Author: Asher Ellis
Date: 2022-06-22 22:35:02+00:00
Keywords: Psychological; dark thriller; Horror; Suspense; Thrillers; Fiction
Description: Less than nine hours after his supposed lethal injection, inmate Raymond Phillips wakes to find himself once again behind bars. Only this time, he isn’t in his old penitentiary cell. Cage is the only word for this type of enclosure, and this one looks like it was made for the world’s largest parakeet. Stranger still, a metal collar has been locked around his neck—one that reads "Kaiser." Enter Stefan Hellstrom, a German aristocrat whose absurd wealth allows him to buy anything his little girl, Amelia, desires. And today, he’s surprising her with a new family pet. Of course, like all domesticat
Publisher: Macabre Ink

PET

By Asher Ellis

A Macabre Ink Production

Macabre Ink is an imprint of Crossroad Press

Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press

Smashwords edition published at Smashwords by Crossroad Press

Crossroad Press digital edition 2022

Copyright © 2019 Asher Ellis

Cover art © 2022 Mat Yan

Edited by Larissa Bennett

Original publication by Stitched Smile Publications—2019

LICENSE NOTES

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to the vendor of your choice and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Meet the Author

Asher Ellis is a screenwriter, educator, and author of the novels The Remedy, PET, and Cracker Jack. He has written multiple award-winning short films, including Exit 7A, which was featured in the feature-length horror anthologies, The Portal and Conjure X. His penned short film, My Name Is Art, was featured in Amazon’s first annual “All Voices Film Festival,” celebrating underrepresented communities. When not writing, Asher enjoys hiking through the woods of his home state of Vermont (which he insists are not full of cryptids and cannibals).

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For Amy

Table of Contents

PART ONE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

PART TWO

8.

9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

PART THREE

14.

15.

16.

PART ONE

“When the Man waked up he said, ‘What is Wild Dog doing here?’ And the Woman said, ‘His name is not Wild Dog any more, but the First Friend, because he will be our friend for always and always and always.’”

— Rudyard Kipling

The Cat that Walked By Himself

1.

On Wednesday, August 3rd, 8:05 PM, Raymond Phillips was executed by lethal injection.

On Thursday, August 4th, 9:32 AM, he woke up.

2.

Sunlight licked Ray’s face like a loyal mutt stirring his master for breakfast. The corners of his mouth pulled into an instinctual smile at the light’s comforting warmth. He could hear a bird’s cheerful call inviting others to celebrate the arrival of such a beautiful day. Ray would heed its call soon enough, but first he’d lie here for a few more minutes.

The bird sang the melodious song louder, as if to say, “Get up already! You can sleep when you’re dead.”

Ray grimaced, his brow furrowing as he squeezed his eyes shut, then sighed.

All right, little bird. I can’t argue with that. Indeed, I will have all the time to sleep when I’m—

Fireworks of pain exploded at the back of Ray’s skull as his head collided with something hard behind him. Momentarily he could only focus on the stars swimming across his blurry vision. He touched the throbbing flesh at the rear of his head. He extended his fingers outward and their tips brushed the all-too-familiar surface of cold metal bars.

Christ, I’m still in the can.

The visit by the priest. The final meal of lobster and sirloin steak. The long walk to the chamber. The needle in his arm.

It had all been a dream.

Ray’s eyes remained closed as he rubbed away the last of the lingering headache. The entire ordeal had felt utterly surreal, but it was sure to be expected on your last day on Earth. But no, it hadn’t felt real because it hadn’t been real—merely his subconscious taking the experience for a trial run.

And now to do it all over again. Fantastic.

Ray brought his legs to his chest, burying his head in his knees. This wasn’t the first time he’d awakened to a reality vastly inferior to the world of his dreams. In prison it quickly became a morning ritual.

Today, however, was a different matter altogether. It would take more than a simple sigh to exorcise the discontent from his soul. Today he’d have to live yet another day in the worst place in the world. Another twenty-four hours to kill before taking his trip down the Highway to Hell.

The blackness behind Ray’s closed eyes grew darker.

Unless I’m already there.

In the darkest corners of his imagination, Ray couldn’t dream of a worse eternal punishment than the prospect of never escaping his imprisonment. Forever repeating his final day over and over truly would be the most sadistic torture tailored for him.

The bird tweeted again, its song now sounding more like mockery than an invitation to share its happiness. It sang, “I’m out here and you’re in there. Why don’t you fly away? Oh, right. You can’t.”

Fuck you, bird. I wouldn’t get too close to the window. I haven’t had breakfast yet.

The malicious grin stretching across Ray’s face dropped like the gavel of the judge who’d sentenced him to death. It was only now Ray realized how rapidly the world was spinning. He suddenly became aware of the vicious nausea sickening his stomach like a post-binge hangover, but none of these sensations, as unsettling as they were, trumped the revelation which caused Ray to lift his head from his knees.

My cell doesn’t have a window.

Morning light pierced Ray’s pupils, forcing him to squint. His vision returned through the narrow slits of his eye lids, beginning at the borders and creeping inward until the full picture of the world gained focus.

At first, Ray thought he was looking at a caged bluebird. Though it sat perched on a long branch outside a tall picture window, black metal bars bordered it on each side. It was only when the tiny bird flew away with a final whistle, Ray understood the truth.

It was he who was in the cage.

“What the fuck?” His first words as a resurrected man.

Ray tried to stand but an intense wave of dizziness kept him planted to the floor. As the world spun around him, he fought back the nausea as details of his bizarre surroundings began to take form.

He was indeed sitting at the bottom of a tall iron cage. The bars curved inward near the top, all of them meeting at the apex. Had a trapeze been hanging the top, the cage would’ve been the perfect home for a giant parakeet.

Ray held out his arms and examined himself to make sure he hadn’t sprouted wings or grown feathers.

Nope. So this wasn’t reincarnation.

Whether or not it was good news, he didn’t know.

He was still human, that much was for sure. His nudity left no room for doubt.

Well, almost complete.

Ray could feel something cold and heavy wrapped around his throat. He brought his hands to his Adam’s apple and discovered a metal ring hugged the base of his neck, a steel tag dangling from its center. It brushed against his bare chest, sending shivers down his spine.

He snatched at the tag as a memory of his father’s Vietnam identification flashed in his mind—the chain necklace dangling beside his bed as a child.

Tilting the metal tag so it wouldn’t reflect the light, Ray read the word engraved on its surface out loud.

“Kaiser.”

More confused than ever, Ray looked through the cage’s bars. As was the consistent theme of Raymond Phillips’s life, walls surrounded him on all four sides.

The wall to his right held windows, including the one in which he’d spotted the singing bluebird. The glass revealed only sky from Ray’s vantage point; a vivid, cloudless blue. At the wall’s corner stood a medieval suit of armor, posed with a long broad sword in its grasp, its freshly shined metal reflecting the incoming sunlight.

The wall perpendicular to the windows was dominated by two main highlights. First was a large, ornate fireplace, its opening covered by a chain link screen. A beautiful wooden frame bordered it on three sides with mythical winged figures carved into its finish. Flames crackled and popped as pockets of oxygen within the burning wood released in tiny explosions.

The wall’s second eye catching feature was a gigantic, golden framed portrait of a young man posing in a Victorian style military suit. The dancing shadows from the fire underneath bounced across the aged canvas, creating the illusion the painted man inhaled sharp, shallow breaths. Even when Ray looked away, he could still feel the man’s penetrating gaze following his every action.

The wall to Ray’s left was nothing but books—rows upon columns upon more rows of books. All of them looked invaluably old, their hard covers faded and cracked from years of existence. A library ladder on wheels attached itself to a rail running along the top of the shelves—an addition necessary to access the higher editions.

With nothing more to see than the ancient archive of literature, Ray turned to examine the final wall behind him. Its large oak door was the only detail he was able to register before he heard the lock turn from the other side. Eyes fixed on the room’s exit, Ray watched as the door opened with an arthritic creak.

The man’s gigantic build filled the doorframe. Men of this size were often wrestlers, bouncers, or personal bodyguards. However, the stranger’s unmistakable attire did not suggest any of these occupations, but one that was almost comically ironic.

Before Ray stood the world’s largest butler, a ring of keys in his hand.

At first the two men stared at each other, the house servant looking oddly unsurprised to see a naked man locked in a cage. From behind Ray, the fire continued to crackle—the only sound in the room. Another pocket of oxygen popped out of the wood, finally snapping Ray out of his dumbstruck trance.

“Who are you?” he said, his voice coming out as a whisper.

The butler remained silent and took a step into the room. He positioned himself to the left of the door, standing straight with his arms folded behind him. He stared straight ahead, the firelight hardly reflecting off his pale skin.

Ray cleared his throat. “Hey, I’m talking to you.”

Still no response. It was as if the man was trying to impersonate the British Royal Guard.

“Hey!” Ray shook the bars and the entire cage rattled. “Asshole! What the fuck is—”

The sound of heels clicking together brought Ray’s rant to a halt. A second man stepped into the doorway, sliding his knee-high leather boots together into a tall military stance. Though smaller than the butler, his appearance affected Ray in a way the servant had not. Ray had approached the bars when the butler had entered, but he now found himself taking a step back.

The man’s leather boots ran over a pair of pristinely pressed white pants. A crimson jacket covered his upper torso, gold trimming lined its oversized lapels. At his breast, a matching red ascot sat perfectly in place by a centered gold pin. Any piece of the wardrobe would’ve transformed a street bum into royalty, but Ray could smell something other than money wafting on this stranger.

The man reeked of power.

“Who are you?” The words came from Ray’s mouth before he knew he was speaking. “Where am I? What is this?”

The butler raised an eyebrow and looked to his employer. His boss didn’t acknowledge his servant’s confusion, keeping his pale blue eyes transfixed on the naked man in the cage. An emotion different than puzzlement painted his expression. The corner of his mouth rose.

Ray returned to the bars and squeezed them tight, the rounded metal digging into his palms.

“You think this is funny? Let me out of this fucking cage!”

The man’s only response was to bring his index finger up to the side of his well combed blond hair. He then lowered the finger to his chest, pointing to himself.

“Stefan.”

Though the man only spoke a single word, his German accent was undeniable. Ray heard the inflection enough times to know, once neighboring the cell of a German inmate named Klaus. He hadn’t liked his neighbor at first, but soon came around after Klaus knifed a Neo-Nazi shithead in the yard one afternoon. When Ray questioned him about the attack, Klaus said he owed his country. From then on they’d been chums, playing chess whenever the guards would allow. Shame those white supremacist fucks got him back in the end.

The man tapped his chest again, “Stefan.”

The rolling boil of Ray’s anger lowered to a simmer as confusion overwhelmed all other emotion. When he’d screamed at the man and demanded explanation, the last thing he expected was the stranger to answer like Tarzan. In other circumstances, the irony of a man dressed so formally yet speaking like a jungle savage would’ve been funnier than a butler the size of a silverback gorilla.

So when the man pointed at Ray, he expected the next words to be, “You Jane.” But the man spoke another name instead.

“Kaiser.” The man’s finger remained pointing at Ray’s chest. He repeated again, “Kaiser.”

The name on the tag.

The hand went back to his chest. “Stefan.”

Back to Ray. “Kaiser.”

Ray could do nothing but remain frozen in place. A part of him kept expecting the man to burst into laughter at any second, confirming he was only having a little fun. Hell, maybe then he’d even unlock the cage and reveal the hidden cameraman capturing the entire awkward moment for a new hit reality TV show.

Don’t look so scared, Ray! You’re on Convict Camera!

But no, the man again placed his hand on his chest and said in his steely German voice. “Stefan.”

As the pattern had suggested, he pointed to Ray once more. But this time, he remained silent.

Ray darted his eyes between the two men, desperately looking for any hint of what was to come next. The man who kept referring to himself as Stefan raised his eyebrows in a hopeful expression.

All at once Ray understood. The man was urging him to speak.

“Uh …” The change in Ray’s tone was remarkable. All of his aggression had been extinguished by shear bewilderment. Bringing a hand to his mouth, Ray pretended to cough and clear his throat, but the mock gesture’s true purpose was hesitation. He usually kept his composure close to the surface, but Ray found himself having to dig deeper than before.

“My name is Raymond Phillips,” he said, trying to keep his voice as steady as possible. “Could you tell me where I am? The last thing I remember is being held at the Greensville Correctional Center.”

Stefan’s expression lowered with his hand, disappointment pulling at his eyebrows and mouth. He turned to his butler and gave a simple nod of his head.

Ray followed Stefan’s gaze as the butler pulled from his pocket a device similar to a TV remote control. Without pointing at anything in particular, the butler pressed the remote’s only button.

A low humming emanated from all around Ray, the bars themselves beginning to vibrate. It sounded as if there were an immense hive of bees in the floor below him.

Ray opened his mouth but held his tongue at the sight of his arm. His eyes widened as he watched the hair on his forearm begin to rise from the skin. He realized he could feel the same happening on the top of his head, his hair reaching for the ceiling of the cage.

Ray only had time for a single thought before it happened.

Oh shit.

The sound of a cracking whip reverberated against the bars as a white-hot spark sent Ray jumping from the floor. The instant his feet returned to the metal ground another softball sized spark erupted again. Ray cried out through clenched teeth as the soles of his feet ignited in stinging pain. He danced around the cage, the deafening pops coming with every step he took.

Wide eyed and screaming, he darted his eyes in every direction in a desperate search for escape. Everything he could see through the unmerciful pain was made of metal. There was nothing surrounding him that didn’t promise absolute agony. With no other choice, he continued to jump around as if dancing for the devil himself—until his left heel connected with the arch of his right foot.

Ray reached out in a desperate attempt to stop himself from falling and grabbed one of the solid metal bars.

The feeling of hot, thick water rippled through his veins. The current held him in place, his vision completely blurred.

“Halt!” He heard a voice yell through the excruciating haze.

Just like that it was over. The bar released its relentless grip on his hand, the internal torrent of scalding water ceasing at once. Ray fell backwards, collapsing into a heap on the cage’s now harmless floor.

Heart racing and vision slowly returning, Ray used what little strength remained in his abused body to lift his head. Stefan was now about five steps closer to the cage and kneeled down to meet Ray’s eyes. His gaze held no sorrow or empathy of any kind.

He placed a hand on his chest.

“Stefan.”

He pointed to Ray, tilting his chin up and slightly opening his mouth. His expression was one of a hopeful schoolteacher calling on a challenged student.

Ray made a futile attempt to spit in the man’s face, but his mouth was as dry as a saltine cracker. He succeeded in making the appropriate noise, but without any projectile at all.

Stefan scoffed, unflinching at Ray’s rebellious gesture. Instead, he simply waved his fingers at the butler behind him.

The butler raised the remote once again.

“No!” Ray sprang forward, his face colliding with the bars, but he hardly felt them at all. He was already squeezing his eyes shut in anticipation of a far greater pain.

When nothing happened, Ray opened his eyes to see Stefan holding his arm up like a general commanding his troops to cease fire. Though the remote remained in his hand, the butler made no move to press the button and remained frozen.

Stefan extended his fingers to Ray and then curled them back, beckoning him to come closer.

Ray looked to the remote, then directly into Stefan’s frost filled gaze.

He forced his dry throat to swallow.

“Kaiser. My name is Kaiser.”

A thin smile spread from ear-to-ear across Stefan’s face. His eyes narrowed, a hint of warmth peeking out from behind the cold, calculating stare.

Ray flinched as his hands clasped together in a clap.

“Bravo!”

The man returned to his feet, spun on one heel, and marched towards the door. As he passed the butler, he gave a quick snap of his fingers and the servant followed.

Ray lost consciousness the moment they exited the room, immediately falling into an endless ocean of black. The last thing he heard was the door locking behind them.

3.

A voice, soft and delicate, whispered to Ray. It sang his name over and over, a feminine gentleness coaxing him from his slumber. The voice began to take shape in the darkness of his subconscious, a face blossoming from the sound. In his dream, Ray struggled to identify the mysterious visage beckoning. He moved closer to the sound as the details of the picture began to form.

Golden hair.

Azure eyes.

Flawless skin.

It had been years since he’d seen her in the flesh, but the vividness of her beauty never faded from his memory. She was everything he had lost; everything he had missed—but somehow, she was here.

Jenny.

She called to him. He reached out for her.

And felt something cold. Something hard.

He opened his eyes.

Bars.

He had returned to reality—to imprisonment. And again, though for a much briefer moment, he initially believed he was lying in his cell at Greensville. Like a fireplace poker thrust into his stomach, the crippling truth stabbed deep into his gut and twisted.

This place was much worse.

Ray closed his eyes again, thinking maybe if he went back to sleep, he’d wake up somewhere else, anywhere else. Or, better yet, maybe he’d find Jenny again and never return.

Yes. He could already hear her calling his name.

Only it wasn’t “Raymond” that echoed in his mind.

She chanted Kaiser. Kaiser.

“Kaiser!”

Ray jumped to his feet like a soldier waking to an ambush. Teeth clenched, hands balled into fists, he prepared to combat whoever stood behind him. He was ready for anything.

He was wrong.

A little girl, no older than ten years old, knelt down on the other side of the bars. The blue eyes that stared at Ray were startlingly large for such a small face. Waves of golden hair flowed over her shoulders onto a shiny green dress. A floral pattern weaved across the fabric, almost the same color of the circular golden buckle centered on her waist.

Even in his extremely startled state, Ray could not ignore the resemblance to the man who electrocuted him.

Upon seeing Ray was awake, the little girl clapped her hands in delight.

“Kaiser!” she said, the same German inflection defining her voice. She pointed to Ray’s left. At some point while he slept, two bowls had been placed in his cage. One contained water and the other was filled with what appeared to be sausages.

“Futter,” she said, smiling as wide as her tiny face would allow. She pushed her hands outwards as if splashing the air. “Futter,” she repeated as she continued to coax Ray towards the bowls.

Ray cautiously inched toward the bars of the cage, glancing around the room. Stefan, nor his butler, were anywhere to be seen.

“Listen,” Ray whispered. “Can you help me?”

The girl slightly cocked her head to the side. She looked more curious than confused.

“I need help,” Ray continued, still looking around the room. While he saw no cameras in the room, they could easily be hidden among any of the ancient artifacts or bookshelves. For all Ray knew, the eyes in the painting hanging above the fireplace could be watching him.

The girl shook her head impatiently and tapped the bars near the bowls. “Futter!” she said with even more enthusiasm.

Ray threw his hands up and motioned downward. “Shh! No futter. Help. I need help. Do you speak English?”

The girl giggled, amused by the silly sounds coming from Ray’s mouth.

Ray lowered his head.

God help me.

The little girl sat up straight, abruptly ending her giggling fit. With a look of youthful seriousness, she placed a hand on her chest.

“Ich bin Amelia.”

Ray jumped to his feet. “Amelia? Your name is Amelia?”

Again, the girl clapped and giggled without restraint. This apparently was a very fun game, and that’s exactly how Ray would try to keep it.

“Amelia,” he said, forcing a smile. “Kaiser out?” With this question he pointed to the cage’s only door.

The girl looked to the door and back to Ray. He repeated, “Kaiser out?”

Amelia shook her head. “Nein, Kasier. Papa sagt nein.”

Nein. Ray knew that one. And “Papa” confirmed what he’d already suspected—This was Stefan’s daughter, and Papa says no.

Still smiling, Ray nodded toward the door and said one of the few other German words he knew from living with Klaus. His cellmate had begged “please” before the skinheads slit his throat.

“Bitte?”

Ray kept his tone high and lighthearted, drawing the word out like a child pleading to stay up past bedtime.

The girl’s lips puckered as she squinted at the door.

“Yes, yes!” Ray urged before correcting himself. “Ja! Ja!”

Amelia stepped toward the door.

Yes.

“Amelia!”

No.

The voice boomed like the word of God, and to a ten-year-old child, the voice of a father is exactly that. Stefan stood in the doorway, somehow having entered without making a sound.

He grabbed his daughter by the wrist, tearing her away from the cage, and marched her over to the window to give her a harsh scolding. Ray couldn’t understand any of the words flying like gunfire from Stefan’s mouth, but his wagging finger and Amelia’s tears told him everything he needed to know. Then, after a minute of berating, he gently lifted the girl’s chin with his fingertips and spoke softly. These last words seemed to please her very much, as she responded by squeezing his legs with a tight hug. Together, father and daughter returned to the cage.

As they approached, Ray suddenly became fully aware he was completely nude in front of a prepubescent girl. As Amelia came closer to the bars, his hands went instinctually to his crotch, concealing the part of himself society deemed inappropriate to reveal in public. Stefan, however, seemed oddly disinterested in Ray’s nakedness. Ray had not fathered a child of his own before he was convicted and sentenced at the age of twenty-eight, and the eleven years on death row had not provided him a chance to do so. Still, even with zero experience in the matter, this seemed like bad parenting.

Standing at the door of the cage, Amelia looked up at her father and extended her hand. Smiling, Stefan reached into the bottom right pocket of his red, largely lapelled jacket.

Ray couldn’t have given a shit about Stefan’s parenting skills. The entirety of his concerns was now solely focused on what the man held in his hand.

A key.

Stefan dropped it into Amelia’s tiny palm. Beaming, the girl wasted no time jamming the key into the cage’s lock. Her excitement halted the process though, her shaking fingers having a hard time lining up the key with the hole.

As Ray stared at the girl in disbelief, Stefan reached into his other pocket and retrieved a second object, larger and heavier than the first. Ray immediately recognized the item, its black metallic finish and narrow barrel introducing itself loud and clear.

A 9mm Luger semi-automatic pistol.

Ray looked from the weapon to the weapon wielder’s eyes. Stefan raised an eyebrow, tapping the gun against his thigh. His message couldn’t have been louder if he’d shouted at the top of his lungs.

Try something and see what happens.

Amelia’s key finally found purchase and the cage unlocked with an audible click. The hinges squealed as she opened the door, grinning the entire time. Keeping his eyes on the gun, Ray stepped backward until he felt his heels touch the bars behind him. Oblivious to the weapon her father brandished, Amelia hummed an upbeat melody as she picked up both the bowls of food and water.

Ray’s mind raced as if fueled by the strongest stimulants known to man.

It was safe to assume Stefan wouldn’t spark up the cage with his own daughter inside. The Luger was the real threat, and there was something about the man who held it that suggested he rarely missed his target. Especially not at this close distance. But would he risk a shot if Amelia were in the way? The man was crazy—this had been proven the moment Ray woke up naked in a cage. But was he crazy enough to fire in the direction of his own child? Was he really that good of a shot?

Only one way to find out.

Still humming, Amelia walked closer to her nude guest. Ray’s breath came heavy and he tried to steady it, but adrenaline was already doing what it did best. He glanced again at Stefan who hadn’t once stopped staring at him since his daughter entered the cage. Surely, he must have seen what Ray was about to do, but his trigger finger remained perfectly docile, gun resting on his thigh. Maybe he could see the thought crisscrossing Ray’s mind like a connect-the-dots puzzle, but simply believed Ray lacked the balls to fill in the lines.

Three more steps and Amelia would be close enough for Ray to prove him wrong.

One …

Two …

“Amelia!”

The girl froze in her tracks, out of arm’s reach. She looked to her father who had concealed the gun behind his back. With his other hand he motioned a stop signal.

“Nicht zu nahe.”

Amelia nodded and remained where she was standing. In order to make a grab for her, Ray would have to take two steps forward—enough time for Stefan to draw the Luger and fire. Ray could only assume whatever Stefan had said was an order to retreat, as Amelia was now backpedaling away. With her finger pointing at the bowls and the sweet-as-candy smile still on her face, she shouted. “Kaiser! Essen!”

Ray looked down at the bowls of water and sausage as the little girl shoveled invisible food into her mouth.

“Essen!”

Behind her, Stefan slowly brought the Luger from behind his back. He held it at his waist, his hands crossing at the golden belt buckle.

“Ja,” he said, but without his daughter’s enthusiastic grin. “Essen.”

Reflected firelight danced on the well-oiled finish of the Luger’s narrow barrel. Like the rifles and pistols carried by the prison guards, the weapon did the loudest talking of all. The guards could yell until they were blue in the face but it was never the reason why Ray had always complied with their demands. And it wasn’t the reason why he knelt down now.

Not the first time I’ve been told when to eat.

Who knew all those reluctant meals of tasteless slop in the prison mess hall would actually come in useful someday? If not for the years of eating food the homeless would’ve declined, the smell wafting from the bowl of bratwurst would have turned his stomach for sure. But really, the only difference between this and death row was his current captors were denying him the use of a utensil.

Ray picked up one of the sausage bits and studied it. As far as he could tell, the meat had been cooked, if not for long enough. Its color was a little too pale to be served in a restaurant, the texture far too soft. As he stared at the rubbery piece of meat, he considered the food might be purposefully tainted—or perhaps drugged.

Ray coughed to stifle a laugh.

And what if it is? Then I die. Again. Either that or starve to death. Or get shot in the head by Adolph over there. Or…

Without another thought, Ray shoved the piece of bratwurst into his mouth.

A surprise came with his first chew, though it had absolutely nothing to do with the food’s flavor. It tasted as expected—the rubbery skin giving way to a salty mush within. What surprised Ray as he reached down to shove another fistful into his mouth was how eagerly his body accepted the low-grade meat. The combination of nonstop adrenaline and confusion had entirely overridden the more basic messages from his brain—messages telling him how hungry he’d become since his final meal in the can. Without a calendar or a timepiece of any kind, it was impossible to know exactly how much time had passed since the seemingly lethal needle had punctured his arm. Considering he wasn’t trying to gnaw off his own arm, it couldn’t have been more than a day or two. But without the distraction of trying to figure out where he was, who was holding him, and or even why he was still alive, one fact had become as clear as crystal: Ray was starving and dying of thirst.

Pushing aside the food, Ray plunged both his hands into the bowl filled with water. He hadn’t even noticed the liquid’s lukewarm temperature until he brought his cupped hands to his lips and drank with the greed of a man lost at sea. The water was stale, a bitter, metallic tinge sliding across his tongue. Still, to his parched throat, it was as good as overpriced spring water, and his dry mouth begged for more.

The next few moments passed without recollection. Ray had probably only drunk from the water bowl for half a minute, but an entire year could’ve gone by and he wouldn’t have noticed. All that mattered was quenching his endless thirst. But when his face finally emerged from nearly empty basin, he saw Amelia had turned her back and was speaking to her father. She went on and on in her foreign language, her excited monologue holding her father’s attention in its entirety.

Ray lowered his head and pretended to continue drinking, all the while keeping an eye on the two. If he were to spring from the cage quickly, he may have a chance to grab the girl before Stefan could react. In a split-second, Ray could have a nice little human shield, and Stefan would have a very difficult choice to make.

Ray slowly planted his toes in preparation to push off. Amelia still held her father’s attention. Neither of them would ever see this coming.

And then, as involuntary as taking a breath of air, a guttural belch erupted from Ray’s mouth.

Amelia turned at the noise.

Do it.

The sudden burp had destroyed the element of surprise. It would’ve been far better if her back had remained fully turned to him, but Ray knew he could act fast enough to still catch her, and more importantly her father, off guard.

He reached for her shoulder and his fingers found the small bone of her scapula.

Then everything went white.

Ray flew backward, the base of his neck and skull slamming into the unforgiving bars. A long-forgotten sense memory instantly flashed behind his clenched eyes of a time when he was nine years old visiting his father’s cattle farm. He’d sprinted toward a particularly cuddly looking cow, planning to wrap his twig-thin arms around it like a teddy bear. But he returned to his mother in tears after being greeted by the whip sting of the thin electric fence, which ran the perimeter of the field.

The sudden paralyzing burn of the fence on his tiny forearm rushed back from the depths of his repressed memories. Only what he’d now experienced packed the punch of a million electric fences. It was like a stray lightning bolt had somehow navigated its way into the house, into the cage, and directly into Ray’s neck. As if Amelia had been defended by God Himself.

