Captivity (The Memoirs of Abel Mondragon Book 1) Read online

  “I can’t,” he said as he began to cry. “It’s too terrible. You’d be so ashamed of me.”

  It hurt to hear him say that. The bond my brother and I shared was as close as any family could possibly be. I looked up to him with such reverence and adoration; he was so proud of my accomplishments and goals. We had only each other to lean on in those years since our parents met their untimely end. I couldn’t begin to think what he could have possibly done that would have made him think I would lose all respect for him.

  Before I could quiz him any further, the locks to our cell opened up, and the door swung open. In walked a pair of women who were dressed identically, right down to dyed fuchsia hair styled in a bob cut. They each carried a silver platter with a crockery mug filled with a steaming liquid.

  “Mealtime,” they said in unison. “Drink up.”

  They held the mugs up to us, and we both lapped at it hungrily. Antareus gagged and spat his mouthful up.

  “Ugh, what is that?”

  I savored it for a moment before grimacing and swallowing. “Rodent… of some sort,” I muttered.

  The women smirked and nodded, again in unison. “Black rat in broth,” they said.

  He and I both wavered as we contemplated their words, but I think we lingered a bit too long.

  “No more? Very well.” The women took the mugs out of our reach, spun on their heels, and crossed to the door. Within seconds, the door was slammed shut and the locks engaged again.

  I closed my eyes in sheer frustration at our predicament, but soon the weight of exhaustion caused me to quickly fall asleep.

  I was startled awake by an excited flurry of cries from Antareus. As I opened my eyes, I saw two guards flanking my brother, unhooking his chains and dragging him, kicking and screaming, through a side door.

  His cries of protest continued behind the steel door. They continued on for several agonizing minutes, peppered only with the occasional side comment from a guard:

  “…to uphold a debt to us…”

  “…teach you a lesson you so sorely deserve…”

  “…your little brother is next if you don’t…”

  When his agonized yells turned into rapid, bloodcurdling screams, I closed my eyes shut and audibly told myself, “This isn’t happening, this isn’t happening, for all that is holy, this isn’t happening…”

  Suddenly the steel door flung open and Antareus was shoved back inside. His face was beet red with exertion… nearly as red as the blood covering his hands…

  …And his eight remaining fingers. His thumbs were nowhere to be seen.

  “Holy mother,” I shouted. It was more than I could stand. I covered my head as best I could and sobbed, but my sounds were easily drowned out by his continued cries of pain.

  Three days had gone by since our captors sawed Antareus’ thumbs off and left the wounds open to the elements. His flesh was dying rapidly; it changed hues from brown to green to black as disease spread down his hands.

  Each time the twins came by to feed me more broth I pleaded with them to find someone to give my brother some medical attention. Each time, they ignored me and tried to make me drink more of the rat-soup mixture, until on the third night I refused and began to spit it out repeatedly.

  The twins sighed. “Fine, we’ll send for Professor Routledge,” they muttered. They both turned right towards the cell door and scuttled off in tandem, right foot after left foot, trotting down the hall.

  Professor Routledge, or who I assumed was such, made his appearance mere minutes later, standing in the doorway. He had thick-lensed glasses in thin wire frames. He was wearing a long, off-white laboratory coat with glossy silver snap buttons. He had both his hands in his pockets.

  “I hear our new arrivals have both stopped accepting our gracious rations,” he said with a thick, foreign accent I couldn’t readily place. “I’ve come to put a stop to this nonsense at once.”

  “Look,” I began. “I don’t care who you all are or why we’re here, but your goons here have mutilated my brother and he needs help, can’t you see that?”

  The man in the lab coat stepped out of the doorframe, revealing the two guards who had seized Antareus and I days before. As he approached Antareus and examined the gangrene overtaking his hands, the guards each took a position beside us.

  Routledge hovered over my brother for a few short moments. “Right you are,” he said in his thick brogue. “He needs treatment immediately.”

