
seat, and drags me after him. The second man exits on the other side. In the
few seconds that they’re separated, I see what may be my only chance to escape.
Wishing more than ever that I’d enrolled in the self-defense class that I
wanted to take rather than just thinking about it, I bring up my knee and slam
it into the crotch of the man holding me. Although I put all my strength into
the blow, he doesn’t double over but he does give a harsh grunt. His hold
weakens just enough for me to twist free.

I run but not fast enough. As I reach the bottom of the
ramp, I’m tackled and knocked to the cement floor. All the breath rushes out of
me. The man who brought me down gets to his feet and aims a kick toward my
stomach.

“Don’t!” Incredibly, his partner, still grimacing, hobbles
up in time to stop him. “Davos won’t like it if you mark her.” Before I can
feel any relief for this small reprieve, he adds, “He’ll want to do that
himself.”

This glimpse into my immediate future sends a bolt of terror
through me. I’m dragged to my feet and hauled toward a pair of heavy steel
doors. On the other side is a starkly white corridor that looks as though it
belongs in a hospital. Hideous visions of operating rooms, dissection labs, and
the like hurdle through my mind. In desperation, I dig my bare heels into the
utilitarian carpeting but the men don’t even notice. They continue on their
way, one on each side of me holding my arms. We stop when we come to another
door. Stenciled on it is a single word: Prep.

“Listen up, bitch,” one of the men says. “Be smart and don’t
cause any trouble. If you do, there are plenty of ways to make you regret it
that won’t leave a mark.”

His partner lets this sink in for a moment, then puts his
thumb to a biometric sensor. The door opens. I stagger as I’m thrust inside but
manage to right myself. The door slams behind me. The sudden contrast to the sterile
surroundings that I’ve just passed through is startling. Whatever I expected,
it wasn’t this. I’m in a small entry hall, lushly paneled in dark wood with a
Persian rug covering the floor. The air carries the heavy, exotic scents of
sandalwood and patchouli. In the near distance, music throbs softly.

 I’m alone or so I think until two young women suddenly
appear. Rather than the white-coated lab technicians I feared, they are both
naked, slim but large breasted with long black hair brushing their bottoms and
rose-brown skin. I’m wondering if they could be Polynesian when I notice the
collars around their necks and the attached lengths of chain draped low on
their hips above their smooth, bare sexes. The women smile and giggle as they
gesture for me to come with them.

Instead, I look around for some way to escape but the only
door I can see is the one I came in through. Even if there was a sensor on this
side, I wouldn’t be able to get past it. That leaves only one option. Hoping
that there’s another exit somewhere, I go with them.

“Where are we?” I demand, looking from one to the other.
“Where are you taking me?”

Neither responds. They don’t understand me or they don’t
want to admit to doing so. Instead, with smiles and gestures, they lead me into
a large space that looks as though it belongs in a sultan’s palace. The walls
are draped in lush burgundy and gold silks, more thick carpets cover the
floors. Crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling cast light across the
large, tiled pool where several dozen women are gathered. All are nude or
nearly so and each is stunningly beautiful. Every type seems to be
represented--blondes, brunettes, redheads with skin from the palest ivory to
the richest mahogany As I enter, their gazes turn in my direction. I feel
myself assessed and found not wanting exactly but of only mild interest.

The Polynesian beauties urge me along until we come to a row
of small open rooms, each furnished with a padded bench, a dressing table, and
shelves holding a variety of lotions, waxes, oils, and the like. What they
don’t have are doors or even curtains. There’s no allowance for modesty in this
place.

One of the young women steps behind me and quickly unzips my
gown. I catch it before it can fall. A brief tug of war occurs with me on one
side and my two--preparers, groomers, whatever they are--on the other. They
win. Before I can register what’s happening, I’m standing stark naked under the
scrutiny of every other woman in the spa. My instinct is to cover myself but I
resist and lift my head instead. I refuse to let anyone see how afraid I am.

The two young women give me their combined once over.
Apparently satisfied with what they see, they nod and smile again. Only the
slight bruises on my hips where Ian’s fingers marked me and the pale red lines
on my wrists draw a soft tut-tut.

Thinking of Ian opens a hollow well of pain so intense as to
make me gasp. His longing for Susannah hits me yet again. Even beyond death,
she is the embodiment of goodness and purity, the person who gave up her last
chance to live so that I could instead. And what am I? Nothing like her, that’s
for certain. She still calls to the better angels of his nature whereas I’m the
woman who will make herself come in an alley for his enjoyment.