Forcing his eyes open, Ray stared up at Amelia’s frightened expression. Though tears fogged his vision, he could make out her raised eyebrows and frowning mouth.

“Kaiser?” she whimpered.

Stefan dropped the Luger back into his pocket. “Kommen, Ameila. Kaiser ist okay.”

With a final worried glance, Amelia reluctantly followed her father’s demands and exited the cage. She handed back the key. “Auf wiedersehen, Kaiser,” she said before making for the door of the room.

But Stefan caught her shoulder. “Einen moment.”

Amelia held still while her father unlatched her necklace. Then, jewelry in hand, he patted her on the head, and she ran off with the seemingly endless energy of youth.

Ray tenderly brought his hand to his throat. The metal collar around his throat burned under his fingertips, a vibration still shaking his teeth. He tried to swallow and couldn’t. Muscles all over his body ached with the slightest movement.

He was so preoccupied with his pain, he didn’t realize Stefan had entered the cage until he was standing right over him.

Amelia’s necklace dangled from the German’s grip—a nickel-sized green jewel suspended by a gold chain. Stefan twisted his wrist, causing the chain to wind and unwind. The green gem spun like a tiny mirror ball, animating the cage floor with specks of light. They danced over Ray’s face as he stared up in utter bafflement, not knowing which mystery he wished to solve first. What caused the incredible jolt of pain? And what was this guy planning to do with that piece of jewelry?

A moment later, Stefan gave him answers to both.

Finished with admiring the necklace’s beauty, Stefan began to lower the gem toward Ray’s face. At first, Ray actually believed his psychotic captor merely wanted to give him a closer look.

But then he began to hear an all too familiar humming. And the hair on the top of his head began to stand tall once again.

Ray scrambled away to the opposite end of the cage. He realized how pathetic he must have appeared, like a minuscule mouse cowering from a king-sized snake. Fear of pain will do that to a man—at least one smart enough to recognize the things that can hurt him.

Stefan had somehow linked Amelia’s necklace to the collar around Ray’s throat. All this time Ray believed the Luger in Stefan’s pocket to be the man’s only tool to defend his daughter. The truth was, Amelia was never in danger to begin with. As long as she wore this particular piece of jewelry, Ray could never make physical contact with her. This meant when Stefan had ordered Amelia not to come any closer, it hadn’t been for her safety.

It had been for Ray’s.

Stefan’s mouth curled into a satisfied smirk as he pulled the necklace back into his fist. Instantly, the vibration of Ray’s collar ceased and his hair returned to its rightful place across his scalp. Stefan walked backward to the door of the cage and carefully exited, ducking his head as he passed the threshold. But before he closed the cage door, securely locking it in place, he threw Ray one final gesture.

A wink.

4.

Ray collapsed into a heap of flesh and limbs the moment Stefan vacated the room. He lost consciousness shortly afterwards, confirming his suspicions the food had been drugged. It could’ve been sheer fatigue and physical stress that caused him to pass out, but Ray didn’t dwell on the question. Instead, a single thought repeated over and over like a skipping record.

Why is this happening to me?

Why is this happening?

Why?

The torturous query acted as a lullaby of sorts, exhausting his sprained mind until it had to shut down. Unfortunately, even in the dark of his unconsciousness, Ray had no reprieve from mental torment. Unlike before, when his sleep was filled with faint sound and abstract imagery, Ray now found himself in the most vivid dream he’d ever experienced. It was far from lucid—he’d had the dream countless times since his first night in prison—but it didn’t make it any less terrifying. The fear felt as real as the night it actually happened.

The night she found the gun.

Of course, it wasn’t the gun itself which threw her into a tirade of hurt and anger. Plenty of people owned guns—many of them honest and civilized. A gun could be owned and never fired, never needed. But it meant so much more to Jenny. Even in Ray’s dreams it meant much, much more.

It represented a broken promise. A return to a life she refused to live.

But the argument goes by faster in the nightmare than it did on the night it occurred. The furious dialogue is edited down to the bare essentials. Pathetic. Criminal. Bastard. Ray sputters something about not having a choice, about the mill not paying enough. She tells him to leave. So Ray leaves the only way you can in a nightmare—he wakes up.

There’s no clock in the room but he can tell it’s morning by the dim sunlight coming in through the room. It spills over his brow and eyes, forcing his eyelids to squeeze into narrow slits. There is no feathered friend singing him awake today, and in his drowsy daze, he remembers the old adage about early birds. Perhaps the one from yesterday is scavenging the ground right now for earthworms—a reward for waking with the sun.

Ray let his eyes fall close.

But no reward for me. Early or late, a caged bird never gets the worm.

Even with his eyelids shut, the morning light invaded his eyes like an unwanted guest. Instead of total blackness, a curtain of darkened red washed over vision, giving him a headache. So, Ray rolled over.

That’s when he saw them. As his eyes fluttered open, two identically dressed men came into view.

He knew the one on the right—the one built like a brick shithouse. He wore his butler’s uniform from before, size XXXL. The man stood as perfectly still as ever, frozen as if he were a deer trying to blend in with its surroundings. But it was hard to blend into the backdrop of a house when you were one yourself.

The other stranger was considerably smaller than his companion, though most men probably were. He wore the same butler’s outfit on a much thinner frame, but that was where the two strangers’ similarities came to an end. The big man was emotionless, absolutely stoic. But the smaller man, though not moving a muscle either, allowed his emotions to pour through his burning eyes and crooked smile. A buffet of sentiments catered his face. Mischievous. Malicious.

Merciless.

To the big butler, looking after Ray was nothing more than work—another part of the job, like serving the afternoon tea or dusting the antiques. But to this other man, judging by the way he stared, Ray was…something else.

Ray sat up, steadying his back against the cage. His head throbbed with the movement, but when he tried to touch his fingers to his temple, he realized his hands were bound behind him. His feet were locked together as well, metal shackles clasping together at his ankles.

“Hey!”

The shout was not directed at anyone in particular.

“Now what the fuck is this?”

The smaller man, making no effort to hide his amusement, looked to his partner. The larger man remained staring straight ahead.

“Bereit?” The smaller butler asked.

The large butler nodded.

Ray looked down at his shackled feet and tried to pull his legs apart. The effort tightened the tendons from his calves to his neck, but the metal cuffs kept their steel-tight grip around his ankles. Whatever was locking his wrists together behind his back continued to do their job with equal resolve. He remained so focused on freeing himself, Ray hadn’t noticed the big man had walked to the entrance of the cage and was inserting a key into the lock.

Ray tensed and tried to raise himself higher up on the bars. The cage door swung open with a high-pitched squeal, and the immense butler stepped inside. In his grip was a slab of leather with dangling black straps. Tiny round holes riddled the material like a piece of Swiss cheese. As the butler took a step closer, Ray could see a protrusion jutting from the leather in the shape of a human nose, complete with two nostril holes. But the object’s most prominent feature, the one that revealed the object’s true purpose, was located below the molded nose: A final hole, larger than the rest, crisscrossed with three thin metal bars.

Ray had seen Silence of the Lambs enough times to know what this was.

A mask.

No.

A muzzle.

The butler took two more steps towards Ray.

“Back the fuck off!” Frothy saliva flew from Ray’s tongue.

Bracing his hands around the bars behind him, Ray kicked out with his attached feet. Though his locked ankles heavily hindered his maneuverability, Ray’s knees were still free to fully bend, allowing him to snap his feet outwards at full force. They came at the butler’s groin like a striking cobra. Huge or not, every man has a universal weak point, and Ray was going straight for it.

With lightning-quick reflexes, the man caught Ray’s leg with his free hand. His grip was as strong as it looked, his banana-sized fingers squeezing Ray’s calves with the strength of a vice grip. Ray pulled back with all his might, but his legs were now caught in a giant finger trap. The harder he pulled back, the tighter the man squeezed.

He locked eyes with the butler, trying to anticipate his next move. The behemoth could spring forward at any time, so what was he waiting for? Ray’s only remaining defenses were all from the neck up: he could bite, or he could try to land a head butt to the bridge of the large man’s nose. Both attacks would have to be timed perfectly and would be easy to avoid. Was he toying with him?

It’s more like he’s waiting. But for what?

The revelation came with the hand around his throat. The second man had sneaked up behind and reached through the bars, clutching his neck with an icy grip. Ray could hear him snickering from behind as he pulled his head backward against the bars. It was then that the large man advanced, pressing the mask against Ray’s face with the force of a tidal wave. A tiny click announced the straps had connected behind Ray’s skull in a single action perfected from practiced experience.

There was no doubt the man had done this many times before.

The hand on Ray’s throat released its grip and shoved him face-first onto the floor of the cage. He had only a second to register the pain before he was lifted by the shackles connecting his wrists. The large man carried him out of the cage as if Ray weighed no more than a bundle of firewood.

As he was carried toward the door of the cage, a single thought was able to break through the concrete wall of anger and fear surrounding Ray’s mind.

They’re taking me out.

Even if he could find a way to break the bondage of his shackles, Ray would have to somehow dispose of the two henchmen. But still…

This was one step toward freedom.

So instead of struggling against the large man’s embrace, Ray allowed his body to go completely limp. Continuing to fight may only result in a knock across the skull or a needle in his neck. Though he had no escape plan formed, the one thing Ray did know was he could do nothing if unconscious.

As expected, exiting the cage brought no sense of liberation. You were still in prison when you left your cell.

The large man’s snickering companion was waiting, his hands rested on the handle of one of those wheeled carriers often used in warehouses and wholesale food stores. Ray had pushed one almost every day back in the days of the mill, wheeling crates and boxes in and out of trucks until quitting time. A hand truck, that’s what they were called.

Gritting his teeth as the back of his head connected with the cart’s metal frame, Ray was dropped onto the hand truck’s platform like a bundle of newspapers fresh off the printing press. Ray watched as the big man walked behind him.

Without warning, he fell backward, a surprised gasp escaping through the mouth hole of his muzzle. His descent stopped halfway to the ground and Ray realized the large butler had pulled the hand truck back on its wheels. The next moment they were moving, the hand cart and its human cargo being wheeled towards the room’s door.

Ray tried to keep his frightened thoughts at bay, the ones which begged to know where they were taking him and what they were going to do once they got there. Instead, he focused on what was in front of him, the practical knowledge that increased with every inch they moved forward. Whether they knew it or not, his captors had given him an invaluable gift by not concealing his eyes. This was his chance to observe the layout of the house and search for the nearest way out. He’d only seen the lavish study since arriving in this luxurious hell, but something told him this was a house where a mad dash for the exit could easily bring you to a bathroom by mistake.

They crossed the threshold of the doorway, and the hand truck took an immediate left down a long hallway. About every ten feet, alternating between the two walls, hung Victorian-style portraits of beautiful, golden-haired women. By the fourth painting, Ray realized they were actually all of the same woman, a fair-skinned maiden whose beauty brought with it a strong sense of familiarity. As they reached the end of the corridor, it dawned on Ray where he’d seen such features before:

The little girl—Amelia. Was this her mother? Was she here too?

The questions vanished as quickly as they arrived when they reached a service elevator where the corridor came to an end. The smaller man walked past Ray and his larger counterpart to pull back the weaved metal of the elevator’s grating. The grate aside, Ray was rolled in. The smaller butler followed, closing the grate behind them, and pressed a button engraved with a downward facing arrow. The elevator lurched, and then began its slow, smooth descent.

As the butlers stood in silence, Ray kept his head still while exploring the interior of the elevator cart. The compartment was surprisingly plain and basic for such an expensive home—nothing adorned its smooth metal walls or ceiling. Ray assumed it was merely a service elevator, and therefore did not need to be impressive, it was meant for work and work only. There was undoubtedly at least one other elevator somewhere in the house adorned with gold plating and priceless works of art. Hell, maybe even some easy listening music was piped in to enjoy during the ride. All Ray could hear in this one was the working gears and cables as the elevator continued to descend.

A movement to Ray’s right caught his attention. The smaller butler was removing something from beneath his jacket—a small rod, long enough to extend past his palm. Catching Ray’s gaze with his nasty, narrow eyed glare, the man flicked his wrist like a whip-brandishing lion tamer. In the blink of an eye, the rod extended to the length of a police baton. Only there was something different to this telescoping weapon than a policeman might carry: two toothpick sized metal tines poked out of the rod’s tip like a tuning fork. Before Ray could even begin to guess the purpose of the fork attachment, a cracking flash of light almost jolted him right off the hand truck. The man hadn’t used the cattle prod on Ray but showed him what it could do if he pressed the small button on its handle.

The man raised an eyebrow as if to say, “You understand?”

Ray nodded as the elevator touched down.

Again, the smaller man stepped forward and opened the elevator grate, this one on the opposite wall from where they’d entered. Taking the lead, he led Ray and the man pushing him down another hallway far different than the last. Whereas the other had been warmly lit by antique light fixtures, their orange glow basking the floral wallpaper, this corridor was cold and dim. Its few lanterns were scarcely spread along the stone walls and appeared nothing less than ancient. Ray bounced on the hand truck’s platform as he was pushed along the dirt floor underneath him. They were within the house’s foundation, built in the days when piling rocks was the only option to build a wall.

Ahead, a thin crack of light formed an illuminated sliver in the darkness. As he rolled closer, Ray began to see the shape of two wooden doors latched together with a single steel bolt. Just as the smaller butler reached for the bolt’s handle, it became clear to Ray what was about to happen.

They were going outside.

The small man pushed the heavy wood doors with both arms and brightness flooded into Ray’s eyes like a tsunami of light. He squinted against the sunlight, pupil’s shrinking to pinpoints as he struggled to adjust. After a moment of white blindness, the world began to return to focus. And when it finally did, Ray found he couldn’t close his jaw.

His memories of the outdoors, the great outdoors, were so distant they felt more like dreams than past experience. In prison, he’d been allowed to exercise and stretch his legs in the yard, but that was the extent of his contact with Mother Earth. In the yard, you weren’t “outside.” You were merely out of the building. Ray couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen the sun when it wasn’t directly above him. He couldn’t recall how it looked when it first peaked over a mountain side to say good morning to the world, or how it said its long goodbye every evening as it vanished into the horizon.

And grass. Ray thought he’d never see or touch or even smell grass ever again.

But here it was. And there was so much of it.

The butlers had brought him to a massive stretch of lawn, a perfect square of meticulously mowed landscape. A chain link fence surrounded the field on all sides, and through it Ray could see the most beautiful view he could ever imagine.

A cloud filled sky silhouetted the rounded peaks of the rolling mountains. A blanket of cumulous clouds stretched across the stratosphere, backlit by the late morning sun piercing through here and there. The valley in which the dark mountains came together was obstructed by a foreground of yellowish green tree leaves. It was impossible to say what branches belonged to what tree as the leaves all came together in a what resembled the fluttering of an artist’s brush.

After so many years in confinement, a view of a Cleveland slum would’ve brought tears to his eyes, but this was…

This was…

Ray bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could. He could feel tears threatening to arrive like approaching dark clouds on a sunny day. He would not let these men see him cry. Even if they weren’t tears of sadness, but rather side effects of emotional overload.

When he laid his eyes on the immaculate mountain view, Ray could hear Jenny’s voice whispering in his ear, as she had when they used to lie in bed and she’d read from her beloved books of poetry. He’d never really been one for poems, paying more attention to the sound of her voice than the actual words she spoke.

But now he could hear her every word, and he mouthed each one under the three hindering bars of the muzzle.

I know why the caged bird sings.

Ray was so entranced by the awe-inspiring sight he hadn’t realized the butlers were rolling him onto the grass towards a single small tree in the middle of the lawn. It was only after they’d entered the cool shade of the tree branches, Ray brought his gaze from the distant landscape and looked up into the greenery.

Yellow orbs dotted the mass of leaves, pulling on the ends of the branches like fulcrum weights. The brightness of the ovals made them look artificial, and for a moment, Ray pondered if the tree was in fact made of plastic and silk. But the aroma wafting down the porous skin of the fruit suggested otherwise. The sweet odor of citrus made his mouth water.

The smaller servant strode six feet from the lemon tree’s trunk and brushed his fingers into the well-trimmed grass. Like a magician pulling a rabbit from his hat, he lifted his hand to reveal a long coil of thick chain. The steel links dangled from his grip like a dead metal snake as he walked to Ray’s side. The man’s cold knuckles brushed the skin of Ray’s neck as he yanked the collar forward away from Ray’s throat. A second later, the chain attached itself to the collar with a single clicking sound and the smaller man backed away.

And then Ray was falling, the breath remaining in his lungs as he prepared to land face first into grassy lawn. The large butler had shoved him forward, and with his hands still locked behind him, Ray had no way to brace for the sudden impact. Fortunately, the muzzle protected his jaw and nose from the majority of the harsh collision, but a jolt of pain still shot through the space between his eyes.

The men worked fast—the moment Ray connected with the ground, he felt two powerful hands pressing down on his legs, holding them in place. When the tension between his ankles immediately released, Ray knew the smaller man must have unlocked the shackles restraining his feet. He wanted to kick out at either of his captors, not caring where his foot found purchase, but he might as well have been trying to fight back against a gorilla. And this gorilla apparently knew a thing or two about wrestling—the hold in which he pinned Ray’s leg allowed not a muscle to move an inch.

Bringing his shin against the back of Ray’s knees, the wrestling gorilla was able to keep Ray’s legs locked in place while his grip moved upwards to the arms. Again, the cuffs were released a moment later, and again, Ray could do nothing with his free limbs. As a two-man job, freeing their captor from his bindings was entirely risk-free. Even if Ray had been able to slip an arm from the large man’s grip, he still hadn’t forgotten the sight of the cattle prod sparking in the elevator.

As quickly as it had fallen upon him, the force holding Ray down withdrew. Instantly, Ray was on his feet, lashing out with both hand and foot. But the butlers were fast, rapidly retreating to a safe distance. Only the smaller man granted Ray a final look before they both casually strolled back to the interior of the house.

He blew Ray a kiss.

The man could’ve been brandishing a samurai sword and Ray wouldn’t have cared. The telescoping cattle prod tucked underneath his jacket or his much larger and stronger companion—these suddenly were of no concern. Ray could only see one thing and one thing alone: Red.

He charged at the men, their backs to him as they walked away without a care in the world.

Time to die, you sick fucks!

The invisible wall came hard and fast. In his seething fury, Ray had also forgotten about the chain around his neck—the one ran into the ground and allowed him a radius of movement of only six feet in each direction.

Grabbing the chain with both hands, Ray pulled as hard he could. When that didn’t work, he pulled again. And again.

His fingers went to the collar on his neck, pulling at the lock as if he were trying to tear out his own Adam’s Apple. When his fingernail scratched along his skin hard enough to draw blood, his frenzied struggle came to a stop.

His breath heaved in and out of his lungs hard enough to stoke a bonfire.

Wait.

The voice of reason was faint but still there.

You’re not strong enough to break steel, shithead. Just think for a second.

Muscles trembling, Ray let the weight of his body rest against the trunk of the tree. As he waited for his heart to slow and the dizziness to subside, Ray became aware of a whistling noise coming with every breath he exhaled. It was the sound of air pushing through a tight space—the bars of his muzzle.

Ray’s hand’s darted to the back of his head to discover a simple belt buckle holding the muzzle in place. Its leather straps stung his cheek as he ripped off the restraining mask and threw it to the ground. A rush of fresh air immediately cooled the perspiring skin of his chin as he took a deep breath through his open mouth—oxygen as refreshing as water.

Rotating his jaw like a cow chewing cud, Ray worked out the stiffness as he took in the sight of the house. To his surprise, it wasn’t the mansion which he’d envisioned, but rather a smaller building resembling a barn. Perhaps this was what the storage sheds of the extremely rich looked like: stone structures that could pass as castles, beautiful in their medieval design and ivy-covered walls. Judging by the journey he’d taken from his cage in the study, Ray guessed the actual mansion was somewhere behind this building and this barn was attached by those long, dark corridors.

Though his hands still shook, the tremors had subsided from body shaking convulsions to almost unnoticeable vibrations. This meant the adrenaline fueling Ray’s outrage had dispersed from his brain and now he’d be able to think a little more clearly.

The men had seemingly left him alone out here, which meant they had the highest confidence the metal chain would do its job—and Ray’s brief struggle with the steel leash had proven their beliefs true. This also might have explained the simple, chest high chain-link fence bordering the lawn. Why spring for an excessive stone wall topped with barbed wire when they knew Ray couldn’t move past a distance of six feet?

Ray bit down on his tongue almost hard enough to make it bleed.

It was beyond ridiculous to think even for a second the simplicity of the fence had been a matter of saving a few dollars. There was no doubt in Ray’s mind, if Stefan wanted to border his lawn with the Great Wall of China, then the Great Wall of China is what he would have. No, this innocent chain-link fence—the same that marked the end of outfields in so many little league ballparks—is exactly what the owner desired.

And why?

Because it served a purpose: to tease whoever found themselves at the end of this unbreakable leash.

Why, look at that. All that separates you from freedom is a fence like the ones you’ve been jumping over since you were six years old. Hell, a man with no legs could crawl over. If it only weren’t for this silly ol’ chain.

Ray clenched his hands into trembling fists. His fingernails dug into his skin, and when he felt them begin to pierce his palm, he squeezed tighter. Something was building inside, beginning in his gut and rising to his chest. It was in his throat now; at the back of his tongue …

“HEEEEEELLLLLLPPPPPPP!”

It was impossible to say at what point his scream transformed into an ear-bleeding ring. He may have only managed to say “hell,” before the skull-splitting sound forced him to drop to his knees and place his hands over his ears. Ray felt as if he were moaning but couldn’t hear anything coming from his mouth. The shrill siren still echoed in his ears, blossoms of pain blooming behind his clenched eyes.

He lay in a fetal position for several minutes, utterly afraid to open his mouth. The source of his agony had been his own voice.

After what felt like hours, the throbbing pain deep within his skull began to subside. The world spinning like a Tilt-a-Whirl, Ray reached out to the tree to steady himself as he regained his footing. His ears still rang, but the squawk of a nearby bird assured him he hadn’t gone deaf. And though he expected to feel the warm drizzle of blood seeping from his ear, his fingers came back dry when he gingerly explored his ear canal. He hadn’t blown an eardrum.

More good news.

But the question still remained, What the fuck was that?

Unfortunately, there was only one way to test Ray’s theory, but he had to know for sure.

At a volume no louder than a whisper, Ray sang, “Aaaaaaah.”

When nothing happened, he took another breath and repeated the note, this time a little louder.

This was fine.

He repeated this process five more times. On the sixth, the note came accompanied with a faint ringing.

“Son of a bitch.”

As he’d hypothesized, his captors had rigged Ray’s collar with some type of sonic emitter. Ray could do nothing but shake his head when he thought about how his own mother had used the same technology on his childhood terrier, Ginger. As a pup, Ginger had been a yapper—the slightest movement outside or upstairs sent her into an immediate barking tirade. But it had all come to an end the day Ma brought home a magic little collar. Ginger had to learn the hard way—but she had learned.

And now so had he.

Ray slumped against the tree, the trunk hard against his spine. His collapsing weight shook the branches, loosening a lemon from the wood. When the falling fruit smacked him on the forehead, Ray let his back slide down the trunk until his ass touched the ground.

Sitting in the shade, he brought his legs to his chest and buried his face in his knees. He hoped the butlers weren’t watching him from inside.

Another lemon fell.

And so did his tears.

5.

They left him there overnight.

The day went by slowly—Raymond Phillips and his thoughts. His sobbing session hadn’t lasted long, though it had nothing to do with his eyes running dry. While he sat there, hunched over and crying, a cool wind had passed and chilled his skin. It was then a familiar sensation overtook his senses, its normality a welcomed guest in this insane nightmare which had become his world:

Ray had to piss.

It occurred to him then he hadn’t relieved himself since waking in the oversized birdcage and he wondered how it was possible. He acknowledged how little he’d been given to drink since the beginning of his captivity, but certainly his body would still have needed to flush itself. Then Ray remembered how much of his sleep had been drugged induced and how strong the possibility was he’d done it all while unconscious. Drugs could do all sorts of things to a person’s bodily systems, and losing control of ones bowels was among the least of them.

Though how come I never woke in a puddle of my own piss and shit?

The answer was unnerving as it was obvious.

Both he and the cage must have been cleaned while he was out. The reminder of how helpless he’d perpetually been since his first moment of captivity brought a fresh surge of anger. Ray let it come, preferring this raw emotion over sadness and defeat. The latter only led him to the floor and tears to his eyes. But with anger came action. With malice, motivation.

At first, Ray wanted to unleash a hot stream of urine all over the pretty lemon tree—a good ol’ fuck you straight from Ray’s bladder. But he regretfully had to reconsider when he remembered the tree provided the only shade from the hot August sun. The joke would be on him if he found himself having to sit in his own piss.

So, Ray walked as far away from the tree as the leash would allow, and after a final look back the stone barn to make sure no one was watching him, let it rip. It was the best piss of his entire life, and he wished he could stay in this moment forever. It was funny how much domain sensory experience had over people’s lives. Didn’t matter how fucked up your situation was—when you had to go you had to go. Everything else could wait.

As the last few remaining drops left him, Ray decided to leave the house servants a nice little surprise when they came back. He squatted, moving first in the direction of the barn in hopes one of the men would step in it on their return. That was, of course, if he hadn’t been under observation this entire time.

Ray sneered.

Enjoying the show, assholes? You sick fucks probably are.

Upon finishing his business, it occurred to Ray this could be the exact reason the men brought him outside in the first place. Even to a couple of twisted freaks employed by an even more twisted freak, cleaning up his mess had to be least enjoyable part of their job. But after Ray was done, seconds turned into minutes and minutes turned into hours and still neither man came forth from the barn door.

And the sun was beginning its nightly descent.

It was about the same time when the daylight began to dim, Ray’s stomach began to growl. His hosts hadn’t felt it necessary to leave him anything to eat—not even another bowl of mushy, half-cut sausages. His only source of sustenance was the tree in which he sat under, and the thought of sucking on a lemon did little to make his mouth water. As the darkening sheet of dusk turned into a blacker blanket, Ray found he could not stare at the yellow fruit any longer. If nothing else, the sour juice would quench his growing thirst.

When life gives you lemons…

Ray knew there was nothing healthy about the laughter bubbling up from his gut but he did nothing to bottle it in. Like the intensely sour taste that puckered his lips, chuckling to himself was another distraction from his continuing mental anguish.

Ray ate the lemon slowly, allowing his frazzled taste buds to adapt to the fruit’s intense flavor. Bowels relieved, hunger and thirst slated, Ray could now think past his primitive needs.

All right, what do we know? We know who. At least four: Stefan, his daughter, and his two goons. How? Well, they somehow got me here after my execution. It has to mean others are involved. No way could they move a body from a maximum-security prison without greasing a lot of wheels. So where? Where did they take me?

Ray looked out to the beautiful view slowly fading into the night.

Where am I?

From the eyeful he’d been treated to earlier in the day, it looked like Ray was still in Virginia. Of course, much of the east coast could easily be mistaken for Virginian woods, from the Great Smokey Mountains all the way to rural Maine. And then there was the lemon tree. Could lemon trees grow in Virginia? Ray couldn’t say for sure. The summers certainly felt warm enough, but didn’t oranges only grow in Florida and California? It had to be the same for all citrus.

But it sure doesn’t look like Florida out there. Or southern California for that matter.

Ray shook his head. Did it really matter what state, or even what country, he was in? The answer was easy.

No.

All that mattered was what was in here, where he was trapped. Ray could’ve been staring at the red sands of Mars for all he cared. He had to get out. He’d worry about what lay beyond the chain link fence once he was on the other side.

If I make it that far …

The breeze cooled as the night became darker. Listening to the branches of the lemon tree shake gently above him, Ray resisted the urge to close his eyes. His tired mind begged for a reprieve, utterly exhausted from the incessant stress of this hellish place. Despite his total nudity, Ray was as comfortable as he’d been since the padded chair table of the prison’s execution table. The night’s temperature remained soothingly mild, and the soft grass was far more forgivable than the hard bottom of the cage. Still, he fought the urge to drift away, not wanting to grant his captors the element of surprise once again.