  I sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

  Routledge took his hands out from his pockets. In each hand, he grasped a small, round vial. One was filled with a green liquid, the other colored blue. They both seemed to be glowing.

  “You there,” he said to Antareus, holding the two vials in front of them. “Time to choose your treatment. Your brother gets whatever you don’t select.”

  “What?” I blinked. “I’m fine as far as I can tell, I” —

  “Silence, boyo,” said my guard. He drew a small dagger from his sheath and made sure I could see it.

  “I ask you again,” Routledge said. “Choose your treatment.”

  My brother, disheveled, weak, so far gone, stirred his head and looked up at the vials. His already deep frown deepened further. “Green,” he said.

  “Interesting choice,” said Routledge as he pocketed the blue vial, adjusting his glasses with his newly free hand. “I would have thought for your brother’s sake you would have chosen differently. Very well then…”

  Antareus knew what was in those bottles? I looked at him again, hoping for a reply.

  He mouthed the words, “Sorry. Don’t look.”

  I moved to protest, but my guard quickly sheathed his knife and put me in a headlock, forcing my head forward.

  I started to shake as Antareus’ guard stood behind him and used his longsword to coax Antareus’ head backward. Routledge approached with the green vial, popping the top open with his thumb.

  “Any final words?”

  “Ssss…. Sssso sorry, little brother. Please… forgive… me.”

  He opened his mouth wide, and Routledge emptied the contents into his mouth. He gulped.

  Final words? Please - god, no, please-

  A few brief moments of silence were soon replaced by a hissing noise as the acid began to eat through Antareus’ throat.

  “Nooo,” I cried, shutting my eyes tightly. They popped back open when I felt the knife blade at my throat. “You keep those eyes open and keep them open, boyo,” the guard said. “You remember this image as you continue your stay with us.”

  “Wise words indeed,” said Routledge, not taking his eyes off Antareus as the acid continued to eat away at my brother’s insides. “It’s very simple, really. You do as we say, and you continue to live. The moment you fail to heed our instructions, Logan and Brennan here will put you in your grave faster than your dear brother here.”

  The tears welled up and poured steadily from my eyes. Each time another drop left, I could see my brother’s face twist and contort in an indescribable amount of pain. Blood, tissue, froth pooled in front of his body before his eyes rolled back in his head and he crumpled lifeless to the ground.

  The hissing noise continued unabated as residual acid continued to burn away at his dead flesh.

  “Who the hell are you people?” I sobbed once it was over. “What the hell have we done?”

  “Why you are here is no longer any of your concern,” Routledge said. “As far as the outside world is concerned, you and your brother have disappeared and will never return to Galek. Now…” he said, pulling the blue vial back out of his pocket. “Your treatment may begin.”

  I struggled in my guard’s arm, whimpering pitifully, repeating “No, please,” over and over again. I tried to yell out, but the arm tightened around me, squeezing the rest of my breath out.

  “Be a good little boy and take your medicine,” cooed Routledge coldly. He popped the top off the bottle.

  Crying profusely, I opened my mouth.
He poured the liquid in. It tasted bubbly and sweet, a flavor I had never encountered before.

  Within seconds, sleep began to set in.

  The guard turned his lips to my ears, and as if whispering sweet nothings to a lover, he murmured, “Welcome to the secret world of the Grey Ravens, kid.”

  Thus began a fifteen month ordeal that still, years later, I still struggle to recover from.

  3. Dirty Devil Creature

  Of course, I had to find out much later that I had been held for nearly a year and a half. In fact, most of the recollections you will read from this point forward were only recovered after my release from the Ravens.

  I remembered clearly how I was brought there, and I will never forget my poor brother’s final moments… but I had to re-learn everything else that went on behind those stone walls in that secret lair gradually, over time. It took ages of intense thought, deep focus, and sometimes other traumatic experiences to unlock the mysteries of what was done to me.

