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A monster.
A grotesque, evil monster moving around and around.
Methodically.
Sometimes chanting, sometimes not, but ever-wailing in deliberate, ever-narrowing concentric circles as Sam whipped her head around, back and forth, trying to keep him in her vision and knowing what he intended.
A slow and savage death.
She tried and failed not to give in to the fear.
Don’t go there, Sam. Don’t!
You know all this about him.
You always have.
Now, keep a cool head. You have to find a way to fight him! To thwart him! To save yourself!
How? Oh, God, how?
Her options were limited, but she couldn’t give in. She tried the cords tying her feet and hands and they loosened, but not enough! She was still bound to the chair.
Frantic, her pulse pounding, her heartbeat wild, she forced her mind to think, to come up with a plan,anything.
You can do this, Sam. You can. Think! There must be a way to trip him up!
Maybe? Maybe if she somehow tripped him up, played a mental game with him, even angered him to break his concentration, she could find a way to turn the tables or get free.
If she could throw him off track, he might possibly make a mistake.
She hoped.
At the very least she would gain some time and maybe then she could think more clearly, her brain able to control her limbs that still were twitching in their bonds.
Oh, if only!
But the spasms were less frequent and she thought she might be able to move her fingers a bit, though she didn’t dare try.
She tried to speak. “W-w-why?”
“Why did I bring you here? Why have I kept tracking you?” he threw back at her. “You know why! Your poisoned advice killed my sister.”
“N-N-No—no it didn’t.”
He sent a look that could cut through stone as he passed in front of her, the hem of his cassock wet, dampness wicking up the fabric with each step, blood still dripping from his neck where the sharp stones had cut into his neck, showing an intricate red pattern on his skin. He’d aged in the years since she’d first met him, and the struggle with her and effort of dragging her in a tarp over the rough, sodden terrain had taken its toll on him. He was breathing hard from the effort, his face pale as a specter.
“And—a-and the others?” she demanded.
“The others?” he snarled, disappearing behind her as she turned her head as far as possible to keep him in her field of vision.
“The women you killed!”
“Practice.”
“Bull,” she spat out, finally taking control of her tongue. Her legs and arms, too, felt more in control. “You got off on it.”
He appeared on the other side of her and shot her a glance. His entire demeanor was angry. Defiant. “They were whores,” he spat.
