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He turned on me, that winsome expression firmly in place, although his eyes were as dead and blank as a shark’s. “Sit down and be a good girl, like your sister.”
Although I fought against the urge to obey, my arms reached out of their own volition and righted the chair. I sat heavily, gripping the edge of the table and praying for the strength to push up and stand again. But the urge to stay seated seemed to be the only thing that kept me breathing. If I stood, something terrible would happen. John hummed a tuneless ditty as he opened the back door and disappeared into the house. His absence let me flex my hand enough to reach out to Gigi. But then he came back, and the music clogged my thinking.
The humming continued while John wrapped duct tape around our ankles, secured our wrists behind our backs, and put us into the trunk of his car. The humming was so soothing, so calming, that my limbs were too limp and heavy to push John away. Hell, I even tilted my head helpfully so John could tie my blindfold more easily. I was only able to move and think freely after the trunk slammed shut and the humming stopped. Even in that small, cramped space, it felt easier to breathe.
It took a few long, agonizing miles for me to focus enough to rub my face against the carpet of the trunk. I worked until the blindfold slipped from my eyes and around my neck.
“Gigi,” I whispered, my tongue heavy and thick. She didn’t stir, so I kicked her shins. She jerked awake, head rolling wildly around in the little space.
“Iris, what—where are we?”
“Deep breaths, Geeg,” I told her, shaking the last foggy remnants of John’s influence from my head. I leaned forward to tug the blindfold down with my teeth.
Head lolling, she blinked against the harsh red light of the brake lights. I cleared my throat.
“What the hell has gotten into you, Gladiola Grace?”
“Wow, you sounded exactly like Mom just then.”
“Don’t flatter me.” I growled. “Why did you lie to me? Did you think I would forbid you to date him? Did you think I wouldn’t understand that you wanted to go out with a vampire? I would never judge you, because clearly—pot, kettle, black, hello?”
Gigi squirmed uncomfortably. “Vampire?”
“John is a vampire.”
She scoffed. “No, he’s not.”
“Are you telling me that you did not notice that your boyfriend doesn’t have a pulse?”
“Well, it’s not like I was feeling around on his wrist.”
I closed my eyes and bit my tongue, because I did not want to know where she had been “feeling around.” Instead, I asked, “Have you ever seen him during the day?” She shook her head. “Have you ever seen him eat?”
The two of us smacked our heads together when the car hit a bump. She winced. “I thought he was a little cold.”
I groaned and promised myself that if we lived through this, my sister would be sent to a convent school.
“He came to a football game at school. I knew he wasn’t the sort of boy you wanted me to date, so I had Ben cover for us. He was mysterious and perfect and charming.”
“If you tell me that he wooed you by reciting passages from Twilight as if they were actual conversation, I’m going to have to bludgeon you with that tire iron.”
“You promised you wouldn’t judge!” she exclaimed.
“I promised I wouldn’t judge, not that I wouldn’t mock. I don’t suppose you managed to sneak your phone in here with us, did you?”
“It’s in my back pocket,” she said, her eyes alight with excitement. It took a few tries for us to roll over, with our hands bound, then get my hands lined up with her pockets.
“No, not that one,” she said as I blindly patted her cargos.
“Seriously, how many pockets do you need in one pair of pants?” I grunted. “Shift your butt.”
Gigi shifted as John turned a corner. Just as my fingertips found the solid, square weight of the cell phone, the turn sent Gigi rolling across the floor of the trunk, her head thunking into mine.
“Ow!” I yelped, wincing as the bruised spot on my head grazed the tire iron and Gigi’s head-butt landed. I closed my eyes, clenching my teeth as the pain radiated through my head. The scent of Gigi’s shampoo—lavender, wisteria, and jasmine—wafted up to my nostrils. It was a calming scent. It reminded me of the relative safety of our bathroom at home, of sitting out in the garden with a glass of lemonade. And something else.
The car slowed. I patted Gigi’s pockets, frantically trying to manipulate the phone out of her awkwardly wrinkled pocket. I had no idea how I would dial it or talk, but it had to be better than lying there like a hog waiting for slaughter.
“You got it?” she asked.
