The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)
The Pawn and The Puppet: Chapter 20

Once we’re in the stairwell, enclosed and hidden from the rest of the asylum—he tucks the knife away.

Dessin takes the lead down the stone steps, extending his hand behind him to merge with mine, his fingers slipping into the beds between each of my fingers. I’m mystified. Is this all a game to him? Is it a new form of manipulation?

The air in the twirling well is cool and dry, yet my back is slick with new drops of sweat. I’m either going to die or be defiled. But my red flags aren’t waving. They’re lying back, asleep in my mind. You’d think I’d known enough monsters in my life for those red flags to set fire in warning among my thoughts.

What if Martin retaliated? Even though Dessin held a knife to my throat, what if Martin decided not to care?

The thought tightens like a coil in my chest, burning with irritation under my skin. I tug my hand free of his. No, I will not hold your hand. You were going to slit my throat just a moment ago!

Dessin looks down at his empty hand, lifts his chin, then continues leading us down the stairs.

“Was it something I said?” An obvious smug smirk laces his words.

“I’m still trying to decide if you were bluffing or not,” I say.

He snorts. “I never bluff.”

At this, I stop. Why would I have thought otherwise? Why am I looking at him in shock? Of course he meant what he said. Of course he was going to make good on his promise to use that knife. He’s a murderer.

Noticing my lack of movement. He stops five steps below me, turning his head enough that I can see half of his face. “Not exactly, anyway. I would have done a lot worse.” He faces me head-on, looking directly into my eyes with utter certainty. “But it would have been to him. Not you.”

I nod, unsure of what else to say. I only needed to hear him say that.

We get to the bottom of the stairwell, rounding the corner to a small opening underneath the steps. He stares at the wall.

“What is it?” I ask.

He points to a rectangle on the stone. His index finger presses down on the center of the brick. A small brass key falls into his palm.

“This.” He takes the key and pushes it into a dark hole in the floor covered by musty shadows in the corner under the stairwell. He tugs at a tarnished gold handle that protrudes from the ground. An old wooden door slides open. He sticks his feet down the small passage and climbs down into the pit of darkness.

In the dim lighting of the lanterns, there is a ladder that looks like it will crumble down to dust any second. But out of good faith, I follow.

It creaks, like an old bird guarding its nest as I step down each wooden stick, closing the wooden door behind me and latching the lock. Before I can touch my heel to the last step, a pair of hands grip my waist and lift me off the ladder and down to the floor. I pivot around to face him in the darkness.

“The last step was broken,” he says quietly, turning to twist a small knob at the bottom of a gas lamp; light is only shed on the spot where we are standing.

“Wait—” I press my hands firmly against the wall behind me. My eyes prance around the enclosed area in a panic. “Is this a—basement? Are we in a basement?”

He turns to face me, expression full of confusion and an eagerness to understand.

“Yes…?” He steps toward me.

“No. No. No.” A flash of heat tumbles over my back, chest, and arms. The oxygen thinning in the old murky air around us. I suck in as hard as I can, but there’s something wrong. I must be dying or seizing or having a stroke. The muscles in my thighs vibrate like blades of grass in a strong wind and streams of sweat snake down the back of my neck. My eyes zoom in on the puddles of darkness in this… Basement.

“Skylenna…” He takes another step.

“You have to—get me—out of here.” I gasp for air as I slide down the wall behind me. In my mind’s eye, there are the four walls of my father’s basement. The blood dripping from my nose on the stone floor. The black air. The icy cold draft stinging my naked body. The twisting knot in my stomach as I am left down there for days without food.

“Skylenna! Nothing in this basement can hurt you.” Dessin places his hands on my arms. Kneeling down in front of me. Forehead inching closer to mine. “Look at me. Don’t take your eyes off of mine, okay?”

But I can’t stop them from bouncing across the perimeters of the dark space that is swallowing us whole. Looking for an exit. Looking for an escape.

His hand replaces my hand, pulling it to his chest, squeezing tightly. This brisk movement distracts me, bringing my focus back to his own. And in a single second, as brief as a yawn, I feel I know those eyes. I inhale the warmth they permeate.

