CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The icy fingers of fear clutch me in its grasp, and I freeze in place. I hear slow steps as they swagger their way around to stand in front of me.
The raspy voice belongs to a thin, wiry man who looks like he’s seen better days. His clothes are threadbare and stained with holes in various places, some of which look like they’ve been patched with mismatched pieces of fabric. Movement of his hands draw my attention, and I see him spinning a small knife in his hand, the silver of the blade reflecting the minuscule amount of light in this alley. His fingernails are broken down to the quick and caked with dirt.
“P-please. I d-don’t want any t-trouble,” I stutter out, but my fear and nervousness only spur him on, a vicious smile overtaking his features.
“But you’re such a precious little thing. Don’t you care to have a bit offun?” He flashes his yellowing teeth in a feral smile, the way he stresses the wordfunmaking it sound the complete opposite of that.
Another wave of terror washes over me, this one more intense than the last, my instincts clearly picking up on the threat this man poses.
Fight Liv, a voice whispers in the back of my mind, and it sounds suspiciously like Bastian’s. Maybe his training is sinking in after all.
The man takes another step closer, putting him within grabbing distance and it takes everything in me to hold my body stock-still and not try to flee. I know he’d catch up to me right now if I tried to run, but if I could stall him somehow… then maybe I’d have a chance. To at least try to reach the inn. I’m sure I haven’t wanderedthatfar.
When the man takes another step forward, I take my chance. My hand instantly forms a fist in the way that Bastian taught me, thrusting it out into a punch directly at the man’s nose. I can feel the crunch of the contact and pain blooms through my knuckles.
“Fuck, that hurt,” I hiss shaking out of my hand as I take off running, leaving the man crouched over holding his nose currently gushing blood.
“Fucking bitch!” He shouts at my back.
I barely make it to the end of the alleyway before another set of arms loop around my shoulders from behind, pulling me back until I crash into their front.
“Don’t fucking move,” another insidious voice whispers in my ear. My body stiffens in his arms.
The first man rounds in front of me, pinching at his nose with one hand, his eyes filled with a fiery rage. “Feisty little bitch,” he spits out. “I’d like to see you try to run now.” The arms around my upper body band tighter to the point where I can barely breath.
The coolness of a blade brushes against my temple as he drags the tip down my cheek, not enough to leave a mark, but enough to strike fear.
“Let’s see what kind of fun we can come up with since it seems you want to play a game.”
I squirm in the arms holding me back, trying to break loose of his hold but nothing works. I kick my legs out behind me in hope I can hit a weak spot but the way the man is braced against me and holding me tight doesn’t allow me to get enough leverage.
“Let me go!” I shout, hoping that yelling loud enough will draw the attention of someone nearby. Although I haven’t heard any sounds drifting down from the main road. I’m not so sure anyone is even around.
“Not a chance in the hells,” the man holding me hisses in my ear. I try to throw my head back into his face, but he moves quickly enough that he can dodge the hit.
Emotions flood into me. Anger. Fear. Worry.
I’m mad at these men for attacking me. I’m mad at myself for not paying enough attention to my surroundings and failing my first test at using the fighting skills that Bastian taught me.
I’m terrified that something will happen to me. That I won’t get to meet my parents. That I’ll never see Tom or Fleur again. That Bastian won’t know that I’m even gone until it’s too late.
I’m worried that he’s going to have to find me dead in some dark and dingy alley.
But by far the most overpowering of those is anger. It’s like a wave of heat moving through me.
I struggle against the man holding me, while the other continues playing whatever game of chicken this is with the knife.
“Think you’ll be still as pretty with a scar,” the knife drags from the corner of my mouth and up my cheek towards my eye, “here?” The blade doesn’t break the skin, but the feeling of the blade sends tremors through my body. “What about here?” he asks as he drags it down along my throat, pressing a bit harder on this drag that I can feel the prick of the blade and the warm trickle of blood. “Oops,” he says sarcastically and a wicked gleamin his eyes. I catch the whiff of liquor on his breath, making me want to gag.
He brings the blade back up to my face and I squeeze my eyes closed in anticipation of whatever he’s going to do to maim me. I go completely still, not even daring to breathe. But then the blade is lifted from my skin. I don’t even get the chance to open my eyes when the arms around me loosen enough to twist myself free.
My eyes fly open as I punch out blindly, in hopes of hitting one of them somewhere hard enough to buy me time to flee.
A hand halts my fist mid-motion.
“I didn’t think I wasthatbad a kisser,” a strained voice says.
