Broken Princess Read online

  "What's going on?" I ask weakly, but all I get is a grunted "later" from Leek. He's rolled a wheelchair closer to the bed and without a word, Andrew lifts me up and puts me on it.

  "You can't do that," I complain, but I'm too weak to fight them. Leek wraps a thick blanket around me, and off we go, out of the room, with Andrew wheeling me along the hospital corridor towards an elevator. "Are you kidnapping me?"

  Leek chuckles, the first positive sound those two have made since they stormed into my room. "In a way. Don't worry, we're not the bad guys. We'll explain everything once we're in a secure location."

  "Secure location sounds a lot like kidnapping," I mutter under my breath, but the sound of the elevator doors opening camouflages the sound. Andrew wheels me in and we take the lift down to the lowest level, the car park.

  "You took your sweet time," Quentin greets us as soon as we step, or in my case roll, out of the elevator. He's standing in front of a strategically parked van which is covered in advertising for an office cleaning company. "Hi Laya, good to see you again," he says to me and grins. "Are you ready to go to your new home?"

  "No," I grumble. "I'm being kidnapped."

  "They've not told you anything?"

  "We had to be quick about it," Leek defends the pair still standing behind me. "They could be here any minute."

  Quentin nods and opens the back of the van. "Andrew, you're in the back with her. Leek's with me."

  "Sorry about this," Andrew whispers and gently lifts me, pressing me against his chest. "I know you don't like being touched."

  It's nice of him to finally notice, but that doesn't make it any better. My cheek rubs against his shirt and his scent fills my nostrils, so very different from the sickeningly sweet smell that Andros left behind whenever he visited me. I think I’ve learned to associate touch with the Prophet and the pain that usually followed it.

  The doctor carries me into the van and sits me back down on one of the two car seats mounted to the wall. He puts a seat belt around me, and by now, I'm so weak that it's the only thing holding me up. I don't want them to see my weakness, so I keep my head as straight as possible and continue to glare at them.

  Quentin folds the wheelchair and attaches it to the wall opposite with some velcro straps. "All set?" he asks and Andrew nods.

  "Yes, let's get out of here."

  * * *

  Five minutes into the journey, I can't hold myself upright any longer and slump to the right, away from Andrew.

  "Laya?" he asks, releasing his seat belt and jumping out of his seat so he can kneel in front of me. "What's wrong?"

  He takes my wrist and feels my pulse. It's a comforting gesture, even though it means that he's touching me. "We need to lie you down," he announces, but he keeps his hand on my wrist, his thumb gently stroking my skin. I close my eyes and relax into the touch, so against what I should be doing, but I'm too exhausted to even care. All I want is to feel safe.

  17

  I'm no longer in hospital. I'm no longer on my old shoddy bed back home either. No, I'm on a warm, soft mattress that moulds around me, hugging me gently. I slowly open my eyes, blinking a few times to get rid of the glue keeping my eyelids stuck together.

  It's an unfamiliar room, not very big, but furnished in bright and warm colours that make it seem bigger than it is. There's no window, but a large poster of a window frame looking out to a tropical beach is in its place. Very eighties style, if you ask me, but I guess it's better than no window at all.

  I sit up slowly, ignoring the feeling that I'm about to faint. I'm not going to do that. I'm going to be strong. I know how to deal with a painful and weak body, and this is no different. May the Angel help me and be by my side.

  There's a small table to my right, more a pedestal than an actual bedside table. There's a tiny brass bell on it, and a note. I pick up the piece of paper first.

  Ring when you're awake.

  It's the same writing as on the notes I got back in the community. I'm torn inside. On one hand, they helped me, gave me food and hope, but on the other hand, they lied to me the entire time. They lied to everyone, pretending they were someone they're not. Now that I know their real identity, or at least parts of it, those little gestures seem different. Maybe they just wanted to gain my trust. Maybe Andrew only came into my house to plant that bug. And worst of all: they almost let me die just so they could arrest Andros while he was committing a crime.