My eyes burn. I hardly notice what’s happening until one of
the women drops a transparent length of pleated white silk over my body. It
drapes over one shoulder, leaving my other side almost completely bare. One of
my breasts is fully exposed, the other is clearly visible through the
diaphanous fabric. I’m left feeling even more lewdly displayed than I would if
I was fully naked. Worse yet, the gown, if it can be called that, is a decadent
version of the elegant garment that Susannah wears in the portrait I have
studied so often, seeking clues to her nature and my own. I can’t help but
wonder if that’s a coincidence or one more indication of Davos’ perverse
fascination with my predecessor.

Dressed as I am, I can’t escape the realization of what kind
of place I’ve been brought to. I’ve been in the city long enough to hear rumors
about the sex clubs of every sort that flourish here. I just never expected to
set foot in one. That Davos would arrange for me to do so makes my skin crawl.
My determination to find a way out redoubles.

The two women guide me over to the chair in front of the
dressing table and urge me to sit down. They go to work on my hair and face,
giggling all the while. The traces of last night’s excesses in tangled strands,
swollen lips, and faint shadows under my eyes fall to their ministrations.
Within minutes, I’m staring at a woman who looks like me but who might as well
be a stranger. Her skin is flawless, her eyes wide and luminous, her cheeks
slightly flushed, her mouth soft and moist. She appears untouched by the world
and everything in it. There are even flowers entwined in her hair.

My stomach clenches as I realize that I’ve been made to look
virginal. The shock of seeing myself like that after what I have experienced
with Ian finally pierces the numbness that has surrounded me since I fled the
hotel. Turning to the two young women, I say urgently, “My name is Amelia
McClellan. Help me get out of here, please. My family will reward and protect
you.”

Once again, neither responds. I try the same plea in Spanish
and French with no better results. One of the women gives me a small,
apologetic smile. Before I realize what she intends, she scrapes a small knife
over the skin on the inside of my arm. Even as the significance of what she has
done is just beginning to sink in, she deposits the skin cells she has
collected in a small tube. Moments later, the cap of the tube flashes green.

Dread washes over me as I realize that I have just been
subjected to a DNA test, the results swiftly obtained and as quickly transmitted.
If Davos has a sample of Susannah’s DNA--and I don’t doubt his ability to have
acquired that--any lingering question about who and what I am has been
answered.

My stomach is clenching at the thought of what that means
when suddenly a gong sounds. As one, all the women around the pool rise and
walk together in the same direction. My two companions urge me to go with them.
Beyond the seraglio room is another darkly paneled area containing long wooden
racks that hold hooded cloaks in a variety of rich colors. Each of the women
takes one and puts it on. Within moments their heads are obscured, their faces
cast into shadows. But the cloaks hang open, revealing their bare bodies from
the neck down.

One of the young women guiding me selects a cloak of blazing
red, the only one that color, and urges me into it. As with the others, I am at
once rendered anonymous yet exposed. The urge to pull the garment closed around
me is all but irresistible but before I can do so wide double doors at the far
end of the room suddenly open outward. At once, the line of women moves
forward.

I’m held back until all the others have passed, then pushed
forward into a large, sumptuous space that looks as though it belongs in an
exclusive gentlemen’s club. Tufted leather sofas and high-backed wingchairs
seem an incongruous accompaniment to the naked carnality on display. The women
quickly doff their cloaks and take up positions around the outside of a large
mosaic circle set into the only part of the floor that is bare of rugs. They all
face inward, toward the man standing at the center. His distinctive red mask
with its empty eyes and dark chasm of a mouth strikes a chord. I remember him
on the float, staring at me.

For now, the women have his attention. They kneel and
prostrate themselves before him. A faceless servant, dressed all in black with
even his features covered, hands the man a censure from which scented smoke
rises. He waves it over the naked backs of the women, turning in a circle as he
does so in a mockery of a religious ritual.

A hand at my back urges me toward an ornately carved marble
pedestal that seems to be a focal point of the room. I’m pushed, carefully but
implacably up the steps behind it until I’m standing on display. The avid eyes
of the male audience rake over me. With a start, I realize that some of the men
look familiar. I’ve crossed paths with them at various social events around the
city. I think I may have even danced with one or two of them. For a brief
moment, I consider appealing for their help but their presence here, in such a
place, deters me.

I’m grateful that my face is still hidden by the hood of the
cloak but the rest of me is blatantly exposed, my vulnerability only heightened
by the transparent white silk. Panic rises in me but after a few moments, I realize
that no one is making any move toward me, at least not yet. I have no idea how
long such restraint will last but I know that I have to make the most of
whatever time I have. Quickly, I begin scanning the room for some avenue of
escape.