Page 29 of The Knucklebone Brothers

I took a deep breath, my hand steady, and I got to work. I knelt on the floor, the chain stretched out in front of me, and I inserted the wire into the lock on the cuff around my waist. I felt for the tumblers. The sound of the shower was a constant, hissing drone, a wall of water noise that gave me cover.

I worked at the lock, my mind focused, my body still. I felt the first tumbler give way, then the second, then the third. I was almost there. I could feel it. I could feel the lock starting to give. I took a deep breath, my hand steady, and I gave the wire a final, gentle twist.

Click.

The cuff sprang open, the chain hitting the floor with a dull thud that was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. I stared at it, my breath catching, then a wild, unhinged laugh bubbled up in my throat. "Well, I'll be damned," I whispered, my voice shaking with a thrill that was part terror, part victory. "It worked."

I didn't waste a second. I was out the door before the echo faded. The air was cool on my skin, a welcome relief from the stuffy trailer. I was on a small, rickety porch, the wood rough and splintery under my feet. And there, leaning against the wall next to the door, was a baseball bat. It was old and weathered, the wood stained and cracked, but it was heavy and solid. I grabbed it, the grip comforting in my hands. I wasn't going out there empty-handed.

The sun was bleeding out over the mountains, painting the sky in bruised purples and angry oranges. I ran, my feet pounding against the hard-packed dirt, my heart a frantic drum against my ribs. I was flying, past a chicken coop where a rooster shrieked at me, past a goat tied to a post that watched me with wide, unblinking eyes. I was free. I was finally fucking free.

I was running blind, no idea where I was going. The woods were a chaotic mess of gnarled trees and tangled roots. I scrambled over a rotting log, my foot catching on a root and sending me sprawling into the dirt, but I was up in a heartbeat, scrambling away.

"Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" I yelled, the words echoing off the trees. "This ain't it. This ain't it at all."

I saw a string of lights ahead, flickering in the gloom. A trail. A lifeline. I sprinted toward them, my lungs burning, my bare feet aching from the sharp stones and the fall. The lights led me deeper into the woods, past rusted-out cars and broken-down rides, a ghost town of forgotten dreams.

As I ran, the landscape started to change. The trees grew thicker. I realized with a sinking dread that I wasn't running out of their world. I was running deeper into it. This wasn't the way back to the road. This was the heart of their fucked-up carnival kingdom.

I ran past a skeletal ghost decoration, its white sheet fluttering in the breeze, and a row of jack-o'-lanterns with rotting, leering faces. It was like I'd stumbled into their personal haunted house, and I was the main attraction.

That's when I saw it. A flickering light between the trees, a soft, golden glow. As I got closer, I noticed it was a little shack house, small and crooked, like it had grown right out of the ground. I could faintly hear the tinkling of wind chimes, a delicate, haunting melody that seemed out of place in the midst of all this rust and decay. There were lanterns lit on the porch, their light dancing on the weathered wood, and a bunch of crows in the front yard.

I gripped the bat tighter, my knuckles white, and slowly approached, my heart pounding in my chest. I had to be careful. It could be a trap. It could be them. I crept closer, my bare feet silent, and that's when I saw her.

An old woman was sitting in a rocking chair on the porch, rocking back and forth, back and forth. She was thin, almost skeletal, her skin a roadmap of wrinkles and age spots. Her hair was a wild, tangled mess of gray and white. She was humming a tuneless melody, her voice a low, raspy croak. There was something off about her.

I didn't want to startle her, so I moved slow, placing my bare feet carefully on the packed dirt of the yard, avoiding the twigs and sharp rocks. The crows watched me, their heads tilting in unison. The closer I got, the more the porch lanterns illuminated the old woman. As I drew closer, a thick, heavy fog began to roll in across the yard, clinging to the ground and swirling around my ankles.

I noticed her eyes right away. They weren't just old; they were different. They were a milky, hazy white, like two fogged-over marbles shoved into the sockets. There was no pupil, no iris, just a flat, cloudy surface that seemed to absorb the lantern light instead of reflecting it.

My mind kicked into overdrive, a frantic scramble of questions. Who the hell is this? Another captive they forgot about? Some old aunt they keep chained to a rocking chair? Or was she the matriarch, the real source of all this darkness, just waiting up here like a spider in the center of her web? Living up here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by crows and rusted-out carnival stuff, what else could she be but part of the madness?

I was just a few feet from the porch steps now, close enough to smell the woodsmoke and something else, something dry and herbal, like dried herbs. The old woman's rocking stopped, the sudden silence in the rhythm more jarring than the motion had been. She didn't turn her head, didn't even twitch in my direction. Her face remained pointed out toward the darkening woods, those fogged up eyes staring into nothing. Then, her voice, a dry, raspy whisper that scraped over the sound of the crickets, cut through the night.

"You wandered too far, girl. Them boys won't be far behind now."

My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic drum against the sudden stillness. "How do you know who I am?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper.

A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, though her milky eyes remained fixed on the darkness. "I know the sound of a chain when it's been taken off," she rasped, her voice like dry leaves skittering across pavement. "And I know the sound of a girl who's runnin' for her life."

I crept a step closer, the bat feeling useless in my hand. "Who are you?"

The old woman let out a dry, rattling laugh that made the crows shift on their perches. "Honey, I'm Miss Delia. I was the famous animal tamer." She lifted a hand, pointing a long, yellowed nail at her own hazy eyes. "But if you haven't noticed, my eyes don't work too good these days. Had an accident."

My mind was reeling. An animal tamer. Of course. It fit perfectly with this whole fucked-up menagerie. "If you're blind," I said, my suspicion growing, "how did you know I was here?"

She laughed again, that same unsettling, rustling sound. "Oh, child," she said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Once I lost my sight, I gained the second sight. I see more now than I ever did with these useless things." She tapped her eyes again. "And I hear better, too. I hear the beatin' of your heart from all the way over here."

Miss Delia's rocking chair started its slow, rhythmic creaking again. "Them boys will find you," she said, her voice flat, certain. "Our sweet boys."

I couldn't help it. A bitter, sarcastic laugh escaped my lips. "Sweet boys? Lady, you gotta be kiddin’ me."

Delia's head tilted, a flicker of something in her otherwise blank expression. "Meet the others yet?" she asked casually.

"Others?!" The word hit me like a punch to the gut. What others? How many more of them were there?

Just then, I heard it. A distant sound, carried on the wind. Maverick's voice, taunting and playful, calling my name. "Aurora-Aurora, come out, pretty thing, time to come home!" Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. They were coming. They were close.