  In the weeks immediately following my rescue, my brain tried in its own way to show me, to try and put the pieces back together. Night after night, I would be plagued by dreams. These dreams, which I thought were simply nightmares, would be fragments of memories, replays of things I had seen, said and done.

  One dream in particular kept repeating itself for several nights after my liberation:

  I stir from the usual dim haze, to find I am crouched over on the floor of an unfamiliar room. Like all the other rooms of this hideout, this one is stone from floor to ceiling. There is a considerable amount of dampness and not much light.

  I am connected to a collar-like apparatus, with a length of chain keeping me bound to a wall. There is a guard standing close by, holding a vial of liquid. Like all the others, this one is glowing, with hints of bubbles inside. This one is colored a faint pink.

  I look across the room. Sitting there, crying softly, is a male faerie. It is hard to see his face because his skin color is very dark and blends in somewhat with the dimly lit stonework. But the contrast in the color of his horns is easy to see. He is not chained to the wall, but it appears that he cannot move under his own power. One of his legs appears to be broken quite severely.

  Without a word, the guard pops open the bottle of potion and pours it down my throat. I still feel so lethargic from the one they always use to put me to sleep that I can’t fight it.

  Once every drop is emptied from the bottle, the guard puts it in his pocket, and turns to face the fae. He doesn’t say anything, but he looks at the sniffling fae for a moment, then crosses to the cell door and exits.

  The fae’s breath becomes more rapid as he processes what may be going on. He looks at me.

  “Wh… what are you in for?” he asks.

  “I…” is all I can manage. My stomach begins to make a horrible churning noise. I roll over onto my stomach.

  “Uh… guard? Guard?” The fae shuffles uncomfortably in his corner. “This fella here… I think he needs some help.”

  There was a pain that began to grow inside me. First it started just above my stomach, but then it seemed to spread upwards, like a bad case of heartburn. I winced and clutched at my chest.

  The fae was yelling for help, but I couldn’t hear his words any longer. It sounded as if I was in a metallic hallway filling with screeching sounds.

  A deep masculine voice entered my head. “Meal time, Abel,” it said. “Kill. Kill the dirty devil creature.”

  I looked forward at my cellmate again. I began to pant. I felt an aura, a dark, evil change wash over my body. It felt hot, it felt angry, and it felt hungry.

  The metallic screeching, the man’s orders to kill, and the fae’s shouts for help dissolving into screams of terror overwhelmed my senses. I crawled over to my meal.

  He tried to fight me off, but it was no use. Without the use of both his legs, he was helpless. I bit into his arm.

  He yelled, and began to club me over the head repeatedly with his free arm.

  I snarled and growled. I felt feral, like a wolf. I jumped full-force onto him, slamming his head back into the stone wall.

  Dazed, he groaned and tried to push me off further. I felt a bolt of energy hit me in the face. He must have cast some sort of attack or spell on me to fight me off.

  I felt another surge of pain surge through my arms, and I held my left one up to examine it.

  I watched as something grew out of my wrist’s skin… it was certain it was metallic, almost razor-sharp.

  “Do what has to be done with the gift you’ve been given,” intoned the voice invading my brain. “Finish him off and reap your reward.”

  I snarled again and pounced on my victim. Using my bladed arm, I slashed his throat wide open with a single swipe.

  He gurgled. He raised his hand to his throat as dark blood spilled over his hand and chest.

  I dove forward and began to chew, slurp and guzzle from the body. I was feeding on his flesh as if I had a sumptuous steak dinner placed on a platter in front of me.

  In a few moments, it was all over. I was in another corner of the room, whatever had grown out of my arm had disappeared, and I was left in my original form, gasping and panting like I had run a marathon.

  There was a puddle of leaking rainwater or condensation right by me. I crawled next to it for a drink.

  I saw my face, covered in another person’s blood, caked around my mouth and down my throat.

