The Pawn and The Puppet (The Pawn and The Puppet series Book 1)

Something is different about these seconds that capture me. Something is strange.

This hallway curves like a spine plagued with scoliosis, walls creaking from the repercussions of patient trauma, and vents expelling a stench of dried sweat and ammonia. My legs move across the checkered tile floors like I am gliding through warm bathwater.

I am both calm and panicked, wrapped up in a tiny pink bow.

There is something like butterflies rushing to my core. Close, but it’s more than that. It’s a pull from the inside. It’s not only urging me to move, but it’s urging me to walk faster—lift my knees higher above this invisible current. Like I’m attached to a fishing hook, looped inside the wall of my ribs, dragging me to my captor. Like it’s my divine purpose, it’s what I’ve been waiting for my entire life.

That door, that highly reinforced, indestructible, prison-cell door, grows in size with each step I take. Our heels clack in unison. I want to break out into a sprint, yet I want to stop right here and hold on to this moment. I want to grab it from nothing and wrap it up tight, pinning it in my pocket forever.

If I could just see who Patient Thirteen is, why everyone makes such a big deal about this person—then I can move on from this obsession. Then I can sleep soundly. Then I can finally think about something else.

Or maybe not. Maybe this is just the beginning.

We stop one foot in front of the vast metal door.

“Before we go in,” Suseas exhales unsteadily. “I must ask again. Are you absolutely certain you desire to meet this patient?” I resist the urge to twist a strand of hair between my fingers. “Because, to be absolutely frank… I wouldn’t wish this encounter on my worst enemy.”

This is exhilarating. Her dim eyes tell me to be petrified with fear. But the only thing I am feeling is impatience.

“I am certain,” I say.

She nods, unconvinced. “Patient Thirteen—has a rare and deeply disturbing disorder. His soul—or personality, is split into two entities. The part that we see on a daily basis is beyond anything you can imagine. Murderous, genius, manipulative—vicious. There aren’t enough adjectives in the world.” She chuckles nervously, wiping a thin sheen of sweat from her brow with a handkerchief.

“The core personality is what we believe to be the tame version of himself. But we haven’t seen that personality since he admitted himself into the asylum four years ago. We believe his brain works differently than ours. It’s rather extraordinary, really, if he weren’t so dangerous, the savants of this city would take much pleasure in measuring the lengths and capacity of his mind—”

“What’s his name? You keep saying Patient Thirteen… but he must have a name,” I interrupt. I know that shouldn’t be the thing I’m focusing on out of all the information she has just shared, but I’ve been itching to know.

Suseas clears her throat. “Yes, well, he would like to be called Dessin.”

Dessin. His name is Dessin.

Suseas lowers her voice like the man on the other side of that door is listening. “But we are trying to get through to his core—his soul; therefore, calling him Dessin would only prolong progress. Patient Thirteen doesn’t respond to the majority of treatments. He laughs at the simulated drownings, electrotherapy, chair binding, scalding baths. There’s only one thing that we know of that has any effect on him. That’s chemically induced seizures. We have to drastically up the dose, and even then, he recovers quickly, so we do it over and over again.”

She informs me that he has also erased any record in history ever documented of himself. Birth certifications, photographs, public records, anything. They have no idea what happened in his past to make him like this, much like the other cases I have solved.

She takes a step toward the door to begin. Stops. Tilts her head to face me once more. “You will find yourself going mad in this room, Miss Ambrose. He has a way of snaking around inside your head. Don’t be fooled; this is all a part of his game.” She reaches over me and types a thirteen-digit number into the keypad covered by a metal plate. “Oh, and don’t be alarmed. He will know specific details about you. It’s part of his facade.”

I dig my fingernails into my palms. Please be with me, Scarlett. I pray. Please help me find the words and actions I’ll need to break through to him. Please stay by my side.

“I shall do all of the talking, yes? You’re here to watch, observe, take notes. But do not look him in the eyes, and do not give him any reason to victimize you.”

I nod slowly. I know I should be terrified. But I’m fighting the urge to burst through that door and see for myself.