  But still... they were kind to me, and I don't think that was all an act. I'm pretty good at reading people, and I didn't see deceit in their eyes when they talked to me. Yes, they were hiding something, but it wasn't malicious. At one point, I thought that we might become friends after ascension. In another life, I would have loved to get to know them further.

  I don't really have a choice, do I? I can't run, I'm far too weak for that. As long as I stay cautious and don't let them close, I should be okay.

  I nod in determination and ring the little bell. It's a beautiful, clear sound that reverberates through my bones as the vibrations travel up my arm. I put it down and listen to the echo of the bell and for whatever might follow. Sure enough, there are footsteps in the distance, approaching quickly. A moment later, the door flies open and Andrew steps inside.

  "Typical, I leave for ten minutes to get some food, and that's when you wake up."

  He grins and walks to my side, sitting down on the bed. He's careful not to get too close though, and he keeps his hands on his lap.

  "How are you?" he asks, his grin disappearing slightly. "We'd thought you were feeling better than you were, and I didn't expect you to crash like you did. I had to give you another IV." He points to a drip stand in the corner behind my bed, an empty plastic bag hanging from its hook.

  "I'm fine, I think," I reply quietly. I lift my hand to look at the new cannula that's still embedded in the top of my hand. "Can you remove this?"

  He nods and puts on some gloves from his pocket.

  "Do you always carry gloves on you?"

  He smirks. "We had a prof at university who told us to always carry a pair with us. You never know whether you might come upon an accident or need to entertain a child."

  "A child?"

  "I'll show you in a moment." He expertly removes the cannula and dresses the wound. His touch is light, careful this time. When he's discarded the needle into a metal bowl at his feet, he grins and blows air into one of the gloves, then ties a knot at the end as if it's a balloon. He takes a pen from his chest pocket and draws something on it, then turns it around and wiggles it in front of my face. "Here you go, an elephant for you."

  I can't help but laugh. The thumb part of the glove has turned into an elephant trunk, and he's drawn two eyes and enormous ears on it.

  He smiles at me and his eyes light up. "I could have turned it into a cockerel as well, but my brother's children always prefer the elephant."

  "You're an uncle?"

  "Yes, I've got two nephews. They're twins and quite a handful. I'm glad I get to be the nice uncle who treats them rather than the dad who has to deal with all the discipline and making sure they grow up being nice young men. I much prefer the fun side, at least until I have kids of my own."

  I have so many other questions I want to ask, but it isn't proper. I shouldn't be asking for his life before... wait. We're back in his old life. I can't apply the normal rules anymore. I could ask him anything, but it's wrong. There's a reason why that rule was in place. We need to live in the present and prepare for the future, Andros always said. The past is gone and useless.

  I swallow my questions about Andrew and look around the room again. "Where are we?"

  "A safe place." His smile has slipped a little.

  "Where?"

  "A house just outside the city." He's being deliberately vague and it's making me angry. First, they kidnap me, and then they refuse to tell me where I am?

  "Which city?" I ask, glaring at him.

  "You're safe here," is all he says.
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br />   "I was safe before!" I sit up a bit more so I can look him straight in the eyes. "I was safe and you took all of that from me! I had my family before, my people, my husband, and now I'm here with three strangers who won't tell me anything! How is that supposed to be better?"

  He looks at the bed, evading my gaze. "We'll explain everything soon. Quentin is in a meeting with our superior just now and once he's back, we'll know how much we're allowed to tell you."

  "Allowed? So if that boss orders you not to tell me anything, you'll do that?"

  He grimaces. "Orders are orders. I may have full authority when it comes to medical matters, but we do have people in charge who usually have the bigger picture and know what's sensible. Sure, they're wrong sometimes, and we have been known to disregard orders occasionally, but in this case, we're going to listen."

  His voice has turned stern, as if to make sure that there's no point in arguing with him.

  I lean back against the soft pillow behind me. The room is no longer looking as friendly as when I first woke up.

  "So what am I?" I ask grimly. "Your prisoner?"

