“So that’s what this is?” I ask. “A better gig?”
“Sure,” he shrugs, finishing off the last of his sausage and licking his fingers.
I swallow the rest of my roll pensively, my thoughts no longer on the nausea that roils my stomach. If what Garrido says is true, then it could be just as easy as Logan assures me to beat Angel. Paid loyalty doesn’t get you far in this cutthroat business.
I’m going to have to be wary with Garrido, but there’s a real possibility he’ll make my mission easier.
“I’ll take the first watch,” he states. “Followed by Vincent.”
“Could Angel’s men find us here?” questions Logan sharply.
“Not his men, no. But the wild animals. That’s the real threat. Poison frogs, banana spiders, bullet ants… some of them will kill you in an instant. With others, the pain lasts for days.”
With that comforting thought, Logan and I lie down on our blankets, and, despite my misgivings, I’m asleep in an instant.
2
Seraphina
Earlier.
Icome to with a gasp.
This must be the fourth time I was convinced my time had finally come, but, I guess, similarly to subway rats and bed bugs, I just don’t die.
The lack of oxygen keeps causing me to pass out, but then I wake up again, and the torment begins anew.
When my ex-boyfriend stabbed me, it took me over two hours to reach the conclusion that a steak knife to the abdomen is not the death sentence I assumed it would be. I nearly bled out, but the parasitic life force within me managed to cling on. I even killed a guy and got chased around a forest by Vale, and that wasn’t enough to extinguish me. Seraphina Connor just doesn’t die.
Right now, I’m feeling more kinship with a particularly annoying species of rodent than with a jellyfish.
Crap. I’m going to hurl again. I tilt my head to the side and try to vomit, but all I manage to do is dry heave. I guess I’ve already thrown up the contents of my stomach several times over. There’s nothing left.
It’s a good thing my head hurts so much it feels like it’s been split open. Otherwise, the thought that I’m about to die in a coffin filled with my own vomit would probably repulse me. As it is, I’m in too much pain to do anything but endure.
I close my eyes and will myself to go now.
Just die… just die… just die…
It would be so much easier. I don’t know what shitty thing I did to deserve having such a good survival instinct. Why can’t I just get snuffed out quickly at the very beginning of the story, like the chicks in the horror movies?
A sudden noise startles me, forcing me out of the self-pitying thoughts I’ve sunken into. It’s very light, barely a scratching sound far above me, probably some animal. A dog, come to piss on my grave. Perfect.
But the sound continues, and I’m so deeply encased in my own self, in the dark depths of the earth, that I find myself latching onto anything I can.
The smell of my vomit mixed with my breath and the freshly overturned dirt. The touch of wood against my fingers. The scratching, which is getting louder.
It’s getting louder.
My heartbeat picks up, and I strain, trying to hear it again, hope bubbling in my chest in spite of everything.
The scratching sound is light. Is it just my imagination, or does it grow ever so slightly louder?
Is this what it feels like to be staring at the light at the end of the tunnel? Am I dying, finally?
No—the scratching sound is real, and it really is getting louder. It’s only a few feet above me now.
“Help!” I scream. “Help!”