“There you go. Squeeze my hand until the fear leaves.” I squeeze, but gently, worried I might cause him pain. He nods as if understanding my pause. “You won’t hurt me. I need you to squeeze as hard as you can, Skylenna. Hold my hand until it all goes away.”

I obey and squeeze. Harder than I’ve ever exerted those muscles before. Faint whimpers escape my lips—a thick sheen of tears blurs my vision.

“Good,” he whispers. “That’s good. Now tell me you’re safe.”

I shake my head.

“I need to hear you say it. Tell me you’re safe.”

Another whine as I struggle to catch my breath. “I’m—safe.” A thick, wholesome tear slips from my right eye.

“That’s right. You’re safe. You’re safe with me.”

My grip on his hand loosens as the fear and panic abates, easing my throbbing limbs. And with its absence, I keep a strong hold of his gaze. Déjà vu swirls around in my chest. Why am I feeling this way? Is this a part of his manipulation? His breath is grazing my skin, and his eyes are still captivating me. I stand, shaking off the intimacy that bled between us. I can’t be fooled. I won’t be.

He backs away, bringing his attention to the empty area around us.

I take in a breath. Take another glance at the dark cave. “What is all of this?”

He glances at me from the corner of his eye and walks into the darkness to illuminate the dome-like room we stand in. Weapons. Knives, daggers, whips, gas masks. Everything is encrusted with rust and a thick blanket of dust.

I thought the floor was dirty, coated in dried mud. But rubbing the tip of my shoe on its grainy surface, I see that it is solid dirt. This isn’t a basement, it’s an underground room dug for reasons that were clearly classified, but I’m sure Dessin has the answer.

“Dessin?”

He glances over at me as he studies the knives. His eyebrow is raised like he is about to teach a child how babies are made. His hand clenches around the hilt of the knife. He sighs and turns his head to me. “Tunnels made during the war, well, prewar with Vexamen.” He waves his hand around the room. I scan the walls again. “Vexamen used them to plant spies throughout the country. They dug the hub and meeting spot under the asylum because Demechnef can’t investigate this property.”

Where did he learn all of this? He took me to a room no one knows about because it was a passage of war. He continues to impress and surprise me. “Why can’t Demechnef investigate here?”

“It’s an agreement in our constitutional commandments. The only foundation Demechnef cannot control is this asylum and the churches. It was agreed it was a conflict of religion and government. It’s off-limits—but I’m sure they replace ways around it.” A nod is the only direct movement he makes toward me. Other than that, he wanders the perimeter of the room, rearranging weapons and avoiding eye contact with me.

“But the oligarchs of Demechnef were coming to pay a visit… How could they do that if they’re not allowed?”

“As a compromise to both sides, they each get to make a visit to each other’s territory once a year. This, of course, is at complete random, so each side has no time to clean up their act if they are breaking laws.”

“Suseas said… Demechnef oligarchs wanted to meet you—and I.”

“Did she? I don’t recall.” He continues examining weapons as if my conversation is boring him to death.

“That explains why you ran. But it doesn’t explain why you took me with you.”

“You’ll give yourself a migraine trying to figure it out.”

“This is insane. I deserve an explanation.” I drop my arms to my sides and slide down the dirt wall to sulk in the mystery of the moments that have just passed.

“You know, using that word in an asylum is frowned upon.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth.

“Oh, pardon me, but we both know you’re not insane,” I blurt out.

He glowers at me in suspicion. His bare feet rub against the rough grains of dirt as he sits a few feet across from me against the wall. “That is certainly something I haven’t heard before,” he mocks, yet I can tell he’s surprised.

“I think people mistake great intelligence for insanity.”

He tilts his head, narrowing his eyes as if to look at a child that has just spoken like an adult. The shadows under his eyes darken along with the definition to his jawline, and his two fingers and thumb trail over the stubble along his chin, examining me as if searching for a hint to a problem he’s working to solve.

