can have a little fun of our own.”
Nicky’s head bobbed in a nod. “Works for me.” He suddenly pivoted and picked me up, throwing me over his shoulder.
I laughed. “Nicky, what the hell are you doing?”
He strode toward the front door, his long strides thundering on the hardwood floor. “Just speeding things up,” he replied, yanking open the door. I laughed again as he hurried down the steps, making my upper body bob with the motion. Then he plopped me down next to the Escalade and pressed a hard kiss to my lips. “Those folks at the Asylum can have one hour with you. Then you’re mine.”
I grinned and returned his kiss with a slow, sultry one of my own. “I’m yours anytime you want me, lover.”
Nicky groaned, then broke away, slipping a little on the ice and snow in his haste to get around to the other side of the SUV. He hopped in and shoved open my door from the inside, then offered me that mischievous grin that assured me he was up to no good. “What are you waiting for, doll? Tick tock.”
For all the levity we’d shared before we reached the Asylum, the moment we arrived at the entrance of the secluded estate nestled deep in a hundred acres of forest in northern Illinois, it was impossible to be lighthearted. There was a heaviness in the air that weighed down on us, growing more profound with each step.
“How the hell do people work here every day?” Nicky muttered as we climbed the stone steps. “This would depress the shit out of me.”
I shook my head, wishing we’d waited until it was daylight to visit, but there was no way I was going to bail after we’d come all that way. Besides, I had a feeling that when Dracula realized he couldn’t get into my thoughts, he wasn’t going to be very happy. And an unhappy Dracula was something I wanted to avoid.
The Asylum had existed in its current form for over a hundred years, and some of its residents had been there for that long. The FMA tried to rehabilitate those who were brought to the Asylum for treatment, but, sadly, few were as successful as J.G. seemed to be. This was hardly my first trip to the last resort for many Tales who were deemed either too dangerous or too unstable to be left in the general population of the FMA prison, but no matter how many times I had to visit, I never got used to the ominous feeling that pervaded the building.
I shuddered when Nicky pounded a fist on the front door and I heard the knock echoing through the hallways. Sensing my uneasiness, Nicky took my hand in his, giving it a squeeze.
“You okay?” he whispered.
I nodded and swallowed hard. “Yeah, I’m good. I just hate this place. Too many opportunities to catch a glimpse into one of the patients’ thoughts when I’m not expecting it.”
“Are you sure you want to go inside?” he asked. “I can talk to Renfield myself.”
But before I could respond, the door swung open to reveal a very austere woman in a plain black dress, her gray hair pulled back flat against her head in a tight bun. Her face was pinched and unfriendly as she looked us over.
“It’s after hours,” she snapped. “No visitors.”
I offered the matron a smile. “I’m Trish Muffet,” I said. “I’ve visited here before on FMA business.”
“Don’t care who you are,” she said. “After hours.”
Nicky leaned against the door frame, giving her his patented smile. “You won’t let us in for just a few minutes?” he drawled. “We promise not to cause any trouble. I’d consider it a personal favor.”
The matron seemed to cave a little. “I really shouldn’t. . . .”
He bent forward a little toward her. “Hang on—it’s Mrs. Reed, isn’t it? From Jane Eyre?”
She lifted a single brow. “What of it?”
He nodded. “I thought I recognized you. A woman of your impeccable breeding and stature—how did you end up being the matron of the Asylum?”
She straightened, obviously flattered by his notice. “It seems my lot in life to be forced to look after monsters,” she told him, smoothing the front of her dress, which was a far cry from the type of attire she’d been used to in her story.
“A great injustice,” Nicky said, shaking his head. “You were intended for a life of ease, not working in a place like this.”
“Exactly so.” She glared at us for a moment, then stepped back, opening the door wide. “I suppose I can let you in for a little while. Just don’t upset any of the inmates.”
“We only need to see one of them,” Nicky assured her. “Renfield.”
Her brows shot up. “That man is completely deranged. Why would you want to see him?”
“I’m sorry, but that’s classified,” I told her. “Just tell us where he is and we’ll find our way.”
“Third floor,” she spat, obviously not as impressed with me as she was with Nicky. “Cell forty-two.”
“Insufferable woman,” I muttered as we trudged up the stairs to the upper levels. “How dare she call the patients here monsters? Only some of them are completely beyond help. If anyone’s a monster it’s that detestable woman. The way she treated Jane Eyre . . . How could you possibly be polite to that harpy?”
“I’ve had to be polite to a lot of assholes over the years, doll,” Nicky said. “It makes my ass twitch every single time. But if you want to get anywhere, you sometimes have to dance with the devil.”
We were silent as we navigated the dim, clinically sparse halls of the Asylum. The dirty light cast by the bare bulbs spaced in even intervals along the ceiling cast dark shadows, creating corners that weren’t there and bathing the passageway in an eerie, murky glow. I edged a little closer to Nicky and he reached for my hand, clasping it tightly in his.
There were unintelligible mumblings floating toward us and beneath the static of voices I heard a woman keening in sorrow, another weeping, punctuating her grief with sharp yowls that made me start each time her mournful screech split the air.
Nicky’s fingers tightened around mine. “Here’s forty-two,” he said, jerking his chin toward the number hanging over a heavy steel door with a barred window.
I nodded. “Okay, let’s get this over with.”
Nicky blew out a sharp breath, then slid the blind to the left and peered through the bars. “Renfield.” There was a scrabble of movement inside but no response. “Renfield, we want to talk to you.”
We waited in tense silence, listening for any response. Suddenly a face appeared at the bars, making Nicky jump, which startled a little yelp out of me. I clutched at his arm, my heart racing.
The grimy face before us twisted into a grotesque smile, revealing filthy, rotting teeth. He chuckled, the sound as harsh as sandpaper. “Have come to visit me, have you?” he rasped. “Come to talk to the freak?”
“We need to know about Dracula,” Nicky said, cutting to the chase. “We need to know where he is, what he’s planning.”
Renfield chuckled again. “You won’t find the master,” he assured us. “Not until he wants to be found. And then he’ll find you.” He looked pointedly at me. “But you already know that, don’t you?”
Renfield suddenly darted to one side and there was a soft shuffling inside the cell. A moment later he reappeared, chewing on something crunchy. His eyes rolled back into his head as his lids fluttered shut, and he moaned with ecstasy. “The blood is the life,” he murmured. “The blood is the life. . . .”
I gagged a little, trying in vain not to imagine what manner of creature Renfield had just ingested. I’d read his story and knew his obsession with consuming insects and whatever else he could get his hands on in the assumption that it would make him stronger, grant him a measure of immortality.
“Renfield,” Nicky said, “could you tell us what you know about Dracula? Has he communicated with you lately?”
“He has promised me life!” Renfield rasped, grasping the bars of his cell. “He will come for me when he is ready for me to do his bidding and free me from this damnable place! And he will make me an immortal with his blood. He has told me so!”
“He can’t make you any more immortal than you already are,” I told him. “We’re Tales, Renfield—we don’t age here. We don’t die except under very extreme circumstances.”
Renfield blinked at me, his unfocused gaze suddenly becoming laser sharp. “You are wrong, pretty girl. The master can make me stronger, can teach me the ways to find the blood that gives life. He has promised it.”
“When did he tell you that?” I asked, beginning to wonder if Renfield even realized he was no longer trapped within the pages of his story. It was possible he could no longer differentiate between what had occurred in his novel and what had taken place since coming over.
