Page 8 of Ash Storm

Reka

There was a pungent smell in the air. Reka focused on it, looking to give it a name. As she often told her patients, being able to stop and give names to feelings was one of the best ways to avoid becoming overwhelmed.

Tears came to her eyes, unbidden.

I’m overwhelmed.

No.

You’re not.

This is what you do.

You help others manage their emotions.

So manage your own fucking emotions.

She’d never once suggested one of her patients swear at themselves, but the crudeness of the word helped to pull her out of her misery.

She couldn’t control what was happening to her, but she could control her feelings. And the more she controlled her feelings, the readier she would be when the time came to get out of here.

And she had to believe that would happen. She looked over at Chloe, slumped in a corner of the cell.

Sooner rather than later, please.

She sniffed again, smelled the sweat of unwashed bodies. Hers and Chloe’s, for sure, but also countless other people Reka was sure had been in this cell before them.

And she smelled something darker, spicier, as she realized that fear and despair had their own stench.

She sat back down next to Chloe, her shoulder blades flat against the wall, her shoulder pressed against her friend’s.

At least we’re still together.

“Reka?” Chloe asked, her voice a hoarse, broken whisper. Reka didn’t want to think back to those first few hours, after they’d woken up, when Chloe had screamed ceaselessly, until her voice had literally died out. She’d barely moved since then.

Reka had held Chloe during the night, tried to keep her friend warm, even as they both shivered.

“I’m here, Chloe. I’m right here,” she replied.

And Reka knew she had to stay strong—for Chloe, and for herself. She had to keep hope alive—that Aileen had managed to escape, that she’d somehow gotten to the embassy. That, somehow, her uncle would have heard of what happened.

He will never stop looking for us.

Her eyes went to the single, small window high up on one wall of their cell, where the sky was slowly growing lighter. That was good. It was proof that all things passed, when at times, during the night, she’d felt like the darkness might never end.

A tear rolled down her cheek, and she wiped it away impatiently.

She’d just settled down again when the sound came. First a loud clank, followed by the sound of something heavy being pulled, then footsteps along the corridor.

Two sets of footsteps.

Seconds later, two men stood outside their cell.

The first one was Thick Mustache, as Reka had started referring to him in his mind—the asshole who had taken Chloe.

Reka was gratified to see his eyes and cheeks were still reddened—partly from the pepper spray, she imagined, and partly from the way he’d clawed at his face, looking for relief.

Good.