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I drift in and out of consciousness, but only manage to stay awake long enough to panic about the that fact that I’m still being held prisoner, before the darkness claims me again.
Whatever that old woman shot into my bloodstream while I was distracted by her drooling lion friend is strong and likely a hallucinogen.
My dreams are insane, filled with blood and gore and psychotic clowns leaping out of holes in the ground like deranged, man-sized moles. I run from hordes of screaming barbarians with blue paint on their faces and huddle deep in an abandoned well, hiding from a serial killer I can hear crunching around in the leaves above me while bugs skitter across my face and into my hair, making it almost impossible not to scream. I fight an even bigger version of my house kraken and slide down slick rocks into an ocean of blood where a sea serpent keeps brushing past me beneath the waves, making me tremble with terror so intense I can barely keep my face above the water.
I wake thrashing my arms and gasping for air, too disoriented to understand where the ocean has gone.
But then the scent of mold and dust hits my nose and I remember—the needle in my veins, the hands pinching into my arms and legs as strangers carried me up the hill and tossed me onto an old mattress in a shed, promising to come fetch me after sunset.
Sunset…
It’s dark in here, but I can see a faint glow around the crooked door. It’s still daylight. I can still get out of here. I just have to stay awake.
Digging my nails into my arm until pain flashes along my nerve endings, I force my eyes wider. I pull in deep breaths, willing my head to clear as I struggle to take stock of my prison.
The good news is that I’m not bound—they must have counted on the drugs keeping me incapacitated until they were ready to deal with me at dusk. The bad news is that the door is locked from the outside. Upon dragging myself across the small shed, cursing my still numb and useless legs, I find the door handle shifts easily under my hand but the door itself won’t budge more than a few centimeters. There must be something barring or blocking it.
Still, I give it one more try, pushing with all my strength but getting nowhere.
I fall back onto the dirt floor with a sob, fighting the tears pressing at the backs of my eyes. I don’t have time for tears, and crying will only make me weaker than I am already.
I have to stay focused and keep trying to escape. I’m a smart woman and I have skills that are useful in a situation like this. If I can just find the right tools, I can take the door off its hinges or dig a hole under a wall and slip out that way.
Unfortunately, my slow, leg-dragging exploration of the shed reveals nothing useful aside from a small, rusted axe under a pile of old magazines in the corner. I don’t know what they use this shed for, but judging from the mattress, tin bucket, chicken bones scattered in another corner, and magazines, I’m guessing I’m not the first person to be held captive here.
But why? And how?
I get that the rest of Nightfall tends to steer clear of the campground but surely they’d know if the outcasts made a habit of kidnapping people and…
And what?
That’s the million-dollar question and one I really hope I don’t learn the answer to firsthand. Whatever they’re intending to do with me, I don’t need extensive knowledge of supernatural creatures to know it probably isn’t going to be good. Or fun. Or something I’m likely to live through.
Honestly, I’m surprised I’m not dead already.
What on earth could they want from me that requires I be alive?
“Think, Blaire, think,” I mutter as I collapse back onto the mattress, gathering my strength for another escape attempt. I’ve read everything about vampires I could get my hands on, but I’ve been remiss in my reconnaissance on the other creatures in town. And I all-too-easily accepted warnings that I should avoid and ignore these marginalized people.
Maybe if I’d had more empathy and interest in the people at the campground, I’d have some idea what they’re after right now.
They just want to chomp on your delicious witch flesh. Every person you’ve met in this town has talked about how yummy you smell, idiot. Don’t make this more complicated than it is. And don’t make the mistake of thinking you can reason with bloodthirsty cannibals.
Ignoring the inner voice of doom—panicking about being chopped up and tossed in a stew pot isn’t going to help anything right now—I pull the card from my front pocket, reading over the words again and again. What begins as a way to give my thoughts a break from freaking out about being locked in a shed quickly becomes something more.
The bats are made of real gold chunks, I realize as I run my finger over the decorative accents, not gold leaf. The bats are like charms you could hang from a chain around your neck, thick and with sharp edges that make it relatively easy to pry one from where it’s embedded in the pulpy paper.
A part of me feels terrible for damaging an antique and part of my family’s history, but if I get out of here alive, I can find someone to repair the damage.
But first, to get out.
One by one, I pry the gold bats loose until I have a small handful resting in my palm. I have no idea how much money this is worth, but it seems like a decent bribe. And I’ll tell whoever comes to fetch me that there’s more where this came from. All they have to do is let me go and I’ll return with a bucketful of gold.
As far as plans go, it’s not amazing, but it’s something and I have to believe I’ll be a better liar under duress than I normally am.
I’m mentally rehearsing my bribe offer when a soft groan drifts to my ears through the wall to my right. Scuttling across the mattress, thankful my legs finally seem to be regaining some of their strength, I press my ear against the wood, straining for another sign of life.
It comes only a few seconds later, a deeper groan that’s clearly male and if I’m not mistaken…