  Finally he looks up at me again, anguish reflected on his face. "Don't ever think that. We're here to protect you. I can't tell you everything, but know that there are people out there who want to hurt you. To keep you safe, we need you to stay with us for now, inside, until we've sorted out a new identity for you. It's not a quick process, and we'll have to get you used to life in the normal world again. Right now, it would be too overwhelming, which would make it easy for them to spot you."

  "Them?"

  He sighs. "I've said too much already. I'm sorry, Laya, Quentin will hopefully be back soon and then we can have a proper conversation. Until then, can I get you anything? Something to read? Food?"

  I shake my head and close my eyes, making it very obvious that I want to be left alone.

  "Sleep some more," he says softly and gets up from his chair. "I'll wake you when there's news."

  This time, I do as he asks.

  The smell of fresh bread wakes me. For a tiny moment, I think I'm back home, but far too soon my memories return and I remember all that's happened. The little bell is still on the table next to me, and this time, I ring it more forcefully.

  "On my way!" a man shouts from somewhere, maybe a few rooms away from my own. While I wait, I try and sit up, and it works surprisingly well. I'm a little stronger and wiggling around until I find a better position feels easy. Maybe I'll be able to get up later and walk around. I could do with a toilet break.

  Someone knocks on the door. How polite. I guess they're now trying to make me feel less like a prisoner.

  "Come in," I call out and Leek enters, carrying a plate with two giant slabs of bread. I remember the day I got a similar sandwich and shiver.

  "I thought you might be hungry," he says, but he continues to stand in the doorway as if he's not quite sure how to act around me.

  I give him a slight smile to bridge the tension. "It smells good."

  He grins. "This baking stuff is really growing on me. Quentin even bought me a Mary Berry recipe book, although I'm not sure if that was a joke or not." He shrugs. "Want some?"

  I nod and he comes closer, handing me the plate. There's enough bread on there for three people. One of the slices has been covered in a thick layer of butter and a sprinkle of parsley, while the other is drowning under a mountain of cheese. He either has no idea of how much people can eat, or he's simply overdoing it out of nervosity.

  "Can I sit down for a bit?" he asks, but I'm already munching away on the delicious bread. The crust is perfectly crunchy, but the middle is soft and squishy.

  He takes a seat and watches me eat.

  "It's delicious," I say once I've swallowed. "You're really good at this."

  He smiles widely. "I'm not just the muscle."

  "The muscle?" I take another bite while I await his explanation.

  "That's what they call me. Quentin's the brain, Drew's the deft hands and I'm the muscle. We make a good team, most of the time."

  "What exactly is it that you do?"

  He huffs. "I probably shouldn't be telling you this, but to be honest, I couldn't care less. Ever heard of SOCA?"

  I shake my head, the bread forgotten.

  "Serious Organised Crime Agency. We deal with all the serious stuff happening here in Scotland. Drugs, forced prostitution, human trafficking, you name it. We're part of the police, but under the direct command of the government, which also means that not all of us are originally police officers. I used to be special forces and Andrew used to work in war zones for Médecins Sans Frontières."

  "What about Quentin?" I ask, almost calling him Owen by mistake. It's going to take a little more time to get used to the new names.

  "He's proper police. Forensic psychologist and profiler. He's far cleverer than he lets on."

  I put the bread down, suddenly feeling queasy. "Does that mean he's analysing me? Profiling me? Like a criminal?"

  To my surprise, Leek grins. "You, me, everyone. I don't think he can control it. He's trying to understand everyone he meets, and when he can't, he becomes a little obsessed. I think he's going to be very annoyed that he'll miss out on interrogating Andros."

  I go over our last conversation again. How much of that was him being a psychologist? How much was him, the person? Or are the two intertwined? Does it matter? In the end, I've got no secrets he could expose. My weaknesses are drawn on my back in large, puckered scars.

  18

  The sound of the doorbell interrupts our conversation. Two short rings, two long, another short one.

  "That's Quentin," Leek announces, already on his way out of the room. "Don't worry, we'll come join you here in a moment. Milk and sugar?"