He didn’t fight hard enough. Ray knew this when he found himself outside of his old house on Maple Avenue. The gun in his hand felt weightless. The air, however, surrounded him like water. He knew if he were to let go of the weapon it would float into the starless sky above. Perhaps it’s exactly what he should do. Let go of the firearm and with it all the pain it brought would drift away forever. And Jenny would still be here.

Jenny.

She was still in the house. Ray knew the timeline like his own reflection. He’d entered the dream at the exact moment she’d kicked him out of their home and told him to bring the tool of his trade with him.

Ray knew what came next. He’d take exactly seven steps down the sidewalk, away from the house, towards Smitty’s Pool & Pub. But after the seventh step he’d turn, stock of the pistol burning in his hand, and race back through the front door. He’d kick open the door, unsure if Jenny had even locked it behind him or not.

Just drop the gun …

Ray stared at his hand, eyes watering as he tried to tell his fingers to relax their grip. He may as well have been trying to bend a spoon with his mind. In this world, Ray was no longer in control of his own body. He wasn’t a participant here, but a spectator. And he had the best seat in the house—right behind his own eyes.

He began to walk away.

Keep going. Keep going.

Knowing it was of no use never stopped Ray from trying. But as always, his eighth step never came.

Ray shut his eyes as he ran towards the door of the house. He didn’t need to see where he was going. His legs were taking care of the journey all on their own. The wood of the door splintered under his foot—an echoing crack in the stillness of the quiet winter night.

As a natural reflex to the noise, he opened his eyes.

There was movement to his left.

The images of his nightmare still burned into his vision as if he’d been staring at the sun. Snow and blood stained the sight of the two men quickly pacing towards him, and for a moment, Ray believed he was still in his dream. But fresh adrenaline was already cleansing his mind, washing away the confusion when his gaze fell upon their matching uniforms. Like gun shots to his brain, facts of reality punctured his mind at rapid fire.

It was morning.

He was woken by the men opening the barn door, mistaking the sound for the noise in the dream.

And they were coming for him.

Ray sprang to his feet in one motion, his knees cracking as he stood up. Acting solely on instinct, Ray reached up and grabbed the lowest hanging branch of the tree. Alarm and anger granted him the strength to snap the wood like a toothpick. Unfortunately, as the men continued to advance, Ray realized his makeshift weapon would prove rather useless. The branch was thin and flimsy, better suited to keep the flies off a horse’s back than as a way to defend oneself.

A lemon fell and landed on his foot. Ray didn’t hesitate for a second.

The men were now close enough and hitting the small man in the right eye was easier than knocking over a tower of milk bottles at a state fair. The man didn’t see the throw and cried out in pain and surprise when the fruit smacked his face. But Ray only caught a glimpse of the man’s painful disbelief, already throwing a rocket at his second target. Warned by his partner’s attack, the brute managed to throw an arm up to block the incoming lemon.

Ray’s second throw, however, hit him square in the groin.

Ray couldn’t have thrown a better strike in a million years. And yet, when the lemon connected, the behemoth of a butler didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

Ray froze.

Was he wearing a protective cup under his black pressed pants?

Gigantic or not, a sumo wrestler would’ve felt that one, and yet it wasn’t the biggest surprise of all. For the first time ever, the man showed a hint of emotion. Though far more subtle than his smaller companion, there was no mistaking the closed lip smile curling his lips.

Ray reached down to retrieve another lemon, this time planning to aim for the man’s face. But when he straightened back up and reared back to fire another fastball, something in his target’s hand caught his eye. A square piece of plastic. The man pressed his thumb into its center.

Ray had enough time to process three simultaneous thoughts.

Remote.

Electricity.

Fuck.

Teeth grit and eyes clenched, Ray braced for the current to rush through this body like water from Hell.

He couldn’t figure out what had happened until the men were on top of him.

A sudden force had pulled him by the neck forward and to the ground. If not for the collar around his neck preventing him from bending his head back, his neck would’ve surely snapped in half. Instead, his forehead hit the grass with tremendous force, sending dizzying white spots across his vision. As the men tackled him, one pinning his legs and the other twisting his arms behind his back, Ray tried to lift his head from the ground. It was then he understood—the chain had recoiled in the dirt, like the retracting cord of a vacuum cleaner. Even if the servants hadn’t acted as quickly as they did, Ray wouldn’t have been able to bend his arms back to strike a single blow.

He felt the cuffs fasten around his wrists and his ankles. A second later, the muzzle was being reattached to his face, and Ray’s frantic twists of his neck did nothing to stop the straps from fastening behind his skull. The danger of Ray’s teeth prevented, the thick hand of the larger butler reached underneath his chin and unlocked the chain from his collar.

Then it was back on the hand truck and a return trip to the barn door. Ray wanted to grab one final glance at the beautiful mountain view, but his restraints made this impossible. All he could see was the cold darkness of the dimly lit corridor, and the service elevator lay ahead. The grate was already open, so Ray was able to be rolled inside, where he and the large man waited for the smaller of the two to catch up. Once all three were inside, the grate was closed once again and the elevator car began to rise.

The three men ascended in silence to a backdrop of rotating gears and pulling cables. It remained this way, the butlers saying nothing and Ray staring at the floor, until the Big Boy broke the quiet with a pig-like snort. From where he stood behind Ray, he sniffed the air like a Bassett hound tracking an escaped convict. Finally, he stepped out from behind the hand truck and prodded the shoulder of his smaller associate. The smaller man also sniffed, and with it came a face contorting sneer.

“Was ist das?” the smaller butler said.

His partner pointed to his feet, prompting the small man to lift his leg and bring his shoe to his hands. The moment his eyes caught a glimpse of the heel of his black loafers, the man immediately dropped his foot and yelled,

“Kacke!”

Even if Ray could’ve helped it, he wouldn’t have held back. As loud as the muzzle would allow, Ray laughed. It was a hindered chuckle, his laughter forced through closed teeth. But accompanied with the up-and-down movement of his shoulders, Ray’s amusement was impossible to miss.

The smaller man’s eyes darted from his shoes to meet Ray’s gaze. Through the triple barred mouth hole, Ray grinned as wide as he could.

“You step in something?”

The enraged look in the man’s eyes proved he didn’t have to speak English to understand the question. His answer came as a driving fist into Ray’s gut.

A gust of air propelled out through Ray’s muzzle as the hit connected, the wind completely knocked from his lungs. He felt himself begin to fall forward, and with his arms still restrained, had no way to stop the descent. Fortunately, the familiar squeeze of the larger man’s hand found his shoulder and immediately pulled him back against the carrier.

Ray gasped to regain his breath, a sharp pain radiating from his stomach. Thinking maybe it would help him focus on reclaiming his breathing rhythm, Ray closed his eyes.

They popped back open the moment he heard the slap of skin striking skin. It took a second to realize he was not the one who’d received the blow, and he was initially confused at the sight of the smaller man clasping his cheek. But then it became clear.

The larger man had smacked the smaller man upside the head.

But why?

The question distracted Ray from the discomfort in his lower section. The only thing more perplexing than the blow itself was the expression washing over the struck butler’s face. Instead of the anger or surprise Ray would’ve expected, the man actually looked ashamed of himself, as if he knew he deserved it. He didn’t raise his hand in return or shout some German interjection. He nodded and took a deep breath to compose himself.

In the time he’d been their prisoner, Ray had been prodded, shackled, tackled, pinned to the ground, and electrocuted. But the moment one of his captors physically struck his body, the assailant was immediately punished. For whatever reason, hitting the prisoner was against the rules. Ray couldn’t begin to contemplate why, as his mind was already occupied with another absurd notion.

This game has rules?

The elevator came to a sudden, jolting stop. With one hand still rubbing the tender, red flesh of his cheek, the smaller man pulled the grate open. Between the punch to the gut and the intriguing backlash that followed, Ray hadn’t noticed the return trip up had been much shorter. To his surprise, he was rolled from the elevator into a hallway he hadn’t seen before.

On a spectrum of décor, the corridor was somewhere between the posh first hallway and the dungeon like qualities of the barn. Long tubes of fluorescent lights buzzed above them, sickly casting the cold illumination of state institutions. The walls were painted a simple off-white, with nothing adorning their nondescript finish.

Well, except for the massive, metal doors.

The doors were placed about every six feet, painted the same mother-of-pearl color as the walls. Each door had a narrow horizontal window, no thicker than an average ruler. Above each door was a black, painted number. The wheels of the hand truck stopped rolling on the gray cement floor when they reached number seven.

The act of placing Ray in the room played out exactly as it had outside. With the exact same efficiency, the men threw Ray to the floor, pinned him down, and unlocked his bindings.

Only this time, they hadn’t attached a chain around Ray’s throat to keep him in place while they backed away. This was where the telescoping cattle prod came in.

And it did the job fine.

6.

With dimensions of six by nine feet, the room was no bigger than Ray’s cell on death row. But this was where the similarities came to an end. Instead of a bed built into the wall, a pile of straw lay in the back corner. Instead of a toilet neighboring a small sink, a rusty bucket sat a few feet from the straw. In the center of the cell, a grated drain marked where the cement floor slightly caved in.

The room’s last feature was located on the ceiling, between two sets of humming florescent tube lights. It bore a striking resemblance to a fire preventing sprinkler, but it was missing the serrated finned disk to spray the water across a large area. Instead, the metal piece ended with a mesh covered bulb, not unlike the head of a microphone.

From where Ray stood, it was difficult to say with any degree of certainty the mysterious purpose of the ceiling fixture. Perhaps if Ray were to flip over and stand on the rusty bucket, he could get close enough to see—

His thought was cut short by a metallic squeak to his left. Ray whipped his head to see a flap like a mail slot open at the bottom of the room’s door. A second later, a plastic cafeteria style tray came passing through the opening and landed on the cement floor.

“Hey!”

Ray darted for the door, but the flap had already closed after his first step. Slamming his ear against it, Ray could hear fading footsteps returning down the hallway. The sound was soon followed by a faint rumble vibrating the floor under Ray’s feet as the elevator transported the deliveryman away.

The cold of the steel door stung Ray’s skin as he leaned against his forehead. He hesitated to open his eyes, knowing he would see his “breakfast” the moment his vision returned. With a sigh that filled the entire space of the chamber, Ray finally peeked.

When his gaze fell upon the food, he instantly longed for undercooked kielbasa.

The tray contained three round indentations for three separate dishes. The first had been left empty to make room for a small, cardboard carton. Ray picked it up and flipped it over, discovering the carton was completely unmarked. He peeled back one side of the carton and sniffed the liquid within.

Milk.

Ray pulled the carton away from his nose and took a moment to consider the beverage. The carton had arrived securely sealed, so unless Stefan owned his own dairy packaging plant, the milk within would be entirely untainted. Confident enough to risk it, Ray brought the carton to his lips and chugged.

Though hovering above room temperature, the drink had yet to go sour. Under normal circumstances, Ray would’ve probably spit the milk out the moment it hit his tongue, never having acquired the taste for skim.

Skim—that was being generous. What Ray drank now tasted like nothing more than white water.

He forced himself to stop drinking when he’d consumed about half of the carton’s contents. He didn’t know when his captors would feed him again so it was in his best interest to make this last. Ray closed the carton and returned to the tray.

There were only two remaining items, both equally unappetizing. The first was a pile of stringy cabbage sitting in a milky white puddle. Pinching a couple strands between his fingers, Ray gave the cabbage a tentative whiff. Its tangy aroma only discouraged him from examining the food any further, but he figured it would do no harm to flick the substance with the tip of his tongue.

The cabbage brushed a taste bud.

Ray laughed.

“Zour Krout,” he said in his cheesiest German accent. “Of course.”

A memory punctured his brain like the needle of what was supposed to be his life ending injection of potassium chloride. While they battled over yet another game of chess, somehow, he and Klaus had gotten on the subject of last meals. Though Ray couldn’t remember the German inmate’s entire menu, he did recall the inclusion of something called Eisbein—a pickled ham hock, boiled with the skin soft and served on sauerkraut. The only reason Ray remembered this certain dish was due to the conversation topic of sauerkraut which followed. Ray had muttered something like “Sauerkraut—finally something I’ve heard of.” While Klaus executed Knight to Rook 4, he explained how Americans had so heavily rejected German culture during World War I, restaurants referred to the traditional German dish as “Liberty Cabbage.”

“Just like Freedom Fries,” Ray answered.

Klaus conquered another piece and chuckled. “You fat Americans sure do take your food seriously.”

Ray dropped the pinch of sauerkraut back onto the tray and looked to the final food item that was less appetizing than the fermented cabbage. It was simply a pile of brown, lumpy mush. From where Ray stood, he could see no difference between this substance and the stereotypical gruel served in the orphanages of Dickensian stories. Using the same tentative technique as he had with the sauerkraut, Ray dipped the tip of his pinky finger into the mush and brought a dab to his lips.

The unmistakable pleasuring tinge of sugar surprised his tongue. Smacking his lips together, Ray separated the flavors the best his undisciplined pallet would allow. He was sure the food contained cinnamon, its unique taste confirmed by the accompanying seasoned aroma.

Using the index fingers of both hands, Ray stirred the bowl of mush to examine it closer. He scowled when he discovered black, wrinkly beads hiding in the paste, and believed his sadistic captors were trying to feed him dead flies. But after lifting one of them from the brown pulp, he saw they were nothing more than raisins. Their presence, along with the countless grains, revealed the identity of the mystery glop.

Rice pudding. This was dessert.

Ray brushed his hands together, ridding his fingers of the clinging pudding. What was this? A treat? His mind raced back to the blow he’d received in the stomach.

Sorry we broke the rules. Hope this helps.

Hands curled into fists, Ray felt a scream boiling in his gut. A sudden vision came of grabbing the tray and smashing it against the wall. But, no—he would breathe deeply until the urged passed. As much as he didn’t want to accept anything from his tormenters, his growing hunger was entirely indiscriminate. Besides, there was a far greater reason not to eat this offered food than his stupid sense of pride. Ray was already starting to feel the initial pangs of hunger slowly returning, but he was in no rush to dive back into what was probably another serving of sleep-inducing drugs.

He turned from the tray, telling himself he’d leave the food for now. Perhaps he’d be let out into the yard before his hunger got the best of him and he’d be able to gorge himself on harmless lemons.

But pudding would taste so much better …

Before he even realized his arms and legs were moving, Ray began a spontaneous round of jumping jacks. Anything to keep his mind distracted from the tempting meal. When the exercise didn’t succeed in exorcising the pudding’s aroma from his nostrils, he dropped to the floor and went right into a session of pushups.

Like in prison, he’d fallen back on working out.

Hours passed.

Without a single window, it was impossible to tell the time of day, but Ray’s internal clock told him the sun had fallen below the horizon. Actually, he was sure one hundred years had passed since the brutish butlers had thrown him in this cell, but logic proved this wrong. Regardless, this had been without a doubt the longest day of Ray’s life.

He’d done everything to keep himself occupied. The pushups had become sit-ups, followed by several minutes of cycling his legs while lying on his back. He did several leg stretches against the wall, and then proceeded to run in place until he was sure his heart would burst from his chest. Exhausted, he let his arms hang limp and rolled his neck from shoulder to shoulder. A cacophony of cracks popped during the entire rotation, as if someone were walking on bubble wrap. This led Ray to a new activity—seeing if he could crack every joint in his body. He had succeeded at releasing the tension in his toes, ankles, knees, hips, wrists, back (both upper and lower), and each knuckle of every finger. The activity provided him not only distraction, but precious milliseconds of pleasure as the air released between ligaments and bones. The only joints he couldn’t figure out how to release were his elbows, but the conundrum did serve to occupy his mind for several minutes.

When Ray had finally given up on his elbows and moved his efforts to his thumb, a revelation sparked his brain like a cranial lightning storm. It was as if the popping of this thumb had released not only air, but an idea stuck in the informational highways of his neurons.

There was no way of knowing what kind of anesthesia his captors were putting in his food, but there was a considerable chance it took a large amount of the drug to take effect. This would not be the case with a powerful barbiturate or tranquilizer, but what if they were simply using crushed-up sleeping pills? If it were true, then Ray would most likely have to eat the entire meal to enter the comatose state he’d previously fallen under.

So, what if he only took a single bite at a time? If nothing else, the test would prove the potency of the German’s drugs; and this information was valuable.

Ray began with three strands of the sauerkraut. After what felt like a half hour, he ate three more. When nothing happened again, he increased the “dosage” to a small handful. After another half hour, he ate a little more.

The experiment proceeded as such without the slightest hint Ray had been medicated. Once, after one of the early measly servings, Ray began to feel lightheaded. But after closing his eyes and breathing through it, he decided it was merely the side effects of malnourishment. His blood sugar had to be severely off kilter from eating so little, which spurred Ray to increase his servings even more.

The tray was licked clean by the end of the day. Ray sucked the last drop of rice pudding from the tip of his middle finger, savoring the final offering of sweet flavor. A satisfying weight rested in his gut, a sensation Ray had all but forgotten:

Fullness.

The fact the meager serving of sauerkraut and pudding had somehow sated his hunger proved how much Ray’s stomach had shrunk since first waking in his new home. Still, Ray knew it would not be long until his body burned up the fuel offered by the sugars in the meal, and his stomach would once again crave whatever slop his sadistic hosts offered him. What would it be next time? Would it even be prepared? Or just a raw piece of meat and a stale slice of bread?

The frightening truth was, it didn’t matter at all. The needs of Ray’s body would ultimately overrule both the complaints of his tongue and the grievances of his pride. There was a reason men adrift at sea or lost in the woods eventually ate their belts. And then their shoes. And then each other …

At least they cooled it with the drugs.

It was the only positive thought Ray could coax into his mind. They’d given him a meal not fit for a convict, but it had left him conscious. As desperate the notion may have sounded bouncing off the walls of his brain, Ray wouldn’t deny it was an improvement. It was a blindfolded shot in the dark, but the untainted food may have been a sign his keepers believed they were breaking him. The food came with a message: behave and receive a treat. Misbehave and …

Well, take your pick. Electricity, sedatives, quality time with your two new butler friends—the choice is yours.

Biting his thumbnail as he processed this idea, Ray knew he’d made the right decision to accept the food they’d shoved through the slot in the door. Now he would have to maintain his composure and keep his head when they came for him again. And they would come, Ray was sure of this, but this time they may be surprised at their prisoner’s improved disposition. In prison, they called it “good behavior.” But in here, wherever here was, it was something entirely different. It was a gambit. A ruse.

His only chance.

But for now, Ray would have to wait. He’d occupy himself anyway he could, but always keep a good distance from the door. When big boy and little man came knocking, Ray would immediately spread his feet and put his hands on the wall—a drill he knew far too well. But it would transcend the language barrier between Ray and his captors, and undoubtedly show them he was ready to play along; they had the right choice in letting him keep his consciousness.

Ray hoped they would come soon. Above him, the fluorescent lights continued to buzz, basking the cell in cold, greenish light. He wanted so badly to return to the yard outside, to feel the warm sunlight and cooling breeze. To hear the occasional song of a passing bird, rather than the mind-grating hum of these flickering tubes. The artificial light they cast gave everything it touched a sickening quality—one could get queasy staring at the cinderblock walls.

And what the fuck is that fixture sticking out between the lights?

As if his thoughts were being monitored, Ray received his answer no more than a second later.

First came the sound—a noise not unlike air being let out of a bicycle tire. Before Ray could even start to pinpoint the location of the sound, tendrils of reddish-brown gas began to reach out from the mesh covered bulb. The hiss grew louder as the brown smoke flowed faster, covering the ceiling like Los Angeles smog.

And then it began to descend.

Ray’s eyes darted around the room, frantically looking for cover. But without a single window and a door that wouldn’t budge, Ray saw he had no choice but to drop to the ground. He crawled towards the grate like an army commando under heavy fire, praying he could suck the air from the pipes below.

His lips had touched the rusty bars of the grate when his eyes became impossibly heavy. Whatever this gas was, it worked quickly. The world was already beginning to darken as the warm hands of sleep pulled Ray into unconsciousness.

So much for letting me stay awake.

As the world faded away once again, Ray heard a cold voice, which strangely resembled his own. It prayed this mysterious gas was lethal.

7.

This time, the dream began with a scream.

Ray was already running and leaping up the stairs when Jenny cried out. This, of course, was not concurrent with reality, for it had been her scream that prompted Ray to turn and dash back in one single movement. By the time Ray reached the door, Jenny’s voice had fallen silent, cut off violently mid-shriek. But in this nightmare world, her scream never ended. It looped over and over like a skipping record as Ray’s foot collided with the wooden front door.

Ray called out for her but couldn’t hear his own voice. As if God had pressed the mute button on his divine remote control, nothing here made a single noise. Apart from Jenny’s merciless scream, all was transpiring with the soft silence of falling snow. Not even the splintering wood under Ray’s shoe made a single snap as it cracked and broke and the door gave way.

But these details were none of Ray’s concern. Perhaps he had made note of them the first dozen times he experienced this horrific lucid memory, but now they were as commonplace as the lack of air underwater. All he cared about was getting inside—getting to Jenny.

Ray stumbled through the doorway.

Jenny stood in the hallway staring at him. Ray never failed to notice how pale she looked in this imitation of reality. Her eyes too dark, her mouth too long and distorted, as if she’d been the subject for Edvard Munch’s Scream.

Before Ray raised the gun, the dream always granted him one gift—something he wasn’t afforded the night it actually happened.

The chance to speak. He always chose the same words.

I’m sorry.

Only this time something different happened. Jenny spoke back.

“Was war das?”

Before Ray’s lips could part to reply, a jagged fissure split Jenny’s head vertically in two. Like an earthquake cracking pavement, the trench continued to grow down her entire body, a blinding white light spilling forth. Ray raised to hand to shield his eyes, but the light was already beginning to recede. Through the fading luminescence, he could see another face replacing the facade of his deceased lover. It was a face he knew.

“Kaiser?”

Amelia sat directly across from Ray at a small, circular table. The walls and roof of his old home on Maple Avenue no longer surrounded him. The walls had been replaced with a breathtaking view of distant mountains, the roof with a cloudless, cerulean sky. The snow of his dreams had melted to green grass. And his lover was gone, having transformed into the spitting image of Wonderland’s Alice. The blonde hair, the blue dress and white bonnet—a children’s story illustration come to life. But instead of a sleeping dormouse or the Mad Hatter, a party of stuffed animals and dolls sat in the chairs lining both sides of the table.

“Tea?” The little girl extended her petite arm towards her nude companion, a tiny silver cup pinched between her fingers. Ray couldn’t help but notice the cup’s lack of liquid. The Earl Gray existed solely in the child’s imagination.

When Ray parted his lips to reply, he discovered his mouth and throat were dryer than the silver cup. Even a mere “No, thank you,” would sound more like a bullfrog’s croak than a human language. But when he tried to raise his hand to dismiss the girl’s offer, he found he couldn’t lift his arm higher than his ribcage.

The sight greeting Ray when he darted his eyes downward was less than surprising. His arms were chained to the table, his legs to the ground.

“Ziehen!”

Had the shackles and chains not bound him to the table, the shout would’ve startled Ray right from his seat. Ray’s glance darted to the right to find Stefan aiming an antique hunting rifle into the sky. Clad in a red jacket, white pants, and a black English riding cap, Stefan traced the barrel of his rifle through the air in a slow, arching motion. Ray looked to the sky and glimpsed a clay pigeon no less than a second before it shattered into dust, the explosion accompanied with a booming gunshot.

Turning back to the marksman, Ray spotted the sumo sized butler a few feet behind him. He stood over what looked like a miniature catapult. Several clay pigeons rested in a cardboard box to the left of the launcher, minus one in the butler’s massive hand. The butler reached down to retrieve a length of rope connected to the mechanism and presented it to his master.

Stefan shook his head and brushed his hand through the air. “Nein,” he said.

The servant let go of the rope and placed the clay pigeon back in the box. Even as Stefan began to saunter over in his direction, Ray noted how deep under he must have been to sleep through an entire session of target shooting.

The German reached his daughter’s side and patted her head.

“Hallo, liebling.”

Though Amelia answered, she did not look up from serving her dolls imaginary tea. “Hallo, Vater.”

Stefan ran his fingers through Amelia’s golden hair, never once taking his glare from Ray’s eyes. “Kaiser benimmt sich?”

Ray didn’t know what they were saying but knew they were talking about him. The name Kaiser stung his ears like a fork on a chalkboard.

Amelia smiled and looked up, now both father and daughter staring at him.

“Ja, Vater.”

When Stefan smiled, the childlike ease of Amelia’s grin was replaced with an undercurrent of menace. “Gut,” he whispered. “Gut, gut, gut.”

Stefan let Amelia’s hair fall from his fingers like golden rain and made his way around the table to Ray’s left side. He squatted down so he was eye level with his prisoner and held the rifle out in front of him—not unlike a shopkeeper might display his merchandise. If Ray didn’t know any better, he might think Stefan was offering him the weapon with no strings attached. But there was no doubt what the outcome would be if Ray made a move to grab the firearm. The only part of the gun he’d touch would be the rifle’s stock as it came slamming into his face. Or maybe the smaller butler was hiding in the shadows, electrocuting remote in hand, just waiting for a reason to press the button.

So, Ray remained still, his gaze moving back and forth between the rifle and the man who held it.

“Es gefällt dir?” Stefan’s eyebrows raised as he asked the question. Ray stared back in a dumb daze.

Does this guy think I learned German in my sleep?

It seemed the communication barrier was not at all a concern to Stefan. He jiggled the rifle in his hands. “Schauen, schauen!”

When Ray shook his expressionless face and shrugged his shoulders, Stefan took the index and middle fingers of his right hand and pointed to his own eyes. He then pointed this peace sign hand gesture towards the gun.

“Schauen.”

Ray nodded, finally understanding. The man wanted him to look at it more closely. For what purpose, he still did not know. It was probably another intimidation technique. A reminder of what would happen to Ray if he were to step out of line. But the question of why Ray should fear a bullet to the skull remained unanswered. It was beginning to look more like a gift than a threat more and more. Still, Ray complied with Stefan’s request and took in the rifle’s details.

He was immediately surprised to notice the weapon’s used and worn torn state. Stefan did not strike Ray as a man who would bother with secondhand items, or at least anything that hadn’t been refurbished. Whereas almost everything Ray had seen in this mansion could be described as pristine or lavish, the rifle looked like it would be more at home in the shed of an old farmer.

Its metal butt was starting to loosen from the wooden stock, its top screw halfway removed. A fading wrap of duct tape coiled around the stock, no doubt holding together gradually splitting wood. Thick metal wire secured the bolt to the forearm, another doing the same to the base of the rifle’s barrel. The metal on the bolt handle was in dire need of a polishing, heavy past use having faded and worn away its finish. The only part of the rifle that appeared relatively new was the impressive state-of-the-art scope attached to the top. Despite the weapon’s other flaws, Ray had no doubt Stefan could split an earthworm in two if his vision was enhanced by the device.

“It’s …” Ray shrugged as he spoke. “… great.”

Stefan nodded. “Ja. Es ist Wunderbar.”

Like Jack popping up from his box, Stefan sprang back into a standing position. He looked down at Ray and extended an index finger. “Eine sekunde.”

He returned to Amelia, bent down, and whispered something in her ear. As obedient as a child can be to their parent, Amelia placed the tea kettle down on the table and ran off towards the house. She didn’t forget to add a cheery, “Auf Wiedersehen, Kaiser,” before vanishing from sight.

Stefan waited for his daughter to go inside before he cleared his throat and yelled, “Oskar!” A moment later, the large butler appeared at his side.

So he does have a name. Oskar. But what about the other one?

Stefan pointed to the distant horizon. “Der vögel.” Oskar nodded, retrieving a remote from his pocket.

