need him. Loftus does. My … father.” Tristan gave her an indecisive glance before co ntinuing. “I don’t really know what for. From what I gather, Fallon knows alchemy.”
“Alchemy?” Dawn repeated dubiously.
“Look, I don’t know anything about it. They’ve been pretty secretive about it over the years. Are you hungry? You’re always hungry.” Tristan peered out the window. “There’s a café across the street.”
The café was a homey place filled with antique-y memorabilia from around town. There were no booths, only little oaken tables with matching chairs. Dawn and Tristan drew curious stares from the few locals there, probably lunchtime regulars.
Once they’d settled into the table furthest from the other diners, Dawn ordered a sandwich, while Tristan asked only for coffee.
She narrowed her eyes, watching him across the table. She liked to watch him, she realized. Her eyes never grew weary of him. He was the center of her external focus, b ecause it was just the two of them. It was only natural she’d feel drawn to him eventually, even though she was his prisoner. It was natural, but she didn’t have to allow this attraction to disturb her moral sensibilities. This wasn’t romantic. This was wrong and weird and frightening.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said after he got his coffee, pale steam rising in front of his face. He tipped several su gars into the mug, stirring each time.
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? Why?”
“I want to know.”
Her resolve to remain aloof and impassive so she wouldn’t get hurt was quickly disappearing. Dawn felt defiant now, angry at everything. She could have stood up in the middle of the café and started screaming, but she didn’t. Instead she uttered a derisive laugh. “Sorry, but you don’t get to know anything about me. I’m not going to give you fuel for whatever sick game you’re playing. I’m not your fucking toy. I don’t belong to you, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I do.”
Satisfied with herself, but still angry, she grabbed her glass of water and stared out the window. After a few seconds her eyes flicked to his long, bony hands working incessantly to pour individual creamers into the coffee. He might not have heard her angry speech for all the reaction he gave.
Scream. Scream now.
She didn’t.
“Do you even drink coffee?” she asked after a minute.
“What?”
“You’re working so hard putting stuff in it. Do you even drink it?”
Pushing the mug across the table to her, he smirked. “You want it?”
“Uh, no thanks. I just watched you put about seventeen sugars and nine creamers in there. I don’t like black coffee, but that’s taking it a little too far.”
“I don’t drink it,” he said. “It just gives me something to do with my hands.”
“What’s wrong with your hands?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” Dawn said, drawing out the word.
He met her eyes briefly, unamused by her sarcasm. Her sandwich arrived and he dragged his co ffee back. Dawn ate while he clinked his spoon against the mug. Empty, torn packets of creamer and sugar littered the table between them.
“Let’s go,” he said as soon as she’d finished eating. He rose to his feet, threw down some money, and waited impatiently while she took several long drinks of water.
Back at the motel Tristan dragged a chair in front of the door, sat in it, and turned on the TV. Dawn glared at him for a moment, wondering what sort of psychotic thoughts flitted through his chemically imbalanced brain. She grabbed her books and lay back on the bed furthest from him. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find this person, or whatever he was supposed to be doing on this trip. Time wasn’t something Leila had, though, and Dawn was acutely aware of that. Thinking of those screams still gave her the chills.
One of the books she’d chosen was about psychological disorders, and she’d opened right to the chapter on Stockholm syndrome. She
“Alchemy?” Dawn repeated dubiously.
“Look, I don’t know anything about it. They’ve been pretty secretive about it over the years. Are you hungry? You’re always hungry.” Tristan peered out the window. “There’s a café across the street.”
The café was a homey place filled with antique-y memorabilia from around town. There were no booths, only little oaken tables with matching chairs. Dawn and Tristan drew curious stares from the few locals there, probably lunchtime regulars.
Once they’d settled into the table furthest from the other diners, Dawn ordered a sandwich, while Tristan asked only for coffee.
She narrowed her eyes, watching him across the table. She liked to watch him, she realized. Her eyes never grew weary of him. He was the center of her external focus, b ecause it was just the two of them. It was only natural she’d feel drawn to him eventually, even though she was his prisoner. It was natural, but she didn’t have to allow this attraction to disturb her moral sensibilities. This wasn’t romantic. This was wrong and weird and frightening.
“Tell me about yourself,” he said after he got his coffee, pale steam rising in front of his face. He tipped several su gars into the mug, stirring each time.
She quirked an eyebrow at him. “What? Why?”
“I want to know.”
Her resolve to remain aloof and impassive so she wouldn’t get hurt was quickly disappearing. Dawn felt defiant now, angry at everything. She could have stood up in the middle of the café and started screaming, but she didn’t. Instead she uttered a derisive laugh. “Sorry, but you don’t get to know anything about me. I’m not going to give you fuel for whatever sick game you’re playing. I’m not your fucking toy. I don’t belong to you, and don’t make the mistake of thinking I do.”
Satisfied with herself, but still angry, she grabbed her glass of water and stared out the window. After a few seconds her eyes flicked to his long, bony hands working incessantly to pour individual creamers into the coffee. He might not have heard her angry speech for all the reaction he gave.
Scream. Scream now.
She didn’t.
“Do you even drink coffee?” she asked after a minute.
“What?”
“You’re working so hard putting stuff in it. Do you even drink it?”
Pushing the mug across the table to her, he smirked. “You want it?”
“Uh, no thanks. I just watched you put about seventeen sugars and nine creamers in there. I don’t like black coffee, but that’s taking it a little too far.”
“I don’t drink it,” he said. “It just gives me something to do with my hands.”
“What’s wrong with your hands?”
“Nothing.”
“Okay,” Dawn said, drawing out the word.
He met her eyes briefly, unamused by her sarcasm. Her sandwich arrived and he dragged his co ffee back. Dawn ate while he clinked his spoon against the mug. Empty, torn packets of creamer and sugar littered the table between them.
“Let’s go,” he said as soon as she’d finished eating. He rose to his feet, threw down some money, and waited impatiently while she took several long drinks of water.
Back at the motel Tristan dragged a chair in front of the door, sat in it, and turned on the TV. Dawn glared at him for a moment, wondering what sort of psychotic thoughts flitted through his chemically imbalanced brain. She grabbed her books and lay back on the bed furthest from him. He didn’t seem to be in any hurry to find this person, or whatever he was supposed to be doing on this trip. Time wasn’t something Leila had, though, and Dawn was acutely aware of that. Thinking of those screams still gave her the chills.
One of the books she’d chosen was about psychological disorders, and she’d opened right to the chapter on Stockholm syndrome. She
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