Downside Rain: Downside book one (21 page)

“We
disturbed old Chumleigh’s last resting place before she could move Derille’s
body. She thought we saw Derille so she came after us.”

“Beginning
with me,” said Castle.

He
looks at me over his shoulder with his mouth open as if to say more, then his
eyes flare and he thrusts out one hand. “Rain!”

A
hand on my shoulder. The shock of full flesh unexpectedly hammering into me. A
sting in my neck. . . .

“Let
her go!” Castle roars.

Calla
Blayne says, “How could you be so stupid in the first place?”

“I
didn’t know you hid the bodies in coffins.”

“I
mean the wraith. Your orders were to question him before you killed him. Not
only did you get nothing, you left the body there.”

“I
heard her coming. Yes, I panicked.”

I
don’t know the other voice but he’s next to me, the hand on my arm belongs to
him, a wraith, or a vampire, because flesh fills me.

“You
bastard!” Castle rages. “
You
killed me! I’ll see you in hell for this.”

“Why
not kill her?” A woman. Don’t recognize her low, rasping voice, either.

“I
will,” come Calla’s silken tones. “But she’s been busy since her partner . . .
expired. Alain Sauvageau, Verity Peralta and the new wraith. She’ll tell us
what she knows and who she spoke to before she dies.”

“Surely,
if she did, they’d be at your gates.”

“Not
without evidence.”

Hoping
to assess my predicament before they know I’m awake, I keep my eyes closed. I
sit on a hardback chair, wrists tied to the arms by what feels like plastic
zip-ties. My ankles are bound to the chair legs. I’m cold, and well and truly
fucked. Against my will, I shudder.

“She’s
awake,” the man says.

I
open my eyes. We are in one of Calla Blayne’s towers on an unfinished floor.
The lathe and plaster inner wall hasn’t been painted or papered. The curved
outer wall is a single gigantic pane of glass which should provide a view of
the cemetery and city beyond, but a blue haze blurs the vista. My chair rests
on a large sheet of clear plastic over the board floor. Unidentifiable items
covered in dust sheets are stacked against the wall. Bulbs in pastel shades
dangle on long steel chains from the ceiling.

Tall
and willowy, Calla stands before a scarred workman’s table. No business suit
and severe hairstyle today, her pale pearly hair flows over her shoulders, her
skin is luminous and she wears a semi-transparent gown made of tier upon tier
of pale-green gauze. A string of sapphire-blue beads match her eyes. Her lips
purse as she watches me and one fine eyebrow arches questioningly.

I
don’t know the wraith who holds me. Like us all, he looks young, has black hair
and dark eyes. A wraith, who crept up and injected me with tranquilizer after
the custodian phoned Calla.

A
wraith who killed Castle.

Castle
looms over him with shoulders tight and hands fisted, and he looks back at
Castle as perspiration drips down his face.

I
turn a chill, withering gaze on him, but his eyes are locked to Castle’s.

The
third person - or fourth when you count me – she of the hoarse tones, is Phaedra,
the Triad’s sorcerer. With her bright brassy-yellow hair piled atop her head,
painted face and slanting green eyes, the long heavy white robe embroidered
with metallic thread in every imaginable color, she resembles a tiny china
doll.

A
sorcerer did not come to Gettaholt to call the hellion, she already lives here.

The
blue haze outside the window - Phaedra erected a protective ward around the
house. Nobody can enter Calla Blayne’s mansion with the ward in place, nobody can
see inside.

Calla
rests her buttocks on the edge of the table, crosses her ankles and folds her
arms over her chest. “Well, Rain, you are in a pickle,” she says lazily.

I
run my tongue over dry lips. “Looks like it.”

“We
can make this fast or take our time. Up to you.”

“What
do you want?”

“Who
did you tell?”

“Tell
what? I didn’t know anything till I saw old Chumleigh’s body.” How long ago?
Minutes? Hours?

Calla
pushes off the desk and comes to me, standing so close the eager sparkle in her
eyes is unmistakable. “Are you sure?”

