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“Future time?” I inquire at the same time the guy responds, “No. I got them when I took her, but I have this.”
He reaches into his shirt.
A gold chain glints in the candlelight as he tugs a necklace out. No, not a necklace. A pocket watch.
Mypocket watch.
Panicked about losing it, my hand automatically goes to the place where it always rests against my sternum, expecting to find nothing there.
Except, mine is still around my neck.
Squinting, I try to see better in the dim light as he passes it to Astrid.
When she holds it up between her forefinger and thumb to study it while it swings like a pendulum, I lean forward to look at the back.
My breath hitches with a barely contained gasp when the flame illuminates the etching. Scratched into the metal is my great grandfather’s name, and under that, there’s an ‘H’ for me.
In kindergarten, when we were learning how to write our names, I decided I wanted to make my mark on the watch just like Great Grandpa Waylon did. Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to play with the kitchen knives or anything else sharp, so I used the prong of a fork instead. And once I got started, I realized how much work it was and gave up after the first letter. Hence, the ‘H.’
How?
How does this dude have an exact replica of a one-of-a-kind antique? My great, great grandfather had it custom made, so there are no others like it in the world.
I don’t have time to contemplate the mystery for long, because Astrid demands, “I’ll need a hair from each of you.”
The guy pulls a strand from the longer hair falling over his forehead to mid-nose, then they both look to me.
“No,” I protest willfully, gathering all my hair to one side like I can keep it safe from them by holding onto it.
Suddenly bending toward my pile of blankets, my captor moves the candle around until he finds a stray hair clinging to the sleeping bag. It’s long and dark-blond. Of course it’s mine. I’ve always had an abundance of hair, and I tend to shed.
When he holds it up in the light, he grins triumphantly, showing his set of fangs.
After Astrid places the hair in the bowl along with the rest of her concoction, she pauses for several seconds, her eyes closed.
Then the strangest thing happens. The liquid starts to glow. Not warm or yellow like a fire—blue like lightning.
What I can only describe as a tiny storm bubbles up in a basketball-sized dome over the bowl. Flashing bolts streak inside it, and I can hear the electricity buzzing.
“I’ll need you to join hands, and submerge your hands into the bowl,” Astrid instructs, sounding bored.
The man uncurls his fingers toward me.
I scoot back. “I’m not touching him.”
My captor laughs. It’s not a sinister kind of laugh, or even a mocking one. It’s almost like he thinks I’m… cute. It’s the way you chuckle when a kitten gets really mad, when it hisses with its hair raised along its back while hopping around on stiff legs. As the more intelligent being, in that moment you know that little feline is very alarmed, but it’s hard to take them seriously because you’re certain there’s no real danger.
How very insulting and patronizing.
Before I can form a witty rebuttal, the guy dives for me.
I shriek as he lands on the sleeping bag, and my fear ramps up when he grabs my wrist.
I struggle against him.
He holds firm.
He’s not hurting me, but his grip leaves no option to break away.