Oh, great. More electric shock therapy.

But then something hard and pointy jabbed the tender flesh between two of his ribs. Turning to face whatever prodded him, Ray was not surprised to see the smaller butler standing over him, a cattle prod held tightly in his grip. Fortunately, he hadn’t activated it when he’d poked Ray’s side.

“Oben,” the butler said.

Ray stared at him, confused.

“Oben!”

This time, the man’s order came with a hard yank on Ray’s arm. Ray lifted a mere three inches before the chains around his ankles and wrists snapped taught, wrenching his joints from their sockets. Ray gritted his teeth, air hissing through his lips as he bore the hurt shooting down his arms and legs. Over the ache radiating through his muscles, Ray could hear Stefan’s voice emote from a few feet away.

“Willllhheellmm.” Stefan dragged the name out as if scolding a small child. His cold stare, however, suggested he would inflict a much harsher punishment than a meager spanking.

Wilhelm lowered his head. “Traurig, master.”

Though it had come with the price of pain, Ray now knew the names of both sadistic servants.

Having remembered Ray was chained to the table, Wilhelm retrieved a silver key from his coat pocket and bent down to unlock the shackles. Now free from his bondage, Ray let himself be marched to Stefan’s side, somehow resisting the urge to plant his forehead into the bridge of Wilhelm’s nose. It would’ve been all too easy.

Oskar stood on the other side of his master. Stefan lifted the rifle to his shoulder, looked to his larger servant. “Jetzt,” he said calmly.

With a simple, single utterance, the butler pressed the top button. But instead of sending an electrical jolt through Ray’s nervous system, this remote had a much different function.

At the other end of the field, a colorful bird suddenly erupted from a curtain of tall grass. Even at this distance, Ray could identify the species. It was a pheasant—its bright green and red head and long tail feathers unmistakable. The remote must have opened a cage hidden in the lengthy grass. Ray watched the bird soar higher, and though envious of its God given gift, knew it wouldn’t be enough to ensure its escape.

Stefan was already staring down the state-of-the-art rifle scope.

Ray heard the shot first—a deafening explosion inches from his head. A second later, the pheasant did its best impression of a stock market crash. With a bust of spraying feathers, the bird plummeted straight down towards the earth, falling even faster than it had ascended. As Ray watched it drop, the feeling of envy returned, this time even stronger. The bird was dead, but freedom had been its last thought—its last experience. Ray wondered if he’d be so lucky.

“Okay, Kaiser.”

Had Stefan not been standing right next to him, Ray probably wouldn’t have heard him over the high pitch ring still echoing in his ear canal.

Ray turned from the pheasant corpse in the distance to find Stefan pointing at it. The German said, “Bringen den vögel.”

His words were as foreign to Ray as they’d ever been, though the word “vogal” sounded familiar. Still, it wasn’t enough to conjure any sort of reaction from him other than to stare blankly back.

Stefan sighed, impatience lacing his expression. He waved his finger. “Der vögel,” he repeated.

Ray’s eyes followed the finger out into the distance.

The bird.

Ray interlocked his thumbs together and waved his fingers like wings. He showed the gesture to Stefan and asked, “Der vögel?”

Wilhelm chuckled behind them, the raspy snicker of a weasel. Ray could feel the blood rushing to his ears as he silently seethed with anger but kept his focus on the armed aristocrat. Stefan too chose to ignore his servant and nodded in return.

“Ja,” he said, waving his hand as if to dismiss Ray from the conversation. “Bringen den vögel!”

Bring the bird.

Squinting against the bright sunlight, Ray could barely make out the shadowy mass of the pheasant’s body. The bird had covered quite the distance before Stefan’s bullet ripped it from the sky. From where he stood, Ray estimated it was at least the length of a football field from his feet to the avian carcass.

A hundred and twenty yards. Three hundred and sixty feet.

Was it outside of the working range of his electric collar’s remote signal?

There was no time to wager a guess. Stefan yelled “Kaiser,” and Ray was running.

Ray was ten paces into his sprint when he realized this was the farthest and fastest he’d traveled in the last eleven years of his miserable life. He had all but forgotten the exhilaration he experienced when wind rolled over your face and whistled through your ears. He savored the solid impact every time his toes contacted the soft grass under his feet, relishing the movement of his muscles like only an ex-death row inmate could appreciate. Even the slapping of his exposed genitals against this thigh did nothing to hinder his elation.

Until today, running had been for free men and fugitives. Before Ray reached the dead pheasant, it was easily the best experience he could remember since his first day in the can.

At the pheasant, everything changed.

Sport became survival. Enjoyment turned to panic. Ray had known what he was going to do the moment he took his first stride away from his captors, but it in no way came close to resembling a plan.

If the electric collar around his neck still functioned this far from its remote control, Ray would have his answer the first step he took past the pheasant.

Ten running paces past the bird and nothing.

Ray heard the echoing whip crack of a gunshot.

“Fuck!”

With the instincts of a one-time athlete, Ray faked to the left, leaning his shoulders and hips as if to abruptly turn, but shot off to the right. Had Stefan been throwing footballs rather than bullets, it would’ve been the perfect post pass. The maneuver came smooth and natural, muscle memory igniting parts of Ray’s reflexes he hadn’t used in years. Although back in his peewee football years, Ray had always played defense. Troubled youths with dead veteran fathers usually did, as football is always a valid excuse to hit somebody.

Another shot and another miss. Hitting a man who’s juking as if he’s got the entire defensive line on his ass had to be harder than tagging a level flying pheasant, but Stefan had proven himself to be a marksman. Fortunately, the chain-link fence was much closer now. If Ray could reach it and jump over before a bullet could find its way up his ass, he’d be in the clear. Stefan would still be able to see him through the scope, but even he would have trouble aiming through the tiny spaces between the fencing. In the time it would take to aim such a difficult shot, Ray would vanish into the tree line.

Heart beating what felt like its swan song, Ray reached out.

He didn’t even register his hand finding the top of the fence. With a leap he hadn’t known he was capable of, Ray bounded over the fence in a single motion, his feet never connecting with the chain links. As if aided by someone up above, Ray jumped clear without stumbling as his feet returned to the earth.

The only thing in front of him now was wilderness.

I’m gonna make it.

Trees were getting closer with every sprinting step.

I’m gonna make it.

A concealing forest which looked wonderfully dark and fuzzy and out-of-focus.

I’m gonna make…

…out of focus?

The impact came so sudden and unexpected there was no time to register the trip from his feet to the ground. One moment Ray was running, the next he was on his back—the blue of the sky above him slowly creeping into the black abyss claiming his vision. His forehead throbbed as if it had a heart of its own, warm blood trickling from his swollen nostrils over the ridge of his upper lip. The single cloud hovering in the stratosphere spun in a dizzying circle, though Ray suspected it was really his brain fluid splashing around his skull.

Groaning, Ray reached to his side and found a handful of grass. With the world still riding a tilt-a-whirl, Ray painfully pulled himself back onto his feet. It felt as if someone had stabbed a screwdriver into the space between his eyes. Or if a WWE wrestler had grabbed a folding chair from the audience and used it on his face. Or …

Or as if I ran into a wall.

At first, Ray figured it was the severity of his probable concussion blurring the world in front of his eyes. But when he extended his hand outward and felt warm glass buzzing with static electricity, his pain retreated into sobering horror.

The scenic mountain view wasn’t real. Ray was standing in front of a television screen.

Ray looked up to discover he could make out where the screen curved at an extremely subtle angle and continued to form a ceiling. As he walked backward, away from the wall, the pixels of the image began to merge together into greater clarity. A few more steps and the image would look perfectly normal, minus the tiniest crack where his head had connected.

Ray wasn’t aware of his mouth hanging open, or the terrified moans escaping his lips. All he could concentrate on was the sickening truth looping over and over again in his mind.

He was still inside. He had never left. This wasn’t the outdoors. This was a room—an impossibly huge room. The biggest Imax theater ever built.

A virtual shrub erupted from his right as a video-projected pheasant shot up from the greenery and took flight. As Ray watched the image of the bird fly higher and higher, a long-forgotten memory from his childhood emerged from the dark waters of his subconscious.

Though his own parents had never been able to afford something as fancy as a video game system, Ray had once attended a birthday party where the “Best Present Award” had gone hands down to the Nintendo Entertainment System. As Ray watched with considerable envy, the birthday boy shot at his television with a plastic gun. Like magic, the flying birds on the screen dropped to the earth with each pull of the trigger. The game had been called Duck Hunt. That’s exactly what Ray found himself staring at now: the biggest game of Duck Hunt ever constructed.

He intended to mutter, “Where am I?” or “Who are these people,” but when Ray opened his mouth, only a single word came forth:

“… Why?”

Something hit his neck, the impact pushing the air from his lungs. In the split second it took to bring his fingers to the burning sting, Ray prayed to find a bullet wound—for God to have mercy—but there was no one listening in the artificial sky above.

Ray’s fingers wrapped around the dart lodged in the tendons above his left shoulder. It now occurred to him, Stefan had never intended to shoot him down. All those bullets had merely been potshots for his own amusement. This dart had been his only intended hit, most likely having switched rifles when Ray was frozen with shock by the giant screen.

The tranquilizer within the needle was already working, aided by the fragile condition of his injured head. Before he collapsed into an unconscious heap, Ray’s fading thoughts pooled together like water trapped in a clogged faucet:

I thought I was the hound. You don’t shoot your hound. You shoot the bird and the hound retrieves the bird. I’m not a bird. I’m a dog. I mean, I’m a hound. I mean, I’m a …

A …

PART TWO

“By what right has the dog come to be regarded as a ‘noble’ animal? The more brutal and cruel and unjust you are to him the more your fawning and adoring slave he becomes.”

— Mark Twain

8.

This time Ray watches himself.

Like an omniscient narrator, Ray witnesses the events but can do nothing to stop them. He sees the utter confusion wash over his own face at the sight of a frightened Jenny. He sees the gun come up with pure instinct—his other self can tell there’s danger but doesn’t know where to aim. He sees the revelation spring to his own eyes a moment too late, his other self-turning a second before the needle stabs into his arm.

Ray wants to scream, “To your right! Look out!” But in this dream, he is without a mouth. He has no body. He is a mere spirit with a front row seat to his own demise.

The assailant is fast and precise—he has done this type of act before. Using one hand to grasp Ray’s wrist, the ski masked stranger plunges the syringe into the crook of Ray’s elbow. The gun drops at the sudden pain, skidding across the wooden floor.

Ray, the spectator, rips his attention from the struggle to release another silent scream.

“Jenny, get the gun!”

When Ray turns to his dead beloved, there is simply nothing. Like a missing reel from a feature film, this is an empty void in his subconscious. His mind cannot replay this perspective as Ray’s entire focus was on the intruder that night. If Jenny ran or froze in fear, he would never know. It didn’t matter. She died either way.

The fight only starts up again when Ray looks back. The intruder’s attack, though deft and effective, has occupied both his hands. He has no way to defend against the head butt Ray slams into the bridge of his nose. It’s a direct hit connecting with full force, pushing the intruder back in a momentary daze. Ray could end this with his next blow. The man would never see it coming.

He raises his fist.

The world spins like a turntable; his vision blurs—the projectionist behind Ray’s eyes having abandoned his post.

The head butt is his first thought. He must have misjudged the point of impact and dizzied himself with his own attack, but the next step he tries to take suggests otherwise.

It suggests the needle in his arm.

His legs are no longer made of flesh and bone. They consist solely of gelatin; a substance which does nothing to support his body weight. Instead of a knockout punch, Ray can only extend an open hand towards his opponent in a desperate attempt to support himself. Miraculously, his clutching fingers find purchase around the intruder’s collar, but it is not enough to stop his descent.

He collapses. The world does not exist under his feet. As Ray falls, he pulls down the man’s shirt, exposing the flesh of his neck. The now visible tattoo will forever be burned into Ray’s mind as it is branded on the man’s skin.

A skull faced worm crawling its way out of a rotten apple.

The joke hits Ray before the ground does.

A bad apple.

Ray is no longer viewing this dream from afar, now back in his own shoes. From his sideways, floor-level perspective, he knows he’s lying on his side. But the drug injected into his arm has left him completely numb. He can’t feel a thing. Not the wooden floorboards under his face, not the drool running from the corner of his mouth … and not the gun being placed in his grip by a pair of leather gloved hands. It’s the last thing he saw before he blacked out, and the last thing he sees before the dream ends.

Ray’s skull slammed into something hard behind him, reality crashing back with it. The transition from dreamland to reality is so sudden, his hand instinctually darts forward to protect himself from Bad Apple’s next attack. But the sensation is fleeting at its best definition, as Ray’s current state of consciousness becomes apparent with a mere passing second. Almost instantly he knows he is awake … and he is moving.

Resting against a wall Ray cannot see, his body sways in total darkness. The room itself is rhythmically bouncing, the floor under him humming with heavy vibrations. Enveloped in total darkness, his current situation should be far more mysterious than it is. But even without his sense of sight, the experience is all too familiar.

Ray is in a moving vehicle. Judging by the volume of the constant deep hum, he is in the back of a large truck.

With a great degree of hesitance, Ray extended a hand into the endless sea of black surrounding him. What he touched came as the exact opposite of a surprise.

Bars.

A few more seconds of tactile exploration proved he was in a cage of some kind, though he could only feel bars directly ahead. The other walls felt as if they were made of a hard, coarse material, like rough plaster. Whatever it was, it allowed very limited movement, as the walls and roof were no more than two inches away from each side of his body and the top of his head. A subtle tinge of claustrophobia quickened his heart rate when he was realized the unnerving truth: this was more a box than a cage. If not for the barred opening he could feel in front of him, panic would’ve surely been his next logical reaction. Was there any other reason to put a person in a box than to bury him?

But the bars. The bars were there, Ray was sure of it. And though he didn’t know what it meant, he was confident his captors didn’t plan to bury him alive. Least not yet, anyway.

So where were they taking him?

A voice in his brain joked they were going to release him back into the wild. But when the comedian didn’t get a single laugh from Ray, he immediately shut the hell up, though not before reminding him he’d be here all night. And to tip his waitress.

Focus!

Now wasn’t the time to lose it. Truth be told, Ray knew he was teetering on the high wire of madness. Discovering the outside world was a complete and utter illusion could do that to you, but now they were taking him somewhere, and even if the truck door opened to reveal yet another compound, Ray had to be ready. It was impossible to know until the sliding door of the trailer was raised, but it was possible real sunshine would be there to greet him. If that were the case, Ray would need to be ready to run at his first chance.

Of course, I may not really be moving, either.

It was amazing to think how absurd such a thought would’ve been only a week or so ago. But after the great outdoors turned out to be only an image protected onto a giant, three-hundred-and-sixty-degree television screen, it wasn’t ridiculous at all to doubt his current situation. For all he knew, Ray could be aboard one of those flight simulators he’d ridden at the state fair. Having witnessed the extent of Stefan’s riches, Ray knew the maniac millionaire could afford a whole fleet. How much could a small, dark room on hydraulic lifts cost? The price would certainly be worth the look on Ray’s face when he discovered he hadn’t gone anywhere and never would again.

Before Ray could consider the possibility any longer, the truck braked and a took a sharp, left turn. Ray slid against the side of the cage, his head connecting with the hard material again.

“Shit,” he said with a groan, but a much louder sound drowned out his voice.

BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.

The truck was backing up.

If only the cage were a few inches wider on each side, Ray might’ve been able to position himself into a better stance to attack. It was impossible to throw an effective punch without any room to draw back. Crouched and cramped as he was, the best Ray could hope for would be a short jab without any force behind it. His legs, however …

Though it bent his neck at an awkward angle, pushing his chin into his chest, Ray was able to maneuver himself onto his back, his feet resting against the barred door of the cage. The muscles in his upper back and neck complained, but Ray heard not a word. He could endure the pain from a crooked vertebrae if it offered him a chance to kick one of his captors in the face. If the door of this cage box were to open, Ray would be able to snap his leg forward with plenty of power from his knee. Even if it didn’t help his chances of escape, Ray would settle for the satisfying crunch of bone breaking under his heel.

The truck lurched as the brakes were applied. A second later, the driver cut the engine. Ray froze as he heard the driver and passenger door open, followed by an expected slamming of each. The combined sound of footsteps and German dialogue moved on each side of the truck, making its way to the trailer door.

Ray braced himself the best he could.

The door slid open with rapid metallic percussion, sunlight instantly flooding the trailer interior. Despite his best efforts, Ray could not fight his body’s natural reflexes and squinted against the blinding light. The silhouettes of Oskar and Wilhelm narrowed into stick figures as they both jumped into the trailer and approached him. Fluid leaking from his strained eyes, Ray willed his irises to adjust as they marched closer.

Get ready.

Though it made absolutely no difference, Ray still hoped it was Wilhelm to open the cage door. He’d be much more willing to welcome death if he at least got to knock a couple teeth from that bastard’s shit eating grin.

Here it comes mother fuc—

It seemed Ray’s luck had yet to change. Though it was indeed Wilhelm who approached the cage’s door, he did not kneel to unlatch it. Staring at the butler’s shiny black shoes, Ray heard an airy noise that reminded him of making a bed, as if a large sheet was being fanned over a queen-sized mattress. Sure enough, a sheet did indeed fall a moment later, gently cocooning the cage and enveloping it in darkness. The cloth was as black as the Grim Reaper’s usual attire, nothing less than a death shroud swallowing Ray whole.

Ray sucked in a large breath, planning to scream at his captors but unsure of the words to use. Before he could make a sound, the ground dropped from underneath his ass. The sensation was exactly like his latest dream, and for a moment, Ray thought perhaps he’d lost consciousness yet again. But when the moment passed it was replaced by indisputable fact: Ray had been lifted and was being carried out of the truck. By the way he rhythmically swung with the sound of every footstep, he knew he was being suspended by a single focal point. Like a cat in a bag—or a dog in a crate.

He’d been right to assume the cramped box wasn’t an undersized coffin. It was simply a means of transportation and, judging by the ease in which he was being carted, Ray guessed it was the mammoth Oskar doing the carrying.

A sudden short plummet signaled Oskar had jumped out of the truck. Without a moment’s hesitation, the journey continued as soon as the servant’s feet hit the ground.

“HEEELLPPP!!!”

Ray’s vocal cords nearly ripped at the volume of his scream, but it didn’t hinder his second attempt at all.

“Help me! I’m in here! Please! I need—”

The cloud of pepper spray did not bloom or mushroom or expand in any sense at all; it simply appeared. One moment the air was perfectly breathable, the next it felt like an entire hive of wasps shot down his throat, their stingers tearing at the soft tissue of his esophagus. A curtain of red replaced the darkness behind his eyes, the hornets somehow finding their way under his lids and stinging.

And stinging.

And stinging.

Ray was burning alive from the inside. He tried to cry out in pain but found he couldn’t. A scream would’ve required oxygen, not the combination of cinders and fiberglass that continued to pump in and out of his airways with every gasp and cough. In a desperate attempt to cleanse itself, Ray’s body involuntarily began to wretch, dry heaving until an acidic substance of white, frothy slime traveled up what was usually a one-way street. Ray vomited again and again, the burning glop from his stomach splashing between the cage bars. The only thing more excruciating than the liquid fire he continued to regurgitate like a flame breathing dragon was what felt like a swarm of fire ants crawling over his eyes.

Ray coughed. He gagged. He burned, stung, and choked, then somehow, he found a breath.

Though the scalding throb still radiated from all his pores, Ray was able to suck an increasing amount of oxygen into his lungs with every breath. Tears fogged his vision but he was able to open his eyes a sliver and blink away the cascading salt water. After a minute or so of focusing on shallow breathing, Ray realized something other than his own discomfort.

He wasn’t moving anymore. With this realization, the facts of the world existing beyond the black curtain came crashing into his consciousness like a deluge through failing flood gates.

A wall of sound, the roaring cacophony of a thousand conversations consumed every inch of space outside the portable crate. Hearing a single voice in the overpowering mass was as impossible as distinguishing the buzz of a single bee at an apiary. Wherever Ray had been transported, there were people here.

Holy shit.

There are people here!

Ray inhaled to call out to the closest voice, not caring who it belonged to. Small child or little old lady, anyone would do. But when the breath came with cat scratches in his windpipe, he immediately considered what happened last time. Even if Ray could somehow endure another point-blank spray of mace, he still had to question why Stefan’s goons would bring him to such a populated place. Was it the thrill of getting caught?

No.

There was no doubt in Ray’s mind Stefan wouldn’t allow it for a second. The man had proven himself multiple times to be diabolically cunning and manipulative. It was much more likely the crowd Ray thought he was hearing was nothing more than a looping audio track being pumped through gigantic speakers. Of course, there was no way of knowing for sure, as long as the black sheet covered the door of the crate. If Ray were to get any answers, it would be his first obstacle to overcome.

Ray had been locked in the pretzel position with his feet facing out the cage for the entire duration of his painful journey. The cloud of pepper spray had completely distracted him from his trip, his sense of touch drawing his attention away from the other four. Now everything was back online, including his ears, which listened intently as he carefully repositioned himself. Ray moved slowly, listening for any sign his captors knew what he was up to. It was difficult to hear anything over the roar of the crowd, but Ray was certain his shifting had gone unnoticed. Now, with his legs behind him and his head sticking towards the locked door, Ray slowly extended his fingers out between the bars.

The thin cloth of the black tarp brushed against his fingertips.

Come on, you bastard.

All Ray could do was pray no one would spot the sheet moving every time his fingers poked the material. He could almost pinch enough between his fingers. He needed a little more reach.

Ray took a deep breath and lunged his fingers forward. The metal bars squeezed around his middle knuckles like a vice grip, jamming his hand until it was stuck. Fortunately, it was as far as Ray needed to go. Pinching the sheet between his scissored middle and index finger, he ever so gently began to pull the cloth down. At first, the sheet’s weight threatened to be too heavy for Ray’s fingertips. It didn’t budge an inch in his first two pulls. On the third, however, the sheet gave, the inertia of its own falling mass helping its descent to the floor. Before Ray was ready, the last of the remaining cloth suddenly dropped off the crate, exposing what lay beyond.

What Ray saw was undeniable proof he’d gone mad. There was no way what he was seeing could be real.

There were aspects to the scene which were surprisingly familiar. Stadium seating cascaded down to surround a green floor of artificial turf. The green flooring resembled the felt finish of a pool table, and giant eight and cue balls wouldn’t have been out-of-place. Instead, a long table stood along the far wall where three people sat with their hands folded together—two men, both in tuxedos, and a woman in a red, formal gown. All three looked intently to an entrance to their left, a wide arch framed with a red-and-white floral arrangement. Though Ray found this entire scene to be the exceptionally odd, his sanity did not come into question until he saw what emerged from the darkness of the archway.

At first, he registered only the woman. A tall, middle-aged lady with graying hair. She sauntered onto the turf floor in a beige pantsuit. A leather strap coiled around her right hand, which Ray’s eyes followed down to her feet. He cackled, a hand shooting to his mouth to contain his maniacal squealing.

If not for one crucial detail, the scene would’ve made complete sense. The woman doing a lap on the floor, the panel judges carefully monitoring the showcase—this appeared to be nothing more than a dog show. But on the other end of the woman’s leash was not a cocker spaniel. Nor a Labrador, nor a terrier, nor a poodle. What trotted alongside the woman, eagerly looking up so as not to miss his next command, was a young, naked man. Bronzed skin and dark haired, the man seemed completely at ease as he was led in a circle around the showroom. His wide eyes revealed excitement rather than fear, as if the applause and approval from the audience pleased him.

Ray was unaware of how low his jaw hung from his skull. He was too distracted by the parade of utterly nude men and women emerging from the archway one at a time.

Some were young, appearing to be in their late teens. Others were older, dark heads of hair showing signs of salt-and-pepper. Some were white. Others were black. Others Hispanic, Indian, and Asian. But all who marched alongside their human masters were perfectly obedient; showing no signs of objection to walk briskly by the judge’s table. It was this observation that turned Ray’s stomach, shrunk his genitals, and made his body quiver in fear.

If not for the complete and utter subservience of the—go on, call them what they are—dogs, Ray might’ve reacted differently.

Perhaps in anger at seeing fellow captives, or maybe even a sense of hope he’d discovered some allies who could help him.

But something had happened to these people. Something that should’ve been impossible but here it was. Ray wanted to believe they’d always been like this—perhaps a brain defect or deformity which blessed them with a blissful ignorance since birth. It would’ve supplied even the slightest bit of comfort to know these leashed individuals had never known anything other than submission and servitude. The voice, the one in the darkest recess of Ray’s fracturing mind, knew otherwise. Even when Ray squeezed his eyes shut, he could still hear the demonic voice that sounded like his own, Stefan’s and Jenny’s all at the same time. The voice said, All of these people used to be just like you.

The moan escaped Ray’s lips before he felt it rising in his throat. Though it sounded no louder than a puppy’s whimper, Stefan was suddenly peering in through the gated entrance of the crate. His stare dropped to the fallen sheet, his eyebrows furrowing as if to say, “How’d this get down here?” Even over the rolling applause, Ray could hear his irritated voice as his head ascended from sight.

“Wilhelm! Das blatt!”

The butler complied with the order immediately, kneeling into Ray’s line of sight long enough to snatch the ebony sheet from the ground. A moment later, the black curtain again swallowed the crate. Now blinded by total darkness, Ray could still see the twisted competition with unmerciful clarity. The image burned into his mind like the ashen silhouettes of the Hiroshima ruins.

Ray pulled his legs into his chest and buried his face in his knees. Though he was not bleeding, something wet and warm began to spread underneath him.

9.

Ray didn’t try to call for help again.

Though teetering on the edge of total madness, he still retained enough sense to realize no one in this giant coliseum would answer a call of distress. To cry out would only result in a spray of the mace or a poke of the cattle prod. It only left one option—to sit in the cramped darkness and wait for the endless nightmare to move onto the next unearthly torment.

But there is no time in darkness.

Ray’s wait in the black plastic tomb lasted forever yet passed in an instant. At some point, the crashing waves of applause all around him faded into silence. One of the servants, most likely the larger Oskar, carried him from the stands surrounding the show floor and exited the arena.

Ray, however, realized none of this. His all too conscious mind had finally spared him with a numbing state of comatose. It would’ve taken something utterly shocking to yank him back into reality. Something so surprising, so disturbing he wouldn’t be able to help but notice the alien element.

Something like, say, hearing Stefan’s voice speak fluent English.

One moment there was nothing. Ray’s mind was a blank canvas, as empty and infinite as outer space. Then, like a blaring alarm clock disintegrating a beautiful dream, the gravitational pull of a single sentence pulled Ray back to Earth.

“Harold March, I presume?”

The voice was still soaked with a heavy German accent, but for the first time since meeting the icy eyed devil, Ray could comprehend every word.

But that would mean …

Ray shuffled forward in the crate until his ear met the metal gate.

“It is a pleasure to meet you. I am Stefan Hellstrom.”

He’s been able to speak English this entire time.

“My purebred is right this way.”

The approaching sounds of footsteps came closer. Ray scooted back as far as he could, reaching the back of the crate as the black curtain pulled away.

Three of the four faces were familiar—the brutish Oskar, the snickering Wilhelm, and of course, the apparently bilingual Stefan. Stefan Hellstrom.

The fourth man Ray did not recognize. Dressed as dapper as Ray’s German captor, the man knelt and peered into the cage with smoky gray eyes. He wore a black jacket and pants with a black vest covering a crimson undershirt. Two thin, gold chains ran between two of the vest’s buttons and up the inside of its right sleeve. The heavy soles of his leather cowboy boots clicked together.

“What’s wrong with his face?” The man delivered the question with a voice as smooth as a set of silk sheets. The “s” sound of “face” was emphasized ever so slightly.

Stefan knelt behind him. “Only a temporary reaction to our silencing methods.” His English had yet to become any less jarring.