“Please tell me what we’re doing here,” I say. He takes no time to compose himself.

“Waiting, of course.”

“Waiting for what?”

“For the end of the day.”

“But why am I here?”

He doesn’t answer this. He just looks up to the ceiling and sighs heavily, like there is so much I don’t know.

“Can we at least talk while we’re down here?”

“You want to talk?” he mocks.

I flinch. “Is that a problem for you?”

“I took you hostage, and you want to talk.” He stares at me in disbelief.

“Are you going to hurt me?” I ask hoarsely, with a slight crack in my voice.

“Not unless you give me a reason to.” He smiles.

“In that case…” I say, scooting closer to him. “I have a question.” His eyes widen as he watches me close the distance between us. I sit cross-legged, face-to-face with him.

“Why did you come back? You stopped Martin from striking me.” Like a moving painting, his arms caught Martin’s, tightening his grip like a python.

He stares past me in thought.

“I don’t know.” But there’s an unmistakable flash of temper at the memory.

“You’re lying,” I say coldly. Tell me something I can hold on to.

“Foul rumors are floating around the asylum about you,” he tells me.

My eyes close reactively, as if to block the truth of that from splashing me in the face. I sigh, shrugging. “There are foul rumors about you, too.”

“Quite right.” He purses his lips. “There’s an old wives’ tale that is shared among agronomists, that if twins are born, one must always die young.”

He’s testing me. Waiting for a reaction. Poking and prodding until I crumple to pieces. You know nothing about Scarlett or her death.

“There’s a rumor that Demechnef wants you,” I say, using his subtle tool of invasiveness. Niles whispered it in my ear before I left his room. He said it was mere gossip, but who knows, right?

His expression gives nothing away. He says, “Is that so?”

“It is. And that’s why you ran, to avoid their one, unannounced, annual visit.”

The corners of his mouth unmask a curious smirk.

“And there’s a rumor you set the fire with your sister inside because you were jealous of her. You wanted to steal her life.” And he’s back in the game.

The strong muscles keeping the composure in my face fall like a handful of honey slipping through my fingers. I miss what her thin hand felt like in mine, even as the flames warmed the room, and sweat made my grasp slippery—and even though her hand was lifeless. She was still my sad, frail sister.

I miss you, Scarlett.

“Unfortunately for that theory, I never envied a single thing about her life.” My shoulders slump forward, and my head bows like a dying tree soaked by too much rain.

“But she envied yours.”

My eyes snap up, and my neck straightens.

“How could you possibly know that?” I study his confident expression, investigate his eyes for the truth. “Can you read minds?” I ask, slightly mortified at the thought of him snooping around in my head.

He stares at me. Blinks. Blinks a little slower. “Really,” he says with every hint of sarcasm there is. “That is the best theory you came up with.” I slouch, almost wanting to laugh in my own face. “You’re disappointing. I thought you were supposed to be miraculously gifted at this.”

At this, I perk up. The challenge of a locked door waits in front of me. It calls my name. I move closer. Our knees are touching. He peers down and tenses up, always furrowing his brow at my touch.

“It happened when you were a child… Didn’t it?” I ask with calm caution.

He remains reserved, as still as a priest in confession.

“A trauma, or a loss that brought this personality into existence,” I add.

I pause again, as if the silence will give him the opportunity to nod.

“He must have needed someone strong like you. Brave. Intelligent. And you saved him, didn’t you? The child—the man—that hosts this body. I can only imagine the horror he must have seen.”

His lips separate as he prepares his words. But this time, I don’t need affirmation. I only have one more thing to say.

“The asylum doesn’t have a record of family for you. That must mean he lost his family. They died—and you helped him survive it.”

He looks at me, eyes digging into mine, whispering so many secrets, and barely surviving everything he knows. And in those dark eyes, there’s a light of interest, like a candle behind a sheet of fog. He leans closer and whispers. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Skylenna.”

The way he says my name. My whole name. “Please, let me in,” I whisper back.

Dessin grins, finally, like waiting for a show of fireworks.

“You first.”