“Is
that why you killed Castle? You thought we knew you murdered Hyde and his wife?”

“Sylar
was to question you and Castle.” She backs up a pace and circles me. “But it
got out of hand and Sylar . . . you know what happened to your partner.”

A
stiletto in Castle’s neck. A growl snarls in my throat and I glare at the
wraith, this Sylar, but he keeps his face averted.

Castle
has given up yelling at him in favor of listening to what’s being said, but
still stands over him threateningly. Sylar is sweating up a storm. He trembles;
I feel it through the hand on my arm.

“You’re
sweating, Sylar. Are you unwell?” Calla asks.

“You
won’t use me in this way again, Blayne.”

“If
you want your extortionate retainer, I’ll use you anyhow I wish. We wouldn’t
have to take these steps if not for your bumbling.”

Phaedra
looses a laugh more like a croak.

Calla
spins. “I amuse you, Sorcerer?”

“Yes,
the incongruity of you reprimanding Sylar. You began this when you murdered Hyde
and his wife.” Phaedra crosses her arms and tries to stare Calla down.

Calla
clenches her hands. Her eyes darken. “Do you know how long my sisters and I
have been here? Two thousand years! We were the aristocracy when there was such
a thing! Hyde was an upstart human from a family of tradesmen.” Her upper lip
lifts in a sneer. “He rejected my proposals, said they didn’t benefit
the
people
, and that toady Jughon sided with him. When he discovered I was diverting
funds from city coffers to my own account, he threatened to expose me. And he told
Derille. I would have lost everything. They had to go.”

She
makes a small
tsk
noise. “You know, I tried to persuade him to take
Derille Upside when she became ill. He’d have none of it, said
his people
weren’t allowed to seek aid Upside. Derille agreed with him.”

Calla
lifts her chin so she can look down her nose at Phaedra. “I don’t know why
you’d complain. With me in power, Gettaholt taxes fund your experiments, Sylar
can pay off his horrendous debts and feed his gambling addiction for the rest
of his life, and I. . . .” She smiles like a shark and opens her arms to
encompass the room. “The city is mine.”

She
faces me again. “Tell us, Rain. Give us a name, or names, and it will be over.
You won’t suffer. Otherwise . . . well, little girl, we have to be sure, don’t
we.”

“You
need to bind us,” the wraith says. “She’ll be free in a second if I tire and my
hand slips.”

A
second to rock the chair, tip it, make Sylar lose his hold, but with ankles
bound to the chair legs I can’t get my feet down for traction.

Calla
returns to the table, picks up a phone and speaks into it. Almost before it
rests in the cradle again, the door opens and in walks the elf with the notched
ear. He carries a large metal case, places it on the floor in front of me and
draws a length of cord from his pocket. Sylar’s hand slides down my arm to grasp
the back of mine. The elf binds us together at the wrists.

The
elf leaves, but returns a moment later carrying a green brocade sofa piled with
thick duvets. He totes the furniture as though it weighs nothing. This he
settles on the floor beside me and Sylar edges onto it. Sylar can’t let go of
me while our flesh ties us together, keeping us solid, keeping me vulnerable,
but can make himself comfortable.

The
elf opens his case and removes an array of tools and instruments which he
places on the floor. I recognize a few of them and imagine to what use the
others can be put. An uncontrollable shudder wracks my body.

The
elf, Calla and Phaedra leave.

I
look at the instruments. “They’re giving me time to think about what those can
do,” I whisper to Sylar.

He
doesn’t reply. Castle growls something.

My
voice is barely above a whisper. “Why did you do it?”

But
Sylar says nothing as he shifts on the sofa. Tied to me, knowing what I can
expect when Calla returns to this room, he would rather pretend I’m not here.

Loathing
surges up my throat as bile. If I get away in one piece, I shall kill him
first.

The
temperature in the room drops as the air conditioning kicks on and icy forced air
settles on me, making me shiver. Sylar burrows into his duvet. Castle sits
against big window, knees up to his chin, raking one hand through his hair.

