Passion Play (River of Souls 1)

Brandt had stiffened at Raul’s voice. Now he moaned, trying to speak through the gag. Even in the sputtering torchlight, she could see the fresh blood on the man’s swollen face, the livid bruises around his throat, arms, and groin.

“What will you do with him?”

“Whatever you like. We are here to render judgment.”

Raul shoved the torch into a bracket and hauled Brandt to his feet, one arm hooked around his arms. He took out one knife and held it pressed against Brandt’s throat. Brandt struggled briefly, then went limp. Ilse moved until she was in his sight. She wanted to shut her eyes, turn away, but could not bring herself to do either. Fascinated and repelled, she ran her gaze over his body, seeing where his captors had beaten him, wondering if he, too, had screamed and struggled and railed against them.

Brandt’s eyes focused gradually on her face. His mouth worked at the gag—he was trying to say something. Possibly her name.

“Do you remember cheating me?” she asked softly.

Brandt shook his head. She took that for denial.

You lied to me, she thought. You lied to my father. You are lying to yourself. Is that how you manage to go on?

“Four a night,” she said in a low voice. “Six when I got used to the work. You wanted me to last. And I did.”

With a muffled cry, Brandt lunged at her. Ilse started back, but Raul had already yanked Brandt off his feet and twisted his arms backward until the man collapsed. With a glance toward Ilse, Raul drew his knife and bent over him. “Wait for me upstairs,” he said to Ilse.

Her stomach lurched. “That’s murder.”

“No more than he murdered the boy Volker.”

Ilse went cold. “Volker? Dead? Are you certain?”

“Yes. I have

the word of his brother. He beat the boy to death, the day after you escaped. Now go. Or you will see things you should not.”

“His blood is already on my hands,” Ilse said. “By my word he stands accused.”

“By yours and others’,” Raul said thickly. “Now go and leave me to my work.”

He indicated the door. Brandt had begun moaning, a high-pitched keening that made Ilse’s skin crawl. I’m a coward, she thought, turning around. A weak and treacherous coward.

Her blood pounding in her temples, she climbed the stairs to the next floor. Her legs gave out then and she sank to the floor. None of the guards spoke or approached her. Perhaps they guessed what was happening in that room below. Finally Raul appeared and held out his hand. Silently she shook her head and stood without his help.

Outside, they climbed into the wagon, and the guards took their places. She remembered little of the ride back. Her thoughts kept going back to that underground room. Flickering images of Brandt’s face. The stink of blood and human waste. How strange Raul’s face looked in the torchlight.

Only once did she speak. “He is guilty. Yes. But so are we.”

After that, she sank back into reverie. When the wagon stopped with a jerk, she cried out. The guards dispersed. Raul escorted Ilse into the pleasure house by one of the side doors. The corridors here were empty. Perhaps he had given orders to keep these halls clear. She didn’t know. She found it hard to collect her thoughts. When he touched her arm, she jumped.

“Come upstairs,” he said softly. “Please.”

Still numb, she mounted the stairs behind him. Once they reached his office, however, she hurried past him to the garden door. She went outside, still walking as though in a dream, until she came to the stone wall by the garden’s edge, where her strength finally deserted her. She sank onto the nearest bench and closed her eyes. Evening had fallen during their expedition. A cool breeze spun around her, carrying the rich scent of blooming roses.

She heard footsteps. A whiff of musk as Raul sat beside her. She detected another scent, too, a rich and coppery one that she thought must be Alarik Brandt’s blood.

“You killed him.”

“Yes.”

A shudder went through her. “How?”

“A knife across his throat.”

Ilse’s hand went to her own throat. “So I thought.”