Angel’s Promise by Aleatha Romig

Emma

As I reached for the water Kyle offered with the tablets in my other hand, the milky liquid quivered within the confines of the glass. I stared down, recalling Kyle’s words—after the fever...

I spoke to Jezebel. “I’d rather have a beer.”

“You don’t drink beer,” Kyle replied.

“And you’re dead. Time changes things. I want a beer.”

Jezebel shook her head. “Give her a beer.”

Once the glass was taken and a cool bottle was in my hand, I nodded toward the cellar. The one place I didn’t want to go was now my escape—at least temporarily. I took a step, but Jezebel stopped me.

“Emma, you need to rest. Take the tablets.”

With my hands trembling and three sets of eyes upon me, I lifted my hand with the tablets to my open lips and followed them with a sip of the beer. Swallowing, I turned back to the stairs. Before I made it through the doorway, Kyle reached for my hand and pried open my fingers. His blue eyes met mine. I saw his determination, wanting to catch me in deception.

Once my fingers were straight, all that was left was a smudge of blue on my palm left by the tablets from when they’d been captured in my overly warm hand.

I gave him my best fuck-you smile.

“Rest,” Jezebel said.

Nodding, I left the beer on the nearby counter, hurried through the doorway, and rushed down the wooden stairs. My high heels luckily didn’t falter. I barely noticed my surroundings as I ran for a partially open door and pushed it open. Turning on a light and closing the door, I spit the contents of my mouth into the toilet. Quickly, I ran the faucet. More of the milky water spewed into the sink. Ignoring the color and odor, I cupped some fluid in my hands and brought it to my lips.

Resisting the urge to gag, I sucked up the liquid, rinsed and spat again.

I repeated the procedure a few more times until I was sure there were no remnants of the tablets left in my mouth. When I looked up, my reflection staring back at me appeared weary, but unlike Jezebel, my complexion was the opposite of pale. My long hair had taken on the curl of the humidity. While most was still secured back into the ponytail, I had small frizzy spirals surrounding my face.

Removing my hair tie, I lowered my head, gathered my long tresses together and piled them onto my head and away from my neck. A few twists of the hair tie and I now had a messy loose bun.

After I splashed more water on my face, I took a deep breath. Unbuttoning my blouse, I saw the bruise from the seat belt across my chest, interrupted only by my lace bra. Gently, I smoothed more water onto my neck and chest. Each application lowered my temperature and washed away a bit of the perspiration. A fine white dusting from the airbags disappeared from my skin with every douse. The powder was ingrained in my black slacks. It would take more than dirty water to clean them. When I looked again at myself, my eyes seemed clearer and bluer and my cheeks had lost a bit of their rosiness.

In that second, I had the realization of what Kyle had told me. The temperature in this cellar was at least fifteen to twenty degrees cooler than upstairs. I hated to admit that he’d been right. Slowly, opening the bathroom door, I looked around the room I’d only sprinted through.

The walls were cement blocks. Stepping inside I splayed my fingers on the rough surface. I felt the coolness they must transmit from the earth underground. Looking up, I saw that the ceiling was wood. It wasn’t a ceiling at all but the underside of the floor above.

As a matter of fact, the boards creaked above me as people stepped. If I strained, I was able to hear voices, but I couldn’t make out their words. The floor beneath my high heels was smooth and made of concrete.

Along the wall next to the steps was a twin bed complete with a pillow and bedding.

Compared to the beds I was used to sleeping in, this one looked small, as if it were meant not for an adult but for a child. Turning, I saw an old upholstered chair and a lamp. The current illumination was coming from two light bulbs in white sockets attached to the ceiling/upstairs floor.

I walked around, running my fingers over the furnishings. Everything was spotlessly clean and interestingly old. The similarities to Rett’s third-floor suite seemed ironic. In one corner, sat a small round table with a Formica top and two chairs. It looked as though it belonged in an old-fashioned ice cream shop, not a cellar.

“Furnished,” I said under my breath.

My freshman dorm at University of Pittsburgh had better furnishings.

If I were to compare this cellar to the third-floor suite, there were a few obvious omissions. The ever-filling refrigerator complete with bottled water was one, and as I turned a complete circle taking in everything around, above, and below me, there was no magical ceiling with a skylight.

It was then that I noticed the bottom landing of the stairs. Where in my haste, I’d turned left into the open room, to the right was a door—a closed door. Walking quietly to the landing, I peered up the stairs. From where I stood, I could tell the door was closed. Its status as locked or unlocked was unknown.

If I were to believe Kyle’s word, it was unlocked. However, in my rush to spit out the tablets and small sip of beer, I hadn’t taken the time to listen for the sound of a dead bolt moving.

I reached for the handle of the door to the right of the landing.

The handle didn’t turn.

I had an idea. When we were younger, each room’s lock opened with the insertion of a long pin-like key. We often kept them on top of the doorframe. Biting my lip, I looked up the stairs. With the coast clear, I ran my fingers over the top of the frame. As my fingertips made contact, a straight piece of skinny metal fell to the landing.