I
want to make Sylar acknowledge me as a person, a wraith, someone who shares
common ground, not Blayne’s anonymous victim he can disregard. “Your name’s not
really Sylar. We don’t have names like that. You don’t want Blayne to know your
real name.”

He
pulls the duvet over his head.

“No,
not Calla,” I continue, rethinking. “Phaedra. She can’t spell you if she
doesn’t know your real name.”

“His
name is Wool,” says Castle.

He
stalks over, a threatening figure. I marvel that even in this form, the flex of
sinew and muscle is prominent, every line of his body, every step, radiates
menace.

Wool’s
head pokes from beneath the duvet; he blinks at Castle. “No! You’re not here.”

“Yes
I am, you bastard. I don’t go that easy.” He stands over Wool and snarls like
an animal into the wraith’s face. “You’re dead meat, Wool. It’ll be messy and
painful.”

Not
taking his eyes off Castle, Wool reaches for the cord which binds us and for
one minute I hope. But the wraith’s brow creases, his head cocks on one side.
“You’re dead. You’re a ghost. You can’t hurt me.”

“Release
her or I’ll haunt you,” Castle says, “every minute of every day. If you
survive, that is. Blayne doesn’t like witnesses.”

During
a long sleepless night, I search for ways to escape and find none.

Morning
brings no hope. The ties on my wrists and ankles are so tight, my flesh is
swollen. Castle left and I don’t notice his absence till now.

The
elf brings a hot meal and coffee for Sylar. I get nothing. There is no relief
from the burning muscle ache created by being tied in this position and my
hands and feet are numb.

Remaining
solid this long is having its effect, as if severe dehydration dries my mouth
and cracks my lips. My skin looks like an alligator’s. Sylar has food and
warmth, and I think he slept, but the strain will tell on him soon.

“How
long will they keep this up?” I murmur. “Until they’ve used you up?”

If
rage were a weapon I could use on him, he’d be dead. Castle’s killer sits at my
side and I can do nothing.

Calla,
Phaedra and the elf return. “Are you ready to talk?” Calla asks as she stands
at the table in the new day’s red light made hazy by the ward.

With
nothing to say, I shake my head.

She
nods at the elf. He kneels to remove my shoes and socks. Reaching behind, he
chooses a hammer from the array of tools.

He
uses the hammer to smash the big toe on my right foot.

Castle
blinks back in roaring, “No!”

Pain
claws up my leg and into my stomach. I scream, and then weep. They give me two
minutes before the elf breaks the next toe.

I
scream again and taste blood where I bite through my tongue.

Bad
as it is, torture is about more than pain. It is the expectation of pain. When
the elf hoists the hammer, I scream I will tell them what I know.

But
he breaks the rest of my toes anyway.

“You
killed Hyde and his wife and hid Derille’s body in Chumleigh Yarrow’s coffin,” I
say on a sob. I can barely keep my thoughts together. “You thought we saw her
when the coffin came through the floor.”

Calla
smiles thinly. “Did you?”

“No!”

She
leans over me, face inches from mine. If I could, I’d bite off her nose. “Who
did you tell? Alain Sauvageau?”

My
lower lip cracks open. Blood dapples my chin. “No one.”

“Your
new friend, River?”

Horror
forms a ball of ice in my stomach at the thought of River in her hands. I shake
my head more violently. “How could I tell anyone? I told you, I didn’t know a
thing till I looked in Chumleigh Yarrow’s coffin.”

“I
don’t believe you.” Her eyes are alight, she breathes rapidly, sharp and
shallow with mouth slightly open.

Calla
enjoys watching me suffer.

I
don’t have much experience with pain. Sure, I’ve been hurt. Cut. Burned.
Bitten. But I faded out, came back and it all went away. It never lasted more
than a few minutes.

Pain
has been my companion for hours. My feet throb. The tears have dried on my face
and my skin is taut and sore. My throat is so dry, I can’t swallow.

Next
to me, Wool shifts. He’s not once looked at me, as though I don’t exist.

Castle
crouches in front of me. “I’m so sorry, babe.”

“Where’ve
you been?”