  "Huh?"

  "I'm making tea, I always make tea for our meetings. Milk? Sugar?"

  "No, thanks," I mutter. I haven't drunk tea since I moved into the community. Drinks that have an effect on the mind were forbidden: tea, coffee, alcohol, sugary drinks. We mainly stuck to water, and occasionally some fruit juice on special occasions.

  He leaves. I'm alone again, with a very full bladder. There must be a bathroom nearby. Question is, will I make it there on my own?

  Only one way to find out. I push the blanket off me, which takes a surprising amount of effort. I'm still weaker than I thought. It's only now that I notice that I'm wearing a different pair of pyjamas than what I wore in hospital. Someone's changed my clothes. One of the men has changed my clothes. They undressed me without my permission, without my knowledge. Bile rises up in my throat when I imagine how they could have looked at my naked body. Men can't be trusted. The only time men and women should talk and touch is when they're married. That's the rule. This goes against everything I know and it makes me physically sick. I need to get away from them.

  I slide my legs off the bed and sit there for a moment, waiting for my head to stop spinning. When it finally does, I stand, holding onto the bed just in case. My legs are shaking, but I manage to stay on my feet. That's a good start.

  I take a deep breath and let go of the bed. The door isn't that far, only a few steps. I can do this. I walk, no, I stagger towards it, my arms outstretched in case I fall. My head is spinning and my vision is flaky, but I make it. I cling to the door handle for support, but I know I need to be quick about it. The men will probably return any moment now, and I want to do this without them. I want to preserve my last bit of dignity.

  I open the door as quietly as I can, glad it's not one of the squeaky doors we had in the village. Now, where to next? There are doors to both sides of the corridor, and none of them look as if they lead to a bathroom. Signs would be helpful. There are three doors to my right and two to my left, so I choose to turn right. The chances are higher there.

  I'm halfway down the corridor when I stumble over a fold in the carpet. I'm not fast enough to find my balance and I fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Yes, that's what I feel like. A stupid,
weak sack of potatoes that can't do anything by itself.

  I roll onto my side and manage to sit up, but everything is going black and then bright again, my vision flickering and turning. I'm feeling nauseous, but I can't stop now. I need to get to the bathroom or there will be an accident. I couldn't stand that humiliation.

  "What the fuck are you doing there?"

  The beeping in my ears is almost drowning out Andrew's voice. I've been discovered.

  "Bathroom," I say weakly, leaning against the wall to stop the shaking.

  He squats down in front of me, looking at me sternly. "That's why you've got the bell. You need something, you ring it. You could have hurt yourself."

  I let that sentence reverberate in my mind for a moment, then I laugh. I laugh and giggle and for some reason, tears are beginning to flow down my cheeks.

  Andrew stares at me in confusion. "What's so funny?"

  "I could have got hurt," I snort between bouts of laughter.

  His frown is growing more concerned. "Did you hit your head?"

  "Hurt!" I continue to laugh. "I got hurt so often, and now a walk to the bathroom could have hurt me?"

  He doesn't seem to see the joke, which makes me laugh even harder.

  "Is it alright if I carry you?" he asks, and my laughter immediately stops. He wants to touch me again. It's wrong, so wrong.

  I shake my head, glowering at him.

  He sighs. "Wheelchair it is. Stay here, don't move."

  I laugh again. As if I could.

  * * *

  He helps me into the large bathroom, but then he leaves me alone to do my business. Thank the Angel for that small mercy. When I'm done, I splatter some water into my face, looking into the mirror for the first time in... well, ages. I've seen my reflection in water sometimes, or in the smooth metal of pots in the kitchen, but this mirror shows the ugly truth. My cheeks are gaunt and pale, not as round as I remember them. A thin layer of downy hair covers my scalp, broken by small scars where I cut myself in the past. I'll have to ask for a razor soon. My eyes are the worst though. They don't look like me. They're surrounded by grey shadows and there's no spark. They're devoid of life. Blank. Dead.