The flesh of the man’s five o’clock shadowed cheeks curled as he smiled a set of perfectly straight, bleached teeth. “I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. Ms. Hadder isn’t interested in this one for his looks.”

He stood and stepped a few paces away from the crate, the heels of his cowboy books clicking as he walked. Without a body blocking his view, Ray could now make out his new surroundings. Stefan and his men had carried him down to what looked like an underground parking garage. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above a long corridor of complete concrete. Diagonal yellow lines painted on the ground marked several parking spaces, but the limo behind Stefan and his guest had chosen to ignore the designations. A driver stood in a military stance by the hood, fully clad in a typical uniform which included leather gloves and a cap.

“I got to tell you,” the stranger said to Stefan, running a hand down his greased, jet-black hair. “He doesn’t look like much.”

Stefan cleared his throat and lifted his chin. “I assure you, Mr. March, this animal is as tough as they come. Ms. Hadder will not be disappointed by his strength.”

Mr. March scratched at the exposed skin at the middle of his collar where the knot of a tie would’ve centered. He threw Ray another look. “No disrespect Stef, but your assurance means jack shit. We’re talking about Matilda Hadder here. She doesn’t do business on a man’s word.” He turned back to Stefan. “You got his papers?”

“But of course.” A hollow snap echoed through the cavernous garage as Stefan snapped his fingers. “Wilhelm!”

The smaller of the two butlers rushed forward, a manila envelope in his hand. He handed it to Harold March.

Harold March.

Matilda Hadder.

Ray’s eyes sprang open with revelation as the memory flooded into his brain. He’d heard these names before, several times in fact, as they passed between the convict mouths of his prison home. Matilda Hadder, the queen of organized crime. She existed more in legend than she did reality—an underground boogeywoman said to be behind most of the more outlandish unsolved cases. If the trail went cold, if the leads led nowhere, sooner or later the credit went to the infamous Matilda Hadder.

Of course, like all enduring myths, no one Ray had ever spoken with could prove they’d ever seen the powerful woman in the flesh. From the most powerful mob boss to the lowest goon, countless criminals had confessed to getting their orders from “The Queen.”

Who is she? The interrogating officer would ask. Describe her appearance. Where can we find her?

The answer would always be the same.

Don’t know. Never met her. I did my business through her man, March.

The man currently reading through a dossier of Raymond Phillips’s life. Legend followed Harold March in much the same fashion, but more in the way of exaggerated newspaper headlines. For instance, so many of Ray’s fellow inmates could swear Harold March had once been imprisoned at that exact penitentiary.

And how did he get out?

Why, they simply let him leave. Word was Harold March had such a silver tongue he could kill a werewolf with a single lick. Ray always assumed if this man ever had been locked up, his dismissal was surely the work of greased pockets and nothing more. But now having been in the presence of Ms. Hadder’s agent, Ray began to feel the slightest tickle of doubt. There was something about March’s being that plucked at Ray’s senses like an out-of-tune guitar. Much like you would expect a magician’s assistant to stand up again after being sawed in half, there was a vibe about this man to suggest he wouldn’t need to take an aspirin if you shot him in the head.

If nothing else, the feeling brought a little more validity to the tallest of the Matilda Hadder’s tales, the one which said she was a vampire, more than two-hundred years old, and March, her eternal servant.

“Hmm,” Harold March said, closing the folder. “I have to admit, I like what I see. A solid medical history shows a high resistance to injury and stress. A near perfect record for a lifetime of constant physical conflict. And nice, neutral scoring in his morality testing. Despite my initial doubts, I’m starting to think this one might be a good match for us after all.”

Stefan raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“He’s exactly what we’re looking for: A killer, but not a psychopath.”

The German clapped his hands together. “Excellent. So how would Ms. Hadder like to arrange this?”

Harold March handed the folder to Wilhelm and began to walk towards the limo. As he approached the car, the driver reached over and opened his door. March then removed his jacket and threw it on the seat, but not before retrieving a silver flask from the inside pocket. With his jacket off, Ray could see the impressive golden Desert Eagle hanging from a double strapped side holster.

“My driver will drop off Ms. Hadder’s bitch tomorrow evening. Make sure the act is done, and in the morning, he’ll pick her up.” Grinning, March unscrewed the flask. “And I’ll come too so you can tell me exactly how it went.”

“Outstanding,” Stefan said, taking a step towards the limo. But when he reached out for a handshake, March only shook his head.

“Forgive me,” he said, retreating from the gesture, “But I don’t touch handlers. Please don’t take offense, it’s my own neurosis. I’m afraid I’m the world’s biggest germophobe when it comes to pets.”

Ray could see Stefan was doing his best to try to roll with the rejection, but his poker face was betrayed by his instinctually pursing lips. “Very well,” Stefan said, clearing his throat to obscure an awkward silence.

“But hey,” March said, the fluorescent light practically reflecting off his ivory teeth. “I always drink to a fine deal, and a mighty fine deal this is.”

He took a long pull from his flask, swallowing three times before pulling the bottle from his lips. Ray truly believed the man could’ve downed the entire carafe without slurring a single word.

Finished with his drink, March slammed the top of the limo with his palm and slid into his seat. The driver immediately sat behind the wheel.

“By the way,” March said as he threw Ray a fiery glance. “What do you call it?”

The sentence left Ray’s lips before he even knew he’d opened his mouth.

“They call me Kaiser.”

Everyone—Stefan, March, Oskar, Wilhelm, the Driver—turned in Ray’s direction. Judging by their shared expression, you would’ve thought they were staring at a baby who’d muttered his first word.

The group stared in silence at Ray in return. Somewhere above them, on a higher level of the garage, a car’s tires squealed as it took far too sharp a turn.

His life had always been a stormy sea, an infinite treading of troubled waters. It had included such moments as staring down the barrel of a policeman’s revolver, waiting on a judge’s life sentence, and making “friends” with some of the worst criminals behind bars. And yet, until this exact moment, Raymond Phillips had never breathed such tension.

Ray’s gaze fell to Stefan’s tightening fist shaking at his side.

And the silence shattered with the boisterous laugh of Harold March.

“I like this one!” he said with a slap of his knee. He pointed a long finger at Ray. “You’re a handful, I can tell.” Suddenly his other hand was in view, an old fashioned straight-edged razor between two fingers. “But you’re damn lucky you’re not mine.”

Without warning, he snapped the razor shut with a deft flick of his wrist and tossed it at Stefan. The German barely caught the implement, juggling it with two fumbling hands until finally gaining control. Though it passed in a matter of seconds, Stefan’s overwhelming stench of power wafted away with his remarkably awkward groping. To witness even the slightest failure of perfection in the man was quite startling.

And tremendously satisfying.

“You better hold onto that,” March said as he reached for the handle of his door. “If I were you, I would’ve used it a long time ago.”

The moment March shut his door the limo drove away. Ray watched it take a turn at the end of the corridor and vanish from sight.

Stefan slowly turned towards him. He fondled the razor in his hands, gently pulling the blade out and snapping it back in.

He began to walk to the crate.

A gentle pull out. A snap back in. A gentle pull out. A snap back in.

A gentle pull out …

The blade remained extracted. Its silver edge reflecting the light back into Ray’s eyes. Ray tried his best not to squint as he said, “What’s wrong Hellstrom? You look upset.”

The words came out shakier than Ray would’ve liked but it was okay. The crippling fear from before had left him. If he lived through the next few moments, it would surely return, but whatever remained of Ray’s spirit, he was determined to face his enemy with nothing but contempt. Death had not been a thing to fear since he’d first stepped into prison.

If only he hadn’t remembered Harold March’s final words.

If I were you, I would’ve used it a long time ago.

Ray felt his sphincter tighten with fear as Stefan took another step towards the crate. With utter foolishness, Ray had translated the razor’s use to be life ending. But after witnessing the mysterious business proposal only moments ago, Ray should’ve known March would never suggest execution. Ray was of use to him. To both of them, which meant it couldn’t be Ray’s throat Stefan intended to cut.

Ray knew there were many ways to shut a man up, especially when you had the right tools.

More than one way to skin a cat. Isn’t that what they say?

But with two steps remaining between himself and the crate, Stefan stopped. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, he carefully folded the blade back into place and dropped the straight razor in his pocket.

“Oskar,” he said, nodding at his servant. “Bring ihn raus.”

He took one final indifferent glance at Ray before spinning military style on his heel and marching away.

A second later, Oskar was at the gate of the crate, something small and cylinder in his hand like a soda can. Only the soda can had a long metal pin attached to its top that Oskar pulled off with a yank. Moving faster than any man his size had a right to, he tore open the crate door, threw the can inside, and shut the gate again.

Ray threw an arm up to block the can from hitting him in the face. It bounced off his forearm and landed in his lap. Then it began to hiss.

He saw the first wisps of smoke right before Oskar dropped the sheet back over the crate, once again covering him in total darkness. His first thoughts were of tear gas, but when the floor under his ass began to tilt and spin, he knew it was incorrect.

Ray didn’t try to hold his breath against the tranquilizing fumes. With the sheet over the crate’s grated entrance, the sedative gas had nowhere to go except into Ray’s lungs. But he had learned by now it was better to retreat into his nightmares as quickly as possible. Dreamland didn’t provide any emotional solace.

But at least there was more legroom.

10.

This is where the dream ends—behind the wheel of a wrecked blue 1969 Ford Thunderbird.

It’s always an odd experience to wake up within a dream itself, and that’s exactly how this nightmare begins. The shouts are muffled by the automobile’s still running engine when Ray comes to. His vision is blurred. His head feels like a jagged fissure separates his skull into two serrated halves. And the lights in his rearview mirror: blue and flashing and much too bright.

“Let me see those hands!”

Silhouetted by an azure strobe are two dark figures. Ray can’t make them out against the harsh backlighting, but he immediately recognizes their shared stance: Feet apart and planted, arms outstretched, and something small in their hands.

Ray is being held at gunpoint.

His hands raise on their own, an automatic survival mechanism. The figures begin to separate, each one walking to a different side of the car. As the men approach, Ray tries to figure out how he got here. He doesn’t remember wrapping the hood of the Thunderbird around the telephone pole. He doesn’t even remember getting in the car. The only thing he can recall is lying on the floor.

Jenny …

Ray fights to keep his hands in the air as the cop approaches his door. His body feels as weak as when the intruder injected the anesthetic into his forearm. Violent tremors rack his body, not a single muscle spared from the tensing shudders. He still doesn’t know how he got here or what is about to happen, but he doesn’t care. All he cares about is Jenny.

And all he knows is he has failed to protect her.

The cop stands a few feet away from the door. Through the fogged window he yells. “Step out of the car. Slowly.”

Time ceases to behave correctly the moment Ray’s hand touches the cool surface of the door’s metal handle. As dreams often do, the nightmare begins to skip like a perfectly flat stone across a glass watered lake.

The arrest—his hands on the hood, the right to remain silent, the cold kiss of the handcuffs—it all passes in a single heartbeat. The stone skips to the trail. A neighbor takes the stand and testifies to overhearing a particularly aggressive argument. A doctor takes the stand and explains the puncture mark in Ray’s elbow is not from an injected sedative, but a long history of heroine abuse. A detective takes the stand and holds up a straight razor in a plastic baggie. It’s the tool used to remove the victim’s eyes, ears, and tongue.

Though the judge would sentence him to death, it is the arrival of this gruesome piece of evidence that ends his life. The newspapers and television stations spread the word: Raymond Phillips is dead.

Razor Ray is born.

The stone skips once more and it is the quickest skip of all.

The bars slamming on his cell.

It all passes before Ray can pull his Thunderbird’s door open to greet the policeman. Time never behaves in dreams.

“Step out of the car. Slowly.”

Ray lets go of the handle, slumps back in his seat, and closes his eyes. He knows he’ll soon comply with the policeman’s order—that’s how this story goes. But first he wants to try something. It’s his dream after all.

Maybe if he concentrates hard enough, Jenny will be sitting in the passenger seat when he opens his eyes. Maybe it won’t be snowing anymore either, but a warm summer’s night in late July. Perhaps they won’t be wrapped around a telephone pole but parked at the drive-in as they were on their first date. And maybe, just maybe, she will smile at him one last time.

Ray turns his head to the passenger seat.

And opens his eyes.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Stefan stood over him with a glass of burgundy wine in one hand, the other in the front pocket of a velvet smoking jacket. With the tube lights flickering above him and the coarse straw poking his back, Ray knew immediately he’d been returned to his dungeon-like quarters of the Hellstrom home.

Ray sat up slowly, the only speed his throbbing temples would allow. The clink of the scraping chain attached to his metal collar came as no surprise.

Stefan took a long, audible sip from his glass, swishing the liquid in his mouth before swallowing. “Mmm,” he said, swirling the wine around the crystal. “Exquisite vintage. And from my own winery no less. The vineyard itself is nothing too extravagant. I am not in the business myself. It is strictly for my own enjoyment.”

Ray watched the man take another drink and felt his salivary glands begin to flood his mouth. He desperately yearned for the tiniest taste of the alcoholic drink but fought back the desire burning in his eyes. He would die before he asked this man for anything.

The increased saliva brought a rotten, acidic tang to his taste buds—no doubt the burning aftertaste of the gas grenade. Ray spit the foul flavor from his mouth, the wad of saliva missing Stefan’s shoes by near inches. “It’s exquisite, huh? Don’t you mean it’s vunderbar?”

Stefan’s lips curled into a closed mouth smile that would’ve impressed Lucifer himself. “Yes, I suppose my command of your language would come to somewhat of a surprise to you. But if I am to be honest, I do not care much for English. To me it seems like what would be left if one were to extract all the honesty and strength from the German language. It always leaves my tongue feeling … limp.”

“Huh,” Ray said, staring back at Stefan with absolute contempt. “I always preferred French myself. You fucking piece of shit.”

Stefan finished his wine, the corners of his grin visible beneath the glass. “Splendid,” he said, bringing the chalice from his mouth. “What spirit. What fight! It reminds me of how Oskar used to be.”

Ray let his back fall against the cold stone wall behind him. The humming in his ears was starting to subside. “You mean your fat fuck of a butler?”

Stefan sauntered over to the far corner of the wall to where the shadows were the darkest. A metal folding chair dragged behind him when he reemerged. He unfolded in the center of the room. Ray needn’t test the length of his chain to assume it was too short to reach the chair, so he watched as Stefan took a seat.

“My wife,” Stefan said, only it came out more like my vife. “She was a beautiful woman. You need not take my word on that—one look at my daughter is all the proof you need.”

Stefan reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a shiny cigarette case. He pulled one out and placed it in his lips as he continued to speak.

“Her beauty would not be the only gift she would receive in life. I gave her anything she desired—all in the name of winning her heart.”

He inhaled a long drag from his cigarette, letting the smoke trail out between his lips like an uncoiling snake.

“You see, our marriage was …” Stefan paused, his eyebrows tightening together. “…Arranged, I suppose you might say. I myself fell in love at first sight. But Elsa …”

Stefan fell silent and for a brief awkward moment, Ray suspected the man was waiting for him to speak. But with an exaggerated, drawn-out sigh, Stefan finally spoke again.

“Elsa somehow wanted more. I gave her the wealth of the world and she gave me a child. But in the end it was not enough.”

Ray placed the palm of his hand at the corner of his chin and pushed. His neck popped like a firecracker as it turned. “Well, what can you do?” He pushed his chin the other direction with an equal amount of percussion. “I guess Nazis weren’t her type.”

The hand holding the cigarette dropped to Stefan’s side. Unfortunately, the expression twisting his features was not the one of anger Ray was hoping for. Though he assumed his antagonizing would probably end with a quick press of an electrifying remote, Ray couldn’t ignore the slim possibility an angered Stefan might move to strike him physically. Then Ray would have him in his strong, strangling hands.

But no. Stefan didn’t show the faintest sign of anger, irritation, or annoyance. On the contrary, with his dropped jaw and raised eyebrows, the man actually appeared hurt.

“The Nazi party,” he said, “is an ugly scar on the flesh of my country. One, I regret to say, will never fully heal. My admiration for Adolph Hitler ends at his strength of will and dedication. His agenda was one I do not share.”

Ray lifted the heavy chain with one hand. “Fooled me.”

Stefan took another drag from his cigarette, his eyes narrowing as if to contemplate Ray’s brash comment. But when he spoke again, after releasing the smoke from his lungs, it was if the little tangent had never come up at all.

“Amelia was two years old when Oskar came into our home. I did not particularly care for him at first—in those days I did not appreciate spiritual vigor as I do now. Instead I only found his rebellious nature irritating at best. Still, I had faith he could be trained given sufficient time and effort.”

“You mean …”

Ray could feel his left eyebrow twitch as his mind struggled to house this bombshell.

“Oskar is … was …”

“Yes, Oskar once sat where you do now.” Stefan immediately shook his head. “Well, not in the most literal sense. These quarters had yet to be built. Back then I was still using the rooms my grandfather constructed during the war. But, like all antiques, despite their sentimental value, they became too outdated to ignore.”

Ray let his gaze wander the perimeters of the room. The stonework of the walls looked like an old mason, mismatching rocks in the place of identical, factory-made bricks. Ceaseless drips of water dropped from one corner of the wall, an increasingly growing puddle forming on the floor. The lights above continued to flicker.

Though he planned to ask what made this cell modern in any sense of the word, Ray surprised himself when a much broader, simpler question escaped his lips.

“Why do you do this?”

The German finished the cigarette and flicked the remaining tobacco filled stump to the concrete floor. “As I was saying, I was not very fond of Oskar when he first arrived. Elsa, however, was quite smitten. While she was scolding me for being impatient, she would be hand feeding Oskar cheeses and caviar. I can honestly say I did my best to tolerate this behavior, dismissing it as mere affection for the newest member of our family. I kept telling myself Elsa’s coddling would eventually decrease as Oskar grew older. But then one day …”

Stefan bit his lip as if waiting for a painful muscle spasm to pass.

“… One day I had some gentlemen over for some target shooting. When we tired of stationary targets, I suggested we release some pheasants. To this day I couldn’t tell you why I chose to retrieve Oskar instead of sending one of my servants, but I suppose it does not matter. What matters is I did excuse myself while my company continued to fire away, the air filled with the echoes of each shot. I can only assume that is why they didn’t hear me coming, Oskar and my wife. She was on her hands and knees. He was behind her.”

Ray lifted his head from the stone wall. “Doggy style? Go figure.”

“Call it what you will. It was all betrayal to me. However, I think I could have lived with betrayal alone. Though I would never deny I am proud man, my pride had survived past injuries and it could have healed from the sting of adultery. But this?”

Stefan’s lips parted to reveal clenched teeth.

“This could never be forgiven. I would not raise my only child in the presence of bestiality.”

Stefan stared at Ray. Ray stared back. The corner of the ceiling continued to leak.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Ray wanted to ask the man if he had the slightest inkling how crazy he really was, but he couldn’t. The question seemed too redundant to exist. So, he remained silent until the moment Stefan spoke again.

“Her grave is in the arboretum. It is marked by a lemon tree. You have seen it. In fact, I believe you have tasted her fruit.”

The phantom flavor of citrus stung the back of Ray’s tongue.

“I apologize if the lemons were especially sour, but you have to consider who the tree is feeding off of.”

Ray’s stomach surfed on a wave of sickness. He closed his eyes against the surging nausea and took a long deep breath through his nose. Unfortunately, these methods did nothing to shield him from Stefan’s continuing speech.

“So that left the question: what to do about Oskar? I did consider Elsa’s solution for a time but decided I did not really want to look after a lemon grove. On the other hand, it had become very apparent taming such a beast would require far more than conventional methods. But I was determined. And I found a way.”

Reaching into pocket of his pants, Stefan revealed an all too familiar object—the straight razor tossed to him by Harold March.

A tendon in Ray’s neck quivered.

“You might have noticed Oskar does not say much.” Stefan unfolded the blade with a flick of his thumb. “There is a reason. Can you guess what it is?”

“I don’t know,” Ray said, failing to feign disinterest. His unblinking eyes revealed his full attention. “You cut out his tongue?”

The sound of Stefan’s hand smacking his knee was like a whip crack.

“Correct!” His enthusiasm was nothing short of a game show host’s. “But let us see if you can really impress me. Tell me what else I cut off.”

A memory flashed before Ray’s eyes as vivid as the actual event. He stood under the lemon tree in Stefan’s arboretum; the two butlers approaching to drag him back inside. He’d defended himself the only way he could—by using the lemons as projectiles. His aim had been straight and true and he’d hit Oskar directly in the groin.

And the butler didn’t react at all.

“You castrated him.”

Fingernail dust fell to the floor like snow as Stefan tested the straight razor against his thumbnail. The blade was sharp.

“I did what any owner would do. I had him neutered. It was, after all, the most responsible course of action. And look at him now, he could not be more well behaved.”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

“I take it by your silence you agree.”

Ray said nothing. There was nothing he could say. All he could do was watch Stefan fold the straight razor and drop it back in his pocket.

“Now, I can assume you must be asking yourself why I would bother telling you all of this, so I’ll come right to the point. Men under the employment of Matilda Hadder will be arriving tonight to deliver Ms. Hadder’s prize bitch. Ms. Hadder has been searching for quite some time for a suitable match that would provide her with worthy pups. How I orchestrated such an arrangement is a story all in itself, but you should only concern yourself with tonight. I do not expect the act to take any time at all, but I still want you well rested and ready to perform. I will not accept an unsuccessful breeding.”

Stefan uncrossed his legs and stood up from the folding chair. Ray watched in utter disbelief as he dragged the chair back over to the shadowed wall and immediately went for the door.

As Stefan reached for the handle of the door, Ray came to his senses.

“No fucking way.”

The German slowly turned. It was his turn to disbelieve.

“Come again?”

“What makes you think I would ever cooperate with something like that?”

Stefan shrugged, holding his shoulders up for an almost comical length of time. “I suppose nothing is guaranteed. But I have a feeling you will do your part …” He reached back into his pocket. When his hand reemerged, the folded straight razor lay in his palm. “… If you want me to stop at your tongue.”

He turned to leave again.

“Why are you doing this?”

Ray’s question hung in the air like a setting sun halfway to the horizon. Given enough time, it would disappear, as long as Stefan chose to ignore it. But the German surprised Ray when he offered a simple reply.

Still facing the door, Stefan said, “You would not understand.”

The door slid open with a squealing plea for lubricant. Ray felt something within him give out the moment it slammed shut, leaving him once again alone. As if he’d been holding a heavy stack of wood for the entire conversation, Ray’s entire muscular system went slack with release. He had somehow held on for the entire duration of Stefan’s visit, but now it was over, the curtain immediately fell on his tough guy recital. Every time he looked into that cold, merciless gaze, the repeat performance became increasingly difficult. He felt like his sanity had become a jigsaw puzzle, but one where not a single piece fit together. And with every new piece of knowledge acquired, the puzzle only became harder to assemble.

And the voice …

The voice Ray had first heard after witnessing the dog show was getting louder. It had sounded so foreign then—an alien intruder invading his consciousness. But now Ray was beginning to recognize it as an old friend. It was the one that tells you when to walk away from a poker game when you can’t afford to lose another penny, or to come out with your hands up when the police have you surrounded.

But like he would in those other scenarios, Ray would ignore the voice. He would keep swimming back to himself for as long as he could, until his lungs burst and his muscles permanently locked.

But God, was he getting tired. And the waves kept rising. And the tide kept pushing.

And the shore was getting farther and farther away.

11.

Several hours later, Oskar and Wilhelm arrived to retrieve him. But it was not their first visit of the day.

The first time, the door opened in its typical, creaky fashion to reveal Wilhelm standing by himself. As usual, he wore a sickening grin across his face like he was always laughing at a punch line you never understood. He said nothing but stared at Ray with that god damn smile of his.

Finally, when Ray couldn’t take any more of the butler’s nauseating smirk, he asked, “Where’s your dickless boyfriend?”

Wilhelm stepped to the side, speaking as he vanished from the doorway.

“Es ist Badezeit.”

He disappeared as Oskar took his place in the doorway. The large butler held a metal object of brass or bronze in one of his meaty hands. When Oskar pointed it at him, a black eye stared at Ray like the barrel of a gun.

Ray noticed the long black hose running from Oskar’s hands as the water hit him like a heavyweight’s jab. White blossoms of light exploded behind his closed eyes as his head slammed into the wall behind him. The torrent of water pinned him there, a constant jet of pressure pushed the air from his lungs and never spared him a second to suck any back in. The spray ricocheted off his chest and peppered the flesh of his neck and face like a swarm of bees stinging him over and over. Ray closed his mouth to the water trying to invade his airways, but it only flooded his nostrils. Ray was drowning on dry land.

He fell forward.

The cold stone floor connected with his forehead, but Ray felt nothing. He was too distracted by the gasps of air he painfully inhaled through his burning lungs. Shifting colors continued to dance across his vision, the world spinning and tilting as his body pleaded for more oxygen. Ray hadn’t even realized the fire hose had been shut off until Oskar was on top of him, pinning his spastic body to the ground.

Something sharp stabbed his buttocks.

Ray gritted his teeth against the needle’s bite, his lungs still not strong enough to cry out. The injection complete, Ray felt Wilhelm’s weight leave his legs, and a moment later, Oskar rose as well. With his face half submerged in puddle, Ray looked to the door with bloodshot eyes to see Oskar retrieve the fire hose from the floor and carry it away. Wilhelm followed closely behind, reaching for the door and sliding it shut behind him. Right before the door sealed tight, the smaller butler stuck his head through one last time and said, “Schön und sauber!”

Ray’s aching muscles demanded he lay there for a very long time and he did not disagree. It didn’t seem logical to move anyway—the sedative they had surely injected him with would be taking effect any time now.

Only, Ray didn’t feel drowsy.

On the contrary, his body began to awaken.

All on its own.

Ray’s gaze went to his crotch in utter disbelief to what he was feeling. His penis stood straight and erect, practically throbbing with determined conviction. Judging by a lifetime of past experience, Ray’s wet and frigid condition should have caused the exact opposite results. But in spite of Ray’s shivering discomfort, his swollen organ declared it had work to do and nothing would discourage it.

Ray wrapped his hand around himself. The erection was a furnace on full blast.

“What the fu—?”

The answer came before the question could even be finished.

The injection.

The little blue pill in intravenous form.

Oskar and Wilhelm’s visit had been more than simple pacification—it was preparation. They’d hosed him down to clean him off and gave him a little performance assistance as well. Now he was squeaky clean and ready to go. One look between his legs was all the proof you needed.

Ray was still sexually saluting when the butlers returned. Oskar’s gaze fell to Ray’s crotch.

“You jealous?”

The chain around Ray’s neck retracted into the wall the moment the door opened. Ray swung out his fist for Oskar’s approaching face, but the wall prevented any sufficient leverage. The butler caught the pathetic swing and twisted Ray’s arm behind his back, where Wilhelm was readily waiting with handcuffs. It wasn’t long before Ray was back on the handcart and making his way to the elevator at the end of the hall.

With the muzzle once again around his mouth, Ray could only remain silent as he went along for the ride. The three men entered the service elevator, Wilhelm slamming the gate shut behind them. His hand then went to the old-fashioned lever. If he pulled it up, they would ascend into the mansion above. Down and they would most likely return to the simulated outdoors.

Wilhelm yanked up, and Ray had his answer. The elevator began its ascent with a startling jerk before smoothing out for the rest of its journey. Ray stared straight ahead as they rode upward in the shaft, his awkward erection pointing out towards the grated gate. The butlers also remained silent and motionless, and Ray sensed they too found this trip horribly awkward. Carting around a naked man was one thing—ignoring his throbbing hard-on was a different matter altogether.

After what felt like an impossibly long duration, the elevator gave a short bounce before coming to an abrupt stop. Wilhelm wasted no time reaching out towards the grate and sliding it aside as Oskar tilted the hand truck onto its wheel with equal efficiency. With Wilhelm leading the way, they stepped out into the same lavish hallway Ray recognized from days prior. As they passed by the portrait of Elsa Hellstrom, Ray recalled wondering if the beautiful woman was Amelia’s mother. With the mystery had been solved, her narrow, pale eyes seemed to say so much more than before.

