Dark Stars by Danielle Rollins (most read books of all time .txt) 📗

Her breath caught in her throat. “You,” she said, numb.

“I thought it was time the two of you meet,” said Mac. “Quinn Fox, I’d like you to meet my new associate, Regan Rose.”

Regan moved past her, shadowlike. Her feet didn’t make a sound as they sunk into the faded carpet, but her coat flapped back with the movement, and the fabric released a soft whiff. It was an old-fashioned coat, Dorothy saw, something from before the flood. It was long and made of heavy wool, with drooping sleeves, and a fairy-tale-witch hood to hide her face.

Dorothy eyed Regan. “I don’t know you.”

“That doesn’t surprise me.” Regan seemed unconcerned by this admission. There was blood on her hands, Dorothy noticed. She didn’t hide it. In fact, she pushed her sleeves up, leaving a slick of red along the pale skin.

So. It was going to be torture then.

Dorothy had to work hard not to shudder.

11

Regan peered into the duffel bag sitting on the hotel room bed. “Would you like to see my collection?”

She didn’t wait for an answer before she began pulling ancient-looking tools out of the bag and placing them on the bed. Watching, Dorothy understood that this was part of her torture, the anticipation of what was to come.

First, there was a set of handcuffs. The cuffs themselves were vises attached to thin, metal levers and Dorothy knew, in a glance, how they would work. She could already picture Regan twisting the lever so that the vises would slowly crush the bones in her wrists, rendering her hands useless. She swallowed a shudder.

An iron mask was placed beside the cuffs. Spikes ran along the inside of the mask, made to dig into cheeks and skin and lips.

A leather whip came out of the bag next, and then chains and other tools Dorothy didn’t entirely understand—crude, metal objects covered in jagged edges and points. A thin wooden stick. Clamps. Screws.

The fear Dorothy had been fighting against hit her in a wave. She tried to breathe, but her throat closed up and the oxygen shot right into her head, leaving her dizzy.

Stay calm, she told herself, lips pressed tight. She forced herself to breathe steadily through her nose. Don’t let them see your fear.

Regan examined the tools for a long moment before eventually choosing the stick. It was long and smaller in diameter than a pencil. It was by far the most innocent-looking object she’d removed from her little bag of tricks, but Dorothy still felt a shiver shoot up her spine.

“Do you know what a bastinado is?” Regan held the stick up to the light, and a line of silver appeared along its edge. “It has been used in some of the most ancient forms of torture. You merely remove a person’s shoes and socks and whip the bastinado against their bare feet.”

Regan demonstrated by cracking the small stick against her own, gloved palm. It made a sound like a whip as it hit the leather.

“So simple,” she continued, grinning behind her slim mask. “And yet so effective. In fact, the first documented use of a bastinado in Europe dates back to the year 1537. In China, it’s been used since 960.”

Dorothy swallowed. One look at that stick and she could practically feel the wood biting into the soft flesh on the bottoms of her feet. She imagined how her skin might rip, how the blood might trickle down between her toes.

She licked her lips to stop them from trembling. “I told you that I don’t know anything. Whipping that thing against my feet won’t change that.”

Regan glanced to where Eliza and Donovan were standing and nodded, once. Some deep, animal instinct inside of Dorothy kicked to life. She no longer cared about looking frightened, she shot off the bed and took a slow step backward, toward the door—

The others were too fast. Eliza’s hands clamped down on her shoulders, holding her in place.

Dorothy jerked beneath her grip. “Let go of me!”

But then Donovan was on her, his hands tightening around her wrists. His palms were sweating, Dorothy noted. That sweat, more than anything else, told her how real this was. Even Donovan was scared, and he wasn’t the one about to be tortured.

She inhaled, her breath shuddering down her throat like a sob. She’d never been tortured before. She didn’t think she would be good at it.

She thought she could pull her hands loose if she caught Donovan off guard, if she jerked her body away fast enough. But then she’d still have to get past Eliza and Regan and Mac. It was no use.

“Take off her shoes,” Regan said, still examining the stick, as though looking for flaws.

Dorothy was forced onto the bed, her boots roughly removed. She shivered when the cool air touched her bare skin, but at least she was able to hold it together enough not to beg or cry. She wouldn’t give these people the satisfaction.

Regan rested the stick against the arches of Dorothy’s feet. Dorothy could feel every splinter of wood against her skin. Her muscles drew tight, waiting for the stick to be drawn back, for it to come cracking down against her feet . . .

Instead, Regan leaned down and murmured, low enough that Dorothy had to strain to hear her, “I’m told you have friends. People you care about.”

Dorothy closed her eyes. “Don’t.”

“Chandra and Willis and Zora. Is that right?” She clicked her tongue. “It would be such a shame if something happened to them.”

When Dorothy said nothing, Regan flicked her wrist, bringing the stick down against her foot with a sharp crack. The wood nicked her skin, and Dorothy flinched, releasing a short, terrified yelp. But it didn’t hurt as much as she’d expected it to. Regan must be saving the worst of the pain for later.

“Shall I go fetch them?” Regan asked. “Or will you tell me what I want to know?”

She leaned closer, until her masked face was