Page 102 of Inextricably Tied

“Ru…”

Flint stumbles back toward her. His legs give out, sending him crashing to the ground, table screeching across the floor. He tries to pull Harbinger from the bench, but his arms lose strength, sprawling her across the ground.

She’s out of reach. The room spins, colors morphing and blurring until her catsuit looks like fading gray skin. Flint strains toward her, but his claws only scrape her boot. A looming figure appears above them, toeing Harbinger’s helmet, dart gun swinging by her leg. The woman’s face swims in Flint’s vision. Darkness swallows him whole, drowning him in panic and the last of her voice.

“We’ve been waiting for you.”

THIRTY-SEVEN

Harbinger

It’s not quite a dream.

Somewhere between waking and sleeping. Living and death. But it’s not like the others. All the colors are too bright, swirling with sickening speed, a carnival ride Harbinger can’t get off of.

Something dark prods at the edges, swooping in and out of her mind. She can’t keep her thoughts straight long enough to discern what it is.

Harbin.

Harbin!

Let me in!

Her name sounds frantic from a great distance, echoing like two fists pounding on a door. She reaches for the voice, but her arms won’t lift. They’re too weak, dead weight dangling from her shoulders.

Then the voice slips from her grasp completely.

She tries to wake up. Over and over, sitting up in bed, checking the time on her phone. But it’s another dream, an endless loop keeping her trapped, broken by a hard surface beneath her cheek.

Where did they stop last? Another motel? No, the Timber compound. They should be in the cabin. Where’s the bed? There are no warm bodies beside her. The room sways — or is that all in her head?

Are her eyes open? She blinks slowly, barely able to pull her eyelids apart. It’s pitch black. Her head pounds, fingers curling into dirt. There are weights around her wrists, clinking when she tries and fails to get her arms to respond.

Everything is cold. She remembers the night the Convent torches ran out of oil, corridors chilly and damp and impossible to see through.

Bugs skitter through her mind. Worms and ants and centipedes making her skin twitch until she lifts her bare cheek from the ground. Her helmet’s gone. She’s pinned on her stomach, limbs chained to the ground. Her head’s too heavy. It drops back to the earth and floods with memories again.

There’s a hulking shape in the far corner of the room. She can make out its outline seated upright against the wall. “Fl…” Her throat’s too dry to produce any sound. She swallows to wet her tongue. “Flint.”

The shape doesn’t move. She tries to crawl closer, but all it does is clink her chains together. Dirt dilutes her senses.

How did they get here?

The Broadleaf house. They’d been inside. Harbinger strains to get free, but she can barely lift her head. In the corner, the shape rustles. A twitch of wings, a low groan, and finally, glowing red eyes.

“Oh, thank the gods. Flint?”

His eyes blink, body shifting in the dirt until he finds his chains as well. They sound heavy. Much heavier than hers.

Fuck.

“Harbin?” His voice is thick. Chains rattle as he tries to pull free.

Nothing.

“Fuck,” he groans. “Are you ok?”

“I’m fine.” She writhes to get a look at the cuffs around her ankles. “You?”