You don’t know anything, they said.

You have no idea.

The hallway took a sharp right turn through a doorway. Though the study looked exactly the same since Ray had last seen it, he needed only one detail to know he was back where it all began.

The cage.

And like before, it held a naked human being.

They’d positioned her on her hands and knees, strapping down her forearms and quadriceps so she couldn’t move. She faced the opposite direction, long wavy strands of dark hair concealing her face and running like curving rivers down the olive skin of her back. Her head hung low, her forehead resting on the floor of the cage. She moved not a single muscle when Ray and his escorts entered.

Ray allowed himself only a brief glance at the nude woman before tearing away his gaze. He knew the futility in granting the poor woman any amount of dignity, but he still refused to stare at her in the same way as the lecherous Wilhelm. Unfortunately, his eyes were drawn to the only other person in the room—a man standing by one of the tall picture windows wearing a velvet smoking jacket.

“Willkommen,” Stefan said with a glass of brandy halfway to his lips. He took one last glance out the window before making his way towards the hand truck. “Schöne Nacht, ja?”

Ray had no choice but to remain silent as the muzzle still wrapped tightly around his mouth. All he could do was stare directly into Stefan’s eyes and will his thoughts of absolute hate into the German’s mind.

Stefan reached Ray’s side and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Kaiser,” he said, gesturing with his other hand towards the prone, naked woman. “Dies ist Regina.”

Ray didn’t move. He kept his eyes locked where they were.

Stefan turned to the cage. “Regina?”

The woman’s head remained down.

Stefan took a step closer. “Reginaaaa?”

A quiet moan slipped through her lips as she turned her head an inch to her left. But the action seemed to require all of her energy as she quickly returned her forehead to the floor.

Stefan spun back around to face Ray, his hand darting into the front pocket of his smoking jacket. A small, orange prescription pill bottle rose emerged in his hand which he shook at the side of his face. The few remaining pills rattled within the plastic container as Stefan rolled his eyes.

The gesture seemed to say, Women … what can you do?

Ray had always thought the term “seeing red” was entirely metaphorical.

He was wrong.

Ray tried to scream against the wave of crimson washing over his eyes, but the muzzle continued to do the job it was designed for. He could only release a throat burning groan through his clenched teeth in response to the pure, concentrated anger conquering his consciousness. Had the straps of the hand truck allowed for even the slightest movement, Ray would’ve attacked the man any way he could. His teeth, his knee—he would have impaled Stefan’s eardrum with his unbendable erection given the chance.

Instead, he had to watch as Stefan merely smirked in reply.

Receiving a little nod of the head from his master, Oskar reached over with one of his broad hands and unclipped the muzzle from Ray’s mouth. The air conditioning chilled the perspiring flesh of his jaw as he sucked in long breath of fresh oxygen.

Stefan inched closer. “Was? Was war das?”

Wilhelm snickered to his right.

“I said I’m going to kill you, you sick fuck.” There was absolutely nothing Ray could do to stop the words from spewing from his mouth. “I’m going to fucking skull fuck you till you bleed out your …”

“Kaiser!”

Ray didn’t have to turn around to know the voice coming from the doorway behind him. In a world of psychopathic sadists, it was hard to mistake a voice so innocent and young.

Suddenly, the girl was at his leg, hugging him around his knee. She somehow didn’t seem to notice the pulsing organ springing from her beloved’s body.

“Amelia!” Stefan grabbed his daughter’s shoulder and yanked her away. “Du sollst nicht um hier zu sein!”

The German speech shot from Stefan’s mouth like machine gun fire, making it impossible to know exactly what he was saying. But his tone and volume were enough and for once, it seemed like he and Ray agreed on something:

A den of human breeding was nowhere for a little girl to be.

“Leider, Papa.”

Amelia was on the verge of crying. She couldn’t bring her eyes from the floor and her voice came meek and trembling.

Stefan reached down and placed a hand under his daughter’s chin, lifting her head to meet her eyes. “Es ist okay. Spielen mit ihm später.”

This last phrase seemed to please the girl as her quivering frown flipped into a smile. She turned her wide, blue eyes up to Ray. “Auf Wiedersehen, Kaiser!” Stefan gave her backside a little pat as she scampered off, closing the door behind her.

With Amelia gone, Stefan clapped his hands together and nodded his head at the larger butler. Ray instantly fell backward as Oskar tilted the hand truck onto its wheels and began to roll it towards the cage.

“You might as well stop here, big boy. This isn’t going to happen.”

Ray clenched his teeth as Oskar dropped the hand truck back onto its base again, the impact shooting all the way up his spine. The butler looked to his master with inquisitive eyes, apparently unsure of what to do next.

Stefan marched forward into Ray’s view, leaning toward his captive but safely away from its potentially snapping jaws.

“No?” he said, the amusement in his face not hidden in the slightest.

The wad of spit hit him at the top of his left cheek. Now it was Ray’s turn to smile.

“No fucking way.”

Saliva running down the left side of his face, Stefan calmly reached for the purple handkerchief sticking out from his breast pocket. Even now he wouldn’t grant Ray the satisfaction of showing anger, minus the slightest twitch of his right upper eyelid. He dabbed the spit from the flesh of his cheek and sauntered to the other side of the cage with the casualness of a morning stroll. Standing in front of the bound woman’s head, he snapped his fingers and Wilhelm immediately tossed an object Stefan deftly caught with one hand.

The 9mm Luger semi-automatic pistol was now pointed at the woman’s head.

“No?” Stefan cocked the hammer back.

The undeniable power of truth fueled Ray’s speech and it came immediate and uninhibited.

“Go ahead, Hellstrom. Shoot her. I’m sure Matilda Hadder won’t mind at all if you destroyed her property.” He paused, giving himself the opportunity to smile. “But we both know you don’t have the balls.”

Stefan stared, unblinking, into Ray’s eyes. His finger remained on the trigger, and for an immeasurable moment, Ray believed he might be crazy enough to put a bullet in the woman’s brain. After all, this was the same man who murdered the mother of his own child.

But the woman hadn’t been Matilda Hadder. Stefan un-cocked the sidearm and drew it back from the cage.

“Ficken,” he whispered though sneering lips. Ray’s smile widened.

Stefan tossed the gun back to Wilhelm who barely caught the weapon at the last second. “Okay.” He snapped again, this time at Oskar. “Plan B.”

Oskar stepped forward so he was standing in front of the hand truck where Ray could see him. He held two different objects in each hand. The first was a carrot, instantly recognizable by its orange color and narrow shape. The other was less familiar—a long coil of thin metal rope which ended in a small loop. Oskar placed the piano wire lasso around the carrot, sliding it down until was snug around the thicker end.

He gave Ray a quick, menacing glance and fiercely tugged the wire with an abrupt jerk.

Ray’s gaze followed the severed vegetable to as it fell to the floor and bounced onto Stefan’s well-polished shoe. He watched as pale fingers wrapped around the cleanly halved carrot and lifted it into the air. His gaze caught up with the carrot’s ascending journey as Stefan popped it into his mouth with a raucous crunch.

“Lecker,” Stefan muttered, licking orange flakes from his teeth.

A tickling jolt shot through Ray’s gut as something brushed across his testicles. Though he could not bend from his strapped position to the hand truck, in his peripheral vision he could see Oskar reaching for his crotch.

“Hey what the fuck do you think you’re—”

Ray gasped as Oskar’s thick, callused fingers slid the cold metal loop over the head of his penis and continued to the push downward. The rough wire chafed his tender skin as the lasso moved down to the base of his member until it was secure against his groin.

“Gut,” Stefan said, examining his butler’s work. He waved his hand towards the cage. “Vorgehen.”

Without another word, the hand truck completed its route to the cage door. Oksar reached around and placed a tree trunk arm across Ray’s knees while Wilhelm unstrapped the cuffs around his legs. The cage door swung open with a squeal.

It occurred to Ray the butlers hadn’t bothered unbinding his wrists before dumping him into the cage next to the woman. His face resting above her heel, Ray struggled to get to his knees without the aid of his hands. The woman’s face turned at the movement and he was finally able to see her face. Narrow, green, cat-like eyes stared at him with drug-induced indifference. Her mouth, however, curled up ever so slightly, as if she were trying to offer any sort of comfort to her fellow captive. Ray knew he should try to return the gesture, but a fresh surge of rage stole the expression from his face. Even in her medicated haze, the woman seemed to recognize Ray was as powerless as she. This was the face of defeat.

And it was too much.

“If you can hear me,” he said, looking at the woman though she had closed her eyes, “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do it. I’m not aaahh….!”

The coil around the base of his member tightened. Ray’s eyes followed the length of wire which led from his crotch, traveled between the bars of the cage, and ended in a spiral wrapped around Oskar’s fist.

The butler slowly moved his hand back a little more. With his hands still tied behind him, Ray could nothing to stop the wire from tightening. It now dug into his flesh—not hard enough to draw blood—but bringing pain nonetheless.

He positioned himself behind her without a sound. Minus the occasional crack from the lit fireplace, the room was as silent as death.

Ray inched himself close until his thighs were against the woman’s buttocks. He leaned forward as far as he could, his lips touching the base of her neck.

“I’ll be fast,” he whispered.

12.

To Ray’s surprise, he was not returned to his cell. After finishing his assigned task, he was directed over to the edge of the cage with a little flick of his “leash.” Instructed to turn around, Ray inhaled a sharp breath when he heard the unmistakable flicking sound of a pocketknife. But the jolt of panic dissipated the moment the binding around his wrist split in two. Hands now free of one another, they went directly to his crotch and carefully slid the wire loop off himself. The removal was considerably easier than it would’ve been an hour ago, as his organ had finally settled down and hung limp between his legs. The metal rope left a dark line in his flesh, a bruise he assumed would take its time to fade away.

Oskar reeled in the coil like fishing line and stuffed the entire length of wire into his pocket. He then took his place at Wilhelm’s side behind their mutual master.

“Wunderbar,” Stefan said, finishing his second helping of brandy. Without command, Wilhelm stepped forward to retrieve the empty glass from his outstretched hand. “Guter junge, Kaiser.” Stefan looked from Ray to the woman still strapped in her hunched position and released a fatigued sigh. “Guter mädchen, Regina.”

With a well-practiced military spin, Stefan turned on one heel toward the door. His back to the cage and the butlers following him out, he only added, “Gute nacht,” before departing the room. On their way out, Wilhelm hit the light switch and Oskar shut the door, leaving Ray and his female companion in a room lit only by a flickering fire.

Ray silently counted to one-hundred and twenty before daring to move. When the two minutes passed without the door reopening, Ray assumed it safe to approach the half comatose woman.

“I’m going to undo your straps,” he said, being careful not to move too quickly. “I’m not going to hurt you. So keep quiet. I don’t want them coming back.”

If the woman understood him, she made no indication of such. However, she remained still as Ray undid the leather straps around her quadriceps. The belts had left wide, white marks across the blood deprived flesh underneath. Ray caught a glimpse of the skin slowly beginning to darken to its healthy tan color before moving to the straps around her forearms. He kept one eye on the woman’s face and one on his work below—Ray wanted to give himself plenty of time to retreat if the woman decided to lash out with biting jaws. He wouldn’t blame her if she tried. After what’d done to her, scratching out his eyeballs would be entirely justified.

But the woman kept perfectly still until the belts were removed from both her arms. All four limbs now completely free, she slumped onto her side and crawled to the cage bars.

“Easy,” Ray coaxed, trying to make his voice as gentle as he could. “It’s okay. I’m Ray. What’s your name?”

The woman somehow had enough strength left in her arms to pull herself up until her back rested against the bars. After a moment of letting her head hang limp, she lifted her chin so her emerald eyes met Ray’s gaze. Even through her jet-black hair laying across her face and onto her breasts, Ray could see the vibrant green color of her irises. They practically glowed.

“Do you have a name?” he asked again. “Besides Regina.”

Her head twitched at the last word.

“No,” Ray said, his voice growing louder than he wished. “I’m not going to call you that. It’s not your name. You are not Regina and I am not Kaiser. My name is Raymond Phillips.”

He placed a hand on his chest.

“Ray,” he repeated. “What’s your real name?”

The woman stared back at him.

“Okay,” he said. “Then I’ll call you …”

Ray paused as he looked the woman over. As far as he could tell, from her dark skin and hair, she was Italian.

“… Bella. I’ll call you Bella, okay?”

It was the first Italian female name that came to mind.

“Bella, if you can understand me, I’m sorry. I’m sorry this happened to you. I’m sorry for what I did. I—”

He stopped, his head falling to his chest. Even if the woman could understand his words, she still probably didn’t believe him. And why should she? Ray could’ve told her he never had a choice … but it wasn’t true, was it? The truth was when it came down to it, he’d chosen his own wellbeing over hers.

Primal self-preservation wins every time.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ray thought he could see the woman staring at him. But when he lifted his gaze to meet her own, he discovered it was only the crackling fire that held her attention. The flames reflected off her glassy eyes.

It doesn’t look like she cares about any of this.

Ray swallowed what little moisture remained in his sandpaper mouth.

Maybe she doesn’t.

For all Ray knew, Bella could’ve been among those trotted alongside the judge’s table at that hellish dog show. And if that were the case, any semblance of her humanity would’ve been like a picked wildflower left to dry out in the sun. Ray may have been fighting tooth-and-nail to keep possession of his own sanity, but his nightmare would seem like a pleasant daydream compared to what this woman must have endured. If all the stories were even half true, one would have an easier year with Stefan Hellstrom than a single day under Matilda Hadder.

“No.”

Ray’s voice was now coming without any hindrance, but he had ceased to care.

“I can’t believe it. Whether you understand English or not, I know you can hear me. There has to be someone left in there.”

The woman stared at the fire.

“Bella?”

Without a single blink.

“Hey! I’m talking to you, God damn it!”

Slowly, she turned toward him with a blank expression, though the slightest hint of emotion shaped her facial features. Like the tiniest pinch of salt added to stew, the seasoning was barely noticeable … but it was there.

Annoyance?

No, not quite.

Consideration?

Definitely not.

The word was at the tip of his tongue, its foot entangled in a taste bud. Ray searched her poker face, looked through the curtains of cascading hair and resisted her alluring stare. The faintest crescent shaped wrinkle curved the skin to the left of her mouth. There it was.

Amusement.

“All right, fine!”

In three long strides, Ray paced away from the woman and put his back to her as he faced out the bars. He could feel the anger turning his already simmering blood to a rolling boil. If he stared at Bella’s contemptuous smirk any longer …

He wouldn’t admit it would go there. But he did recognize it could.

The joints in Ray’s knees popped like twisting bubble wrap as he let his body weight bring him to the floor. Back leaning against the bars in a similar position as the woman, he looked at her and swallowed back the residual rage.

“You’re right,” he said, now smiling himself. “What’s the point? It’s not like talking to me would help you at all. I can’t help you. I can’t even help myself.”

Her gaze had once again returned to the fire.

“I wish I could tell you I had a plan to get us both out of here. But I don’t, plain and simple. Hell, I mean …” His eyes shut as he let his head roll back against the bars. “… I couldn’t even tell you why this is happening.”

With his eyes still closed, Ray listened to the fire. The cracking of the flames was growing fainter as the fire was beginning to die down. It would not be long before the wood completely burned out, leaving the two of them in total darkness.

“Lo fanno perché possono.”

Ray’s eyes sprang open. He nearly bashed the back of his skull against the cage iron as he whipped his head towards his fellow prisoner.

“What did you say?”

Somehow, even the low light of the dying fire, her eyes held their luminescence.

“Lo fanno perché possono,” she repeated.

“I … I don’t …”

Bella gave him one last look before falling to her side and rolling over. Ray watched as she curled into a fetal position, her legs pressed against her chest. She remained almost perfectly still—her shoulders hardly rising with each breath.

“What does that mean?” he asked the back of her head. He could make out the spinal column pressing outward against her arching back.

When no answer came, Ray didn’t bother asking again. He might as well let the woman sleep. She deserved her rest. And besides, whatever she had said, the words wouldn’t unlock the cage, or escort them out the door, or send in the army to nuke this mansion right off the face of the earth. Shakespeare or gibberish, in any language, her words meant as much as his:

Nothing.

Ray awoke to the sound of thunder—and this was strange for two reasons.

The first was Ray had never fallen asleep. He’d spent most of the night in a strange, intangible space between consciousness and slumber—a hazy realm where the abstract and the material crash together into unforgettable images you can never remember. Back against the bars, head slumped to his chest, Ray sat perfectly still in his zombified state, too aware to pass out but too tired to wipe the drool pooling at the corner of his bottom lip. Most would dread this sleepless state as a condition that never provides the ample amount of rest desired. Ray, however, always held onto the experience for as long as possible. Sure, it wasn’t as good for his physical wellbeing as forty winks, but it kept the dreams away.

The second reason the thunder came as a surprise was even simpler: It wasn’t raining.

Ray’s head shot up from his chest far faster than his dazed mind could tolerate. The world dragged behind his moving eyes, a shot of nausea piercing his stomach and passing with a single heartbeat.

“Whaa—?” he mumbled, the collecting drool finally falling in a fat drop to his thigh.

The crash came again, and this time, Ray felt it. It was vibrating the bars.

In the time it took the back of Ray’s hands to come to his eyes and wipe away the residual sleep, a solitary realization escorted his mind into full on consciousness.

That isn’t thunder.

The glowing coals from the extinguished fire cast only the dimmest light into the room, so it took Ray’s eyes a full minute to adjust. Though dark shadows still painted into the room in jet black strokes, he could still make out the outline of Bella lying on the floor.

She wasn’t moving.

“Hey.”

His vocal cords struggled in the desert of his throat, his voice giving him a preview of how he would sound as an eighty-year-old man. The woman remained still.

Joints cracking against stiff muscles, Ray slowly planted his feet onto the floor and began to hoist himself up. Even with the darkness sparing him the visual details, he could still feel the world spin under his feet. The muscles and tendons all over his body cried out in protest, each contracting as if someone had tied rubber hosing onto his arms and legs as tight as they could.

“If you’re awake,” he said, ignoring the discomfort, “I’m coming over. Please don’t lash out or anything.”

As expected, the woman did not respond, but Ray took his first step forward anyway. Tracing the circumference of the cage with his feet, he approached her in an arch. The bars worked well to steady himself whenever he shot a glance towards the room’s door. He fully expected to see an entertained Stefan or one of his goons enjoying the show, but for all Ray could make out, they were still alone, though it didn’t stop him from checking with every other step.

It was during one of these quick sideways glances his foot stepped in something wet and warm.

Whether it was due to instinct or experience, Ray needn’t use his eyes to identify the source of the substance. It was moving between his toes in a rhythmic pulse.

Gushing.

Ray dropped to his knees in an instant, the blood splashing under his shins. As he had expected from the sheer amount and rapidity of its flow, the blood poured from a massive fissure in the top of the woman’s skull. His hand moved to the wound all on its own, but his palm alone did little to slow the crimson torrent. He needed something absorbent—cloth or gauze or anything at all. But he was naked. All he had was himself.

With her head facing down, it was hard to say whether the woman was conscious or not, but judging by the severity of the head trauma, Ray guessed she had been knocked out cold.

But how?

Reluctantly, he moved his hand from her bleeding head to join his other at her side. It was when he pulled to turn her over he realized her hands were still lightly gripping the bars. And then it all made sense.

She’d done this to herself.

Ray had no idea how the woman had managed to bash her head against the bars more than once, but the second hit had finished the job.

He rolled Bella onto her back.

She was deader than a—

Bella’s eyes flickered open.

Jesus Christ.

“Hey,” he whispered. “Can you hear me? You got to stay with me, okay? Stay awake.”

Her lips moved but only silence passed between them. Ray moved his ear closer her mouth. “What?”

At first there was nothing. And then, “Puh…pleece…”

Her eyes narrowed even more. Ray shook her.

“Police?” He was no longer whispering. “You want the police?”

The space between her eyes wrinkled as she tried to swallow. Ray watched as the lump in her throat rose and fell and then she tried again.

“Pleaz…”

The word was identical to the utterance before, only the “c” sound had taken on the sharp edge of a “z.” It was a miniscule alteration, but the change made all the difference.

She was saying please.

Ray’s eyes slammed shut.

“No!” he shouted. “God damnit, no!”

The words shot between his teeth with the velocity of fired buckshot, but there was no volume or speed to bring them any righteousness. It took only one glance at the magnitude of her injury for Ray to realize the woman had only two options.

The first was for Ray to cry out for help. Though this had proven in the past to be an exercise in futility, Ray knew their captors would come rushing if he included the right details in his scream. In their twisted eyes, the woman in Ray’s arms belonged to Matilda Hadder—and that was more than enough reason to keep her from death’s door.

But it was not what Bella was pleading for. She was begging him to do the other thing.

“I can’t,” he said.

But he would. He had to. Even if Hellstrom and his men were able to stabilize her condition, Hadder would know what she tried to do and punish her for it. Of course, Hadder would wait for Bella to regain her strength. She’d make sure her property healed fully and efficiently only to break her into a million pieces. It was the only way to guarantee Regina wouldn’t try to do this ever again.

For a moment, Ray considered letting Bella be. Her cranial injury would most likely do all the work for him—he could just sit back and watch her slip away.

But as slim as it was, the chance she would survive could not be ignored. The human body never ceased to surprise doctors and other so called “experts” what it could endure. And Ray was closer to the moon than he was any medical expertise.

There was only one way to make sure.

His hand slammed down so hard on her mouth the slap of skin against skin echoed against the room’s cathedral ceiling. The fingers of his other hand went immediately to her nostrils and pinched them shut.

“I’m sorry.”

When he tried to shut his eyes from Bella’s convulsing body, Jenny was waiting for him in the darkness.

13.

The door opened as the grandfather clock chimed its last ring of six a.m. Ray kept his eyes to the rising light of the window, barely noticing the door’s creaking hinges or approaching footsteps. The blank emotionless expression remained on his face even as Stefan addressed him through the bars of the cage.

“Kaiser?” he said, the puzzlement in his voice entirely genuine. “Was ist da los?”

With the speed of a tree sloth, Ray craned his neck to see the master of the house was accompanied by both his butlers. All three men were staring at the perfectly still body in Ray’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” Ray said, staring at them with bloodshot eyes. “I don’t speak German.”

Nine out of ten times, the fist Stefan slammed into the bars would’ve made Ray jump to his feet with alarm. But the banging didn’t conjure even the slightest flinch from any of Ray’s muscles as the German yelled at the top of his lungs.

“WAS IST DIS?”

Ray shrugged. “Sprechen sie Englisch?”

Stefan’s shoulders raised with his breath as he prepared to unleash another shout of furious inquisition. But though his mouth and wide eyes remained open, what came next was merely a long, gentle exhale. Bringing his hands to his eyes, Stefan rubbed his brow in a circular motion. For a moment, he looked even more exhausted than Ray—as if he too hadn’t slept a wink the night before.

Keeping a hand to his closed eyes, Stefan addressed one butler then the other. The servants responded in unison with a well-practiced “Ja Meister?”

What came next was a series of German questions, all which Ray could not understand. He could however decipher the utter looks of fear and concern shocking the butlers’ faces into clenched teeth and raised brows. Though the master did not scream, his voice remaining completely flat and conversational, the venom fueling his foreign speech was unmistakable. It was the tone of voice reserved for kings and emperors when sentencing some lowly peon to the gallows. Peasants weren’t worth raising your voice—your unquestionable words were enough by themselves. Even Ray had to admit the pure sense of control demonstrated by this low muttering was undeniably intimidating.

Though only a guess, Ray figured the dialogue resembled something like this.

“Why were they permitted to remain together?”

“But sir, I thought you said to—”

“I said no such thing. What did you think was going to happen?”

“I … we …”

And so forth.

Finally, Stefan raised a hand and Wilhelm, the only butler between the two who could offer any type of verbal response, immediately bit his tongue.

“Lass uns sein,” Stefan said.

Wilhelm inhaled to say something, but when his master added, “Jetzt,” his jaw snapped shut with an audible clunk. Without another moment’s hesitation, the two butlers scurried to the door, pushing each through the threshold like an old black-and-white TV parody of themselves.

The door slammed shut behind them, and Stefan and Ray were alone.

Footfalls echoing against the cathedral ceiling, Stefan sauntered over to a small end table supporting a glass decanter. Ray watched as he casually poured himself a drink of what was probably an expensive Scotch. The man took his time enjoying his first swallow, his head tilted back as Ray imagined the warmth traveling down his throat. Bringing the glass to his lips again, Stefan returned to the side of the cage.

“Now then,” he said, swirling the liquor around the crystal. “It seems the two of you had quite a night. Care to tell me about it?”

The bottom lid of Ray’s left eye twitched with fatigue. He let his gaze fall to the dead woman in his lap and gently stroked a strand of her ebony hair behind her ear.

“What can I say?” He looked back to Stefan. “I guess I play too rough.”

A spray of alcohol shot past the rim of the glass, followed by a violent fit of coughing from the German’s lungs. At first, Ray thought the man was choking and was about to ask him, “What’s the matter? Can’t handle your booze?”

But then the coughs changed—the transformation seamless and instant. Stefan wasn’t choking.

He was laughing.

“Oh Kaiser,” he said, wiping the drops of single malt from his coat lapels. “Please forgive me. I did not expect such a funny joke. You continue to surprise me.”

Even in his sleep deprived state, Ray retained enough sense to figure his captor was only trying to manipulate his emotions. Squinting and swallowing hard, Ray kept hold of his poker face and said, “What makes you think I’m joking?”

He could make out Stefan’s rolling eyes through the crystal glass as the man finished what remained of his drink. After a loud exaggerated lip smack, Stefan returned the used glass to the end table, speaking as he did so.

“Now, Kaiser. As amusing as it may be, I think this little joke has run its course. We both know you did not harm a single hair on Reina’s head. I did not train you that way.”

Now it was Ray’s turn to laugh, though his came forced and artificial. He hoped Stefan couldn’t tell.

“Well, Hellstrom, I guess it’s true what they say.”

Stefan remained silent, letting his raised eyebrow ask, “What is that?”

Ray grinned as wide as he could. “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Did you really forget who I am?”

The smirk on Stefan’s face was that of a full-grown adult playing along with a child’s game. “Tell me.”

Ray shook his head in mocked disbelief. “You left Razor Ray alone with a woman all night long in a locked cage. What did you think would happen? I shot my own girlfriend and carved her face up with a razor blade. Ring any bells?”

Stefan pursed his lips and rocked his head back and forth as if struggling to conjure up a distant memory. He continued to do this as he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulled out a single cigarette.

“No,” he said, placing the cigarette between his lips. “No, you did not.”

A lighter was suddenly in his hand and igniting the end of the cigarette. It snapped shut and returned to Stefan’s pocket as he inhaled a long drag of wispy smoke. Slowly exhaling through his nostrils, he said, “I did.”

The cloud of smoke lifted from his face revealing calm, casual features. Though Ray had come to know this man as one of continual deceit, his natural instincts spoke to him loud and clear:

This wasn’t a lie.

“What …” Ray’s sentence died after only the first word. He tried again. “What did you say?”

Stefan took another drag and walked to one of the tall picture windows. “Names are a peculiar thing, don’t you agree? I mean, they are such a huge part of who we are, and yet so rarely do we have any control over them. From the moment we are born, we are what others call us. Whether our names hold any truth or even come close to describe who we really are inside is irrelevant.”

In his rush to bring himself to his feet, Ray paid no mind Bella’s head rolled off his lap and smacked the cage floor with a hideous crack. He was too heavily focused on pacing to the bars and repeating, “What did you say?”