Suseas pulls on a thick metal latch, and the door clicks open. My stomach combusts into joyous webs of violet lightning.

This.

Is.

It.

This room is not like the others. It’s double the size. Aged brass gas lanterns mounted on all four walls, filling the area with soft, smoky light, much like a tavern after dark. And there’s a feather bed bolted into the concrete floor and wall, with shackles meant for the wrists, ankles, feet, and then one longer restraint for the forehead. The thought occurs to me that this man admitted himself… Why on earth would anyone choose to live this way?

Then, stopping me midbreath, I’m nearly dizzy from the sweet scent of sandalwood and pine trees. It forces me to pause, unable to think clearly, fully reminded of my childhood. Somehow, my subconscious floats backward in time, the sound of rain pattering against the canopy of leaves, twigs scratching my bare ankles, and gusts of cool wind swaying great oak trees.

I notice all of these factors of the room in a fraction of a second before my eyes jump to the figure sitting with arms and legs tied down to a small black chair that barely supports the broad muscles in his back. I expected to see a wrinkled, worn-down old man in all black. With jagged, yellow teeth, a crooked cynical grin, and black beady eyes.

This man has already had me fooled.

The back of his head is covered in what looks like soft chocolate-brown hair that is tamed and straight in the back but cowlicked with curled longer locks on top.

Instead of sitting in the chair across from him, she takes her place on the edge of his bed, eyeballing me to stay put. I watch.

“How are you feeling today, Patient Thirteen?” She pulls out a clipboard with a shaky hand without making eye contact with him. I also have a clipboard to take notes, to observe, but I’m—numb. All I can do is stare, leaving the board to hang at my side from the tips of my fingers.

She jots something down, but I suspect it’s just to keep herself busy. Is she really scared to look him in the eye? I immediately get the sense of dominance in the room that is surely not coming from her—an alpha wolf circling a member of its pack.

I wait for his reply, but he says nothing. He doesn’t even move.

“Is today not a good day to talk?” she asks. The only sounds coming from the flickering flames in the lanterns.

“Fine with me, we can go straight to the chemicals. I wouldn’t mind the silence,” she states, attempting to appear uninterested.

This makes his head tilt to the right.

The muscles in my neck harden like drying concrete.

“I wonder,” the man in the chair speaks. “Does asking that question so often to someone ever get… old?”

An unusual feeling of interest ignites in my chest. His voice.

It’s a rumbling beneath the earth. Wise and powerful.

That voice, so deep and silky. If a bottle of bourbon could talk, this is what it would sound like. I’m repeating his question in my head like a broken record. That voice is simply unforgettable.

“Absolutely,” she says. “Your inconsistent communication is taxing for me.”

“I wasn’t talking about me,” he states, a little raspy at the end. “I was referring to your unfaithful husband, Nathanial.” The smile in his voice does not go unnoticed.

I blink, and Suseas’s cheeks turn an unflattering shade of maroon.

“Deflection.” She raises her eyebrows like she isn’t impressed. “You’re becoming a tad bit predictable.”

At that, he chuckles calmly. “I suppose you are right. But even if an outcome was predicted, would it matter to you, Suseas? Infidelity is already a touch of messy business… Especially when committed with a conformist here.” His accusation haunts the room.

“Enough,” she mutters angrily.

“Did I strike a nerve? Splendid. Tell me, which one of your bloodthirsty, torture-skilled, anorexic, corpse-shaped conformists did not show up to the asylum today?”

Suseas straightens her spine. “Why?” And she takes the bait.

They stare in silence. Suseas mentally examining his notions.

Suddenly Suseas stabs me in the face with her panicking eyes. Mortified and humiliated by what he has said.

“Are you going to leave her waiting in the doorway, Suseas? Or are you going to introduce us?”

It isn’t until Suseas’s glassy eyes flash up to meet my own that I pick up on who he’s referring to. Me. He wants to meet me.