Surely, there was better security.

Then again, who would find this house?

With another quick look up the stairs, I inserted the metal piece in the small hole in the middle of the handle. Just as it did in our childhood home, the lock clicked and the handle turned. Slowly, I pushed the door inward.

From the light coming from the room I had been in, I saw the desks and screens. It was a computer setup. As I stepped in, I decided it was more elaborate than I’d expected, not that I’d expected anything—maybe a canning room.

I ran my fingertips over a keyboard and a screen came to life.

It was as far as I would get.

The screens were blank, not even a clock in the corner and each keyboard was password protected. Even if they weren’t, Kyle had been right. I couldn’t email my husband. I didn’t know his email.

Dejectedly, I pressed the button in the middle of the knob and shut the door. An unsuccessful twist of the doorknob let me know the door was again locked. Putting the key back on the frame, I resolved that this attempt at rescue was thwarted. Having the door locked would keep that attempt hidden. No one needed to know.

The more I paced, the less I saw similarities in this room resembling Rett’s third-floor suite.

The entire space was as small as the library, and like the exercise room, there were no windows. I’d never considered myself claustrophobic, but with each passing minute, I was beginning to reevaluate that particular neurosis.

I pulled back the covers on the narrow bed.

Everything was clean and fresh.

The same thoughts and questions I’d had when I’d arrived at Rett’s returned.

Why was everything clean and fresh?

Had Jezebel expected me to be here?

It seemed she’d made her trip into the city for the purpose of acquiring me; nevertheless, was she so confident that she had this room prepared?

Removing my shoes, I lay back on the pillow and stared up at what was my ceiling.

No matter what other thoughts came to mind, one dominated.

That seemed appropriate.

Even in my thoughts, Everett Ramses was a dominating presence.

Lifting my left hand, I stared at my wedding rings. “You’re safe, Rett. I know you are.” I was speaking aloud, but there wasn’t anyone to hear. “I feel you. Maybe that’s what Jezebel meant by listening to the spirits. Maybe it’s Miss Marilyn talking to me, reassuring me.” Tears prickled the backs of my eyes. “I am safe, too. Please, Miss Marilyn, if you can hear me, let Rett know I’m safe. I don’t know how or when, but I’ll get back to him. It’s what I want with all my heart.”

The words were off my tongue and out of my lips before I could retract them.

No one else had heard my declaration, but I had.

I believed that it was seeing Liam that confirmed what I was afraid to admit.

Sometime during the last six weeks, not only had my broken heart found its way back together, but it had slipped through my fingers and been given to another. I swallowed the tears, refusing to give them notice. For so long I’d thought I was incapable of feeling love again. To protect myself from reliving the pain of a lost love, I’d taken what remained of my heart and hidden it away in a place where even I couldn’t find it.

And while I was busy, I’d forgotten to guard it, to keep it under lock and key. My mind and energy had been focused on a man I barely knew yet knew intimately. I wasn’t only talking about sexually. Yes, I knew Rett that way and I had no regrets. When we were together it was as if it had been God’s—or the spirits’—plan all along.

Two pieces of a puzzle.

The yin and yang.

But that wasn’t the extent of our connection.

Rett brought out a part of me I never knew existed. He brought out a part of me that I’d been afraid to face. After what happened with Liam, I never thought I could trust anyone—man or woman—the way Rett asked me to trust him.

A smile came to my face as I recalled the stupid blindfolds.

I hated those things, and now, thoughts of each one brought me joy.

Rett had taken away something as simple as my sight in benign situations to teach me something I didn’t know I needed to learn. The simplistic act of walking to dinner night after night became easier each time we did it. My agitation at the strip of cloth morphed to acceptance and even anticipation. He didn’t rush me or force me. Each evening, I willingly handed him my independence and as he promised, he never allowed me to fall.

And when I did fall, when I ran, he came after me.

He saved me.

Rett didn’t let that misguided attempt to flee stain the progress we made. No, he continued with the blindfolds until I was so comfortable that I offered him one in return.

As I lay looking up at slats of wood, I accepted that I’d failed miserably in keeping my heart from Rett Ramses. That realization fueled a new goal; I wouldn’t allow him or me to die without him knowing the truth.

I loved Rett Ramses.

As I lay there, I had no way to judge how much time had passed.

No clock, computer screen, or even a view of daylight.

Jezebel had said she’d wake me, but as I’d lain upon the small bed, with each passing minute, my thirst had grown and my hunger was beginning to rear its ugly head. If I were to survive this place and these people, I needed sustenance.

With my high heels left behind, I walked slowly and quietly up the stairs in my bare feet.

Taking a deep breath, I reached for the doorknob and twisted.

The handle turned.

Remembering the dead bolt, I knew that it wouldn’t stop the doorknob from turning, only block the door from opening. Gripping tighter, I turned the handle and pulled.