Stefan tapped a small pile of ash from the tip of his cigarette onto the windowsill. “For instance—There was a time in my life when my enemies referred to me as ‘Stefan Die Schlange.’ Stefan the Snake. And for what? Because I possessed more business sense than they? I am sure it was some poor attempt to sour my natural prowess in the marketplace into something dishonorable, and I am sorry to say they were more successful than I would have wished. The fact that I was simply on the favorable side of ‘the survival of the fittest’ did not matter at all. They said I was Die Schlange, so I was Die Schlange.”

He turned from the window to face Ray.

“So please believe me when I say you had my deepest sympathy when those horrible newspaper and television reporters gave you such an awful nickname. I suppose it goes to show you the Bard had it wrong when he said, ‘a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.’ Names are everything. They shape who we are.”

Stefan carefully placed the still smoking cigarette butt on the windowsill. “Wouldn’t you agree …”

His eyes narrowed.

“… Kaiser?”

The bars dug into the bottom of Ray’s foot when he kicked the cage as hard as he could, but what he felt was far from pain. Anger flooded his mind. Rage claimed his soul. The exhaustion from the previously restless night ceased to exist, replaced by the fuel of absolute hate.

“It was you.”

Stefan shrugged. “Guilty as charged. Well, not in the most literal sense, but yes, I arranged everything. You have to have complete control over every factor if you will settle for nothing less than the finest pedigree.”

The bars within Ray’s clenching fists burned hot as a branding iron, but it did not stop him from squeezing even harder. Violent tremors racked his arms and travelled upward into his shoulders until his whole body shuddered uncontrollably. The framework of the cage rattled with the quaver, as if the mansion itself currently sat on two shifting tectonic plates.

Stefan’s gaze rose and fell over the clattering cage, his impressed eyebrows rising at the sight.

“My word, Kaiser. Please do get a hold of yourself.”

Ray inhaled a shaky breath through his open mouth, preparing to unleash the loudest, wildest scream he’d ever let loose. But when the breath completed its round trip from his lungs, his voice was barely audible at all.

“Why …?”

The falling heels of Stefan’s boots echoed in the vast room as he began to pace around the cage.

“Breeding and raising the offspring from birth—like what Ms. Hadder and I arranged with you and our quiet friend here—is the traditional practice. It is controlled, self-contained, and above all, extremely efficient. And yet, despite all these attractive qualities, this process has never been my preference. I suppose my inherently competitive nature is entirely to blame, but I can not resist the challenge of reshaping pre-established psychological framework. That alone is what distinguishes a superior trainer from a mere owner.”

The bars within Ray’s clenched fists had grown slick with sweat, and he was barely aware his hands were sliding down the greased metal as his eyes followed Stefan marching back and forth.

“Of course,” Stefan continued, “the first problem that arises from my way is extraction and transportation. I mean, there isn’t a one-eight-hundred number that delivers right to your door. But that is where your glorious justice system comes in. Thanks to capital punishment, it is literally guaranteed you will never be missed or pursued. As far as our society is concerned, you are trash that has been thrown away. But Kaiser—”

Stefan immediately stopped walking on the last word. He turned to Ray with a wide, tight-lipped smile. “—You will always mean so much more to me.”

Ray finally let go of the bars, leaving damp smears of perspiration dripping down the metal. His mind, numb and threatening to go into shock at any moment, forced his voice into a monotone drone when he said, “You still haven’t answered my question. There are people on death row all over the world. Why me?”

Stefan’s right index finger shot into the air. “True,” he said. “One hundred percent correct. But think for a moment—do you really think I wanted to bring any of those murderers into my home? I have a child, for God’s sake. What kind of father do you think I am?”

Before Ray could answer the rhetorical question, Stefan added, “As to your question, why you, well, it should be obvious. I had been watching you for quite some time before I made my final decision. A history of drug addiction, domestic disturbance, burglary, illegal possession of firearms—simply put you had the perfect resumé. I knew you weren’t a killer. But convincing the world you were? Not exactly an impressive feat, I will admit.”

Stefan turned his back to Ray. “I will confess though,” he said, “there are times I feel I may have made the wrong choice. I mean, had I chosen your girlfriend instead of you, I would have gotten two for the price of one.”

The flesh between Ray’s eyes wrinkled.

Two for the price of …?

Bile rose to the back of his mouth as the dagger in his heart twisted counterclockwise. His knees buckled, and if not for the bars being within arm’s reach, he would’ve surely fallen to the floor.

“You mean,” he whispered, trying to keep his balance as ground continued to whirl beneath his feet, “she …she was …”

Had there been anyone within an earshot of the lavish study, they would’ve never guessed the atrocious sound blaring through the mansion’s halls had been birthed from human lungs. Ray’s scream would’ve impressed even himself had he been aware of anything other than trying to grab the man standing outside the cage.

His fingertips brushed the soft fabric of Stefan’s jacket before the electrical current seized him in its paralyzing clutch.

Stefan slowly turned as Ray continued to convulse in his agonizing electrical dance to reveal the remote control between his pale fingers. Neither pleasure nor anger shaped Stefan’s emotionless face as he kept his thumb pressed to the remote’s only button.

After what felt like minutes of a red-hot razor wire embrace, the flow of pain ceased like a turned water faucet. Ray collapsed to the floor.

“Oh, Kaiser,” Stefan said from somewhere above him. “I really thought we were past this.”

The drool leaking from the corner of Ray’s mouth came with the pinkish hue of blood. Unable to keep himself from groaning, Ray was barely able to pull himself up into a sitting position with his still quivering arms. There wasn’t a muscle in his body that didn’t feel like instant Jell-O.

And yet, he was still able to lift his head. Still able to look Stefan in the eyes. Still able to move his lips enough to say:

“I’m going to kill you.”

The moment passed in a second, but even with Ray’s blurring and narrowed vision, he didn’t miss the hesitance widen Stefan’s eyes.

“An interesting prediction,” Stefan said after clearing his throat. “But I am afraid you will not get the chance to see it come to fruition. Thanks to Regina’s early departure, I am sorry to say you are now the property of Matilda Hadder. It is the basic protocol for a situation such as this. If another’s property is damaged or ruined while in your possession, you are responsible for the replacement. I am sure Ms. Hadder will be slightly disappointed with this outcome, but between you and me, she is still receiving a generous upgrade. As for me, I cannot express my regret at having to let you go. I will miss you, Kaiser. And I know Amelia will feel the same.”

Without another word, Stefan pivoted on his heel and made his way for the door. Ray didn’t watch him go, instead looking to the sprawled body of his dead cellmate. His gaze fell upon Bella’s mouth—a straight, closed lip expression barely curving up on one side. With her eyes shut and her dark hair concealing her hideous wound, there was only one word to describe such an image:

Peace.

“Hey.”

Stefan stopped at the sound of Ray’s voice, inches from the reaching the door’s handle. He looked back over his shoulder. “Yes?”

“Can I you ask you one last question?”

Stefan turned around and pulled on the tails of his jacket to straighten the folds forming at the bottom. “Of course,” he said.

Ray focused his eyes on Bella’s Mona Lisa smile, “What does ‘Lo fanno perché possono’ mean?”

Stefan cocked his head, his lips silently mouthing the words. “My Italian is quite rusty,” he said. “But I believe it translates to, ‘They do it because they can.’”

The room fell silent—the ticking grandfather clock the only sound filling the space the between the two men.

“Hmm,” Stefan muttered, followed by another throat clearing. “Well then, enjoy your last day in the Hellstrom home, Kaiser. Ms. Hadder’s people will be here to collect you tomorrow morning.”

He gently shut the door behind him.

Muscles aching, Ray lifted Bella’s body and carried her over to the far side of the cage, tucking all four of her limbs into a fetal like position. He didn’t feel it right to have her so crudely splayed across the floor, and this was as close to a respectful burial as he could give her. Taking one last look at her docile eyes, he let her hair cover her face like a shroud and remembered her final words.

Lo fanno perché possono. They do it because they can.

His decision was made.

No matter how it ended, tomorrow he would show them what he could do.

PART THREE

Thou callest me a dog before thou hast cause.

But since I am a dog, beware my fangs.

— William Shakespeare

The Merchant of Venice

14.

The water was as lukewarm as they’d ever given him, but it still soothed his damaged throat. The previous night’s scream had ripped the tissues of his airways, turning each swallow to a burn that travelled from mouth to chest. Though he was sure they expected him to slurp the water from the bowl while hunched on his hands and knees, Ray cupped the liquid in his palms and brought it to his mouth in tiny meager pools.

But the act was far from a desperate act to grasp onto his humanity. It had nothing to do with remaining civilized or refined. No, this way was better simply because it forced him to drink slower, to conserve the water rather than consume it all before he realized it was gone.

He would need this water for his plan. He would need this water if he were to escape.

The lock on the study door turned with its typical percussive echo, immediately followed by the lengthy creak of the hinges swinging open. Oskar appeared in the doorway, his impressive bulk taking up the entire width of the frame. His third step into the room revealed Wilhelm followed closely behind.

Ray would need this water now.

As the butlers continued to walk towards the cage, Ray fell into his role of broken prisoner and dropped into the clichéd position on his hands and knees. Though his eyes were focused on the bowl of water under his chin, he knew the servants were smiling at the sight of him taking such animalistic posture. Ray even added a few laps of his tongue to add to the image. A muffled chuckle from Wilhelm told him the illusion was working.

Ray waited for the sound of Oskar’s key entering the lock of the cage. At the first metallic click of iron entering iron, Ray lowered and pursed his lips and began to suck in what tepid water remained in the bowl. He waited to feel his cheeks begin to expand with the fluid within but stopped before they could swell. The moment his mouth filled without distorting his face, he finished and lifted himself from the bowl.

But he did not swallow.

Oskar threw the gate of the cage open and stepped inside as Wilhelm remained near the table holding the decanter of liquor.

“Aufstehen,” Wilhelm said, running a finger along table’s richly dark surface and checking it for dust.

Ray slowly got to his feet, never breaking eye contacting with Oskar who stared at him with determined intent.

“Gut,” Wilhelm muttered. Apparently, Ray had done what he asked. “Jetzt umdrehen,” the smaller servant added, checking his watch as he spoke.

This time, Ray did not move. His feet remained firmly planted, his hands in clenched fists.

It took Wilhelm a moment to realize Ray hadn’t complied with whatever order he’d casually mumbled in German. When his bored roaming eyes returned from examining the room and landed on Ray’s still figure, he again said it again.

“Umdrehen.” He accompanied the repeated order with a swirling motion of his finger.

Turn around.

But Ray remained frozen, the only moving part of his body his increasingly pounding heart.

Wilhelm slapped his leg. “Umdrehen!” This time the order came as an angry yell, one which slid the butler’s black hair out of place across his forehead. He stared at Ray with furious eyes, seemingly trying to move their captive’s body with sheer psychic force.

When Ray again refused to move a single muscle, he expected the butler to come storming past his partner, cattle prod already in hand. However, the next moment’s events played out in the complete opposite fashion, as the anger in Wilhelm’s gaze instantly retreated. His expression returned to a calm, careless slack as he nonchalantly brushed away the lock of hair that had fallen over his left eye. With an exaggerated sigh, he turned away from the cage and simply muttered, “Oskar, bitte.”

Ray’s gaze moved to the larger man as he stepped forward. Oskar’s hand went to his right pocket.

Wait for it.

He pulled out the single button remote.

Wait for it.

He extended his hand and raised his thumb above the button.

Now.

Like a cobra striking out at the ankle of an unfortunate desert hiker, Ray sprang forward and clutched Oskar’s wrist with both hands. Before the butler could react to the attack, Ray spit out his entire mouthful of water onto the remote. In one second, the miniature waterfall cascading from Ray’s open mouth soaked both Oskar’s hand and the small electronic device within his grasp.

In the following second, Ray was catapulted back against the bars by a mighty heave of Oskar’s arm. The back of his skull connected with the metal, a split-second display of fireworks blooming before his eyes. In the instant it took for the flowers of light to fade, Ray saw the wide sneer curl Oskar’s lips. The expression could be read only one way.

Pathetic.

He raised the remote again.

And pressed the button.

Ray was already running at the Oskar’s legs when the butler realized nothing happened. He didn’t even seem to notice the approaching prisoner as he stared at the malfunctioning remote in his hand and frantically clicked the button as if it were a video game controller.

Ray brought his shoulder into the knees of the behemoth, knowing the only way to topple a man of such size would be to take out his leverage. Wrapping his arms around the man’s mammoth thighs, Ray let his momentum carry him forward with Oskar’s own impressive body weight. Had Oskar been ready for such a maneuver, his tensed legs would’ve braced him like the iron girders of a skyscraper. But with the element of the surprise, the old axiom was proven to be true.

The bigger they are, the harder they fall.

Ray didn’t wait for Oskar to slam onto his back before scrambling over his massive body. He had reached the man’s mid torso when Oskar’s head collided onto the floor with a satisfying thump. The heel to Oskar’s throat as Ray made his way out of the cage wasn’t intentional, but it certainly helped. Oskar was helpless to prevent Ray’s escape as he was too distracted by the pressure crushing his trachea.

In his peripheral vision, Ray could see Wilhelm frantically trying to retrieve something from his own coat pockets. Another remote almost flew from Wilhelm’s hands as he tore it from his jacket, but he caught it in time to press the button as Ray leapt from the cage.

Had Wilhelm’s remote been for Ray’s collar, his escape would’ve come to an end.

But it was for the cage.

Behind him, Oskar shook as if suddenly struck by a massive seizure. Ray charged forward, bringing the palm of his right hand into the base of Wilhelm’s nose. The servant screamed against the torrent of blood that instantly gushed from his nostrils.

Ray shoved Wilhelm away and immediately reached down to the remote that had fallen from his opponent’s grasp. The previous little jolt would only tickle a man of Oskar’s size, proven by the fact Oskar was already beginning to pull himself from the floor.

But with the button held down? Even King Kong would eventually succumb.

Ray turned to his other opponent. Wilhelm darted forward, the retractable cattle prod now in his hand. Ray barely avoided the electric wand Wilhelm brandished like a rapier, stepping backward out of reach of its sparking end. Wilhelm continued to push him back with every thrust, the prod missing Ray’s flesh by centimeters at the most. Ray watched the hand that held the weapon, ready to strike at the man’s wrist at the first opportunity. If he could time it right, he would be able to slap away the attack with one hand while the other—

Ray’s heel hit something hard behind him, sending him cartwheeling to the side in a feeble attempt to retain his balance. But his weight had already committed to its journey and Ray could do nothing to stop himself from toppling onto his back. In the brief moment between falling and hitting the floor, Ray realized he had stubbed his heel on the raised edge of fireplace hearth. His painful landing on its brick surface placed him inches from the blazing fire, its licking flames lapped out for his face.

But Ray could hardly feel their heat. He was too focused on the manically grinning man standing above him and the cattle prod he held like a dagger.

Wilhelm blew the curtain of hair from his eyes to reveal a gaze burning hotter than the fire. “Schlecht hund,” he whispered through his wheezing breaths. His grin widened as he raised the cattle prod above his head.

The burning log to the side of Wilhelm’s face came as a surprise to them both.

Without a single conscious thought, Ray had reached his hand into the fire and grabbed the nearest piece of wood. The pure instincts which fueled the action did not give him time to consider the pain to come when the burning coals seared his flesh. Only when Wilhelm was falling away clutching his face did Ray realize the burn radiating from his fingertips to his wrist. But even then, the pain was distant—his mind pushing it away in order to complete its only objective in life.

Kill this motherfucker.

Ray sprang up and ran forward in a single motion, the dropped cattle prod to his left telling him the time for defense was over. Wilhelm let out a sudden gasp as Ray tackled him to the floor, landing on top of him so his legs straddled the butler’s waist. Ray’s fist connected with Wilhelm’s already broken nose, splashing even more blood onto his knuckles. A second punch landed in the twisted burnt flesh around Wilhelm’s eye. A third snapped his jaw, turning Wilhelm’s mouth into a mangled maw.

But Ray could still see his awful smile. The malicious, hate-filled Wilhelm grin.

He clenched his fist even harder and reared back to wipe that smile away forever—and froze.

The tightly snug collar of Wilhelm’s uniform had loosened during the struggle and now hung slack around Wilhelm’s neck. With the material riding lower than intended, something colorful on Wilhelm’s skin barely poked out from under the cloth.

No …

Ray reached down with a clawed hand and tore the collar away. A skull faced worm crawling out of a rotten apple stared up at him with black, soulless eyes.

“It was you.”

Wilhelm didn’t seem to hear him, too busy trying not to choke on his blood.

“You killed Jenny.”

Wilhelm turned his head and coughed a wet red spray onto the floor beside him, giving Ray an even better view of the tattoo.

Ray suddenly became aware of the smile spreading across his own face but did nothing to stop it.

“That supposed to be a rotten apple?” he asked the broken man underneath him. “It looks pretty good to me.”

Wilhelm screamed with all the air left in his lungs as Ray clenched his teeth around the tattoo. When Ray tore his head back, ripping away a mouthful of flesh, the screams turned to a liquid-filled gurgle.

Blood pumped from the wound in heartbeat paced spurts, dark arterial fluid from deep within. Ray spat out the wad of tissue and skin into the fire as violent spasms racked the man underneath him. Wilhelm seizures slowed to random twitches as the flesh sizzled in the flames, filling the air with the odor of cooking meat. The wide-eyed look of pain and horror remained on Wilhelm’s face even after his body fell completely still.

Blood still dripping down his chin, Ray stood up from the butler’s corpse and retrieved the cattle prod from where it had fallen. With the weapon in hand, Ray realized he had dropped the electrical remote when he tripped on the brick hearth. Darting his eyes to the cage, a wave of relief flooded his thumping heart when he saw the unconscious body of Oskar lying completely limp. Though judging by the tendrils of smoke coiling off the butler’s clothes, unconscious was probably an understatement.

Unfortunately, Bella’s body had been cooked in the process as well. Ray allowed himself only a moment’s glance at the smoldering heap of woman before ripping away his gaze and returning to Wilhelm’s corpse.

His hands still trembling with adrenaline, Ray reached for the butler’s blood-soaked collar and pulled the jacket with three vigorous tugs. The dead servant rolled over as the coat came free, increasing the flow of the red puddle that continued to expand along the wooden floor. Ray quickly jumped backward to avoid the blood running towards his feet—leaving behind crimson footprints would do nothing to help his escape. Clear of the congealing pool, Ray jammed his hands into the jacket’s many pockets, quietly mumbling a simple prayer the entire time.

“Come on, come on …”

It was answered in the last pocket he checked, the inside breast where his fingers brushed the cool metal of key ring.

Though the ring held many, guessing which key fit the padlock of his collar was an easier task than anticipated. There was only which looked small enough to fit the tiny hole on the metal collar, and this logic proved itself to be correct.

The only sensation better than the sound of the lock clicking free was the instant salvation of the collar’s grip loosening around his throat. The collar fell to the floor with a heavy thump, leaving behind a ring of bruised flesh around Ray’s neck. Pinpricks of retreating numbness tickled his skin as the blood flow instantly increased. It was as if he was returning to his own body—its rightful owner finally granted its due possession.

But this was not true liberation. He still had to make it out of his God forsaken house.

Ignoring the damp stickiness of the blood drenched material, Ray threw the jacket over his shoulders and tore at Wilhelm’s belt like a child on Christmas morning. Multiple voices of reason within his mind were screaming at him to make a run towards the door, but the use of the butler’s pants could not be ignored. Ray would be able to run much faster, and more importantly quieter, without his genitalia slapping against his thighs. The shoes, however, he left behind. Their clunky rubber soles would amplify every one of his footfalls, as he’d learned a pin drop could echo in this cavernous mansion.

Clothed and armed with the cattle prod, Ray tiptoed to the door.

An ear to the wood revealed not a single sound behind it. Clenching his teeth against the squeaking hinges, Ray opened the door and peered into the hallway.

All clear.

Memory told him the left led to the service elevator, so with a deep breath to steady his shaking hands, Ray took his first step right. He considered the chance the elevator could lead him somewhere else than the corridor of prison cells, but the thought of placing himself in an iron box cancelled that option immediately. There were also the windows in the study to consider, but Ray couldn’t say for sure if they truly led to the outside world. For all he knew, even the bluebird who’d greeted him when he first awoke here could’ve been merely a video simulation. Smashing the window glass would probably only result in sparks and exposed wire.

So, with as much stealth as possible, Ray paced down the long hallway, completely blind to whatever lay around the approaching corner. Every few steps he would stop and listen—hoping to catch the creak of a footstep or the muffled hum of a human voice.

But there was nothing.

He was only a step away from the sharp turn of the hallway. With no other choice, Ray squeezed the handle of the stun rod, took a deep breath, and peered around the corner.

Surprise jolted his heart faster than the electricity that crackled from the cattle prod.

A closed door greeted him only inches past the hallway corner. It took Ray several seconds to realize his thumb still pressed the rod’s power button as he took a moment to steady his gasping breath. He had been immeasurably close to stabbing the door with the cattle prod before his mind registered it was a harmless slab of wood.

But perhaps a closed door was as bad if an ambush was waiting on the other side.

Ray’s heart pounded against his chest as he stood frozen with a hand to the door’s knob. Was it better to slowly open the door and peer in, or bust through at full speed, cattle prod swinging? The element of stealth or the element of surprise—each course of action came with its own risks. Ray felt like a house fly approaching an unavoidable spider web, wondering if his tiny wings could build the velocity to crash through the sticky silk and escape.

With a final steadying breath, Ray came to a decision.

Probably not. It was better to try to sneak around the fat, ravenous spider sitting in the center of the web, despite his instinctual survival urges to flee as fast as he could. Sweat drenched palm gripping the handle, Ray slowly opened the door with a much louder creak than he would’ve liked. Praying to no god in particular, he let the door fall open to reveal his fate waiting on the other side.

Ray had long lost track of how many surprises he’d endured in this vast house of madness, so he could not put a number to the one currently greeting him with open arms.

The door had opened to a balcony overlooking an immense foyer, brightly lit by an extravagant chandelier hanging in the direct center of the ceiling. The shimmering glass fixture reflected light across the room’s tiled floor, minus the sumptuous red rug running from the foot of the front door to the base of the staircase Scarlett O’Hara was carried up by Rhett Butler.

Wait.

The front door!

Even as Ray’s feet brought him to the top of the staircase at the end of the balcony, he couldn’t stop his head from shaking at the fact; freedom had been such a short journey from his birdcage prison. He could only assume during his entire incarceration his twisted captors were keeping him far away from prying eyes—tucked in the deepest nether regions of the mansion where there would never be a risk of a lost houseguest stumbling upon his existence.

But no. Ray had been down the hall and to the left, as convenient to find as the closest bathroom. Somehow, even compared to all the horrors Ray had discovered about the man, this seemed to prove Stefan Hellstrom’s insanity more than anything.

It took only a handful of running steps for Ray to reach the top of the extra wide staircase. He took only a fleeting glance at the massive portrait hanging on the wall behind him as he took his first step downward. He need not study the painting’s details to realize it was of the man of the house—the icy slice of Stefan’s gaze would be carved into his brain forever. The artist had captured his stare flawlessly, and Ray could feel the oversized version of his tormenter watching him as he galloped down the staircase.

Skipping the last three steps all together, Ray leapt onto the foyer’s tiled floor, almost tripping on the edge of the deep crimson runner. The chance the door may be locked wasn’t a concern in the least as he charged full speed towards the entryway. If the handle refused to turn, he would send a fist through the frosted glass in the center or use his own feet like the axe of Jack Torrence. One way or another, he was getting out of here. The only thing that would be able to keep him from his mission would be the echoing click of a pistol’s hammer being pulled back.

And that’s exactly what he heard as he reached for the door.

15.

“Kaaaaiiiissserrr …”

As if the painted portrait had come to life, Stefan’s voice was suddenly filling the foyer. He stretched his name for Ray into an amused taunt, and Ray could already see the man’s cocky smirk without turning around. “You know you can not go out without a leash.”

Suppressing the impulse to put his hands in the air, Ray slowly turned to discover the sight he’d already pictured in his mind almost perfectly. He’d gotten the weapon correct—Stefan’s trusty Luger pointed right at his chest—but the attire not so much. Instead of the red jacket Ray had become so accustomed to, Stefan now wore a plain white polo shirt, paired with white shorts only slightly paler than his legs. On any other wealthy aristocrat, the wardrobe wouldn’t look out of place at all—the simple casual wear of one enjoying a game of tennis or croquet. But one never pictures Lucifer enjoying leisure time. And if you were to catch him on his day off, the image would be as startling.

“I see you have lost your collar too,” Stefan said, motioning with the barrel of the gun. “But you have found something to wear I see.” His grin grew wider. “How do they fit?”

Ray waved his head to the balcony above. “I got to admit, they looked better on the corpse upstairs.”

Stefan nodded as if being told something he already knew. “I did happen to notice the blood on your skin and assumed it was not yours. It would appear I am going to need to hire some new help, no?”

Ray took a challenging step forward. “Not if you pull the trigger.”

The barrel of the Luger lowered to Ray’s stomach so the two men could better see each other eye-to-eye. “Oh, really?” Stefan asked, an eyebrow rising with the question. “And how is that?”

“I’m the only thing keeping your head attached to your body. What do you think Matilda Hadder will do when she hears how bad you’ve fucked up your little business transaction? I’m your last bargaining chip, Hellstrom. Kill me and you won’t live long enough to hire any more employees.”

The fingers of Stefan’s hand gently came to his brow and rubbed away apparent pain. “Dummkopf,” he whispered, falling into German for a solitary word. When he removed his hand, Ray saw he was still smiling, but there was less joy behind the expression than before. Now it was the smirk of the exhausted, a means to simply hold onto any remaining patience. “You speak such strong words and yet know absolutely nothing.”

The gun raised again to head level.

“I know there are many …” Stefan paused, searching for the right words. “What do you call them? Campfire tales? I know there are many about the ruthlessness of Mrs. Hadder and her associates, and many of them do hold much validity to at least some degree. But what you fail to realize is, above all else, Matilda Hadder is a businesswoman. Will she be pleased about how the events of the last twenty-four hours unfolded? Absolutely not.”

As Stefan spoke, something to Ray’s right flashed in the corner of his eye.

“Will she be disappointed her property was damaged beyond repair and I cannot offer a replacement? Without a doubt.”

When Stefan’s answer to his own question brought his gaze momentarily to the ceiling with a roll of his eyes, Ray stole a quick glance at the mysterious object. Amelia stood in the doorway of the adjacent room, a saucer resting one little hand. The other brought a biscuit to her mouth which she chewed inquisitively.

Ray returned his gaze back to Stefan in time to meet the man’s stare. As the man continued to speak, Ray wondered what kept the little girl frozen in her footsteps. Perhaps she did not recognize Ray in these clothes and was wondering why she’d never seen this butler in her home before.

“But are you or that dead bitch upstairs priceless?” The smile fell from Stefan’s face, hate injected into his eyes in a single blink. “Nothing is without a price. It is going to cost me dearly, I can promise you that. I might not even be able to take a vacation this year, but I will be able to buy my way out of this. I would have thought, Kaiser, you would have learned by now …”

He planted his feet, closed one eye, and looked down the sight of the Luger.

“… Men like me can buy anything.”

In the next moment, three events happened all at once.

Ray closed his eyes.

Stefan pulled the trigger.

And Amelia ran forward, yelling Ray’s surrogate name with joy after finally realizing who stood before her.

“Kai—!”

She was only to say the first syllable before the bullet ripped through her chest and brought her petite body crashing to the floor. She weighed so little Ray hardly felt her collapse onto his bare feet.

He looked down. Her face was mercifully to the floor so he didn’t have to see her wide blue eyes staring up at him in frozen shock. But he could not escape the feeling of her golden curls coiling over his toes, tickling the sensitive skin between the knuckles. It was such a gentle sensation. One of purity.

Of innocence.

