Chapter One
Nilsa
My toes wrap around the handle of the athame, but it slips through them. The moonstones embedded in it graze my skin as I fail to grasp it,again. The blood caking my feet makes gripping the hilt to tug it out of the ground impossible. The tip is firmly buried into the dirt and as much as I struggle against the ropes keeping me bound to the chair, there’s no wiggle room left for me to escape.
The dagger is my only chance.
All around me, inmates scream, racing for their safe, salt-lined cells.
At least they can run away. None of them are bound to a chair, naked, with their arms shackled behind their backs.
I can hear the moans of the wraiths approaching. Feel their icy presence against my skin. The mist that heralds their arrival is everywhere, putting me even more on edge.
In a last-ditch attempt, I stretch out again.
And this time, my toes find purchase around the handle.
It moves an inch.
“Come on.” A tiny bit of desperation leaks into my voice. “Come on, damn you.”
With a last burst of effort, I tug again.
The dagger comes free. Falling flat onto the ground with a soft thunk. My feet scramble to pull it closer. It takes precious seconds to flip it so it balances across the top of my foot.
I’ve only got one shot at this.
I flick the blade up and hold my breath as my eyes track its motion through the air.
If I miss this…
Thankfully, Fate isn’t done with me yet. The handle lands in my shackled palms. Those cuffs won’t be going anywhere, but I can at least deal with the ropes binding me to the chair.
The sharp blade makes short work of them. In seconds, I’m free of the chair and scuttling back towards the safety of the cells with their salt-lined bars.
But they’re already locked.
The inmates smirk out at me from behind them. Their gaunt faces aren’t so different from the wraiths. Their eyes lit with a savage kind of adrenaline as they wait for the show to start.
Assholes.
I curse and slam my body against the bars in frustration.
Somewhere behind me, a woman screams. The sound cuts off with a wet gargle.
Then a man yells, blubbering and begging until he, too, is silenced.
Some horrible sixth sense tells me I’m going to be next.
I’m not dying with my hands behind my back.
I contort my spine, working my hands under my butt until I can step back over my own arms. It’s awkward, and my arms ache from trying not to accidentally stab myself with the athame, but I manage.
There’s not much I can do against the heavy, magic-suppressing cuffs on my wrists, but it still feels better to hold the blade out in front of me.
I look up, ready to face death, and stare straight into a nightmare’s face.
The wraith screams, pelting me with its icy breath. The awful noise is like razors against my eardrums.