I step forward and walk slowly to the seat in front of him. My knees are quivering as if they’re made from eggshells. I can’t stop imagining what he might look like, even though I’m a single moment away from looking upon his face.

I turn to him.

Time, like a child slipping on a spill, falls backward—knocking the air from my chest.

His face makes my imagination look austere.

He has a face that doesn’t seem to belong anywhere, like a gem in the rough from another world. Perhaps from another time, another era of gentlemen. Immediately, I’m forced to redefine what I thought was once handsome. A jaw of stubble and a defining line that could cut through a hand that tries to caress it. Skin smooth with a light shade of bronze. Highly perched cheekbones and evenly proportioned, dark eyebrows.

But it’s his eyes—his eyes I cannot break away from. I thought I’d be paralyzed with fear. I thought his eyes would slice into me and leave me cold to the touch. Make me realize I was in way over my head, that not everyone can be saved.

But I was wrong.

They’re a mixture of melted caramel and chocolate. How can anyone so dangerous have eyes so sweet? The same shadows that every patient develops after years in captivity. Looking directly into them is stepping into the ocean, submerged by the weight of an anchor until you touch the bottom—or looking into a sunset for long enough that your eyes start to water and you see bright spots across your vision.

I cannot help but feel welcome, feel safe sitting this close to him. A camouflaged intuition tells me he won’t hurt me. But of course, that’s absurd, and even I can see through that misleading trick.

Then Suseas’s throat bobs, her chest moving at the pace of a heartbeat. And I remember that this is the appropriate response. Fear. Discomfort. Stress.

“Patient Thirteen, this is Miss Ambrose, our newest conformist.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me, not even to acknowledge Suseas’s introduction.

“Skylenna,” he says, voice like satin and woodsmoke. There is something all-knowing in the warm grip of his gaze. “You certainly took your time getting here, hmm?” He narrows his eyes as if to confirm my suspicion that he knows—he knows that this has been my goal.

Without a moment to gather my response, I lean off the edge of my seat and grab his hand in mine. I shake his hand, rattling the chains that bind his hands to his feet. His eyes widen, and his grip tightens. Warmth curls into my fingers, permeating from his skin. A sudden euphoria trickles into my nerves. Energy pulsing through my hand and up my arm.

“It’s nice to finally meet you, Dessin,” I say.

Dessin breaks our long streak of eye contact to look down at our hands, and with a single blink, his stare snaps back up to mine.

“Miss Ambrose, we do not acknowledge his request to be called Dessin. If he would like to be called a name, he will tell us the name this body was born with,” Suseas says sternly.

“My apologies. I didn’t realize referring to him as a number was working so well for you,” I retort.

Dessin tilts his head, a curious glint in his eyes.

“Well, old bird, it seems your supervision here is no longer necessary,” Dessin refers to Suseas in a calm and sarcastic manner.

Suseas releases an appalled laugh. “Excuse me?”

“Get. Out.” He leans forward in his chair. If he’s upset, his expression doesn’t show it.

“This is a trial introduction to Miss Ambrose,” Suseas says. “I will not leave.”

“I truly hate to dangle this over your head—but I’m sure you recall what happened to Sern when she refused to leave after I asked nicely.”

Sern. I didn’t think he’d admit to that situation so candidly.

Suseas lifts her chin in defiance.

“And there is the added benefit that if you take your leave now, you’ll discover what extracurricular activities Nathanial partakes in when you’re away.”

That was the nail in the coffin. Shoulders hunched, she doesn’t budge, but her eyes dart around in uncertainty. Dessin watches her with a carnival of amusement in his mind.

“Suseas? I am perfectly capable of taking over if you have an emergency,” I offer. I’m hoping to talk to him without Suseas breathing down my neck. It seems Dessin feels the same.

“Thank you. Please keep that between us,” is all Suseas says before bolting out of the room.

There is a hum of silence before the door clicks shut, and under that veil of silence, my nerves tingle under my skin like lumps of effervescent salts. Currants of adrenaline buzzing in my ears, moistening my palms, and cramping my digestive organs.

We’re alone.