He lifted his gaze. With his ears still ringing from the gunshot, he couldn’t tell if Stefan was actually saying his daughter’s name or mouthing the word in a dazed stupor. The man’s eyes darted left to right over the girl’s body, as if he were watching the fastest game of tennis ever played. His bottom lip quivered. The gun lowered to his side, apparently having gained fifty pounds after firing the shot.

The fingernails within Ray’s fist pressed so hard into his palm to practically draw blood. His teeth clenched so tight he could almost feel his molar’s crack. A low, guttural sound began to emanate from deep within his throat. It was only right before he sprang forward Ray realized what the sound was.

He was growling.

The space of time between standing over Amelia’s body and slamming his knee into Stefan’s stomach was filled with solid red. The crimson color filled the totality of Ray’s vision until the bottom two ribs on Stefan’s left side cracked under his kneecap. Like a film reel missing a frame, the three bounding paces it took to close the distance between Ray and his enemy were forever lost to pure unfiltered rage.

The gun dropped to the floor with a clatter as all the air propelled itself from Stefan’s lungs. He didn’t have a chance to inhale again before Ray bought his forehead crashing into the bridge of Stefan’s nose. The sudden impact sent the man’s head whipping back, his body following close behind. A whiplash of blood shot from Stefan’s nose and slashed across Ray’s chest as Stefan fell backward to the floor.

Ray reached for the gun, its sweat slicked grip almost sliding out of his hand. Even with the stars obscuring Stefan’s vision, the man must have noticed Ray make a grab for the weapon, for he began to frantically crawl away like a commando under heavy fire.

Ray couldn’t help his mouth from widening into a smile of total malice as he watched the man try to squirm away, leaving a trail of blood like an injured slug. The cry which came from Stefan’s mouth when Ray grabbed his foot was of a mewling baby. But the scream that came when Ray slammed the butt of the gun into Stefan’s knee belonged entirely to a man.

Ignoring Stefan’s cries of agony, Ray flipped him over so the men could see each other face-to-face.

“Please, wait—”

Ray silenced the plea with a smack of the pistol’s stock across the jaw. Two bottom teeth rocketed from Stefan’s mouth, shooting past the bleeding crevasse of his split bottom lip. They bounced across the tiled floor; almost making it to his daughter’s splayed body. The polo shirt, which was once been an almost blinding white, had become topped with a cascading splash of red, like vanilla ice cream covered in strawberry sauce.

And the stain only grew larger as Ray continued to pistol whip the man underneath him—every blow of the heavy metal handgun connecting with a different dedication.

“This is for Jenny.”

The upper orbit of Stefan’s right eye crunched beneath the weight of the gun, concaving the bone downward into the man’s eyeball like the roof of a collapsing barn.

“This is for Bella.”

Not unlike a carpenter driving a nail into a piece of wood, Ray brought the gun down onto Stefan’s two front teeth. Although the man tried to close his mouth to the attack, Ray could still feel the teeth shoot backward behind his swollen lips.

“And this …”

Ray flipped the gun in his hand so the business end now pointed outward. He reached back and shoved the pistol into Stefan’s crotch, feeling the man’s scrotum fold around the barrel.

“This is for your wife.”

After Ray pulled the trigger, it took a long time for the man’s screams to turn to exhausted moans. Ray stood over him, watching as he held his hands between his legs and whimpered.

“Don’t worry, Stefan.” Ray said, tucking the gun into the waistband of his pants. “A man like you can buy anything, remember? I’m sure you’ll find a new pair in no time.”

Stefan only groaned in response.

“And who knows? Maybe they’ll be even better than the last. Gold plated or jewel encrusted or—”

A knock rattled the front door.

“Hello! Anyone home?”

Through the door’s fogged glass, Ray could see the dark silhouette of a man trying to peer in. Behind him, two other black figures loomed but seemed to be waiting on the front man’s command.

Harold March.

“Hellstrom?” More rapping shook the door, this time harder and louder. “We’re here to collect the merchandise. You there?”

Ray shot a glance left then right.

Run. Just run.

But the door was already opening.

His actions came without thought as Ray grabbed a handful of Stefan’s blood-soaked shirt and pulled him up. The man groaned, teetering on the edge of consciousness. If not for the pure adrenaline pumping through Ray’s veins, keeping Stefan’s bleeding body on his feet would’ve been close to impossible. But Ray hardly felt the dead weight of the slumping bulk as Harold March took his first step across the threshold.

March’s hand flew up to the side of his head, signaling the men behind him to halt their approach.

“Well now,” he said, clearly impressed by the way his eyebrows raised. “What do we have here?”

Ray had positioned Stefan in front of his own body like a human shield. The barrel of the Luger drove into Stefan’s chest directly over his heart.

“Stay where you are, March.” Ray didn’t blink once as he said the words. “One bullet kills the both of us.”

It was then Ray noticed the toothpick sticking out March’s mouth. The right-hand-man of Matilda Hadder chewed it thoughtfully, the wooden splinter bouncing with every bite. Paired with the red sport jacket and the paisley patterned black undershirt, March almost comically resembled a used car salesman. The Elvis sunglasses wrapping around his eyes only added to the image.

“I see,” the salesman muttered. “But I’m still confused to why I should care. We’re only here to collect Ms. Hadder’s property. Just hand her over and we’ll get out of your hair so you can get back to whatever you were—” March leaned forward, pulling the toothpick from his mouth. “Jesus. He’s a bit fucked up, isn’t he?”

Ray ignored the rhetorical question and cocked back the hammer of the 9mm. “The woman’s dead. You can go check if you like, but I promise you, she’s no good to you anymore.”

The toothpick returned to March’s lips. It rolled from one corner of his mouth to the other as he worked it with his tongue. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he rocked on his heels and said, “That a fact? Then it appears we have a little situation on our hands, now don’t it?”

“Enough with the questions, March.”

The toothpick shot straight up as its owner pursed his lips with surprise. March inhaled to comment but before he could, Ray added, “Let’s talk business.”

As if he truly believed he had misheard Ray’s words, March shot a glance back to the pack of oversized thugs still grouped in the doorway. The armed henchmen collectively shrugged, apparently taken as equally off guard. One pointed to the small pile of ruffled dress to the left of their boss. March’s gaze followed the crony’s finger to the deceased Amelia.

“Oh my,” March said, bending down to get a better look at Stefan’s dead daughter. A pool of blood had begun to form around her petite figure. By the frown curling the corners of March’s mouth, it seemed the man was about to comment on the tragic nature of such a young death.

But all he said was, “What a shame. I was really looking forward to her turning eighteen.”

March spun back around to face Ray, and with a deep serene breath, he removed the sunglasses from his face.

“Curse my chronic curiosity,” he said, placing the sunglasses in his jacket’s front pocket, “but I have to hear what you have to say.”

Ray nodded over the corner of Stefan’s shoulder. “That’s right, you do. Because we both know your boss will be mighty upset if you come back empty handed.”

March pointed a long, narrow finger. “You don’t know anything.” He withdrew the digit. “But what’s your point?”

“My point is you have two options.” Ray paused to smack Stefan’s head to the side, which had rolled into his line of vision. “The first is I pull the trigger and a bullet finds its way through Hellstrom’s heart and into mine. And then you get to go home with your tail between your legs, praying your boss forgives you.”

With his hands on his hips, March bent backwards at the waist, releasing an exaggerated groan with the stretch. “And my second option?” he asked, straightening back up.

Ray smiled.

“You go back with an upgrade.”

It was apparent the meaning of Ray’s sentence did not at first fully register with the other man. Harold March stood frozen for a moment, minus the bobbing of his gnawed toothpick. When the toothpick came to a sudden stop between his clenched teeth, Ray knew he finally understood.

March spat and the wooden sliver shot from his mouth, landing on Amelia’s corpse to his left. “That’s an awfully intriguing proposition you’ve got there. Damn intriguing. I don’t think I can recall anyone ever owning an ex-handler. The sound of that is so …” March paused, searching for the right word. He snapped his fingers when it came, “…Exotic.”

Ray’s eyes narrowed into slits as he tried to read the man’s face. “So,” he said, “Do we have a deal, then?”

March cocked his head, a lock of his ebony hair falling over one eye. “I’m afraid I’m not the one to make that decision.”

“Well, then.” Ray spat as well, purposely mocking March’s gesture. “I guess you have a phone call to make.” He bounced Stefan’s unconscious body in his arms and added, “And I’d hurry if I were you. He’s still breathing but he’s lost a lot of blood.”

Hesitating to take a final glance at Stefan’s slumping bloody form, March whipped out a small black cell phone from his pants pocket like an outlaw quick drawing a pistol. He kept his eyes locked with Ray’s as he dialed. Bringing the phone to his ear he muttered, “This will only take a second.” On one pivoting heel, he turned and walked back towards the door, motioning for his guards to keep an eye on Ray as he stepped outside.

The dead weight of Stefan’s body felt like it had doubled during the course of the conversation, but Ray gritted his teeth and held him tight. He wouldn’t have to hold him for much longer anyhow. He could endure the weight and the coppery stench of blood wafting off his human shield until March returned with a verdict.

Craning his neck left to right to release the tension building at the top of his spine, Ray took in the details of the impressive room. Though he made sure to keep one eye on March’s goons, this was the first time since Ray escaped his cage he’d been able to fully take in the gorgeous architecture surrounding him. But it wasn’t really the mansion’s aesthetic beauty that left such a strong impression, as beautiful as it was. There was no denying the classic and modern influences coming together in perfect architectural harmony, but there was something else. Something about how the light washed into every room and warmed the very air you breathed into your lungs. Ray had felt it the very first moment he’d awoken here, greeted by a bluebird’s gentle morning song.

The crackling fires.

The welcoming colors.

Despite all the horrors that occurred within, it really was a beautiful home.

The knob of the front door turned with an echoing click. Everyone’s attention, the armed thugs included, greeted Harold March as he stepped back inside.

He was smiling a smile that could mean so many things.

16.

It was hard not to think about Jenny on nights like this. It wasn’t just the snow—it was how perfectly it fell. Light and silent like the hand of God had shook the world like a snow globe. Falling any harder and the thought wouldn’t have even crossed his mind—another cold winter’s night. But with the flakes floating around him as if the air was water instead, Ray’s mind couldn’t help but take a stroll down memory lane. A slow, painstaking stroll of the arthritic hipped man who hobbled toward him.

Ray only knew the man as Old Joe, because that’s how Old Joe introduced himself. No one could say for sure if Old Joe was really the oldest man in the camp, but no one ever bothered to contest the claim. With countless lines scarring his face and a lifelong limp slowing each step, the codger did his part to live up to the title.

“Hey, Ray.” His voice came like the static of an old record, filled with smoke and scratches. “I got something for you.”

On most occasions, Ray would’ve ignored the geezer’s voice, as it was usually only drunk ramblings or a schizophrenic rant. But there was something in Old Joe’s proclamation that tore Ray’s attention from the calm waters of the harbor. Sitting on the knoll overlooking the docks, hands tucked into the pockets of his ragged discarded parka, Ray sacrificed his perfect view of the Atlantic when he heard an unmistakable tone in the old man’s voice.

Menace.

It was not that the homeless elder was threatening him with his mysterious offer, but more the threat had been promised to Old Joe himself. The look in his eyes confirmed it, an expression which said he couldn’t take no for an answer. Ray shot a glance past the approaching man to the shanty town behind him. From what he could see, there was no one suspicious lurking about, the typical worn out faces of Portland’s vagabonds trying to endure another night of Maine winter.

With a crack from the cold joints in his knees, Ray sat up and brushed the snow off his faded corduroys. “What’s that, Joe?”

Using his teeth, the hobo pulled a wool glove off his right hand. Small specks of rubber dotted glove’s palm and inner side of the fingers, prompting Ray to assume Old Joe had stolen the pair from the dockworkers below. Without a word, Old Joe reached into the inner pocket of his brown trench coat and withdrew a metal clasped envelope, roughly nine by eleven inches in size.

“Here,” the older man said, “Some guy in a Lincoln gave me twenty bucks to give this to you.”

Without any concern for Old Joe’s frail condition, Ray grabbed his shoulder and pushed him aside. His eyes scanned the perimeter of the camp, squinting through the falling snow past the stained tents and makeshift shacks. There wasn’t a car in sight.

“Hey!” Old Joe said, the shout bringing with it a wet cough. “Take it easy. The guy’s long gone.”

Ray glanced back to his homeless companion. “This man … what did he look like?”

His coughing fit coming to an end, Old Joe finally answered, “I don’t friggin’ know. Clean cut, I guess? Guy had money I can tell you that much. Nice suit. Except …”

Ray stared at Old Joe, forcing the man to look him in the eyes. “Except for what?”

A grimace pulled on Old Joe’s bearded face. “He had on this bolo tie with a skull on it. But it wasn’t a cow skull. It was human. Creeped me out.”

“Hmm,” Ray muttered, considering the man’s words. “Anything else?”

“Oh.” Old Joe spat out whatever he had hacked up with his cough. “Had a woman with him I think. But I only saw her legs before he rolled the window up and drove away.” A rotten tooth smiled cut his gray beard in half. “And they were nice gams.”

With the exception of the last comment, the details provided by Old Joe confirmed Ray’s suspicions. He needn’t hear another word to know the identity of the parcel’s sender.

“Nothing gets past you, Joe,” Ray said, turning his shoulder to the man. From behind him, as he gripped the package tightly in his hands, Ray heard Joe say, “Yeah, whatever. Just do me a favor and don’t tell anyone else about the twenty. Especially Stubbs, I don’t trust the guy.”

“Especially Stubbs,” Ray repeated.

The fresh snow crunched under Old Joe’s boots as he walked away, mumbling to himself as he often tended to do. As Ray waited for the limping man to get far enough away, he turned the unmarked parcel over in his hands to discover an ornate “H” stamped in the center of the clasped flap. Had there been any mystery to the mail’s origin, this would’ve solved it for certain.

Staring at the alphabet’s seventh letter, Ray let his mind wander to the last day he’d seen the same stamp—the day he escaped the Hellstrom mansion. It suddenly dawned on him it had been exactly one year ago.

“This is how we’re going to do this,” Harold March had said, his words echoing through the corridors of Ray’s memory. “A doctor is on his way right now. If Hellstrom is still alive when the doctor arrives, you will hand him over to get the medical attention he requires.”

“And me?” Ray had asked, barely letting the man finish his last sentence.

“You will accompany my men to a van waiting outside. You will be blindfolded and led to a freight train scheduled to depart in,” he checked his watch, “under an hour. You will be put in one of the boxcars and that will be it.”

Ray had actually laughed at this point.

“That’s a lot of trust you’re asking for, March.”

March shrugged. “I’ll tell you what, empty the clip in front of me, all but one bullet, and I’ll let you keep the gun. This way you’ll still be able to shoot yourself if you think we’re taking you back to Ms. Hadder.”

Ray nodded, thinking it over.

“However,” March added, “you will stay on that train until the end of the line. You get off any time before, and we’ll know.”

“And what? The next car I get into goes boom?”

One of the armed goons surrounding March approached him and whispered in his ear. March nodded and turned for the front door, but before walking away he said in the most casual way, “Then we bring you back.”

The sense of power provided by the gun in his grip may have been false in nature, but it was enough to make up Ray’s mind. Stefan had indeed still been alive when the doctor arrived, fully prepared to keep the German from death’s door for as long as Matilda Hadder desired. A thumbs up from the bald, glasses faced physician, and Ray’s long exodus to freedom began.

It was impossible to say how many hours had passed on the train, all of which had been spent in total darkness. At the first sound of the train car’s sliding door slamming shut, Ray had torn off the blindfold to discover his vision did not improve in the slightest. Feeling his away around what felt like rows of metal barrels, Ray hoisted himself up to the hard, cylindrical tops of several of them. Using the barrels as the most uncomfortable mattress in the world, Ray stretched himself out, hands under his head, and waited for the rhythmic clunking of passing tracks to finally cease.

The gun never left his lap.

Sleep had won control of his mind and body several times during his excursion, each drift into unconsciousness bringing fever dreams of the real-life nightmare he’d endured. More than once Ray had jolted awake, believing himself to be trapped in a crate in the back of Stefan’s truck. Relief would cool his thumping heart like water on a nuclear reactor, and Ray would promise himself not to fade again. But when your entire being is so ruined with exhaustion, slumber always wins no matter how hard you fight. The rude awakenings continued.

Until Ray awoke to realize the train was standing still.

He would never know the origin of the train’s departure, or even the address of the Hellstrom mansion. All Ray knew was Stefan and Amelia’s home had indeed been on American soil, a conclusion based solely on his mode of transportation. It had been several hours from Washington, D.C.—the city Ray found himself in after exiting the train car. It took him a moment to recognize the skyscraping, well lit spike in the distance as the Washington Monument, but then a single thought stabbed his mind sharper than the point of the stone memorial.

I’m a free man.

Ray looked down to himself, his body still dressed in traditional butler garments. The corner of something square and red poked out of the breast pocket.

Or am I?

Upon pulling the envelope from his pocket and flipping it over, Ray discovered a single word handwritten across its face that seized his heart.

Kaiser.

Eyes darting around the empty freight train station, Ray searched in every direction for anyone who might be monitoring his movements. It seemed the rail yard was empty—not a single worker or vagrant milling about. That, of course, meant very little, since a simple pair of binoculars would’ve enabled a spy to watch Ray from a safe distance without him ever knowing.

Ray ran the nail of his right index finger along the envelope’s seam, slicing the paper open to reveal a plain, eggshell colored greeting card. No design or picture decorated the card’s exterior, and there were few words written inside when Ray opened the card.

Be a good boy.

The following year had been one of a specific kind of travel most commonly known as drifting. The previous twelve months ran together in Ray’s memory, the passing seasons blending together into one multi-climate time frame. He’d travelled north from D.C., his first stop Philadelphia. From Philadelphia came New York. New York led to Hartford, Connecticut. And finally, Portland, Maine, the place Ray felt he had travelled far enough. Most of the decision came from pure road weariness—he was plain tired of train hopping, hitchhiking, and stowing away in the beds of hauling trucks. As it turned out, being a dead man required a lot of energy.

Dead men tell no tales, but they still carry so many secrets.

Many a night in the past year, Ray stayed awake contemplating whether to share his own secret with the world. But his heavy eyes would always eventually close when he remembered how little he really had to share.

No address of Stefan’s mansion.

No location of the dog show venue.

And the only name he had to offer was that of a bogeyman.

Well, a bogeywoman.

An anonymous note left on the front steps of a police station or mailed to the head of the department would only earn puzzled looks and hearty laughs. And it would have to be anonymous—Ray hadn’t needed to think twice about it. Revealing himself would only trade freedom for attention. And he would die before he made such a deal.

Be a good boy.

There was simply nothing else he could do except pray each night he would somehow, someday, forget about the others still locked in the cages of the wealthiest percent.

But there was not a prayer, or drink, strong enough to perform such a miracle. Ray knew at the bottom of his heart the phantoms of faceless prisoners would haunt him forever.

Well, faceless with the exception of one—the one in the photograph hand delivered by Old Joe. The only one whose imprisonment was a cause for celebration.

His mind lost on the winding back roads of his memories, Ray opened Old Joe’s mail without even realizing it. But the black-and-white image of the photograph had pulled his consciousness back to the present like an oversized cane yanking a vaudeville act off stage.

Though a large mouthpiece concealed the bottom half of his face, Ray had no trouble identifying the photograph’s subject as one Stefan Hellstrom. Hands pressed against the glass, Stefan floated in a large tank filled completely with water. The photo had been angled upwards so Ray could see the tank was capped, making escape through the top impossible. Examining the picture even closer, Ray noticed the tubes running out of frame from Stefan’s mouthpiece.

Oxygen.

Stefan, whose body was as naked as Ray’s had always been during his stay, stared in the camera lens from behind the aquarium glass. The look of anguish in his eyes was like looking into a mirror—a reflection showed not the present, but the horrible past. Ray’s own eyes had looked exactly the same the moment he learned Jenny had been murdered.

The look of nothing left.

When Ray flipped the photo over in his hands, he discovered a note typed across the all-white back.

I have greatly enjoyed my newest fish. And thank you for taking the time to fix him. That was nice of you.

- M.H.

Ray turned the photo back over and looked to Stefan’s crotch, the meaning of Hadder’s written words suddenly coming to him. Though the murky water and the pictures natural grain somewhat obscured the photo’s details, Ray could still tell something wasn’t right between Stefan’s legs.

No more little fishies from the Hellstrom factory. A bullet at point blank range will do that.

As Ray stared at the picture, trying to brand the image into his mind like searing iron to cattle, he did not attempt to stop the smile pulling at the corners of his lips. Stefan had once tried to communicate the extreme nature of the Hadder household—she would make Ray’s residency in the Hellstrom home feel like a vacation. For all the mind games and deception Ray had to endure at the hands of the German aristocrat, Stefan hadn’t embellished, exaggerated, or lied about this. At the very least, Ray had been allowed to remain a mammal.

The snow filled air seemed to mute the sound of the photo shredding into strips. After ripping the picture into vertical ribbons, Ray rotated the paper and tore it across the edges, reducing the photograph into a handful of small squares. Exhaling a long steamy breath into the frigid air, Ray threw his cupped hands upward as if chucking rice at a newly wedded couple. A well-timed gust of wind carried the shreds into the night, mixing them with the falling flakes as they were carried away. This close to the harbor, Ray had no doubt every piece of the photo would eventually find its way into the waters of the Atlantic, forever lost to the endless ocean.

The last piece he could see disappeared into the night as Old Joe called out from the camp behind him.

“Hey, Ray. Ray!”

Glancing one final time towards the harbor below, Ray turned to face the old man.

“Come on,” Joe said, motioning with a wave of his arm. “We got a fire going. You could freeze to death on a night like this.”

Ray placed one hand in his jacket pocket, using the other to wave back. “Thanks, but I’m going to hang back for a minute. You go ahead.”

Old Joe shrugged, wasting no time to return to the warmth of the trash barrel fire. Before he turned, Ray heard him mutter, “Do what you want. It’s a free country.”

That’s what they say, isn’t it?

Once the elder bum was no longer staring at him, Ray slowly reached down with his non-pocketed hand to the snow-covered ground. His stiff knees cracked again as he carefully brought his weight down on his backside, finally getting himself into a sitting position. The back of his parka crept up enough to allow the smallest pinch of snow to brush against his tailbone, sending a shock of cold up his spine. Once the clothing had been readjusted, Ray brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around his shins.

Old Joe had been right about one thing—this was the perfect night for hypothermia. The kind of night that would eventually turn winter’s icy touch into a euphoric warmth. Like a bathtub full of ice cubes slowly melting into a soothing pool that beckons you to fall asleep. Ray knew he should sit up soon, brush himself off and wander over to the fire.

But there was no reason to rush. He wasn’t looking forward to huddling around with the other derelicts, diseased or drunk or both. So, for now he would sit here, watching the rhythmic flash of a distant lighthouse, and enjoy his solitude—his peace.

Ray took a long, deep breath of salty ocean air.

And closed his eyes.

Oh dear God no.

The sight of his Maple Avenue home brought a combined punch of panic and regret. These dreams were supposed to be over. Ray hadn’t made an unconscious visit to this place in the years’ time he’d been a free man.

And yet here he was, standing outside in the street, knowing full well what events were about to begin any moment now. It wasn’t fair. He had taken Jenny’s killers out of this world—and although the scar they left behind would never entirely fade—Jenny’s soul should have been free from this eternally looping tragedy.

Anything but this.

Ray would gladly spend every sleeping hour locked in the giant birdcage or chained in the dungeon-like stable. Or leashed under the lemon-tree grave. Those demons of the past were his to face alone. Wouldn’t that be punishment enough? Why did his mind insist on dragging Jenny into his penance over and over again?

Ray looked down and saw he was seven paces away from the front stoop. His next step would bring Jenny’s scream. He knew standing still was not an option. He’d tried it before. Sooner or later, the narration of this dream would switch to autopilot if need be, and his body would act without his consent. Countless replays of this same scenario had taught him it was better to move before it happened, to get it over with.

Gritting his teeth, Ray lifted his foot.

And for the first time ever, in either reality or dreamland, Ray took an eighth step.

He couldn’t say if the world changed at that moment, or if he’d simply failed to notice his surroundings when he first arrived. Regardless, Ray’s shock of succeeding to walk away from the macabre happenings inside the house was instantly replaced by utter puzzlement.

It was no longer snowing. It was no longer night.

Gentle morning light blanketed the paved street, sunlight reflecting off the windshields of the parked cars. The frigid air had bit his skin with icy teeth, and now it caressed his flesh like a warming massage. Snowfall still covered the driveways and front lawns on both sides of the street, but the accumulation itself had somehow changed. This was no longer the remnants of an unforgiving blizzard, but the sparkling white blanket one hopes for on a Christmas morning. For a street lined with run-down, low-income housing, Maple Ave. never looked so good.

And yet, none of these welcoming images and sensations were the reason Ray did not continue to travel away from his house. His free will had finally been returned to let him run away from this place that had so completely ruined his life.

But when he heard Jenny laughing from inside his home, there was no other place he wanted to be.

Sprinting at full speed, Ray galloped up the front steps to a door already open. Jenny’s voice became clearer with every step forward, and upon crossing the threshold into the house, Ray realized she was talking with another person. The other voice was also distinctly female, speaking in the same delighted enthusiasm as Ray’s lover.

They were in the kitchen. Ray stopped outside the door and placed an ear to the wood.

“Can I get you a refill?” Jenny asked.

“You can get me two and save time later.”

It dawned on Ray as the women shared a laugh that the other speaker sounded oddly familiar. He was sure he’d never heard the voice before, and yet something told him he knew who she was.

The mysterious voice said, “So what book are you at in the series?”

“I’m almost done with the second,” Jenny answered.

“Oh, you’re going to love how it ends.”

“Shh! Don’t tell me!”

“Don’t worry, I won’t. But you better hurry before the movie comes out next month.”

“I know, I’m so excited! Did you see who’s directing it?”

Ray stepped back, the conversation becoming muted as he leaned away.

She sounds so happy.

He reached for the door handle.

And froze.

Are you sure you want to go in there?

The unexpected question came as sudden as a screaming bullet. But once it connected with his brain, it couldn’t be ignored.

She was happy. And it was without Ray. The statement would’ve brought him to his knees in absolute anguish if it didn’t make so much sense. Raging against such a fact would be like failing to understand a flood victim’s desire to stand on dry land. Ray had been her own destructive force of nature—an earthquake that kept shaking her life apart until the pieces could never be put back together. And now she was in a place where the ground stood still beneath her feet. He had no place in a world of such stability. He would go…

…Right after he said goodbye.

Ray turned to find the wardrobe mirror still hanging near the living room windows as he remembered it. If this was to be the last time he saw his only love, he wanted to look halfway presentable. Ray paced over to the mirror, preparing to straighten his collar and flatten his hair.

In dreams, logic can transform and adapt as easily as the physical environment around you. When the mirror reflected back the dark brown, four-legged body of a chocolate Labrador, Ray didn’t even bat an eye.

“Ray?”

He turned his head to see Jenny standing in the open doorway of the kitchen.

“Ray!”

They ran to each other, Ray’s dangling canine tongue bouncing with every step. She wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in the soft fur of his brown coat. He licked her face and she laughed out loud.

“Bella! Ray’s back!”

Before Ray could even process the name, the Italian woman came rushing in from the kitchen, a Cosmopolitan still in her hand. Ray had been right to think her voice sounded so familiar, though he didn’t bother to question why he could now understand every single word that came from her mouth.

“I told you he would come back,” Bella said, placing her drink down on the coffee table. She found a part of Ray’s torso that wasn’t being embraced by Jenny and joined in on the group hug.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Jenny playfully slapped Bella across the shoulder. “Yeah, right. More like you said the exact opposite.”

“What I said—” Bella placed her hands on each side of Ray’s face and brought his gaze to match hers. “Is that a lost dog never returns to his master.”

Ray closed his eyes as she brought her lips to his forehead.

“But to a family,” she said, “he will always come home.”