  My eyes darted to the other side of the room, and there lay the corpse of the fae, eyes wide open, frozen in death. Mouth in a silent scream. Large mouth-sized gaps of flesh missing from his neck, shoulder, and arms.

  It was the last thing I saw before I felt an injection and the world closed into darkness for me once again.

  Each night I’d wake up from that dream/memory, I’d feel like absolute shit. I was raised to respect all races — orcs, elves, humanoids and faes. The faes have had a notorious time in our city, trying to assimilate amongst the rest of us — only to be hit, attacked, spat upon. It’s so shameful.

  So to remember that I killed one, doped up on whatever, after being told by a disembodied voice to “kill the dirty devil creature…” It cuts at my soul.

  4. Fire and Ice

  I think it was their intention to knock me out so swiftly after each of these incidents so there was less of a likelihood I would remember anything or realize that I wasn’t the only one they were experimenting on.

  The first time I realized I wasn’t the only one being subjected to this particular kind of treatment, the fog rolled out to reveal I was in some sort of cage on wheels. There was a black cloth draped over the cage, so I could not see beyond the bars. The cage was on wheels, which shuddered and squeaked as they were pushed swiftly down a long, cobbled corridor.

  I only heard one pair of footsteps behind me as the cage was pushed. The footsteps slowed after a few moments, and then I heard the sound of a large door opening, and then the cage began to move again.

  The reverberation of dozens of voices told me I was in a large area now. The cage was stopped once more, and locked in place.

  I felt sick to my stomach, and very dizzy. The sting on the back of my neck told me they had injected me with another substance. What it was going to do to me was yet to be known.

  There was the sound of a hammer or a gavel rapping against a podium three times. “Pray silence,” said the booming voice, and the various chatter in the room stopped. “Castafiore, your contender, please.”

  There was the sound of fabric rustling, followed by the crowd’s murmurs of approval and a few claps of applause.

  “Logan, your contender, please.”

  The cloth came off my cage, and I reflexively reached out to the bars to observe my surroundings.

  It was a large, circular arena, with rows of seats packed with Ravens, all wearing their cloaks and insignia.

  When the crowd saw it was me, there was a round of boos and hisses, but also some cheers and applause.

  “Logan
, you’re such a bore,” shouted Castafiore. She had a long black ponytail that was pulled tightly at the back. She stood casually beside a cage, and inside was a female human. I gasped — she couldn’t have been any older than eight, maybe nine years old. The girl had dirty, scraggly hair, tangled and knotted. She was growling.

  “You bring him out every session,” Castafiore continued. “Why not try someone new?”

  “I’ll quit using him when he quits winning,” Logan replied, slamming his open palm twice on the top of my cage. The noise caused me to startle and give a quick yelp. The audience laughed at this.

  “Looks like he’s off his game this time,” taunted the female guard. “What are you using this round?”

  “Ice and Frost,” replied Logan.

  “Interesting,” cooed Castafiore. “Belladonna here has imbibed the element for bolts of fire. So it seems we have a battle of the elements, eh?”

  Rather than goad the woman on further, Logan sniffed. “Place your bets now,” he said. The murmurs picked back up again, and as I looked out among the crowd I saw pieces of gold and silver be swapped between hands.

  I began to feel a cold, tingling sensation in my fingers.

  The lock to my cage was jiggled open and the door swung out. Logan pulled me out roughly by the arm.

  “It’s just like all the other times,” he said to me, assuming correctly that I had no prior memory of any other time I’d been in the arena, “cast your spells as often as you can. It’s either you or her; one of you will be knocked out…” and he tugged at my collar as he added, “And as always, it’s sudden death for the loser. Do whatever it is you’ve done the last six times and win.”

  With that, he hopped backwards out of the sunken floor of the arena’s center stage. Castafiore knelt down, whispering at the little girl before heading out of the ring as well.

  I spun around slowly trying to get my bearings. Every door had a guard with his or her longsword drawn. There were dozens of Ravens across all the seats — there was definitely nowhere to run.