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Mentally ill? I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone—even myself—use such kind words to describe Seraphina Bragado. Strangely enough, for the briefest of moments, it makes me view Seraphina in a different light. I shake it off quickly, as I don’t want anything to alter my memories of her, not even if it means shining her in a brighter light. Because I loved her the way she was, no matter how fucking “mentally ill.”
“Yes,” I tell Willa, my words laced with anger that I hadn’t intended. “She was…” I can’t force myself to say the words out loud. “Why did I love her? What made her so special? Seraphina was…real. She was the most devoted, most loyal soul I’ve ever known. She wasn’t normal, she didn’t fit into society, but she fit in my world—she created my world and then introduced me to it.” I grit my teeth, my anger not projected at Willa but society and myself.
Willa moves to stand next to the dentist’s chair and looks down at me, lying flat against it.
“You vill show me how to live in the vorld she created,” she says. “I vill replace Seraphina in the life of Freedrik Gustavsson.”
Ah. And so, now I understand Willa, after all.
9
Izabel
Niklas and I have been confined in this room for hours since I regained consciousness. Daylight slowly crept in through the tiny window and brightened the four walls of our prison and our predicament. The sound of footsteps in the hallway had died down about two hours ago—I take it that period, just before sunrise, is when much of the staff comes in to begin their workday.
I never imagined that would be how things worked in this place. Did they punch timecards and pass casually through security before sharing an elevator with ten other heavily perfumed people? Are they all dressed in nice office work attire and sitting at desks next to windows overlooking the city while they take phone calls and tap on keyboards? Are there interns taking notes and running errands, and serving coffee? Is there a bustling mailroom in the basement of the building where the newbies work their asses off so they can eventually move up to bigger and better things in the company? Like killing people for money instead of sorting mail? It seems ridiculous when I think about it all, but it makes the most sense.
An organization as dangerous as The Order isn’t going to be obvious; they would need to appear as normal as everybody else. Its members aren’t going to be passing out business cards that say: Assassin-for-hire. Their buildings won’t be the tallest and fanciest, shining like beacons in the centers of the most famous cities in the world. No, they’re going to be the most obscure, modest-looking. There will be water fountains that don’t work properly, stairwells that nobody ever uses, elevators that pass up floors without letting anybody off, window cleaners, janitors, and food delivery drivers dropping off orders at lunch.
“You look constipated,” I hear Niklas’ voice beside me.
“I’m thinking.”
“About how to get outta here?”
“Yeah. What else is there to think about?”
He doesn’t respond, probably because he doesn’t necessarily disagree.
This goes on for two more days.
No one has entered the room or stopped outside its door. We’ve had nothing to eat, nothing to drink, and nowhere to go to the…well, let’s just say it’s a good thing they haven’t been feeding us.
But I’m dying of thirst; my mouth feels like I’ve been chewing on cotton balls, and my throat itches and burns.
Niklas isn’t doing any better, though he’s hiding his discomfort better than me.
“I don’t understand why they’re not at least trying to keep us alive,” I say. “If Victor finds out we’re already dead, there’s no way he’ll come here.”
“He’s not coming anyway.”
“Then why are we even here? Why are we still alive?”
“Because they hope he’ll change his mind.”
I shake my head and pace the floor, arms crossed.
“But no one has even checked the room,” I point out. “How would Victor know whether we’re dead or alive if even none of them do?”
Niklas glances at the heavy, solid-wood door that we both know is tightly secured from the outside—we’d already tried to get out that way a long time ago.
“What about it?” I ask with a shrug.
Instead of giving me an answer, he looks up at the ceiling and then along the wall.
I’m getting irritated fast, and he knows it.
“We don’t see it,” he says, “but there’s gotta be a camera somewhere in this room. One feeds into a bigger room, which feeds to all of Victor’s last known contacts. He knows where we are and that we’re still alive. And they know he knows.”
