The Master and The Marionette (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 2)

I recognize the direction we are heading in. It feels like I’m retracing my steps in a dream.

Holding on to Dessin, I wonder how this will end. Surely he knows we can’t run forever. What if… death is the only way out? We’re fugitives. We don’t get the chance at a peaceful life. And what if we are caught? What would happen to me? They want him. Not me. I’m deadweight. A liability. Would I be killed for my association with him? No, Dessin would never let that happen.

I rest my cheek against the center of his back. The wind beats against us, the sound of it rushing past my skin. I’ve forgotten how sweet the air smells in the city, like baby powder, vanilla, and roses. Being among trees and dirt and endless diverse plants, that artificial sweet scent was cleansed from my nostrils.

My thoughts skip back to last night. The way our bodies moved together in a frenzy, the way his arms bore down on either side of me. The cedar scent of his skin. The fullness I felt as he stretched his way in. I can’t stop my stomach from flipping around like a happy child. Or the way my heart gyrates in my chest at the memory.

But the cold look in his eyes, the way his lips shaped those awful words.

I don’t feel that way about you.

Maybe it’s because he has too many opinions in his head. Maybe one of them is attracted to me while the others look at me like a friend or a sister. My fists clench against his hard, ripped stomach. It doesn’t matter. They shouldn’t toy with my body or my feelings.

“We’re here,” he says.

I sway off of his back, adjusting my eyes to the sunlight. The motorcycle trembles as he turns it off. He’s standing in front of me with a look that tells me he knows he’s in trouble but I should listen to what he has to say before I freak out. My direction of focus falls on the house behind him.

My house.

My father’s house.

The house he nearly beat me to death in.

“Let me explain.” Not Dessin anymore. Kane. Soft sweet eyes, begging for mercy.

“What the hell did you do?!” My tone comes off angrier, and far more violent than I have ever spoken to him before.

“Skylenna—”

“No!” I grab his forearm and yank it toward the bike. “Get me out of here. Now!”

“Please, just let me—”

“You know what he did! You were there.” My voice breaks off at the end, to something broken and weak. “You saw what he did to me.”

His strong, rough hands are covering my ears, fingers combed through my hair.

“I was there,” he says sternly. “I saw you. I saw your helpless body covered in blood. I thought you were dead!” Agony. Raw agony like someone has just jammed their hand into his chest and pulled out his heart, still beating, still connected to his other organs. “It wasn’t until you saw me through your tears and blood that you smiled. You smiled at me. Even through your pain, you had hope that I had come for you.”

I drop my head. Grab the back of his wrists for support. “Why are we here?” I whisper.

“Jack left something behind for you.”

My head springs back up. The question of what is written all over me.

“He left it for you as a last resort. In case you ever came into any trouble.”

“How do you even know that?”

He blinks slowly, working his jaw. “He told me before he died.”

Oh.

“Can I wait outside?”

A sad smile of reassurance. “Of course.”

He tells me he’ll be right back. I can imagine him walking through the front door. Through the door cut from an oak tree. Squeaking when it opens. Air decompressing when it closes. I remember the scent of the living room. The scent of old books, the scent of the living dead. A lifeless home.

I remember when he would come down from his fits and find enough room in his heart for remorse. Sometimes he would cry. His pale-green eyes would bleed tears that would last forever. His cheeks would glisten and his forehead would perspire out the remaining alcohol in his system. I’d watch him as he’d kneel down in front of me, holding my small hands, explaining through heavy sobs how he tries to resist the madness, how his love for me can’t defy science. A grown man whimpering like a child. It was so easy to forgive him when he’d hug me so tightly and say over and over again, No matter what I do or say, don’t ever forget how much your daddy loves you. He’d put ice on my bruises, he’d feed me after leaving me in that basement for ages.

I believe that man left me something for Kane to go find. The man that felt remorse. I wonder if Violet ever felt remorse for selling her daughter’s body? Maybe Scarlett was right, maybe I did get it better than she did. Being locked in a basement is better than being locked in a closet. Being neglected by my father is better than being molested by strangers.

Looking at this house, two stories, with three windows on each floor, the charcoal paint has chipped so much the house almost looks brown. The room is three-fourths covered in black shingles. A painting of a haunted house.

Kane reemerges in the front doorway of the house. He looks at me apologetically. Holds up a wooden box. I straighten my back. A million guesses of what it could be flopping around my head.

“There’s something else too.” He holds up an envelope. “This is what I really came for.”

I reach out for it. He jerks his hand back. “Give it!” I order, lunging toward him. “My father left all of this for me.”

“Not all of it.” He sighs, turning the envelope around. One. Name.

Kane.

Shut up. “No…” Eyes drop to the name. Jump back up to him. I gasp. “Explain.”

He wears a reserved expression. Pained. Tired. “That day I saved you from him. That was not our first encounter. He left something for me that will get us out of this mess. Or at least give us leverage.”

I step away from him. “If that wasn’t your first encounter with him… then it wasn’t your first encounter with me either.”

He nods. How many secrets are you keeping from me?

My frustration pressurizes in my gut, morphing into something ugly, something angry with clenched fists and burning flesh. I scream. This is my limit. I spin around and scream again. His hand touches my shoulder. I swat it away.

“How can I trust you?” I shout at him, throwing my hands in the air. “All I’ve ever wanted is to know you! But you keep everything from me. I swear on my life if you don’t tell me why right now, I’ll—I’ll just—”

“When you first met Dessin, what did you feel?” he asks, voice rough and demanding.

I blink. The thirteenth room. His white shirt, white pants. He knew my name. He knew everything. He smiled. His smile was kind. His eyes were warm. He wouldn’t hurt me. I trusted him.

I look down. “You know how I felt,” I say through my teeth.

“You felt safe with us. You trusted us despite everything you were told about him. Despite how he treated everyone else around him.”

“So? What does it all mean?”

His eyes are pleading. He reaches out and takes my hands before I can pull away. He kisses my knuckles softly. I close my eyes. A shiver of memorable pleasure pulses through my soul. And it shows up again, that sense of trust and safety.

“Because you have trusted me long before that moment in the asylum. You just don’t remember it.” He’s holding my hands against the sides of his jaw.

What? “Oh, god.” I gasp. I’ve known him long before. How? The holes in my memory. The beating from my father. “I don’t understand.”

“Skylenna, I shouldn’t have even told you that. But I can’t live with myself if you don’t trust me. You have to know. There’s a plan. There’s a reason I can’t share with you how I know you. How I knew Jack. I made a promise. There’s a plan in place. This envelope—” He waves it in the air again. “It’s part of the plan. I swear to you, you’ll know everything soon. Everything. But we have to get your friend back. Okay?”

I’m numb. I can barely nod. Ruth is the only thing more important than me being enlightened by the missing memories of my past.