Page 28 of Desecrated Saints
“A fucking sir?” I exclaim. “You see that?”
Everyone falls silent when Kade waves for us to shut up. The well-bred asshole on the screen clears his throat, smoothing the snake-like expression off his face and plastering on a smile that screams of grief and sadness. I want to fucking puke.
“Twelve days ago, my beloved son and head of our clinical division, Doctor Warren Augustus, passed away. In an act of malice, he was attacked by the very patients he so passionately fought for. My son was murdered by those he swore to protect.”
Son?
What the living fuck?!
The clicking of cameras and journalists scribbling notes punctuates Bancroft’s words. His identity has shocked everyone here into silence. I swear the son of a bitch fakes a tear that he brushes aside with an embroidered, silken handkerchief worth more than my life.
“This act of violence will not go unpunished. We have been treating the mentally unwell in our private institutes for thirty years. Blackwood Institute will be rebuilt, and we will bring those responsible to justice. Several patients escaped during the riot and remain at large.”
Seven’s grip on my hand tightens involuntarily, creaking my bones. All of the guys have moved closer, unconsciously closing ranks around us.
Bancroft stares into the camera. “We are working with the police to track down the escapees. I came here today to warn the public and ask for your assistance in locating these criminals. They should be considered extremely dangerous.”
Several photographs are plastered across the screen, taken straight from our ID badges. All of my guys are there, bar Seven. He’s supposed to be dead, so they can hardly broadcast his picture. The final image that fills the screen stops my heart. My chest burns from holding my breath for too long as I study it.
“Son of a fucking bitch,” Kade utters.
Plastered across the screen in merciless, high-definition horror, is my police mugshot. I have no doubt they chose this on purpose to scare the public. I’m blood-splattered and gaunt after the police caught up to me, before I could throw myself in front of a train. I barely recognise the ghost staring back at me.
“That’s me alright,” I grit out.
Bancroft flashes back on the screen. “Their ringleader, Brooklyn West, was one of Blackwood’s most infamous patients. While she may have escaped our care, we endeavour to recapture her and bring her to justice for the atrocities committed. Miss West is a criminal and an inhumane monster.”
The corner of his mouth tilts up in the tiniest way. He’s staring straight through the camera, into the pits of my murderous soul. His direct eye contact is no mistake. Bancroft knows I’m watching; this conference is for our benefit.
“It is clear her rehabilitation has failed. We will not rest until she is back behind bars, where she belongs for the rest of her life. I will not be taking questions at this time.”
Striding away from the roar of frantic voices demanding more information, Bancroft is followed by security before climbing into a blacked-out SUV. I catch the flash of two people waiting inside, but the cameras can’t capture their faces.
Kade relaxes ever so slightly. “At least my father didn’t make an appearance. He’s getting butchered by a media shitstorm for our involvement in this, so that’s something.”
Hudson snorts. “That’ll keep him busy.”
I sit unblinking, the conversation around me melting into insignificance. All I can hear is white noise, growing louder and louder as the broken part of my brain unfurls. Stretching its limbs as if awakening from a long nap, thick, tar-like shadows begin to leak down the walls.
Inky droplets swallow the TV screen whole, blotting the room out. I can feel the cold from the basement around me, leaching into my bones, and the bite of handcuffs searing my wrists. Augustus’s sound machine blares in my head, leaving nothing but terror behind.
I start to tremble, a heady current coursing through me. Something flickers to life in the corner of the darkened room, birthed from the shadows. A ghost has risen from the dead to walk amongst the living.
“Please no,” I whisper, but it’s too late.
The bloodied, hallucinatory face of Doctor Augustus stares back at me, his charming smile spread wide. He rests against the TV console, grinning while smoothing his crimson, brain-splattered suit. Even his glossy black hair is clumped with blood and deathly fluids.
Thought you’d gotten away with it, Patient Eight?
I told you before.
Blackwood is your destiny. It’s inescapable.
I escape the hallucination by running at full pelt. Voices try to sneak into my stuttering mind, but I shove them all out, flying past the guys without stopping for a breath. Running until I trip over myself, I stumble into the garden, cutting my hands on thorny bushes.
The Devil follows me, guided by the invisible cord that binds us together. No matter how much I scream and beg to be left alone, he lives in that gaping chasm in my chest, carved by his sick will alone. Augustus kneels beside me, studying my state of distress.
Why do you run from me?