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Tanya forced me out there with her every morning at six a.m.
I was useless at the rope climb the first three months. But finally, with enough reps of those damn concrete blocks, and pulling those tires, it finally happened—I was able to pull myself a third of the way up the rope.
A month later I could make it almost to the top. That was last December.
Tonight, in spite of my exhaustion and fear, adrenaline spiked right when I needed it to. I hauled myself up and out of that bitch-twat-cold water, hand over hand on the rope. One hand and then, grinding my teeth together and straining all my muscles, pull, and another hand up.
I ignored the burn of the rope against my delicate palms. We always taped up for this at home.
But just thinking about Tanya and Reba and LeAnn—they were my power and my strength. They always had been.
I pictured their faces and I hauled myself up that damn rope.
Hand over hand, and pull.
Reach, and pull. The wet fox tail slapped against the back of my thighs.
Reach, and pull.
Not scream-growling with the effort was half the battle. But nope, not one damn sound would eek out of my mouth to give away my position.
I couldn’t hear the dogs anymore, and the voices had quieted down, too. I couldn’t obsess about what that might mean.
I just kept reaching upwards into darkness.
Until finally, finally, my hand hit the bark of a tree branch.
Hauling my body up and onto the branch was a task more brutal than any yet. The whole time I was terrified someone would notice the swaying tree branch.
But at a certain point, all I could do was the best I could. This was my best chance, and I was at the limit of my capacity. It’d either work or it wouldn’t.
I finally swung all of my body and hefted my leg up and over the branch. And then I was sitting on top of it rather than dangling from below. I could have laughed with relief. But all I gave myself was two Mississippis to rest, then I climbed higher to another branch that stretched out the other direction—over land instead of lake.
My arms were jelly when I finally climbed out and hung from it, dropping the last few feet back to the ground.
Don’t you dare, I warned myself as my limbs almost gave out. Don’t you fucking dare.
I hadn’t just dragged myself across a near-freezing lake for nothing. It was only sheer force of will that kept me on my feet. Because goddammit, the less exposure of my body surface to anything else that could catch my scent, the better. It would probably be pretty obvious where I entered the lake, but I was hoping all this effort would keep them confused for a little while about where I exited.
The ground was newly mown here, and one protip Sully did tell me was that freshly cut grass was one of the few things that could confuse a dog on a scent trail. And because the Order was sporting like that—aka, they liked it when their Human Hunts took longer—they always made sure to get the grass cut the day of the hunt.
The manicured lawn was also kinder on my bare feet. But I had to be careful, because maybe one of those bastards had thought about all this and was lying in wait. Bastards. This game was as much of a mind-fuck as it was grueling physically.
I ran low and close to the ground as I headed back for the shining beacon on the hill of the lit-up manor house. The wet foxtail of the plug occasionally slapped wetly against my thigh, but I forced myself to ignore it.
Going for the ridge might have been the smarter move. But I’d never been the smartest girl, had I? And there was no going back now.
I was tired and exposed and did I mention tired? No, make that exhausted.
If I could actually manage this—trick them by doubling back so they wasted a few hours hunting in the woods, all the better. Because I simply couldn’t keep this pace up. My arms were burning from the rope climb, and the adrenaline was starting to wane.
My legs, though, they still had a little bit of fight left in them.
So, I ran, bent over low, and until all was quiet again, noises of hounds and horses far in the distance. Then I sprinted for the cellar where the little note had indicated on the map. It even had a crude drawing on the back showing how to get in.
I ran around the East wing and snuck around the outer garden that was used to harvest vegetables for use in the kitchens. And there, finally, I found it. The entrance was all but hidden. It doubled as a storm shelter, but of course the Order couldn’t have something as pedantic as a storm cellar marring their property grounds.
